Royalty was like dandelions. No matter
how many heads you chopped off,
the roots were still there underground,
waiting to spring up again.

― Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

45. The Return of the King

The sun was setting, coloring the Pelennor Fields red like a sea of blood. It was a sea of blood; Legolas had never before seen so many corpses. He walked among them now, forcing his weary feet to go on. He must find and retrieve his Lórien arrows, or any arrows really, for his quiver was empty but clusters of Mordor's allies remained. He would not rest until all were defeated – which meant dead, because they refused to surrender or even flee – for he knew that as soon as he stopped to think, his loss would overwhelm him. Better keeping busy.

He spotted a white shaft protruding from the throat of a Haradrim he had shot earlier. Now the man lay half covered by the heavy foot of a dead mûmakil, but he was miraculously alive despite the immense weight that had crushed his ribcage and entrails. Pink froth seeped from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth, and his dark eyes were dull with a pain that must be excruciating.

When Legolas swiftly pulled the arrow out, its barbs tore the man's windpipe open and with choked gurgles he suffocated.

Turning away, Legolas forced the warrior's grimace of death from his vision, though he knew it was only a temporary relief; he would never forget that face. And the arrow had lost its head in the process, so it was all for nothing.

He found another shot Haradrim, this one dead. The arrow had become stuck in his skull, and with increasing frustration Legolas pulled on it until it snapped.

Growling a very bad word between his teeth, he flung the pieces down and drew his long knife again. Searching for arrows was too time consuming. He still had work to do.

"Are you alright?" Gimli sounded concerned.

"Fine," grunted Legolas, not looking at him.

Nearby a group of dark-skinned southerners stood back to back, armed with long, cruel spears. They were surrounded by Aragorn and the Dúnedain, who seemed hesitant to attack through the spear wall. Legolas took aim and threw his blade over Aragorn's shoulder. It was not really a throwing knife, but it worked; the blade penetrated the eye of one of the enemies. Almost without a sound he toppled sideways and went down like a felled tree, landing on his neighbor. That was distraction enough for the Dúnedain to proceed and make short work of the rest of the group.

"Fifty-three." Legolas grimly pulled his knife from the corpse, not even bothering to clean it as he went on in search of new targets.

"You beat me by two scores then," said Gimli, not leaving his side. "Lad, you need to rest."

"I will rest when this is over."

ʕll ò _ ó llʔ

Nellas was exhausted, and her old wound had begun to ache again. Next to her, Boromir panted hard as he caught his breath after taking down the last warrior. His initial excitement about the battle had long since been replaced with weary endurance, and his grimy face was flushed and damp with sweat.

Long hours of harsh struggle had passed since morning, for though the defenders and their allies soon outnumbered the remaining attackers, it had taken time to eliminate them all. But now at last they were finished. Only the dead remained on the Pelennor Fields, and in the west, the sun just passed below the mountaintops.

Hand in hand, Nellas and Boromir wearily trudged towards the city. Boromir wanted to check on his father, who Gandalf had taken to the Houses of Healing earlier.

The fields were not a pretty sight. Apart from the countless human- and orc corpses, they passed broken trees, trampled gardens, burnt fields and dead cattle.

"It will be a tough summer, even if we win the war," said Boromir with a sigh, following her gaze.

"I feel sorry for the orchard trees," she said, patting a blackened apple tree in passing. It would survive, hopefully, but not bear any fruit this year.

Outside the gate, tents were being erected by the Dúnedain and their companions, and nearby Aragorn conversed with a group of men: Boromir's uncle Imrahil and his sons; the King of Rohan with his arm in a sling, supporting his weight on a cane; and Éomer, the young Rohirrim who had fought so fiercely that day. The latter still looked very upset, and Nellas wondered fleetingly what had happened to him.

Boromir dropped Nellas' hand before anyone noticed their indecency, and dipped his head in a polite half-bow to Aragorn. "My lord."

Aragorn grinned. "My friend," he replied, squeezing the other's shoulder. "Well fought today."

"And you." Boromir returned his smile. "I have never been so relieved as when I saw it was your banner on those ships." Then his face became slightly wary. "I am going to see Lord Denethor now. Will you come?"

"Be at ease. As I have just told your kinsman, now is not the time to challenge the steward, nor make any claims. It is unwise to fight among ourselves when there is a greater enemy at hand."

Boromir looked relieved. "Thank you," he said simply.

They continued into Minas Tirith, which still smoked, but the fires had been put out and the grisly hewn-off heads removed from the streets.

