My first fanfic.

Thank you for reading, and reviews are most welcome.

Disclaimer: All characters, events and places in my story that can be found in Tolkien's books are his; I am merely borrowing them. Everything else has sprung from my own imagination, or has been inspired by other writers’ stories, particularly Tinnuial, Shaan Lien and Nightwing. To all these writers, I express my thanks.

This disclaimer applies to every chapter in this story.

Summary:

The greatest of kings can be overwhlemed by the weight of responsibility. The greatest of friendships can be threatened by an  unexpected challenge emerging from the shadows of the past. And Aragorn and Leoglas face both. Please r & r.

CHAPTER 1: A MATTER OF TRUST 

Legolas found himself hovering in the air above everyone at the Council. It seemed he could see the tops of the tall trees of Imladris and the gossamer woven on the bushes surrounding the porch where the Council was being held. In the distance, the ford of Bruinen sang a mournful song.

But Legolas only had eyes for the members of the Council.

He saw Elrond, lord of Imladris, Galdor of the Havens, Erestor and Glorfindel and the other elves of Imladris, elven light in their features, looking tall and regal even when they were seated; he saw the Istari Mithrandir with a grave look in his wizened eyes, half-hidden beneath thick eyebrows, his lips unsmiling behind the white beard; there, too, were the hobbit Bilbo Baggins who had visited Mirkwood long ago, and Frodo his nephew, looking entranced and bewildered with what was going on; and there was the hobbit Sam with his curly brown mop of hair, hidden behind a bush, hoping to hear but not be seen.

Legolas’ eyes fell on Gloin, his son Gimli and their fellow dwarves, seated with their stout legs apart and their thick beards hanging in between, looking impatient. Boromir, too, he saw, broad-shouldered Man of Gondor, with a grim expression.

Another Man was there: Aragorn, dark, dour Ranger of the North; heir of Isildur; future King of Gondor. Legolas’ eyes rested on the serious face that hid a thousand emotions, and he felt only a sense of love and loyalty for this Man.

His eyes moved again and finally alighted on… himself, sent here by his father Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, with a message for Lord Elrond. He was sitting next to elves in green and brown who had accompanied him from the Realm.

No one saw him but he could see them all. For some reason, he was not surprised that he could see himself, as if it was the most natural thing to be able to look at himself from a distance. But he had been through this before… had he not? He knew exactly what would transpire next. They had been talking about the creature Gollum, who was desperately trying to seek and reclaim the One Ring of the Dark Lord that had been in his greedy little hands before he lost it to Bilbo, and how Aragorn and Mithrandir had captured the creature and left him in the hands of the elves of Mirkwood, who were asked to keep him captive .  

“Alas! Alas!” Legolas heard his seated self cry, turning every face in the Council to where he was seated. In his face there was great distress. “The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, but only here have I learnt how evil they may seem to this company.” Everyone’s attention was riveted on him now. It seemed like embarrassment was written all over his face as he declared to the whole group, “Smeagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.”

There were loud gasps from almost everyone. Floating above them, Legolas watched as the elves exchanged looks and spoke quietly with furrowed brows; the dwarves sat up straighter, casting smug looks at the elves. Boromir looked curious, Mithrandir pursed his lips and Lord Elrond stared at Legolas without blinking.  But Legolas focused on the look of dismay painted on the face of Aragorn, the Man for whom Legolas held only the highest regard, even hovering at a distance above him.

“Escaped?” cried the Ranger, looking incredulously at the seated Legolas. “That is ill news, indeed. We shall all rue it bitterly, I fear.” Then came the line Legolas hated: “How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?”

There it was again, the accusing tone of the future King of Gondor thrown in the direction of the Mirkwood prince. Legolas, floating above, felt his seated self both wince with pain at the harsh words and bristle at the bluntness of the question, nay – it was not a question, it was a blatant pronouncement of utter disappointment in the elves of Mirkwood. He saw himself try to explain that they had not foreseen the cunning of Sauron, who had orchestrated Gollum’s escape through an orc attack that left the creature’s guards slain or taken.

Can you not understand? Legolas found himself empathizing with his seated self at the Council. We did not ask for the care of the Gollum. You brought him to us and asked us to keep him, and we did even though we wearied of the task. You did not tell us why it was so important to lock him up, we did not even know he was called Gollum – you told us his name was Smeagol. We did not know his part in the tale of the One Ring. We merely took pity on him, having shut him up in dark dungeons. Yes, dwarf Gloin, we locked you up too, but only for a few weeks, and we would not have kept you in the dark for long either. Smeagol had been in the dungeon for almost a year! The orcs must have watched our movements as we took him out each day. They planned the attack.

And have you forgotten? My friends – elves I knew and liked and was close to – were killed or brought away, no doubt to the South, to be tortured by the Necromancer in Dol Guldur. They died because Smeagol, Gollum, was there, at your bidding. My friends,  my kin, died doing their duty.  

Floating above everyone, Legolas tried to lend a voice, but could not. His self at the Council continued to tell them that they tried to find the creature, going further and further into the forest south of their realm. “But ere long, it escaped our skill, and we dared not continue the hunt; for we were drawing nigh to Dol Guldur, and that is still a very evil place, we do not go that way.”

Aragorn did not look placated. But Mithrandir said, “Well, well, he is gone,” adding that they had no time to look for him now; since he had escaped, Gollum would do what he would. But the foresight of the Istari pressed him to remind the Council, “he may yet play a part that neither he nor Sauron have foreseen.”   

Yes, yes, he did, Legolas wanted to shout out as he hovered above the group. I’ve been through the Quest, to the end. If Gollum had not been alive at the Cracks of Doom, he would not have taken the Ring from Frodo. Frodo was already overcome, he refused to throw the Ring into the consuming fire; Gollum, in his greed, took it and gloated and in his careless joy, blindly stepped over the edge and fell into the river of fire. Ask Sam, he saw it! Aragorn, Mithrandir, Frodo – you know this! There was a reason why Gollum lived – destiny knew.

No one heard him as he hovered above them. No one paid attention to him. Except for Aragorn, heir of Isildur. Slowly, almost eerily, the Man slowly turned his face up to fix steely grey eyes on him, and his face was at once dark with rage and bitter with disappointment. The future King of Gondor sent a message to him, with his mind rather than his voice: “But you failed. No matter the outcome, you failed to keep Gollum though I entrusted him to you. I entrusted him to you.”

Then – without understanding why, it seemed like this had happened a hundred times before – Legolas felt his frustration turn to shame. Deep shame and disgrace. Aye, I concede. Aye, I have let you down. My respect and loyalty for you knows no bounds, but I have let you down. I wish I could turn back Time and make things different. We would not have brought Gollum out into the sunshine, we would not have let him climb the trees, we would not have let him be snatched from our hands.

But there was no turning back.

The Man now used his voice, enunciating the words over and over again, and the words turned into a spear of fire which he hurled at Legolas:

How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust? The folk of Thranduil… fail in their trust, fail in their trust, fail, fail, fail…

The burning spear, moving slowly and in a blur, came closer and closer toward him, and Legolas, with a cry of anguish, fled, pulling away higher and higher. All of a sudden, he stopped in mid-air and started to fall. Faster and faster he fell, and he tried to grasp at something, but there was nothing… nothing. Faster and faster and faster…

CHAPTER 2: WATER-COLORED MEMORIES

Legolas came awake with a start, eyes wide and heart pounding so hard in his chest he felt he could hear it. His hands were clutching the grass beneath him so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He leaned his head back against something, and after taking a few deep breaths, he closed his eyes.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. Slowly now. He reopened his eyes when he felt calmer, reminding himself where he was.

He was in South Ithilien. The sun was shining, he was sitting against a tree, and he had been assaulted by the nightmare – again. Why do they call it a nightmare when one could dream it in broad daylight, he wondered wryly. He was not in Imladris and he certainly had not been floating. The Council of Imladris had taken place eleven years ago. The Quest was over, Gollum had died, and Aragorn was now in the tenth year of his reign as King of Gondor.

Legolas sighed again. The embarrassment and regret he had felt at the Council had plagued him in nightmares throughout the Quest when he pondered on the possible consequences of Gollum’s escape. After all, Aragorn had lamented, “We shall all rue it.” Although part of him still argued that he and his friends had done their best, Aragorn’s words still haunted him: “How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?” For a long time, Legolas wondered if Aragorn would ever trust him or the elves of Mirkwood again. After Sam told them about the part Gollum had played in the destruction of the ring, Legolas’ guilt had been assuaged. Mithrandir was right – Gollum’s escape had resulted in his playing a part, a critical part, in the downfall of Sauron. Sometimes things are meant to be for a reason, even if the reason is not clearly shown to us. And so the nightmares stopped.

But they had resurfaced with fresh vigour to plague him for several weeks now, and he did not understand why. Was it trying to tell him something, to expect something?

Finding no answers, Legolas shook his head and looked around him. It was peaceful here, so beautiful he felt the shadows of the unpleasant dream being chased away by the bright rays of the sun filtering through the leaves of the tall oaks and beeches around him. The trees reminded him of his other home, Mirkwood.

His other home, he mused. Well, the forests there were not so murky any more, he thought. After Lord Celeborn and his father had rid Dol Guldur of Sauron’s darkness, they had renamed it Eryn Lasgalen, the Greenwood. Much better.

But Ithilien in Gondor was his home now, North Ithilien at least – since he had brought elves there to restore the woods to the fair place they had once been before Sauron’s evil had filled them with sickness. His father had not been too pleased that his son would settle so far from him, but Thranduil had not given a direct command not to leave. So Legolas had left, for he had made a promise to help Aragorn restore Gondor, and he was willing to endure the displeasure of his father for the friend he had learned to cherish more than he thought possible. He would bring living things to Minas Tirith “for the love of the Lord of the White Tree”, he mused; those were his words to the hobbits ten years ago, as they sat contemplating what would happen after the Quest should Aragorn successfully reclaim the throne. 

And North Ithilien had indeed flourished again under the loving hands of the elves. Sitting almost at the doorstep of the city of Minas Tirith where the King and Queen dwelt, its life and breath seemed to flow even to the stone city that Gimli the dwarf had, on his part, helped restore. The thought of a living, growing forest, filled with gentle creatures and joyful trees filled Legolas with pleasure and delight. He had then turned his eyes to South Ithilien, desiring to do for it what he had done for the northern area.

South Ithilien held promise. It was further from the city, and they had to reach it by crossing the Anduin on a ferry or boat from the city of Pelargir on the northern shore, so he had to spend longer periods away from the Royal family. He missed seeing them, and they him, but it could not be helped if he wished to accomplish anything.

He and his Elves had been here several months now, scouting the area and working on clearing dead and rotting things left behind by orcs and Men who had worked for Sauron; they had had no love for beautiful things, they destroyed rather than nourished.  Legolas and the elves had to plant new trees and coax the sick ones back to life, singing and talking to them, surrounding them with blossoms and filling their long-empty branches with birds, butterflies and golden dragonflies. Bit by bit, the elves lovingly cleaned the choked streams and created paths into glades and clearings long hidden by ugly weeds.

Huge areas further south still remained to be worked on, and one day, they too would be fair again, he determined, either by his hands or those of other elves.

But his mind was on something else at the moment, two tasks he needed to finish. Briefly, he cast his mind to a place about an hour’s trek from where he was, and then to Pelargir on the banks of the Anduin.

Yes, I will finish them, he resolved.

Legolas ceased his musing and stood up, stretching his long, slender limbs as he did so.  His eyes swept the scene around him. He had come across this beautiful spot one day, quickly claiming it in his heart as his haven in South Ithilien. He came here to rest and seek the quiet company of trees and water, when he wanted to get away from his labours and the stares of humans in Pelargir, who, in their ignorance of races other than Men, tolerated the presence of the elves only because their Lord was their King’s closest friend. Legolas did not blame them, for the Elves were fading or leaving Middle Earth, and not many remained to walk freely among humans, so the Men were little exposed to the fair race. Men could not help admiring the agility and grace of the fair beings, and were entranced by their singing, but he could tell that they were still wary of them. Still, Legolas had to deal with them for supplies and food, though their conversations wearied him, and it was tiring to talk with people with whom he shared so little interest.

So this spot was his sanctuary. The elves of Mirkwood, now of Ithilien, quietly and willingly granted their prince his desire for some private moments. They loved their soft-spoken prince, for he was a fair leader and did not demand much for his own comfort, and so they discreetly kept away if they knew he had come here. Legolas was glad of that. Perhaps he was being a little selfish, he told himself candidly, but this was the one privilege he wanted for himself for as long as he could.

It was truly an unusual place. Before him was a pool with water as clear as glass, its water fed by a little waterfall tumbling down gently from some white rocks. The pool was wide enough to swim in, and deep enough where the waterfall met it, for diving. Surrounding the pool were tall oak and beech, which never seemed to lack for nightingales. The trees themselves seemed to sing sonorous songs about the earth and wind and ages past, and their leaves appeared a deeper green than anywhere else in South Ithilien. There was shadow and light here, playing in ever-changing hues. There was a raw beauty to this place that Legolas did not desire to disturb. He would not even create a clear path to this spot so that it would not be easily approached, preferring to access it by climbing a tall tree one hundred yards to the north from which he could see the spot, just as he did the first time he spied it, then jumping from tree to tree till he reached it. Yes, it was the perfect hideaway, he thought, smiling.

What he loved best about it was that a tall oak hung one strong branch right above the deep end of the pool, and from there, he could dive fifteen feet into the cool, fresh water, down, down, down into the glassy depths before turning and kicking his way back up to laugh an exultant laugh that only the trees would share. 

He cast off his clothes and scaled the tree now, agile as a cat, and reached the diving branch with hardly any effort. He stood with outstretched arms for a moment, breathing deeply of the fresh air, and the nightingales watching saw a slender, lithe body the colour of ivory and porcelain, with lean muscles that belied their strength. His golden hair billowed behind him in the breeze and his fair face was a picture of contentment, long lashes fringing his closed eyes. Then the sparkling blue eyes opened and he dove in a graceful arc, entering the water with hardly a splash, slicing cleanly through the water of the glass pool, to emerge like a golden water nymph, his long hair neatly plastered to his shapely head and water streaming off his smiling face. He laughed a gentle laugh as he usually did, sharing his delight with the birds. 

The elf floated on his back, watching the clouds float by in the azure sky, enjoying the sight of a few leaves floating down from the trees. He hummed softly a song of trees and wind, thinking of nothing unpleasant. Legolas sighed. If there were anyone he would want to share this place with…  A sudden thought entered his mind, a memory of another breathtaking place like this one, with a crystal-clear pool hidden curtained by tall trees, in the forests of Mirkwood. There was a high ledge from which he could dive into it. He had swum in it for hundreds of years of his life, the pool seeming to get smaller and smaller as the years went by, but in reality, he was the one growing. Fondly, he recalled taking Aragorn there some sixty years ago, the second time the young Ranger had visited.

“My father will be back this evening, Aragorn, and you will need to meet him for the evening meal,” Legolas reminded him. Aragorn had arrived two hours ago and they had spent them sparring first, then – dressed only in their leggings – they wrestled on the grass, showing each other new moves amidst joyous laughter as only youthful bodies and good friends can. Legolas wrinkled his nose at the Ranger’s disastrously disheveled hair, grimy face and torso speckled with dried mud. He knew he needed to clean up too, but not as desperately as Aragorn, to whom clung four days’ worth of sweat and grime from his usual forage into the Wilds of the North. “You – we – will need to – um – make ourselves presentable first. A bath?”

“But I just got here,” his friend protested, a look of dismay on his face. “Do I have to? So soon?”

“You look scruffy enough to be a doormat,” Legolas stated with a laugh. “He will notice it, believe me.”

“It’s too soon for a bath, and I’m tired,” Aragorn grumbled stubbornly.

Legolas sighed, cocking his head to one side and looking at his friend in exasperation. “All right then, doormat, if you wish for him to wipe his feet on you, so be it. But are you too tired now to accompany me to my secret spot?”

“Outdoors?”

“In the forest. You will not regret it.”

In five minutes, they were mounted on horses, still clad only in their leggings, leaving several elves staring at their youngest prince as he sped off with the human close behind. They rode at a fast pace, the Ranger in high spirits and letting the elf leading him whither he would. The elf kept them on the trail that led directly to the ledge above the pool which Aragorn had never visited.

As soon as they reached the start of the slope, a few yards from the edge, Legolas jumped down from his horse and yanked Aragorn down from his. Infected by the excitement of the elf, the Ranger felt a thrill as Legolas issued a challenge: “Race you to the top!” and sped off up the ledge, the Ranger close on his heels. Without stopping, the elf ran to the edge and turned around for an instant, just long enough to grab the wrist of his friend, then jumped right off with a whoop of delight so loud that it could not be drowned out by the Ranger’s equally loud squawk of shock and fear. The Ranger took one look at where they were headed and barely had time to pinch his nose shut before the two landed feet first in the water with a loud splash, Legolas still holding on to Aragorn’s wrist so that he could pull him out in case the jump had scared him senseless. 

The two emerged from the water, Legolas laughing in insane delight and Aragorn sputtering, looking like a drowned rat. He shook his hand free of the elf’s grasp and wiped the water off his face, catching his breath while trying to work out the quickest way to end the elf’s life.  But as soon as he had taken three breaths, Legolas dove under and yanked him down again by the feet, this time running his elven hands quickly through the Ranger’s hair to wash the sweat and grime out and effectively keeping the struggling Ranger under at the same time. Aragorn kicked one leg out, attempting to connect with any part of the elf he could reach, he did not care which, his mind bent on killing or maiming. But the elf was too fast for him, dodging him easily and swimming three yards away before surfacing. Aragorn surfaced a moment later and spun around to look for the elf, murder in his eyes.  He was in time to see a flash of gold disappearing beneath the water, and before he could even remember his own name, Legolas had come beneath him, between his legs. The elf grabbed them, placing them astride his shoulders before he kicked hard against the water and used his strong arms to hoist Aragorn a foot above the water at the same time. He gave the Ranger a moment to prepare for what he knew the Ranger was sure to expect, before tipping the helpless human yelling “Legolaaaaaa…” backward into the water, and swimming away to a safe distance across the pool. 

Legolas watched Aragorn emerge, wiping the water from his face that went from red to deep magenta with rage. Treading water and forced to catch his breath yet again, Aragorn glared at the elf, who was laughing so hard he was struggling to stay afloat. “You sneaky woodland vermin!”  he cried, and with a growl of rage, kicked out with strong strokes towards Legolas, without any doubt that he would strangle the elven neck as soon as he got his hands around it.

By this time, Legolas was so bent and weak with laughter that all he could do was hold up his hands in defeat and beg breathlessly through his laughter, “Peace, peace!” Aragorn was beyond appeasing by this time, and with a war cry, pounced on the elf, pushing him under and going beneath the surface himself. He felt the elf slip from his hands as he resurfaced. He treaded water as he waited for the elf to come up sputtering so that he could gloat. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and pushed it back from his face, a grin of satisfaction on his face.  

His breathing calmed as he looked around to see where the elf would resurface, but felt uneasy as the moments went by and Legolas still did not emerge. He peered into the water, suddenly feeling afraid. “Legolas!” he called, then dove under to search for his friend below, swimming underwater across half the pool. He could not see the elf anywhere. Coming up again, he called desperately “Legolas!” 

“You seek me?” he heard a cool voice ask behind him and he spun around to see the elf treading water with calm strokes a few yards away, a cheeky grin on his beautiful face.

“How did you – ? Where were you – ?” Aragorn spluttered. The elf raised his delicate eyebrows and shrugged. Aragorn could do nothing but stare dumbfounded at the elusive elf, lost for words, struggling with conflicting feelings of disbelief, irritation and relief. Then, with a groan of exasperation, he shook his head and laughed. Legolas, the grin still on his face, swam over to a shallower part of the pool and climbed onto a broad rock, signaling to Aragorn to join him. When he had given his friend a hand up, the elf lay back to bask in the sun. The Ranger did likewise, still chuckling. His chest rose and fell as he lay beside his friend.

Legolas turned to give him a smug look. “Ah, the doormat has been cleaned,” he reminded the Ranger. Aragorn punched the elf’s arm, a broad grin on his face, now free of the grime that had been on it before their swim. The two friends turned their faces back to the sky, closing their eyes and talking quietly.

“Ahhh, Aragorn. It’s wonderful here.”

“Mmm.”  

“Do you feel at peace?”

“Mmmmmmmmmmmm.”

“Aragorn?”

“Mmm?”

“Years from now, when you are King…”

“Mmm???””

“You know you will be. When you are busy being King of Gondor, will you still wish for a time like this?”

“Mmmmmmm.”

“Would you wish for a place like this?”

“Mmmmmmm.” 

 “I hope there will still be places in Arda like this by that time.”  

“Mmmm.”

“Aragorn?”

“Mmm?”

“Would we still be friends?”

“Would water still be wet? Foolish question.”

The two friends lay in a companionable silence till the sun began to slide down the western sky.  

“Aragorn?”  

“Mmm?”

“It’s time to go home.”

Groan…

And the two companions returned side by side to the palace of the Woodland King, in time to dress and sit at the evening meal, faces as clean and shining as twice-polished brass.           

Floating on his back in the South Ithilien pool, Legolas smiled. Yes, if there were anyone he would want to share this place with, it would be Aragorn.

But only if he would come, Legolas thought with a sudden twinge of wistfulness. After the Quest, their friends Frodo, Mithrandir and Elrond had sailed West along with many elves of Imladris and Lothlorien. Sam and the other hobbits were far away in the Shire, and Gimli was founding his own little niche in the Glittering Caves of Helm’s Deep; he met with Eomer more easily than he did Aragorn or himself. Only he and Aragorn remained in Gondor, visits between Minas Tirith and Ithilien as frequent as once every two or three weeks. Their friendship had grown so deep that Aragorn loved Legolas as dearly as he did Arwen and Eldarion. The people of the city could no longer envision their king without his closest companion. 

But kings, even the greater ones, can be bowed with labour, and the King of Gondor seemed more distant than he had ever been.

Note:  Getting Aragorn clean by dunking him in a pond was an idea inspired by an episode in Nightwing's story To See A World.

CHAPTER 3: THE LORD OF THE WHITE TREE

In a settlement mid-way between Rohan and Minas Tirith, Aragorn gave his final orders to the officers he entrusted with the security of this new settlement under Gondor’s protection. He had spent the last three days there, meeting with villagers whose lives and homes had been plundered by the remnants of dissatisfied Men whose minds had once been under the spell of the wizard Saruman. Even though the wizard had fallen from grace and was long dead, the men remained outlaws, hating both the kingdoms of Gondor and Rohan. What saddened Aragorn most was that three villagers who put up a fight had died at their filthy hands, including a child of nine. She had been Eldarion’s age, a thought that deepened his sorrow, and he prayed that his son was safe back home. 

“See that no more harm befalls the villagers. I leave them in your care.” With those words, he nodded and left with his royal escort to begin the long ride back to the White City and his family. For the past three months, he had had to settle more land disputes and hunting rights than he cared to remember, but uppermost had been the security problems. It worried him that desperate outlaws were becoming more daring, more reckless, and more cold-blooded in their assaults. After ten years, it distressed him that the safety of Gondor’s lands was once again a cause for concern.

Aragorn felt weary and bowed with care, longing only to go home to his wife and son, a hot bath and his own bed. He had left the care of the White City and his loved ones in the capable hands of his Steward, Faramir. He did not know if Legolas was there or in the woods. He hoped the elf would be there; they could enjoy some of the good wine from the cellars of the palace. He truly missed his friend, but duties demanded so much time. 

Ai, Valar, I could do without troubles for a spell, he thought hopefully.

Aragorn was always occupied with his duties now, Legolas reflected. He must have been gone from Minas Tirith for … more than three months now?  After ten years of the peaceful restoration of Gondor, some problems were cropping up in some of the smaller fiefs on the borders. Robberies, stray outlaws terrorizing villagers, small skirmishes over land – all these needed looking into. Over the last year, Aragorn was often annoyed that the officers he had appointed in these places had not been as effective as he had hoped. He felt he had to visit these fiefs personally to determine what needed to be done; besides, the villagers needed to see their King in person from time to time for their morale.

Yes, he has been away more than three months now, Legolas thought. And before that, it had been another tiring two-month tour of the provinces. He himself had left for South Ithilien in between Aragorn’s departures and returns to Minas Tirith, Legolas recalled a little sadly. All in all, he had not seen his friend for close to seven months now, and he missed him. To an elf, that length of time was but the mere beginning of a breath, but since his close companionship with mortals, Legolas sometimes found himself viewing time as a mortal would – as a limited commodity – and seven months gone was seven months out of a limited lifetime. He thus missed the days he could not spend with his closest and dearest friend, the Lord of the White Tree.   

Legolas sighed. Aragorn was a good king, just and kind and devoted to his people. But putting back the broken pieces of Gondor was taking its toll on him, and his temper would flare uncharacteristically as the weight of the problems overwhelmed him. He seemed more distant now, Legolas realized with a twist of sadness.

The feeling continued as he remembered that he had been the brunt of Aragorn’s outbursts as well, several times now in the past one and a half years.  When Legolas consulted him on matters involving the use of funds from the Treasury or the hiring of staff for restoration work, for which he felt he needed the King’s approval, Aragorn happened to be in a fey mood and carelessly asked if Legolas could not be trusted to make the decisions himself.

On another occasion, Legolas had accompanied him to an important meeting with a landowner who was being hard on the poorer villagers, and Aragorn was trying to bring about an amicable solution. But when Legolas saw on the landowner’s walls huge trophies of the heads of deer and other animals killed for sport, which the pompous man readily boasted about, the usually polite elf had been so nauseated he was unable to eat any of the meat served at dinner. He would, under normal circumstances, never show his disgust openly, and particularly as they were the guests of the landowner, but Lord Eigen’s swaggering talk and blatant disregard for the animals had violated the elf’s inherent love of nature so much that he was barely able to keep his words to the landowner civil.

Legolas recalled what had taken place:

“Do elves not find pleasure in meat?” the pompous man had asked him, a mocking tone in his voice. “Does the fare not meet your approval?”

The elf controlled his voice as he replied in his usual soft tones, “Nay, sir, it is not my place to judge the quality of your fare. I consume meat when I need to, for sustenance, but I find it hard to do so with the heads and eyes of the creatures staring at me.” 

Aragorn’s fork paused in mid-air and one of the King’s aides stopped chewing. Lord Eigen’s eyes widened as if they would pop out of his round face. “Strange are the sentiments of elves, to be unmoved by such fine trophies. Have you no appreciation of hunting skills, Master Elf? Aaah, the thrill of a chase invigorates me.”  

“Then I must be strange indeed, Lord Eigen, for I use my hunting skills only to serve me in times of need. At other times, I reserve them for the pursuit of creatures that would seek to kill other creatures only for pleasure or sport,” Legolas replied, thinly veiling his contempt even in his soft tones.

The landowner went red in the face, Aragorn cleared his throat rather loudly, his aide choked, and several looks of displeasure from Aragorn’s company were shot in Legolas’ direction. Aragorn, who would at any other time sided with the elf, felt annoyed at his inopportune coldness toward Lord Eigen, worried that it would jeapordise the negotiations.

Fortunately, an acceptable agreement was reached nevertheless, but Aragorn’s annoyance radiated through the silence he kept during much of the next day’s ride on their way home to Minas Tirith. It had made Legolas ask himself if he had acted unreasonably, and he had approached Aragorn with an apology.

“I am sorry, Aragorn. Perhaps I was too harsh in my judgement of Lord Eigen. Forgive me,” he ventured quietly.   

There was at first only a tense look from Aragorn in response. He understood what had angered the elf: instead of being returned with respect to the earth, parts of the dead animals had been displayed to satisfy a hunter’s vain need for others to flatter his hunting skills. It had sickened Aragorn as well, but at that point in time, he had needed the cooperation of the landowner. “There is a time and place, Legolas,” he said at last, somewhat tersely.  

The right time to respect living things was always, and the right place was everywhere, the elf thought stubbornly. But this was perhaps not the right time and place for that argument, so he repeated, “I am sorry.”

“I should not have asked you to come with me,” Aragorn responded shortly, and spoke no more on the matter for the remainder of the day. The king was reflecting on how difficult it must have been for the elf to see the horror reflected in the glass eyes of the animal heads, but perhaps it was weariness that made him keep these thoughts to himself and not voice them to his elf companion, and he did not realize how brusque his words had sounded.

The king’s anxiety was understood by the elf, but even so, Aragorn’s statement still stung like a slap in the face. As he swallowed his pride, Legolas could not help thinking: the son of Thranduil fails again in his trust.   

The following day, Legolas approached Aragorn and unexpectedly begged leave to depart from the King’s company so that he could turn north-east to visit his father in the Greenwood. Aragorn was already feeling contrite over what had transpired between them the previous day, but he had no right to stop the elf from visiting his family. With as much of a smile as he could muster, he said, “Send your father my regards, Legolas. And – please do not take to heart my earlier words – ”

“As you say, there is a time and place,” Legolas interrupted with a small smile, but sadness was in his gentle eyes. “It is I who spoke rashly in the presence of Lord Eigen, an elf still unused to the thinking of Men, perhaps. Worry not, Aragorn, I shall not repeat my error.” Before Aragorn could utter a protest, the elf briefly placed his hand on his heart and swept it gracefully forward and down, saying, “I wish you a safe journey home, Aragorn,” and left, leaving the King of Gondor feeling strangely empty.

If such tense exchanges occurred when they were in Minas Tirith, the elf would get on his horse to ride away, feeling his hurt burn him as he spurred his horse down the seven levels of the city. But by the time he reached the lowest level and the Great Gates of the city, he would wonder if it was his fault after all, and if he had indeed failed Aragorn. He was never sure, and when he felt it was not his fault, he told himself that even kings could be bowed under the weight of his burdens – after all, he had seen his own father lose his temper many times. In the end, it was always his love for the Lord of Gondor that overcame his own hurt. He knew that if he rode off, Aragorn himself might feel wretched. So each time, he would stop his horse before he left the city, and he would turn back, riding up to the seventh level slowly so that his own anger would cool by the time he faced Aragorn again. Sometimes, he would delay seeing the King, retiring instead to the room Aragorn and Arwen always kept ready for his use. The following day, Aragorn’s anger would usually have dissipated, and they would act as if nothing had happened. Legolas continued to hope that things would improve for the King.

Arwen often witnessed these incidents, feeling a little sad that these two friends who would die for each other could drift apart, for a night or a week or a month, over such trivial matters. She once caught Aragorn standing in the shadows of their bedroom balcony, looking miserably at the figure of the friend he loved best riding away from him. The balcony was located in a part of the palace that let them see what went on at the Great Gates. When Legolas stopped at the Gates as he invariably did, the king held his breath as he waited to see if the rider would turn back. Only when he turned did the king exhale and his shoulders sag in relief. He saw Arwen then, and no words were necessary as she enveloped him in her comforting arms, letting him sink his head into her hair. She knew, as he did, that he did not mean his outbursts and that Legolas would understand. 

“Estel,” she addressed him by the Elvish name he had been given by her father, Elrond. “He knows your heart, my love. Take care of his too,” were the only words of counsel she gave him that night.

Two days later, she told Legolas what she had seen, and the elf’s eyes had softened when she said what he already knew: “Estel needs you, Legolas, even if he does not see it himself. Forgive him.” 

So Legolas had always returned to his friend, knowing the true tenderness that lay beneath the hardened exterior of the king.

Legolas’ attention returned to the present. Aye, I miss you my friend. Reflecting on how distant Aragorn felt now, the melancholy caused by his earlier dream returned, and he sighed. He wondered briefly if the dreams had come back because of those incidents with Aragorn. 

Alas, he thought, even great kings are sometimes compelled to do things that do not please everyone.

Many miles from the White City, a dark figure sat in his dark room, brooding and planning. He seethed with the anger and hate he had nursed in his black heart for over nine years, since the end of the Ringbearer’s Quest and the fall of Sauron. As he had every day since then, he swore vengeance on the king for the pain he had caused.  

You took away the light of my life, he said bitterly to a king that could not hear him, but I swear upon the memory of the dead – you shall taste the same grief.

He had been waiting. Watching and waiting. Weeks ago, his spies had finally returned with some good news, though nothing truly seemed good any more, not since… not since THEN. He ground his teeth as the painful memory hit him again. It had taken him a few years to recover and put together the broken pieces of his miserable life again in the years afterward, but the desire for vengeance that consumed his every thought had kept him going.

And now, it seemed like the opportunity was going to arrive, when the situation was most favorable. He had told his minions to wait for just the right time.

Oh yes, it is time for the king to pay.

All he had to do now was wait.

It was getting late, so Legolas shook off his thoughts and left his secret spot, by way of the trees. Tomorrow, he would have to return to North Ithilien. He needed to check on security, for his guards had seen furtive shadows at the edge of the woods that did not belong to orcs or four-legged beasts. Unfortunately, half the elf residents were here with him in South Ithilien now, helping him restore these forests. They were needed here as well, so he would have to rely on those who were left. He considered the possibility of stopping by the city to see Aragorn’s son and Arwen, whom he loved as family, and the thought lightened his heart as he trekked back to the ferry which took him across the Anduin back to Pelargir.

The sights and sounds of the riverside town jarred his senses, in sharp contrast with the serene peacefulness he had just left. But some irritations had to be borne if one wanted to function within the world of Men, he realized. There, he met with the other elves who were working on what he had been assigned them with. He looked at the progress with approval as he ran his long fingers over the woodwork. The elves noted that while their prince’s eyes shone with pleasure, there was also longing tinged with sadness.    

CHAPTER 4: SON OF THE KING

“Arwen? Eldarion!” Legolas called out their names in surprise, as he dismounted quickly. He had ridden hard from Pelargir, as he wanted to reach his home in North Ithilien before nightfall. Some of his kin in Pelargir would be returning tomorrow as well, but something – he knew not what – had moved him to return today instead of riding with them. However, he had hardly expected to see the Queen and her son in North Ithilien, waiting for him.

“How came you to be here? When – ?”

“Legolas!” the little prince cried excitedly, cutting off the elf’s question as he ran into the arms of his father’s friend who had been close to him since his birth. Legolas picked him up and swung him around in delight before hugging him warmly. “You are getting too big to be picked up, prince of Gondor!” the elf declared before setting him down, kneeling and gently sandwiching the fresh young face between his long hands. “Let me look at you.”  

He studied Eldarion’s handsome face. He had his mother’s delicate mouth and long dark lashes, but everything else bespoke of his father – from the strong brow and serious grey eyes to the firm chin. Even the way he set his jaw whenever he was determined was the mark of the king of Gondor.

“You truly are the Son of the King,” Legolas said lovingly. 

“You’ve been away too long,” Eldarion complained, furrowing his eyes a little and looking even more like his father. “I’ve lost one tooth and sprouted a new one since. See?” And the young prince opened his mouth wide and without embarrassment to offer proof of his claim to the elf. 

Arwen had walked over by then and she looked on in amusement as Legolas bent his golden head and pretended to examine the cavern of the mouth studiously, holding back laughter. “Why yes, Eldarion, it’s a fine tooth, and one that would bite with ferocity as befits a strong young man,” Legolas pronounced seriously.

Eldarion beamed with pride. “You will teach me to shoot arrows tomorrow? I’ve forgotten some of the things you taught, you should not stay away too long. Can I stay in the talan tonight? Can I climb the tree? Oh, there’s your horse! Can I get on him?”

Before the elf could answer any one of the child’s rapidly fired questions, the boy had run to where an elf was leading Legolas’ horse away, asking to ride him. Legolas watched him with a tender look in his eyes before turning to Arwen and letting her kiss him on the cheek.

“I did not expect you to be here, Arwen. Is something the matter? Who accompanied you here?” he queried in a rush, realizing with a blush that he must have sounded like Eldarion.

Arwen laughed lightly. “Nothing is wrong, my dear Legolas. Eladrion was simply too bored in the city and pleaded for a visit here. We expect Aragorn to be back in two or three days, but Eldarion would not wait. Four of the royal guards rode alongside, and my maid came with us in the carriage. Faramir saw to everything. I believe that answers all your questions?”    

Legolas grinned. “You are always welcome, that you know. But I would have wished to set more guards around the borders before you came. I am glad you reached safely.”

A look of concern crossed the Queen’s face. “Are there problems? I thought Ithilien was safe.”

“It is, Arwen,” Legolas assured her after a slight hesitation. “Only… in the last few weeks, my guards have reported seeing shadows near the borders. They have never actually entered these woods so we know not whether they pose a threat. I simply wished to be cautious.” He did not voice his concern that half his elves were away, and that was half as many that he wished to be here while she and Eldarion were around. “I must take my leave briefly now to see to those arrangements. Where are your guards now?”

“I – um – I sent them back.” At the look of shock and apprehension on Legolas’ face, she quickly added, “But they will be back here the morning after tomorrow, to escort us back.”

“But why did you send them away?” Legolas could not hide the note of concern in his voice now.

“Eldarion is not the only one who chafes within the confines of the palace, Legolas,” she said in a huff, and her next words came in a rush as her voice rose. “So do I at times. Once in a while, I wish to remind myself that I, too, have elvish blood in my veins and that I grew up surrounded by the beauty of Imladris. Ithilien is the only place that can offer me that solace now, and for a day or two, I do not wish to be watched by the hawk eyes of the royal guard. I do not want to be on a leash in woods that are akin to my own elven home!”

Legolas drew a deep breath and kept quiet, allowing Arwen to compose herself again.

Her head was lowered and he knew she was controlling her emotions. He certainly understood what it meant to an elf to be in the woods, for he too could not stay within the walls of any stone city for long periods of time.

“Surely you can understand, Legolas?” Arwen said in a small voice. 

Legolas sighed. “Of course I can, Arwen. You are both welcome here anytime, you must know that.” But I wish you had not sent the guards back, he said only to himself. He could not help a small grin; only Eru knew what threats the queen must have used to pressure the guards into leaving, for they would not have left willingly. Well, it is done, and I must provide what safety I can with what I have. I hope the elves will return from Pelargir tomorrow as they planned. Arwen’s smile and the shouts of delight from Eldarion atop his horse strengthened his resolve to make their stay as pleasant as he could manage it. “Have you and Eldarion – ?”

“Yes, we have made sleeping arrangements in the talan with the rope ladder – yes, I know you will not let me climb the tree,” she replied with mock frustration, “and I have brought food from the palace for the evening meal, which my maid laid out before she –  ah – she left with the others.” For a moment, she studied Legolas’ face for a reaction to what she said last, but he hid whatever it was he felt. “So, as soon as you are refreshed…”

Legolas chuckled. “Who is the host and who is the guest now, Arwen? You put us to shame,” he jested, “but foolish is he who declines a meal prepared by the cooks of Arwen’s royal kitchen. I will join you as soon as I can.” With a slight nod and another look to where Eldarion was still playing with the elvish horse, he stepped away to speak to the other elves.

-------------------------

The day had begun hot and bright, and Eldarion had been given archery lessons in the morning till the young prince tired. Arwen and he were taking lunch with Legolas as they sat beside a stream in a clearing. Trees surrounded them but did not crowd them in. Eldarion was soon splashing about in the water, cooling himself and trying to wet his mother and Legolas as well. The elf would have happily joined him but he wanted to talk with Arwen.

“He is so happy here, Legolas. I’m glad this place can take his mind off how much he misses his father,” Arwen said, looking fondly at the squealing child who was trying to catch the silvery fish that could be found in the stream. Turning to the elf, she asked, “How is your work in South Ithilien progressing?”

“It is hard work, but very rewarding,” he replied. “The forests will breathe again, that is what my friends and I pledge. Aragorn and you will see South Ithilien as fair and green as they once were in the songs of our people, Arwen.” There was a hint of sadness in his voice as he said ‘our people’, for he was reminded that Arwen had given up her immortal life for Aragorn and that her husband, too, would die one day, while the elf lived on to mourn them. 

“You are a good friend, Legolas, even if he is too busy to tell you so,” Arwen said softly.

Legolas turned his beautiful eyes towards the stream as if embarrassed by her remark. Eldarion was out of the stream and chasing after a hare now. “My time too has been devoted to the woods south.” I miss Aragorn, he thought, but quickly reminded himself that duty often demanded sacrifice. “He returns soon, you say?”

