I have lots of work to do, so naturally, I'm returning to FanFiction. I'm trying to find some inspiration to finish my incomplete story Aftermath. Hopefully this will help. It's only going to be a short one, but I hope it reads alright - I don't know much about the canon of Lord of the Rings.

This is strictly movie-verse, since I haven't read the books. Please forgive the timing too - in this RotK fanfiction, Aragorn and his Army of the Dead arrive at the Battle of Pelennor Fields to join the fight earlier than they do in the movie to allow events to progress as I have written them. The story picks up as Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and their allies descend from the boats onto the battlefield.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Lord of the Rings, unfortunately.

WARNING: Contains blood and violence (of course)

The clash of steel against steel chased away any weariness Legolas felt from their recent journey to the Kingdom of the Dead, and brought fire-fuelled adrenaline to replace it. Flexing his arm, he threw back the Orc that had launched itself at him and before it could regain its footing, he sliced cross-ways with one of his twin blades and neatly slit its throat. Within his chest his heart leapt with the thrill of battle, sending a pleasant tremor through his legs. For hours he had been pacing, waiting, scanning the horizon with his keen, blue-eyed gaze for signs of war, aching to rejoin his fellows in the fight to defend Gondor, to fight back against the plague of evil creeping into Middle Earth, to send a message in a firm punch through Sauron's gleeful arrogance. Now, at last, he could rejoin the battle which said, plain as ink on paper, No. This land is ours, and you cannot take it. A grin chased across his face as he locked eyes with Gimli, now ripping his axe from the skull of a fallen Orc. The Dwarf glanced over his broad shoulder and cast a laugh in Legolas' direction.

"Five already, Elf!"

Legolas shook his head. "Foolish," he called back, following his companions into the fray. "Have you not learned by now, you tree stump, that I can best you no matter what the number?"

Gimli bristled at 'tree stump' and began to attack his enemies with renewed vigour, hurtling a stream of insults into the air as he did so. Legolas caught the phrase 'pointy-eared blister' before his ears were filled once more with the shriek of clanging swords and the howls of Orc war cries. His twin blades sang as they cut through the air, blood flying in their wake. He plunged both into the chest of an Orc in front of him, ripped them free, span about to face an Orc to his left, smoothly wove a single blade through its eye-socket and out again, leapt over its buckling form and rammed his elbow into the face of another oncoming foe. His gaze lifted to the nearing, lumbering shadows of the Oliphants, to the waves upon waves of Orc and Man locked in combat. His stomach flipped a little - this was an unlikely battle to win. But they had the Dead Army. They had a secret weapon.

His eyes fell on Aragorn as he removed the head of another Orc from its shoulders. The Man was fending off Orcs left and right, but like Legolas his gaze perpetually flitted towards the smoking walls of Gondor. He glanced over his shoulder, looked to Gimli and then to Legolas.

"The Riders of Rohan!" he called, his voice broken by the screams of Orcs and the unearthly hisses of the Dead Army streaming past them. "Their numbers are few!"

He was right. Far across the battlefield, somewhat further away from the main siege of Gondor's walls, Legolas' keen eye could pick out where the mass of Orcs faded into green cloaks, most of which were now trodden into the ground. Horses heaved on the ground, legs kicking, fallen riders cast aside by the pumping hooves. The Riders of Rohan were attacking with no less fire than before, but their numbers were dwindling rapidly. The Oliphants kicked great floods of horses into the dust, ground struggling bodies into the floor mercilessly.

"The King! Theodan King!"

Legolas looked up as Aragorn shouted, pushing his knives between the ribs of two separate Orcs as he met the Man's gaze. Aragorn's eyes drilled into him.

"Legolas, find the King! See how he fares! Gimli and I will search for Gandalf."

Legolas nodded and raced into the midst of the battle without looking back. He wove an easy path through the throng of Orcs, ducking their blows and taking the chance to land a hit when the opportunity presented itself. He headed for the far side of the battlefield, towards the area Theodan King's troops had entered at. The scent of blood and dust and metal rushed into his face as he ran and his eyes began to water.

Abruptly a shadow fell across him, and he barely had time to divert his course before a great, leathery foot hammered into the earth nearby. He craned his neck back and threw himself aside as the Oliphant's great trunk swept downwards, knocking over several Orcs in its way. Legolas took in its destination - a large group of Riders still fighting nearby - and made his decision quickly.

As the foot began to lift he pushed his knives into their sheaths, ran at it, and pushed off from the ground, snatching hold of the scattered arrows embedded in the Oliphant's thick skin. Instantly the world began to swing violently from side to side as the Oliphant moved, and Legolas took a moment to grip on, orientate himself, plan a path upwards. Then he began to scale the side of the great brute, arrows providing a neat track to follow. As he swung up onto its back he found himself greeted with a swinging sword and ducked, shoved hard with his shoulder to throw his assailant off into the open air. The movement set him off balance and for a split second he faltered - and yet still his eye caught the flash of metal as an archer on the Oliphant's back whipped about and let loose an arrow. Even as he threw himself backwards he knew he was too slow, barely managing to grab a handhold before a flash of pain shot through his leg. It was unexpectedly agonising and his grip faltered, sending him slipping down the side of the Oliphant.

