The Unforgiven { Legolas x OC - LotR Fanfiction}

37. Yallume!

The Riders of Rohan surged from Edoras like a tide released. Their preparations complete, the Rohirrim now rode for Dunharrow, the wind stirring the banners of the Mark as horses thundered through the fields.

From the stables, Aragorn and Éowyn emerged side by side, the crisp air stirring Éowyn's cloak.

"You ride with us?" the ranger asked gently.

Éowyn pulled the reins of her mount, her voice composed. "Only to the encampment. It is tradition—the women of the court ride to farewell the men."

As she turned to adjust the saddle, Aragorn's eyes caught the glint of steel. Hidden beneath a blanket was a sword, tucked into her saddle gear. Before he could say anything, Éowyn swiftly pulled the fabric back over it.

"The men have found their captain," she said solemnly. "They will follow you into battle... even unto death. You have given us hope."

Her words were steady, but her gaze lingered, speaking more than duty alone.

Nearby, Merry clutched his sword with both hands and stepped before Théoden.

"Excuse me... I have a sword," he said, his small voice carrying surprising strength. He knelt before the King. "Please accept it. I offer you my service, Théoden King."

Théoden's face softened. He bent down and helped the hobbit to his feet.

"And gladly I accept it," the King said. "You shall be Meriadoc, Esquire of Rohan."

At the rear of the company, Legolas and Gimli readied their mounts. The dwarf grumbled, adjusting his gear.

"Horsemen, hmph! I wish I could summon a legion of Dwarves. Fully armed—and filthy," Gimli added with a wry grin.

Legolas gave a rare smile, but his voice held a darker edge. "Your kinsfolk may not need to ride to war. I fear war already marches upon their halls."

But even as he spoke, his eyes searched the riders ahead, seeking one face. Ethir's. The silence between them had grown louder with each passing hour, neither of them daring to bridge it.

A horn call rang out as Théoden raised his voice.

"So it is before the walls of Minas Tirith," the King declared, "that the doom of our time shall be decided."

Éomer followed with rallying words. "Now is the hour! Riders of Rohan—oaths you have taken. Now fulfill them all! For Lord and Land!"

The host mounted. Ethir rode near the rear ranks, deliberately keeping her distance from Legolas. Her heart churned in confusion, her thoughts a storm. Emotions rose within her, sharp and unnameable. It was easier not to think of them—better to ignore what she feared to understand.

Éomer rode up beside her, his expression open and genuine.

"My lady," he asked, "will you follow us into battle?"

"I will, my lord," Ethir answered firmly.

"You do not fear war," Éomer observed. "You ride with steel in your heart. It will be an honor to ride beside you."

Ethir met his gaze, her tone dry. "An honor? That is new. When we first met, you had me tied up and questioned as a spy. Strange how quickly your mind has changed."

Éomer smiled, conceding her point. "You are bold enough to speak the truth. I admire that now. But I will not deny—I feared what I did not understand. A woman found among orcs was ill news in dark times."

Her eyes softened, but she said nothing. Instead, her gaze drifted to Éowyn, who rode just ahead.

"Your sister... she rides too? Has your mind changed about her as well?"

Éomer's jaw tightened. "She comes only to the encampment. I do not wish her to fight."

"I disagree, my lord," Ethir replied, voice sharper. "We need every sword. Would you deny her the same right you give your men?"

"She is royal blood! If we fall, someone must remain to guide our people!"

"And what people will she rule if the enemy triumphs?" Ethir snapped. "What land will be left to inherit? Let her fight. She has that right."

Without waiting for his reply, she spurred her horse ahead.

Behind them, Legolas glanced over his shoulder again, watching her ride beside Éomer. His brows furrowed. Something heavy settled on his chest—a weight that had not been there before. His mind wandered, unsettled. Beside him, Gimli tapped his shoulder.

"You look as though you've swallowed a mouthful of moonlight. What troubles you, elf?"

But Legolas didn't answer.

The encampment at Dunharrow stirred with the tension of coming war. Riders pitched tents, tended horses, and gathered weapons. Théoden and Aragorn walked together, surveying their forces.

"How many?" Théoden asked as Grimbold approached.

"I bring five hundred men from the Westfold, my lord," Grimbold answered. "We have three hundred more from Fenmarch."

"And Snowbourn?"

"None have come, my lord."

Théoden's eyes darkened. "Six thousand spears... less than half what I had hoped for."

Aragorn's voice was grim. "Six thousand will not break the lines of Mordor."

"More will come," Théoden said, though hope wavered in his voice.

"We have until dawn," Aragorn replied. "Then we must ride. Every hour lost hastens Gondor's fall."

Nearby, Legolas stepped up, his tone edged with unease. "The horses are restless. And the men grow quiet."

"They fear the mountain's shadow," Éomer said, eyes flicking toward the looming slopes.

Gimli followed their gaze and pointed. "That road there—where does it lead?"

"It is the road to Dimholt," Legolas replied quietly. "The door beneath the mountain."

Éomer's voice was low and wary. "None who venture there return. That mountain is cursed."

Gimli grunted. "Well, cursed or not, I could use a proper meal. Come, Aragorn—let us find food before battle makes bones of us all."

Night settled over the encampment like a shroud. Fires flickered, men whispered, and the wind howled faintly through the mountain passes. Tension coiled in the air, a prelude to the storm that would soon descend upon them.

The war had not yet begun, but already, it had claimed the hearts of many.((Next Chapter: 38))

[last edit: 2017 April]

Yallume == At last

More than anything, thank you for taking the time to read this!