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Tadej lets out a low groan and cracks one eye open as a throbbing pain hammers against his skull. It takes him several seconds to gather his thoughts, to anchor himself back in reality, and his brows knit together as soon as he becomes aware of his surroundings. Towering trees encircle him, their interwoven branches allowing only a few pale rays of sunlight to filter through and dance across the ground. Beneath him, an elegant carpet of dead leaves crackles faintly with each movement. Tadej is lying in the middle of a forest. His body is wrapped in a thin, faded green blanket, and his head rests against the damaged stump of an ancient tree, rough against the back of his neck.
Fuck. What is he doing here. Where is he. How could he have ended up in the middle of nowhere without the slightest memory of how he got there.
“Oh, our guest is finally awake.”
The deep voice cuts through the air without warning. The young cyclist’s heart skips a beat and Tadej jolts, pushing himself upright despite the dizziness blurring his vision. His confusion is so complete that he had not noticed the figures settled not far from him. Every instinct screams at him to run, to get up and sprint without looking back, but something holds him in place. A stubborn curiosity, almost unhealthy. Slowly, he turns his head toward those watching him.
His mouth falls open in a silent breath.
There are five of them. Five people whose faces seem inexplicably familiar.
No. That is absurd. Ridiculous. This cannot be real. His mind must be playing tricks on him. A hallucination caused by shock, exhaustion, or something far worse.
Frozen, eyes wide, Tadej stares at the figures before him, unable to utter a single word, unable even to move. Everything inside him screams that this is impossible. Why does he not wake up. Why do these faces look so real, so detailed, almost too alive.
“Well then, my friend, have you never seen a dwarf of beauty equal to mine?”
A gloved hand lands heavily on his shoulder. Tadej flinches violently, nearly choking on his own saliva. He slowly lifts his eyes to the dwarf, tries to form a sentence, any sentence at all, but his thoughts collide in complete disorder.
“I… I… you…”
The words die pitifully on his lips, drawing a rough laugh from the dwarf. Intimidated despite himself, Tadej’s gaze drifts to the perfectly sharpened axe resting within reach. A chill runs up his spine. He seriously wonders whether he would not be better off bolting without a second thought. In a footrace, he is certain he would have the advantage. Given the dwarf’s height, he could probably outrun him without difficulty.
“Gimli, give him time to gather his wits. You can see he is completely lost. You will end up frightening him.”
Gimli.
The name immediately echoes in Tadej’s mind. His stomach tightens. He knows that name. And yet… it is impossible. Slowly, he studies the dwarf more carefully. The features, the beard, the armor. After spending countless hours on planes throughout the seasons, he has watched those films more times than he can count. And this is exactly the same.
It is Gimli. Gimli from The Lord of the Rings.
His breath catches. Standing before him are also Aragorn, the future king of Gondor, Boromir, and the two hobbits, Merry and Pippin, all watching him with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The world tilts around him.
This cannot be real.
And yet… they are there.
This is a bad joke, Tadej tells himself. It has to be. His mind is playing a particularly cruel trick on him, there is no other possible explanation. Nothing unfolding before his eyes makes sense, nothing is rational, nothing is supposed to exist. In an almost desperate gesture, he pinches the skin of his hand hard, hoping that sharp pain will yank him brutally back to reality. The burn is there, vivid and immediate, but the scenery does not dissolve. The forest is still there. So are the figures. The hobbits keep staring at him without blinking, and the poorly groomed bearded dwarf has not taken his eyes off him.
An uncontrolled hiccup escapes him as the truth crashes down on him with dull violence. This is not a hallucination. It is not a dream. Everything is real. Terrifyingly real.
Fuck… what is he doing in Middle earth.
“By my beard, I truly wonder what land of Middle earth produces such garments. I have never seen the likes of them before,” the dwarf remarks again, shamelessly inspecting Tadej from head to toe. “Where do you come from, my friend?”
Tadej swallows with difficulty. What could he possibly answer to that. If he speaks of Slovenia, of Klanec, of Europe, none of it will make sense to them. He will mostly sound insane.
“I… I am not from here,” he finally manages to say, his voice still uncertain.
“Ah, but you do speak,” the dwarf exclaims with boisterous enthusiasm, triggering the frank laughter of the two hobbits. “It took long enough.”
Uncomfortable, Tadej lowers his head slightly, then his gaze meets Aragorn’s. Unlike the others, the man wears a discreet, almost indulgent smile, as if trying to excuse the dwarf’s blatant lack of tact. Manners clearly do not seem to be a priority for dwarves. It takes Tadej several more minutes to calm the turmoil in his mind, to align coherent thoughts and accept the obvious. He is no longer in his world. He is in a universe he has always loved… but only through books and films. Never did he want to step into it for real.
