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King Thranduil, Bard, Mithrandir, Dain, and Bilbo all sat at a long table in the Elvenking’s tent. The Battle had been won, but barely. The Eagles had left their home in pursuit of the Goblin horde and had swept down upon them like a sudden storm. If not for their exploits, the fight would have surely been lost. Thorin too, with the rest of his group, had left the Mountain and joined in the battle, but he himself had been slain, along with a few from his company. Gandalf’s arm had been badly gouged, but could easily be mended. Keirdron’s body had been found among the dead, shot through with a poisoned Goblin arrow. But there had been no sight nor sound of Legolas since the first onslaught, and the King was beginning to worry.
A few serving Elves brought in some bread and wine, which was downed with little enthusiasm. None spoke, and if they did it was in hushed tones. Thranduil was wondering what could have happened to his only son. Bard pondered the sudden resolve of the held-up Dwarves in the Mountain. The mind of a wizard is one that cannot be breached. Dain was tallying off the dead of his army, and little Bilbo was envisioning his feather mattress back at home, and a warm fire, and a full plate of eggs and bacon, with a side of toast.
Suddenly there was a great murmuring outside the tent. The voices of many surprised men and woeful Elves were heard. Mithrandir looked up slowly. King Thranduil followed his gaze. What could it mean? thought the Elvenking. There was an unspoken agreement that they all wished to find out, so without a word the group got up and exited the tent. All except Bilbo, who was rather exhausted and had fallen asleep at the table, a slice of cheese in his hand. The sky was still dark, and the stars were gone, but the moon shone out palely behind the clouds. A figure was staggering up the path towards them. He was cloaked, but his hood had fallen back, revealing a youthful face and shining brown eyes. He seemed to be carrying a heavy load, for another shape was in his arms, and his steps were slow and deliberate. The figure stumbled once, but kept on. As the stranger drew closer, Thranduil cried out, and ran to the approaching person. Mithrandir, studying him with narrow eyes, called to him.
"Aragorn! Of all the unlooked for guests, you I must say, are one of the most pleasant."
Elessar stood before them, with the Elvenking close at his side. Gandalf had been smiling, a rare gift from a wizard, but the grin vanished as quickly as it had come. For in the arms of the Ranger was the body of an Elf. His clothes were slashed and soaked with blood and some of the crimson liquid stained the side of his face. Around his neck was a golden chain dripping with red, holding a Greenleaf charm. And in the center, the image of the Evenstar shone brightly in the darkness around them.
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Warmth. There was something hot nearby. The smell of burning wood and a pronounced popping sound every so often. Pain. A burning sensation and a deep throbbing. Breathing was hazardous, for it sent out a new wave of soreness. Light. A yellowish-golden light that grew brighter as he opened his eyes. For a moment he stared at nothing, but soon his eyes began to focus. He was in a royal tent by the look of the furniture, and a fire blazed in a small hearth nearby. It danced in the way flames do, twisting and lapping at the air around it. Suddenly that same deep throbbing pain erupted in his chest. He breathed out sharply and took in a shuddering breath. A firm hand was placed on his shoulder. The darkness blocked his vision again and his head began to swim. Then the pain dulled, and slowly, the black was turned to grey, and then that yellow-gold. A shadow passed above him and his glanced drifted slowly upward. Elessar stood over him, examining his face. The grim Ranger mouthed some words but no sound followed. Then gradually, as if somewhere within him something turned up the volume in his head, he made out the voice.
"Can you hear me, Legolas?"
The Elf swallowed and his throat felt thick. He tried to speak, but the words caught inside him. Instead, he nodded painfully. Elessar knelt next to him and placed a stained rag to his head. Another wave of throbbing. Why was it that healing sometimes hurt worse than the wound itself? Legolas struggled to regain his voice. All that came out were two words.
"...my father."
"Your father is safe," said a deep voice from the corner. Mithrandir stepped forward into the light. "He left with Bard to settle the matter of the gold owed to Esgaroth. You, on the other hand did not come out so lucky as he."Legolas looked quizzically around him.
"You are in your father’s tent," said Gandalf as if reading his thoughts. "You were brought back here by Aragorn last night, and here it is night again. You’ve slept the whole day away!"
"Do you have any memory of the battle?" asked Elessar.
"Yes," he replied quietly. "At least...I think so." Aragorn replaced the bandage on his chest. Legolas sucked in air through gritted teeth.
"What does one expect when they meet up with the business end of a Goblin axe?" asked Elessar, fastening the bandage. "That demon was about to add you to the list of casualties."
"I owe you my life," said Legolas. "Arwen is truly blessed to have your affection." Aragorn’s grim expression softened a little at the thought of the Elven maiden.
"I do not deserve it," he said quietly. "She is far more than I could ever hope for." Legolas smiled weakly. Arwen had chosen well. The darkness was beginning to dim his vision again, but this time it was inviting and warm. He was safe, with friends around him, and he fell into a deep, refreshing sleep, his mind’s slumbering eye wandering beneath the trees of his homeland and to the stars above them.