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It just made sense. Estel was covered by Boromir, the human dragging the resisting Strider behind him with the practiced ease of an elder brother. Legolas’ heart panged as he was reminded of Elladan and Elrohir, laughing as they danced through the Orcish blades. He would miss them wherever he wound up after this.
He barely felt the ground under his feet as he ran, disregarding the panicked shouts of the hobbits, grouped as they were around Frodo, blades drawn and shining blue.
They seemed so painfully young for this task, a burden that would have caused older men than them - had even caused himself to pause - to fail. Legolas was grateful he had met them, that his life had been brightened by their presence in more ways than one.
After all, their knowledge of plants surpassed even his, faces lighting up as they argued over the merits of one herb over another in the stew. So easy to calm ruffled feathers by giving them his hunt, blushes dotting their cheeks as they stammered their thanks, forgetting their previous declarations of an eternal grudge when Merry had discovered Legolas asleep during his detailed explanation of the correct potting procedures to transplant the sensitive Celiriac plants from one bed to another.
Legolas’ breath burned in his chest, legs aching but he pushed on, pushing himself to the edge of his endurance as he neared his target.
Gimli turned, maybe alerted by the yells of the others.
Legolas stared helplessly at him, mind working faster than his feet, warrior instincts assessing the situation even as his heart warred against him.
The dwarf was beautiful. Dark russet hair gleamed in the weak autumn sunlight, the braid Legolas has woven there just this morning, fingers clumsy and voice slightly too fast although only Estel noticed, still immaculate despite the blood splattering Gimli’s face.
Estel had cornered him after, slipping into Elvish as naturally as breathing, teasing Legolas about his inability to act as aloof as he tried, his feelings spilling out of every inch of his face. Legolas had tripped him into the nearby stream and ran, dragging Gimli in front of him to act as a shield, delighted at the close contact even as the dwarf grumbled about the rudeness of elves.
Legolas did not regret much in his life. His father would say he was too young to have regrets, deep in his cups and glamour discarded to show the deep burn marring his face, unseeing eyes following Legolas as he paced like a trapped bear, confined to the palace following another attempt to join the patrols.
But he did.
Legolas regretted his harsh words to Boromir upon their first meeting, he regretted hiding Arwen’s doll when they were children causing her to cry hard enough to lose her voice, he regretted the arguments he had with his father when he was younger and slightly more impulsive. He regretted not telling Gimli how he felt.
The dwarf’s mouth opened, as if to question Legolas’ actions, before he caught sight of the Orc swinging his blade, too heavily armoured for Legolas’ arrows to find purchase in flesh. He knew what was about to happen. Legolas knew the choice he was making.
And he did not regret it as he threw himself in between the dwarf and the blade meant to take his head off, sinking into Legolas’ back instead.