Once his thoughts are a little clearer, questions start pouring in. An uninterrupted avalanche. The hobbits, soon joined by Sam and Frodo, overflow with curiosity. They want to know everything. Where he comes from, how his world works, what his life looks like. Tadej answers as best he can, his explanations long, sometimes clumsy, often punctuated by silences when he realizes just how absurd all of this must sound to them. They know nothing of his world. Not even the simplest concepts. Slovenia, the place where he grew up, is entirely unknown to them. And yet they listen with wide, amazed eyes, hanging on his every word.
“It is a very strange world you describe to us,” Boromir finally comments. “Even the lands of the South seem more familiar to me. But tell me… how did you come to be here, in Middle earth?”
At those words, Tadej instinctively looks away. Every time Boromir addresses him, a dull unease settles in. He knows his fate. He knows what awaits him. The arrows, the sacrifice, the brutal end. He has seen those scenes too many times to forget them. Facing him with that knowledge is almost unbearable. He draws in a deep breath, trying to push those images aside, to ignore the tragic future of the son of the Steward of Gondor.
Excellent question, he thinks bitterly. He has no idea.
His last memory is clear, almost too precise. Morning training, burning asphalt, heavy air. His friend complaining endlessly about the heat. His sweat soaked body, his aching muscles, the accumulated fatigue. He remembers leaving training, his bag feeling unusually heavy on his shoulder. And then nothing. A total blackout. Nothingness. Until this absurd awakening in the heart of a forest that should never have existed. He tells them all of this, forced to explain what Monaco is, then professional cycling. He is literally explaining cycling to hobbits, to a dwarf, to men and to an elf. The irony of the situation almost draws a nervous laugh from him. If he told this story to a teammate, he would probably be advised to seek professional help.
“Um… do you think there might be a way for me to go back home?” he finally dares to ask.
“I do not know,” Aragorn replies calmly. “We must first understand how you arrived here before considering how to send you back. Lord Elrond might be able to help you. In the meantime, you will not stay here alone. What would you say to coming with us?”
Lord Elrond. The name immediately clicks in Tadej’s mind. A character who had always left him relatively indifferent… but if there is even the slightest chance that the elf could send him home, he is ready to seize it. A smile begins to form on his lips before a chilling thought stops him dead.
Elrond. They do not see him again until the end of the third installment.
His heart starts racing. If they are indeed where he thinks they are, judging by Boromir’s presence and their location, then this means battles, losses, suffering. Anxiety tightens around his chest. He has no desire to get tangled up in all of that. None at all. He is about to refuse outright, but stops himself at the last moment. They know nothing. They are ignorant of the future. And revealing it could alter the course of history. He does not want to be responsible for that.
He lets out a long sigh. He has no choice.
“Alright,” he finally says reluctantly. “Until we find a way to send me back.”
“Well then, my friend, welcome to the Fellowship of the Ring,” Merry exclaims joyfully.
Tadej forces a smile. If only he knew.
“And what exactly is that?” he asks, feigning ignorance.
He already knows the answer. He even knows the ending. But he stays silent, listens, nods while Boromir explains, while the hobbits add their anecdotes, and while Aragorn calmly smokes his pipe a few meters away.
That is how Tadej Pogačar, the best cyclist in the world, found himself swept into the quest meant to save Middle earth.
<><><>
A thin sigh escapes Tadej’s lips as he stares at the black screen of his phone, now completely dead. He had miraculously found it in the pocket of his joggers, intact, like an absurd relic of his former life. Unsurprisingly, there is no signal here, and the battery was already drained. Adam had been right, once again, when he kept telling him to think about charging his phone more often. Maybe it would have lasted a few more hours. Maybe. Even though, deep down, in Middle earth, that object would have been useless. Useless, except to remind him where he came from. The last object from his world. Something tangible to cling to.
He has spent only one night in Middle earth, and yet it felt endless. A nearly sleepless night, punctuated by the dwarf’s loud snoring and the biting cold that seeped into his bones. He shivered without ever really falling back asleep, eyes wide open in the darkness, his mind haunted by a single question. Will he ever make it back home.
He already misses his world. Terribly. And yet, over the past months, moving from trip to trip, competition to competition, impersonal hotels, he had sometimes felt as though he no longer had a place that truly felt like home. As if he were a stranger everywhere he set down his bags. Despite everything, today, he would give anything to return to that ordinary life he had so often taken for granted.
“You should not wander off.”
Tadej startles violently and spins around. The elf stands two meters behind him, leaning against a tree, motionless. He did not hear him approach. Of course. Legolas moves with flawless discretion, an almost unreal lightness. Everything about him radiates control. Like the others, he is exactly as he appears in the films. Perhaps even more so. More beautiful. More mysterious. More impressive in the flesh.
“The others are only a few meters away, do not worry,” Tadej replies after a brief silence.
“You never know,” the elf answers calmly. “These woods are not safe. Especially for someone who is not even armed.”
Before Tadej can react, Legolas deftly slips a hand into his boot and pulls out a dagger, which he offers to him. The weapon catches a glint of light, the perfectly sharpened blade looking almost too real. Tadej stares at it for a moment, stunned, before timidly wrapping his fingers around the hilt.
