Pain.
Pain, always pain. There had been cold pain, hot pain and a throbbing pain that had seemed to pulse throughout his body. There had been so much pain it seemed blurred, confused. His body did not wish to remember too clearly.
Even now, there was pain, but it seemed more an echo of all the pain earlier, than a pain of its own.
He pondered this for a while, his mind heavy and slow. He had a terrible feeling there was something he should remember – the cause of the pain – but he simply could not. Or maybe he just did not want to remember.
He had been falling... Had he not? Or was that just a strange dream, the feeling of fire and cold wind in his face?
He was now surrounded by softness and warmth, but that too seemed dim. Was it all a dream? When had the dream begun and when would it end?
Pain, always pain.
Someone whispered a name by his ear, and he suddenly realised it was his own. It meant little to him, but he knew it was his. Somewhere in his mind, he could feel his memories, but he could not reach them. Pain waited lay waiting with them.
"What did they do to him?" he heard the sweetest voice ask. He knew the voice was important; it was starlight and love and the sound of leaves falling in the forests. It was Her and he should remember.
He tried to reach for the memories again, but his body cried out in protest.
"I do not know," answered a tired, old voice. "He was taken to Mordor, possibly even tortured by Sauron himself. I do not know if it can ever be healed. Without the rings… I can do little."
"It must be healed! He must live!" There was sadness in her voice now, and her sadness was his pain.
"Arwen…" he whispered, but the name brought more pain and he fell into darkness again.
******
Faint screams came from distant lands. Legolas lifted his head, listening intently. There was a plea in these screams, a plea for the pain to end. Not only the humans screamed, the very mountains seemed to be pleading also.
The dark mountains of Mordor pleading? It seemed too strange a notion to be true, yet it was still in the wind. Mordor had been a source of evil for so long that perhaps only the mountains remembered a time before it had been so.
Galadriel suddenly tensed, staring up at the sky.
"Orcs," she muttered. Looking down at her hand, Legolas saw the glimmer of something shiny in her hand. She seemed to struggle for a moment, sweat beading on her forehead.
"Galadriel?" he asked softly.
"I feel him," she whispered. "The ring – He uses it to call to me. He… He is calling for the Three to join him."
She stared down at her hand and for a moment she seemed to falter, the light around her fading and becoming dark.
"He wants me," she said in a terrible voice.
Gimli reacted first, planting his axe firmly in the ground right next to her.
"He shall not have you," the dwarf announced. His voice was low, but it was as sharp as the edge of a sword and seemed to cut through the air.
"Orcs!" Legolas cried out at the very same moment, whipping around to see the approaching horde. He couldn't tell how many there were. Half of them seemed to move in shadow. But there were many.
Galadriel turned slowly, and now Legolas saw her eyes were dark and terrible. The light around her seemed to return, but it was sharper now. More focused, more deadly.
She lifted her sword, and it shone like silver in her hand. Gimli's axe gleamed darkly beside her.
The first orc hissed loudly as Legolas's arrow pierced its skin. The elf had loosed another one even before the body hit the ground. The arrows flew through the air, felling orcs as silently as snowfall.
Gimli charged, lifting his mighty axe and killing the nearest orc with a sound blow.
"One," he said fiercely.
Another arrow flew from Legolas's bow, as an orc came charging at him. In the corner of his eye, he saw Galadriel's sword come crushing down. One stroke felled two orcs, but she did not even pause. Her sword swung around again, sharp and deadly.
One orc screamed in terror and turned to flee, but Legolas had an arrow away before the creature had taken four steps. They could not be discovered.
Firing one last arrow, he reached for his knives as the orcs were upon him. A fire seemed to rise within him. Anger won over the despair.
Evil had taken much, but not her, not Galadriel. Not Gimli. Orcs! Mockery of elves, mockery of life itself. Legolas moved swiftly, stabbing so fast his knives were mere glimmers in the night. The orcs saw them not until they were withdrawn again, leaving only deadly wounds.
And then, it was over as quickly as it had begun. The ground was littered with orc bodies, some still bleeding.
"Ten," said Gimli. He pulled his axe free of the last orc and looked up at Galadriel. "That is for one elf, lady Galadriel."
She merely bowed her head for a moment, suddenly looking very tired. Lowering her sword, she glanced up at the sky.
"More orcs will come. We must move quickly."
With that, she sprang forward, no trace of weariness anymore in her steps. She seemed small against the towering mountains, like a lonely star in the blackness of space.
And somewhere, beyond the mountains, Frodo felt her come and held a weeping Sam quietly in the dark.
"Fear not, Sam. She is coming. She is coming."