Half blind, snatching wildly, he felt leather burn his palm and clung on. Squinting through the pain, he summarised he was hanging from the side of the beast, clinging to its harness, and without a second thought his hand sought one of his twin blades. With two fast slashes the archers abroad the Oliphant were cut free and began to slide towards the earth, dragging Legolas back up onto the Oliphant's back. Without giving himself a chance to think, Legolas regained his footing and span around, swapping his blade for his bow, and landed three arrows in the base of the Oliphant's skull. It went down with a deafening scream, and he leapt from its back as it neared the ground.

He landed hard on his knees and couldn't stop a groan of pain escaping. He rose unsteadily, breathless, brushed with dust from the melee. His heart shuddered in his chest, both from the thrill of the attack and from the pain throbbing through his leg. He could feel a hot dampness against his skin and glanced down, his hand closing over the shaft of the arrow protruding from his thigh. If he hadn't moved, it might have pierced higher and hit a lung. A lucky escape. He cast a glance back over his shoulder to be greeted with the sight of the Dead Army swarming over the Oliphant and its fallen Archers. Satisfied, he pushed the pain out of his mind and resumed his search for Theodan King. His leg protested but he forced himself into an unsteady run. This was a war. There was no room for hesitation.

He would not fail Aragorn.

He pushed his way past Orcs and Men alike, ears pricked for the voice of the King. The addition of the Dead Army had done wonders for their chances - the green mist swept across the battlefield like a river, slaying all in its wake. Legolas raised his bow and let an arrow fly to take down an approaching Orc, ducked to avoid a blow coming in from his side. He realised with a soft flicker of relief that Aragorn and Gimli would certainly be safe today - surrounded by the Ghosts, they had less of a chance of being overwhelmed by Orcs. A part of him that was listening always for the call of his kinsmen relaxed slightly. Until he saw a horrifying shadow sweep down from the sky and, with a piercing shriek, plunge into the battle. A cry went up from the battle and Riders scattered, one almost bowling Legolas over.

"The King! The King is fallen!"

The words sent panic through Legolas' stomach. He headed towards the great, dark spectre bearing down on the Riders, all too aware that he had not the skill to defeat a Nazgul and its Dark Rider. Orcs shoved their way into his path, gibbering and howling, the presence of their Commander filling them with renewed vigour. One sent a sword hurtling towards his head and Legolas had to hurl himself into a roll to avoid it, rocking up to his feet behind the Orc as he retrieved his knife. His leg seared once more and he held his breath as he sliced a clean line down the Orc's back, swung his arm to lop off an arm that reached for him.

"The King! Theodan has fallen!"

The cry still flew from the mouths of Riders around him as he struggled forwards, attempting to regain control of his breathing. If the King was still alive, Legolas must reach him before he died. Aragorn had charged him to find the King, and find the King he would. As he drew closer to the Witch King and his prey, the Nazgul abruptly reared and keeled over, neck flopping grotesquely, headless. Someone had killed it. And as he fought his way forwards, blood flying from his blades, he took in a single soldier standing between a fallen white horse and the rising Witch King. Legolas recognised the form of King Theodan pinned beneath his horse, lying motionless in the dust. Dread filled his heart. The King had indeed fallen. And yet...

As he plunged his sword into the neck of an approaching foe and turned to gut another, he kept one eye on the figure now ducking to avoid the Witch King's lethal mace. The soldier moved quickly, lightly, almost delicately... fair hair was beginning to come loose from beneath the helmet... Legolas' eyes narrowed as he avoided a blow and pressed closer, his keen gaze picking out small, pale features as the soldier twisted away from the Witch King and lost her balance...

Her balance...

"Lady Eowyn!" He breathed her name, filled with disbelief. He saw her in his minds eye, calm, collected, standing at her father's side, a princess... but he had also caught a glimpse of her practising, her sword cleaving the air like a snake. And of course she had come, of course she had refused to stay behind and sew like the other maidens. She had joined the battle, and even now was defending her father's body.

But the Witch King was advancing on her, and there was only so long she could dodge his blows.

"Lady Eowyn!"

This time he shouted louder, forcing his way forwards with even greater determination. Orcs flooded his path, regrouping around their leader, and he cut them down as fast as he could. Another enemy jarred the arrow shaft still embedded in his leg, and Legolas let out a savage cry as he plunged his knife through the skull of the offending Orc. He shoved another aside and flew onwards, even as Eowyn's well-timed manoeuvres failed her. The Witch King raised his mace, and this time it slammed into her shield with a shattering crack. The force threw her to the ground and she landed against her father's horse, holding her shield-arm to her chest. The Witch King bore down on her, lifted its mace, a malicious hiss escaping the darkness where its face should have been.