The sensation is strange. Nothing like the familiar grip of handlebars or a bike. His brows furrow despite himself. The weight is different. The balance too.
What is he supposed to do with this.
It is the first time in his life he has ever held a weapon. The only blades he has ever handled are kitchen knives, and even then only during rare and more or less successful culinary attempts. Nothing comparable to this dangerously sharp dagger.
“And I… what am I supposed to do with this?” he asks hesitantly.
“It might serve you in case of an attack.”
In case of an attack. Tadej lets out a small nervous laugh. Serve him, yes. Provided he knows how to use it.
“But I do not know how to use it,” he finally admits, almost ashamed.
Legolas raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“Seriously? You are unable to wield a dagger?” He tilts his head slightly. “Perhaps you are more comfortable with a sword. Or a bow.”
A sword. A bow.
Tadej nearly faints. He does not know whether to laugh or cry.
Fuck. He is a cyclist. Not a warrior. At best, with good aim, he could probably knock someone out by throwing a bottle at full speed, but certainly not fight with a blade. Even the hobbits must be more effective than him with a weapon in their hands.
From the telling grimace on Tadej’s face, the son of Thranduil understands immediately. Without warning, in a swift and elegant motion that makes the Slovene flinch, Legolas draws the daggers strapped across his back and takes a combat stance.
Shit.
His heart starts racing. The elf is not actually going to kill him.
“Stand up,” Legolas orders firmly.
Tadej obeys at once, unwilling to upset him. He knows perfectly well that a single move from the elf would be enough to leave him on the ground, his throat slit or an arrow buried in his chest.
“Now, take the dagger and attack me.”
“Uh… what? But why?”
“This world is filled with evil creatures. You will not survive if you cannot fight. So I am going to teach you. Go on. Attack me.”
“But I’m going to hurt you, aren’t I?”
A mischievous smile curves Legolas’s lips. His gaze settles on Tadej with a barely hidden hint of condescension, an expression the Slovene does not appreciate but already senses he will have to learn to endure.
“Are you truly certain of that?”
He has to admit it. Imagining that he could injure an elf who is several millennia old, one of the finest warriors of his realm, is ridiculous. And yet, the fear remains. Clumsy as he is, he would be capable of doing anything.
At Legolas’s silent invitation, Tadej draws a deep breath and launches himself forward. He advances awkwardly, dagger pointed ahead of him, unconsciously reproducing a movement that reminds him of something familiar, like when he attacks out of the saddle or abruptly changes trajectory on his bike. Except here, there is no road, no speed, no mastered balance.
Without the slightest effort, Legolas deflects the attack. In a flash, he is behind Tadej and delivers a precise blow behind his knees. The ground vanishes beneath his feet. Tadej crashes into the dead leaves, his face pressed against the damp earth.
Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
And that was only the beginning.
“Never throw yourself blindly at your opponent. Always stay grounded. Come on, up, we start again.”
Always stay grounded. Tadej grimaces inwardly. Fuck, he almost feels like he can hear his coach yelling the exact same thing during the hardest training sessions. By reflex, he quickly gets back up, retrieves the weapon that slipped from his hands when he fell, and takes position facing the elf again. This time, he tries to concentrate more, to anchor his feet to the ground, not to rush in.
Legolas lets him approach. Just enough to give him the illusion that he has a chance. A few movements, barely perceptible, too fast for Tadej’s eye to follow, and everything collapses. In an instant, he is disarmed, the dagger torn from his hand, a cold blade hovering just centimeters from his throat.
“Always keep a firm grip on the hilt. Again.”
Tadej lets out a weary sigh. At that precise moment, he realizes that Legolas is even worse than his coach. More demanding. More inflexible. And above all, far less patient. He is going to suffer. He already knows it.
<><><>
A few days later.
“You’re better with a bow than with a sword, Tadej,” Merry exclaims cheerfully as the Slovene releases yet another arrow.
“That’s mostly because his archery instructor is better,” the blond elf replies bluntly.
The son of Thranduil sends an amused wink toward Aragorn, who lets out a soft laugh.
“And especially very modest,” Gimli grumbles into his beard.
Legolas shoots the dwarf a sharp look. Tadej, meanwhile, cannot help a small, quiet laugh. A reaction that does not escape the elf’s keen hearing, who returns the favor with a dark glare. The constant rivalry between Gimli and Legolas amuses him more than he would have thought. The endless jabs, the murderous looks, the biting remarks. All of it feels strangely reassuring.
For several days now, Tadej has been chaining hours of training. His new companions are doing everything they can to teach him how to handle weapons, at least well enough for him to defend himself. The sessions are grueling. Perhaps even worse than those he has known before. His body is covered in bruises, his muscles burn, every movement reminds him that he is not made for this. And yet, he keeps going. Without complaining. Without giving up.
Because this is not training to win a race. This is training to survive.
He knows what awaits them. He knows the trials to come. And he also knows that he will not survive long if he remains this vulnerable. Still, he has to admit that he is doing better than he imagined. Of course, he has neither Legolas’s grace nor Aragorn’s strength, and even less Boromir’s experience. But he is improving.