When they arrived at the sixth circle, the main building of the healers was bustling with activity. An old woman there told Boromir that his father had already been moved to another house, reserved for patients with lesser blemishes who mostly needed to rest. When he asked her how he was, she only said 'he is awake, and able to speak,' and refused to elaborate.

Mystified, Boromir entered his father's room.

It was a nice room for a stone house, Nellas figured. It had large windows, and a soft carpet on the floor, and the walls were covered in tapestries. Two of them pictured the city from different angles, and the third one was a scene from the countryside with the river meandering across. This must be how the Pelennor had looked before the battle.

Denethor appeared to be fairly well. He was reclining in a bed, with the only sign of injury a bandage wrapped around his grey hair, but Nellas instantly felt that something was very wrong underneath the cloth.

"Father?"

The elder man's head snapped up, but where his gaze had been stern and commanding before, now it was slightly bewildered, and his voice was pleading. "There you are, son! You must take me home. I am weary of this hostel. The bed is too hard, and the staff is very rude."

"You need to rest, my lord." Boromir sat on his bedside.

"I am not tired. I have work to do." He frowned, and sounded a little more like himself. "Where is your mother? Tell her to get me out of here, if you refuse to help me."

"M-mother?" Boromir stiffened. "You know she passed away a long time ago..."

"Of course I do." Denethor suddenly turned to Nellas. "And who is this lovely lady?"

"I am Nellas. An elleth." She sat on his other side. "I killed orcs for you, if you remember."

His eyes narrowed, and then widened in recognition. "I do! Well done, my dear. Nellas, was it?"

She nodded.

"Have you come to take me home, Miss Nellas? I am grown weary of traveling, and do not like this hostel at all. The bed is too hard, and the staff is terrible. I just want to go home now."

"I am sorry to hear that." Nellas patted his free hand. "But you have a nice view from your window." She indicated the pink evening sky.

"It is pretty," Denethor admitted. "But who are you?"

"I am Nellas. The one who saved your life today, if you remember."

"Of course I do. Well done, my dear."

Boromir said nothing. He was looking at his father with eyes that glistened with unshed tears.

"Where is your mother?" Denethor asked him. "Breakfast is due."

"I shall let her know," said Nellas, walking over to a side table where someone had placed a tray with soup, bread and wine and brought it to the steward. "There you are. Breakfast."

"Thank you." Denethor began to eat. "You did well today, Miss...?"

"Nellas."

"Have you come to take me home, Miss Nellas? I do not like this hostel at all. The staff is rude and the beds are terrible, I have to say. I want to go home as soon as I have finished my meal."

ʕll * _ * llʔ  q('T︵T')p

It was getting late, and Beregond waited impatiently for his supper. The room they had carried him to had naked walls and floor, and was very quiet, though he could hear moans and even the occasional scream from other wounded through the walls.

In the other bed lay Meriadoc, as he now knew his name was, the brave hobbit who had stabbed the Dark Rider's knee. His face was very pale, with a deep frown creasing his forehead, and he slept a troubled sleep. Caught by the Black Breath, as the wives called it. They said that others who had fought with the Nazgûl had died after a while, for there was no cure from the Black Breath.

The old matrons who helped tend the wounded were the only ones who had time to talk with Beregond, now that the healers had so many injuries to treat, so it was thanks to them he knew a little of what had happened in the war. From them he had learned that the young woman who killed the wraith's beast was dying from the same illness as Meriadoc. Lady Éowyn, she was named, niece of the Rohan king. The king himself had a badly broken arm and a sprained ankle, but was already out of the Houses of Healing; apparently for such a valiant man, broken limbs were no reason to rest.

The most grave case was Lord Faramir, who had been hit by a poisoned arrow in Osgiliath. He was very near death, according to the wives. Poor Faramir! He deserved to wake up and learn that his brother was alive, but instead he would soon be gone.

In comparison with most, Beregond had been fortunate. At least he was alive and relatively well, though he could no longer feel his legs.

"Back injuries sometimes get better with time," the healer had told him. She had left the rest of the sentence unspoken – that sometimes they didn't, and if so, Beregond would be lame for life.

Trying to push back his despair over that prospect, he had made the best of the situation: he ate. Still half-starved from his unplanned stay in the wilderness, he had a lot to compensate for, and the meal he was waiting for now would be his fifth that day.

Someone opened the door and Beregond looked up expectantly, his stomach growling. Supper at last! But then he saw who it was, and his heart suddenly felt too big for his chest.

With a yelp of surprise, the young boy nearly dropped the tray before hurrying over to Beregond's bed. "Dad!"

"Dear, foolish son, why are you still in the city?" He fought to control his features.