Legolas sheathed his knife and reached for his bow and arrow. In one fluid movement he leapt over the horse and let loose an arrow, aiming straight for the Witch King's face. His enemy instinctively moved backwards, out of the line of fire, and Legolas landed between Eowyn and the monster. He nocked another arrow, levelled it at its head. He could already feel the presence of the Witch King seeping into his limbs, feel its evil bearing down on him. But he planted himself there, blood trickling heavily down his leg, the arrow true to its mark.

"She will not be your next victim, Witch King," he said, his words clipped and quiet. "You will not touch her."

The Witch King drew itself up before him, darkness emanating from its form. The metal of its armour and harsh, spiked crown seemed to scream with the agony of those it had killed, and its black robes snaked through the air like tendrils of smoke. Its great, empty face gaped, a soft hiss of mockery whispering from the darkness. Words slipped from its rusted helmet.

"Foolish Elf."

Legolas' hands were shaking as he let another arrow fly. It bounced off the Witch King's shoulder like a leaf, repelled as if by a magnet. He knew he would not live through this fight, and yet he snatched another from his quiver, nocked it, aimed, fired, almost in a frenzy of slow-building terror. He could feel cold sweat prickling on his temples. The Witch King let its mace fall and drew slowly from its belt a long, narrow sword.

"You will die as your forefathers have died," the voice whispered. "You will fall here, and no creature alive will remember your name but the maggots that feast on your bones."

That voice sent gooseflesh rippling over Legolas' skin. It felt as though the voice spoke in his own head, and his mind flashed with horrific images as its hiss seared his ears. The dead Elves, row upon row of them, bloodied and beaten on the walls of Helms Deep; great, glistening spiders scuttling forwards out of the dark; and there, in the back of his mind where he always kept her, the clear blue gaze of his mother as her face grew slowly vacant and empty with the pallor of death-

His hands were numb, and he realised dimly that they had faltered and dropped his bow.

With fumbling fingers, he tore his knives from their sheaths and stumbled clear of the Witch King's first blow. A merciless cackle filled his ears as he staggered backwards, movements sluggish. He couldn't think. His head was packed with nightmarish images, his ears filled with the roar of his own blood. Fear screamed in every panting breath he took. How had Eowyn lasted so long? How had she managed?

The Witch King's sword was flying towards him. He brought up both of his blades to block the attack and gasped as the knives span out of his grip and away. The Witch King's helmet's gaping, dark mouth filled his vision and he threw himself away barely in time. His bad leg buckled. But fiercely, with the desperation of a final stand, he regained his balance and span to face his enemy, reaching for his smaller hunting knife. He pulled it free and, as the creature rushed in on him, aimed for the join between shoulder and head -

Razor agony exploded in his chest. Pain as he had never felt it, pain that felt like Death's own hand reaching into him and closing a fist over his heart. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, his very soul pierced with shards of evil. His vision was gone and his heart beat was pounding in his ears like a battle drum, accompanied dimly by the distant laughter of the Witch King...

And then the sword ripped free and Legolas' body was set alight. His strength crumbled around him like towers of sand. His legs gave out and deposited him heavily on the ground like a rag doll. And worst of all, a sound left his lips that he didn't even know he could make. He was screaming, screaming as if he had been set on fire, as if he had been plunged underwater, as if his head was burning. He felt tears forcing themselves from his eyes, which he realised with a jolt of terror were wide open, even though he could see nothing. Words flew through his mind like passing birds, far away in the sky.

Goheno nin, adar... adar... Gin iallon, goheno nin...

The words ran like a stream through his mind, again and again, closely followed by great waves of dark pain. He blinked hard once, twice, and blurry images came into focus. Eowyn was on her feet, her sword raised.

"I am no man."

The Witch King was crumpling, contorting like a crushed toy. Eowyn dropped to the ground once more as Legolas' vision blanked out once more. He felt his whole body convulse violently, setting free another of those unearthly, unholy screams from his lips. The scream sounded distant, almost soft now. Chilling darkness was swallowing him up piece by piece, his soul trembling, shattering...

He had always expected to see his mother's face as he died. Perhaps smiling at him, perhaps welcoming him into her arms. And yet all he could see was his father. His father looking out into the dawn, his father steepling his fingers together in thought...

Adar... G-Galo Anor erin râd gîn, Adar... Adar, goheno...

His mind was on fire. His soul was on fire. And as he tumbled into horrific, freezing oblivion, he knew he was still screaming.

Elvish Words:

Father - Adar

forgive me - Goheno nin

May the sun shine on your path - Galo Anor erin râd gîn

I beg of you - Gin iallon

Thank you for reading, and please do review if you have the time or the inclination. I would also appreciate any corrections for mistakes I have made regarding the canon. Hope you all enjoyed :)

Regards,

SUPRNTRAL LVR.