He is fairly comfortable with the bow and the daggers. The movements grow steadier, the shots more consistent. The sword, however, remains a nightmare. Aragorn stubbornly teaches him the basics over and over, but nothing works. The weight, the balance, the distance. Everything feels unnatural. If he had to fight with a sword, Tadej would not give much for his chances.
He retrieves another arrow from his quiver and positions himself in front of the tree serving as his target. Legolas steps closer and lightly taps his right leg, correcting his stance. Tadej briefly closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then releases the string. The arrow slams straight into the center of the trunk.
A proud smile spreads across his lips.
“Did you see that?” he exclaims, unable to hide his satisfaction.
“At this rate, you’ll surpass Legolas,” Gimli calls out.
“Of course,” the elf immediately replies. “You are not there yet. However, unlike a dwarf, you do know how to use a bow.”
Gimli grumbles as Tadej walks off to retrieve his arrows. Legolas signals that training is over for today. Relieved, the Slovene sets the bow aside and drops heavily to the ground. He had not realized how much fatigue had caught up with him.
He absentmindedly pulls the dagger from his boot and spins it between his fingers, merely trying to kill time. Bad idea. A sharp pain makes him grimace as a thin cut appears on his index finger.
“Great…” he mutters, sheathing the weapon.
He grumbles inwardly about these uncomfortable boots. He had to trade his usual gear for clothing better suited to Middle earth, ending up dressed much like Aragorn. He protested, of course. He has neither the build nor the look of a ranger. But he had no choice. And little by little, he is starting to get used to it.
“Where is Frodo?” Aragorn suddenly asks, breaking the silence.
Tadej immediately lifts his head. Indeed, the hobbit is missing. So is Boromir. Aragorn straightens abruptly and strides away quickly to look for them. The rest of the Fellowship waits. Tadej, meanwhile, feels a dull tension knot in his stomach. His leg begins to bounce nervously.
No.
Not now.
Not already…
After only a few minutes, Legolas suddenly leaps up as well, grabbing his bow and nocking an arrow with lightning speed.
“Uh… what’s going on?” Tadej asks, even though he already knows the answer.
A small part of him still hopes he is wrong.
“Orcs,” the elf replies plainly.
Tadej’s heart tightens. He swallows hard. Uruk hai. Dozens of them. And he has only been learning to use weapons for a few days. Gimli, far from afraid, grabs his axe with enthusiasm. Legolas then steps closer to Tadej and places a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Stay behind me, alright?” he says calmly. “And try to stay alive.”
The tone is serious. Without the slightest trace of irony.
Tadej does not even have time to reply before Gimli and Legolas are already charging ahead, their figures disappearing between the thick trunks in the direction from which the elf heard the noise. His heart immediately starts racing. In moments, he will be facing creatures that slaughter everything that breathes without hesitation. A violent anxiety clamps down on his chest, almost stealing his breath. He has never felt fear this raw. Even a pressured final, even the most suffocating moments of his career, suddenly seem trivial. Facing crowds and fatigue is nothing compared to facing death.
He draws a deep breath, searches for a shred of courage deep within himself, then runs after them. His steps are heavy, clumsy, but he moves forward, silently praying to stay alive.
<><><>
With trembling legs and ragged breath, Tadej reaches Gimli and Legolas and nearly comes to a dead stop when he sees their enemies only a few meters away. They are far more imposing than in his memories of the films. Bigger. More terrifying. Despite his height, he feels tiny before them, insignificant. Cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck.
Fuck. He should never have followed them.
He should never have been here.
He is never going to survive.
Legolas, already in motion, has begun to loose arrows with deadly precision. Each shot is fast, fluid, relentless. The Uruk hai fall one after another, cut down before they can even get close. Tadej, meanwhile, remains frozen. His body refuses to move. His muscles feel petrified by fear.
When one Uruk hai breaks from the group and charges straight at him, weapon raised, ready to bring the blade down on his skull, Tadej does not react. His mind empties. He opens his mouth, closes his eyes, convinced that this is the end.
Nothing comes.
A dull thud echoes, followed by a wet crack. When he opens his eyes again, the creature collapses heavily at his feet, an arrow lodged straight through its heart. Shaking, Tadej jerks his head around and sees Legolas, bow still drawn.
He has just saved his life.
A simple nod, a silent thanks, and the elf immediately plunges back into the fray. The Uruk hai are now too close for the bow. Without hesitation, Legolas lets the weapon fall and draws the two daggers from his back. He launches into a series of movements of unreal grace, spinning among his enemies, striking with surgical precision. Every motion is controlled. Every blow is fatal.
They do not stand a chance against him, Tadej thinks, transfixed.
But he does not have time to watch any longer. He needs to pull himself together.
He steps aside slightly, grabs his bow and an arrow. He is not comfortable enough with blades. The bow, at least, gives him distance, an illusion of control. He carefully sets the arrow, draws the string, aims. He mentally repeats every piece of advice Legolas gave him. Breathing. Stance. Calm.
