His face was still and peaceful as his body lay partially covered by the rough brown blanket somebody had swathed him with. Staring at his pale features, his eyes closed for the very last time, I find myself thinking, why? But it is a fleeting thought, nothing more.

I’m not sure if I can feel anything else any longer. Too much has happened, too many have died.

Estel stands behind me. I can sense his concern, his grief for the loss of Haldir, but I cannot comfort him, lend him any reassurance. As I look around the hall under the ground, sparsely lit by a few torches, I see Hell, I smell Hell, and I hear Hell. The moans of the wounded and dying, the stench of decay and blood and- their eyes. No life, no feeling. An old man who I had a chance to speak with briefly before the start of the battle is lying on a large grey blanket, covered with a white sheet. He has a bloodstained dressing around his head, and he is staring at the people who go past.

Empty, lost. Dead.

I turn around, intending to head towards the exit. Estel lets me go in peace, for he knows me well. But as I reach the door, a woman, grizzled and old, comes toward me, holding out her hands. I pause, puzzled, but then I see she has a wad of clean bandages and a small bowl of steaming water.

“My lord, let me clean and dress your wounds. You are tired; I see it, allow me to help. There is nothing more for you to do here.” Her words were kind and her voice was soft but her eyes were the same. She had seen too much horror in the death of her people. I suddenly recognise her face and I wonder if she would ever have the same sparkle in her eyes or laugh so readily or happily ever again. I feel a sharp pang of pity for in my heart but I do not show it, knowing that sympathy would be something she would not welcome right now.

“Thank you, but there are others here that would be more needy of your help, mistress.” With that, I stride out of the hall. My grief does not allow me to linger there where the doomed lie and I would not stay to witness the anguish of others.

Our victory was hard won with too high a price. There was no triumph in the outcome, only sorrow, fatigue, and death.

*
Flinging open the doors to the outside world, I stride through them into the grim exterior that is the aftermath of the horrific battle that was Helm’s Deep. I pass several of the warriors leaning on the ramparts as they conversed, one of them nothing more than a boy who stared at me as I walked by mutely. I identified him as the pup Aragorn had been talking with, trying to reassure the lad with soothing words intending to make him feel braver. My hearts softens a wit and I am suddenly glad that he survived, but my gaze then rests on the elven survivors. They are few, too few and their faces are grim, tearstained from so much weeping.

Trying to ignore them would only postpone the meeting they would have eventually so I move towards them, resolving myself to keep my face as blank as possible. One, Maethor, a close friend of Haldir’s, who has his face in his hands, looks up as I come and holds my eyes with an unwavering stare that makes me slightly uncomfortable.

“My lord.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper, none but another elf could have heard him, but those two words are enough to make me realize the raw grief in his voice, transferred in his resolute stare. A lump rises suddenly in my dry throat, I am lost for words to say because no words seem to be the right ones, and I find I can no longer meet his eyes as tears try to well up in mine.

“Maethor, I- ” Unable to continue, I walk quickly away from him, ignoring his quiet, half-hearted protest, down the stone steps that lead to a dark corner where I can release these tears in peace. They course down my face relentlessly, but I do not try to stop them and I know that I can’t. Resting my elbows on the hard stone in front of me, I bury my head in my hands and attempt to stifle sobs that would alert others to my presence. I don’t want people to see me like this and I want to free my sorrow as much as I am able whilst keeping my royal mask intact.

“Legolas? What- ” Startled and a little angry that someone could sneak up on me so while I am in this weakened state, I dash the tears quickly from eyes and face, turning around so I can confront the speaker. It is Estel and he looks concerned.

“What ails you, my friend?” Endeavouring to brush off the question proves to be harder than I though, for I want to return to my grief; refusing to tell my friend what troubles me is difficult.

“Nothing, Estel,” I manage eventually when I can find my voice again. “Naught but- ”

“Yes?” I sigh, heavily, the deep gash on my right arm and the many cuts and bruises I obtained during the fight begin to throb once more; in my profound anguish I had forgotten my own injuries.

“A great weight lies heavily on my heart, Estel, and neither you or any other can lift it. I must carry on as always until I can find a way to alleviate this pain I am feeling. Please, I wish to be alone.” He opens his mouth to object but I forestall him.