"I have been running errands for the healers," said Bergil with pride in his voice, but then the worry returned. "What happened to you? Why didn't you come back?"

"First I was cut off by the enemy host, and when I joined the battle I hurt my back. But it is not too bad. I will be on my feet in no time."

Bergil gave him a shaky smile. "You sure?"

"Positive," he lied.

"I thought you were dead." His son's face became tense, as if he struggled to contain his emotions.

"Sorry if I frightened you."

"It wasn't your fault." He clenched his fist. "Damn ass Sauron. I hate him and his army!"

"Bergil! Not that language."

Bergil shut his mouth and looked down, frowning deeply.

Beregond had never seen his boy so grave, and with a surge of regret and pain he remembered how eager and excited he had been before the war, looking forward to seeing the famous knights from Rohan and the southern fiefs arrive in the city. It looked like several years had been added to Bergil's age since then, as if he had grown out of boyhood in mere days. How terrified he must have been when the city was assaulted and starting to burn, and how lonely without his family. And what gruesome war injuries had he been exposed to as a healer's helper?

Beregond wanted to cry at the thought.

"I'm not going to be a soldier when I grow up," said Bergil after a while.

"You have my blessing," Beregond replied with feeling.

A woman stopped outside the still open door, Ioreth, eldest of the matrons. "Alas! The king has returned," she squealed, her wrinkled face rosy with excitement. "Isildur's heir. He has healed Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir!"

"Lord Faramir is well?"

"Almost! The Black Breath left him, and he sleeps – a real, healthy sleep – and the fever is down. The king is on his way to treat you too. With a weed, let me tell you! For as it is said: 'The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known.'" She bustled away, and they heard her bring the same news to the next room.

Beregond met his son's eyes in wonder. The king? Could it really be true?

Then Bergil's face was cleaved by a huge grin, and he looked like himself again; like the boy he still was. "Awesome! I'll meet a king!"

With a curt knock, a hooded man entered. "I have come to heal the wounded," he said. Without waiting for a reply, he went over to Meriadoc and put a bowl next to his bed. A sweet scent wafted from it.

Placing his hands on his face, the man sang a soft tune in a strange language. The hobbit didn't move, but the frown on his forehead disappeared, as if he slept more soundly now.

Bergil's mouth popped open, and he stared at the man with large eyes. "He's the rightful king, dad...he has to be," he breathed.

The man now came over to Beregond with the bowl. There was water in it, mixed with leaves of some herb, and when the fragrance filled his nostrils he suddenly felt strong and healthy, ready to jump out of the bed directly.

"Where are you hurt?" asked the man.

Beregond curiously tried to see his face under the hood, but it lay in darkness. "My back, master. I cannot walk."

The man nodded and put his hands there, singing the same tune again. Warmth spread from his fingers and ran up Beregond's spine, flooding his entire body. He had never felt anything even remotely like it before.

"Stand now."

Supported by Bergil, Beregond tried to obey, and could hardly believe what was happening when it actually worked. The pain was gone and his legs felt like they always had.

Feeling tears run freely across his cheeks, he bowed deeply. "My king," he croaked.

But the man had no time to reply, for there was no end to the traffic to Beregond's room that evening. This time Mithrandir the wizard entered, together with an anxious Pippin.

"Poor old Merry!" He ran over to the other hobbit's bed.

"Do not be afraid," said the hooded man. "I came in time, and I have called him back." He explained that Meriadoc had a strong mind, and a happy disposition; the evil wraith could not ruin his heart. Then he touched his hair, and called gently: "Merry!"

Meriadoc's eyelids fluttered, and he opened them. "I am hungry. What is the time?"

ʕ(ಠ ͜'ʖಠ)ʔ

After his long, exhausting day, Legolas slept soundly, but when he woke up early the next morning all emotions he had pushed down hit him with full force. The battle. The men he had killed. The wounded. The screams. The smells. The seagulls' call. Kat, alone in Mordor, probably dead or dying.

He tossed and turned for a while, but the troubling thoughts would not leave him alone, so he rose and got dressed. This would not do; he had to pull himself together, or at least find something to busy his mind with. Better not think of what he couldn't do anything about.

At breakfast outside the tents, he put up a cheerful face for Gimli, and suggested they go into the city to visit Merry and Pippin. Aragorn had been in the Houses of Healing incognito yesterday night and healed many of the wounded, so Merry was awake and on the mend now.

"Good idea." Gimli looked relieved. "Glad to see you smiling again."