He holds his breath and shoots.
The arrow flies at full speed and buries itself in the head of the Uruk hai he was aiming at. The creature collapses instantly. Tadej flinches. His stomach twists.
He has just taken a life.
A second of dizziness washes over him, but he violently shakes his head. No time. Not now. These monsters would not have hesitated for a second to kill him, without the slightest remorse. He looses another arrow. Then another. Not all of them strike as cleanly. Some wound, slow, knock down. He does not have Legolas’s skill, but he does what he can.
Then a deep sound suddenly splits the air, Boromir’s horn.
Tadej’s heart clenches brutally. He sees Aragorn rushing forward, shouting the name of the son of the Steward of Gondor. He knows. He knows the ranger will arrive too late. He shoves that thought deep into his mind. He knew Boromir would die under enemy weapons. Tadej throws himself back into the fight, trying to take down as many enemies as possible when four Uruk hai suddenly break away and charge straight at him. They are too fast. Too close. He will not have time to shoot.
Shit.
He drops his bow and draws the two daggers. His hands tremble as he takes his stance, exactly as Legolas taught him. But this time it is different. If Tadej misses a single move, he will not get a second chance, and unlike Legolas, the creatures will kill him without hesitation at the slightest mistake.
The first Uruk hai advances toward him slowly, as if already savoring the outcome of the fight. Its massive silhouette looms in front of Tadej, crushing the space, almost suffocating the air around them. Tadej remains still, legs slightly bent, shoulders tense, forcing himself to breathe calmly despite his heart hammering wildly. He grips the dagger in his right hand until his fingers ache, his knuckles whitening under the pressure. He waits. He repeats Legolas’s advice over and over in his mind, like a reassuring litany. Do not strike first. Observe. Let them come.
The Uruk hai finally engages, raising its filthy blade with a guttural growl. Everything happens in a fraction of a second. Tadej pivots slightly on his back foot, his body reacting before his mind can truly catch up, and he strikes with a sharp, almost brutal motion, instinctively aiming for the throat. The blade sinks deep into thick flesh, meeting a nauseating resistance before giving way. A strangled gurgle escapes the creature’s mouth as a surge of black blood erupts, splattering Tadej’s hands and forearms. The Uruk hai collapses heavily at his feet, lifeless.
He does not have time to dwell on what he has just done. Two others appear almost immediately, taking advantage of the opening. Tadej moves awkwardly but with desperate urgency, his body driven by adrenaline. He attacks again, striking without thinking, focused only on survival. The dagger sinks in again, once, then a second time, into the dark flesh of his opponents. Bodies fall one after another with heavy crashes. His hands are now slick with black blood, slippery, but he does not dare look at them. He dares think of nothing but the immediate danger.
Then only one Uruk hai remains facing him.
This one does not rush. It watches. Its movements are more measured, more precise. Tadej understands immediately, with icy dread, that he is facing a far more experienced fighter. When he tries to deliver the fatal blow, the Uruk hai deflects the attack with disconcerting ease and, in the same motion, slams its blade violently against Tadej’s wrist. A searing pain shoots up his arm and the dagger slips from his fingers with a sharp clang.
Panicking, Tadej tries to react at once, brandishing his second blade in a chaotic motion, striking anywhere, without precision, without strategy. But the Uruk hai anticipates every move, blocking, dodging, advancing inexorably. A large, filthy, powerful hand clamps around Tadej’s wrist and twists it with merciless brutality. The pain is so intense it wrenches a strangled groan from him. Unable to resist, he drops the second dagger as well.
Everything collapses.
He is hurled to the ground with a violence that knocks the breath from his lungs, the air brutally driven out of his chest. His vision blurs as his body slams into the earth. By pure reflex, guided by survival instinct, Tadej rolls to the side barely a second after impact. The movement saves his life. The Uruk hai’s sword crashes down exactly where his stomach had been moments earlier, burying itself deep into the ground with a dull thud.
On his knees, heart pounding uncontrollably, Tadej frantically gropes through the damp earth and dead leaves, desperately searching for the daggers he dropped. His trembling fingers find nothing but mud and roots. Panic surges, brutal and crushing. He is on the ground. Disarmed. Completely vulnerable.
The Uruk hai straightens in front of him and slowly raises its sword, savoring the moment. Time seems to stretch painfully. Tadej feels his heartbeat accelerate even more, pounding in his temples. There is no escape left. He knows the killing blow is about to fall.
A rough sound suddenly tears through the air.
The Uruk hai freezes, staggers, then collapses heavily face first into the dirt, a dagger buried deep in its back.
“Need some help, perhaps, Tadej?”
Still in shock, he lifts his head and spots Legolas a few meters away, calm, almost detached. Tadej clumsily gets to his feet, his legs still shaking, and hands the dagger back with an unsteady grip. He knows it. Without him, he would be dead.
“Thank you… I… I owe you one,” he breathes, his voice still unsteady.