“In two days, perhaps three,” she affirmed with a smile, brightening at the thought. “So Eldarion and I must return tomorrow. He will be tired again, I expect, and glad to be home. You will come for dinner then, Legolas?”

“I will come,” he promised, waving his hand to Eldarion as the boy called to him and proudly held up the hare he had managed to catch. Legolas took a moment to sweep his eyes across the trees around them. He knew that guards, unseen and unheard, were hidden in the foliage, and that they would be by his side in an instant should he call. He still felt a little uneasy about the shadows that had been spotted, and felt the need to be even more alert with Aragorn’s family here. There were too few elves, and Legolas had no choice but to get them to patrol a smaller perimeter, further in than the actual fringes of the woods.   

“He will want to see you. Perhaps you could stay for a while.” Arwen’s voice brought him back to the conversation. It was more of a request than an invitation. She was concerned about her husband and afraid that, under the weight of his responsibilities, he would lose sight of the things he held precious. Legolas read her mind and smiled a little sadly but said nothing.

“The welfare of Gondor rests on his shoulders, and caring for it is what makes him a good king, but even a good king needs some respite,” she continued. “I wish… well, my mind would be more at ease if you traveled with him sometimes, Legolas.”  

The elf could not help giving a small laugh at that, shaking his head in disagreement. “After what happened with Lord Eigen? It would be wiser for me to distance myself from such dealings.”

“Distance is what the two of you do not need more of,” Arwen disputed, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. She placed a hand on the elf’s arm. “Please, Legolas, spend some time with him.”

 “Gladly, my dear Arwen,” Legolas assented, but added, “if that is what he wishes. But if he does not desire that, then I must find another way to give him respite.”

“He needs you,” Arwen reiterated firmly.

Legolas looked at her for a long moment, then sighed and looked at the sky. “Lo, it darkens, Arwen,” he said, noting the rain clouds. “We should return to the talan. Does Eldarion not need to nap?”

The Queen laughed. “He is older now, Legolas and may not want to. But you speak true, we should return. He will not be happy to sit quietly in the talan. I must find something for him to do. Help me, Legolas, or we shall have a child in a fey mood by nightfall!” 

The two of them called to Eldarion, who reluctantly let the hare go, and followed the grown-ups back to where Legolas and his elves had their homes in trees.  

The Shadows watched everything and waited. Soon, their chief said. Very soon.

CHAPTER 5: THEY COME

“Firm downward strokes,” Legolas reminded the young prince, as the child used a small knife to whittle the point of a short arrow. “And remember to keep the point of the arrow on the floor.” That way, the boy would move the knife away from himself. Placing the arrow against the floor was not the way adults would make evenly balanced arrows, and the knife he had given the boy was not even very sharp, but the elf just wanted to keep the young prince occupied. It was late afternoon, but heavy rain had darkened the day early, and the candles around them cast shadows on the walls of the wooden tree-house where they sat. It was not where the queen and her son slept; it was a play-house with a rope ladder, nestled securely in the strong arms of a tall oak. Legolas had built it for the young prince a year ago, and it was one of Eldarion’s favourite places in Ithilien. “Handle the knife carefully, Eldarion.”

Head bent over the arrow in his hands, Eldarion’s attention was focused intently on the task at hand and forgot to grumble about the rain as he had done earlier. “When you finish this one, you can do another, and soon you will have half a quiver to show your father. Only young men with new teeth can accomplish such a feat!” Legolas quipped, and the boy beamed before returning his full attention to the task.

“Hannon le,” Arwen mouthed her thanks to the elf when he looked across at her. Legolas smiled and nodded. He vaguely recalled when he was an elfling himself and his caretaker had let him whittle. He knew Eldarion would enjoy making his own arrows as well, even if they were not anywhere as fine as the ones made by elves. 

“Bridhon nin!” a voice called urgently from below the talan. Legolas got up immediately from where he was seated in front of Eldarion and moved quickly to look over the low wall of the tree-house.

Even without his exceptional eyesight, he would have made out the elves standing below in the rain. One was breathing a little faster than normal, as if he had run a distance at great speed. “Galean?” Legolas addressed the young elf who was not breathing as fast. The worry was visible on Galean’s’ face even though a slender hand shaded his eyes from the rain, his whole body tensed for action.

“Bridhon nin, my prince!” Galean said again and immediately pointed towards the darkness on the eastern fringes of the wood.

Legolas’ own concern mounted as he enquired what it was they had seen. “Man cenich?”

“The shadows,” the other elf, Lishian, replied tersely. “They move to surround us. Fast.” 

Legolas could hear the noises now, and his heart sank. Oh Valar, of all times for them to be short of elves.

“I came from there, my Lord,” said the elf. “They surrounded us, asking for the son of the king! I escaped and came back to warn you.”

At his words, Legolas’ heart sank again, his thoughts going immediately to the young prince in the corner. His ears picked up a gasp from Arwen; she had heard. “Ground or trees?” he asked.

“They walk.”

Legolas lost no time. He did not know what the Shadows were, but had to think first of Arwen and Eldarion’s safety. He made a quick decision. In one swift movement, he had reached Eldarion, removed the arrow and knife from his hands and picked him up. The suddenness of the movement brought forth a look of alarm from Arwen and a stare from the boy. In two strides, Legolas had placed the boy on the floor in the darkest corner of the talan. He motioned for Arwen to come over and went on one knee before them. Looking steadily into the wide grey eyes of the boy, he said as calmly as he could, “Listen, Eldarion. I want you to stay with your naneth in this corner. Do not move from there until I or one of my elves come and get you. Do you understand?”

The boy did not blink but nodded. To Arwen, he said urgently, “Someone is coming here for – ” and caught himself before he could say the name. Not in front of the child, he decided. “There is no time to get to the horses.” There was a look of fear in Arwen’s eyes. She nodded as she quickly wrapped her arms around her son. He grasped her arm reassuringly. “I will be back.”  

Turning to Eldarion, Legolas grasped the boy’s chin and looked into his eyes again. “Stay quiet,” he stressed, and turned away. He blew out all the candles and was about to descend from the tree-house, when he suddenly stepped back to where the arrow and knife lay. In another swift movement, he picked up the knife and was back at Arwen’s side again. It was but a small one, but it would have to do as there was no other. In the dim light, his bright blue eyes looked directly into the mother’s, and he placed the knife quietly by her side, willing her to read the meaning of his action. Arwen swallowed her fear, staring back with wide eyes that started to glisten, and nodded wordlessly.

Then he was gone.  

CHAPTER 6: SHADOWS FROM THE EAST

Arwen and Eldarion had not moved from the corner after Legolas left. They sat hunched in fear, listening to the rain. Their fear was made even more acute because they knew not what was happening below. They gasped when a form suddenly appeared at the door of the talan, dripping with rain. But they breathed when they saw it was an elf, Galean, followed immediately by another elf. The other elf knelt by the door, peering out into the night, while Galean approached the two huddled figures and spoke quietly to them.

“Do not fear. The prince wants us to stay here with you,” he informed them and moved to join his friend, but Arwen caught his arm. She spoke in Sindarin, hoping that Eldarion’s own halting knowledge of the language would filter much of the information from him, in case it was too frightening.

“What is happening?” she whispered.

“The shadows we saw, they are here. Many men.”

“Who are they?”

“They came from the east.”

“Where is Legolas? Is he all right?”

“The fighting has not begun. He leads us.”

There was nothing more he could tell her. He spun around and joined his friend at the door, whispering in hushed voices barely audible above the rain. Eldarion turned to her with frightened eyes as if to ask what was happening, and she whispered words of comfort to him, trying not to show her own fear. “Legolas is taking care of the problem, my darling, we must wait here. Be brave.”

During the wait, Arwen’s thoughts raced. She had heard the voice of Lishian earlier as he told Legolas: “They surrounded us, asking for the son of the king.” She began to talk to herself: why did they want Eldarion? How did they know he was there? They must have been following his movements and her own. Minas Tirith was too difficult to infiltrate; they must have waited, biding their time. And their visit to Ithilien, with its open spaces, provided that opportunity. But why did they want him? For ransom? As leverage, to force the King into doing something he would not otherwise condone? She could find no answers. But her thoughts went to Aragron, wishing he were here. A tear streaked down her cheek and she quickly wiped it away.

After what seemed ages to Arwen and Eldarion, the rain began to lighten. And still they waited, clutching each other.

Then, as if, an order had been given to break the silence, they heard yells and sounds of fighting a short distance away. The fair voices of the elves were hardly audible, but there were other blood-curdling yells as metal clashed against metal, and bows sang. The two elves in the talan stood, looking in the direction of the sounds. One had moved to the wall opposite while one guarded the door. Arwen could sense the tension in their slender bodies and the anxiety in their faces as they looked into the darkness. She knew they would have wished to be fighting alongside Legolas, but she was glad of their presence here, for she had a young son to protect. She knew the elves would die before they even thought of disobeying Legolas’ orders and leaving them. And she would die before she allowed anyone to take her son.

After many minutes, there seemed to be fighting in two places – in the distance, the fighting seemed less intense, but there were also sounds getting closer. A shout, like a question, was heard from below – was it from Legolas? – and Galean replied, “Yes, my lord, they are safe.” Then the elf shouted a warning to Legolas: “They come after you! Lishian, draw your bow!” 

“No!” Arwen heard Legolas shout in Sindarin a little distance from the tree. “Stay hidden!” And she understood that he did not want the attackers to know that they were in the talan. She stifled a sob of fear as she heard the clash of knives below, then a cry of pain in an Elvish voice, and her heart missed a beat. Eldarion whimpered, tears running down his cheeks.

Galean uttered an Elvish curse and pulled his friend down so that they would not be seen. “So many, so many,” he mumbled in anguish. Then he turned to the two figures in the corner and gave an order in a hushed voice: “Stay in front of them!” Lishian immediately moved to position himself in front of the two figures in the corner, while Galean remained at the door.

Suddenly, Galean stood and ran to the low wall. Without a sound, he fitted an arrow and drew his bow in one smooth motion and fired at something below. There was a horrible cry as something died. Eldarion screamed and placed his hands over his ears. 

The next series of events took place very quickly, almost in a blur in the dark.

As soon as Eldarion screamed, Lishian whipped around and Arwen closed her hand over her son’s mouth. A footstep landed on the floor of the talan to their left, and Arwen swung around, grasping the small knife at her side and swinging it in arc as she did so. Her forearm was quickly stayed by a strong wet hand: Legolas’. Arwen sobbed in relief. She saw the blood on his tunic, streaming slowly from what must have been a deep gash on his shoulder, and the long knife in his other hand, dripping with rainwater and blood. At the sight of the blood, Eldarion gave a loud whimper of fear, but Arwen had no time to react to it herself, for Legolas pushed her and Eldarion even further back into the corner. He then ran back to the door and pulled up the rope ladder swiftly before returning to crouch in front of them alongside Lishian. He was breathing heavily. “Where is he!” a rough yell came from the ground below. “Elbereth!” an Elvish voice cried, before it ended in a loud, pitiful cry of pain.

At the cry, Eldarion screamed again. Then a second later, the rough voice shouted, “Up! Up!” Galean cried, “They hear!” and drew his bow again, aiming now at things moving up the tree. He shot and drew and shot again. Lishian ran to his side at the low wall, and his bow sang with Galean’s. The two elves furiously fired arrow after arrow while dodging arrows being fired at them as well. Lishian gave a cry as an arrow pierced deep into his shoulder and he dropped his bow before he staggered back against the wooden wall to the right. Legolas immediately dropped his knife and dashed to pick up the bow, pulling the two remaining arrows from the quiver strapped to Lishian’s back.

But instead of firing in the direction Galean was facing, he turned toward the door and shot at the first of the tall, foul-looking men who had managed to climb the tree even without the ladder. The man dropped but another, who had been behind him, jumped over the body to land near Arwen. Arwen cried out and pulled Eldarion to her as he screamed again. Peering around him in the dim light, he seemed undecided as to whom to lunge for, but as he took a hesitant step towards the sound of Arwen’s cry, the mother, with a fierce yell, suddenly swung her arm at him, holding him at bay with the small knife. Legolas, a hiss of pain escaping his lips as he drew his bow, immediately shot the last arrow, which sank into the man’s bicep as he twisted to dodge it, and in the next instant, the elf dived back toward his knife at Arwen’s feet. In one smooth motion, he had righted himself on one knee, his knife in his hands. He lunged at the man again, slashing deep into his thigh. The man gave a roar of pain and fell back, clutching at the wound. Before the elf could move to finish him off, Galean gave a cry and fell backward from an arrow in his chest. A black shape came over the low wall, a raised arm clutching a knife, and rushed at Legolas. Legolas plunged his knife into his chest but was knocked over himself, falling right in front of Eldarion, who was crying loudly in his mother’s shivering arms. Another dark shape climbed over the low wall and made to lunge at the three figures on the floor with a long knife and a loud yell, but another voice – Legolas could not tell from where – shouted:       

“The king’s son! Take him alive!”

As he was turning, he saw another dark shape emerge over the low wall, with a long object in its mouth, aimed directly at them. Legolas widened his eyes in horror and twisted to place his body around Eldarion’s. He heard two a sharp exhalation as something – a dart? – hit the wall where he had been before he moved. A second exhalation quickly following the first, and a dart flew from the long object and found the space between Legolas’ arm and his torso, ripping through part of his tunic before lodging into soft, young flesh.  

In the immediate confusion that followed, more footsteps were heard approaching the talan. Another yell came, this time from an Elvish voice, as elves from Pelargir and South Ithilien poured into the tree-house, slashing at the man who had sent the dart and at other dark shapes that rushed to climb back over the wall. Legolas saw an arrow drawn and pointed at the fallen man with the wounded thigh, accompanied by a harsh command to stay still. “Keep him alive!” Legolas commanded. Someone called “My lord!” and rushed to Legolas’ side, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder and frantically searching him for other injuries, and others crouched over the still forms of Lishian and Galean.  

Ignoring the pain from the wound in his shoulder, Legolas threw a quick question at one of the elves, who replied, “Most are dead, but we pursue the rest.” He took a few moments to grasp what else was happening before him, closing his eyes in sorrow at the sight of Galean and Lishian, before turning an anxious face back to Arwen and Eldarion. Arwen was crying openly now, holding on to her son, still in shock. The boy seemed to have quietened down. His head was half-hidden in his mother’s grasp, and he was whimpering softly. Legolas could see that his eyes were swollen from crying, his lids heavy.

“Eldarion?” Legolas called gently, seeking to comfort the child. “Eldarion, it’s me. It’s over now, you’re safe.” He took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. The only response from the boy was a weak whimper. “Eldarion?” he called again. He peered at the child’s eyes; they were closed. Legolas felt a sudden terrible sense of unease.

“Eldarion, speak to me!” he said louder. No response. “Arwen, is he hurt? Call him!” his voice was filled with a growing fear.

Arwen gasped and took her son’s face in her hands. “Eldarion, can you hear me? Eldarion!” The boy had gone limp and cold. She shook him gently, but he remained motionless. Arwen gave a cry of anguish, her eyes wide with fear. “Oh, dear Eru! No, no!” 

“Light the candles!” Legolas yelled to the elves around him, and turned back to run his trembling hands over the limp body of the prince, saying a silent prayer. Someone brought a candle, then two more, and Legolas ordered them held so that he could examine Eldarion. Arwen looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. There was nothing on the boy’s arms and chest and abdomen, but as Legolas’ probing fingers reached the top of the little thigh, he froze. He found the long thin dart, half- embedded in the tender flesh, and his heart sank. Arwen gave a gasp of fear when she saw it, and felt her heart stop as Legolas grasped it firmly and pulled it out, leaving a tiny entrance wound. Legolas held the dart between his finger and sniffed. His lips pursed as he handed it to one of the elves and told him calmly and tersely, “Keep it safe for the healers.”

Then he closed the thumb and index fingers of both hands around the entrance wound and squeezed so that blood emerged from the puncture point. He had no certainty that he was doing the right thing, but he felt that if at all the dart was poisoned, he should try to remove as much as he could before the poison went further into the body. He prayed he was not causing Eldarion further harm. When he had squeezed out as much as he could, he placed his hand over Arwen’s and said gently, “Only half the dart went in, we must hope it did not do much damage, but we have to get him to the healers without delay.”

He turned to the elf holding the dart and said, “Get horses. Three ride to Minas Tirith with us.” He would leave the elves to determine which three. “Bring the injured who need the help of healers.” Looking with contempt in the direction of the man he had asked to keep alive, he added, “And bring him. Bind his wounds.”

Several elves moved off at once. Turning back to the queen, who was now almost hysterical, Legolas held her eyes as he spoke in a controlled voice, hoping his carefully chosen words held the truth. “Arwen, listen to me. I do not think the dart is poisoned, at least not enough to cause great harm.” He could hear her sharp intake of breath. “They wanted him alive. They would not have used a poisoned dart. I think… I think the dart was meant to make him fall asleep quickly.”  Hope flooded Arwen’s expression at his words, and her crying grew less intense.

“He’s just a child,” she whispered, pouring the grief of a mother into those words.

Her words stabbed Legolas’ own heart, but consolation had to wait. His first priority was to get Eldarion to safety and healing. They needed to help the injured elves as well, and – and see to the ones who have been killed, he thought sadly. Only then could they attempt to understand what had happened, and why. He told an elf to help the queen and the young prince off the talan, then straightened himself and stood.

He was tired, but there were elves awaiting further orders at the foot of the tree. He took a deep breath, descended, and issued them.  

That evening, the king of Gondor had fallen asleep early after another day’s hard ride on his way home. But hardly had the moon risen low in the sky before he awoke with a start, his heart thumping. Something was wrong back home.

Two minutes later, his surprised aides stood in front of their king and heard the order: “We ride for Minas Tirith now.”

CHAPTER 7: AND WE WAIT

The Elves rode as fast they could in the darkness of the road to the White City, hampered in their speed only by the elves who possessed varying degrees of injury, and the unconscious young prince, for they had to be supported by riders who were forced to ride one-handed. A number of elves remained in the woods to tend to six of their kin who lay dead and to those who had not sustained heavy injuries.

Eldarion lay motionless against Legolas’ chest while his anxious mother rode alongside, her features taut with worry. The elf’s shoulder ached dreadfully from his wound which one of the elves had bound roughly, but he would suffer no one else to take the child. It may have been his imagination, but it seemed that the child’s body had turned from being cold to a emitting a feverish heat. He wished they could make greater haste.

The man who had been captured in the talan was bound hand and foot, and his foul protests that had plagued elven ears at the beginning of the journey ended when a gag around his sneering mouth was added to the constraints. He was now unceremoniously draped over a horse on his stomach. At first sight, his long, dark, unkempt hair and scowling features reminded Legolas of the Wild men of Dunland that had plundered the homes of the Rohan folk at the time of the Quest, yet they were somehow different. Whoever they were, the elf was seething with rage at what the man’s companion had done to Eldarion, and longed to find out their purpose as soon as he could.

Midway on their journey, to their surprise and relief, they met the four guards who had been sent home by the queen, riding towards them. Faramir’s hair had nearly turned white when he heard what Arwen had done, and had insisted that the guards return to Ithilien tonight rather than wait till morning. Legolas was glad for the added security, however minimal, in case they were attacked again on their way to the city. He immediately instructed one of the guards to turn back to Minas Tirtih, to ride ahead of the group and inform Faramir and the healers about the approaching party.

They arrived shortly before midnight, and from then on the healers at Minas Tirith were kept busy. The young prince had indeed developed a fever, and the healers quickly worked to cool his head and body with wet cloths and herb solutions. Intermittently over many hours, they held his upper body upright to feed him water little by little so that it would go down his throat without choking him, for he could not swallow in his unconscious state. Eldarion remained unconscious, while the healers worked to determine what the dart had been coated with.

Arwen would not leave her son’s side, and neither would Legolas. His shoulder was attended to as he sat a little distance from the bed where Eldarion lay. The wound was deep and would bleed for a while yet, but he hardly paid it any attention, so focused was he on Eldarion and the other elves who had received worse injuries. His kinsmen were being looked after in a separate room in the Houses of Healing.

After Faramir had ascertained that the young prince and elves were receiving the proper attention, he spoke with Legolas, who narrated the whole affair to him. “We know not their purpose, but it is most likely that they wished to hold Eldarion ransom. To what end is beyond our knowing.”

“We will find out soon enough,” Faramir said with a hard edge to his voice, his mind going to the prisoner who had been dragged to a cell for questioning.  He had assigned the palace’s most experienced interrogator the task of finding out whatever information could be extracted out of the prisoner. His immediate concern, as was everyone’s, was Eldarion. But he turned to Legolas again, and seeing the blood that had seeped through even the fresh bandage, enquired, “How is your shoulder?”

“It will mend,” came the simple and expected reply. Since the Quest, the elf had been known for making light of any injuries he sustained, counting on his innate elven ability to heal faster than humans. He refused a sling but he limited the movements of the arm, allowing Faramir to help him put on a clean tunic an attendant had retrieved from his own drawers in his room at the palace, so that the bloody bandage could not be seen.

It occurred to Faramir that he was glad Eowyn and their children were visiting her brother Eomer in Rohan; at least he did not have to worry about them at this troubling time.  

They continued to wait.

Leagues from the city, the King of Gondor and his company proceeded as fast as they could in the darkness. Their ride on plains had to be slow, illuminated only by ghostly moonlight. When they had to walk through woods, only the feeble glow of torches held high by tired arms was their guide and protection against wild creatures. Their weary feet crunched on twigs and dry leaves and tripped over gnarled roots of trees.

More than one member of the company questioned the urgency of the return to Minas Tirith, but none spoke of it to the king. How could they question a leader who had fought and survived more wars, tribulations, councils and quests than ten or twenty of the men put together? How could they challenge a Dunedain who had lived longer than most of the men and still possessed the strength of youth? How could they dispute the wisdom of one who had lived in both human and elven worlds, challenged the Dark Lord himself, and gained the respect of wizards, elves, men and halflings?

Who in the company could fathom what his mind perceived? None could, so they simply followed his command and his lead.

Unknown to them, Aragorn himself was uncertain why his heart was heavy. Had that been Arwen’s voice calling him softly in his restless dream? Had that been his son reaching out to him for the safety of a father’s arms? Had that been a friend, dearer than friend, who had murmured a painful plea for him to hurry home? Were they waiting for him?

Or was it the toil of the past months – the numerous and varied problems and troubles of his people – that made him imagine a plight where there was none?

No answers came, none had any to give him. He only knew they would not rest this night or the next day till the miles had flown by and he stepped once more on the threshold of the White City. To see what he would see. To know what he would know.

With a wry grin meant only for himself, he pondered on whether it is always worse for those who wait, or for those who are awaited.

In the moonlit passage of a small stone fort, a dark figure paced up and down. He could find no sleep either, so intense was the thrill he felt as he envisioned the fulfillment of his desires, so sharp the taste of vengeance on his tongue.

Would they be back tonight? Or tomorrow? Or the next day? Would they bring back what he wanted? Had they hit at the right moment?

Ah, this accursed waiting, he mumbled, his fists clenched. I might have gone myself.

But no, that was precisely what he had not wanted to do. Besides revenge, self-preservation was important to him too. He did not want to be caught or killed. He would train others and send them to do the dangerous deed. If they failed, he would still live to try again till he succeeded. He owed it to him, he convinced himself, twisting at the pain of that memory.

The crooked smile on his hate-filled face was eerie in the moonlight. I will not go to get him, I want him to be brought to me. I want his father to seek me and beg for my mercy. This time, I will be the king.

And with that thought, he continued to pace and wait.

The red, pink and gold fingers of dawn were just creeping over the treetops outside the windows of the healing room when one of the healers who had been tending to Eldarion spoke quietly to his mother. Legolas saw her breathe a deep sigh of relief and allow a brief smile to quiver on her lips. With moist eyes, red and heavy from worry and sleeplessness, she turned to his approaching figure and said shakily, “His fever has broken.” Legolas felt his own shoulders lose some of their tension as he breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

Eldarion still lay unmoving, however. His face remained flushed face, and a faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead and above his upper lip. The immediate danger seemed past, but they still needed to see what else might happen. “Hurry back, Estel,” Arwen whispered tearfully and lay her head on the covers near her child’s waist, falling asleep from exhaustion at last, with one gentle hand on her son’s small one.

The healer left the room, but another watchful one sat in a chair nearby, fighting off yawns, still keeping vigil. Legolas stood gazing at the child for some time; although the boy looked for the most part peacefully asleep, the elf could not forget how frightened he had been in the talan, and wished he could have been spared the ordeal. The wound from the dart had closed to nothing more than a small bluish puncture mark, but the young one had yet to wake. At length, Legolas planted a gentle kiss on the damp forehead and returned to his chair across the room.

“Will you not sleep?” Faramir’s voice startled him, as the man approached quietly, studying the elf’s rather pale face. The steward had heard from the healer about the change in the young prince’s condition.

“I will sleep when he ceases to,” came the reply. “I also need to see how my kin are faring.”

“They are well. All have been tended to, and they rest.” Faramir reassured him, drawing a nod of gratitude from the elf. “As should you. Take some food and drink, if you will not sleep.” He pointed to some bread and wine that had been brought in some hours ago. They had remained untouched. In their anxiety over Eldarion’s condition, neither Arwen nor Legolas had even noticed hunger or thirst.   

“I will eat when Eldarion can,” the elf insisted, and Faramir sighed in defeat. Legolas’ eyes turned hard as he asked, “Has the prisoner revealed anything?”

“No, but he will break soon, we hope. We placed him in the coldest cell without any respite from the chill of stone and darkness, and withhold food and drink from him. If that does not loosen his tongue, we will employ less gentle means of encouragement. But I hope it will not come to that.” With that, Faramir excused himself and left.

Legolas knew that “less gentle means” referred to physical torture, but he knew that Aragorn made sure his people used it only as a last resort and in direst need. He wondered fleetingly whether Eldarion’s safety would meet the criteria. Aragorn was firm, but deep down, he had a merciful heart, Legolas mused. The elf held faithfully to his belief in the king’s kindness. Aragorn would be infuriated at the attack and the ordeal his wife and son were going through, and rightfully so, but it would only be at the end of his tether that he would condone the physical torment of the prisoner, any prisoner.

You know not how fortunate you are, Legolas silently addressed the prisoner being held somewhere below the stone floors of the palace.

After a while, he got up and walked in the direction of the rooms where his injured kin lay. They too would be in need of comfort this day.

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CHAPTER 8: THE HEALER’S NEWS 

He had seen it many times before – how someone can cower in fear and misery and yet be defiant at the same time. The interrogator saw it now in the pathetic, chained figure huddled on the damp floor in a corner of the cold, windowless dungeon in Minas Tirith, and could not help smirking at the sight of the man who had been placed in his charge.

He peered closer at the figure in the gloom of the cell. The man’s clothes were filthy and he smelt rank. The hair was coarse and unkempt, his face – when it could be glimpsed behind the unruly mane of hair – was roughened. Large round eyes seemed to protrude from the dark face, and on either side of a hooked nose were eyes that housed venom. He was lean and his movements did not seem clumsy despite his untidy appearance; they reminded the interrogator of a creature that could be capable of furtiveness when it wished, a dark furtiveness. The foul-looking man was altogether unpleasant to face, let alone talk to, but talk to him he must.

“Who sent you? Who is your master? What does he want with the king’s son?” he repeated the questions he had been asking for the past day as he walked around the cowering man, his steps sounding loud and menacing in the hollow room. “These you will answer before you are allowed a sip of water or a morsel of food from the king’s kitchens, or any shred of clothing to keep you warm, or any ray of light to brighten your long, long days of captivity here.”

He had said these words again and again so that they would fall slowly and tortuously on the prisoner’s ears, to remind him what he needed to do to survive in this dungeon. “Talk you will, you scoundrel, as your body breaks down from lack of food and water and you waste away. Your tongue will loosen, or your flesh will fall off as you rot.”

There was an involuntary shiver from the tight-lipped prisoner. The interrogator bent close to the foul face, enunciating each word clearly, while trying not to breathe in too much. “But decide whether you wish to wait till you are too weak to help yourself. If you have any wisdom in you, you would save yourself the torment of a slow and agonizing death.” 

He carried a whip, which he flicked aggressively and dangerously close to the prisoner without actually harming his flesh, for King Elessar would not allow it, he knew. But he needed for the prisoner to believe he would inflict pain if answers were not given. In addition, he had his towering height, his immensely powerful build and his bellowing voice to instill images of possible violence in his charge’s mind.

The prisoner kept obstinate silence, aside from issuing a venomous hiss.

But your will wavers, the interrogator decided, and it will break. Oh yes, you will talk.

The sun was already high in the sky when Legolas left the bedside of the last elf he had spoken to, reassured that he would recover. The elf’s brother was one of those who had been slain during the attack, and Legolas had taken a longer time to offer solace as well as to honor the fallen elf with appropriate words.

The elf prince sighed as he returned to the room where Eldarion slept, going past men and women who were exchanging news about what had happened to the King’s son. They hovered along the corridors, hoping to catch whatever news could be leaked out by the healers and servants. Legolas knew the city must be rife with rumours, many of the King’s subjects sincerely worried about the young heir to the throne of Gondor. In his tiredness, the elf ignored all he came across, too tired to even smile. He walked with uncharacteristic heaviness in his step, worn out with worry. Like all elves, he could go without food and sleep for longer than humans, but his spirits were low.

Sitting through the night, he had allowed the events of the last day to play again and again in his mind, and he still had come no closer to understanding who the attackers or what their purposes were. They were fast and merciless, so they must have been trained, but by whom were they trained? Was their leader with them? He wished Faramir’s interrogator could obtain answers quickly.

As aggravated as he was by the need to find answers to those questions, he had been even more greatly troubled by two thoughts throughout the night. First, the senseless assault had resulted in a little boy – the son of Aragorn, no less, lying unconscious next to his frightened mother. Second – and Legolas felt a rush of anger each time he realized this – the assault had taken place in Ithilien, the domain Aragorn had entrusted him to nurture and guard. Repeatedly, he rebuked himself: I should have been able to keep Aragorn’s family safe. No elves should have lost their lives. I should have been more vigilant. I should have anticipated…

“Legolas?” his thoughts were interrupted when he practically walked into Faramir, so lost was he in self-reproach.

“Forgive me, I did not see you,” he apologized to the steward. He realized now that he had walked past the door to Eldarion’s healing room and the puzzled guards in front.

Faramir looked at the elf’s pale face with slightly narrowed eyes. “You need to rest now, my friend. Some food in your body would not be amiss either.” Lifting the tunic aside to peer at the bloodied bandage covering the elf’s shoulder wound, he added, “And that needs changing.” Without another word, he took the elf by the elbow and led him into the healing room.

Sunshine streamed in through the window next to where Eldarion lay. Moving to the still figure, Legolas and Faramir were faintly relieved to see that the boy’s face was less flushed now, and he seemed more peaceful than he had been through the night. But there was no smile on Arwen’s face as she greeted them, and dark circles under her eyes were silent testimony to the anguish she had gone through. Neither she nor Legolas had rested well or eaten since their arrival the previous night.

The sun was starting to slide downward in the western sky before Faramir managed to coerce the two elves into taking some nourishment, but the food tasted like ash in their mouths. Earlier, he had made Legolas sit still while the healers changed his bandage. The bleeding had stopped but it still felt tender and sore. Faramir had left to see to administrative matters that could not wait. Now he returned later to inform Legolas that they had not made much progress with the prisoner; he was still being questioned but he was stubbornly refusing to talk.

“But he cannot hold out for long,” he said with confidence. “My chief interrogator can be very – persuasive.”

Legolas nodded and got up to take yet another look at Eldarion on the bed. Arwen lifted her head from where it lay next to her son, as it had lain through many hours of the night and day, and Legolas noticed with pity how pale and fatigued she appeared, unaware of how pale and worn out he himself was. They exchanged a look, but before they could speak, two healers came into the room, one of them holding something on a small piece of cloth in his hand.

The healers bowed to Arwen and addressed her, “My lady, we have determined the nature of the substance used to coat the dart. It is not widely found or used in this part of Gondor.”

The healer held out the object in his hand; it was the dart Legolas had removed from Eldarion’s thigh. “The substance is a kind of poison,” he continued, causing everyone around him, save his colleague, to stiffen. He added quickly, “Fortunately, it is not used to kill, only to weaken. It causes the body to go cold and numb, and it will cause the mind of a man to lapse into unconsciousness, rendering him defenseless.”

“Eladrion –?” Arwen began.

“The prince is fortunate that only half the dart entered his flesh,” the healer responded, anticipating her question. “It must have been caught in something, perhaps some clothing, before it punctured the flesh.” The small tear in my tunic, thank the Valar, Legolas thought to himself, but that is of no importance now.

“It meant that there was less of the poison to work against,” came the healer’s voice again. “and Prince Eldarion’s body did fight it. The fever was a sign of his struggle, and we made certain that his body received as much water as it could to flush out the poison. Were the prince a full-grown man, he may be waking by now, for the amount of poison would have held wreaked less force on a full-grown man. Being a child, Prince Eldarion will require longer to recover. But we have hope that he will wake before the day is through. Fear not, my lady.” 

Arwen’s relief was audible, and both Legolas’ and Faramir’s faces relaxed as well. With moist eyes, the queen turned her eyes back to her son and smiled.

A thought occurred to Faramir. “You said this poison is used – to weaken,” Faramir addressed the healers, careful to omit the word ‘kill’ that the healer had mentioned in his explanation. “How is it made? Who would have the knowledge?” 

“Our records tell us that this was a poison used by river folk to catch fish,” the healer replied. When he saw the puzzled looks on the faces of the Steward and the elves, he explained, “The poison was released into a river or lake, even areas of the sea if they could contain the water within catchments, to stun the fish so that they could be easily caught. Only a small amount of poison was supposed to be used so that there would be no ill effects on those who ate the fish. But after a time, folk who wanted to reap large amounts of fish quickly for trade would release too much of the poison, and the lawmakers of that time decided to make the river folk stop the use of it, for it killed too many fish too fast, and those who ate the catch fell ill.”

The listeners digested this information silently, each shuddering at the horrifying thought that Eldarion had been the victim of this poison, as if he were a river fish.

“So where would this poison be found now? Who would make it?” Faramir repeated his earlier question.

“We cannot be certain, my lord. We know that the poison used to be harvested from the ipo plant that grew near bodies of water. I have heard of no such plants along the Anduin, although they may possibly be found there. Perhaps they can be also found further west and south, at the Bay of Belfalas or closer to the city of the Corsairs, where the Umbarians depend much on catch from the sea. Is it possible that – ”

“The men came from the east, near the northern fringes, not the south,” Legolas interjected. “That is what our guards observed.”

“East of Ithilien?” Faramir asked, frowning. “But there are only the northern reaches of the Ephel Duath, and beyond that mountain range, the wasteland of Mordor. It is unlikely that someone could have dwelled there that we have no knowledge of. I cannot envision how anyone could dwell there at all.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully.  “You speak truly, Faramir,” he said, “they may merely have been hiding on the eastern fringes of the wood, at the foot of the Mountains of Shadow. It is easier to fathom them coming from an area further north, beyond the mountains, but there again we meet with little likelihood of a settlement, for there lie only the Reclaimed Lands, on the edge of Gondor.”

It was now Faramir who nodded, his mind traveling to the expanse of land that was once known as the Dead Marshes. On Aragorn’s instructions, a workforce had labored steadily over five years to reclaim the area and fill much of the bogland with more fertile soil so that in time, the land would settle and offer a new site for growing crops suited to the peat. At the moment, however, no husbandmen had yet chosen to erect new homesteads there, for the City and farms to the south were still able to hold the citizenry of Minas Tirith.

“Not there, and further north would be the Wilderland and the Greenwood Forest,” Faramir noted.

“What about further east from the Reclaimed Lands?” Arwen asked, as keen to identify the possible attackers as the Steward and elf prince were

“On the old battle plain of Dagorland? Nay, not likely,” Legolas responded, “but perhaps beyond that… what bodies of water lie to the east of Gondor?”

One of the healers spoke. “I know of one large one – the Sea of Rhûn.” When they all turned to face him, he looked embarrassed, and mumbled that he had heard about it from some of the men who had worked on the Dead Marshes.

“Well does your memory serve you, for your observation is correct,” Faramir said kindly. “There is the Sea, and several small rivers flow into it. Could the men have come from there?” he wondered.  

“Does Gondor have any dealings with the people in that area? Would Aragorn have enemies there?” Legolas queried.

“I have no knowledge of any past or recent doings that tie us to the people who live there. We know little of them, and I suspect they of us.” Faramir furrowed his brow. “Perhaps we should look at the maps more closely. And we now have some knowledge that the prisoner does not know we possess. I will inform the interrogator as soon as I can. In the meantime…”  Faramir paused and turned to the queen, an apologetic look on his face. “Perhaps this would be a good time for you to take some rest, My Lady?” he suggested politely. “The danger appears to be past, and the healers are ever watchful for changes.” 

Legolas knew that at this moment, Arwen would not be mindful of her own need for rest, so he appealed to her love for her son and husband. “Faramir speaks wisely, Arwen. When Eldarion wakes, he will want to see his naneth happy and well.” Then he added gently, speaking softly, “Seeing the reminders of last evening may disturb him. It would not give Aragorn any comfort either were he to face the stains of the terrible experience you went through, when he returns.”

Arwen caught his subtle reference to the fact that she had not changed out of the dress she wore during the assault in Ithilien. Traces of dirt and rainwater stains were clearly visible. She grimaced when she realized that her hair was probably a frightful mess as well. 

“You are right,” she yielded, looking at the elf with some amusement, their long friendship enabling her to see through the ploy he had used. “I can hardly suffer from some refreshment, and neither would you, Legolas.” In a more subdued tone, she added, “I have not yet thanked you and your kin for saving our lives. We are grateful.”

Legolas was genuinely taken aback. “Arwen, if you had not been there, this would not have happened,” the note of self-reproach evident in this voice. “Thanks are misplaced. Words of deepest regret are what I should be expressing to you. If only I had been more – ”

Arwen cut him off, a startled look on her face. “Legolas, you cannot truly think any of this could have been foreseen by you. No blame do I lay on you or any of your kin!”

His disagreement was on this tongue, but before he could speak, a voice filled with authority, alarm and uncomprehending anxiety cut in.

“WHAT has happened here?”

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CHAPTER 9: THE RETURN OF THE KING

With long strides his aides found impossible to match, Aragorn ran through the corridors of the palace with an energy born of sheer alarm and fear, despite the fact that he and his company had ridden without rest through the night to reach the White City.

As soon as he had reached the third level of the city, one of his councilors – a man given to dramatics, being of the notion that such behaviour would invite the king to notice him more – had run right in front of his horse, apparently willing to run the risk of being trampled if only to gain the king’s attention.

If a voice could take physical form and grovel, Lord Burion’s, as he greeted his king, would have been a fine example. “Sire! Oh praise the Valar you are returned! Oh my Lord – such a tragedy has befallen us, and the city grieves with you! My heart is with you and the queen in this hour, Sire.”

After Aragorn had cursed under his breath and gritted his teeth at the man’s idiotic action, he had demanded to know what tragedy the rambling man referred to. His reply was even more theatrical: “Oh, our precious prince, Sire, your beloved son! Tragedy has befallen him! The Elves, to whom you have bestowed so much kindness, could not protect him! He lies now in the Houses of Healing. The Queen, bless her heart, is devastated… oh woe, oh woe, let me take you…”

Aragorn was not about to let the tedious man take him anywhere. His heart missed several beats, but before the councilor had even finished his speech, his horse had sprinted off to the Houses of Healing, with the horses of his company close on its heels.

The king now ran along the corridor without knowing what to expect, his face drawn and pale, and it was not due to his tiredness alone. Reaching the room where he knew his son would be and startling the guards outside, he burst through the doors and saw his wife, Legolas and Faramir talking. His eyes fell first on his wife, looking pale, shocked and completely disheveled, her dress stained and dirty. He stared without understanding and bellowed, “”WHAT has happened here?”

“Estel!” Arwen called his name with a sob and ran into his arms. “Oh, Estel.”

“My Lord,” said Faramir, bowing.

“Aragorn,” Legolas greeted him softly, pleased to see him.

