Unexpectedly turned into a cat, Kat falls into Middle-earth with the mission to prevent a death. In a feline form she can only communicate with the elf Legolas - and that he is such an attractive specimen is certainly not helpful...
A humorous (but...
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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.