The reply earns him a smile from Legolas. A brief, sincere smile. And Tadej’s heart skips a beat. He immediately looks away, shaking his head to chase away those misplaced thoughts. Brushing against death has clearly scrambled his mind.
“As for me, I do not thank you at all,” Gimli grumbles as he approaches, his axe still smeared with black blood. “You made me lose my bet.”
Tadej frowns and casts a questioning look at Gimli, who has come closer, his massive hand still gripping the axe stained dark.
“I bet Legolas that he would have to save your life at least four times,” the dwarf announces gruffly. “He only had to do it twice.”
Tadej gives him a mock offended look, not truly surprised by such a remark. A part of him immediately remembers, with a hint of irony, the absurd contest of counting slain orcs in the films, and he realizes that some things, apparently, never change.
“See, Master Dwarf,” Legolas adds with an almost teasing calm, “it seems he is more resilient than he appears.”
The elf then sends Tadej a discreet wink. Tadej immediately feels heat rush to his cheeks, caught off guard by the simple yet unsettling gesture.
“I… thank you,” he stammers awkwardly.
He receives only a brief nod in return before Legolas is already walking away, striding quickly toward where Aragorn disappeared. Tadej hurries after him, Gimli close behind, while a heavy, unpleasant knot forms in his throat. Unlike the others, he knows what they are about to find.
Boromir.
On his knees.
Three arrows embedded in his chest.
His last words whispered to Aragorn.
<><><>
His mind invaded by images he wants to chase away but cannot, Tadej nervously toys with one of his daggers, spinning it between his fingers in a mechanical gesture. He waits, seated in the shadows, his heart clenched by a dull apprehension. In a few hours, the Battle of Helm’s Deep will begin. The one he always liked most in the films. The one he wished he would never have to live through.
Several weeks have passed since his arrival in Middle earth, and he feels as though he has lived more in this short time than in twenty six years in his own world. He has brushed death many times, sometimes very closely, but he has always been able to rely on Legolas, present, attentive, ready to intervene at the slightest mistake. Tadej has improved. Slowly. Painfully. He now knows that he can almost manage on his own on a battlefield, a thought that would have made him laugh, or panic, only weeks ago.
He proved it during the warg attack, when he killed the beast about to devour Gimli, saving the dwarf’s life without even thinking. Yet throughout the fight, he felt Legolas’s gaze on him, constant, vigilant. The elf never takes his eyes off him when enemies are near.
He also learned to ride a horse during this journey. He, who had never ridden one in his life, had been surprised when Legolas offered him a hand to help him mount. In the films, he rides with Gimli. He had settled behind him without protest, clinging on as if his life depended on it. They rode for hours, and Tadej could not help noticing the woody, deeply soothing scent that emanated from the elf.
Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas had all looked astonished when they learned he had never ridden a horse. Questions had poured in, and Tadej found himself explaining, as best he could, how a car works to people who did not even know electricity existed. He had wisely avoided the subject of airplanes.
“We will all die here.”
The voice suddenly cracks through the air. Tadej startles and winces as he feels the blade of his dagger nick the thin skin of his thumb. Legolas has just burst into the small room with two straw beds. A luxury, given the circumstances.
The elf slams the door shut behind him and drops onto his bed. Tadej watches him for a moment, easily guessing that he has just argued with Aragorn. It is the only time Legolas allows his usual composure to crack. Carefully, Tadej steps closer and sits beside him.
To his great surprise, Legolas leans in and rests his head against Tadej’s shoulder.
Tadej gives a shy smile, aware that he is the only one with whom the elf allows such closeness. And he likes this contact. More than he wants to admit.
“Why keep fighting,” Legolas murmurs in a weary voice, “when we have no chance at all? It is hopeless.”
Tadej’s heart tightens painfully. He hates seeing Legolas like this. The one who is usually so proud, almost arrogant, always certain of a fight’s outcome. The elf is desperate. Like everyone here. Many will die tonight, Tadej knows. Legolas too.
“Do not lose hope,” he whispers anyway. “Even if the chance is slim, it exists. And as long as it exists, we must cling to it.”
Legolas abruptly lifts his head. His eyes, darkened by anger and fear, lock onto Tadej’s.
“A chance? There are more than ten thousand of them. We are not even a thousand. We will all die, Tadej. All of us. There is no hope left. It is fin…”
Without thinking, unable to bear those words any longer, Tadej leans in and presses his lips to the elf’s. The gesture is impulsive, desperate, laden with everything he dares not put into words. Perhaps it is something he has been repressing for days. Perhaps it is simply fear speaking.
He is afraid.
Afraid of dying.
And, selfishly, he knows that he was never meant to be here.
When he realizes what he has done, shame floods him. He jerks back abruptly, cheeks burning.
“I… I beg your pardon, I… I do not know what came over me…”
He does not have time to finish.
Legolas’s lips press against his again. Tadej gasps in surprise, then stops thinking. He returns the kiss, slides a hand to the back of the elf’s neck, pulls their bodies closer as Legolas’s powerful arms wrap around his waist. Their lips search, answer one another, until the lack of air forces them to part.