“My friend, please grant me this one thing for now. I have much to think about, much grief to bear, as have we all.” Nodding curtly, he turns about and leaves. I think I may have hurt him, but at the present moment, I am too sore and tired to care much more about anything, much less this.

But it seems I am not to be left alone straight away. The dwarf, Gimli, come a few minutes later. Although he did not say, it was clear that he had spoken with Estel, and it had been agreed to try and lend words of sympathy. Unintentionally, I snap at him, my wounds by this time are aching much and my head is beginning to pound, and he leaves with nothing further to say to me, and I am sorry.

Oh, how I wish it would end. Torment me no further.

*

However I may pretend to my friends that I am indifferent, they know too well by now to be fooled. Estel sees through my words and reads my face as if it were a book. Gimli speaks his mind and says what he sees. I must wear my heart on my sleeve.

As I am leaning on the parapet here, so early in the morning that that the sky is not yet light, I am thinking deeply about life and it’s meaning. For if it would have one, then why is the evil allowed to fester and grow in the land like a canker on a rose? For any other and I here would rather have the bloom, the petals of light falling over to settle on the dank darkness of the gloom.

My thoughts turn even darker as I examine the few clouds in the cerulean firmament that is the dawn, and the sun greets the horizon with an orange kiss. Such things, however beautiful, hold no such joy for me here, now as I watch the men on the ground below, hauling the dead into great barrows, to lay there forever as the remnants of a great but terrible battle.

What would it mean if I were to die? What would happen if I ended it, now, on this wall? A fall from this height would surely kill me. Who would weep for me then?

Would it be the women, too taken up with their tasks, caring for the injured, caught up in their own grief? Nay. They would not have time to weep over one such as I.

Would it be the men who fought, who are lying in the hall of the keep, who are too fatigued to talk? Nay, it would not be them.

Moisture on my cheek rouses me a little from my dark reverie. Putting a hand up to my face, I discover tears, running freely and many. Considering my own destruction, I must have wandered to a shadowy place in my mind, far from consciousness and too taken up with my grief to show interest in the activities of the diminishing world around me.

I just don’t care any more.

Even as I think it, I am shocked. All the emotion I thought had deserted me came rushing back, flooding my mind with an unstoppable barrage of sadness and anger. A shriek began somewhere inside of me, pushing its way up, up into my throat, and past my mouth, escaping my lips in one, high, keening wail, too loud. The next thing that I know, Estel has his hands around me in a comforting embrace, while I sob uncontrollably into his shoulder.

Somehow, we are inside the keep itself, in a small room, bare of anything except fresh reeds on the stone floor. I am babbling to him in Elvish, crazed words of a grief long kept inside. I know I am telling him over and over that I wanted to die and I still want to die. Tears are running down his face too, making tracks down his cheeks, making clear trails in the grime still on his face from the night before.

Ashamed, I suddenly realise that my grief was not my only one. Estel needed his mask more than I did mine. As a leader of men, a Ranger in the Wild, his men looked up to him and weakness was no option in the face of survival. I had caused him pain too, Estel and Gimli both. And now I was contemplating suicide? A pitiful creature I must seem, thinking about my grief, mine alone, as if it was I that really mattered, as if the whole of Middle-Earth revolved around me.

I loathe myself.

*
I am talking to Estel in a hollow voice about something or other. I care not and I am not even listening to what he is saying. I just reply with vague, noncommittal answers, and I can see he knows all is not well. But for now, I think, he decides to leave it, for which I am exceedingly grateful.

The sun is well up now, and about the keep, everyone is busy, either tending the wounding or clearing up. But there is nothing for me to do and Estel won’t hear of me doing anything until my wounds have been cleaned and dressed. For myself, I would rather leave them, and if they festered, I probably would not notice. I’m trying to keep awake- I haven’t had sleep for two nights. Although as an elf I am able to keep awake and more energetic than most mortals for longer, my limbs are aching from battle and overuse- I could just drop off here and now and sleep on the hard, cold, stone for a year.

“Elf?” The dwarf’s gruff voice breaks through my thoughts and I pull together, willing myself to pay attention.