“Arwen, what is this? Have you been harmed? What is going on? Where is Eldarion? Lord Burion said…” The king’s eyes strayed to the bed then, to the pale and still figure of his son and heir. With a cry of anguish, he ran to the bed, pushing aside the healers, and stared at his child before bending down to touch him, afraid to hurt him, frantically calling his name.

After long moments of not getting a response, he turned an ashen face and wild eyes to the adults in the room and demanded answers.

In the time that followed, Arwen, Legolas, Faramir and the healers told him about the assault in Ithilien, the poisoned dart, Eldarion’s struggle to overcome the poison and the prisoner being held below. At the news that the poison was not as lethal as he had feared, Aragorn closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief.

But at that moment, a little cry of distress came from the figure on the bed, and Eldarion turned blue as he struggled to breathe. With a gasp, everyone rushed immediately to the bed. The healers pushed them away and quickly turned the prince onto his side, gently massaging his upper back. His eyes were closed, but a stream of liquid issued from his nose and mouth, alarming his distraught parents and drawing a small cry from Arwen. For a few more moments, he continued to cough out the remnants of what he retched, but that was apparently what he needed, for he was able to breathe again as soon as the coughing stopped. He went limp again and remained unconscious, but his face relaxed as the bluish tint left it. The healers kept him on his side so that he would not face the danger of choking on his own vomit again.

One of the healers sighed as he turned to the anxious faces of the king and queen. “He is all right,” he assured them, drawing forth sighs of relief from everyone in the room. “His body is still expelling the poison and anything else that causes him discomfort. He was probably feeling nauseous from all the water and herb solutions we fed into him; he needed to retch. We will have to watch him closely to make sure he does not choke again, but I believe he is recovering.”

Despite the small comfort the healer’s words brought them, looks of sorrow and pity washed across the faces of the grown-ups as they thought of how Eldarion’s little body was forced to endure ills he should never have been subjected to. They all felt helpless. 

The sight of his son’s suffering seared the heart of the king and the father. He took Arwen’s cold hands with his own trembling ones and held them tightly, letting his grief and his love for her flow through his gaze and his grip. After long moments during which no one spoke, he shook his head and wrinkled his brow.

“This happened in Ithilien? Why were you and Eldarion in Ithilien?” he asked his wife.

“We were visiting, Estel. Eldarion needed a… a change,” she replied sadly.

He then turned to Legolas. “These… these… men, Legolas,” Aragorn almost spat out the word with scorn, “these men who were after my son – where were they from?”

“From east of Gondor, we guess, perhaps beyond the old battle plain,” came the reply. “Whence they first came south to Ithilien, we know not, but my guards have marked their presence on the eastern borders of the wood for some time now. We had not expected so many…”

“Wait!” Aragorn interrupted, a frown on his face. “You marked their presence?” The silence in the pause after the question spoke volumes of disbelief as he continued, “You expected them, Legolas? You – you knew they were there?”

The elf suddenly felt uneasy, as if a hole was slowly, slowly, but surely, opening up to swallow him. It took a few moments before he answered, “Yes, we started noticing shadows lurking on the borders two months ago, but we were not sure what…”

“You knew they were there, you knew there was a threat – and yet you allowed Arwen and my son to stay in Ithilien?” Aragorn had unconsciously raised his voice, his eyes meeting Legolas’, an incredulous look on his livid face.

Legolas stiffened, and Faramir shifted uneasily. The elf thought back to when Arwen told him she had sent the guards back, and when she had pleaded with her voice and her face to let them stay. He remembered how he could not bring himself to refuse them that visit.

But how could he explain all that to the anguished father of an injured child who had been in his domain, and who should have received his protection? Any explanation would seem a lame excuse. Aragorn was right, Legolas conceded, bowing his head.  I am to blame, have I not been aware of this all night? I should have known better, he thought. It just seemed so much harsher when Aragorn had put it into words. I am so sorry, Aragorn.

But a voice countered his thoughts. “Estel, it was not Legolas’ fault,” Arwen spoke up. “He did not know, none of them knew this would happen. I was the one who asked him to let us stay…”

“But he should have made the decision to send you home at once, knowing a threat loomed nearby!” Aragorn was not placated. He approached Legolas swiftly and clutched his shoulder in frustration, unaware of the injury, causing the elf to wince and Faramir to take a step forward before checking himself.

The king said fiercely, “You should have sent them away!”  He was tired, so weary from his travels and duties and the problems he had had to settle for the last month, his fiefs threatened by intruders, his officers failing to provide protection, and his mind had not yet overcome the sorrow he felt over the death of the villager child, the child who had reminded him of his own son. My own son, he thought bitterly, I have been away taking care of the safety of others when my own son… he gritted his teeth.  

“Elessar…” Faramir tried to intercede.

But Aragorn was overwhelmed by now as he recalled the sight of his son’s painful retches. The wrath of a father and protector made him angry at everyone, angry at himself as well, and it seemed to him that his voice at that moment came from someone he did not know. Turning from Legolas, he spat out in frustration, “Can I trust the safety of my kingdom to no one!”

Legolas’ head snapped up, and everyone in the room stopped breathing. The healers froze, Faramir bowed his head, and Arwen could not believe her ears, her mouth slightly agape.

Both Legolas and Faramir felt the sting of the king’s words, but Eldarion had been in Ithilien, and thus the elf felt them more keenly. He stood as still as if he had been struck by lightning. His fists clenched at his sides, his face grew ashen, and his eyes flashed with sudden pain as a vision and words from some other time and place engulfed his senses, drowning him:

How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?

It was happening again, this nightmare, only now, it was real.

Again, as he did so many years ago, he found himself swaying helplessly between emotions that threatened to choke him – shame that he had failed Aragorn’s trust, but also hurt and anger that he did not think he would feel, for no one seemed to remember that some of his kin had died fighting against intruders. None of them had asked for this to happen. Were they to blame? No! …Yes!  No… yes…

If only, if only…

As these emotions rushed through him in the fleeting moments in the healing rooms – moments that seemed like an age to Legolas – the bitter realization hit him again, that again, he could not undo the damage that had been done.

There was still no turning back.

But another thought followed immediately on the wave of the last one: there was something he could do in the days to come. 

His bright blue eyes seemed coated with ice – or was it tears that he held back with whatever pride and dignity he still had? – as he raised them slowly to meet Aragorn’s.  His voice, when he spoke, was soft but steady, with only the faintest hint of suppressed pain.

“I offer you my deepest regrets, my lord Elessar, for failing your trust.” 

Aragorn winced instantly, his heart raked by the words, despite his anger. My lord? Elessar? Legolas never called him the name used only by his subjects and in official circles; it had always been his elvish name, Estel, or his birth name, Aragorn. Was this really Legolas who spoke? The question was answered in the next instant when the elf continued in the same tone of voice.

“Your queen and son deserved more than I could offer. I will go now to make amends, to redress the wrong that has committed, as best as I can. I only ask that my kin who are presently under the care of your healers be allowed to recover in the rooms of your city, but they will be certain to depart as soon as they are able, with my thanks.”

Turning briefly to a stunned Arwen, he bowed slightly and said, “As I said earlier, Arwen, your words of thanks are misplaced. I beg only that, if it is not too heavy a burden, you send word when Eldarion wakes. Tell him for me…” but his voice failed him then as it shook.   

“Legolas…” she began and reached out to take his arm.

Quickly returning his eyes to the king, who was still looking away, he bowed and said tersely, “By your leave.”

Aragorn felt his mouth going dry, and he turned then to face the elf, choking out the words: “No, Lego – ” 

But with all the fluidity and speed of his elven kin, before Arwen could stop him, Legolas had departed from the room, his bearing as straight and regal as it had been all the years of his life. 

Note:  My appreciation to the readers who have taken the time to send in feedback - thank you. Long or short - all reviews are welcome.

CHAPTER 10: NO TURNING BACK

Silence reigned for long moments after Legolas left, several pairs of eyes still trained on the door. Then Arwen swung round to face the king, blinking back tears.

“Estel,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief, momentarily at a loss for words. Then she spoke with a voice laced with sorrow, “Estel, you know he would give his life before he allowed Eldarion or me – you – any of us – to be hurt! How could you – how could you say what you said to him?”

The king remained silent, his face set in an expression that had frustration written all over it, but now there was distress as well. I did not mean it for him, he protested silently. I just meant… what did I mean? Whom was it meant for? Part of him wanted to go after Legolas, but part of him remained numb, rooting him to the spot.

Faramir studied him for a moment, thinking that he had been hard on Legolas, but realized that nothing like this had happened to his family before, and it was a difficult time for all. The Steward felt uncomfortable, sensing that this might be a good time to leave the royal couple alone, so he cleared his throat and excused himself, saying that he had to inform the councilors about Eldarion’s condition and to see to the interrogation of the prisoner. Aragorn barely nodded. Faramir signaled to the healers to leave the room with him, and soon the king was alone with his family.

In the silence of the healing room, the king and queen remained as immobile as their child on the bed. For a while, all they could hear was each other’s breath. Then Aragorn turned and walked over to the bed on which his son lay. He looked on the young face and touched his unmoving hand.

But he still felt numb inside. He could not think, he could not feel. He was just numb.

As Arwen studied him, she saw how weary and bowed with worry he looked. Now was not the time for an argument, not while they waited for their child to wake. “Estel,” she said gently, approaching him. “Sit, my love, and rest. You are exhausted.” After a pause, she added, knowing he would not need elaboration to understand: “It can be mended.” 

Aragorn removed his eyes from the figure on the bed then and looked at her with so much sadness it twisted her heart.

“I must go after him…” he began, and made to walk toward the door, but before he could take two steps, a weak murmur came to their ears, and a small voice uttered a word: “Nana…”

Both king and queen were bent over the child in an instant. “Eldarion,” they breathed in unison.

As the little sea-grey eyes of the child fluttered open, his parents smiled through tears as their felt their worries wash away like a cool waterfall. The child’s eyes fell on the figure he had not expected to see. “Father,” he whispered, just before the king broke into tears and gathered his child into his arms.

But for Aragorn, despite the huge wave of relief he felt, they were not all tears of joy.

Legolas felt as if a thousand daggers were piercing his heart as he walked out of the healing room and past the guards Faramir had posted. He had held his head high as he left, but as soon as he was beyond the door, he found himself trembling before he had taken ten steps. What just happened in there? He was shocked and confused, he did not know what to think, what to feel, unaware that his friend, the friend he loved more than his own life, was feeling the exact same way. All he knew at this moment was this reality that seemed to stab at the core of his being. He suddenly felt robbed of breath and held a hand out to the cold stone wall to steady himself.

A dozen lords and ladies of the court looked at him as he exited. They had heard the loud voice of the king within the room but could not make out the words uttered. At the look of torment on the elf’s fair face, they attributed it to some change in the young prince’s condition and whispered quietly among themselves. Most of them were sincerely concerned about Eldarion. Many of them also knew Legolas, but the distress in his face dispelled any thoughts of approaching him for news.

Legolas walked on as fast as he could to distance himself from them, not really cognizant of where he was headed. He heard light footsteps behind him and looked up as a fair elvish voice address him. “My lord?”

One of the Ithilien elves who had ridden to the city with him was standing before him now, eyeing his prince with concern. He held out a hand hesitantly, wondering if Legolas needed support. Legolas collected himself quickly.

“I am all right, Hamille,” he assured the other elf in the musical Sindarin language they shared, but did not trust himself to speak further. At the sight of the ashen face, Hamille’s features hardened a little.

“You endured the king’s ire,” the elf said very quietly so that no one else could hear, forgetting that the humans nearby would not have understood them anyway. It was a statement, not a question, and Legolas guessed then that Hamille must have heard what transpired in the room earlier. An elf’s hearing was much more acute that of human ears.

“You heard?” Legolas questioned in the same soft tones.

Hamille nodded, his bright elven eyes expressing dissatisfaction. “It should not have been thus.”

“What happened in Ithilien should not have been thus,” Legolas replied immediately.

“Yet it was not by your hands it came to pass,” Hamille retorted.

“Even so, there were no other hands that could have kept the prince from harm,” came the rejoinder. More gently, Legolas remarked, “I am not a father, Hamille, but I imagine that a father’s anguish is hard to bear.”

Hamille made as if to reply to that, but thought better of it. No matter what he said, he knew, his prince would counter it.

“Speak to no one else about this, please,” Legolas requested, and Hamille nodded. Satisfied, Legolas changed the subject. “You sought me? Is something the matter?”

“Lanwil has just arrived. He brings news,” Hamille replied a little more loudly now, piquing the interest of the people who had strayed close enough to see them and hear them talk but not comprehend their exchange. “They caught another one of the vile attackers before he could escape. He rode here immediately to inform you.”

Legolas straightened at once. “Is the man here?”

“No, he is being held in Ithilien. They were not sure whether to bring him here.”

That is good, Legolas thought. That is exactly what I need. “And Lanwil?”

“He is visiting the others in the healing rooms.”

Legolas had no time to think further on the incident with Aragorn in the healing room, although he knew the impact of it would be felt again as soon as he had a moment to reflect. Something more urgent had to be taken care of now. He placed his hand on his kinsman’s shoulder and the two elves walked quickly to the rooms, ignoring the stares of the people around them as they watched the graceful movements of the fair beings. 

Lanwil was sitting on a bed beside Lishian, whose deep shoulder wound was healing, but got up when Legolas entered the room. “Mae govannen, Bridhon nin,” he addressed his prince, placing a hand to his chest. Legolas returned the greeting and clasped the elf’s arm. Their conversation was entirely in Sindarin, so the healers could understand naught.

“You have the prisoner securely kept?” asked the elf prince.

“Aye, my lord,” replied Lanwil. “We await your return, or your orders to bring him here.”

“Hannon le,” Legolas thanked him. “You did well. I will return now and we can question him. The one who is here has not talked. How are our friends?”

Lanwil paused and thought, guessing that the elf prince was referring to the elves who had been injured but not brought to Minas Tirith. “They are well. They have been tended to. What of those here, my lord?”

Legolas looked around him at the elves in the room. “They will heal fast, as you know, and they will be able to leave soon. You must be tired. Have you eaten?”

“Aye, my lord,” Lanwil replied, his eyes traveling over Legolas’ face and body. “Have you?”

Legolas opened his mouth to answer and realized with a sudden jolt that he truly could not remember. He did not answer, for he did not wish to lie.

“And your wound, my lord?” Lanwil asked again, one eyebrow raised, almost accusingly.

Legolas smiled. “It has been taken care of,” he was glad he could respond honestly to this query at least. “Are you too tired to ride back with me?”

“No, I am ready.”

“Would you prepare our horses then? Hamille can stay with our friends here. I will speak with them. Wait for me at the stables.”

Lanwil bowed and left immediately. Legolas took a deep breath.

I have disappointed you, Aragorn, and perhaps I deserve the hurt I feel, he thought.

He closed his eyes as he realized that he had, against his will, admitted he was hurt. Torn inside. But not helpless.

Does our friendship mean less to you now than it did once, Estel? he wondered sadly. No matter. I will do this for you. I will find the one who hurt you and your family.

With that resolve, he opened his eyes and went to the elf closest to him. He took some time to give each elf words of encouragement and asked them to leave the White City as soon as they were able to, assigning Hamille the task of meeting with the king and expressing their thanks before they departed. Then he thanked the healers himself and left for the stables.

Once Eldarion had awakened and the healers had ascertained he was indeed out of danger and on the road to healing – he even took a little fruit juice – the king and queen could finally be persuaded to take some respite in their own chambers, leaving the child in the capable hands of their most trusted healers.

The thought of going after Legolas flitted across Aragorn’s mind, but the elf would have left the city by now, he thought sadly, and his child had just woken. What if he asked for his father? No, he could not leave him yet. Aragorn was also truly exhausted. He resigned himself to the need for rest and sleep.

A new dawn may bring new counsel, he told himself in a feeble attempt at self-comfort, recalling that, ironically, those had often been Legolas’ words during the Quest of the Ring, Legolas who had frequently buoyed his spirits with reminders that even in darkness, there still was – and always would be – hope.

While they waited for hot baths to be drawn for them, Aragorn and Arwen sat on comfortable chairs on the balcony outside their sleeping quarters. Dusk had descended on the city, adding to the gloom in Aragorn’s heart. But the fragrance of honeysuckle and lavender that Legolas and his elves had planted in the gardens wafted by on a fresh breeze, soothing them a little.

Arwen noted her husband’s silence and pained features and knew what – and who – occupied his thoughts. She had been shocked at her husband’s outburst at Legolas, but she was also certain enough about the depth of the love between the two to know that Aragorn would be hurting as much as his friend and that he would have regretted his words almost as soon as he had uttered them. His sigh only reinforced her belief. 

“I did not mean it, Arwen,” he said with his head bowed, knowing she would understand what he was referring to. “It was not his fault, but I know I made it sound as if it was. And now… he has left.”

His tone caught at her heart. “Estel… he will know this. He will understand.” But for the first time, her words held a little less confidence than they always had before. For some reason, her mind went back to the grimace of pain she had seen in the elf’s eyes when Aragorn had clutched his shoulder and instinctively whispered, “I hope it has healed.”

“What do you hope has healed?” Aragorn queried, and she started; he had heard her.

She said nothing, knowing that the knowledge of it would cause him even more remorse. There was no time to answer even if she had wanted to, for at that moment there came upon the wind a sound of horses riding, leaving the stables of the seventh level where they were. Aragorn’s head whipped up and he shot out of his chair, one long stride taking him to the wall of the balcony. He peered into the darkening surroundings.

He could just make out two horses riding downward, in the direction they would take to leave the city. Dark hair and golden hair glinting in the setting sun flowed behind the slender figures, and Aragorn gasped. “He is only just leaving!” he whispered. “I could have…” He felt like calling out the name of the friend he had loved and hurt, but he knew that at the speed they were riding, it would be no use. All he could do was watch helplessly, hoping, hoping that Legolas would, as he had in the past, pause at the Great Gates and turn around to ride back up.

He watched and waited, clutching at the stone wall till his knuckles were white, and Arwen waited with him. Gracefully, the two figures rode, onward they pressed. Now they were hidden, and now they reappeared briefly, as they descended each level.

The Great Gates were closed at dusk, as they were at this moment, but the guards must have seen the unmistakable elf forms approaching some way off and were even now opening them for the riders to go through. The elves slowed down a little and Aragorn held his breath. Legolas now approached the open gates at a canter. Aragorn’s eyes never left him.

“Turn,” Aragorn said under his breath, willing the elf to do so as he had done so many times before. “Please turn, my friend. Give me a chance to set things right.”

But the horse never broke the canter, and Legolas, not turning, not looking back, rode through, taking a large piece of Aragorn’s heart with him.

Note:  My thanks to the readers who have taken the time to send in reviews.

CHAPTER 11:  HEALING AND HURT

Aragorn watched the Great Gates of Minas Tirith close slowly on the backs of the elf riders, their diminishing figures becoming a blur of movement as they turned their swift elvish steeds toward Ithilien in the last rays of the setting sun. Even as the faint glint of Legolas’ golden hair was lost to the view of the Numenorian king on the balcony of his citadel, the Great Gates clanged shut.

To Aragorn, standing in a stupor seven levels above, the faint clang sounded like a death knell on the friendship he treasured most.

When he finally remembered how to breathe, Aragorn turned despairing eyes to his wife, his body poised for flight, and his mouth tried to form the words he wanted to say. They did not need to be, for Arwen knew and understood. She understood, but the caring wife in her could not stop her from murmuring in a quivering voice: “It will be a long ride. Perhaps a bite to ease your hunger and thirst first?” 

“His were not,” came the short, strangled reply. A quick squeeze of her hand, a tearful smile from her, and he was running.

The king would have walked, but the friend tore off, flinging decorum to the stone walls lined with various insignia that proclaimed his status. He raced like one possessed past bewildered servants and startled guards, footfalls echoing down the long corridors and long legs leaping dangerously over stone steps three at a time towards the stables, carelessly ignoring shocked figures caught in the wind of his passing.

A lone stable boy was just closing the doors.

“Get my horse!”

Aragorn’s loud command came so suddenly that the boy felt his body jump out of its skin, wondering if the twain would ever meet again. It took the befuddled lad a few moments to be convinced that this was his king and not a demon visited upon him. He barely managed a hesitant “S - S - Sire?” before the desperate king steered him quickly towards the doors, yanked them open himself, and repeated his command. Holding a lamp in one shaking hand, the lad walked in, the king right behind him. The horses snorted and snickered in their stalls.

But even as Aragorn reached his horse and the stable boy went to retrieve the saddle, they heard the voice of the Steward calling urgently: “Elessar!”

A moment later, Faramir rushed in, flushed and flustered, but relieved to see his king.

“My lord, please – ” he panted, a pleading look in his eyes.

“Faramir, how – ?”

“The guards alerted me... nay, half the servants alerted me! Is something amiss? Where are you going?”

Aragorn realized that the Steward could not have spoken to Arwen yet. “Faramir, he has only just left, I cannot let him go without… ” he was suddenly at a loss for words. The stable lad was bringing the saddle over now.

Slowing his breathing, Faramir furrowed his brows for a moment but then began to understand. He walked over and touched Aragorn’s elbow lightly, motioning him to the outside of the stables. Aragorn stood unmoving, knowing instinctively, even without Faramir saying a word, that this was going to be one of those wretched moments when he would be expected to struggle between duty and desire. He followed the Steward reluctantly but did not stop the stable boy from saddling his horse.

When the cool breeze of early night was on their faces, a discreet distance from the open doors of the stables, Faramir turned to his king and took a deep breath before he spoke. Even in the gathering dark, Aragorn could see the concern in his face.

“Elessar, I know how much you wish to ride after him at this moment, but – I beg you to reconsider.”

“It is something I dearly wish to set right, Faramir,” the king said quietly and not a little firmly.

“There is much to set right, my lord, but nothing is more urgent at this time than your safety and what it would mean for Gondor should something befall you. Even if you left now, you would have to ride all the way to Ithilien before you caught up. With things as uncertain as they are…”   

“I will take an escort then,” Aragorn argued.

“We do not yet know the full purpose of your enemy, Elessar. We do not even know who your enemy is!” Faramir countered. “If indeed they were determined enough to wait till the queen and the prince had left the safety of the city walls, who is to say they do not lie in wait for you now? Even an escort may be nothing more than a deterrent. It may not be enough.”

Aragorn gritted his teeth and his foot lashed out in a most unkingly manner at a wooden water trough nearby. The sound sent a nearby squirrel scurrying up a tree.

“I am King of Gondor and the Northern Lands,” Aragorn declared fiercely, his eyes locked on Faramir’s, surprising him. “Shall I be held captive within my own walls?”

Faramir was silent for a few breaths, and his eyes did not blink or waver from their gaze. He knew his king was speaking from exasperation, not arrogance. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle.

“Nay, my lord, but as King of Gondor and the White City, you are duty-bound to defend them from whatever malice threatens them. As far as we know at this moment, there is a malice that has threatened your family. If any of you are taken hostage, what will be the fate of the City and Gondor?”

Aragorn’s breath caught in his chest, and it seemed to him that the silence and darkness pressed on him like a solid mass. Ithil the moon was rising early from behind a line of hills, and Aragorn saw in his mind images from the Quest when that same moon had shone over them: an elf, a man and a dwarf running across the plains of Rohan, fuelled only by hope and loyalty to their friends; a Ranger and an elf standing watch together, battling orcs and wargs side by side, giving each other strength and comfort; sounds of mirth shared as they rejoiced in peaceful times; many moments of cheerful laughter and even more moments of quiet joy when speech was not needed. And now there was an image of that beloved elf riding beneath that moon, riding away from him. He squeezed his eyes shut and choked back a cry.

His mind told him to listen to the wisdom of his Steward’s words, but his heart was tempted to follow an errant path.

Nay, it is not wisdom, but duty that guides his words, Aragorn thought. For who in all wisdom can say that the value of a city, or a kingdom, is greater than the heart of a loved one? 

Unconsciously, Aragorn sighed. Yet mine is not the freedom to choose. That freedom was bound when upon my head was placed the Crown of Gondor.

“Must I always sacrifice what my heart desires for what the throne dictates?” he lamented, barely above a whisper.

“Nay, not always,” came the quiet reply. Aragorn looked up and realized he had spoken aloud. On the face of his Steward was an expression of gentle understanding but also of wistfulness and painful memories. Faramir turned away as if ashamed.

“Not always, Elessar,” he repeated. “Believe me when I say I know the turmoil in your heart, for you have been king for ten years, but I had been the son of the Steward for twice that, and longer. I have tasted the weight of duty and the grief of sacrifice, having to choose between them and the sweetness of free will more times than I care to remember. Oft did I desire to flee the caustic tongue of my father and lord, and fly from the devastation left by battle after battle against the Dark Lord as we held him at bay, but duty held me and made me drink still from that cup of bitterness.”

Aragorn felt strangely embarrassed that he was witness to such naked thoughts from a man who had served him faithfully for ten years. Yet he felt honored by the honest words from the man of Gondor, who continued to face away from him, his hair lifting gently in the breeze.

“And yet I will not say that I had not freedom all those years,” Faramir continued, still not looking at Aragorn, “for I learnt that there are times when one can set aside the sword, or scepter, or crown – whichever we wear, according to our lineage – and follow the heart.”

He turned around now. “But the times have to be the right times. They may be too few and too slow in coming, but they are there, they will be there.”

Aragorn could only be amazed at his Steward as he continued to bare his thoughts. He was too enraptured to notice that it was very quiet in the stables or to wonder what was happening with his horse.

“You will be the greatest of our kings, my lord. We all see it in you, your nobility and your strength. The light of Eärendil is in you. My father, though he had my fealty, will seem but a shadow in your light when your full reign has come to pass.

“Yet the greatest of kings can be bowed by care. I was more fortunate than you, Elessar, for I had a father and an older brother who bore much of the weight of the kingdom. You, however, are alone. Alone, you bore the destiny of a long line of kings, alone you still are on your throne, for your own heir is still but a child. The load I carried as son of Denethor is but a bale of straw compared to the stone walls and problems of every city and every province you carry on your shoulders now and will have to bear in the years to come.

“That is why I have pledged to serve you and aid you where I can. When the weight of your burdens bends you, I shall try to hold you up, and when doubt blinds you, I shall try to act as your eyes.

“You are newly returned from a long, tiring tour and perhaps cannot see what I do. Let me act as your eyes now, this night. I know not what dangers lie outside these walls, or indeed whether any lie in wait, but in ignorance, it is better to heed caution.” 

Aragorn’s eyes were now moist and he was glad for the cover of night. What Faramir had said, he already knew and had already accepted since the day Gandalf placed the crown on his head. But it comforted him to know how much Faramir understood, and that he was willing to help him face his kingship.

As if reading his thoughts, the Steward added, “Legolas is also well aware of the price of running a realm. He sees much and knows your heart, and for that reason, he has stood by you without complaint. You know Legolas better than I, Elessar; surely you know he would not want you to ride out in the dark either; he would not forgive himself if anything happened to you because of it. Set things right with him when the time is ripe.

“I cannot restrain you, my lord, but as your Steward, I beg you not to ride out tonight. Give me two days to find out what we can from the prisoner; I expect he will yield to his hunger and thirst and cold by then. We may get new counsel at that time.”

Aragorn gazed at his Steward with new respect and appreciation, moved beyond expectation. After that speech, so impassioned yet delivered so calmly, how could he not defer the desire of his heart once more? For ten years, he had always placed the welfare of his kingdom first, and for tonight at least, he had to do so again, however much he wished to ride after his friend. Faramir was right, it would be prudent to wait to hear what the prisoner could reveal first. 

He only hoped that although he remained within the city walls tonight, the elf would sense the depth of his remorse and know why he could not go where he truly desired. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair.  

Somewhere, a nightingale began its singing, and brought him to awareness that Faramir was waiting for his answer. Aragorn gripped the shoulder of the faithful man of Gondor warmly, and smiled in the faint moonlight.

“Long have I known that power cannot ride alone, for responsibility will always be its companion. This is clear to me, Faramir, yet when my heart is sore from many trials, my eyes may fail to see, as you say. I thank you for reminding me tonight, and I say to you, that if I had not answered the call of my destiny, yet would Gondor have a great and wise king in you, my friend.”

To this last remark, Faramir only shook his head and said, “Time will prove that Gondor’s greatest king has come to the throne at the right time.”

“Whether or not that is true remains to be seen,” Aragorn replied. “As does the wisdom of this decision to delay going to Legolas, for my heart still draws me there. Yet I will heed your counsel tonight, Faramir, and I will wait two days as you propose.”  

I hope you, too, will wait, my friend, he added silently, seeing again the image of the elf riding beneath the moon to Ithilien.  

“Sire?” A soft voice broke the lull in the conversation, and both the King and Steward were suddenly aware that the stable lad had been waiting patiently by the stable doors, the lamp in one hand and the reins of Aragorn’s horse in the other. The two men looked at each and could not hold back smiles, but while one was of relief, the other was tinged with sadness.

The youth and vitality of children – human or elvenkind – and their ability to overcome ailments quickly is a remarkable thing to witness, Arwen thought to herself over the next two days as her son recovered astonishingly well from the poison of the dart. Perhaps the amount of poison was really too small to do much damage aside from rendering the child unconscious, perhaps it was the healer’s treatment that successfully purged the poison, or perhaps it was the child’s strong constitution, but whatever it was, Eldarion was asking for his favourite dessert by the following evening after he awoke, and was back in his own room that night. The next morning found him ready for a game of chess with his father.

His parents were delighted with his recovery and spent as much time with him as he could, remembering the anguish they had gone through before they were certain they would see his smile and hear his voice again. Although the child was still tired sooner than usual, his color had returned, and he was clearly as cheerful as ever.

Arwen wished her husband were doing as well, however. Despite his pleasure in Eldarion’s recovery, he was snowed under by paperwork that had piled up and by court matters that had been awaiting immediate deliberation upon his return. He was also still concerned about the city’s defenses, afraid of a second attempt on his son. Faramir sought to reassure him as much as he could, pointing out the attack had taken place in Ithilien, not the White City.

Patiently and anxiously, as he had promised Faramir, he also awaited results of the interrogation taking place in the dungeons below. By the end of this day, he had to get some answers.

He faced his responsibilities with stoicism, but Arwen knew that a feeling of unrest hung like a cloud over his head, and she knew why. Always, at the back of his mind, was what lay unresolved between him and Legolas. Arwen knew he would have ridden off to see the elf that night if Faramir had not stopped him, but his regal duties had to be settled first. Eldarion, too, needed his father’s presence; it was just as well Aragorn did not leave so soon after his recovery.

Some desires of a king’s heart have to be deferred, Aragorn reminded himself again and again, when desires have to bow to duty. Even when the king never wished to be king. 

He had considered sending off a rider with a message for Legolas the very morning after Faramir had delayed him, but dismissed it almost immediately when he realized what an insult that would be. His friend deserved better, much better, than a piece of parchment. He deserved a personal apology.

Even as he sat in his office trying to ward off thoughts of his elf friend to focus on the papers arrayed before him, a guard approached him and bowed.

“Sire,” he said, “Hamille of Ithilien requests an audience with you.”

Aragorn brightened a little at that statement. At the king’s nod, the tall, dark-haired Sylvan elf stepped into the room, his light footsteps making no sound on the rich carpet. Aragorn stood to receive him, his hands straightening his tunic from sheer habit. As usual, they greeted each other with their hands on their chests and a slight inclination of their heads.

“Mae govannen, Hamille,” the king said graciously and with a genuine smile. “It is good to see you.”

Hamille, looking groomed and poised as elves would be, returned the greeting with a smile as well, but Aragorn noted that the smile did not quite reach his eyes. His speech, however, was as polite as it ever was, betraying nothing amiss. 

“King Elessar, I come on behalf of my kin who have been convalescing under your roof,” his fair elvish voice spoke in Sindarin. “Please receive our gratitude for the kind attention of your healers. We return to Ithilien today.”

“You are most welcome to stay longer,” Aragorn responded in the same language with which he was totally at home, and his heartfelt tone of hospitality softened the elf’s own expression a little, “although I understand you must be anxious to return home.”

When the elf nodded and made as if to take his leave, Aragorn quickly delayed him. “Wait, Hamille. It is I who should thank you and your kin for what you did for my wife and child. You have my deep gratitude and my condolences over the brave elves you lost.”

“My lord, you have already expressed this,” Hamille reminded him, remembering the visit the king had paid the recuperating elves just the day before. “It was our duty and our honor.”

“No, not your duty, and noble was your act,” Aragorn countered.

“It was an honor to defend the queen and the prince,” Hamille stated in return, “and it was our duty to Prince Legolas.” At the mention of that name, a hint of hardness, almost imperceptible, seemed to enter the elf’s eyes again. “Whatever and whomever he chooses to protect, we are behind him, regardless of the cost.” Hamille knew he sounded less gracious than he usually was and that Legolas would be most displeased to hear it, but he could not forget what he had heard in the healing room that evening.

Aragorn felt his guilt increase at that declaration and briefly wondered if there was an underlying meaning to Hamille’s words. Had Legolas spoken of the incident in the healing room to the elves? But just as soon as that thought entered his mind, he banished it; it was not in Legolas’ nature to share his hurt with anyone. Whatever it was Hamille meant, Aragorn thought, he had no right to pry, and he did not really want to, for no one needed to remind him of the pain he already felt.  He only wished he could talk to Legolas that very instant. 

He half-determined to ask Hamille to deliver a note for him, but quickly realized that it was no substitute for a personal meeting; it seemed demeaning somehow. So he asked instead that the elf convey his respects to the elf prince. After debating for a moment, he added, “Please tell him I am grateful to him, and that – and that I will meet with him as soon as I can.” Then, in a softer voice: “Tell him I truly wish to.”

“I will,” Hamille replied, and with a slight bow, turned to leave. Arwen came in just then, carrying a covered basket.

“Hamille, I heard you had come in here,” the queen said, casting a brief smile at her husband as well. “I am glad to have to caught you before you left.”

“My lady,” Hamille greeted her, inclining his head.

“Please tell Legolas that Eldarion has awakened and is recovering well,” she said. “He will want to know.”

“Aye, he certainly will, and the news will do much to lift his spirits. It will please him to know that you are certain of it yourself.”

“Hannon le, Hamille, and please give him these,” she handed him the basket. “There should be enough to share, but he will enjoy them most. Please,” she whispered in a conspirational tone, “make certain he eats.” 

Hamille smiled, accepted the basket without asking about the contents, and left.

Later, as Aragorn sat watching Eldarion eat his third blueberry tart after lunch, a smile touched his face. He and Legolas shared a love for blueberry tarts as well, and he knew, without asking, what had been in the basket Arwen gave Hamille.

Aragorn silently thanked the Valar for restoring his son’s health and for how well he was recovering. He himself had eaten little, mulling over the matters he needed to discuss with his Ministers later that afternoon, and wondering how soon he could settle affairs of state, and how soon it would be all right to leave Eldarion so that he could ride to Ithilien.

Legolas, he sighed. I wish I could talk to you now, mellon nin. But soon, I hope, soon.

“Legolas?” Eldarion said the name through lips covered in sticky blueberry topping. Aragorn realized then that he must have said the name aloud.

The child seemed to remember something and stopped eating. Arwen looked at him, slightly puzzled. He leant close to whispered into his mother’s ear, “Is Legolas still hurt? I did not like to see it.” His eyes were wide, and a hint of moisture laced them.

Arwen swallowed as she realized that Eldarion was envisioning the blood he had seen dripping from the elf’s shoulder in the talan. She quickly wrapped an arm around the child and placed her forehead against his.

“No, darling. It has been taken care off. He is all right now,” she said soothingly.

“They hurt him,” the child stated in a small voice, dropping his eyes.

Arwen caught Aragorn looking at his son with a puzzled expression and decided she would have to explain later. “Yes, they did. But the healers treated it like they took care of you. His shoulder is mending, and he will be happy to know you are better too.” 

“Will he come here soon? I – I do not want to go there,” the child whispered, burying his face in his mother’s dress and staining it with the stickiness on his lips. “Not yet.”

His parents exchanged a look. They had not foreseen that the experience in Ithilien might have left the child with an unpleasant impression of the place itself. They would have to help him overcome that fear eventually. He had elvish blood in him, and he too should feel at home in friendly woods.

“He will come when he can, darling,” Arwen whispered back. “But you have to get well first. You will need your strength to handle your bow when he teaches you to shoot again.”

Those words brought a lump to Aragorn’s throat. He was reminded again just how much Legolas meant to his whole family, and his feeling of remorse deepened. Eldarion seemed consoled by his mother’s assurances and returned to his unfinished tart, quickly devouring what was left and leaving the table to have his hands and face washed.

Arwen turned to her husband to answer the question she knew was on his tongue.

“He was wounded in his shoulder, Estel,” she explained simply. “Eldarion saw it.”

“Was it deep? How did I not see it?” The king’s eyes were filled with concern now.

“It was bandaged and – ” Arwen narrowed her eyes as she tried to recall what she had seen that night, “and I think he had changed his tunic. The one he was wearing was… it was torn, and… it was… stained.” She did not have to say what with; Aragorn knew.

Horror gripped him then as he recalled vaguely where his hand had carelessly clutched Legolas that night. Had the elf shown pain? How had his own eyes missed it? Aragorn looked at Arwen with pleading eyes as he gasped his question.

“Arwen, did I – ?   I did not – ? Did I… add to his pain?”

Arwen considered her response. She did not want to make her husband feel worse than he already did, but she could not lie, so she said softly, “You did not know, and he would not hold it against you.”

Aragorn moaned and buried his face in his hands. He never thought he could hate himself as much as he did then. Legolas, forgive me, forgive me, he begged silently, his breath strangled in his throat. He was barely aware of Arwen’s caresses as they tried to remove the feeling of sorrow that would not leave him.

I will wait till the end of today as I promised, Faramir, he determined silently, but whether or not the prisoner talks, I shall leave for Ithilien tomorrow. This time, nothing will stop me.

CHAPTER 12: QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

Deep in the windowless dungeons of Minas Tirith, the towering figure of the interrogator stood patiently before his charge, trying to ignore the dank musty smell emanating from the mildewed floor and walls of the cell, and from the foulness of the prisoner himself. One weak lamp on the wall above the prisoner, one on the far wall, and a small opening with iron bars in the heavy wooden door cast all the miserable illumination that was allowed in the cell, enough for the occupants to make out each other’s silhouettes and, if they were close enough, facial features.

The prisoner was bent over his knees today, his hands shivering from hunger. The wounds in his thigh and torso had been cleaned again and rebound. He had not been fed yet, but he would not die from his wounds at least; Lord Faramir made sure of that.

After lunch, the Steward of Gondor had pressed the interrogator to drag answers out of the prisoner by whatever means before the sun set, for the king had told him in no uncertain terms that he would ride to Ithilien tomorrow, with or without information about a yet unidentified enemy. 

The fool must be starving, the interrogator observed. Almost three days now, but this will be the day. He will be broken today.

He was frankly amazed that the man had held out this long with that much recalcitrance. Besides the occasional scowl and an incoherent raspy growl that went with it, he had not responded in any way. He was either very loyal, very foolish or petrified over the consequences of being branded a traitor should he ever be found out.

Not much chance of being found out, the man of Gondor snorted to himself. You will never be released if Lord Faramir can help it.

The interrogator was doing something different this afternoon. He had brought in a low stool and a low wooden table, which he placed a very safe distance from the prisoner securely chained to the far wall. At a knock on the heavy door, the large man walked over, opened it and received a tray handed to him, mumbling thanks. He took the tray over to the table and lowered himself onto the sturdy stool.

On the table before him now sat a plate of hot, steaming food, a mug of ale and a mug of water. He stretched himself and proceeded to lick his lips audibly and rub his hands together, making a show of inhaling the tasty aroma of meat and potatoes, knowing that, despite the dankness of the cell, it must smell just as tantalizing to the ravenous prisoner, even if he could not see the food.

Noisily, he picked up a fork; the meat had already been cut up into bite-size bits in the kitchen – no knives were allowed down in the dungeons. He stabbed at a piece of meat and slowly inserted it into his mouth, chewing audibly and murmuring sounds of relish.  Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the prisoner’s gaze was fixed on him, or rather, it was on the table. Even in the dark, the interrogator could see the glint in his eyes and the pathetic desperation on his face. 