As they walked up to the sixth circle, Gimli looked around with interest, pointing out architectural details every other yard. The buildings were to his liking for the most part, but the road left him unimpressed. "When Aragorn comes into his own I shall offer him the service of stonewrights of the mountain, and we will make this a town to be proud of."

"They need more gardens," Legolas figured. He would bring Aragorn birds and trees from the people of the wood.

But to his relief, he soon found that there actually were gardens in the city, one of them located between the Houses of Healing. It was there they were finally reunited with Merry and Pippin.

The day was turning out to be lovely; the sun that Legolas had missed so badly warmed his face, and it felt good to be in a beautiful garden among friends. But yet he soon found his thoughts stray and his gaze traveling towards the narrow strip of the Anduin far below. Beyond it, the dark shade of Mordor loomed. Was Kat alive?

Then he scolded himself for only worrying about her, when the whole world depended on who else was there, trying to undo the Dark Lord's greatest evil: Frodo, and the Ring.

Guiltily he tore his gaze from the jagged mountaintops.

A cluster of tiny, white specks caught his attention next. "Look! Gulls!" He felt tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, and suddenly wished he could follow them to the sea directly, leaving this city of stones with all its corpses far behind – and hopefully leave his dark thoughts and memories as well.

The others seemed surprised to see his demure expression. Perhaps he ought to be open with them for once, and share his troubles? With Kat gone, he had not had a serious conversation with anyone for weeks. Only with his horse.

His friends deserved to know why he couldn't be merry and cheerful with them. It was not their fault.

Gathering his courage, he described how he had first seen seagulls when Aragorn took over the fleet in Pelargir, and how it had affected him. "Their wailing voices spoke to me of the sea," he said. He had never seen it, but now he longed to go there and would not get peace until he did. That was the way of his people; sea-longing lay in their hearts.

In a worried voice, Gimli begged him not to speak that way when there were still so many things to see on this shore. If the elves left, it would become a very dull world for those who had to stay behind!

Merry heartily agreed. "Dull and dreary indeed! You must not go to the Havens, Legolas." He was sure many still needed his help; dwarves like Gimli, and others – big or small. The last word he said with a certain emphasis.

"I cannot help them if they are in Mordor." Legolas hadn't planned to be quite that open, but the words just came out.

The garden became uncomfortably silent. None of them could think of a reply, for they knew it was true. What could Legolas, or any of them, do for their friends in that dreary land? How could they help Frodo, Sam – or Kat?

Pippin broke the silence first. "Don't be so gloomy! The sun is shining, and we are together at least." He suggested they told each other what they had been up to since they parted ways in Rohan.

From there, their conversation and bleak moods slowly improved.

ʕll u _ u llʔ

The rest of the day, Legolas spent out in the fields, helping the men and women of Gondor to dig deep trenches for the myriad of corpses, much too many to burn. It was hard labor, which he welcomed despite his aching joints and arms from yesterday's battle. When working, he had no time to think.

In the evening, Aragorn invited his friends to supper in the largest of the tents. The Dúnedain were there, and Elladan and Elrohir, King Théoden and Éomer, Prince Imrahil and his sons, Gandalf, Boromir, Pippin, Legolas and Gimli, and even the Lórien elleth, Nellas. Only Merry had had to remain in the Houses of Healing, still needing much rest.

Legolas had taken a cold swim in the Anduin before coming, and enjoyed the feeling of clean skin and tired limbs. He sat between Gimli and Éomer, and was struck with how differently the young horse lord behaved now that Aragorn had healed his sister. Éomer had thought she was dead, and fought furiously, full of despair and grief, but now at last he could allow himself to relax. Drinking from a foaming jug of ale, he talked about horse breeds with one of Prince Imrahil's sons who was around the same age, and his formerly grim face had become calm and smiling.

If only Legolas could have been similarly calmed from his worries... But of course that was impossible. He picked up his cup and downed the wine, not tasting it.

When they started on the dessert, Gandalf told the assembled company about a black globe he had found with Denethor. A palantír. "He must have used it for a long time, and seen whatever visions the enemy saw fit to show him. Slowly it ate away his sanity, which is why even the king's hands cannot heal his mind now."

Boromir turned his head down, and Aragorn put his arm around his shoulders. "I wish I could have done more."

"At least now, nobody will challenge your claim," Boromir replied sadly.

Gandalf continued. Just before the war, Pippin had seen the steward go to his tower, where he likely gazed into the palantír again. What he saw had caused him to think that they had already lost the war, and that his life was forfeit. From his despair and absolute conviction that the west would fail, Gandalf had deduced that there must still remain a great host in Mordor. "Which means our friends in there will not be able to move freely."