“What is it- dwarf?” I answer him, letting a measure of weariness enter my voice. He must have noticed because he then said,

“Have you had no sleep, you great tall lackwit? You ought to get some ale inside of you- rough malt beer- and then you’ll drop off to sleep in no time. You look half-dead, speaking of which, get those wounds of yours sorted out, or I’ll knock you out and drag you to that hall myself.” This at least had some effect on me. My eyes widened in surprise as he spoke, and I let myself chuckle a bit at those last words but merriment was the complete opposite of what I felt. I did not want to go into that hall again, whether I was conscious of it or not.

I glance then at Estel. He is looking at me warily; no doubt to see how I reacted to Gimli’s little speech. Suddenly, my heart is lifted a little at the worry on their faces. Proving I’m real and not, as I have been feeling since that night, a spirit, a wraith on the physical plane, wandering Middle-Earth in search of solitude and an answer to the endless questions. They care.

*

Feeling lighter than I have done these past couple of days, I sit still on a stool in the middle of the room as Estel calls a woman to bring a bowl of boiled water and several clean cloths to the room, in order to bathe and bind my wounds, so long unattended. Gimli disappears for a few minutes before returning with a flagon of ale, brewed by the Rohirrim.

“Here, elf,” he says. “‘Tis not dwarf ale but I am assured that it is of the best quality as they can find at this moment. Drink it, but slowly, for I very much doubt that you could take it in this condition.”

I roll my eyes but I take a cautious sip and I am pleasantly surprised to find that it is not at all that strong; rather like boiling honey, it cascades down my throat, eliciting a warm feeling in my insides, no doubt bringing more colour to my cheeks and lifting my heart a little more with each sip. However, this brings an annoyingly smug smile to the dwarf’s lips and I feel like rolling my eyes in exasperation, but I am prevented from doing so by Aragorn, as the woman with a pewter bowl of steaming water and linen bandages draped over her arm enters the room, setting it down on the small, scrubbed wooden table in the corner.

Out of one of his belt pouches, he takes a few small leaves, no doubt athelas and using the tips of his fingers, crushes them into the bowl of water. The woman leaves with a small nod and a greeting to Estel, and he starts to bathe my wounds lightly, starting with the many scratches I sustained on my forearms. Dark dried blood cracks and comes away, and I gasp slightly in pain as he reopens the wounds to clean them free of infection.

With my free hand, I reach over and put the empty tankard down next to the bowl on the small table with a regretful sigh- the ale had tasted so good and I am sure that the warm taste of it could take away some of the stinging sensation and the dull ache in the gash on my shoulder.

Estel finishes with my fore arms and checks for any more injuries. With a sharp hiss, he finds the long tear in my tunic, revealing the deep cut beneath made by an orc scimitar and a careless moment.

“Legolas, you should have had this tended to straight away. I am afraid of gangrene but the wound has long since closed.”

“It aches,” I mutter between clenched teeth. I am afraid I know what he wants to do next.

“I know. But I must reopen it, my friend.” I sigh heavily, and wave a hand generally. I am starting to get tired and wish Estel would hurry up so I can get some sleep.

“Go ahead, Estel. Do what you must.” He regards me carefully and closely but he nods and motions for Gimli to bring me some more of that delicious ale so I may at least be drunk enough not to feel much. The dwarf sets his mouth into a grim line, (as far as I can tell with that great bushy beard!), and nods once in my direction and leaves. Yawning widely, too tired to even bother to cover my mouth, I gaze at my surroundings without any real interest but I soon find my attention wandering.

Not until I feel a hand on my good shoulder, do I awaken, realising I must have dozed off, the pain on my back receding to a cold numbness that is perhaps more frightening than the extreme agony I had been in earlier. Estel must have felt me tense suddenly, for he looks at me with a questioning look in his eyes and some concern.

“What is wrong?” He asks me. I reply and my voice is low, barely a whisper.

“Estel, the pain- it is gone.” His expression softens and he is hasty to reassure me. I notice Gimli standing behind him, looking rather superior and I have to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him, however ill I may be.

“‘Tis all right, mellon nin. I bathed your wound while you slept. It’s clean and will bother you no longer.” Sighing in relief, I let my shoulders sag as all the tension is released from me and all I can feel now is immeasurable weariness. My eyelids are as heavy as if they were weighed with great stones, I can hardly keep them open.

*