Feä Bond (Legolas x OC)

Gone with the wind

The explosion blew a crater into their defensive wall. The deafening noise was mixed with the sound of cracking rocks and yelling creatures. Debris flew everywhere, ripping elves, men and orcs alike in their wake, cracking skulls and bodies as if they were no thicker than skinny toothpicks. Frances cried and crouched behind the beheaded Uruk. A few rocks hit her armour, some hard enough to leave a lovely bruise. A splinter got her cheek. Blood started pouring out the wound such was the violence of the impact. Most of the torches went out, darkening the night.

Frances' ears were ringing, much to her dismay. Beside her, opponents and warriors alike hard a hard time regaining their spirits. Dust clouded everything, blocking her view of the massive hole that stood only a few feet away. A few seconds later, the whole scenery started to clean up. Frances swore. This was the worst situation ever. Her initial spot on the defence wall did not exist anymore. In its stead stood a very big hole flooded by a dark tide of orcs. Aragorn and Gimli were lying on the floor, unconscious. Cold dread seized her chest, and she stood up. Her blade was lost, discarded somewhere in between bodies and debris. Dagger in hand, she launched herself in the fight. She had to go down and see for herself! They could not be dead!

Blocking and attacking like a lioness, she started breathing again when she realised that both companions were now struggling to regain consciousness. At least they still had a chance. Frances cleared her path brutally, hoping to reach the stairs before the Uruks took them over. But she was too late. A dark wave of beasts were climbing the steps, trapping her on the remains of the wall. Somewhere, the Eorlingas called for retreat. There was no way out! Frances bowed her head, taken aback by the unforgiving reality; she was as good as dead. There was nothing her friend could do to retrieve her, not even the elf.

Dumbstruck, Frances froze, her heart beating a staccato in her chest. How long did she have ? Thirty seconds ? A minute ? Darkness was heavy, even thicker than before since the water of the stream had washed out most of the torches. The rain had finally stopped, leaving a cloud of cold mist over the devastation.

But her mind refused to accept the dreadful reality. Several elves and men were still fighting on the remainder of the broken wall, but not so many were still alive. Uruks flooded the area like a wave of evilness, and very soon there would be no place to go. Orcs were already climbing the ladders on the other side of the walls and their numbers increased at a frightening speed.

It was an elf that gave her the solution. The amazingly light creature was dancing around the cliff that bordered the defence wall, and she thought that maybe with a little help she could make it. Her body ached everywhere from bruises and cuts, but Galadriel's armour had saved her life. Orcs were thick, very heavy but amazingly powerful; most of them dismissed her due to her small size, going instead for grown men and elves. Playing with the darkness, Frances managed to slide amongst the remaining warriors, trading blows here and there to kill those who had noticed her but mostly unseen in the chaos.

She felt sick, leaving those men to be slaughtered as she ran for her life! All of them were doomed. And the will to survive was just too strong; she wasn't a soldier. She wasn't sturdy enough to sacrifice her life, in this moment.

Frances hastened her step; orcs would soon flow the area with lights and she would not be able to subtract herself from their attention. As she touched the wall, the last elves and men were being butchered mercilessly, and she concentrated on her task. Hiding behind corpses, Frances started to climb the sliding rocks. As silently as a cat, her little form progressed on the wall. There were as many good grips on the massive cliff as time to be careful.

So she hurried, sometimes finding herself suspended by her fingers while looking for a place to secure her feet. How different the situation from her childhood climbs! But the level of difficulty was quite similar, and nor her skills, nor her fitness had disminished. The only massive difference from the tree and outcrops climbing of her youth was the scabbard at her hip, the armor on her back and the definite death that waited for her at the bottom.

Frances groaned. Her exhausted arms burnt, but she needed to find a spot to hide from plain sight as long as was needed. Using as much stealth as she was capable of and praying to remain unseen, Frances used all her talents to climb the difficult wall of darkened rock. Adrenaline pumped in her veins as she lifted herself gracefully, knowing that falling down was not an option. All her muscles ached, protesting against the treatment, but still she went higher and higher, so flexible against the wall that nobody noticed her catlike figure making her way up.

Down in the gully, her friends were retreating, trying to save all the people that could still be salvaged in this hopeless war. The agitation from the fort gave her enough time to finally find the ideal spot. It was a little crack in the rocks with a corniche just big enough to keep her footing. She slid inside the hole and let her muscles rest. But the nightmare wasn't over. Down there, she heard the cries of men, children and elves slaughtered like beasts.

After a while though, their pleas for mercy were replaced by moans of agony. Their cries rose, tugging at her heart. It was unbearable, and she wondered for a while if she should not have taken Legolas' counsel. Nay, she thought, she could not have stayed in the caves with women when children had been sent to battle. She could fight, she had done so.

Thinking about the elf was strangely comforting, and as she watched their troops retreat she spotted him disappearing behind the heavy wooden doors. He was the last, Gimli by his side. Darkness did not allow her to see if the elf was hurt for he seemed to be struggling. She dared not think about it, flattened against the dark wall like a fly, knees shaking. At least they still stood a chance! If the Valar held true, Aragorn would already be inside. All of them were fighters, warriors. They could not give up. Boromir would have died in vain if they yielded to despair. Estel used to say that there was always hope. Estel ... hope in elvish.