Legolas' heart sank. Not move freely? If only it were just that... What they really risked was being caught, cruelly tortured and killed. Slowly.

Now Aragorn took over, and explained his plans to counter that threat. Earlier, he had decided together with the other captains that they would gather a new army and march to Mordor. They had to keep the Dark Lord's attention fixed on Aragorn, blinding him to what was happening within his own borders. Else, Frodo had no chance to succeed.

Everyone agreed it was a good plan, though they of course had to leave some men behind to defend Gondor, and discounting all the wounded, it wouldn't be a large host. A couple of thousands at the most.

Nobody mentioned that with those numbers it could only be a very shortlived decoy, and thus a complete suicide mission for those deciding to join. But unless the Ring was destroyed, any action – or lack thereof – meant sure death anyway.

The conversation drifted to other things than the war, but Legolas' thoughts stayed in Mordor. He saw a dark land full of orcs and trolls, and a small cat navigating through them.

Downing a second cup of wine, and a third, he became slightly unsteady, but the visions lingered. Like there was a palantír in his mind.

The voices around the table soon grew merry as the drink affected the others as well. Gimli and Pippin chatted animatedly with Elrohir and Elladan about the quality of the ale, and whether they should go out to smoke now or do it later.

"And you think we will like the taste of burnt tobacco leaves?" asked Elladan.

"You will love it." Pippin patted his back in a comradely fashion. Then his voice grew wistful. "When the war is over, we shall all come together. It will be Merry, and you people, and the rest of the Fellowship – we will share a pipe, and a hearty meal. Sam will cook for us. He makes the best mashed potatoes with fried mushrooms – and he and Frodo will tell us stories about their adventures, and the cat will be a woman again, and... Did I ever tell you about the cat?"

"Nay. Please do," said Elrohir encouragingly, glancing at Legolas.

Legolas stood abruptly, excusing himself. He needed fresh air, and not because of the talk about smoking.

Outside the tent, Aragorn and Boromir were arguing in subdued voices, but Legolas easily heard what they said.

"... a steward left to save what remains of Gondor, if our mission fails," mumbled Aragorn earnestly. "We cannot both go."

"My brother–"

"Is still not fit to lead the city, as you well know."

"But I..." Boromir clenched his fists. "I need to do this."

Aragorn looked long at him. "Why? To get closer to... it?"

Blushing hotly, Boromir looked down. "Even now, you cannot trust me? I did make amends. I tried to save the hobbits, and–"

"I know. I know..." Aragorn's voice was soothing. "And yet, it has to be this way. Deep down, I think you understand that too."

Nellas, who had stood silently by Boromir's side, took his hand. "I will stay with you. Come, let us take a walk."

Her voice seemed to shake Boromir out of his frustration, and with a curt nod at Aragorn he followed her. Hand in hand, they disappeared into the darkness.

Legolas stared after them. Had Nellas lost her mind, to be that easy with a human man? There was no mistaking Boromir's besotted look when he had turned towards her. Why was she encouraging such feelings in a mortal?

"I am glad some happiness still remains in the world," said Aragorn, his voice unusually soft, tinted with longing. He probably missed his elf maiden, but that was different. Arwen was only half-elven, and could become a mortal like her uncle if she decided to. She could choose the Gift of Men.

When Legolas didn't reply, Aragorn looked more closely at him. "Are you well? You seem troubled."

Legolas didn't want to burden him unnecessarily. "Just tired. I think I shall rest early tonight."

But when he lay down on his bedroll he remained wide awake, staring unseeingly at the canopy. He was unusually jealous of the others' friendships. Merry and Pippin had each other, and so did the twins. Aragorn had Gandalf to confide in, but also Éomer who he seemed to have become fast friends with, and back in Imladris waited his betrothed patiently to come to him whenever he was crowned. And now even Boromir had apparently found himself a lover. Everybody but Legolas had someone close.

There was Gimli, of course, but much as Legolas loved the dwarf by now, there was a certain limit to what they could talk about. With Gimli he had never dared to open the deeper chambers of his heart, sharing his fears and worries, and even when he was close to do so – like earlier that day – his friend was clearly relieved when the conversation went in a happier direction.

With Gimli he always felt like he played a part, taking on the appearance of a light-hearted, merry elf, who never showed weakness.

Legolas badly needed his best friend back, for it was only with her he could be himself.

A/N:

Everybody needs a best friend... T.T

The conversation Nellas had with Denethor was inspired by a poor old lady I once shared a hospital room with, who was convinced she was on a cruise, and desperately wanted to go home... :(

Image Credits:

Screenshot from The Lord of the Rings movies.