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“Dawn is ever the hope of men,” Aragorn had said on the wall. It was also the hope of this elf, and perhaps the hope of a dwarf who had been forced into the caverns. If he yet lived. Legolas’s heart clenched as he stabbed an orc.
“Nonetheless, day will bring hope to me,” Aragorn had said. Day would bring light for shooting, Legolas reminded himself as he picked up spent arrows and put them in his quiver.
“Such a refuge would be the liking of a dwarf,” Aragorn had said. But all Legolas could see in his mind’s eye was Gimli’s pinched face as they traversed Moria. It mattered not how solid the stone if the cavern held nothing but death.
“That must be my hope,” Legolas had answered. But what hope had they when there was not a star in the sky and the sun, that greatest of stars, was hours off?
“None knows what the new day shall bring him,” Aragorn had said during his parley with the Uruk-Hai. Legolas prayed that the dawn would not bring his dwarf, his friend, his Gimli, grey with death. Legolas bared his teeth and he slashed at the two orcs in front of him.
The sound of the Horn reverberated such that Legolas could not tell what was a fresh blast and what was an echo, throwing their foes into chaos and the men into ecstasy. They cried that it was Helm himself, risen from the dead, but Legolas knew better. It was Théoden King with Elendil’s heir at his side, shining in the new dawn. Legolas joined in the charge, as inexorable as the sea slapping against the shore, and their enemies fled or were killed before them.
“Mithrandir!” Legolas cried when the dawn revealed the wizard, come with a company of men fresh and grim. None knows what the new day shall bring him, indeed. Not all was lost, then. But there was only one part, one little mortal life that he cared about at this moment. They might win the battle, but Gimli might have already lost his life.
Thirty eight. The Dunlander had tripped over his own feet in his haste to retreat, and Legolas cut him down.
Thirty nine. Legolas stabbed an orc in the back while the creature was engaged with one of the Riders. The man was startled for a second when the orc slumped forward onto his sword, but he looked to Legolas and gave him a nod of thanks.
Forty. If Legolas kept counting, then surely Gimli would live to compare their counts, even if just out of obstinacy. Why, oh why, had they been separated? Legolas’s heart could rest and revel in the slide of his knife against enemy flesh if only he knew that Gimli was safe.
Forty one. The battle was over now. Those that had been driven into the Deep were returning. Now Legolas would know whether his friend lived or had fallen. He anxiously scanned the ranks of those coming to join the rest of the host by the Deeping-stream. There was Gamling, Éomer, and…Gimli! Oh, how Legolas’s heart soared, only to sink again as he realized that there was a linen bandage wrapped around his dear friend’s head stained with blood.
“Forty two, Master Legolas! Alas, my axe is notched; the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?” His voice was strong despite his injury, and Leoglas’s knees were weak with relief.
“You have passed my score by one. But I do not grudge you the game, so glad I am to see you on your legs!”