After eating one more piece, he took a swig of ale from the mug, gurgling some down noisily and smacking his lips after, with a satisfied “aaaaahhh”. 

The prisoner moved restlessly and whimpered.

The interrogator smiled secretly. He stuck a very small but juicy piece of meat on the end of the fork and got up from the stool. Walking lazily to the prisoner, he held out the fork to the man on the floor. With a raspy growl, grubby fingers shot out to grab the food, but the interrogator pulled it back just out of reach of the fingers.

The growl turned into a yell as the hunger and thirst, exacerbated by the cold and damp of a three-day stay in captivity, turned into desperate need. The interrogator smirked and thrust the fork forward again so that the shaking fingers could pull the small piece of meat off the prongs and pop it instantly into a dehydrated mouth. The prisoner chewed greedily on the pitifully small morsel and reached for more, but found none waiting. He saw the large man going back to the table to pick up the plate of food and a mug. Then the large man placed the food on the floor, and the prisoner stretched out to grab at it, his chains drawn taut. But although the tempting aroma of the food was much closer now, it was painfully out of reach. A howl of frustration was emitted from the figure in chains, and the interrogator sat back on his haunches to look at him.

“It tasted good, did it not? There is more here if you want it. Food and water,” the interrogator asked in an enticing voice. “Tell me where you are from and who sent you, and you will get it.”

The foul man yelled louder, frustrated, but his throat was too parched to yell for long. He collapsed back on the floor, furious and weeping.

“Why do you protect your leader?” the interrogator challenged. “Will he reward you for your silence? Even if he would, you are now in the dungeons of the king – you cannot get back to he who commands you. We can arrange it so that no one ever sets eyes on you again.”

He walked closer to the whimpering figure and asked in a taunting tone: “Who – will – feed – you – then?”    

“I do not protect him!” the prisoner cried hoarsely, suddenly whipping around and catching the interrogator by surprise. “I… I… I fear him.”

The large man controlled his breathing. Carefully now, he told himself.

“You fear him?” he prompted.

“Yeees…” The voice grew hoarser, the parched throat making it difficult to talk. The large man picked up the mug of water from the tray. It was only half-filled with water; he only wanted the throat to be wetted, not the thirst satisfied. He handed it to the prisoner, who grabbed it and drank greedily till the mug was empty. “More,” the thirsty man demanded.

“Talk first. You said you fear him? Why?”

“If you knew him, you would fear him too. He has no – no mercy.”

“I know him not. What is he like?”  The interrogator’s past experience with spies told him that for some reason, if he asked for the identity of their leaders too soon, they would not talk. It was easier for them to talk about the persons first.

“Nasty, vicious. Always angry. He knows what he wants.”

“What does he want?”

“The king’s son, you fool. Could you not tell?”

“We will see who is the fool,” came the reply. He was used to this. “Why does he want the king’s son?”

The prisoner chortled, if a chortle it could be called, coming from a throat that was still dry. “Revenge, why else? That is all he thinks about.”

“Revenge? For what?”

“His son, the king killed his son in the war! That is all I know. Now give me food first.”

The interrogator drew in a breath. So, the motive: revenge. A son for a son. “Tell me more.”

“I do not know much more. Food first!”

“Not so fast. What is his name? Where is he?”

A growl, followed by silence.

“What is his name? Who is he? Where can we find him?”

“If he knows I talked, I will be dead!”

“If you do not talk, you will be dead. From hunger and thirst. He cannot reach you here.”

Silence again.

Time to take a chance. “Very well,” the interrogator said, picking up the plate of food and empty mug from the floor and heading back to the table. “You may not see me for a long – ”

A loud growl was emitted, followed by a name the interrogator had waited to hear: “Sarambaq!” 

Good, he gets desperate. He will answer quickly. The large man turned around to face the prisoner again. “What was that again?”

“His name is Sarambaq, and he will kill me, he will kill me,” the man said miserably, hiding his face in his hands.

“He cannot reach you here. Where is he? Where does he hide?”

“His – his halls. In Adhûn.”  The reply was mumbled.

“Where? Remove your hands so I can hear you.”

“Adhûn!”

“Where is that?”

“By a river. Near the sea.”

“The sea? The sea in the west?”

“No, no. The Sea of Rhûn.”

The interrogator smiled inwardly in satisfaction. Lord Faramir was right: the attackers had come from around the Sea of Rhûn as he had guessed from their use of the ipo poison. The large man knitted his eyebrows as he tried to recall the little he knew of that area: the Sea lay east and slightly north of the White City. But he knew nothing of the people who lived there. Lord Faramir must be told. 

“Are you from there?”

“Yes. He took me into his service. Miserable service, but a man has to eat. And we fear – fear for our families, if we should refuse.”

The interrogator nodded. The evil masters in this world never changed. They always held others hostage to fulfill their greedy demands.

“What is your name?”

Silence.

“Your name?” Louder now.

“Ködil!” It came with a growl.

“Ködil,” the interrogator repeated. “How long has he been there? Has he many troops?”

“Too many questions! I want food.”

“How long?”

“About nine or ten years now, after the Dark Lord fell. I know not how. He only told us the Dark Lord fell. He went there after the king destroyed his home.”

“The Dark Lord? Sauron?”

“Yes.”

The interrogator nodded. He did not know all there was to know about the Quest of the Ring, but everyone in the White City knew that after the Fall of Sauron, King Elessar’s armies had indeed assiduously sought out and disabled many rogue bands of orcs and men. But some escaped without a trace; it was assumed that many had left Gondor. He supposed Sarambaq must have led one such band.

“How far is Adhûn from here?”

“More questions! No, no, food first!”

“How far?”

Ködil hissed in exasperation, but he needed to get his food. “Two to three weeks on foot, a slow walk.” 

The interrogator let out a low whistle. “How did you know the king’s son would be in Ithilien?”

“We watched. Waited and watched. Sarambaq made us.”

“He was not with you that day?”

A snort accompanied the reply. “No, he would not risk his life. He only risks ours.”

A thought occurred to the man of Gondor. “It’s a long way from Adhûn to Ithilien. How do you exchange news?”

“What?”

“How do you communicate with your master? It takes time for you to travel between the two places. Does he send word, ask for news?”

Another snort came. “He has Dárkil.”

“What is a Dárkil?”

“Not a Dárkil, you fool. Just Dárkil. His – his – flying demon.”

This was interesting news, the interrogator thought. Interesting but not welcome. He sat back on his haunches and addressed the prisoner again. “Tell me about Dárkil,” he commanded.

The air outside Sarambaq’s halls in Adhûn reverberated with the screech of the foul creature, as it fed on the stinking meat of carrion. Its master studied in admiration the strong wings and legs of the black beast. The jaws at the end of the longish neck were bloody with its meal, the eyes alive and eager.

A smirk of satisfaction crossed Sarambaq’s face as he recalled when he had first surprised the Dark Lord with his creation – a cross between a giant eagle and one of Sauron’s own flying steeds, the ones the Dark Lord had bred for the use of his Nazgul. Sauron had been impressed that Sarambaq had managed to capture the giant eagle, subduing it to his own will after many months of torture. Kin of Gwaihir the Windlord himself, the eagle had been a prize catch, and when it bred with the Dark Lord’s own steed, the product had been a beast with the ferocity of Mordor and the swiftness and sharp vision of the eagle race.

Dárkil he had named it, and it was one of the reasons Sarambaq had a strong hold on the services of his minions and the residents of the surrounding village. No one dared defy the Master when they knew full well what the jaws and claws of his beast were capable of doing if they refused.

Too unfortunate it is only one of its kind, Sarambaq pondered. He had not been able to produce another. The giant eagle had died in captivity, and now that the Dark Lord’s steeds were vanquished along with him, Sarambaq had little hope of repeating his evil-driven success.

No matter, he thought, I will use this one for as long as I still have it.

He now waited a little impatiently for the creature to finish its meal so that he could start on his journey. He had decided that he had had enough of waiting for news and intended to have Dárkil bear him to the Table. Perhaps some of his useless minions were already there and could tell him what was happening. 

The Table was a huge rock formation surrounded by thick woods, located just a three-day trek away from the fringes of Ithilien on the borders of Gondor, so named because of its flat, plateau-like top upon which Dárkil could land with ease. It also offered a vantage point from which Sarambaq could see anyone approaching, if they were not hidden by the woods. At the foot of the wide rock were caves in which Sarambaq’s troops stored provisions and weapons. These stores, replenished regularly by the few riders allowed to ride Dárkil from Adhûn, enabled the troops to spend long lengths of time watching Gondor without having to return all the way to Adhûn for supplies. As far as they knew, there were no settlements lying in the forests between Ithilien and the Table.

The location of the Table also meant that Dárkil could fly as close as possible to Gondor without being easily spotted by the sharp eyes of the elves who guarded Gondor’s borders. Indeed, the beast would appear nothing more than a stray eagle in the skies to the east when it was seen by elves, and it was totally beyond sight of the guards in the high towers of the White City.

Unknown to Sarambaq, the remnants of the force he had sent to Gondor were indeed already headed there. Having failed to take the king’s son, they had decided to retreat to the Table to recoup and strengthen themselves before trekking back to Adhûn and facing the inevitability of Sarambaq’s wrath. Little did they know that they would be meeting their dreaded master sooner than they expected.

Half an hour later, the beast had finished its meal. Sarambaq mounted this prized steed of his and headed for his destination, unaware that deep in the dungeons of Minas Tirith, one of his minions was talking about this very creature.

So, that is how Sarambaq has kept such a close eye on the royal family in Gondor, the interrogator thought. He wondered with disquiet what elsethe dark Master would have seen and might have planned beyondthe capture of the prince.He wanted to find out more about his plans, but it was clear from the heated protests and agitated reactions from Ködil that he would speak no more till he had been given food. The large man finally stood.

“After you eat, you will talk some more.” This was not a question, it was a demand.

“I do not know much more!”

“Then you will tell me all you know. Everything about Sarambaq.”

The prisoner nodded miserably.

The interrogator walked up to the prisoner now and looked ferociously at the pitiful figure with as much menace as he could conjure in his eyes. The large man’s voice was but a whisper, but the venomous warning in it was unmistakable.

“If you lie to me or hold anything back, you will taste not only my whip, but the ire of the Lord of the White City. And THEN…” the prisoner was almost wetting himself by now. “… and then you will not see me, or food, or water, or light, till the end of your days in this dark, dark hole. Do you understand this?”

The man’s eyes bulged out even further, if that was possible, and nodded several times.

“All right,” the large man said, drawing up to his full height. “Now you can eat.”

A similar line of questioning was taking place in the woods of Ithilien the day after Legolas rode back from Minas Tirith, but the elves were having less success with their own prisoner. Unlike what was happening in Minas Tirith, the thought of starving the detestable man, as furious as they were with him, never crossed their minds. The only times the evles showed no mercy was when they faced Sauron’s orcs or when they fought the giant spiders that invaded Mirkwood, and even then, they always sought to inflict a quick death. At all other times, the gentleness of the elves over-rode any thought of violence or torture. They would have preferred to break the prisoner’s spirit in other ways, but there were no dark cells in their fair woods to aid them.

The cave dungeons of Thranduil Oropherion would be a better place for this, Legolas thought wryly, although his father’s caves were in fact airy and not quite as fearsome as he thought them to be. I will have to manage with what I have.

A grimace marred his fair features briefly as he recalled the last time he had made that decision and the consequences of that action. I tried to keep them safe with what I had, he remembered, but it was not enough. Fleetingly, he hoped Eldarion had awoken and was recovering.

Aragorn’s face flitted across his mind and he felt a pang of sadness again. Thoughts of his friend had dominated his mind on his ride back from Minas Tirith last night. When he thought of all that he had ever shared with the former Ranger, a member of the Fellowship of the Ring, and now the King of Gondor, he could not believe that Aragorn’s words were anything more than a careless utterance born of frustration. Yet he never imagined that those words could hurt so deeply.

He wished he could find out everything behind the attack – who planned it, what their intentions were, why they wanted with Eldarion, and where they were hiding. But he would be content with an answer to the last question if that was all he could obtain, for that was what he had resolved in the healing room: he could not undo what had happened, but he could try to locate the enemy’s base and learn more about him, or them. 

He had thought of doing the questioning himself but quickly abandoned the task to the other elves, for at this moment, he felt he had not the patience or tenacity to slowly and skillfully draw out answers from an obstinate source. Perhaps he would not be aggressive enough, not in the right way. Prowess in battle and leadership skills were quite useless in an interrogation. He could not suppress a grin as he honestly wondered whether the other elves would be able to accomplish any more than he could. He recalled how more than sixty years ago, his father had failed to coerce Gimli’s dwarf ancestors and kin into revealing anything when they had stumbled into the elf realm and been caught.

Elves make terrible interrogators, he conceded. Ah, well, if we draw nothing out of this man from the East, I will have no choice but to send him to Faramir. But they would try their best first.

Legolas shook his head and told himself to focus on the task at hand – a task that he wished were not necessary. He was writing letters to the families of the six elves who had been slain during the attack. They had all been so loyal to him, leaving Greenwood to follow him south to Ithilien. He had known them for hundreds and hundreds of years, and he recalled fondly how all of them had sparred with him in training, climbed trees and hunted spiders with him, and how he and some of them had landed themselves in trouble as elflings. If they had remained in the Greenwood or if they had sailed West with the ships, they would not now be in the Halls of Mandos where dead elves go, he thought with sorrow in his heart. These were the first six elves who had died since they came south, and although none of them would have regretted being slain in battle, he vowed he would do everything he could to make sure they were the last. A promise he may not be able to keep, he knew, but the sharpness of the sorrow he felt at the moment compelled him to make it.

Although each letter contained a similar message of explanation and condolence, Legolas took care to insert a few lines that said something unique about the particular elf he was honoring, along with an item from the elf’s belongings, so that each missive would read like a personal note rather than a cold announcement. After the last one had been written and signed, he sighed and stood to stretch himself. He had considered returning to the Greenwood himself to meet the families; nothing could replace a personal visit. But at present, he really wanted to find out more about the attackers and to track them down if he could. He decided two other elves would leave for Greenwood tomorrow to deliver them on his behalf, and he would go himself at a later time.

Right now, they had to dress and prepare for the ceremony at twilight. Tonight, they would gather at the graves of their fallen kin to sprinkle blossoms and scented water on them, and they would sing songs of lament to honor them beneath Ithil and the stars of Varda. 

In the White City, the king of Gondor looked on the same stars at twilight and thought fondly of the friend who used to sing under them. One more dawn and one more moonrise, and he would ride to that friend.

CHAPTER 13:  CHOICES

The darkness of the night above the Table seemed to redden with the heat of the dark figure as Sarambaq exploded with fury at his minions who had managed to escape the clutches of the elves of Ithilien. Returning to the Table many minutes ago, their hearts had sunk when the light of their torches revealed the shapes of their master and his demon beast waiting for them. Fear and trepidation enveloped them now and coursed through their veins as they faced their master’s wrath.

“How could you fail to take him?!” the dark figure bellowed, towering threateningly above the men who cowered before him. “It was the right time, the right place! Had he been in the White City, or under the protection of his father, you would not have the ghost of a chance, but in the woods – ! And the elves were fewer then! It was the right time and place! How could you fail?”

No one knew if they were meant to answer that question, but one minion, bolder or perhaps more foolhardy than the rest, replied, “The elves fought strongly, Master. We did not think they would resist so …”

“Yes, fool! You did not think!” the dark master’s voice roared straight into the speaker’s face, shocking him into a quaking silence. “Fools, imbeciles.” His ire was growing by the minute as he paced back and forth. Suddenly, he stopped and turned on the cowering figures again.

“Was anyone taken?”

“Yes, Master,” the same man answered, shaking and expecting another roar in the face. “We think perhaps two, though we cannot be sure.”

“Scum,” the dark figure muttered again. “Worthless scum. If they talk…”

More pacing, more muttering, as the air seemed to grow redder. Watching him warily with eyes that seemed to be playing tricks, some of his silent minions actually thought they saw him growing larger, until, with a shock that sent shivers down their spines, they realized that he reminded them of the Dark Lord Sauron.

How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?

The spear began to burn in the flame of Aragorn’s words. But to his horror, new faces now looked at him with fire in their eyes – the faces of the families of the dead elves. They opened their mouths but no words came, just flames, more flames, and each breath was filled with grief, grief that took shape and swirled and wrapped itself as flame around the spear. The fiery object, pointed at him like an accusing finger, came closer and closer, faster and faster…

“Daro! Daro!” Legolas shouted for it to stop, and sat bolt upright.

The elf woke up in a cold sweat again, just as he had the last few times the nightmare haunted him. He cursed it as he slowed his breathing, looking around him. He was in his talan, alone, in the middle of a woodland night, and no accusing faces were anywhere near him. The letters he had written lay neatly stacked on the small dresser nearby.

A slight rustle of leaves, light footsteps and a fair voice, laced with concern, came from outside the closed door. “Heru nin? My lord?”

With their sharp ears, one or more of the elves must have heard his shout. Perhaps his curses too.

“I am fine,” he hurriedly assured them from where he sat on his bed. “Just a small disturbance.” 

He sighed when he heard them descending the tree and lay back down, placing a hand over his eyes.

Will the nightmares ever stop? he asked to no one in particular. Are they all so angry at me? Do they all blame me?

Unbidden, a single tear trailed down the side of his face.

What more could I have done? Ai, what more could I have done? I am but an elf. If I had the foresight of an Istari or the power of the Valar, I could have prevented this. Do you all blame me? My friends, my kin… Estel? Do you all feel I have failed you?       

He stifled a sob, and in the darkness of the talan, bathed faintly in the light of Ithil, the Wood elf searched his heart. His mind wandered the pathways of his memories, lingering on the smiles on the faces of the slain elves, the words they had exchanged, the songs they had sung for hundreds of years. Aragorn’s Ranger face came into view, fresh with the vigour of youth and alive with laughter as he jested, the grim set of his jaw as they walked side by side through the darkness and death of Hollin, Moria, Helms’ Deep, Aragorn throwing himself on orcs threatening to slice through his friend, Aragorn clasping his arm when his own life was saved by the swift arrow of the Woodland elf, his smile radiant with ecstasy as he embraced his elf friend at his wedding, his face soft with gratitude when Legolas returned with elves out of the Greenwood, Aragorn seeking him out to exultantly share the joy of the birth of his son, the face of the king gradually lined with the weight of kingship, the two companions sipping wine quietly, wordlessly, in the moonlit gardens of Minas Tirith, lost in memories and the warm comfort of a friendship that did not question.  

Long and hard Legolas looked into his heart. Do they blame me?

Finally, an answer came back to him. A tentative answer, poised on the edge of a knife, to fall either way.

No, not them. It is I who blame myself. The nightmares are of my own making.

Or are they?

We have been through so much together. Our friendship is stronger than this. I know this.

But something at the back of his mind nettled him, telling him this was hard to accept, making him feel guilty as if he was being allowed to take the easy way out. What? What? Why is this not right?

The words. Aragorns’ words. Fail in their trust… Can I trust the safety of my kingdom to no one?  

Legolas hissed through his teeth. He could not forget them. They were the reason his heart could find no tranquility. Not yet.

But I will overcome this nightmare. I have to.

As the soft sounds of nocturnal woodland animals and insects, and whispers of a cool scented breeze floated in through the open windows, Legolas allowed them to soothe him.

I will find Aragorn’s enemy. That was his last thought as he drifted back into sleep.

The Wood elf kept himself busy from the moment he woke from the troubled sleep.

Earlier in the day, he had sent off the two elves to the Greenwood, armed with his letters he had written, one of which was to his father. Thranduil had never been very happy with his son’s decision to come south, and Legolas knew this news would only add to his displeasure. Pushing that thought to the back of his mind, he had spent the rest of the time examining the borders, doing anything and everything he could to take his mind off the questioning taking place and the answers he was waiting for.

The rain clouds gathering overhead did little to cheer his mood. As Anor slowly slid into the west, her radiant fingers penetrating the grey blanket every now and then to touch the leaves of Ithilien in brief, golden caresses, the first drops of rain came. Sipping berry juice from a goblet, Legolas raised his eyes to the sky and studied it. The rain clouds were churning overhead but the winds were strong, blowing them to the south. They would not be the ones receiving the brunt of the storm.

It will be a stormy night in the White City, he observed, as his golden hair whipped in the wind. Already distant flashes of light could be seen further south and west where the City lay.

Ignoring the light dizzle, and sheltered from much of it by the roof of branches and leaves above, Legolas pondered on just how he hoped to find the guilty ones and bring them to justice. Eldarion might be out of danger, but Aragorn would want to free his family of further threats, now that they had seen how far the enemy was willing to go to get to the king’s son. Of course the threat had to be removed.

Legolas wanted to help Aragorn, but even if they did manage to find out the enemy’s base, he could not hope to launch an assault with the few elves he had. These Men seemed trained. They were not as skilled as elves – thank Eru for that, or the consequences would have been worse – nor were they as capable as the armies of Gondor and Rohan, but they were organised and trained, he noted. No, he could not risk the lives of the Ithilien elves in a march on their camp. He would need Aragorn’s armies for that, though he loathed the thought, wishing he could spare the king the danger.

He reached a tentative decision. Faramir’s interrogator would probably get more answers out of the prisoner held in Minas Tirith, but in the meantime, perhaps he could make their own captive in Ithilien show him the way to the hideout, or as close to the hideout as possible. He could scout out the vicinity and bring back information that would help them develop a better plan of attack.

He realized he had been assuming these were stray bands of outlaws, but he really did not know who or what they were.

I will find out what I can find out soon enough, he thought.

He needed to calm himself, to contemplate. Soon, he found himself sitting in the rain, against the huge oak in which Eldarion’s tree-house was built, the talan in which the child had faced the frightening attack. Legolas listened to the wind sighing through the oak leaves, finding comfort. Like all Wood elves, he was able to commune with trees, not in words, but through a sense of what they were feeling, as if they could indeed speak with him. He could feel the thrum of the old tree immediately as it welcomed the contact with the Wood elf. He smiled at the sense of satisfaction from the oak as its leaves were bathed in the late afternoon shower.

Before long, he was thinking through his plans.

Am I doing the right thing? Should I wait?

He sensed a hum of sympathy from the tree at his hesitation. Legolas placed a hand on a large root, feeling as if a friend were beside him. The oak hummed again, coursing earthy tones through the elf’s sensitive body, and the image of Aragorn flashed in Legolas’ mind. He lifted his face to the rain.

Or should I wait for Aragorn to make a decision? But what can Aragorn do now? He is worried enough over his son, he cannot think about this now.   

The tree hummed slowly now, keeping a rhythm. Legolas responded to that rhythm, slowing his thoughts.

I should wait for Aragorn to act.

Legolas, however, could not convince himself to do that. The enemy has just failed. We cannot wait for him to make new plans. We need to strike before he does it again.

A murmur, like a sigh of understanding, resonated in the wood.

I cannot stay and do nothing. I have already said I would make amends, redress the wrong. This is what I can do.

The oak hummed a note of warning then, and Legolas waited. Not disagreement, he decided, but a warning.

You worry that I might fail, that I might be seen. I will be killed.

Legolas hesitated only a moment before he responded.

It will not be the first time I ride into uncertainty and danger.

The tree hummed again, uneasily this time, sending out low, deep notes of melancholy.

Your elves will die with you.  A distant peal of thunder reached the elf’s ears.

The statement sent a thrill of shock through the elf, as if the tree had actually spoken, so deep was its lament. At the thought, Legolas’ eyes wandered over to where some of the elves were gathered, talking and laughing a little. Beneath the trees, the fair faces, filled with the light of life and tilted towards the rain even as his was, were so radiant that he felt a sharp ache as he imagined the light gone from them. Their voices were lifted in a song of rainbows and colors, its sweetness grazing his heart. He remembered the vow he had made yesterday: no more deaths if he could help it.

Then I will go alone. No one else needs to lose his life.

The hum from the tree was somber.

I may not lose mine. I only wish to scout.

The tree did not lose its note of sorrow and sympathy, but now it throbbed strongly. With… pain?

Legolas was puzzled. Not its own pain, the elf thought. Then whose?

A sudden gust of wind blew a smatter of rain into his face. The tree pulsed more strongly, and Legolas felt the answer come to him.

Your own pain. You are doing this because you are hurt.

It was not an accusation, it was not a condemnation. It was a simple statement from another living being helping him to come to terms with his own feelings.

Long years of a deep friendship guided Legolas’ response: Yes, but he spoke in anger. It is not what his heart feels…that is my hope.

He felt the note of doubt from the old tree.

I believe so.

Now the tree pulsed again with doubt, more strongly, demanding an answer to… a question? 

What, my friend? What do you ask? Legolas queried.

The throbbing increased, and again the image of Aragorn appeared in the elf’s mind.

You ask if this is what Aragorn would want?

The tree hummed agreement.

Legolas smiled sadly. Perhaps not. Perhaps I am being foolish. I do not know if this is the right decision.

The elf turned around and knelt before the tree, pressing his wet forehead and palms against the equally wet trunk as he made his decision.

But I want to regain his trust. If I die, I die trying.

The tree hummed its doubt again, but Legolas’ mind was made up.

I will do this for him. This is my choice.

The old oak’s thrums softened then and slowed into rest even as the shower of rain lightened. Even unbidden, it had played its part, not to choose for Legolas, but simply to listen as the elf weighed and confirmed the decision for himself.

“Hannon le, old friend,” the elf whispered, and got up.

Dusk had descended and the rain had stopped when Legolas heard joyful greetings in the main clearing where the elves usually gathered. Walking over quickly, he saw Hamille, Lishian and the elves who had returned from the White City dismounting from their horses, taking off their wet cloaks and shaking the wetness from hair that had escaped protective hoods.

Smiling, Legolas greeted each of them, and they clasped each other. 

“The skies wish to wash the City tonight, my lord,” Hamille jested, smiling. “We just escaped the torrents.”

They retreated to a long table where some elves quickly laid out wine, juice, bread and fruit for the refreshment of the travelers. Most of the wounds were almost completely healed, but studying their pale faces, Legolas reminded all the recuperating elves to rest after the meal. Their cloaks had fortunately kept them dry for the most part. He was truly glad to have them back in the woods where the trees and blossoms and open spaces would be as healing as food and medicine for them.

Hamille, with a bright smile, placed Arwen’s large basket on the table before his prince, and sat down beside him.

“A gift from the queen,” he announced cheerfully. “I kept it dry. She gave me express instructions to see you eat the contents.”

Legolas gave a small grin, but his face turned serious as he asked, even before checking the contents of the basket: “How is the young prince?”

“Well awake and recovering well, my lord,” came the confident reply, which pleased Legolas immensely. “Queen Arwen assured me herself and wanted you to know it too.”

“That is good. Thank the Valar,” Legolas breathed, his fingers tracing the woven patterns on the wicker basket. “I cannot imagine what I would have done if he had…if it had been worse.”

“Worry not, bridhon nin. I believe he will be beseeching you for archery lessons before long,” Hamille jested, pleased that a smile lit the elf prince’s face at those words. He paused before adding, “King Elessar sends you his respects and thanks.”

He saw Legolas stiffen slightly at the mention of the king, and the smile threatened to fade from the fair face, but he had to convey the entire message he had been entrusted with. “He said he will meet with you as soon as he is able… and that he truly wishes it.”

The smile returned, but now it seemed pensive. Why does friendship with the Edain have to be so complicated, Hamille wondered, shaking his head slightly.Wishing to cheer his prince up again, he pointed to the basket and asked teasingly: “Now, are you going to share the treats with us?”

To Hamille’s satisfaction, Legolas chuckled. Removing the calico cloth covering the basket’s contents, the elf prince teased him in return: “Are you certain you did not consume some on your ride home?”

The elves laughed and their eyes lit up when neatly packed and tasty-looking blueberry beckoned to them from the basket. After removing a tart with nimble fingers, Legolas pushed the basket to the other elves.

One of the elves spoke, looking at Lishian. “It is the anniversary of Lishian’s birth today, let us drink to his happiness. And perhaps he can have two tarts!” 

Joyful voices cheered and joined in the toast as Lishian blushed.

“Thank the Valar you are still with us to share this, Lishian,” his soft-spoken prince said with heartfelt appreciation, and everyone nodded. Looks of sadness crossed their faces as they remembered Galean and the other elves who were no longer there, and Legolas briefly regretted having reminded them of their absence. He quickly added in a more cheerful tone: “Come, these tarts were not baked merely to be looked at!”

The elves laughed and set upon the basket again. As the sixth tart was being carefully removed from the basket, the elf who had lifted it noticed a piece of paper wedged in a corner of the basket. He dislodged it and read the writing on it.

“There is a note for you, my lord,” he informed Legolas and handed him the note. 

Puzzled, the elf took the paper and noted his name written on it in a graceful Elvish script. It had to be Arwen’s, he thought. Unfolding it, he read the contents.

Stealing a discreet glance, Hamille observed his prince’s eyes glisten. Not wishing to invade his privacy, he quickly engaged the other elves in a narration of an amusing incident with one of the healers in Minas Tirith, shifting the focus from the elf prince. 

Legolas folded the paper, tucked it into the side pocket of his shirt, and turned his head to swiftly wipe the wetness from his eyes before facing his friends again with the same pensive smile from before. Hamille did not miss the traces of moisture on his prince’s long lashes, but noted that the fair face framed by soft golden hair seemed a little, just a little, comforted.

The clear sapphire eyes of the elf prince were trained on an elf narrating his experience, but his mind was running over the words he had read in Sindarin:

Estel grieves. He loves you and his regret is deep. Be patient, and trust in what you share.

Determination flashed in the blue eyes.

Even more so now, I will try to find out who hurt his family, he vowed.

The little gathering in the clearing was interrupted when one of the elves who had been questioning the prisoner approached them to inform Legolas of the outcome.

 “Bridhon nin, we have been given some information,” he said, addressing his prince.

Legolas bade him sit and listened to what he had to say. Quickly, the elf told him that the man’s master was named Sarambaq, and that he had his halls in Adhûn near a river that flowed into the Sea of Rhûn. The same thought that had crossed the mind of the interrogator in Minas Tirith flashed through Legolas’ mind now: Faramir had guessed correctly. 

“But Sarambaq was not with them that day, my lord. Only his men came.”

Coward, Legolas thought. “What does Sarambaq want with the king’s son? Did he say?”

“No, my lord. He said naught of that, he knows only his master wants the king’s son alive. I believe he truly does not know more. He says the one they took to the White City knows more, he was one of the leaders.”

“Very well,” Legolas nodded and thanked the elf. “Hannon le. I have only two more things to say to him myself.” 

The prisoner was sitting on the grass, hunched over, his legs bound with a metal chain to a tree. Food and water had been given to him.

Legolas stopped in front of the man and nodded to Lanwil, who stood guard nearby.

“Take some rest and food,” he told the other elf. “I will speak to him alone.”

Legolas waited till Lanwil had left to join his friends in the evening meal, out of the range of hearing. He did not want any of the elves to have knowledge of what he was about to ask and say to the man. He studied the prisoner in silence. He saw the dirty clothes and disheveled appearance, the long rough hair and lean frame, leaner than most men were. Something about him reminded Legolas of … what? He could not quite place it. Was it the large eyes? The look of defiance in them? The gaunt face? The way he sat, almost doubled over? Was it…?

Legolas did not know yet. He looked at the figure in disdain. Yet he is but a minion, doing what he is told, the elf reminded himself and his look softened.

“What is your name?”

The prisoner looked at him with unfriendly eyes. “Brûyn,” he answered curtly.

“Very well, Brûyn. My friends have asked you all the questions you claim you can answer,” Legolas stated. The man nodded. “I have one more. How far is – Adhûn, is it not? – how far is it from here?”

The man stared back with defiance. But Legolas’ eyes were steady; he did not waver. Finally, the man squirmed as he answered, “Two weeks, if we walk fast. Three maybe, if we go slowly.”

“What if we ride?” Legolas pressed.

“I cannot answer that, I have never ridden here.”

Legolas nodded, accepting the response as the truth. “I have one more thing to say to you tonight, but it is not a question. It is a command. Had you come to our realm in peace, you would be our guest. But you came uninvited and with hostility, and you are now our prisoner. You will have to do as we tell you.”

The man glared at him with a look of rebelliousness and curiosity.

“I need you to show me the way to Sarambaq’s place – where he lives.”  

The man instantly started and shook his head vehemently. “He will kill me!” he declared in horror.

“You fear him, your master?”

“Yes! His anger will know no bounds.”

“He will kill us both if he sees us, but if you lead me where he cannot see us, he cannot kill us. We will simply approach the place, then turn around and come back here. I cannot release you, you must know that. Lead me so that he does not see.”

The man kept shaking his head, insisting that he dare not. He squirmed and tried to escape the chains that bound him. “No! No!” he cried, as the chains rattled. 

The small commotion attracted the attention of the elves at their meal a distance away, and Legolas saw Lanwil get up slowly from his seat. He held up a hand as a signal for the elf to stay where he was.

Legolas looked back at the man. He stepped closer and spoke in a low tone, quickly but firmly, holding the man’s eyes with his own.

“The Lord of the White City will not let this matter rest for long. Look, if you do this now, I will bring you back and you can stay in the White City to be judged by King Elessar, who will be a much fairer master than Sarambaq can ever be. But if you do not show me the way now, he will lead his armies there soon, and we will hand you back to Sarambaq. We will imprison you with him, wherever he spends the rest of his days. You will face him till the end of yours. Does that prospect sound good to you?”

Brûyn glared at Legolas, knowing he was being given little choice.

“What is your choice?”

As the man mulled this over and looked long at Legolas, a strange look came into his eyes and he seemed to peer more closely at the elf, studying his hair and his face. Without warning, he leered. The elf could not help a shiver as he encountered the focused stare and for some inexplicable reason, paled and unconsciously took several steps back. At his movement, Lanwil started making his way back to them at a hurried pace. 

To Legolas’ surprise, Brûyn relaxed his stare then and replied, “I will take you.”

“Good,” Legolas whispered and added sternly, “We leave at first light tomorrow. Speak to no one else about this. Do not cross me on this.”

The prisoner swallowed at the power in the elf’s bright eyes and nodded.

Lanwil reached them moments later and he looked from Legolas to the prisoner, puzzled. Legolas placed a hand on the elf’s arm to reassure him he was fine, and he gave a final nod to the prisoner, who only stared at him in silence.

“Why did you not finish your meal?” Legolas asked Lanwil kindly in Sindarin.

The elf looked curiously at his prince, not totally convinced that all was as innocent as it seemed, but answered politely: “I have eaten enough, Bridhon nin.” 

Legolas smiled. “Will you do something for me before you retire tonight? Could you wash the filth off our prisoner and give him fresh clothes?”

“Our clothes?” The elf asked, horrified at the thought of putting elvish clothes on the body of the disgusting man.

Legolas gave a small laugh and a shrug of his slender shoulders. “They may be too elvish for him, and ill-fitting, but what else do we have?”

Lanwil’s eyes narrowed even more. Could this not wait till morning, he wondered, but he replied: “Of course.”

Mumbling his thanks, Legolas returned to his meal and his quiet plans. He could not fathom what these strange people wanted from Aragorn and his son, but he had to help to remove this threat.

It was only after he walked away that Legolas realized what had bothered him about the prisoner: a dark, black shadow seemed to be around him all the time, like a cloak or a second skin. Legolas knew of only one place in Arda that he had actually stepped into, where he had always sensed the same shadow of blackness covering everything. He shuddered at the memory.

At that very moment, Aragorn himself was shuddering, and a chill enveloped him. The fierce storm that flayed the White City with whips of rain and lightning could not match the tumult in his own heart as a dark plan was revealed to him.

CHAPTER 14:   FACE TO FACE

Aragorn’s brow was furrowed as he sat deep in thought in his library, Faramir seated in the chair across from him. He had been depressed since lunch, after finding out about Legolas’ wound, but determined that he would ride to Ithilien the next day, no matter what anyone said. But now his Steward had come with information gleaned from the prisoner.

At this point, he felt like driving his sword Anduril through any of the attackers that had harmed his family, wounded Legolas, and caused the death of several elves. He was glad now that he had left the interrogation to Faramir, afraid that his own emotions might have affected the progress. Indeed it seemed to be going well without him.

“So, Sauron even recruited forces from the region around the Sea of Rhûn,” the king murmured. “Far was his reach, and we were not aware.”

Faramir nodded. “We could not know the full extent of his domain or his influence,” he said. “Even now the odd band still plagues us, as you well know, Elessar.”

“Our armies incapacitated many bands, we cleaned up many camps,” Aragorn said, shaking his head as he tried in vain to retrieve Sarambaq from his mental records. “He wants revenge, you say, and for his son, so I must have fought them and killed his son, I guess. But our enemies were many as we battled from Rohan to the Black Ships to the Fields of Pelennor and even at the Black Gates of Mordor.” He sighed.

 “Aye, Faramir,” he continued in a subdued tone. “Our enemies had faces and names, as our own men did, but even if we saw the faces of those we fought, we knew them not, looking upon them only as the servants of the Dark Lord. Yet – and yet, many of them had ones they loved. Wives perhaps, and sons and daughters, and brothers and sisters.” The images of Arwen, Eldarion, and his elven family in Imladris played in his mind.

Faramir swallowed, as he recalled how he himself had pondered on that realization one day as he watched a Southron die from an arrow launched from his bow. That had been a living being before he felled him. He understood his king’s sorrowed reminiscence and sought to comfort him.

“But in the heat of battle, where one seeks to end the life of another, and a blade is placed at your neck, Elessar, who has the choice to stop and think about whose kin it is?”        

“Yet that changes not the grief of he who loses, even if he is the one who encroaches,” Aragorn pointed out. “And most of them were but under the enchantment of Sauron, they could not see the evil they were aiding. Even if they could see, they still felt kinship.”

Faramir could find no rejoinder to that, for it was true. Sad, but true. The two lords of Gondor continued to sit in pensive silence for a while.

“What is done is done, Elessar,” the Steward said at last. “You have been a merciful master to those we took prisoner, and freed many who would never have tasted freedom had Sauron overcome Middle Earth. But you cannot win the love or understanding of those who will not see the great king you are.”

Aragorn laughed a little bitterly and brushed his hand through his hair. “Greater kings than I there have been, Faramir, though I thank you for your loyalty.”  

“It is not loyalty from which my words come, it is from truth.”

“Some pay the price for being loyal, my friend,” Aragorn said unexpectedly. “Those loyal to Sauron and Saruman suffered much.”

“It was not loyalty in the hearts of those who served Sauron and Saruman, Elessar. It was fear. Fear to act against a stronger power can make one helpless and be mistaken for faithfulness. They were blind.”

Aragorn raised his steely grey eyes to study Faramir’s own soft brown ones, and said with a smile: “Since that night at the stables, you have continued to astound me with your wisdom, my friend.”

Faramir cast his own eyes down, a little embarrassed. A note of sadness crept into his voice now. “War and death has taught me much, Elessar. And before that, the rule of a stern father whose word I dared not disobey. The loss of my brother…”  He faltered and paused, while Aragorn waited patiently for him to continue.

“Loyalty does have a price, as you said,” Faramir said at last. “But one has to choose wisely whom to be loyal to. I know that Boromir, before he died, would have taken Sauron’s Ring of Power for his own. And yet not for himself. It would have been for our father, who foolishly desired it. Faithfulness it was that Boromir showed, and he paid the price for it. You spoke true.” He seemed to have more to say, so Aragorn waited again.

Faramir drew a deep breath and continued in a rush. “The loss of my brother led me to question where my loyalties should lie. Through the years of your reign, Elessar, I have come to see where it is worth pledging them. You have no need to question whether they are rightly placed, for they are. Your people see it. Eomer is loyal to you because he sees what I see. Legolas himself – ”

He stopped short when he saw the smile vanish from the king’s face at the mention of the name, replaced by a look of sadness. Faramir bit his tongue but quickly decided that what he wanted to say had to be said. “Legolas would not have left the Greenwood to devote himself to your realm and to you, if he did not feel the same.” 

“Then he too pays the price,” Aragorn said softly. “He has been nothing but loyal to me, no matter what I… how I…” 

Faramir knew Aragorn was still tormented by what had taken place in the Houses of Healing. “What happened that night – ” he began.