Legolas then scatters kisses along Tadej’s cheek and jaw, slowly working up to his ear.
“If this is to be our last night,” he murmurs, his warm breath sending a shiver through Tadej, “let us make sure it remains etched in our memories.”
Unable to reply, Tadej kisses him in return, silently agreeing, before gently pushing him back onto one of the straw beds.
<><><>
“Tadej? Legolas, are you there? It’s time!”
The knocks on the door brutally tear Tadej from his thoughts. He is still sprawled against Legolas, skin damp, breath barely steady after the intensity of their embrace. He absentmindedly plays with the elf’s silky blond strands, his fingers tangling in them as if to delay the inevitable. A sigh escapes him as he briefly buries his face in the hollow of Legolas’s neck. Their intimate interlude has given him a brief respite, an illusion of peace stolen from the chaos outside. But reality returns, brutal and relentless. In just moments, they will stand on a battlefield, fighting for their survival.
Reluctantly, Tadej straightens and pulls away from Legolas’s body, gathering his scattered clothes from the floor. Legolas does the same, calmly fastening his leather wrist guards, his movements precise despite the tension still lingering in the air.
“Tadej,” he says softly.
The cyclist turns as he is about to leave the room. He gives the elf a questioning look as Legolas gently takes his right wrist and fastens a thin black leather bracelet around it.
“It comes from my realm. It is not much, but if I do not make it… you will have something to remember me by.”
Tadej gives a grateful smile as Legolas places a chaste kiss on his lips.
“The odds are slim,” the elf adds gravely, “but try to stay alive.”
“You as well.”
A smile curves Legolas’s lips. After one last knowing look, he opens the door. Tadej follows close behind, his heart tight, silently praying to survive what awaits them.
<><><>
His heart pounding wildly, Tadej stands atop the ramparts, staring out at the immense army of Uruk hai advancing slowly through the icy night. His gaze remains fixed on the shifting shadows moving inexorably forward, while he nervously fiddles with the leather straps of his wrist guard. Gimli, Aragorn, and Legolas stand beside him. He wonders how they manage to appear so calm in the face of a battle that will likely cost them their lives. Perhaps they are just as terrified, simply better at hiding their emotions.
A bolt of lightning suddenly splits the sky, immediately followed by a dull roll of thunder. Tadej startles as a torrential rain crashes down on the fortress, pounding heavily against the armor of the soldiers behind him. Long, slender fingers brush against his hand. He turns his head toward Legolas and offers him a shy smile. The elf answers only with a brief nod before turning his attention back to the enemy.
“My friends,” Gimli murmurs in a grave voice, “whatever our chances may be, let hope we last the night.”
“Your friends are with you, Aragorn,” Legolas adds.
“Let hope we last the night,” the dwarf repeats.
It will pass, Tadej thinks. They will all survive the night.
The Uruk hai are now only a few meters from the walls. Tadej’s hands tremble slightly as he nocks an arrow onto the string of his bow. He takes a deep breath, draws slowly, and aims for the neck of a creature below.
“Loose!” Aragorn shouts.
Then everything collapses.
Tadej stops thinking altogether. He releases the string and the arrow sinks into the flesh of an Uruk hai. Then everything follows at a dizzying pace. There is nothing left but the clash of metal, the screams, the rain, and this single thought hammering in his mind: stay alive.
He quickly loses all sense of time. Like in the films, they are overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The Uruk hai fall again and again, but they always seem just as numerous, like a black tide that never recedes.
Kill.
Kill again and again.
Tadej slits the throat of a creature that collapses instantly. He does not get a second of respite. Another enemy already surges in front of him. Despite the fatigue numbing his muscles and the pain radiating through his entire body, he forces himself to continue. Today, he is alone. Legolas is no longer watching over him. The elf is too busy trying to survive himself. He has lost sight of his companions. Only Gimli’s voice, counting his kills at irregular intervals, tells him that the dwarf is still alive.
An Uruk hai suddenly appears behind him. Tadej throws himself to the ground just in time, feeling the rush of air as the blade passes only centimeters from him. He gets back up immediately and drives his weapon into the creature’s abdomen. It collapses with a hoarse cry. He pays it no attention and is already turning toward another enemy.
Then, in the middle of the chaos, he catches sight of a blond silhouette a few meters away.
Legolas.
A flash of relief surges through him, before his blood turns to ice. Something is wrong. The elf is fighting using only his left arm. His right arm is pressed against his chest, a trail of blood flowing from the wound. Tadej stares in horror as an Uruk hai violently hurls Legolas to the ground with a brutal blow. It is impossible. Tadej does not understand. It is not supposed to happen. It is not in the films. Unless he missed a scene, but he is almost certain that Legolas emerges unscathed from every battle.
This was not supposed to happen.
“Legolas!”
He screams, but even wounded, the elf remains deadly and pierces the creature before it can finish him. He struggles back to his feet and looks at Tadej, eyes wide with fear.
“Tadej!”
