Feä Bond (Legolas x OC)

The aftermath

Roaming the upturned fields of Pelennor, Legolas and Gimli were looking for survivors. Whenever he found one, Legolas called to the healers and fellow soldiers. Some could be moved up the houses of healing while others needed immediate attention. Behind him, Gimli was chasing down the surviving Orcs, effectively killing them.

Once or twice, his knife had put a soldier out of his misery. No matter how gruff the warrior, his eyes misted over when answering the plea of the dying. It was no easy feat to end someone's life, even when they were begging you to do so. For long the soil would remember the blood, life sweeping through the dirt of the once grassy land.

Legolas felt sick, sicker than he had ever felt. Brows furrowed in thought, eyes roaming the battlefield, senses alert to any noise or whimper, he kept those sensations at bay. After centuries of life, this battle was certainly not his first. He could not remember being so emotionally drained after the battle of five armies, a mere seventy years before. Yet, many of his kin had died that day, crushed under the sheer numbers of the Necromancer.

The horrors of war were nothing new to him; even if he had never been indifferent, he was, by now, a seasoned warrior. The elf wondered at the sense of urgency that had accompanied him throughough the fight. Had the Nazgûl affected him that much before ? Nay. He was not prone to despair, or to dread. It simply was not in his nature. Despite the war, the endless skirmishes on the border of his kingdom, and the death of his beloved mother, Legolas had never lost his joy.

It was then that it hit him. Frances! Of course. It was not the first time that her emotions permeated through their bond. She must have been terrified! He would have to apologise for not keeping his promise; he had seen Elrond's son climbing the lookout to get her out of her hiding spot. Himself had been too far away at the time, but he had taken a breath of relief to know that was safe with the twins. Further down, he could see her silhouette following the two dark-haired lords. Maybe...

"Hey lad. I think this one can be saved, but I can't find anyone to help."

Gimli's shout started him, and he spared a glance to a soldier holding his leg. The deep gash was extensive, yet not life threatening if the blood flow was interrupted. Around them, warriors and healers alike seemed busy. The man was partly conscious, mumbling something under his breath. A delicate carved swan was upon his breastplate, darkened by orc blood.

Legolas knelt beside the wounded his eyes searching for help around them, yet finding none. Then, he tore a piece of his tunic, below the leather armour where the fabric would be clean enough, and bandaged the leg tightly. The man cried out, his fingers clawing at the wound such was the pain.

"Gimli! Grab his hands."

The elf's order was carried out swiftly. Then, as there were no stretchers to be spared, Legolas gathered the solider in his arms and took off to the city gates with his burden. His muscles ached from the fight, and the strain from the latest days. It was something he did not experience often, and his heart went out to all the humans who suffered such inconveniences daily. They were truly blessed by the Valar; to find the strength to carry one in a world so hostile to them. As he reached the city gates, Legolas' heart constricted in his chest. A wave of anguish washed over him, a wave so mighty that it threatened to bring him to his knees.

His teeth gritted; he left the man at the gates in the care of Gondorians. His mind was rubbed raw by the pain, the power of despair so strong that he had to pause to rein his thoughts into submission. Frances was distressed, and it was the only consistent though that could make it through the haze of his Feä! How could she sustain such a wave of emotions? And most importantly, what happened to her to create such pain?

Worried to the core, his eyes searched the field frantically. On the side, tents were being erected for their company. He knew that Aragorn would refuse to set a foot into the city as long as the steward was alive. Frances should have been there, but she was nowhere in sight. His eyes turned away, scanning the battlefield once more.