“Is something I shall regret for the rest of my life,” Aragorn finished sharply.

“Then regret it, Elessar,” Faramir said unexpectedly. “But know this: you have returned to the throne of Gondor after a long, long absence of the line of Elendil, and you have much to do still to see the glory of Gondor fully restored. Even after that, the running of the realm cannot be easy. The weight you carry on your shoulders is a great one, as I said. You anticipated this, my lord, we all knew it, and Legolas knows it.”

Aragorn cast his eyes down at those words, and his words hinted at despair. “King of Gondor and Arnor am I, and yet I am powerless to keep that which is dear to me.”

“You will not lose his friendship,” Faramir spoke firmly against the fear that he knew Aragorn would not put into words. “Nor his love, or his loyalty.”

At the king’s silence, Faramir pressed on. “Perhaps you choose not to see it, but you must know this, Elessar: the people of Gondor, and the noblest of Rohan and of Greenwood choose to be loyal to you because they know that in whatever you did in the war, or after, you followed the right path. If there had been choices, you made the right ones. There is no question in our minds. And I wish for the chance to tell Sarambaq that, if we should meet.”

Aragorn’s eyes were a little moist at the end of Faramir’s speech. “And meet we should,” Aragorn agreed. “We cannot allow him to move freely for too long, now that his intentions – or part of them – are known to us. I have to make sure he makes no further attempts to take Eldarion.”

The king placed a hand on Faramir’s knee and smiled his thanks before he spoke again.

“Let us wait and see what else the man from Adhûn can tell us today.” Before I leave, he added silently, not doubting that the Steward would have heard them anyway.

The prisoner in the dungeons of Minas Tirith had been fed just enough food and water to quell pangs of hunger and thirst, but the interrogator did not want him to get too comfortable, for there were still questions he needed to answer. Faramir and Aragorn had been briefed on whatever information had been gleaned earlier, but the interrogator felt there was still more to learn.

The man was told to sit back on the floor of his cell, with the interrogator standing before him, arms folded, a whip trailing from one hand, and looking sufficiently threatening.

“Back to giving me answers as agreed,” the large man said.

The prisoner scowled but said nothing.

“Remember what will happen should you fail to provide answers. No mercy this time. Your leader Sarambaq is not the only one who can show wrath.” Secretly, however, the large man was pleased that the answers had been given so far without the need for violent treatment.

“What was your question again?”

The interrogator answered patiently. “What did your master wish to do with the king’s son?”

“Revenge, like I said. Is that so hard to understand? The king destroyed my master, his home, his family. His son died in the war. But he lived and he has not forgotten it.”

“It was war, and the king was only fighting to rid the land of the Dark Lord’s servants. You can hardly blame the king for that!”

“Not I! What care I? Were you not listening? It is Sarambaq who wants revenge.”

The interrogator scowled at the arrogance of the prisoner and felt like striking him, but he had to keep the man talking. Sarambaq must want to kill the prince so that the king would suffer the same grief, the man of Gondor thought. Yet, the order had been given to take the prince alive.

“Why does your master want him alive?”

Two possible reasons ran through his mind: either he would be held as ransom for some demand, or…

Ködil sneered. “Is it not clear?”

Did he want the child taken alive so that he could do the deed himself? The man of Gondor shuddered. The people of the city were very fond of the little prince.

“Your master has no mercy indeed. The prince is but a child,” the large man said angrily. “You should be thankful the poison was not enough to kill him, or you would feel the full wrath of the king and the people of Gondor!”

A strange look came into the prisoner’s eyes at those words, and he studied the large man in silence.

“Dim-witted were you and your companions to use poison,” the large man of Gondor continued, “for if you had killed the prince, then your dark master’s plans to take him alive would have been for naught!”

“It was not meant to kill,” Ködil retorted, uttering his words flatly, almost absent-mindedly, for he seemed preoccupied with something else.

“But it could well have,” came the angry reply.

Ködil made no reply, but continued to study the interrogator’s face with rapidly moving eyes, as if he could read something there. The interrogator could almost see thoughts churning in the mind of Sarambaq’s minion. The large man decided he did not enjoy the scrutiny and was about to tell Ködil as much when the latter suddenly and mysteriously said, “Take me to see the king and his son.”

“What?” The interrogator could not believe his ears.

“Take me to the king and his son,” he said more slowly.

“I will do no such thing. What are your intentions?”

“I think I know something the king will pay dearly to learn. If I tell him, I want to be set free.”

“There is no way he will let you go.”

“Then I will tell you nothing more.”

The interrogator was angry now and moved forward menacingly, causing the prisoner to back away. “If you keep secrets from us, we will let you rot. If we choose to keep you alive, it will be by a thread, only by a thread. I will personally make your life a misery.”

Ködil stared at the man, a look of challenge in his mean eyes. The interrogator did not flinch. Finally, the Adhûnian gave in. “All right, I want your assurance you will not harm me and I must be fed. But I need to see the king and his son before I can tell you more. Take me to see them, or you will get nothing!”

The prisoner seemed very insistent, and he would say no more. The look in his face told the interrogator that there was more to the request than he could understand. He could not fathom the man of Adhûn’s intentions, so he decided it would be best if Lord Faramir himself spoke to him.

Faramir was in a meeting with the King and his Ministers which lasted three hours. It might have gone on longer – after all, the king had been away for three months, and much needed to be discussed, not least of all the current threat to the royal family – but for the gathering storm. Ominous grey clouds, flashes of lightning and rumbling thunder – as yet distant but threatening to make their presence felt overhead by nightfall – created an atmosphere of disquiet that matched the mood in Aragorn’s heart, and he gladly called a halt to the meeting, somewhat to the relief of all.

An hour after the meeting, in response to a message delivered from the dungeons, a curious Faramir found himself in the dungeons with the interrogator and the prisoner. But after thirty minutes, he learnt no more than the interrogator had beyond the fact that the Adhûnian truly felt it was imperative that he met with the king himself. They thus cleaned the prisoner up and dressed him in clean clothes before binding his hands and leading him into the hallways of the court of King Elessar. 

By the end of the evening, Aragorn found himself ready to withdraw into solitude. His earlier talk with Faramir in the library had somewhat assured him that he had had little control over whatever had transpired with Sarambaq in the war, but he could not bring himself to feel any less remorse over Legolas. Finding out that he had hurt his friend not only verbally but physically as well, no matter how inadvertent the action, haunted him, and he had barely managed to last through the discussions. Gratefully, he pushed back from the table and dismissed his Ministers. Faramir joined him for some tea and a private discussion on the merits of a trade agreement before the Steward was handed a message and excused himself, saying he needed to see the prisoner.

Good, more information, perhaps,Aragorn thought. The more we know, the faster we can plan a countermove. But I still leave for Ithilien tomorrow.

He looked out the window, and thought how the very air smelt of rain even before it came. As a Ranger, he had learnt to read the signs and to appreciate the green earthy tang that hung in the air before every storm. He savored the feeling of renewal, of a fresh start after each downpour.

If only everything in life could be as easily cleansed, he mused.

A sense of melancholy assailed him anew, but he took comfort in the thought that he would be seeing his friend soon. Hamille would have delivered his message by now. He retreated to his office to finish looking through the last of the papers he had to peruse, then gratefully retired to his chambers where he sat, balling his fists and pressing them against his forehead. Outside, the heavens had opened and released the storm. He did not know which was louder, the rain pounding against the stone walls of the chamber, or the pounding in his head.

Arwen came into the room not long after. One look at her husband told her all she needed to know. She sat beside him, took one of his hands in hers, and waited.

“I will not delay any more, Arwen,” Aragorn choked out the words at last. “The court will have to wait. I will go at first light tomorrow.”

A smile of understanding lit her fair face. “Estel, you were ready to leave that very night, and had you not promised Faramir to wait, you would have done so. Truth be told, my heart was torn between wishing you to go to him sooner and heeding the counsel of Faramir at a time like this, but I could not foresee the best course of action. Neither could you, but you did what you thought best then.”

Aragorn looked up at her, seeing the smile in her eyes.

“Still, I would not have been surprised had you departed earlier today or even yesterday, despite your promise. But you honored it and now you can leave with a clear mind. Your pack is already prepared with clothing and your usual needs,” his wife said. Aragorn felt a rush of comfort at her words. “Eldarion and I will be safe here in the city, as we were before. Worry not. Go and put both your hearts at ease, and you will return better able to carry out your duties.”

Aragorn drew her into a tight embrace, softly breathing his love and gratitude into her ears. “My duties are not the most important of my concerns at this moment, melleth, my love.”

“He knows your regret, Estel,” she said soothingly, with a curious knowing smile, thinking of a piece of paper in a basket of blueberry tarts. “Now it is time for you to tell him so face to face, heart to heart. Speak not of just one night in a healing room, but of the months past, of a friend you missed more than you realized, of patience you were too burdened to notice, and of love you were too distant to feel.”

Aragorn looked up, searching her eyes and finding support and gentle admonition.

“It has been there, Estel. He has been there, beside you, always beside you. You cannot stop being the king, a good king. But now, you must be his friend as well. Take the time.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, and they listened to the relentless slap of rain against the glass panes of the bay windows for a while before he spoke again, his sorrow almost palpable.

“No less high do I hold him in my esteem or dearer in affection than I did before, Arwen, you know that. Yet you speak the truth, I have been careless. One finger of blame I would not lay on him now should he wash his hands of me.”

“He will not,” Arwen reassured him. “His heart is purer than that. Just go to him.”

Aragorn nodded. “Were it not for the storm tonight that provides yet another obstacle, I would leave now. But no later than first light will I depart, as I said, and I must first speak with Faramir.”

As if in answer to a summons, a knock sounded on the door and the king and queen drew apart. Upon being granted permission to enter, in stepped Faramir. He cleared his throat.

“Elessar, forgive the interruption, but – ” he seemed at a loss to continue. “A strange situation has presented itself.” He cleared his throat again, suddenly feeling rather foolish at the thought of conveying the prisoner’s request.

Curious, and a little amused at the discomfiture of his Steward, Aragorn prompted, “Sometimes the best way to say something strange is just to say it.”

Taking a deep breath, Faramir repeated the exchange that had taken place between the prisoner and the interrogator as well as himself, watching surprise paint itself on Aragorn and Arwen’s faces.

“He wants to see me?” the king asked incredulously and with some anger. “After what has happened, he wishes to face me? Not the wisest move to make.”

“Not only you, Elessar, he wishes to see Eldarion as well. He seems to think it is important – he seems to have something else to tell us.”

After the initial shock, Aragorn pondered for a moment. It was a strange request. “I am not certain how Eldarion will react when he sees someone who will remind him of that evening…”

Faramir shifted uncomfortably from leg to the other. “I really do not know what to think about all this. Do you wish me to send him back to the cell?”

“No, there is only one way to find out what this is about,” Aragorn said. “Where is this –  man from Adhûn, did you say? – where is he now?”

“In your council room, heavily guarded.”

“And Eldarion?” This was directed to his wife.

“In the nursery,” Arwen answered. “I will bring him there, and – prepare him.”

“Thank you, my love.” Aragorn’s look was firm as he turned back to this Steward. “Faramir, I do not want him within ten yards of my son.”

Faramir nodded. “It has been arranged,” he assured Aragorn, and they left for the king’s office.

Flashes of lightning through the long glass windows added to the abundant light of the torches in the council room where the two figures stood waiting. As instructed by Faramir, the interrogator and the man from Adhûn stood against the wall farthest from the entrance to Aragorn’s council room. A long table stood between them and the entrance. Two guards stood within the room on either side of the door, and two others outside.

Outside the room, Aragorn paused before opening the door, collecting himself. This was the first time he would be seeing one of the attackers face to face. He took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped in. By some quirk of fate, and as faithfully as the theatrics of Lord Burion, a crash of thunder accompanied the movement, creating a dramatic entrance for the Lord of the White City. The prisoner flinched. 

Aragorn’s face was a stern mask of controlled emotions as he cast cold eyes across the room upon the man from Adhûn who, with his vile companions, had brought anguish to those he loved. Aragorn briefly and silently praised Faramir’s astuteness in choosing a meeting place where the long table would separate the prisoner from the royal family, but exactly who needed protection from whom, he was not sure. Aragorn wanted nothing more than for the loathsome man to taste the sting of Anduril, but he settled for gracing the latter with a steely stare. 

Ködil was also staring at him. He had seen Faramir before, so this must be the king of the WhiteCity, he deduced. No mistaking the regal bearing of one of royal blood and the firm jaw of a leader.

Before either of them could speak, the sound of other footsteps approached, and soon the queen and her son were in the room as well. As soon as Eldarion entered, Aragorn drew the prince to his side and placed a hand protectively around the little shoulders. Arwen took one look at the prisoner and recognized him as the man who had come charging into the talan that night. Instinctively, her hand went protectively to her son’s chest. The prince took a little longer to place the man as one of the people who had frightened him that evening; when he did, he gave a small whimper and moved closer to his father. The fury of the storm outside did little to alleviate his feeling of fear.

“Well, we meet,” Aragorn broke the silence first, his chin held high. “Does it satisfy your twisted mind in some way, to see my son that you tired to capture, into whom you sent your vile poison?”

The rain seemed deafening in the hush that followed. The whole room was silent as they waited for an answer from the man of Adhûn.

The shifty eyes of the man in question, however, traveled from the king to the prince, from father to son, and back, his face unreadable at first, his mind a whirl.

Then, as a flash of lightning illuminates the dark or as eyes that are closed finally open to see the light, it seemed to Ködil that everything fell into place, and every exchange that had taken place between him and the interrogator in all the questioning sessions he had gone through, every word they had uttered – all took on a new meaning.

To everyone’s bewilderment, he did what no one expected him to do.

He laughed.

Mingled with an earsplitting crash of thunder which caused Eldarion to stop his ears and press further into the folds of his father’s tunic, the laugh seemed to turn into an eerie cackle that froze every heart in the room save that of the man from the East.

With a gleam of satisfaction and scorn in his eyes, he looked from Aragorn to Arwen to Eldarion to Faramir and even to the interrogator and laughed again when they all exchanged looks of confusion. The large man beside him grasped his arm in a tight grip.

“Be silent!” he instructed fiercely.

“But you do not want me to be silent, you fool. You want me to talk, do you not? Give you answers? Tell you more?” he sneered in response.

“Speak then! What is it you have to tell us?” Aragorn demanded with all the authority of his regal status.

And speak he did.

As the man of Adhûn gave answers to the questions they asked – and to several they did not – Aragorn’s face turned pale. 

CHAPTER 15: THE DAWN OF TRUTH

Aragorn tossed and turned all night after what they had learnt from the prisoner hours earlier, and Arwen was hardly able to get any rest either.

The worst storm Minas Tirith had seen in years had lashed its fury on the city for two hours, and then rained steadily for two more, making it impossible for anyone to attempt venturing outdoors, let alone ride anywhere in it in the dark. After much discussion, the King, the Queen, and the Steward had all decided reluctantly to obtain what rest they could for the rest of the night. But even before first light, the king was up, washed and dressed, ready to leave for Ithilien.

After a light, hurried breakfast, he and Arwen went into Eldarion’s room where he placed a quiet kiss on his son’s forehead. Then he kissed Arwen goodbye in their bedchamber, and he left the shelter of the palace.

As usual, Aragorn took in the smell of a freshly washed land as he walked to the stables in the chill left by the storm. The same stable lad whom he had terrified two nights ago greeted him at the stables, having been woken up from a sound sleep in a warm bed by a guard of the Citadel. Seeing the youth shiver a little despite being wrapped up in a cloak, Aragorn smiled kindly on him. The king walked to his horse and patted the smooth skin of the well-groomed chestnut stallion that Legolas himself had trained for him. He had been riding it for six months now, but he suspected that the animal still felt closer to his elf trainer than to his master. Such was the love elves developed between themselves and the creatures they tamed.

“Quel amrun, Rallias,” Aragorn greeted the beautiful animal, although it was not quite a good morning yet. The horse nickered softly. 

Faramir appeared beside him, sleep still heavy on his face. Aragorn was quietly grateful to his faithful Steward to whom he entrusted the care of the city and family each time he left. The previous night, Faramir had insisted that at least two guards accompany Aragorn on his visit, since Aragorn would not agree to more, and Aragorn had acquiesced, only for the peace of mind of his Steward. Fleetingly, he recalled how Arwen had sent back her own guards from Ithilien and, for a moment, he understood how she must have felt. 

“I know you will take care of them,” he said quietly to Faramir, certain that the gentle Steward knew to whom he was referring. “I may not be long in Ithilien, but I do not yet know what I will find there, or what will happen. But I – I have to make things right first, and then, I do not know what he will decide – ” he was lost for words for a moment as he pondered the situation they found themselves in.

“I understand, Elessar,” Faramir said with a smile. “Take the time you need. Arwen and Eldarion will be safe here. Please tell Legolas… tell him… you know… ”

It was Aragorn who smiled now. “I will, Faramir.” He turned to go, but suddenly turned back and queried, “The riders, have you arranged for them – ”

“Yes, worry not. They will leave today, as early as I can manage it. I have given them your message. They will ride with all haste.”

With a final nod, the king mounted his horse and rode off, with two rather sleepy guards behind him, unaware that the reason for his going to the woods would, in a little while, be waking up himself, and departing from the place before long.

Legolas came awake from his elven reverie in his talan, in that small breath of time before Ithil graciously left the skies and Anor traced her own path into it to herald a new dawn. He lay still for a few minutes with his eyes closed and listened for the first bird call, the first flutter of wings, the first sound of a woodland creature’s feet to welcome the birth of a new day in Arda.

What would each new day be like in Valinor? Tranquil, restful… The thought came from nowhere, unbidden, surprising him.

Shaking off the thought, he sat up quickly. He dressed in a light shirt, a thicker tunic and strong leggings. Travel clothes, he mused. He had prepared his pack and equipment, and checked his weapons the previous night, and they lay ready at the door.

I hope I will be able to leave without suspicion, he said to himself.The elves, he knew, would not let him go alone if they realized where he was headed.

The previous night, he had spent two hours thinking through what he was about to do. If it took Brûyn two to three weeks to walk from Adhûn, it would take them just a few days on horseback if conditions were right and they could ride fast. But having to remain unseen might slow them down; they would have to keep to the cover of forests during the day. Still, all he wanted was to know the route, and as soon as they were close enough to the vicinity, they would turn back.

If all goes well, I will be back here in little more than a week, he had determined. He would give his friends the impression that he was taking the prisoner to Minas Tirith. Now would be a good time for the absence of visitors from the City, for if they come, they will know I have not been there… and then…and then…

He had been suddenly nervous. They will reach the conclusion that I have gone towards Adhûn. What if they attempt to follow me? That is not what I wish.

Dismay had overwhelmed him, but after a few moments, he had remembered that Brûyn would no longer be here. Without a guide, they would not know where to go. By the time someone came from the City – if at all anyone did – and by the time they could guess his route, he would already be on his way back, and no one would need to go further. With those hopeful thoughts – and reluctance to consider whether or not they were truly rational – the elf had fallen into a light sleep.

Now, wide awake and ready to proceed, he walked over to the window and looked out, breathing in the cool morning air and watching the last of Varya’s lamps twinkle out in the dark sky.

Arwen’s note from the basket last evening had given him a tiny measure of solace, a spark of hope that his friendship with his human friend was not as damaged as he had feared, that the man’s trust in him was not dead and that they had not grown too far apart. But still, he had not heard it from Aragorn’s own lips. It might have been Arwen’s mistaken perception, or her own way of making him feel better.

He sighed. There was no point in musing over this now. He would have to get going.

A light mist covered the landscape of the woods, dissipating the light of Ithil so that Ithilien seemed like a place of magic. Walking silently over the dew-covered grass, he made his way over to where the prisoner was. Lanwil had cleaned him and given him fresh clothes as Legolas had asked him to. Hannon le, Lanwil, he thought silently. This will make it less unpleasant to have him in front of me on the horse.

At Legolas’ approach, the elf on guard dropped lightly to the ground from where he had been resting in the branches of the tree to which the prisoner was tied. Brûyn, lying on a blanket spread on the grass, with another blanket over his body, stirred in his sleep.

“Heru nin,” the elf addressed Legolas, who nodded.

“Fứillin, would you prepare Aérodel for me, please?” the elf prince requested, casting his eyes briefly in the direction of the stables. “I will need a saddle today.”

Like all elves, Legolas rode bareback. But Brûyn would not be able to, and he did not want to take an extra horse on the journey and run the risk of the man riding off on his own if something should happen. The request made the other elf look at his prince in surprise, a curious expression on his face and a question on the tip of his tongue.

Legolas was prepared for this. He had pondered on what he would say to the others if they asked. He would give answers that contained truth, but which would not tell them exactly where he himself would be going. He now pointed to the sleeping form on the ground.

“The interrogators at the White City would be delighted with another informant,” he answered vaguely, trying hard not to give any sign of his discomfort at hiding his true intentions.

Legolas kept his voice hushed, not for the sake of the sleeping prisoner, whom he would be waking soon, but so that no other elves would be drawn to what was going on. The recuperating elves would be asleep and the others on guard at the fringes of the woods. The previous night, he had taken care to post as many as he could on duty away from the main area of the elf settlement, suppressing a feeling of guilt as he did so. He had made some excuse for them to train their attention to the south and south east, and away from where they would be headed.

“You leave now, heru nin?” Fứillin enquired.

“Yes.”

“It is very early,” the elf could not help remarking, still hesitant to leave for the stables.

“I have matters to settle,” came the immediate – and truthful – reply.

“Will you not take someone with you?” the elf persisted.

Legolas controlled a rising impatience, not at the elf, but out of an anxious need to depart before his true plans were revealed. “There is no need. He is just one man, and he will be bound.”

The elf was still a little puzzled, and his eyes went briefly to the things in Legolas’ hands. The bow, quiver and knives his prince carried did not merit interest, for the elves always carried their weapons whenever they left Ithilien. It was the pack that aroused his curiosity, but then, he was not about to question his prince on what it contained or what he was going to do with it. Perhaps they were just supplies for a longer stay in the White City.

“Saes, Fứillin, please,” Legolas said, looking him in the eye, “and be quiet. Let us not disturb our sleeping friends. They still recover.” The other elf bowed slightly, turned and walked into the darkness under the trees to do as he had been bidden.

Legolas breathed a small sigh of relief after he left, and turned to the task of waking up the prisoner. Brûyn looked dazed at being awakened so early.

“We leave now,” Legolas whispered, releasing him from the tree and tying his hands securely behind his back. 

The man yawned and tried to stretch himself. This time, Legolas’ impatience was at him.

“Get up and move quickly,” he hissed. Then he grabbed the man’s shoulders and stared him hard in the eyes. “Remember, breathe not a word of where we are going to anyone, or you taste the blade of my knife.”

Even in his sleepy state, Brûyn could not ignore the deliberate coldness in the elven eyes, and he nodded, swallowing.

Dawn was not far off but had not yet broken by the time they were both mounted on Aérodel, Brûyn seated sideways on the horse before the elf. As instructed, Fứillin had tied the man’s legs with a short piece of rope so that they were not bound together but it would still be difficult for him to run or even walk should he attempt escape. The man was all but delighted with this arrangement, and neither did Aérodel seem particularly happy at having been saddled. Along with the slightly nervous elf who would be traveling with them both, they made a despondent little threesome. But Legolas had spoken softly to Aérodel, calming him so that he stood obedient and willing as Legolas tied his pack to the saddle. The elf’s weapons were, as usual, strapped to his back.

Legolas was glad that none of the other elves had been drawn to the stables. Except for the small snorts of the equine creature, they had been quiet enough.

“Will you be gone long?” Fứillin asked, looking up at the elf on the horse.

“I will return as soon as I can, when matters have been settled. It may take several days,” was the vague and carefully worded reply.

Fứillin nodded. “Namárië, Bridhon nin,” he said in farewell.

“Namárië,” Legolas said in return, giving him a warm smile. “Please tell Hamille to watch over things in my absence.”

With a click of his tongue and a last look at the landscape behind him, the Woodland prince guided his horse and his prisoner out of the clearing, melting into the chill mists of Ithilien. Legolas was glad for the mists, for when they came to the fringe of the woods, they would make it easier for him to evade the eyes of the elf guards in the trees when they had to seek the route to the north and east, in the opposite direction to the White City.

All through the journey, Aragorn thought about what he would say to his friend, how to convey to him all that needed to be conveyed. He could think of no easy way.

He and his escort moved slowly in the dark, for the clouds covered the moon, and the horses trod more cautiously than usual. The riders followed the route more from memory than from clear sight, for none of them carried a torch. If anyone were after them right now, a torch would announce their position as clearly as a blast from a horn would. As they left the City behind, the clouds gradually lessened, and the dawn came to paint the sky before them with reds and pinks and golds, slowly revealing the well-trod paths before them.

They rode faster as the sun rose advanced, and Aragorn saw that the previous night’s storm had hardly touched this part of the country. The paths were not nearly as muddy as they had been leading out of the City. By late morning, they were approaching the eaves of Ithilien.

Aragorn found himself relaxing, breathing in the scent of the trees and flowers that Legolas and the elves of the Greenwood had lovingly nurtured back to life. Pines and beeches and oaks stood proudly, and the songs of joyous birds flying free greeted him. White and yellow blossoms floated down from the trees, and butterflies chased them in a dance choreographed by the wind. The serenity of the scene soothed him into weakness, and the purity of the colors – blues and greens and whites and golds and yellows – blessed it with a newness that left him with a sense of speechless awe he had not felt in many, many months. His heart ached as he thought back to the life he had lived in Imladris, the elven home he had grown up a lifetime ago, and to Lothlorien where he had first beheld and fallen in love with the beauty of Arwen. His breath hitched as he recalled his Ranger days when he had been so much more at liberty to travel the lands, as far as Legolas’ home in Mirkwood and beyond. A picture of his friend’s warm and breathtaking smile filled his mind.

It has been too long since I came here, he thought with a tear in his eye. Too long. How could I have lost touch with this part of Legolas that he loves so deeply, with everything he is? He demands nothing, he gives so much, and he waits for me to come back.    

With those thoughts, he spurred his horse on, eager to see once more the elven light in his friend’s fair face, to embrace his company and listen to his songs.

He was greeted by Hamille, Lanwil and several other elves as he turned into the clearing where the elves held most of their social activities. It was a small group, but many months, almost a year had it been since Aragorn saw this many elves gathered under the beauty of trees in woods so green. He looked admiringly at the fair faces, slender figures and flowing hair that matched every fluid move they made as they came to him, expressing both delighted surprise and puzzlement at his unexpected visit. Even as he dismounted, he noticed Hamille’s eyes searching for something behind him. Aragorn lapsed into Sindarin as was customary whenever he was in the company of the elves. Politely giving the elvish greeting, he asked for Legolas immediately, expecting that the elf would offer to inform his prince about their arrival. But he was taken aback at the response he received.

“But my lord, he left early this morning,” Hamille said as his friend took the horse’s reins from Aragorn to lead the animal and the king’s guards to the stables.

Aragorn stopped in his tracks, a note of anxiety and dismay in his voice. “Left? Left for where?” 

Hamille and the other elves exchanged a puzzled look before Hamille answered: “For the White City, with the man we held captive. Did you not pass him?”

“You held someone captive?” The note of surprise in the king’s voice was loud.

“Yes, one of the attackers. We caught him later that night, after Prince Legolas left for Minas Tirith,” Lanwil explained. “I rode there to tell him the next day, and he came back here with me. He wanted the man held here for questioning.”

Aragorn felt a rising sense of urgency but still needed to place events in sequence in his head. He was trying to remember when, if at all, he had heard about this other captive, when Hamille interrupted his reflections. “The prince learnt about it after he left the healing room,” he offered softly, fixing his gaze on the king.

Aragorn looked into the eyes of the elf and read the hidden meaning and knowledge there. He flinched a little as he realized that Hamille had known all along. Did Legolas – ? 

“He told no one, it was I who heard,” Hamille intercepted in a voice barely above a whisper, reading Aragorn’s mind. “He defended you to the end.”

Aragorn swallowed and his eyes glistened. “I know he would have, and deep has been my regret over my careless words since. This is why I came, as I said I would,” he whispered back. “There is no nobler friend than your prince, I have none truer.”

Hamille seemed appeased at the sincerity in the man’s voice, and his elvish smile was one of forgiveness. The other elves watched them, uncomprehending, unable to follow the tangent on which they had departed.

Fứillin’s voice brought them back to the subject they had been on:  “He left before dawn this morning.”

At those words, Aragorn’s heart sank, and a sudden fear gripped him. “We departed from the City before dawn as well, and if he had been riding in that direction, we would have crossed paths. We saw no one. Is there any reason he would have proceeded on any course other than the usual one?”

The elves looked at each other and shook their heads. “We can think of no reason for it,” Hamille replied. “There is only one path we all take, the well-traversed one.” 

Aragorn nodded. “That is why I do not think he went to the City.”

The elves now looked even more bewildered, and worry crept into their eyes as well.  Hamille turned to face Fứillin, asking an unspoken question.

“That is where he said he was going,” the latter said, then paused as he tried to recall the exact conversation he had exchanged with the elf prince. “Or perhaps not exactly…”

Apprehension gripped Aragorn like a cold claw as he asked Fứillin in alarm: “What exactly did he say?”

Within minutes, Fứillin had narrated the whole conversation, at the end of which the faces of Aragorn, Hamille and the other elves were noticeably even more anxious. Aragorn closed his eyes as he realized how cleverly Legolas had evaded telling Fứillin the truth and avoided telling a lie at the same time.

He is not a good liar, he thought. He must have been planning this.

“I did think it a little strange that he was going alone, but he would not let me question him about it,” Fứillin finished unhappily, “and he would not let me wake anyone.”

“This may have some bearing on the mystery of where he has gone,” Lanwil spoke up suddenly. “I, too, thought it strange that he should have chosen to speak to the prisoner alone last night. He let no one hear what they said to each other. I wonder now if… if he had been set on some purpose even then.”

“What did you find out from the one you held captive?” Aragorn enquired.

Lanwil told him what they knew of Sarambaq and his halls in Adhûn.

Aragorn’s thoughts suddenly flew to what Legolas had said that night after his own outburst: “I will go now to make amends, to redress the wrong that has been committed, as best as I can…”

To make amends, redress the wrong…

And then he knew.

When he looked at Hamille with wide eyes, he saw that the elf had guessed as well. Legolas must be going east with the prisoner. Aragorn’s heart sank even further and his hands shook as he ran them through his dark hair. His voice, when he spoke again, was equally shaky and full of remorse.

“I rue my careless words even more deeply now, Hamille, for I fear they may have been the reason he set off in the first place.”

“I am not surprised that he should want to try and find your enemy, my lord, for he would do anything to aid you, though I cannot help but wish he had been less hasty, or at least invited some company.”

“No, he would not want any of you to go, for he cannot know what lies ahead. He would spare all of us the danger; that is his way.” Aragorn shook his head. “Neither have I known him to act in haste, yet his heart must have been restless, due in no small part to my own failing.” His pain and self-reproach was plain for all to see, even if no one but Hamille understood exactly to what he referred.

“Alas that I did not get here sooner, but I could not, and the news that I bring now, we only learnt last night,” he continued to lament in distress. “But for the storm, I would have come straight away, and little did I suspect that he had these plans. Ai, Legolas!”

Most of the Ithilien elves were gathered there by now, listening to the exchange. Aragorn’s guards also stood close by, listening but understanding nothing.

“Saes, heru nin,” Hamille pressed him. “Please, my lord, tell us what this news is.”

Aragorn first needed to know how much they already knew. “This man you captured,” Aragorn asked the elves. “Did he tell you of his master’s intentions and plans?”

They all looked at the elf who had questioned the prisoner.

”Nay,” he responded. “He said he did not know as much as the one we sent to the White City, for that one was one of their leaders.”

Aragorn nodded. “Indeed, we learnt more from the one in our dungeons, and I have no reason to believe he is not telling the truth, but my heart is heavy in telling you what we now know.” Under his breath, he breathed a message to one who was absent: “Had I the wings of an eagle, my friend, I would be bearing you back here on the swiftest wind this moment.”

The elves waited for him to speak again. Hamille pressed him, “Tell us, my lord.”

There was no easy way, so Aragorn stated it plainly: “They did not come here for my son, Eldarion.”

The elves gasped. “What do you mean, my lord? I heard them myself,” Lishian spoke up for the first time. “They asked for the king’s son, and that is what they shouted to each other.”

Aragorn cleared his throat. “Yes, you heard truly. They were after the king’s son,” he said slowly, “but it was not Eldarion they sought…”

Hamille’s eyes, and the eyes of several others, widened as a thought began to take form.

“Saes, speak plainly, please, King Elessar,” he pleaded in a shaky voice, not wanting but needing to hear it confirmed.

“They – they were after the son of a different king, Hamille.”

A cold, uneasy feeling crept into the elves’ hearts. A different king. 

Their minds replayed the events that had shattered the peace of Ithilien three days ago, and as suddenly as realization had dawned upon the prisoner in the White City the night before, they all knew now how different eyes had looked upon the same truth and seen different meanings.

“It was the King of Mirkwood they were talking about,” Aragorn drove the thought home for them. “Your king, Thranduil. The son they sought to capture was your prince – Legolas.”

CHAPTER 16: REVELATION

For a few seconds after his announcement and the initial gasps of shock from the elves, Aragorn felt as if every living thing in the clearing had come to a standstill to take in the news about the Lord of Ithilien. All the elves’ faces went as ashen as his was. The sky was a washed blue, the greens were new and fresh, but all the colors that had seemed so vibrant an hour ago seemed shadowed now. Then every elf in the gathering, except Hamille, who stood stock still, started talking.

Lishian protested. “But… my lord, they went to the talan looking for the king’s son!”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes and thought for a moment. “I was not there that evening, my friend, and I know no more than what Lady Arwen told me. But… was Legolas not also in the talan when they went up?”

Now they all waited for Lishian to answer, for he and Galean were the only ones in the tree house at the time, besides Legolas, Arwen and Eldarion. He closed his eyes and focused silently on the memory of all that had gone on, and when he remembered, he opened them and sighed sadly, wishing he were wrong.

“Aye, he was. And… it is true,” he said, looking around at his friends. “The attackers did not invade the talan till our prince had returned to it.  He was fighting them on the ground at first, and he wanted us to be quiet, for he did not wish to draw their attention to the presence of the queen and the prince… the other, young prince.”

Aragorn closed his eyes now, speaking silently to his absent friend. Mellon nin, you protected them, and I hurt you.

Lishian went on. “But soon after, he came up himself, to see to their safety. It was then that the intruders climbed the tree, and Galean…” Lishian faltered, thinking of his slain friend. Hamille placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him strength, and he continued in a softer voice. “Galean and I started shooting them then, as they tried to come in over the wall. I was shot after that and I do not remember very much, but… I think the prince took my arrows and shot someone at the door, and then Galean fell… and there were others coming over the wall. I… someone said to take him alive… the king’s son. I… I do not remember more.”

“We did not think he was after our prince, for it was Eldarion that Legolas sought to hide first,” Lanwil said. “Never did he think they were after him, and thus neither did we.”

“That is Legolas,” Aragorn said fondly, almost to himself. “Last is he in his own heart.”

“But why does Sarambaq want him?” Hamille demanded, his eyes growing hard. “Who is this villain?”

Now that he knew where Legolas had gone, Aragorn was more than anxious to follow his trail, but he knew that the elves needed to be told all that the man of Adhûn had revealed to him.

“Sarambaq was a servant of the Necromancer… we know him better as Sauron.” Aragorn stated, looking at the elves to see if they were able to relate the two he had named, but they did not and waited expectantly for him to say more.

“You all know that before the Quest of the Ring, Mirkwood had long been at war with the Necromancer in the dark forests of Dol Guldur,” he said, and then the elves nodded. “Legolas had been on those patrols as well?”

“Aye,” Hamille replied. “He led many of them.”

Aragorn nodded and said softly, “That is how Ködil knew him then.” He saw the uncomprehending looks on the faces of the elves and continued. “During and after the Quest, your king and Celeborn of Lothlorien attacked the evil in Dol Guldur, did they not? They drove them out of the forest and renamed it Eryn Lasgalen?”

“Aye, many of us were part of those efforts, and indeed in the final assault as well,” Lanwil responded. “But this Sarambaq…?”

“Some of those who brought darkness to Dol Guldur came from the area between Gondor and the Sea of Rhûn,” Aragorn explained. “They were men whom Sauron enslaved and tortured as he did the orcs. Many of them had families and kin. Among them was Sarambaq, who commanded one of the armies.”

The names of the people the elves fought were unknown to them, but a glimpse of understanding began to light their faces even as they waited for Aragorn to tell them more.  

“In the final assault upon Dol Guldur, Thranduil killed one of the younger men.” Aragorn paused. “He was Sarambaq’s son. Sarambaq himself escaped, but he has not forgotten the death of his son, nor has he forgotten the elf king who ended his life, for he witnessed it himself and was unable to stop it. So he fled and swore vengeance.”

The silence in the clearing was unnerving. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing as they listened intently to the tale.

“His vengeance would be taken by capturing Legolas, for in that way would he torture his father, Thranduil. That is why he sought to take your prince alive. My guess is that he desired to make certain your king would know of his son’s imprisonment at his hands and to gloat over the pain that would cause.”

Fury grew in the faces of the elves, but they were still silent, so Aragorn spoke again.

“Thranduil would have gone after him with the forces of Mirkwood, and Gondor would have joined him without hesitation. But…” Aragorn paused as he considered his next words. “I think the greater likelihood is that Sarambaq would have wanted to hold Legolas ransom, as a lure for Thranduil, and only Thranduil, to come and claim him. Alone.”

Alone. The word sent a shiver of fear up elven spines.

“Then Sarambaq would have killed our king – as well our prince,” Hamille finished, his voice as hard as steel. Disbelief and horror filled the faces of the elves.

Aragorn nodded. “That is what I believe. We should all be glad his plans were thwarted, thanks to your valor.”

In the clearing under the mid-day sun, the elves of Ithilien surrounded the King of Gondor and digested with growing apprehension the information he had brought. The thought of pursuing their prince was now uppermost in their minds, but the others waited for Hamille to speak.

Before he could, Lanwil gave a sudden gasp and clutched his arm, saying urgently, “The king! He has to be warned!”

“I have taken care of that, my friend,” said Aragorn. “Even as we speak, riders are already on the way to your king’s home with a message about the threat. They would have left not long after I did.”

Hamille nodded in silent gratitude, and Aragorn spoke again. 

“I do not think that Sarambaq would dare to attack the Greenwood – he would not get past Thranduil’s watchful guard and would not dare confront his forces. Even your small elf colony in Ithilien must have been daunting to him. The prisoner told us that he bided his time, and favor was on his side when so many of your elves removed to South Ithilien. He told his people to wait till Legolas came back, and with only a handful of guards around your prince, they deemed it ripe to strike. Fortunately, they underestimated the strength and resistance of elves.”

“Then… Lady Arwen and the young prince… they were just there by chance,” Hamille reflected.

Aragorn sighed. “Aye, Hamille, just by chance. But all this while, we thought Eldarion was the one being sought.”

Hamille hung his head and spoke in sorrow. “My prince would be grieved to know that the child suffered as a consequence, and needless was the suffering, as was the anguish caused to everyone.”

“I thank the Valar no greater harm came to my son, but no blame should be laid on any of us, Hamille,” Aragorn said graciously and firmly, laying a hand on the elf’s arm. “It is Sarambaq who caused the pain we have all borne, and Legolas not the least. Had we but known the truth earlier! As things stood, it was my life for which my Steward feared, not Legolas’.” Aragorn sighed wistfully as he added, “If the prisoner had spoken earlier, and we had known where the real danger lay, I would have come at once. I did not think Legolas would have decided to go off on his own, or that he would have known where to go…”

“You did not know of our prisoner, King Elessar,” Hamille said graciously in return, and Lanwil nodded in agreement. “You could not have foreseen our prince’s actions, when even we who were with him did not. No fault do we lay on you in this matter.”