He does not have time to understand why. A searing pain rips through his back. His breath cuts off abruptly. No sound comes from his throat as he feels the blade tear through his flesh. The Uruk hai collapses almost immediately, its throat slit.
His legs give out. Legolas catches him before he hits the ground and drops to his knees, holding him tightly. Tadej screams when he feels the elf’s hand press against the wound.
“Tadej… it’s alright… I’m here…” Legolas murmurs.
Warm, sticky blood quickly coats his hand as Tadej’s heart begins to beat more and more irregularly.
“Stay with me… I’m going to get you out of here… Tadej…”
He nods faintly. A thin line of blood slides down his lips. His breathing grows labored, but he manages to offer one last smile.
“I… I was honored to share these weeks with you, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood…” he whispers with difficulty. “You… forty four… you’ll tell Gimli…”
“You will tell him yourself… Tadej, please…”
Legolas’s voice fades, turning into a distant echo drowned in the chaos of battle. Tadej’s eyelids grow heavy. His mind drifts away little by little, until his ocean blue eyes finally close.
Then… nothing.
<><><>
Tadej.
Tadej!
Tadej, Tadej!
He jolts awake, breath short, and sits up abruptly, gasping as if he has just surfaced after a long apnea.
“Hey, Tadej, calm down… it’s alright, it’s us.”
A reassuring hand rests on his shoulder, and when he looks up, he finds himself facing a familiar face, smiling despite the lingering worry in his features. Adam.
Tadej frowns, his gaze still clouded, unable to understand what he is seeing. Just seconds ago, he was elsewhere. Very far from here. He remembers the clash of weapons, the burning pain in his back, his breath cut short by an enemy blade. By reflex, he slides his fingers to his lower back, to the exact spot where the sword pierced him. Yet he feels nothing but a dull, diffuse discomfort, almost insignificant. It makes no sense. The wound was deep, fatal even. It should have torn a scream from him.
“Oh my god, Tadej, you really scared us.”
He turns his head and meets Joao’s gaze, seated to his right. Worried. Relieved. Everything feels both normal and profoundly unreal. How could he have frightened them. Why are they here. Where is he exactly.
“Uh… I… what happened?” he manages to ask, his voice still hesitant.
“You don’t remember?” Joao asks gently.
He slowly shakes his head. He remembers an Uruk hai wounding him on the battlefield, but that is certainly not the answer Joao and Adam are expecting.
“You fainted during training,” his friend explains. “You fell after a turn. We found you completely unconscious. You must have hit your back when you fell, you’ve got a huge bruise. The doctors preferred to bring you to the hospital as a precaution, to make sure there was nothing wrong with your head.”
“Oh… okay,” Tadej murmurs.
“You really scared us,” Adam adds.
So that explains the dull pain in his back. Tadej briefly closes his eyes and rubs his temples, as if trying to gather his thoughts. A dream. It was only a dream. And yet… everything had felt so real. The images, the sensations, the emotions. Nothing resembled a simple illusion of the mind.
“Anyway, I don’t know what was going on in your head, but your sleep was really restless,” Adam remarks.
Tadej sketches a faint smile. They have no idea what he lived through, what he felt. And he prefers not to tell them. The afternoon passes like this, punctuated by idle conversation, comfortable silences, and occasional laughter. But Tadej’s mind is elsewhere. Still caught by that dream that refuses to fully fade.
“Tadej, are you listening to us?” Adam insists, waving a hand in front of his face.
“Yes… sorry, what were you saying?” he replies, snapping out of his thoughts.
“We’re going to have to go. They’re keeping you under observation tonight and the nurse doesn’t want us to stay any longer,” she grumbles.
“We’ll come back tomorrow to pick you up,” Joao adds. “Call us if you need anything.”
“Thank you… that’s kind,” Tadej murmurs.
“You really seem far away, poor thing. Get some rest tonight.”
He smiles timidly when Adam places a chaste kiss on his cheek. Then the door closes, leaving him alone in the silent room. His gaze drifts to the bedside table where his phone rests. He reaches out to grab it… and freezes.
Something is wrong.
His eyes drop to his right wrist. Usually bare. Free of any jewelry. Yet a thin black leather bracelet is fastened around it.
He holds his breath in surprise and slowly brings his fingers closer, brushing the leather with the tips of his knuckles. The contact is enough to tip his mind over. Instantly, he is elsewhere again. He feels the cool breeze whipping against his face, the gallop of a horse beneath him, Gimli’s deep, infectious laughter, the woody, reassuring scent of Legolas, the unexpected softness of his lips.
A dream.
Perhaps.
Tadej is no longer sure.
He slowly stands and walks toward the window. Night is falling gently, tinting the sky with shades of orange and violet. He watches the sun sink below the horizon, exactly as it has so many times before… elsewhere. His fingers never leave the bracelet.
Was it only his imagination.
Or did he truly walk those lands he believed to be fictional.
He will probably never know.
A faint sigh escapes his lips as he quietly accepts the idea of never knowing the answer.