“Wherever the blame lies, Hamille, what remains to be done immediately is to go after him. He must not be taken.” Aragorn proceeded to tell them about Sarambaq’s flying beast Dárkil and the meeting place located a three-day trek from Ithilien. When he had finished, the elves were both furious and highly worried for their prince. An urge to depart instantly filled their veins.

“We know Sarambaq wanted to take Legolas alive. I believe he may already have found out that the men he sent failed to do so, if he has gone to the meeting place with his flying beast,” Aragorn said. “He may or may not already be planning something else, but in all likelihood, he would not have given up his desire. I fear for Legolas, even more so that he has gone off alone, without any knowledge of this matter. I have to go after him and bring him back.”

“We will go after him,” Hamille objected. “He is our prince, and it is our duty.”

“I have no doubt that is your fervent wish,” Aragorn said gently. “But I do not know if that is the wisest choice at this point – ”

“Not the wisest choice?” Lishian demanded, startled by Aragorns’ words. “Pray tell, what choice do we have, now that we know our prince is out there alone, without help?”

Aragorn’s mind worked furiously as he weighed the alternatives, but when he answered, his voice was patient and steady.

“Without the gift of foresight, I cannot know if any choice we make will prove well or ill, yet choose we must. When we have had enough time to convene and consider an offensive on Sarambaq’s stronghold, then indeed would strength in arms be needed. We would need to gather the forces of the Greenwood and Gondor, and indeed we may still march on him. But that course of action would brook delay, and now is not the time for it. Our immediate concern should be to bring Legolas home safely as soon as possible. To do that, we should avoid an encounter with the enemy.

“The choice I would counsel, therefore, is the one that Lord Elrond made when he sent only nine walkers on the Quest of the Ring, instead of the armies of three elven realms. The success of the quest depended on stealth and secrecy, not might in numbers.”

He paused briefly to compose his next words.

“Legolas has been gone less than half a day, and it would not take too long to track him if it is done immediately, and thus will he be reached soonest. But it has to be done in stealth and secrecy as the Quest was.” Aragorn swallowed before resuming, “If things go ill and he is taken by Sarambaq’s men in their own territory … if that happens, then our present numbers will be of little avail.

“I would choose not to do battle, but to follow his trail and bring him back quietly. I believe this is what Legolas needs now. We do not want to draw Sarambaq’s attention to him, and that we will surely do if we go in numbers.”

Although the elves had been appalled at Aragorn’s earlier words, for it had been unthinkable that they would not go after the prince as well, the mention of the much respected elf lord Elrond’s name and his counsel, even if he had already sailed to the Undying Lands, made them hesitate and consider the man’s argument. Aragorn had, after all, led the quest much of the way, after the fall of Mithrandir.

“We do not doubt your skills as one of the Dừnedain Rangers, my lord, albeit in days past, but perhaps one or two of us can go with you,” Lanwil submitted.

The elves waited as the king considered this.

“On my part, I have great faith in the stealth of elves, you know that,” he said at last, “but there may be times when it will be necessary to move in the open. I can clothe and disguise myself so that I would appear to be a human traveler seeking new lands. Indeed, if I should be seen or approached, that would be my claim, that I am lost in the wilderness. An elf, however, would find it most difficult to hide his true form and countenance; your looks are… distinctive,” he pointed out. “If you should be seen or stopped, I fear that it would be more difficult to convince strangers that you are wandering elves; they will suspect something amiss and guess that you seek someone. Do not forget also that Sarambaq’s men have seen you. They would know you are from Ithilien.”

What he said seemed sensible so far, but he was not finished.

“Even if Legolas escapes capture, none of you can afford to be taken either. If Sarambaq does not get his prince, he would not hesitate to use you – any of you – as ransom.”

“We are prepared to take our prince’s place,” Lishian said staunchly.

Aragorn held up his hand. “Your loyalty to Legolas is not in question. I, too, would willingly take his place if it would do any good, for I too love him.”

The light in his eyes and the set of his jaw as he said this left the elves in no doubt that he meant every word.

“Alas, it is your king Sarambaq wants, not me. He may not hold you as valuable a hostage as Thranduil’s son, but if he were to take any of you, Thranduil would still send his forces after you, would he not?” Aragorn swept his eyes over the group as he posed the question.

“But at least he himself would not go. No one would allow him to go, it is unthinkable,” Lanwil ventured. “The king would be safe.”

“You speak truly, yet it is not him you need to worry about should the situation arise,” Aragorn countered. “If the elves were to go after you, who do you think would lead them? Who would insist on leading them there, even if he himself had returned safely?”

“Prince Legolas,” Hamille conceded softly.

Aragorn nodded agreement. “You have served him long and faithfully. Even if he has eluded capture, I do not doubt for one moment that he would ride back there and risk being taken again rather than abandon any of you to captivity under Sarambaq. But you know what would happen if that should come to pass.”

The elves looked at one another and pondered this counsel from Aragorn. He understood the hesitation they were experiencing, but he needed to remind them of the urgency of the situation.

“This matter concerns all of us, my friends, and I can see no further than you as to the wisdom of my choice, if I were to make it. You are free to deliberate it, and I will follow the decision you make. But we must tarry no longer than necessary. Legolas has not been gone overly long, and the sooner I – or we – depart, the greater the chances of finding him before he ventures too far.”

The very trees in the clearing seemed to await the elves’ decision as they pondered Aragorn’s arguments. Their hearts were torn in two, but understanding the urgency of the matter, Hamille spoke before long.

“As you say, King Elessar, none of us can foresee whether one decision would be better than another. “But we have to resolve this quickly. Our prince gave me the task of looking after Ithilien in his absence, so I shall bear the weight of this choice. Rightly or wrongly, my lord, we will follow your counsel. We trust that you will do everything in your power to bring him back safely.”

Aragorn nodded, accepting their decision. His anxiety for their prince was plain, and the elves knew he would not rest till he was face to face again with his friend.  

“Yet we cannot sit by and do nothing,” Hamille finished, a note of helplessness creeping into his voice.  

“Not nothing, Hamille,” Aragorn said. “My riders have already gone to the Greenwood, but they will first travel the route west through Rohan, for they know of no other. The route across the Reclaimed Lands and the Wilderland to the north, however, is shorter, as you well know, and I imagine that one of you will now wish to take it, to reach Thrandruil even sooner…”

“Of course, we can leave straight away,” Hamille agreed readily and turned to issue an instruction.

But Aragorn held his arm, speaking hesitantly as another thought entered his mind. “I do not know if it such aid will be needed in the end, but… I would be much relieved if I knew that I could expect it.”

Aragorn told Hamille what he needed done, and Hamille nodded.

“It is highly likely that Thranduil himself will come. If we are not back in four or five days, the time may be ripe for you to come after us, with whatever forces you can muster, and I hope with the aid I seek. The prisoner in the City will show the way.” Aragorn paused before saying carefully: “If that should be necessary, it is up to you to stay your king if you deem it wise to do so, yet it will not be easy, for a father’s anxiety is a powerful emotion… one that can lead to neglect of caution, both in word and deed, as I can testify.” As he said this, he and Hamille exchanged a look of mutual understanding, again lost to the other elves.

“We shall leave that in the past,” Hamille said comfortingly. “But as for my king, I do not know if I could hold him any more than I could stop the charge of a herd of raged oliphaunts,” he sighed resignedly, looking a little abashed as he realized the comparison he had used without thinking.

Aragorn could not hide a grin at those words. “And that may be well, for if we are still not back by then, we will welcome aid, for we may be in deep waters. But let us not dwell on morose possibilities. I need to prepare.”

“Your Steward and family does not yet know of your decision to depart immediately from here, but I assume that is what you wish to do…?”

“Most certainly, as soon as I am ready. My escort will return to inform them,” Aragorn affirmed. “You will need to see to your own defenses as well, for who can tell if there will be another attempt. I will not presume to advise you on that matter, as you know best how to strengthen them. But you are also most welcome to seek refuge or aid from the White City should you need to.” Hamille nodded his agreement.

Half an hour after they had finished talking, the men of Gondor had taken some light refreshment and were remounted on their horses. Aragorn had changed into informal clothes, not the kind he would have worn as a Ranger, but far more suited for travel than the velvet tunic he had come in. He silently blessed his wife for having packed a set for him. A plainer but warm cloak from the elves replaced his own. The wind would tousle his hair soon enough, and the elves helped to smear dirt on his cloak and boots so that he would look more travel-worn.

They gave him packets of lembas, the waybread of elves, and filled his water skin. Healing herbs too were quietly given and received, although everyone hoped they would not be needed.

As they were walking to the horses, on a sudden impulse, Aragorn turned to Hamille and said: “Give me something of Legolas’.”

Hamille stopped in mid-stride and stared at the man. “What?”

The man looked a little sheepish. He could not explain his strange request, but his heart was moved to make it. “Something he has worn recently, a shirt or a cloak. Please – fetch it for me.”

Hamille looked at him a moment longer, before asking another equally puzzled elf to bring from the prince’s talan a cloak he had seen the prince wear sometimes. When it was handed to him, Aragorn received it gratefully and silently. It was then rolled up with his blanket and tied to the saddle.

Much to their chagrin, Aragorn’s two guards were commanded to return to Minas Tirith with information and instructions for Faramir, and a message for the queen. They were highly unwilling to leave their king, but he had given the order, and they could not disobey. Faramir would not be pleased either, but that could not be helped.

The elves gathered around Aragorn when he was finally ready to set off. There was no need for many words, for they all knew what each felt. As he placed his hand on his breast in farewell, Aragorn’s eyes filled with resolve, and he said to Hamille:

“I will go to whatever end to bring him back, my friend. Only death can stop me.”

“May the Valar watch over you both,” came the heartfelt reply.

With that, the royal escort rode back to the White City. And the King of Gondor, who was once again a Dừnedain Ranger, rode north and east on the heels of Legolas Greenleaf, elf of Greenwood and Ithilien, and his most cherished friend.

Please note that there is some description of blood and death at the beginning of this chapter, just in case there are children reading.

CHAPTER 17:  VOICES IN THE DARK

Sounds of battle, of yells and commands, of whistling arrows and clashing swords rent the foul air of Dol Guldur. Golden-haired and dark-haired elves with bright eyes and gleaming scythes and swords, a strange light illuminating their countenance and enveloping their every movement, assailed Sauron’s forces with the fury of a lightning storm that dispelled the shadows of the dark forest stronghold.

Sarambaq watched his troops fall around him, their cries of pain and fear and death resounding in his ears. He was their leader, but he was powerless to keep his forces together.

Even as he desperately fended off the swords of two elves, he saw his son some distance away. His young face was a mask of blazing anger as he engaged in a sword fight with the elf king of Mirkwood. Their swords clashed as they parried and thrust. A surge of protectiveness welled up in him, and he tried to make his way over to where they were, but the elves around him thwarted his attempts to move from his position. In between warding off blows to his own body, his stolen glances told him his son was holding himself well. His youthful body dodging a swing of the elven sword, he swung his own sword fiercely at the mid-section of the king.

Youth, however, offers no surety of life, no certain protection against mortality, and the next scene played out in front of Sarambaq’s eyes was one that would haunt him incessantly all the years of his life to come.

The litheness of elves, even in one as venerable as Thranduil, saved the king when he stepped back just in time from what would have been a lethal slash. But the momentum of the young man’s movement as he crouched to evade the earlier swipe of the elven sword, threw him off-balance. The golden-haired king did not waste the chance. He swiftly drew his arm back and with a powerful stab, thrust his sword into the chest of his opponent who would have just as readily ripped open his own moments ago. 

Like watching a series of images unveiled slowly behind a curtain of moving water, the father watched as his son stayed motionless at the end of the sword, then slowly crumbled to the ground even as the elven sword was withdrawn and his blood spurted forth. The elf king’s head lowered for a brief instant before he turned and raced away to continue the battle for the woods of Dol Guldur.

A silent wail of depthless agony and grief rose and caught in Sarambaq’s throat and stayed there; only the swish of an elven blade drawing blood from his arm brought him back to his own predicament. With the savaged fury of a bereaved father, he slashed out with greater ferocity than he thought possible and slew two astonished elves with one long sweeping arc of his sword. Before the elves could even sink to the ground, he ran like a madman to where his son lay, dropped to his knees and cradled the lifeless body to his chest, his eyes wild with shocked disbelief and his throat releasing the crazed cry at last.

With malevolence in his heart rivaling that of his master the Necromancer, he rose and sought his son’s slayer. But the figure of the elf king was nowhere to be seen among the numerous elf fighters, no matter where he turned. And wherever he turned, there was only the death and destruction of the army he had built, the stronghold he had fortified and held for years. His dark master, vanquished, could aid him no longer. There was no hope, and for a moment, his thought was to surrender to death.

But service to the Necromancer had hardened his soul, so that it knew not remorse nor right and wrong. He cast a look at his lifeless son again, and from somewhere deep within him, the sheer will of a father bent on revenge mobilized him. He swiftly cut a lock of hair from his son’s head and gripped it tightly. Calling upon all his cunning and stealth, and choking down his grief and bitterness, he crept among the dead and edged away from the battle. Whether by his own cunning or the hand of fate, he evaded notice and reached a spot where the fighting had ceased. He saw Ködil and a handful of others sneaking away in the same direction, fleeing for their lives, relinquishing the Shadows to the Light of the Firstborn. Behind the safety of a large tree, he stood and cast one last look upon the crippled remnants of his life in Dol Guldur before disappearing into the denseness of the forest, heading south and east to his refuge for the next ten years.

The first day of their journey passed uneventfully, to Legolas’ relief. Guided by the directions and descriptions Brûyn supplied along the way, they rode slowly through woods that grew thicker the further they ventured from Ithilien, keeping to the paths Brûyn and his companions had used to get to and from the borders of the elf settlement.

As the day wore on, Legolas no longer felt the pleasant aura that had radiated from the elven woods of Ithilien. Tall trees were now part of a forest where bushes and undergrowth carpeted the floor, the fabric of leaves high above jealously guarding the muted dark below, leaving little space for needles of sunshine to penetrate its weave.

With a start, Legolas realized that the shadows in the forest reminded him of the woods on the fringes of Dol Guldur, as the dark shadow that seemed to cloak Brûyn did last night, and he shivered despite himself. Not with a little hatred did he recall the evil of that place on the borders of his home, evil that he and his kin had fought off for so long till his father and Lord Celeborn had overcome it, aided by the power of the Lady of Light, bearer of the Elven ring Nenya. 

Those memories came to him now, uninvited and unwelcome, provoking him to ask himself again if he had made the right decision to undertake this scouting mission. But each time a note of uncertainty entered his mind, the thought of being able to present Aragorn with more information about his enemy’s stronghold strengthened his resolve and banished his doubts.

Brûyn found his journey with the elf a lonely and rather tiresome one, for the elf, understandably, spoke not at all with him, other than to ask him questions from time to time, but they were all about the number of men serving Sarambaq, the lie of the land and what they could expect. He noticed that the elf quietly observed their surroundings; he was obviously familiarizing himself with the route. Worried thoughts assailed the man more than once.

He plans to return with more elves. Blast him.

The elf did not trust Brûyn as far as he could throw him, but he did not think the man would dare to lead him astray after the repeated threat to introduce him to his knives at the first sign of anything amiss. The Adhûnian seemed intimidated by the intensity of a concentrated elven gaze, and Legolas used that to his advantage.

“You have seen the skill of elves, Adhûnian. If you attempt to cross me, I will not go down easily. If any of your companions crosses our path, you will be the first to taste my blade,” he warned, “and should they desire to end my life, be assured that I will end yours first.”

Brûyn swallowed nervously. “I do not wish to be seen either; my master will be furious at me for leading you there,” he responded with partial truth.

Yes, I do not want to be there when you bring back your people as you surely will. If he sees me, he will not stop till he slits my throat with his own hands.

But, if fortune still smiles on me…

Legolas would have turned back immediately had he known Brûyn’s true intentions.

Thin lips sneered when the man greedily imagined the reward he would get for bringing the prince to Sarambaq. Last night, as this golden-haired elf questioned him about the route to Adhûn, he had recognized him as the prince they had been sent to take alive, the one Ködil had pointed out. He did not know why Sarambaq wanted him; it was enough to know he did, and that by some strange stroke of fortune, the quarry himself had asked to be brought into the jaws of his hunter.

But why was this prince being so bold? he wondered. He decided to risk a question.

“Are you not afraid to meet my master?”

The elf was taken aback at the sudden query, but gave a small derisive snort. “Why should I be afraid to meet someone who was too cowardly to come and perform his own dirty deed?” 

And that was the end of the conversation.

Brûyn did not care much why the elf was being so foolhardy. His only concern was to lead the elf to the Table where he hoped his companions, or better yet, the Master himself would be there. If no one was there, he would have to lead the elf to Adhûn itself, but the longer journey posed a risk: the elf might not wish to complete the whole journey and end up escaping their clutches.

Sarambaq, you’d better be at the Table, he growled to himself.  

Legolas’ elven senses nagged at him that something was not quite what it seemed, but he attributed it to what surrounded him: the forest that reminded him of Dol Guldur, and his inevitable proximity to a servant of the man who had tried to abduct an innocent child.

So he had gone on determinedly, keeping his eyes and ears alert to every sight and sound they encountered. But the hours passed without trouble, and Legolas felt that they had made good progress, stopping briefly only twice to let the captive eat – under the elf’s watchful guard – some fruit and lembas he had brought along. No matter how disgusting the man was, the kind elf would not let him bear hunger beyond his ability, having learnt about mortal needs from his long association with Aragorn, the hobbits, his dwarf friend Gimli and other human acquaintances. Nevertheless, the elf took care not to make any show of mercy obvious. The man, in contrast, growled about the lack of “proper food” and rest, not caring that his grouses fell on deaf ears. Legolas himself munched on a small portion of the waybread, which was all he needed for sustenance.

In the late afternoon, they rounded the northernmost point of the Mountains of Shadow. Through a break in the woods, Legolas’ elven sight could see the Reclaimed Lands to the north-west. By the time the sun had set, they had covered many more miles east. Brûyn told Legolas that they would have to leave the forest soon and ride across a flat plain slightly north and east. The old battle plain of Dagorlad, Legolas thought with fleeting satisfaction;he and Faramir had guessed correctly, and Arwen had pointed them in the right direction.

As night fell, the Adûnian thought Legolas would finally call a halt to the journey, for sitting sideways on a horse and trying to avoid the eyes of your captor, he found, was very tiring. But halting was by no means the elf’s intentions. Their arrival at the edge of the plain pleased Legolas because the cover of night would allow them to ride in the open at a quick pace with much less danger of mortal eyes seeing them. As soon as the elf saw that the faint moon would cast just enough light for him and his elvish horse to see the features of the land ahead of them, he swiftly guided Aérodel out of the trees and onto the even, grassy ground. After ascertaining the direction in which they were to proceed, Legolas spoke to his elvish steed and trusted it to pick a safe path where it would not stumble. Although the horse did not run as swiftly as it would have in the light of day, it still managed to leave the forest from which they had emerged just a blur behind them before long.

Sitting outside one of the caves hewn out of the Table by forces of Nature, Sarambaq sat sullenly watching his people moving their supplies and equipment out of the dark storage spaces. The trees around the Table provided an effective screen against the curious eyes of intruders.

He was in a foul mood, having spent a restless night fuming over the failed attempt to abduct the son of Thranduil. Worse still, they had taken two of his useless people captive. In the deepest part of the night, he had thrashed about in his sleep, overwhelmed by a feeling that he had not succumbed to in all his grown years: panic.

What if they talk? What if Thranduil’s armies come after me? Where would I flee?

He had schemed and planned for so long with a coldness born of hatred and bitterness, that he felt little else.

Then his son’s face had appeared, bloodied and pale, haunting him, calling for his father.

Help me…help me…keep his sword from me… help me.

He had been powerless to render that help. Sorrow and anger had poured over him, and he had awoken in the cold dark cave beneath the Table, sweating. With the image of his son’s face, the wave of panic had passed, replaced by the familiar emotions that had fueled his every act for ten years.

Now, in the evening sun, he took out the small leather pouch he always wore around his neck, unfastened it and fingered the contents: a lock of hair from his dead son’s head. Bitterness marred his already hard features.

No, he would not give up so easily, but he needed time to think of another plan; he would live for nothing else.

It would never be as timely as this last one. Thranduil’s other sons had sailed to the West long years past; only the youngest remained – Sarambaq’s last hope of inflicting the same pain upon the elf king who had robbed him of his son. The prince’s move to Ithilien, away from the protection of his father’s formidable forces, had been a stroke of fortune in Sarambaq’s favor. The time had been so right – how could his useless men have failed?

Sarabaq gritted his teeth. Just as there had been no point in lamenting his losses ten years ago, he hardened his resolve to put the failure behind him and devise another plan. No ideas had come to him yet, but in the meantime, he would move everyone and everything back to his halls in Adhûn where he would be more secure.

He cast a look upward in the direction of the flat top where he knew his flying steed was tearing some carrion to bits for his late afternoon meal. Should the elf army seek him out, he would put up a fight, and if he failed, Dârkil would provide his last means of escape.

Where he would go next, he could not think, he did not want to think. He lived only for retribution. Beyond that, there was nothing.

For the present, he would just focus on moving his people away from the Table. He looked at the work going on and at the darkening sky.

We will be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon, he decided as he watched the sun set.

As night fell, a former Ranger of the North – and to all intents and purposes, a Ranger at this moment – was setting up camp in the midst of the forest the elf had traversed.

Since leaving Ithilien earlier in the day, he had used all the hours of daylight and called upon all his skills to follow the tracks of the elvish horse and its rider, thankful that no rain had washed away any tell-tale signs, for it was hard enough to track the light footsteps of an elf. But the heavier footprints of the horse and the Adhûnian, as well as the broken twigs, dislodged stones and other signs only Rangers could make sense of, were easy enough to follow. There were numerous other prints as well – heavier and older ones – that Aragorn guessed must have been left by Sarambaq’s men earlier. There were none fresher than the prints of Legolas’ horse, and there were no signs of any struggle, so at least his friend did not seem to have encountered unfriendly resistance, the Ranger thought with relief.

He guessed that his friend must have gone first north, then east, but he could not afford to miss any signs that might suggest a different route. At sunset, Aragorn came across – and almost missed – the only sign that Legolas had ever been along the route, something only a Ranger or an elf would have noticed: a tiny fragment of the mallorn leaf the elf had used to wrap his lembas in, and a few fine crumbs nearby. Of the rest of the leaf there was no trace; Legolas had discarded it carefully.

Lunch, Aragorn thought, an amused smile lighting his face.

He placed an ear to the ground, keeping very still. Nothing of the one he was following could he perceive. It was getting darker under the boughs, so Aragorn lit a torch and continued to follow the signs till he grew too tired. Knowing he could not afford to miss any clues in the dark, he decided to rest for the night and set off again as soon as there was enough light filtering through the foliage the next day. After lighting a small fire and consuming a quick meal of lembas and water, he eased himself on to a blanket laid out between two large roots and closed his eyes.

He breathed a silent goodnight to his two loved ones he had left behind in the White City. Then, as it had throughout the day, his mind turned once more to Legolas.

Do not go too swiftly, my friend. Let me find you, he thought just before he fell asleep. 

Brûyn sat tensely in front of the elf prince, bewildered at how in Middle Earth the rider and horse could ride so confidently at this speed in the dark when he could not discern anything more than eight feet in front of him. He wondered when his body would feel the jarring impact of the ground and his flesh separate from his bones if he were to fall, for his hands and feet were bound, and he had nothing to hold on to while the horse sped across the plain.

Yet he did not fall, he did not even pitch dangerously in any direction, but remained awake and upright all through the ride, too numb with fear to realize how much his flesh owed its continued union with his spirit to the skills of the elvish horse and rider. His teeth chattered a little both from the wind of the horse’s speed and from terror, but he was too nervous to even ask for a cloak or blanket.

Late into the night, more trees came within sight of the elf’s incredible vision, and he asked the man whether they should be entering another forest. Brûyn, when his mouth could steady itself enough to speak, gave an affirmative answer, although he could not see the trees Legolas referred to until the horse slowed down and stopped at the edge of the forest. 

“I cannot see well enough to know where we should go,” Brûyn responded when Legolas asked for directions.

The elf had to concede that it was difficult for the human to identify landmarks at this hour, so he decided that it would be a good time to rest. He stilled the horse, lowered his head slightly, and closed his eyes, focusing. The elf held this position for many moments, till Brûyn began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. Just as he was about to take the risk of interrupting the trance-like state, the elf lifted his head and spoke to the horse. The elven ears had been listening for the sound of nearby water that would indicate a site where the horse could drink and graze on the grass as well. They also needed to fill their water skins.

As they entered the darkness of the forest, Brûyn again marveled at how the elf could see where to guide his horse when he himself could not see the end of his own nose, let along past it. The faint sound of trickling water, perhaps from a brook, came to him. Not far in from the first line of trees, the horse stopped and they dismounted, still in the dark. Brûyn heard the elf remove some things from the saddle and speak softly to the horse, after which the creature moved off. The man was suddenly and intensely fearful that he would be left alone, for he could see nothing. But then he heard Legolas’ voice.

“Stay, do not move from here. I will be back.”

The man swallowed and wondered how he could have moved even if he wanted to, for he was bound, and he felt stifled and incapacitated by the deep darkness of an unfamiliar place. He did not hear when the elf walked away from him, for the fair being’s steps were almost noiseless, but now he thought he saw – or were his eyes deceiving him? – he thought he saw the outline of the elf walking away from him, and it was glowing faintly. He stared.

What kind of being is he? He asked silently. Do elves glow? Did I notice this in Ithilien? 

The elf had abilities and qualities the human had never seen or experienced before, nor ever imagined. But however much he felt intimidated by the elf, he would still feel much better if the latter would not leave him alone, and he had to stop himself from whimpering and begging him not to leave. All he heard after that were the water and the night sounds of some scurrying forest creatures.

He decided to distract himself from his nervousness by thinking about how close they were to the place he wanted to reach. Unknown to the elf, they had only this forest to go through, a gully to ride around and another flat area to cross, and they would be at the Table. For the first time since they left, the Adhûnian was glad they were riding. The elf would not stop for long, he knew, and at the pace they were going, he guessed they would reach the forest surrounding the Table before the next mid-day sun was high above their heads.

After what seemed like ages to the nervous man, who was still rooted to the spot, he saw a light approaching him. The faintly glowing outline of the elf again appeared, and he was holding a small burning stick in one hand. Legolas beckoned to him and said, “Follow me.”

The elf turned and walked slowly deeper into the trees. Brûyn, his ankles tied to each other with a length of cord so that he could still walk, stumbled along behind him, making his way by the glow of the torch and the elf’s body. But soon, he saw another, brighter glow in the distance. As they drew closer to it, the man saw that it was the brilliance of a fire at the mouth of what looked like a cave. The elf’s pack sat against a wall, and a blanket and cloak had already been laid out further in the cave.

“We will rest here,” Legolas said, and indicated the blanket where the man could sleep. The elf made no move to untie the man’s hands and feet, so the latter resigned himself to sleeping in restraints. He gave a disgruntled snort as he thought fleetingly about how unnecessary the cords were, for he had no plans to run anywhere in this dark forest, nor was he able to keep his eyelids open any longer. As soon as he lay himself on the blanket and pulled the cloak over himself, he fell into the oblivion of sleep.

Legolas, standing at the mouth of the cave, looked at him till he was assured that the man had fallen asleep. He was not particularly worried; he did not think anyone would have followed them or even known they were here.

But the elf suddenly felt very alone.

He was in a strange place, heading for a stranger destination. He was far from home and far from friends.

These woods were unfamiliar to him and he was not sure if he was welcome here, even though he was a Wood elf. He looked at a gnarled old tree nearby and walked over to it. Respectfully, he stood before it, sharing its space, letting it sense his presence. Then he approached it and gently ran his hands over the rough surface, trying to feel its aura. After some moments, he felt its hum, and he pressed his hands against the trunk. Missing was the close communion he felt with the trees of the Greenwood and Ithilien, but despite the shadow that seemed to shroud the forest, the trees themselves did not harbor resentment for the elf. They simply felt… wild. Aloof. But Legolas understood. He was the newcomer, the intruder, and it would take time for the forest to open its thoughts to him. It was enough that they accepted his presence for the night. It knew that he too was one with the earth and meant no harm.

Reassured, Legolas climbed onto one of the lower branches where he still had a good view of the cave and the small fire. Placing his weapons carefully where they would be in his hands in an instant should he need them, he leaned against the tree trunk. He turned his bright eyes to the sky hidden by the thick canopy above, not seeing the starry expanse beyond the leafy opacity, but reaching it and touching it as only an elven heart can. He offered a silent song to the Queen of Stars as he waited.

Dawn was still far off when his horse returned from grazing and drinking his fill from the brook. He called softly to it, promising to brush it down in the morning. Only then did the elf relax and turn his thoughts to sleep.

“May the new day bring us what we seek, Estel,” he whispered and allowed himself to drift out of wakefulness, completely unaware just how aptly his wish had been expressed.

May the new day bring us what we seek, Estel.

The Ranger awoke with a start, his slow, steady heartbeat just a little more rapid than usual. His hand had instinctively closed around the dagger at his side.

“Legolas?” he called out softly, eyes still sticky with sleep peering into the dark around him.

Nothing. No one was there. There was only the steady chirp of crickets, the soft harrumph of his horse, and the almost imperceptible sounds of sleepless creatures foraging for food. Beyond all that, there was only the stillness of the night.

He leaned back and sighed. It was as if he had heard the voice of his soft-spoken friend, a fair voice he missed and was desperate to find. In a few hours, it would be time to get up and resume his search.

“Wait for me, Legolas,” he whispered.

In the arms of a tree, a Wood elf who had just begun to enter a dream world snapped his blue eyes open again as he heard – or thought he heard – the voice of a beloved friend:

Wait for me, Legolas.

Puzzled by the significance of the words, he drew a deep breath and exhaled before slipping into a light, watchful sleep. 

Author's 'hello': I devote much time to writing this story, and it is wonderful when readers take a minute or two to let me know what they think. Thank you to the very few who do, for you keep me writing.  

CHAPTER 18:  BONDS UNSEEN

Brûyn felt as if he had hardly closed his eyes before the elf was shaking him awake. 

“Time to move on,” Legolas said.

The man opened his eyes slowly, his mind still foggy with sleep. He squinted at the muted light of late dawn that had managed to pierce through the roof of the forest and paint a dull orange glow on the walls of the cave, and he knew that he had not slept for very long. Despite the glow, a chill permeated the cave, for the fire had been put out, embers and a thin wisp of smoke being the only evidence that there had been one. He felt sore from sleeping on the hard floor of the cave and stiff because his restraints had not allowed much movement of his limbs throughout his sleep, but he grudgingly acknowledged that even though his limbs were securely tied, the cords were not so tight that they cut off his blood flow; they merely made him uncomfortable.

Elves are strange beings, they do strange things, but even when they bind their prisoners, they inflict much less pain that Sarambaq would, he fleetingly thought.

As he stretched as much as he could, a yawn escaped him.

The elf, however, showed no such signs of sleepiness or discomfort. He looked as fresh and alert as he did since they set off, while Brûyn felt like a rag. The elf rolled up the blanket and cloak as soon as Brûyn had stood, and walked to the horse to tie them to the saddle. The animal had been brushed and cleaned and looked as fresh as the elf did, even in the wilds.

Brûyn felt his stomach growl and decided to risk a question: “What about breakfast?”  

Legolas pointed to a water skin and white wafer lying on a leaf wrapping that he had already placed on a small rock near the cave wall.

“Not the dry bread again?” the man groaned, but all he received from the elf was a frosty look that told him to either eat it or starve. The elf does not waste words, he thought with some irritation. Muttering, he picked up the lembas that had been their only form of sustenance since they left. It was not the kind of food he was used to, and neither was it particularly palatable to his human tongue, but he had to admit that it filled him, even though he did not eat much of it.

Elves and their ways are stranger than a cat with five legs, he thought.

They were soon mounted again, and the elf led the horse away from the cave. Brûyn could not tell where they were exactly, for they had entered the forest in the dark. But when he looked at the sun, he saw that they seemed to be heading away from it, the way they had come. He guessed at the elf’s intentions but needed confirmation.

“Are we going back the way we came?”

“Yes,” came the calm reply, although the elf seemed worried about something. “Back to the edge of the forest. You could not see where we entered the forest last night. You cannot guide me further unless we return to the edge of it so that you can point out the right trail.”

The man nodded. It would indeed be quicker to backtrack than attempt to find the way from where they were. He stole another look at the brooding look on the elf’s face, then sat quietly as the elf led the horse out of the forest.  

Legolas had another reason for retracing their steps, but he did not reveal it to the Adhûnian.

After they emerged from the trees, Aérodel quickly cantered onto the plain, and Legolas saw how vast and flat the land was that they had traversed the night before. Across the plain, his far-seeing eyes could perceive just a faint glimpse of the dark patch of forest they had left at sunset.

After a short distance, Aérodel turned around to face the forest again. In the early light, Legolas could see that the land here was higher and that they would probably have to cross a rise in the forest on foot. Warmed by the young rays of a morning sun, the forest did not look quite as daunting, but the trees were still huddled closer together than the woods just outside Ithilien. Gnarled branches reached out from trees like greedy fingers. The Wood elf was quite at home in friendly forests, but it was if these forests had been stained by the presence of Sarambaq’s men who had traveled through them.

“Where do we go from here?” Legolas asked the man.

Brûyn turned his head several times to the right and left, looking for familiar objects that marked the route he and his companions had traveled several times before.

“Go over there,” his tied hands gestured to the left. At Legolas’ bidding, Aérodel trotted slowly in the direction the man had indicated. After they had gone about thirty yards, Brûyn called for them to halt.

“There,” he said, his hands pointing towards a tree with a huge girth, taller than the rest. Two branches left its trunk about twelve feet up, pointing north and south like two open arms, so that the tree looked much like a sentinel welcoming sojourners into the forest.

“Are you certain?” Legolas asked cautiously.

A sarcastic reply was on the edge of Brûyn’s tongue, but he thought better of it and said simply: “Aye.”

At a click of the elf’s tongue, Aérodel trotted to the tree. Legolas saw the signs of a path that had been trodden on recently, and by many feet, he judged. The man appeared to be telling the truth; there had been no nervousness or hesitation in his voice.

Legolas dismounted, and stood studying the large tree from top to bottom, much to the puzzlement and impatience of the human.

But before long, he was mounted again, and the elf, the Adhûnian and the horse moved into the darker reaches of the forest.

Aragorn had been on the move since dawn, taking only a cold breakfast of lembas and fruit he had found on the way. A wet gray mist blanketed the forest, plastering damp strands of the man’s hair against his forehead and cheeks as he tried to ward off the chill by pulling his coat and cloak tighter about himself. He had to lead his horse on foot from time to time so that he could bend closer to the ground to observe the signs he was following. Wet leaves scrunched beneath his feet or that of his horse’s hooves as the tracks gradually led them slightly north. He was depending largely on the tracks left by Legolas’ horse now, grateful for the enhanced eyesight that allowed him to discern them.

The tracks gradually led him slightly east, and as he went on, the trees became less close, suggesting that he was moving out of the forest. The open plain that Legolas had ridden across the previous night soon greeted him. He vaguely recalled what he had seen on a map Faramir had dug up from the City’s archives. It did not have much detail, but it did indicate open space – the old battle plain – between two forests. Aragorn guessed that was where he was now. He must have moved past the southern edge of the Reclaimed Lands while he was still in the thick of the woods.

A quick calculation of the distance he had covered told him that Legolas would have reached this point around twilight yesterday.

What would Legolas have done? Aragorn paused to consider. His long friendship with the elf provided the answer. He would have traveled under the cover of trees in the day and crossed open space under the cover of night.

The mist was clearing rapidly, and Aragorn looked across the plain, trying to see how far it went. He did not have the eyes of the elf and could not see the forest on the other side. But if the map was right, and if Legolas had ridden across the plain as he guessed, the elf would have reached the next patch of forest some time after midnight. He could not have gone on then, for his guide was no elf and would not have been able to see the route himself.

So you camped in the forest for the night, my friend, and somewhere near the edge of it, Aragorn imagined with some confidence. The elf would not have tarried overlong, he knew. You too would have risen with the sun. Still, you cannot have ventured too far into the forest yet.

At that realization, the Ranger’s heart quickened with urgency and anticipation. Aérodel’s hoof prints were still clear here, and Aragorn lost no time in setting off in the same direction. He soon increased his speed, heading for the sun and keeping an easterly route, his damp hair drying in the wind. He was aware that if he went too fast, he might miss the signs, which was easy to do on a vast grassy plain, but if he went too slowly, he might not reach his friend soon enough. He chose speed, for vegetation was scant and there were hardly any trees to obstruct their run, so that his horse was able to ride at an encouraging pace.

Halfway across, however, the Ranger found that he had lost sight of the hoof impressions and wondered if he had strayed from the trail Legolas’ horse had taken. He slowed his own horse and trotted first to the right, then back again to the left, trying to regain the correct course, but – he realized incredulously – he seemed to have lost it.

He cantered to a halt, a hiss of frustration issuing from his lips. Aragorn squinted but could yet see nothing beyond the plain.

Haste has been a foolish choice, he reprimanded himself. Am I still headed in the right direction?

Running a hand through his hair, he scanned the land around him with worried eyes.

Where are you, mellon nin?

For a few moments, he merely sat still, pondering. Then, in response to a voice within him, Aragorn looked down at his horse. Abruptly, he dismounted, unrolled his blanket, and from within the folds, withdrew Legolas’ cloak that he had brought along. Running his hands over the material, he contemplated.

It still held the scent of its owner – the scent of wood and blossoms and sun, briefly comforting the Ranger like a warm memory.

He turned and walked to the front of the horse. Speaking soothingly in the elvish tongue, he placed the material against his palm and gently caressed one side of the stallion’s face with it before holding it softly under and against its nose, letting it breathe in the essence of the elf. He felt a little sheepish, for this was no bloodhound. But then, this was no ordinary horse either. It had been bred and raised by the Horse Lords of Rohan, no less, and trained at the hands of the elf prince himself. And sometimes, the strength of unseen bonds that tie one living being to another is greater than that of fibre or metal, defying understanding and explanation. What did he have to lose by trying?

Placing the other hand on the animal’s long neck, he whispered to it.

Good Rallias, help me find him. Follow the lead of the one who taught you to tame your spirit. Find his scent and the scent of your companion Aérodel. Take me to them, my friend.

Aragorn waited as Rallias stood unmoving.

Then, ever so lightly, it nudged its master’s shoulder in response, lifted its proud head and snorted, stamping a foreleg. It continued to hold its head high and its nostrils flared as Aragorn remounted and placed the cloak securely before him on the saddle. Strong equine muscles rippled beneath the rider as the horse turned its noble head slowly from one side to the other, before reorienting its body in a direction slightly to the north.

For a few moments, it remained still in that position, and Aragorn held his breath. A tingle of anticipation ran through the Ranger as he felt the horse tense in preparation, and his fingers closed around the reins, clutching tightly. 

One moment more, the horse stood still, poised for flight.

Then, with a spurt of power that threw the rider in a backward motion, the magnificent stallion shot forward like an arrow, breaking into a smooth, confident run, its mane a stream of silk in the wind, its head never wavering from the yet unseen target for which it headed. 

Aragorn’s own excitement grew with the horse’s, as he trustingly allowed the intelligent creature’s bond with his elf trainer to lead him whither it would. Faster and swifter they went, the rider bent forward now, without a single fear as to where they were going, letting the call of love be their guide. The land flowed beneath them in a blur of green and brown, measured not in distance but in heartbeats as man and horse glided over it as one entity.

The Ranger felt a wild rush of exhilaration from the swiftness of the ride, his ears hearing only the whipping breath of the wind, his body aware only of a smooth forward movement, propelled along a journey not to somewhere but to someone.

And then, despite his anxiety for his friend, before he could control it and not wanting to control it, a burst of exultant laughter loosed from his lips and set his heart soaring as it had so long ago, before his life was tied to kingly duties and hemmed in by stone walls, when he could roam and run and ride with the careless freedom of a young man, when fewer fetters held him from seeking the company of the very elf he was pursuing now so that they could taste their lives as passionately and uninhibitedly as he did at this moment.

The rush of emotions washed over him and overwhelmed him – this Ranger of the North, this King of Gondor and Arnor, this man, this friend – so that his heart was laid bare and his breath came in unashamed sobs with only the land and the sky as witnesses. His tears mingled with his laughter, warm wet pain upon cold cheeks, drying in the speed of the wind even as they fell unbidden and unchecked.    

With the image of a fair face gracing their vision and the feel of elven fingers plucking gently at their heartstrings, Man and beast rode on the notes of their soaring song of pursuit, lost in a crescendo of devotion that grew with each heartbeat. On they went, borne on a melody of love and loyalty, till at last, in the distance, a green line of trees came into view, beckoning patiently like a long closing curtain to their performance.

Never would he forget this ride, Aragorn thought shakily, nor the raw emotions it had called forth from the depths of his soul, both invigorating and drowning him. He wished with all his heart that Legolas could have experienced what he did as he rode across the plain himself, but he knew the elf could not have, being burdened with a captive. Wistfully, he swore to himself that he would take time to taste such pure joy again and to share it with those he held dear.

As the line of trees grew clearer, Aragorn reluctantly let the passion of the ride subside, slowly, slowly, till all that was left was a warm, tingling reminder of it flowing through his veins, and he released a shuddering sigh as he felt their feet touch the earth once more.

The sight of the forest ahead sobered him again and reminded him of the task yet to be achieved. Yet, the sight was as hope to Aragorn, for it meant that he was headed where the map had indicated he should be, were he bound for Adhûn. He had no such intention of going there, however, nor would he allow his friend to go that far if he could help it.

Surely, with all the speed Rallias poured into the ride, we must have closed the distance between us, he hoped.  

The thought spurred him on. He made no effort to try and identify where in that long line of trees he was supposed to be headed, still letting the horse choose the path.

The man’s trust in Rallias was not in vain, for presently, horse and rider reached the same tree that marked the beginning of the trail Legolas and Brûyn had taken. Rallias slowed down as it neared the edge of the forest where the trees were closer together and great roots formed obstacles to speed. But the horse seemed confident as it trotted closer to the tree and prepared to pick its way around the roots and past the great silent sentinel into the forest.

Casting his eyes around, Aragorn suddenly reined in the horse, bidding it to halt. His eyes were fixed on the ground at the foot of the tree. Dismounting, he walked quickly over to where his sharp eyes had seen something that had quickened his heartbeat, and he bent down for a closer look.

Fingers trembling with hope and excitement, he reached out.

The man’s smile widened suddenly, and he gave a small whoop of delight even before his eager fingers picked up the object that held greater value for him now than mithril or gold.

It was a simple mallorn leaf, tucked snugly in the narrow crook between two roots. The creases on the leaf indicated beyond a doubt that it had only recently held lembas, waybread of elves and of Prince Legolas.

And just as surely, the elf prince had left it there as a subtle sign for elven eyes, or for the only human ones he trusted not to miss it: the eyes of the Ranger Aragorn.  

CHAPTER 19:  THE REALITY OF A NIGHTMARE

The trail through the forest took Legolas, Aérodel and Brûyn along rough paths in depressing shadows that reached out to them with groping fingers. They had to dismount to hike over a woody rise and descend a steep grassy face before getting on Aérodel again. Finally, they emerged on the far end of the forest, on the threshold of another flat expanse. They were still on slightly higher ground, so Legolas could see the lie of the land.

This stretch of flat land was much less grassy than the plain they had crossed the previous night, and it was almost cloven in two by a curious formation: a gully shaped like a scythe, deep and wide, but Legolas was not high enough to see to the bottom of it, although he thought his elven ears could hear, just faintly, the sound of running water. The blade part of the scythe-like feature began near the edge of this forest and curved north for some distance before turning back south, then straightening in an easterly direction like a handle. On both sides of the handle-part of the gully were more forests, thick with tall trees, so that Legolas could not clearly see where the gully ended. 

“How far does the gully run?” he asked the man in front of him.

“A fair distance,” the man replied, “it ends somewhere in those forests yonder, out of sight from here. It is deep, and at the bottom there is a small river.”

“And its course?”

“All the way to Adhûn and to the Sea of Rhûn.”

The man spoke the truth; he saw no point in hiding this information. He would say anything to distract the elf from the fact that the flat rock of the Table lay not very far from them, hidden within the tall forests on the north side of the scythe’s handle. That was where he was going to lead the elf, and he nursed the hope that his companions would be there. It would be an even greater stroke of luck if Sarambaq were there as well.

Legolas had not the slightest suspicion of this secret hope. Any uneasiness he felt, he attributed to the whole situation he was in. Instead, he pondered the man’s description of the gully and river. Adhûn was a long way yet, but if the gully ended in the forests and the river went on…

“Do you mean the river goes… underground?”  he asked.

“For a long way, aye, it comes out this end from a tunnel - you will see if you ride close to it – and it goes back into another. One league from Adhûn, it comes out from a big opening in the rock face.”

Legolas imagined that the prospect of being trapped in that underground stream of water would not be a pleasant experience, even if one did not drown. Not wishing to dwell on more depressing thoughts, and expecting another long ride, he asked the man where they should head next.

Brûyn pointed to the northern end of the gully. “We have to go around that and then head for that patch of forest,” he replied, keeping his voice as steady as he could and hiding a mounting excitement.

It was not quite mid-day yet, but Legolas felt like the shadows of the forest seemed to follow him into the open, for already the sun was hiding behind gathering clouds, unwilling to lift the strange gloom that had descended on his spirits.

Legolas was about to guide Aérodel toward the north when he suddenly paused and gave a small gasp. He had the strangest sensation that something was reaching for him, trying to find him. His mind went immediately to the mallorn leaf he had left between the roots of the great tree, and to the decision he had made several hours ago.

Wait for me, Legolas.

Those words were his first thought when the elf woke up at dawn. He sensed that it had been Aragorn saying them to him last night.

But why? Why ask me to wait?  Is he… could he be… coming after me? Surely he could not have found out so soon.

The elf closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back against the tree trunk. Estel must have gone to Ithilien, he thought, but I never wished for him to come on my trail.

If you are coming after me, stubborn human – turn back. Do you not know how dangerous it is for you to come here? Sarambaq wanted your son; he will surely want to harm you.

Let me finish scouting the area. I will bring back the information soon enough. And…I am not ready to see you yet. Not till I have what I set out to find. I am not ready to face you yet. Go back.

Legolas sighed again.

He wanted nothing more than for his friend to turn around and return home, but if he was indeed on his trail… well then, the elf would rather the man find him and be at his side than wander the dark forests on his own. On his own… or was he with elves?

Legolas did not know, but he did not want to wait or turn back to check, for if he was mistaken, he would lose precious time. That was when he made the decision to leave a clue that only Aragorn or one of the elves would notice. If they were indeed looking for him, they would find him. If they were not, the leaf would hold no meaning for anyone else.

Legolas came back to the present. This sensation he had now… were his friends trying to find him? Should he wait?

Again, he decided against it. But in turning his head back toward the forest, he missed the look of suppressed and nervous excitement on the face of the Adhûnian.

Legolas was not particularly keen to ride in the open in broad daylight, but it did not seem he had a choice. He would try to reach the next patch of trees in the distance as swiftly as he could, and get under the cover of woods again.

Keeping a firm grip on Aérodel’s reins, he began the ride down to maneuver around the curved gully.  

Sarambaq stood on the edge of the flat rock looking down at his men moving about below. He had decided to move the bulk of their equipment and supplies back to Adhûn and leave some behind so that men could move more quickly; it would be a long trek back, and not all of them could go on horseback as the horses would be needed to bear the equipment.

He cast a look over his shoulder at Dárkil, which was basking quietly in whatever sunlight was available. Soon, it would have to fly him home.

Suddenly, the beast stirred and raised its head, listening. Sarambaq noticed the movement but was not unduly alarmed. The beast sometimes reacted to large birds flying overhead or creatures within reach of its powerful jaws, excited at the possibility of a meal. Or, perhaps it was just curious about something in the forest nearby, in which case Sarambaq would not be able to see what it was through the thick foliage.

He turned his eyes back to the men below, but spun back to face the beast a second later when it emitted a small screech. Its eagle-like head was raised even higher on its long neck now, the serpentine eyes roaming.

Sarambaq’s brows furrowed. What had disturbed the beast from its quiet reverie?

As if in answer, Sarambaq’s own senses tingled. He had been Sauron’s minion for many years and had gained some of his black powers of perception. Something was coming this way, something that was not there earlier, something – or someone – that was not part of this little domain he had staked.

Reaching the head of the gully, Legolas saw that there was indeed a river at the bottom. It flowed out quietly, almost languidly, from a tunnel framed between surprisingly gentle slopes, which soon turned into steep walls on both sides of the chasm. A strange feature indeed, the elf thought, wondering from which distant snow-capped mountain the river began.

They had now ridden around the northern curve of the gully and were headed straight toward the forest of tall trees as Brûyn directed. They were not far from the edge of the woody area now.

But, where he had hoped to reach the cover of the forest as soon as he could, Legolas now sensed some shadow, an uneasiness, gather in the forest ahead and reach toward him like an unseen hand. It was not Brûyn. And it was not from Brûyn. Yet… now he could sense some tension and nervousness from the man.

“That is where we need to go?” he asked the man, and realized that he was speaking through slightly clenched teeth.

“Yes, yes. That is the path we have to take, that forest there.”

He sounded just a little too eager.

The elf tensed and focused his elven senses. Brûyn sat stiffly before, careful to keep his face away from the elf the whole time, his eyes trained on the forest ahead.

Not long now. Keep going, elf. And if you are there, Sarambaq, let there be nothing to give it away.

Legolas looked to the right and left, but he kept turning back to the front. To the forest.

The forest.

Legolas felt his breath stifle.

What is happening?

Aérodel sensed his unease and slowed down without being told to, trotting cautiously and whinnying softly.

Clip. Clop. The sound of its steps tapped a hesitant rhythm.

Clip clop. Clip. Clop.

The elf stiffened.

What is wrong with that sound? Legolas asked himself, puzzled.

Clip clop… clip clop.

It is the sound of Aérodel’s steps. What could be wrong with it?

Clip. Clop.

Then Legolas grew rigid and he sucked in a breath. That sound.

Clip clop.

There was nothing wrong with the sound.

What was wrong was that – besides his breathing, the lazy flow of water, and the slight friction of the man’s clothing against the saddle as they moved – it was suddenly the only sound he could hear.

All other sounds of life had stopped.

In that moment, everything that had bothered him throughout the journey hammered against his chest like a sharp blow.

The forests, the shadows, the darkness. Dol Guldur.

The shadow, the furtiveness, Brûyn, those eyes, so like… Sméagol’s. Sméagol, hiding in Dol Guldur before the Quest, before Mithrandir and Aragorn brought him to Mirkwood, before he escaped from the elves. From his own hands.

His nightmare. Dol Guldur. Sméagol.

This nervous captive in front of him. This place. That forest looming before them.

His nightmare.

They were all related.

Legolas shuddered as a light pierced his mind. This was what the nightmare had been about. It had been a warning. A foreshadowing of what would happen.

Here. Now.

He would be attacked again, and he would lose another captive. Sméagol then. Brûyn now.

And all his elven senses told him to flee.

Flee!

“We will turn back here,” he said abruptly, urgently, and tugged at Aérodel’s reins to turn him around.

To his surprise, and yet not totally unexpected, Brûyn protested, his hands clutching at Legolas.

“No, no! Keep going, this is the right way.”

Now Legolas’ senses screamed in warning. “Why? Why that way? What are you up to? You have some foul plan!”

Cowering under the elf’s acid tone and icy stare, Brûyn replied weakly, “No…”

Suddenly, Aérodel’s hooves and their voices were no longer the only sounds Legolas could hear. Now, from somewhere in the dark of the forest and above the forest, there came a screech, unearthly but of this earth, the proud screech of an eagle and the fearsome one of a demon, a screech that stopped the heart but drove one to flee.

And there launched from some unseen perch behind the tops of tall trees something Legolas could not earlier see but now beheld with wide, startled eyes: Dárkil, spawn of a vile mind, sprung from the seeds of twisted creatures. A dark beast that spread its huge wings and shoved the elf’s fear down the paths of his memory as if he was seeing again – reborn and welded with the power of the Windlord – the foul steed of Sauron’s Ringwraith.

And on his back was a huge, dark figure, slighter than the Witch king had been, but just as malevolent in the aura and the cry he sent forth. From his eyes radiated both hatred and joy at what the day had brought him, for as he approached to see what had riled his steed, his eyes – in which remained still some remnant of the power bestowed by the Dark Lord – had recognized, beyond all hope and expectation, the very prize he had sought and failed to ensnare, but which was now offering itself to him at his doorstep.

As the beast flew up and toward them, Aérodel reared and neighed in terror as it had never done before, and only his bond with the animal kept the elf from falling off in the sudden movement. But the bond did not hold Brûyn, who slid and fell against the elf before plummeting sideways to the ground.

Before Legolas could retrieve him, another screech came from the beast, and the rider urged it onward, shouting to the figures of men who emerged from the depths of the forest with swords and with arrows, some yelling as they ran, some riding after him, men very much like the one who had been Legolas’ captive just moments ago. Brûyn picked himself up and started hobbling toward them, shouting: “It’s him! It’s him!”

It’s him?

Legolas’ heart thudded within him. It’s him?

But the elf could wonder no longer at the strange meaning of the words. The attack had come, and the captive had found escape. Once again.

And once again, the life of a Mirkwood elf hung in the balance.

Aérodel needed no command to take flight; still, Legolas shouted, urging him, just as Glorfindel had done ten years ago, when upon the back of Asfaloth Frodo had fled to the Fords of Bruinen: “Noro lim, Aérodel. Fly, the enemy is upon us!”

Even as Legolas headed back toward the way he had come, he knew his desperate attempt to return to the cover of the forest would be in vain.

Closer now came the foul reek of Dárkil, the wind of its wings rushing above and behind the elf rider. Legolas turned his head for a sight of the beast and was horrified by the proximity of it. There would be no escape, no possible evasion, and a thousand images of loved ones and treasured places raced through his mind as he tensed for the stabbing thrust of sharp talons through his back and chest.

Drawn by the loud screeching of a demonic creature, a Ranger’s head snapped up. One moment was all he spared to listen, and then he was spurring his horse on, crashing through trees and undergrowth in a desperate ride to exit the forest. The terrified neighing of a horse made his heart clench, forcing a cry from his throat. In ignorance, fear ruled, and the name of his friend was on his lips as he sought wildly and urgently the first sign of a way out.

Legolas did not feel sharp claws rend his flesh, for Dárkil passed over elf and horse, and flew a little higher, surprising the elf for a moment. But his bewilderment was short-lived when he saw what the beast was doing.  

It turned in mid-air high above them and came back down in a deadly swoop straight at them, emitting from its throat a harsh screech that made the very air shudder with its ferocity. It was close enough now for the elven eyes of Legolas to see the merciless malice both in the eyes sitting in the hideous head of the beast and in the snarl on the face of its rider.

The terror of the brave elvish horse was grievous to see as once again, it reared fiercely at the sight and sound of a beast it had never encountered. This time, the movement caught the rider off-guard, and Legolas fell backward and off, landing on his back.

A second later, before the horror-stricken eyes of the elf, the talons of the beast sank into the neck and body of his faithful horse, wrapping around it and bearing it straight into the air.

With a cry of deep sorrow and shock, Legolas leapt to his nimble feet and fitted an arrow from his quiver before the eye could even discern what he was doing, and he tracked the flight of the beast as it swept over him. Then, standing tall as he had done so on a night ten years ago, when the Fellowship had also been threatened by the flight of a Nazgul on the banks of the Sarn Gebir rapids, he sighed “Elbereth Gilthoniel!” and released an arrow from the powerful bow of Lothlorien, which was even now held in his strong hands. Singing, the arrow found a mark in the chest of the flying beast, and before the song of the first arrow was finished, two more arrows joined it. The second struck the space between one wing and the body, and the third reached the other wing.

With a mighty screech of shock and pain, the beast released the horse from its talons and flew in a jagged flight path back to the forest, with its rider screaming desperate orders in anger to the men below.

Eyes wide with horror, Legolas watched the elvish horse fall through the air to land on the hard unyielding ground with a sickening thud, and he knew even without seeing that it could not have survived a drop from that height. Choking on his anger and his tears, he fitted more arrows and started shooting at the approaching men through blurry eyes. Even so launched, fifteen arrows found fifteen targets, leaving an empty quiver and a mighty bow bereft of song.

Twin elven knives left their sheaths in a deft twirling movement. With breathtaking grace gifted by elven blood and an unrivalled speed acquired through a thousand years of training, Legolas began a deadly dance, his deceptively slender arms dealing out death and injury with each step of his limber feet as furious men swarmed upon him with brutal yells. 

Never had they encountered such fierce resistance, not even when they had been in Ithilien, for this was a single elf fending off foes outnumbering him by scores. This day, they tasted the sharp bite of lethal blades as a lone Firstborn fought for his life, golden hair swirling and lithe body leaping, twisting and turning – a vision so beautiful and captivating it belied the desperation and deadly purpose of the movements.

But even as the elf added to the growing pile of wounded or dying bodies that had fallen at the ends of his knives, more came, not lifeless, but very much animate, with viciousness in their eyes and their yells. In those moments, Legolas recalled the words he had imparted at the Council of Elrond:

When the battle was over, we found that Gollum was gone, and his guards were slain or taken.

Slain or taken.

Blue eyes filled with fear and the fury of betrayal took in the futility of the situation before them as they forced back silent tears, but the fair face was resolute: he had lost his captive, but he would not be taken easily and he would not give in to aggressors. If his life was to end today, he would make his last stand with honor and go down fighting those who had violated the peace of Gondor and the safety of Aragorn’s family.

Barely discernable were the sounds of battle that reached his ears, but they were enough to drive Aragorn furiously forward, fighting each obstacle in his way, till at last, with a surge of gratitude, he saw a lighter patch of sunlight ahead, at the top of a rise. He leapt off the horse and hauled himself up the steep incline, trusting Rallias to find his own safe path. Feeling a sudden rush of fear, and impatient to get to the top, he felt not pain as he used his hands to grab at whatever was in sight to hasten his climb.

Up this face of the rise, and he was at the crest. The next instant, he was descending. Down he sped, running, sliding, without a thought as to when he might slam headfirst into a tree; he had to get there – out of the forest. Where the sounds were and what might be happening, he did not want to imagine, yet he had to know.

Legolas ignored the multitude of small cuts he had received all over his body, standing proud and defiant as the men hemmed him in from every direction, on foot and on horseback.

As he wearily warded off two blows from the right, he felt something sharp pierce the left side of his neck, and something else penetrated his thigh. He had no time to wonder what was happening as he fought off more blows and dodged a swing from a sword that narrowly missed his head.

“Take him alive, you fools! Alive!” came a shout.

A burning numbness quickly assailed his flesh in both places where he had felt the sting, and he reeled from a strange lightheaded sensation in his head. Before Legolas could grasp what it meant, someone attacked him with a club from the front, and as he lifted his arm to fend it off …

“Noooooooooooooooooo!” 

…there was another angry yell from someone, but a blade had already been brandished by a rider on horseback, finding its mark on the elf, ripping brutally into his side, drawing forth a pitiful cry of agonizing pain as the slender form flinched sharply and bent over. Gasping torturously, Legolas swiftly straightened himself again, knives gripped tightly.

But as suddenly as they had begun, the attacks stopped.

Almost there, almost at the edge of the forest now.

But then the sounds of battle stopped, and Aragorn felt his breath stop with them.

He felt detached from his feet as they frantically raced to complete the last few yards.

In the lull that followed, Legolas stood still and looked around him, dazed. The Adhûnians were no longer moving toward him; they just stood tensely and stared. The horsemen had slowed to a halt.

Even as he wondered at the cessation of the assault, Legolas realized with a shock that feeling was quickly abandoning his body, leaving his neck and chest and arms, his legs becoming more like lean wooden poles. Panic swept over him, and he struggled to retain his senses.

The elf brought his eyes down to his side and watched deep crimson liquid spread across his tunic. The knives fell from his now numb hands and dropped uselessly to the ground. He kept standing through sheer force of will.

For the second time since he heard the screech of the demon beast, the thoughts of his father and his loved ones raced through this mind, till two images remained and swam before his wide, moist, frightened eyes.

Hold on, hold on, he willed himself. I need to see. I need to tell them.

His breaths came in short spurts. He lifted his head and looked past the hostile faces around him, desperately seeking something on the ground in the distance. The rapidly failing blue eyes found what they were looking for and focused on it. Fixing his sorrow-laden gaze, he whispered weakly:

Namárië, Aérodel. Farewell, faithful friend.  

Swaying on his feet now, he again looked past the faces of his foes, all traced with curiosity as they watched the forlorn figure turn his ashen face and unfocused, pain-filled eyes to his right this time, to the forest beyond the gully, from which he had come.

His tears came at last as his pale lips moved to form voiceless words: Turn back, Aragorn, I’ve failed.

The beautiful blue eyes closed.

Forgive me,he breathed, and fell.

From the shelter of the trees at which he had arrived barely moments ago, panting with the strain of the hurried ascent, the Ranger strained his sharp eyes across the expanse of land. Frozen with shocked disbelief, his ragged breathing turning to sudden chokes, he saw the slender, bloody figure of a golden-haired elf turn his way, heard with his mind rather than his ears the tearful warning and apology whispered by the fair lips, and felt his own life drain from him a moment later, as he watched the friend who held part of his heart crumble lifelessly to the ground.    

CHAPTER 20:  BREATH OF LIFE

As his eyes confronted a scene he had never expected to witness, Aragorn felt his world come crashing down about him.

His immediate impulse was to call out the name. That name. He moved his lips but no words came. He was choking, strangled by a knot of grief that welled up from his heart to seize his throat in an excruciating, unrelenting grip. His eyes went wide and wild with horror as he sank to his knees, trying desperately, desperately, to draw breath.

With an agonizing effort, he inhaled. One deep gulp of air. And another. And he was breathing again, rapid, panicked breaths that seared his lungs and rendered him weak as his mind recalled what his eyes had witnessed. What he thought they had witnessed.

He was still not sure he had seen it, for not even in the darkest hour of the Quest had the elf faltered. Not once.

Had he really fallen now? Here?

He looked up. In the distance, a group of men surrounded a figure on the ground, shielding it from his sight, and Aragorn gagged again when he realized that his eyes had not been mistaken. He had seen Legolas fall.

He tried to get up and run. Run there, run to that accursed spot. But his feet were as lead, and he was not running. He looked around frantically. Rallias! Where was Rallias?

The horse was nowhere within sight. He spun round again to look beyond the gully, trying to see more, trying to part the barrier of men with his eyes, but the figure was still hidden from him. He was hidden from him. Aragorn grew frantic again.

Oh Eru, he cannot be gone, he cannot be gone.

Gone. The word gripped his heart like an iron claw, and a wave of nausea assailed him anew. He bent over again, forehead on the forest floor, hands clutching at nothing and everything in an effort to grasp at something that made sense.

In the brief moments that followed, a hundred images and thoughts assaulted his mind, cruelly declaring what death would rob from Legolas and from all who treasured him: a Firstborn’s desire to sail to Valinor, a dream to return Arda its birthright of green peace, an elven kingdom’s tribute to a noble prince, a father’s final embrace of a worthy son, a little boy’s shining admiration… When Aragorn’s thoughts finally turned to his own loss, he felt his heart shatter: he would not even have the chance to express his own regrets or to repay the debts of love he owed his truest friend.

The Ranger would have ranted his despair right then had his voice not failed him and all strength abandoned him. The only sense he could make of anything at that moment was the light sound of footfalls beside him. Slow, gentle footfalls that rustled sleeping leaves.

Rallias bent its long neck and nuzzled its master tenderly. So tenderly.

Something soft fell on Aragorn’s back. From reflex more than conscious thought, he reached up, felt it, drew it to him. It was Legolas’ cloak. He had not bothered to roll it up again; it had sat before him on the whole ride, on the whole journey through the forest.

And now it came to him. Numbly, he looked at it. Felt it. The scent of the Woodelf was there, taunting him. Saying he had come too late. Too late.

Helplessly, the face of the King and the Ranger and the friend fell into it, and from where his grief had been pushed down, it now gushed up and spilled over, thick with sorrow. Finally, from total silence, total muteness, his voice found release again. Aragorn screamed his life into the cloak, calling over and over the name of his friend, his painful shouts and cries muted by the soft cloth as he drowned in the terror of a feeling of utter loss.

“Now you’re for it, oaf!” a gruff and angry voice shouted up at a sallow-faced man dismounting from his horse. The speaker was frantically pressing a wad of material torn from some dirty garment against the wound in Legolas’ side, watched by numerous faces blanched with fear. “The master will have your head for this.” 

The dismounted rider walked haughtily up to the group of men surrounding the still figure on the ground. Brûyn was among them. His bonds had been cut and he had been staring with wide, panicked eyes at the ashen face of the prone and bloodied form. Now he joined the first speaker in berating the approaching figure.

“Pöras, you’re a fool! I did not bring him all this way for you to kill him!” he shrieked in a shrill voice. “I wanted to deliver him to Sarambaq alive and kicking. He already had two darts in him, enough to take him down. Why did you have to do him in?”

A growl of irritation was the reply that came from the one being accused. “Gah! My blade did not swing to kill, only to stop him.” He glared at his companions. “What? You would have him slaughtering us? All of you numbskulls? You saw how he was fighting with the fury of ten mad men, even with the darts in him!”  He turned to the first speaker, a challenge in his hard eyes. “You, Närum! Were you at the end of his knife, would you still not let me slay him?”

“Shut up, Pöras,” said Närum firmly, his face black with ire. “The poison just needed time, you know that, you should have waited.” He snarled at the other man. “You are not the only one who will suffer the master’s anger. It will be ugly.”

Pöras cringed inwardly at Närum’s words, for he knew they were true, but pride donned a mask of arrogance to conceal his fear. “Ahhh, move off!”  he growled impatiently, pushing aside the others to drop on one knee before the unmoving figure on the ground. He studied it with narrowed eyes.

If death had claimed the elf, its hold was but a weak one, for, even devoid of the warm blush of life and with numerous small cuts to his body, his face lost none of its fairness, nor his hair the luster of gold, nor his limbs their graceful lines. But the elven form was marred by an ugly gash on the left side of his torso that cut through his clothing and flesh beneath.

Pöras grasped one of the cold, limp wrists roughly, and a dubious look flitted across his features. With a sudden movement, he drew a dagger from his belt and poised to sweep it downward to the still face. Loud were the shouts of shock and distress from his companions.

Aragorn pushed himself up, still feeling a dead weight on his shoulders. But he was kneeling now, forcing himself to steady his breathing, forcing his tightly shuttered eyelids to relax, forcing his fists to unclench from the tight grip they had had on the elven cloak. From somewhere deep within him, inexplicably and unanticipated, a voice of resolve stirred to whisper to him.

He is not gone, he is not dead. You cannot believe it. You will NOT believe it.

The Ranger started reproaching himself. If their positions were reversed, he thought, Legolas would not lose hope. He would refuse to believe his friend was gone. Not till he saw with his own eyes all signs of life fade away, not till he held him and felt him and knew for certain.

Now Aragorn would do the same. He would hold on to hope.

After all, had they not wanted the prince alive?

That reminder was as a calmative. He controlled his breathing, slowing it, measuring each rise and fall of his chest. Training his eyes to the scene beyond the gully again, he found the wall of men still erected around the one he longed to see. But he was calmer now. He could think ahead, he could plan. He could tell himself that regardless of what his heart desired, rushing headlong with his sword into that situation could well bring death to himself and his friend. Even if Legolas were gone, it would be a rash, pointless act, but if he were still alive, it was even more imperative for him to remain in a position to help the elf. 

If he is alive. If he is alive. Aragorn’s heart lurched at the possibility.

At that point, he knew: all he needed to go on, to brave any obstacle, was some sign, some small sign, that his friend was still alive. If he had that sign, he would reach Legolas even if all the fires of Mordor stood between them.

Encouraged by how he and Legolas seemed to have been able to sense and hear each other since the night before, and in awe of that bond, he decided to let it bring him hope. However small a glimmer, it would still be hope.

With that thought, he slowed his breathing even further.

In. Out. In. Out. Slowly.

He cleared his mind of everything, everything, save the face of his elven friend.

And then, only then, did he utter a plaintive, heartfelt plea with his trembling lips.

Reach out to me, my friend. Tell me you are still with me. Let me know you have not left.

A long, deep breath punctuated the end of his supplication, and Aragorn was ready. Keeping his eyes closed and his mind open, he bowed his head, forgot his body, forgot the forest around him, and waited.

Time seemed to stand still when Pöras’ dagger poised but for a moment in mid-air, freezing everyone who watched its movement… so that when the downward sweep came, he was too quick for the few shocked Adhûnians who rushed to stay his arm.

Stopping his dagger but a hair’s breadth away from the elf’s face, he snorted in disdain. “Ho, twenty of you with but one slow mind,” he commented arrogantly without looking up. “Look!” 

Bewildered, his companions looked on in speechless anticipation.

As Aragorn cleared his mind, the trees around him seemed to stop pulsing with life and wait with him. Rallias stood quiet and steadfast at his side, and his own breath seemed to still.

Silence.

Nothing moved.

Then it came.

A weak, warm, scented breeze rippled the air, almost imperceptibly, wafting to him and sighing around him. Gently, gently, it brushed his hair and whispered against his ears, feather-like and soft.

Aragorn gasped at the strange sensation, his instincts moving him to welcome it, embrace it. When it ceased, his breath hitched, and he almost reached out to grasp it as his heart felt a twist of alarm and loss. 

But then it returned.

Like a soft caress, it touched his wet cheeks and soothed his brow. It drew another tear from his eye and teased his lips into a slow, sad smile. And as Aragorn embraced it again, his heart perceived what his eyes could not:

He lives.

With a flourish, Pöras brought the shiny blade of the dagger under the nose of the elf and waited while Närum, Brûyn and a few others crowded around him to see what he wished to flaunt to them.

A little mist from living breath was laid on the blade, hardly to be seen, but it was there. It went, but came again. And again.

Hope and certainty kindled in Aragorn’s heart and lifted his spirits as he turned his face first to the sky and then to the forest standing in silent vigil around him, proclaiming in a hoarse voice to the listening clouds and trees:

“He lives! He lives! I feel it. He has not left.”

At the sight of the mist from living elven breath, the distress and puzzlement of the Adhûnians turned to both disbelief and relief, released in a collective gasp from the men who but a while ago had cringed at the thought of facing Sarambaq’s unrestrained fury.

“Our hides are safe for the moment,” Närum conceded grudgingly, though the frown did not leave his face. “But we have to keep him alive, take care of the wound, or it will finish him off, with all that poison already in him.” He pointed to the sword wound from which blood still seeped, albeit slowly.

“Well, tie it up!” someone suggested.

“Tear up more clothes then,” Närum growled, “or we have naught to bind it with.”

Brûyn was the first to respond, for he had vested too much interest and effort in bringing the elf here to lose his chance at a reward. Impatiently, he started tearing up parts of his shirt and those of his companions, dirty as they were, to form another rough wad against the wound and a long strip to tie around the elf’s ribs and hold it down.

“How do we keep him alive with no medicines to treat him?” Brûyn asked.

“We stop the bleeding first, and remove the darts,” Pöras said, fingering the exposed end of the first dart embedded in the elf’s neck. A quick examination led him to the second in the lean muscle of the thigh. As he started to extract them with his bare fingers, he instructed. “Someone ride back to the woods and cut long branches to make a litter; use a blanket. We cannot drape him over a horse, not with that wound. Get back here as fast as you can.”

“Get enough for several litters,” Närum added, turning to Brûyn. “For all the wounded. And bring spades for digging.”

Brûyn was reluctant to leave the elf, but complied, hurrying off with another man. If he had to go, he would use the chance to talk to Sarambaq himself at the caves.

Närum asked Pöras quietly, “Will he survive?”

The reply was tinged with annoyance. “His fate is uncertain, for I am no healer. You know as much or as little as I.”

“Sarambaq will not like this,” Närum muttered. “Where is he?”

“Tending to his beast, I wager,” Pöras replied with a grunt. “It was shot by this elf we have to keep alive. His strength and aim was something to behold, but the beast is not that easy to kill.”

“Aye, its skin is like leather, hard to pierce. The arrows could not have killed it.”

“Still, it will be wretched with pain. I do not want to be the one to tend to it. It would snap my head off,” Pöras said, shuddering.

Närum nodded but did not dwell long on that thought. Leaving the unconscious elf to Pöras’ ministrations, he started giving instructions to the remaining men to move their fallen countrymen to one side of the plain. “We will bury the dead here and not leave them as carrion. Start digging with whatever you have.”

With renewed vigor and a spirit shed of the weight of grief, Aragorn stood, clutching the cloak to his chest, and looked again across the land to where the group of figures now seemed to be talking excitedly.

Moments later, he was remounted on a willing Rallias. Fighting the urge to do anything impulsive, he left the threshold of the forest and marked a trail that would take him around the curved part of the gully to where his friend lay still and unmoving. He clung fiercely to one hope, one belief: that for now at least, Legolas was alive.

Soon, very soon, he would behold the truth for himself. 

I am coming, Legolas. I will not lose you now. Please hold on, please wait. 

A steely resolve was in his eyes as his mind raced in time with Rallias’ strides, forming a loose plan.

CHAPTER 21:  AFFIRMATION

As Aragorn left the forest, his heart both lightened by hope that Legolas was alive and laden with anxiety over the uncertain fate of his elven friend, he could not help ruing the chain of events that had led to this predicament, his own role in it not withstanding. Still, he allowed that feeling to be but a fleeting one, for this was not the time to dwell on regrets. Legolas had fallen and he was injured, of that he was sure, and no other need overrode that of getting to the elf’s side as soon as possible.

The elves of Ithilien – and the men of Gondor, in all likelihood – would set off after him and Legolas if they did not return in a day or two, but he could not afford to wait for them.

No, Aragorn decided, the time for stealth was over. Just as all hope of secrecy during the Quest had fled with their trek through Moria, leaving them no choice but to seek an alternative route, he now felt he had little option but to follow a new plan and hope it would work.

The Ranger could not help thinking back to the numerous times during the Quest when he had had to make decisions without the benefit of adequate knowledge, how he had feared the consequences of each choice he pursued, and how Legolas – even when his elven heart told him it was not the best choice – always followed his lead, accepting him and supporting him.

Few know whither the road leads till they come to its end, the elf had observed sagely on their long, uncertain journey down the Great River. Holding to his own counsel, the elf had never once faulted the Ranger for something none of them could foresee, his loyalty not diminishing even in the face of danger and death.

Now, Aragorn realized, it was the life of this very friend that depended on yet another path he had to map out. Would Legolas be as supportive now?

As soon as the question crossed his mind, Aragorn knew the answer. Even if it were his own life that was to be decided by Aragorn’s choice, the elf prince would not waver, he would hold true to the King. Looking out over the plain where this elf now did indeed lie helpless, the King felt humbled.

Let my choices now not be ill, Aragorn begged of the Valar. Guide my feet to the right path, for I could not bear to lose the friend who has remained steadfast at my side on every path onto which I have strayed. 

With that entreaty, he steeled his resolve once more and continued his trek down to the plain where his friend lay.

The roar of rage from Sarambaq almost plastered Brûyn and his companion to the cave wall as they related to Sarambaq all that had happened to the elf.

“H- h- he is alive, master,” Brûyn’s companion ventured nervously, trying to placate his incensed master while staying as far out of the reach of the man’s arm as possible. 

The tall dark figure did not seem convinced. “If he dies, you will join him!” he screamed. “I’ve waited too long for this!”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Brûyn stepped in quickly, keen to get into Sarambaq’s good graces. “I made sure to lead him here in one piece.” His eagerness was pathetic. “I thought you would be pleased.”

Sarambaq looked at him as he would a mangy dog. “If – he – lives!” was the choppy, emphatic reply. “Gah! We have little enough to treat the wound you speak of. And I’ve used most of it on Dârkil, no thanks to the elf himself,” he muttered, making a mental note to give the fool who had inflicted the sword wound more than a piece of his mind.

Emboldened by having proclaimed that he was the one who had brought the elf here, Brûyn decided to ask the question that had been puzzling him: “Why – why do you want him alive, master?”

Sarambaq whipped around and glared at him for a moment. “And what good would it do you to know why?” he challenged in a low, dangerous voice dripping with disdain.

Brûyn gulped. “All right, all right, I didn’t mean anything by asking. Just wanted to know.” 

Sarambaq turned back to his thoughts of the elf. Hatred and satisfaction claimed his features.

You are in my clutches at last, prince of Mirkwood. After ten years, I have you. But don’t you dare die. Not yet. Not till you have helped me fulfill all I have waited for.

He pondered the news Brûyn had brought him with a grim face. But as he did, he slowly came to a realization that gave him an unexpected and twisted sense of pleasure.

Well, well, elf prince, he said to himself, I think your injury will actually aid rather than hinder my plans after all. This turn in events may be to my advantage.

Much to Brûyn’s surprise, his master took in a deep breath and almost smiled. Nodding at some decision he had made known only to his own mind, Sarambaq made tentative plans. If the elf lived, he would be suffering from the effects of the poison soon. He would be unconscious for a while yet. That gave him enough time to tend to his steed which lay hurt and screeching on the flat rock above. It was dangerous in its present state of pain, for it would suffer no one but its master to even approach him, so none of the other men would go within twenty yards of its talons. No, he could not leave the beast yet, but he would use the time to think through the next step in his plan of vengeance.

Snapping out a crisp order to keep the elf guarded at all times and to bring him and his weapons back to the caves as soon as possible, he strode back assertively to the stairs in the rock face that would take him to his wounded beast.  

“Close your trap, moaning will do you no good,” Närum said roughly to one of the wounded Adhûnians as he attempted to staunch the blood from a gash in the man’s thigh.

He looked around at the group of them who had narrowly escaped death from Legolas’ sharp knives. He could not afford to appear soft, but in his heart, he felt sorry for them, for they were his countrymen, and like him, they were all subject to the poor treatment they were forced to endure from the master they feared. Deep down, he was discontented with Sarambaq for caring so little for the men who served him. The self-centered master would spare all his efforts and medicines to keep the elf alive for his personal vengeance, but not his men.

How am I going to help these wounded fellows? He wondered bitterly. A shout in the distance brought his head up.

“Someone is coming!”

Närum was instantly alert. Few, if any, strangers rode this way, but his momentary panic was slightly quelled when he saw a lone man and a horse approaching the area at a slow canter. Even from a distance, the chestnut stallion looked beautiful, putting its travel-worn and scruffy rider to shame. The duo was heading towards some men who were moving the bodies of the dead to a burial site. The demeanor of the man and the pace at which he was riding did not hint at a threat, but they still had to be cautious.

“Draw your blades!” Närum shouted to the men closest to the approach, and hurried to finish applying a rough wad to the wound he was working on.

Two dull-looking men were the first to halt Aragorn and Rallias in their path, brandishing their coarse blades. Aragorn held one hand up in a gesture of peace even before he reached them.

“Who goes there?” the stouter of the men challenged.

“Peace, I am merely a traveler,” Aragorn replied, schooling his features to feign indifference. “I mean no harm.”

“Traveling? Where to?” Suspicion filled the question.

“Nowhere. Anywhere,” the Ranger replied carefully.

The two men looked at each other, not knowing what to make of the answer. Seeing their confusion, he added, “I look for a place to settle.”

“Well, stay where you are till our chief comes,” the stout one said, not knowing how else to react. He wished Närum would get here quickly.

Controlling his emotions, Aragorn complied and cast his eyes over the scene, looking for a specific face. Dead men lay nearby, waiting to be buried. Most likely the handiwork of Legolas, he thought. The wounded were being tended to further away, from which direction a taller figure was now walking briskly. Legolas must be there, the Ranger thought, his heart beating more rapidly at the thought and wishing to be at the elf’s side that very instant. Was this man approaching them Sarambaq? He dearly wanted to know, but that question could wait. Getting to Legolas was paramount.

Putting his plan into motion, Aragorn said to the two men: “You have many wounded. Was there a fight?”

“Not your concern,” came the terse reply.

“I can help,” the Ranger offered, wishing to do just the opposite. He would dearly love to cut off the heads of those who had brought harm to his friend. But he had to keep his revulsion from his voice. “I’m an apothecary.”

The dull looks on the two men grew even duller, if that was possible. An apothecary? They looked at each other again. The stout one made to question Aragorn further, but Närum’s voice cut in.

“What’s going on?” he bellowed, striding up to them, sword in hand.

“About time you got here, Närum,” the stout man turned to greet his leader.

Not Sarambaq, Aragorn concluded.

“He says he’s a traveler,” the stout one reported.

“And he has a pot to carry,” the other man chipped in, eager to contribute.

Both Aragorn and Närum’s heads turned instantly to him.

“What?” Närum asked, his brows furrowed. Aragorn almost laughed despite the gravity of the situation.

“Aye, aye, that’s what he said,” the stout one agreed, not wanting to be outdone. He looked back at Aragorn. “What pot do you carry, eh?”

Närum’s eyes roamed over Aragorn’s dirty clothes and boots and his untidy hair, some of which hung in limp strands over his eyes, unaware of how carefully the Ranger had allowed them to fall there so that no one would read his real emotions in the grey orbs when he spoke.

“I carry no pot,” he responded, hiding a smirk, for it would do no good to offend them. He addressed Närum. “I’m a… a healer.”

Närum narrowed his eyes. “You do not look like a healer.”

Aragorn grinned crookedly. In my present state, I do not look like the King of Gondor either, he thought, but some kind of answer was necessary. “I have been a wanderer more than a healer for the past few weeks. I know not the source of your troubles here, but I have healing herbs for your wounded, and I can look for more. In return for aiding you, perhaps I can get some food and shelter.”

This seemed too opportune, Närum thought. His hand remained on his sword.

“How come you to be here?” he queried. “This land receives few strangers.”

“Oh, is this your land?” The surprise in Aragorn’s voice was not totally contrived. “I am simply looking for a new place to settle. I have – I have left my home. Or what was my home.” 

“Where?”

Aragorn paused to gather courage for his next words, which would be the first of many necessary falsehoods. With a silent apology to Eomèr, he injected as much feigned bitterness into his voice as he could as he answered: “Rohan. I am no longer welcome there.”

“Why?”

Another pause and more bitterness. “Banished. I am in exile. I was accused of treason to the king.”

Unexpectedly, his hesitation worked to his advantage as it was taken as reluctance to reveal the reasons for his departure from Rohan. Aragorn prayed he could keep the details of his fabricated story consistent. He thought that such a crime might sit well with Sarambaq if he should end up confronting him. He had chosen Rohan as the setting because he thought the Adhûnians would know less about Rohan than Gondor, and thus might he safely weave his tale. For a fleeting moment, he was thankful that it was not Legolas who had to tell these untruths, for he would fare poorly.

It was Närum who showed surprise now. He studied Aragorn again. A healer? Accused of treason? He must have been part of some nobility, for the man was unable to hide his straight bearing, but he looked unkempt enough to have been traveling for many days. He needed to know more. “What was your crime?”

“Like I said: treason. Accused of treason, mind you,” the Ranger said firmly, studying their faces. “How much do you know of Rohan?”

“Hardly anything,” said the stout man, who had been listening with great interest. Närum cast him a look that would have shriveled an orc. The man had just told Aragorn of their ignorance. The Ranger was secretly pleased. 

“I was an apotheca – a healer – in the King’s Houses,” he continued with greater confidence, with another silent apology to Eomèr. “My herbs failed to save the life of one of his kin. He was already too ill, but I was accused of treason by his advisor, a witless worm.” As Aragorn articulated the words Gandalf had used to describe Grima Wormtongue who had poisoned the late King Theoden’s mind with his counsel before the Quest, he smiled inwardly. But what his face displayed were discontent and resentment. “Power can do strange things to those who wield it.”    

His last words seemed to touch a chord in Närum, whose thoughts flashed back to the wounded elf and men lying not far away. To Aragorn’s relief, the man muttered something that sounded like: “Well do I know it.” The Adhûnian ran his eyes over Aragorn again. A healer in the King’s court. That would explain his air of assurance. But suspicion flared again as he threw the Ranger another question, his sword still unsheathed: “You must have seen this… mess… from afar,” he waved his hand over the scene, “why did you still choose to ride here?”

Aragorn ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, forced a sigh of exasperation, and raised one eyebrow in a humorless face. “I have been wrongfully banished from Rohan, chased through Gondor, for they are allies, and am in danger of being lynched by over-zealous supporters of the king. I have nowhere else to go, and naught to lose by riding into a strange place under strange circumstances, for I run from a fate so ill and dismal that I care little what lies ahead, save there be food and shelter for me.” 

Närum was silenced by this speech. But another doubt lingered as his eyes roamed over Rallias. The horse seemed too fine…

“I stole it,” Aragorn lied, anticipating his question, and thankful that he had thought to hide Anduril from ready sight before he left the forest. “I felt it was owed to me. I have naught else, as you can see.”

That explanation and apparent confession seemed to satisfy Närum, for indeed, the man was lightly equipped. Whether this man needed a new home, and whatever he had done before, Närum thought, he now possessed something that was sorely needed: healing skills and herbs.

A screech of pained fury from the forest punctuated the silence, astonishing Aragorn and reminding the men of the foul mood Sarambaq would be in right now with his steed injured, as well as the wrath that was certain to erupt when he knew about the tenuous fate of the elf prince.

Närum made a quick decision.

“I will be watching you,” he warned the Ranger sternly, drawing his sword and pointing it at Aragorn, “but if you can help the wounded as you say, and if you are as desperate to find a new home, we will see what can be done. No false moves, mind you, or you will pay. We do not take kindly to strangers.”

Aragorn nodded, suppressing an urge to ask about the source of the screech, conscious of the more urgent need to see Legolas. With Närum watching his every move at sword point, he dismounted and led Rallias to where the wounded lay, grateful for the long strides the Adhûnian himself took.

The Ranger’s feet seemed to move of their own accord as they neared the group of men. Pöras and several others who had been tending to their companions now stood and moved toward them at their approach, eyeing him suspiciously. Without breaking their stride, Aragorn heard Närum explain to them who he was, and concluded that none of them were Sarambaq.

He heard someone mumble something about a fever having set in. Those words made him scan the prone figures more urgently. He breathed a continuous prayer that Legolas would be the first person to whom he was taken.

The answer to his prayer came when Närum pushed him toward a particular spot and the sight of long, golden hair came into view. He drew in a sharp breath, hoping no one would have noticed it.

It seemed an eternity before they reached the one he had come so far to find, but they finally did. Aragorn had to keep himself from running to the prone figure and wrapping his arms around it when the closed eyes in the familiar elven face silently greeted him at last. Drawing nearer, his own eyes took in the multiple small lacerations and the bloody tunic and shirt that had been torn open to reveal the equally bloody bandage covering a larger wound, and his hands longed to slaughter every Adhûnian in sight. But he clenched his fists and controlled himself.

Studying the elf’s face quickly, he saw that it was flushed, with a faint sheen of perspiration on it. Just as Eldarion’s had been, from the healers’ account. His sharp eyes noticed the bluish mark on the left side of the neck and what looked like a puncture point. 

Poison. Oh Eru, they must have shot him full of poison like they did Eldarion. With the poison and that wound…

Aragorn’s suddenly constricted throat checked a cry of distress that was threatening to leave it. He knelt quickly as a concerned healer would, and touched the brow of the friend he loved, trying not to let the tremble in his hand give away his true emotions.

The elf’s brow was hot to the touch, but never had the feel of a feverish brow been more precious or more welcome to the Ranger, for it told him that Legolas was truly still alive. So deep was the desire to hear his friend speak again that he almost called out to him, but he stopped himself just before uttering the name. Pushing down his anger and desperation, he sought a solution, and an idea took shape in his mind.

He pretended to peer more closely at the elf, sculpting his features into a look of surprise. Feigning ignorance, he asked the men around him: “This is an elf. What is his name?”

The men looked at each other and shrugged. “He is just the elf prince to us,” one of them volunteered before Närum stopped him with a snarl and a glare. He still preferred to exercise caution around the healer.

“Ah, as I thought,” Aragorn said, nodding. “I have seen this one before. He came to Rohan during the Quest. His name is Legolas.”

The name was repeated in a murmur that ran through the group of men as they waited to see what the healer would do next. No one seemed suspicious over his knowledge of the elf’s name, and Aragorn breathed in relief.

Painfully aware that he must not alarm the Adhûnians or amplify their suspicion of him, and yet longing to affirm to himself that his friend’s heart was indeed beating, he knelt before the still figure and held the wrist of a long, slender hand. The feel of it, so real now, so warm, almost made him lose all control, and shed all pretence. Legolas was alive, and it was all he could do to not pick his friend up in his arms.

But he had to remain calm and provide Legolas with what he needed most urgently: his hands, for the hands of a King were the hands of a healer. Aragorn felt for the pulse, and found it racing as the elf’s body tried to counter the poison.

Gritting his teeth, he forced out a measured question: “He looks bad. Is there poison in him?”

All the Adhûnians nodded, and Pöras looked irritated.

“I treat him first then,” Aragorn stated. “He has to fight both the poison and a bad wound.”  

He dared not imagine what he would have done if he had been refused, but to his relief, both Närum and Pöras nodded, joined by their companions. Their own well-being depended on this elf’s staying alive, and Aragorn sensed that subtle concern. 

Aragorn spared only moments fetching his water skin and the bag of herbs and clean bandages from his saddle before he was kneeling by the elf again. His mind working swiftly, he looked up at the Adhûnians who had gathered around him and said, “Make a fire and boil clean water. Find as many clean garments as you can for bandages. There are many to treat and we have much work to do.” 

As Närum’s attention was turned to issuing orders and Pöras began to organize the men, Aragorn shrewdly took the opportunity to bend down, place a comforting hand on his friend’s fevered cheek and discreetly whisper Sindarin words into the elven ear.

Fighting to rise to the surface of an unfamiliar, hot, painful liquid haze that was threatening to drown him, Legolas heard a soft voice: a voice that had, in some distant nightmare, taken the form of a fiery spear aimed at him, but which was now weaving itself into a strong lifeline to which he could cling, to which he was being asked to cling. Even in his fevered delirium, he reached and held on desperately to that lifeline, a string of elvish words whispered in a familiar voice that was warm and deep with love, a voice full of pleading and promise:  

Stay with me, dearest friend. I am here, and I will not leave you.

CHAPTER 22:   THE KING AND THE HEALER

The afternoon wore on as Aragorn worked wearily with the wounded on the plain and everyone waited for the litters to be made ready. Someone had ridden back to the caves and brought pots for boiling water, as well as bowls and a spoon for Aragorn.

The Ranger’s attention was focused on the elf, thankfully without objection. After applying a clean bandage to Legolas’ wound, closing it as best as he could without proper equipment at hand, he treated all the other small cuts he had received, then dressed his friend in a fresh shirt retrieved from the elf’s own pack found on the dead horse.

While waiting for water to boil, he questioned Närum about the kind of poison that had been used to bring the elf down, and was given the answer he had expected: the same ipo poison that had gone into Eldarion. The substance, according to the healers in the City, was not usually used to kill, only to incapacitate, Aragorn told himself. Not usually used to kill. Yet, there was one concern he could not ignore. He was almost afraid to ask the question, but he had to know:

“How much did you use?”

Several men who had heard the query grimaced, and Närum set his lips in a grim line, sending a fresh ripple of fear through Aragorn.  When no one spoke, Aragorn pressed the question again, his tone louder and more insistent this time. “How much?”

“One dart would have been enough,” Närum stated hesitantly. At Aragorn’s quizzical look, he continued: “Enough to make him go numb, knock him out.”

Aragorn waited, for the man obviously had more to say.

“Aaah, just tell him we doubled it!” Pöras interrupted abruptly, stepping up to them. “Have you no mettle to face the truth, you cowards? We shot two into him, healer – two. And if that is too much for the elf’s body – not much substance on him anyway – that is just too bad.”

Aragorn entertained the pleasurable thought of obliterating the scowl from his face, and perhaps even the face itself, but Närum, turning on his countryman and shoving him in the shoulder, was quicker.

“I told you once to shut up, Pöras! Don’t make me show you how!” he growled.

Pöras snarled and looked ready to retaliate, but at the glares from all the other men, he changed his mind and retreated. “Gah! All this worry about the elf,” he muttered and stalked off in a huff.

Aragorn was now both furious and anxious. He had seen what the small amount of poison from just the tip of a dart had done to Eldarion, but from the looks of the puncture wounds on Legolas, he must have had about eight to ten times that quantity from two fully embedded darts enter his blood. Even though he was a full-grown elf, it was hard to foretell the harm that much ipo would wreak on his body. This was not a substance Aragorn was familiar with; he did not know how it would affect elves, and the ignorance only caused his worry to mount. 

“Is there something he can take to quell the poison?” he demanded.

“Not that we know of,” Närum replied gruffly, frustrated at his companion’s behavior and the whole predicament they were in.

Aragorn blew out a breath of frustration himself, and he felt lost, for he had never seen Legolas so helpless. He feared whether the elf’s body could deal with a strange poison as well as the threat from a wound that could fester. Perhaps an elf would be more resistant to the poison, perhaps not. Regardless of the effect, he had to control his fear, for Legolas would need him to be strong. Suppressing a feeling of helplessness, he calmly performed all the tasks he thought might help the elf battle the poison. 

When water had been boiled, he steeped fever-reducing herbs to make tea. While waiting for the tea to be ready, he crushed athelas in hot water, letting the therapeutic aroma of the herb soothe and refresh both his patient’s and his own tired body. The Adhûnians nearby were pleasantly surprised by a clean scent that permeated the air, and which seemed to them as pure and unsullied as a new-born babe or a fresh fall of snow. The Ranger let the vapor waft around Legolas’ face, sure that the elf would be breathing it in. Legolas still did not wake, and the fever did not break, but his breathing became easier.

Perhaps this is enough for now, Aragorn thought sadly. It is enough that he is still breathing.

When the tea was ready, the Ranger sat, carefully raised his friend and rested the head on his own shoulder, holding the elf’s chin with one hand so that he could slowly feed him the tea, painstakingly cooling each spoonful and waiting for each small amount to slide down the throat and be reflexively swallowed before inserting the next mouthful. After each cup of tea, he bathed the hot brow and body with the water in which athelas had been crushed, now cooled. More than once that afternoon, he breathed silent thanks to the elves of Ithilien for the herbs and clean lint they had had the great foresight to supply.

For the sake of appearances, he called aloud to the elf in a neutral tone, trying to wake him. But whenever the golden head was resting on him and a delicately shaped ear close enough to his lips, he whispered soft pleas as well as words of comfort and assurance, hoping that they would reach the elven mind in some way.

In between bouts of feeding Legolas the tea, Aragorn had to keep up his charade by tending to the others as well, although he quietly kept hidden some of the herbs and clean lint Legolas would need later, using only what he thought he could spare for the others. A few of the uninjured men assisted in applying the poultices he had prepared, but he still had to check on their efforts, and he abhorred each moment away from the one he should be looking after. The further away he was from his friend, the more hurried was his examination of each Adhûnian, and the more anxious he was to finish with all of them. Reluctantly treating wound after wound, his mind and eyes were ever on the golden-haired figure, watching for the first stirrings of recovery.

The Ranger hated each act of pretence, and yet, even as he pondered the irony of having to administer healing to the very men who had brought the elf down, the healer in him and the elvish blood in his own veins would not let the helpless wounded die in cold blood. Even after defeating Sauron’s forces before the Black Gates, he had felt compelled to give his conquered foes another chance to redeem themselves. Such was the nobility of the Númenórean line that had pleased Eru before pride and greed destroyed its splendour, but in Aragorn, that heritage lived and thrived again.

Närum had kept a close eye on Aragorn’s movements at first, but relaxed a little after he observed the gentle healer’s hands at work, silently noting how the stranger ignored his own tiredness to care for those who needed him. Silently, too, he realized how Sarambaq could not be any more different from this healer in his treatment of the men. All this Närum saw and kept in his warrior’s heart.

Brûyn had returned to the plain at some point, and was pleased to learn of the opportune arrival of a healer, although he simply could not understand what pot Aragorn carried, no matter how hard the two men who had first met Aragorn tried to explain. His companions quickly fashioned some litters and began the first of several trips to bear the wounded who had been treated back to the caves. Since Aragorn had to continue tending to the others, Närum readily agreed that the elf should also remain with the healer till his work was finished.

Aragorn noticed immediately that Brûyn was as loose with his tongue as Närum was cautious. Discreetly, he listened to the man’s prattle, and learnt that Sarambaq was none too pleased at Legolas’ condition but was too occupied with tending to his beast to ride here. An occasional screech from the direction of the woods provided evidence of Sarambaq’s labor. The men’s discussion of the day’s earlier events painted a picture of what had happened to his friend before he arrived. Aragorn had quickly spotted the body of Aérodel earlier, but he learnt now how the horse had met its demise, and he sighed in sorrow for the elf, knowing how keenly the Firstborn would lament that loss.

The clouds that had blocked out the sun for much of the day were now gathering as a low heavy mass in the sky, threatening them with a downpour. Aragorn had treated the last of some twenty survivors of Legolas’ knives and was hurrying his weary feet in the direction of the elf. Preoccupied with reminding himself, not for the first time, just how dangerous a cornered and skilled Firstborn could be, he almost walked into Närum, who abruptly stepped into his path to halt him.

“What is your name?” the man asked him gruffly.

Aragorn was genuinely taken aback, too tired to fully register the query at first. Thankfully, he managed to blurt out the first Rohan name, other than the well-known ones, that crossed his mind: “Hama.” As Aragorn uttered the name, he paid his silent respects to the captain of Rohan who had been killed defending the realm’s stronghold against Saruman’s attack during the Quest.

“Hama,” Närum repeated the name softly, studying the Ranger’s weary face. “Thank you.” 

Aragorn was again taken aback at this unexpected expression of gratitude from the Adhûnian, but he knew at once what he was being thanked for. Fleetingly, he recalled his conversation with Faramir in the White City, about how men in a battle, whichever side they fought on, had people for whom they cared. The Ranger still seethed with fury over the hurts Legolas had received, but a small voice in him said that these men were perhaps no better than pawns in Sarambaq’s game, and Aragorn was sure that the elf himself would have held the same belief. Had they actually killed his friend, his reaction might have been very different, but now he merely nodded his acceptance of Närum’s thanks.

Any other words they might have exchanged were left unsaid when they heard the man who had been watching Legolas call out suddenly: “He wakes!” 

This time, Aragorn could not stop himself from covering the distance in long, running strides to drop to the ground on his knees, his eyes never leaving the prone figure he had placed on a clean blanket. The elf had indeed stirred, causing Aragorn’s heart to give a small leap of joy, but the elven eyes were still closed, and the flushed face grimaced with pain and great discomfort as a soft moan escaped his lips and his hands moved to clutch at whatever they could reach. Aragorn held them still by gripping them gently. Anxiety dampened his relief, for this waking was not yet one of recovery, and the fever, while it raged no longer, still held the elf in its hot grasp.

Legolas’ lips moved, mumbling incoherently, and Aragorn called to him, aware of the Adhûnians around him: “Awake, Prince Legolas.”

But all he could hear from the elf’s lips were three sounds that he kept repeating. Aragorn listened carefully, placing his ears close to the warm lips, his brow furrowed. Then his eyes glazed with moisture and his heart filled with sorrow as he finally recognized the words Legolas were trying to articulate:

Stay. Away. Estel.

The Ranger swallowed and blinked back a tear. Even in this state, all the elf could think about was the safety of his human friend. Aragorn tightened his grasp on the warm, pale hands, hiding his true emotions as best as he could as he called the elven name over and over. To his disappointment, the elf lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Eldarion took a day to wake, and the amount of poison in him was far less, even for a child, the Ranger remembered in an effort to quell his own apprehension. Give him time. 

“What did he say?” Brûyn demanded.

“It was difficult to determine,” Aragorn replied vaguely.

He was saved from further questioning by the arrival of a horseman who rode up to Närum and spoke to him. From the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw a look of annoyance cross Närum’s face. Then the man barked out: “Orders from Sarambaq: we have to move everyone back to the caves now!”

Just in time, Aragorn thought, feeling the increase in wind strength and sighing in relief that his patient would be sheltered from what promised to be a storm.

All the wounded were quickly placed on the litters or on horseback if they could sit. Legolas was also borne on a litter, and Aragorn did not encounter objection when he insisted on walking beside him, still playing on the men’s fear over the consequences if the elf did not survive. The men were, in addition, too exhausted to care about where he walked. Aragorn cast a last look back at the body of Legolas’ horse in the distance, not knowing what its fate would be, and said a silent farewell before they set off. Rallias walked obediently beside him, bearing his and Legolas’ few belongings.

As they made their way towards the woods, Aragorn studied their surroundings. Escape was out of the question for the moment, but he had no doubt they would have to attempt something once Legolas was able to walk or ride. Unless – and this was Aragorn’s hope – help from Ithilien and Gondor came first. The Ranger could plan no further than getting Legolas back on his feet, for he had no knowledge of Sarambaq’s plans.

The walk to the caves was uneventful, save for someone losing their grip on one of the handles of the other litters and almost dropping the injured man on it, at which point Aragorn’s ears were introduced to a decidedly colorful Adhûnian curse that involved more than one body part. The retort, which identified the first speaker’s body parts and ancestors in turn, was no less passionate, drawing guffaws from the speakers’ companions and a small chuckle from Aragorn, who wished Legolas had been able to hear the exchange as well. Looking down at his silent friend, his hand gently moved stray strands of blonde hair away from the flushed face and adjusted the wet cloth on the hot brow, noting the warmth that still clung to the elf and parched his lips.

Please, my friend, awake soon. Let your body be healed, let my heart be eased, he pleaded silently.

But silence was all he received in response.

CHAPTER 23:  THE TOUCH OF NÚMENÓR

The first drops of rain fell on the tired faces of the Adhûnians and the Ranger as they trod wearily along a rough path through the thick woods, bearing their wounded. At the end of it, Aragorn was greeted with his first sight of the rock that was the Table.

Despite the circumstances, Aragorn was a little amazed at this interesting outcrop of rock and the caves hewn out of its base. A loud, piercing screech told him that the beast must be perched atop that rock. He was curious to see what it looked like, this product of a cruel union between what was once a noble creature of the air and a foul beast of destruction. But more than the sight of the flying fiend, what Aragorn wanted – both wanted and dreaded – to see was the despicable face of Sarambaq, the one who had set all the events of the past week in motion. The thought made him place a comforting hand on his elf friend in an unconscious protective gesture.

He pushed his feelings of disgust aside for the moment, however, focusing instead on Legolas’ needs. Aragorn did not see where the other wounded men were taken, but on his carefully phrased advice, Närum had ordered that they be brought to a cave with easy access to water, for the fever had not yet left the elf’s body. They were thus taken to a small but smooth-floored cave close to but separate from the main rock. Even in the gathering dark, Aragorn could see that trees and undergrowth grew on top of the cave. They entered the cave not a moment too soon, for the onslaught of rain caught them by surprise; it was as a massive issue from a dam, suddenly released, that pounded mercilessly upon earth, rock and tree.

Working against the rain pelting his face, Aragorn removed his belongings from Rallias after being assured that the horse would be sheltered with the others in a make-shift stable rigged by the Adhûnians. Among the things he brought in was Anduril, which he had wrapped loosely in blankets and a cloak so that its shape would be indistinct. Laying his bundle down, he peered around the inside of the cave. The Ranger was surprised to find a steady and strong trickle of water flowing down from some fissure in the ceiling, collecting in a basin-like depression in a ledge protruding from the cave wall, gouged out of the rock by thousands of years of the descent of the water. The water then flowed in a little rivulet out of the cave and into the woods outside. Someone brought in torches, kindling and wood – miraculously still dry despite the wet assault from the skies – to supply the cave with a feeble warmth but adequate light for the healer to work.

Aragorn moved Legolas from the litter himself and laid him gently on a blanket he had spread on the floor. As the Adhûnians were leaving with the litter, the Ranger moved quickly to hide his sword in the dark shadows near the back of the cave before returning to his friend. He had just removed the elf’s boots when – even through the determined pounding of the rain – he heard the voice of Närum in dialogue with a commanding voice outside. Moments later, a tall figure appeared at the mouth of the cave, Närum standing just behind him, both shaking off the rain from their hooded cloaks.

Aragorn turned to look at him and knew instantly that this had to be Sarambaq. The Ranger, kneeling behind Legolas’ head where he was arranging his small stash of herbs and linen, stilled his hands and kept his face expressionless as the two figures approached them slowly, the one in front fixing a hate-filled glare and smirk of satisfaction on the motionless elf. Sarambaq, his dark, wild hair framing a hard, angular face and malicious eyes, stopped beside the figure on the cave floor, planting his feet apart in a haughty stance and crossing his arms. The amber glow of the light from the torches played across his sharp features and lit his eyes with a demonic flame. The roar of the rain outside seemed to augment the dark aura he exuded.

Without warning, his boot lashed out to kick the still figure in his ribs – fortunately on the unwounded side – but the vicious move startled both Aragorn and Närum, and caused the elf’s body to curl reflexively in pain. A hiss escaped Aragorn’s lips and his hands flew up before he could stop them, but he quickly retracted them and dug his fingers into the flesh of his thighs to keep them from breaking the villain’s knee caps. Sarambaq’s head swiveled instantly to shoot him a fierce glare, and before he could bite his tongue, the Ranger stated aloud between clenched teeth: “That will not help him heal.”

Närum threw him a look of caution, warning him to be silent.

“Watch your tongue!” Sarambaq spat out, and against his desire, Aragorn clamped his mouth shut and fisted his hands tightly, not for his own sake but for that of his helpless friend. He could not afford to antagonize the Adhûnians while Legolas lay easy victim to their whims.

Sarambaq tried to study the Ranger’s face in the dim light of the torches, his eyes narrowed. For long moments, he scrutinized the features that Aragorn kept as expressionless as possible. Finally, Sarambaq raised his eyebrows arrogantly, and his lips curled in disdain when he spoke. “So – Hama – you’re the healer.” 

The words were just discernable against the noise of the torrents slamming against the cave and ground outside, but Aragorn caught them and nodded, looking past Sarambaq at Närum, who appeared a little ill at ease. The Ranger guessed that his being brought here may not have met with the Master’s complete approval.

“Tell me, healer,” Sarambaq said haughtily and sarcastically, bringing Aragorn’s attention back to himself.  “Will the elf live?” The question was asked not in a tone of concern but of tense expectation, almost a challenge.

The Ranger considered his response carefully, for he wanted his reply to ensure his continued presence by the elf’s side. 

“He will if he receives proper and constant care,” he answered in the controlled and informed tone of a healer, his words coming out perhaps a little more timidly than he intended.

Sarambaq snorted. “Then you will provide it!” he commanded sternly, pouncing on the apparent trepidation his presence inflicted on the Ranger. “And you will make sure he survives. You will look after him all night if you have to.”

Aragorn said nothing, surprised but secretly pleased with the way the situation was developing in his favor. He remained mute and unmoving when Sarambaq stepped closer to tower above the Ranger’s kneeling form, curling his lips and issuing his final words of warning for the night in a low, measured voice, hardly audible above the drone of the downpour outside:

“If he dies, healer, you will answer for it. And you will find the exile that Rohan imposed on you a kind punishment.”

Aragorn hid his anger and disgust behind a curtain of feigned fear on his face, and earned a fleeting look of sympathy from Närum. The next instant, however, Sarambaq’s scorn was for the Adhûnian himself.

“You brought him here, you will be responsible for him,” he charged his subordinate. “Make sure he does his job.”

Närum’s face was impassive now as he nodded and threw another look at the Ranger. Sarambaq then turned his eyes back to Legolas and sneered. Aragorn tensed. If the monster kicked the elf again, he did not know if he would be able to stop a retaliatory attack on the knees this time.

Fortunately, Sarambaq turned abruptly on his heels, pulled up his hood and walked out into the dark, watery night. Närum cast Aragorn a final, wordless look before he growled something to the two men guarding the entrance of the cave and left in the same direction as his master. One of them followed on his heels and the remaining guard, armed with a rough scimitar, sat on the floor near the cave mouth, looking dully at the rain.

Aragorn immediately pulled up Legolas’ shirt to see the damage from the cruel kick and found what had to be a painful bruise which would turn blue-black later, but nothing worse. He sighed with sympathy for his friend as he studied the closed eyes in the fair face.

Ai, Legolas, I am so sorry for the pain you must be in now, he said silently. Forgive me for failing to shield you from his brutality.

Not wishing to dwell futilely on things that could not be undone, he checked the wound on the elf’s body and was pleased to see that the bleeding had largely stopped. He applied a fresh poultice, changed the bandage, and placed another wet fold of cloth on the elf’s brow.

The guard returned then and shoved a plate into his hands. It contained some stale bread and dried meat on which rainwater had splattered, but to the Ranger, who had not realized how long ago it had been since he last ate and was suddenly famished, it seemed like a feast. The two guards sat eating their own meals, looking out into the wet darkness, too tired to pay attention to the people within.

Finally, Aragorn sighed inwardly.

With the two sleepy guards at the cave entrance, he felt he could – even if for a while – shed himself of the cautious physical and emotional cloak he had had to wear since mid-day. For tonight at least, he hoped, he would not have to keep such a tight rein on his feelings and his tongue, and he would be able to speak more freely to his friend, greatly thankful for the cover that the noise of the downpour would provide. 

After his simple meal, he leaned his exhausted body against the cave wall and closed his eyes for a short and much-needed reprieve. But he soon stirred again to carefully lift and recline Legolas against his chest once more, to resume bathing the fever-ridden brow and body with cool water from the basin in the cave, and to feed the elf the last of the fever-reducing tea he had prepared earlier. After the last spoonful, the Ranger yielded to his aching body and his anxiety, lay his head back on the comfortless stone wall, and simply sat holding the silent form as his mind agonized over the uncertainty of Legolas’ recovery. The wound did not seem to be getting worse, but was the elf’s body coping with the poison?

Have I done enough? Ai, Legolas, what else should I do?

He lost all notion of time as he continued to beg Legolas to return to the conscious world, speaking again and again into the elven ears.

Please speak, my friend. One word, just one word to show me you are coming back.

The earlier events of the day had not spared him time to fully appreciate the consequences of what was happening to Legolas, but now that he could think about them, he felt a little frightened, mainly because he still did not know enough about the strength of the poison, or of Sarambaq’s plans, or how long the Adhûnians intended to keep Legolas here. He thought then about Arwen and Eldarion and prayed they were safe. How he missed them, yet he knew that as long as Sarambaq held the elf, he himself would not leave.

Please, Legolas, awake. I do not know what Sarambaq has in mind for you, but your life is in great danger. If we do not attempt something soon, I cannot imagine what he will do to you.

And what about Thranduil? And the elves of Ithilien? They would no doubt be victims of some trap as well if they followed the trail of the Ranger and the elf.

Your father and your kin need for you to live, Legolas. Please come back so we can leave, or at least think about what to do.

Unconsciously, he massaged the elf’s much-too-warm hands as if that would help his message get across. The pulse at his wrist was still too fast, too rapid to suggest he was combating the poison successfully.

Please, my friend, fight this affliction. Come back to us, come back to me.

But despite his heartfelt pleas, muteness was his only answer. The feeble glow from the torches, coupled with the flat tone of the rain, added to the depressing mood in the cave, and made Aragorn think of the Fellowship’s journey through Moria: a cold, wet and dark trek that cast little light and brought little hope. He could not see the end of their road then, and he could not see the end of this one now.

Far from aid and friendly support, and in a moment of total exhaustion when his spirit seemed unable to rise above a feeling of helplessness, the Ranger buried his head against the elf’s shoulder, not caring any more whether the guards saw him. And the King of Gondor, who had been under a constant weight of care for months, who had quaked at the sight of his unmoving son but a few days past, succumbed helplessly now to his sorrow, suddenly afraid that Legolas’ life was slipping away in slow surrender to a cruel poison, sorrowed that a Firstborn son might be parted from his father, and grieved that he himself might not have the chance to atone for his careless words in the City that had led the elf here.

He did not know how long his head lay bowed, but when he raised it, the elf’s shoulder was damp. A quick look at the two guards found them sitting against the cave walls as well, hugging themselves within their cloaks against the cold, their faces and postures spelling disinterest in everything except sleep, lulled by the gentle sound of the light rain.

Light rain? Aragorn blinked. The rain had eased considerably, but when? How long had he been sitting and holding Legolas? 

Aragorn shook his head and lowered his friend gently back on the blanket, adjusting the wet cloth over the brow. He sat there gazing at the elven face for long moments, and his yearning to hear the fair voice and laughter cut him as deeply and keenly as a knife. He touched the cheek lightly.

Legolas, he said silently, what I would not give to hear you speak again, my friend.

In the dismal atmosphere of the cave, he looked at his own hands, studying them, wondering, doubting, and remembering. Hardly had he used those hands for healing since the Quest, for there were healers in abundance in the White City.

But now he sighed and reached for two leaves of athelas. I will do one more thing, he decided as he wet them and bruised them with his determined fingers and between his palms so that their soothing fragrance once again permeated the air.

Then, Elessar Telcontar, Elfstone of his people, who had brought healing to so many unknown Gondorians during the Quest of the Ring, closed his eyes and hoped that his hands – the hands of a king – would now do the same for someone precious to him. Just as he had done ten years ago in the healing rooms of Minas Tirith, Aragorn placed hopeful hands on the brow and face of the still form as the voice of the bloodline of Númenór called softly but firmly to the elf to rise from the darkness of his affliction. Never had he prayed so hard to the Valar for their mercy and help with each passing moment as he channeled all his thought and spirit into the act. Once again, the passage of time held no sway on his mind.

But at last, he stopped, bent and exhausted from care, labor and lack of sleep. In the now silent cave, he spread another blanket, lay his tired form next to Legolas and whispered again into the pointed ear:

I have done all I can for today, Legolas. Please wake soon. And when you do, you will find me here.

Then, he abandoned all conscious thought and gave in to the need for deep rest. His final act before he closed his eyes to the world was to place a hand lightly on the elf’s shoulder so that he would know if his friend awoke.

But four hours later, still cradled strongly within the arms of sleep, the Ranger’s ears were deaf even to the storm that once again furiously claimed mastery over the land.

Neither was he aware that as the heavens inundated the rivers of the land with fierce torrents, another red, raging flood was subsiding, slowly ebbing away, and a submerged spirit that had fought strongly not to drown, clinging desperately to its lifeline, was finally rising from the churning depths to reach calmer waters and to draw breath.

In the darkest hour of the night, when all at the Table – save a few watchful guards – were asleep, a light moan was uttered through parched lips, inaudible against the loud, steady thrashing of liquid upon solid, which sharp ears detected and recognized after a few moments.

A pair of eyes cracked open painfully, warily, to see a dark, hazy world with slight shadows dancing diffidently around torches on stone walls. Slowly, the eyes focused, and moving wearily, they alighted on two blurry figures sitting near a modest fire some distance away, leaning limply against dimly lit walls, heads bowed.

A battered body shifted but a fraction of an inch, stopping when – despite the slight numbness – it became conscious of pain somewhere on its left side, a duller ache on its right, and soreness in its neck and limbs. Naught did it do for long moments except listen to its breath.

But then the ears caught the sound of another breath, and the heart within the fatigued body, moved by some inexplicable force, sensed something – someone – familiar, and close by, very close by. The mind, enshrouded in fog, struggled to understand, and a moment later, the heart whispered: Behold your lifeline.

A head, feeling extremely heavy, turned slowly, laboriously but determinedly, to seek the rock to which the lifeline had been secured, the beacon by which the floundering spirit had been guided. Slender fingers, stiff and feeble, crept sideways to meet rough cloth, slid along its length to touch warm flesh on a calloused hand, and wrapped themselves weakly around their discovery.

The calloused hand jerked into awareness, and a face – with a light beard that framed lips parted slightly in surprise – appeared above. Startled grey eyes, groggy but quickly becoming awake, looked anxiously down into blue, wondering ones. The parched lips below parted weakly and croaked out a word so softly that it was heard only because of the proximity of the speaker:

“Estel.” 

A gasp came from the lips in the face above, and the hand of the healer urgently felt the brow and cheeks below it, brushing back the sweat-drenched hair to reassure itself of the coolness of flesh that announced the long-awaited breaking of a fever. As the blue eyes continued to watch in wonder, the grey eyes in the face above softened into tenderness, the lips widened a little, quivering in relief and joy, and strong arms gently slid beneath the prone form to clasp it in a warm embrace.

The Ranger buried his face in the golden hair, thanking every Valar that was ever created, and released his fears at last in strangled sobs and uneven breaths. But his tone was soaked with relief as he whispered shakily against the elven ear:

“Never has your voice sounded sweeter, mellon nin.”  

Note: I thank all the readers who dropped me a line to let me know they are following this story - that was all I needed, and I will keep it at this site. 

I don't know about you, but I have been waiting a long time for what happens in this chapter...

CHAPTER 24:  FLIGHT OF SHADOWS

“Why are you here, Aragorn? How did we get here?”

As soon as the Ranger had released his friend from his embrace, the questions had come, catching the listener unawares. Despite the darkness of the cave, the look of distress in Legolas’ blue eyes was clear as he voiced the questions feebly. But barely were the queries past the elf’s lips before his breath hitched, his head began to swim and a retching sound escaped his throat.

In an instant, the bowl Aragorn had prepared for this eventuality was in place, and the elf began to retch painfully and uncontrollably, expelling what little was left in his stomach, his hands clutching tightly at his shirt. Aragorn held Legolas’ golden hair back from his face and rubbed his back gently, murmuring soothing sounds.

A movement from the cave entrance caught Aragorn’s attention. “Oy, what’s going on back there?” a sleep-coated voice drawled.

“Nothing, the elf is just emptying his stomach,” Aragorn replied calmly so as not to draw undue attention. “I can take care of it.”

The guards seemed like they could not have cared less if Aragorn had told them the elf had grown another head. They muttered something inaudible and settled down again to sleep, clearly not expecting an unconscious elf to attempt escape, or a healer to do anything but treat wounds.   

When Legolas had finished, he lay on his back again and closed his eyes, clearly spent. Aragorn fetched fresh water and gently cleaned his friend’s face in silence, then propped the golden head up just high enough for the elf to rinse and drink a little.

“Better now?” the healer asked soothingly, and was relieved at the soft ‘yes’ murmured in response.

He took just a few minutes to walk past the sleepy, listless guards and out of the cave to clean the dirty bowl and linen in the rain, and return to Legolas’ side. Peering closely at the elf’s face, he called to him softly, and the look from the blue eyes satisfied him that his friend’s discomfort was much less now. Speaking in whispers, he first warned Legolas that they had to talk discreetly, and then told him briefly where they were and who held them, knowing that the elf was familiar with the name of Sarambaq.

Legolas tried then to ask questions, but Aragorn hushed him, working silently and swiftly to replace the elf’s shirt and leggings that were soaked with sweat expelled by the fevered body as it recovered. At the gentle rebuff, the elf relaxed and complied quietly when the Ranger checked his wound and bruise, and he did not resist when his friend covered him with a blanket and cloak to ward off the chill of the rainy night. But his blue eyes never left the man.

Now, as Aragorn propped him up and offered him more water, the elf stayed his hand. “Estel, you should not be here,” he said, furrowing his brow. “I warned you away… did I not?”

The Ranger did not answer immediately, but laid his friend back down. Aragorn looked away from the blue eyes just long enough to confirm that the guards were either wandering in their dream worlds or too sleepy to care, and lay down again himself, placing his head close to the elf’s so that their whispers would be safely drowned by the loud drone of the rain. 

“Estel, are you all right? Did they…?” Legolas began again.

“Legolas, first tell me how you feel,” the Ranger interrupted, exasperation in his voice.

The elf blinked as he considered the pain in various parts of his body and replied: “I hurt in a number of places, and I feel very tired – and a little dizzy – but that is all.”

Aragorn gave a small snort. “That is all?” he asked, and even in the dark, his friend did not miss the gentle sarcasm in his voice or the incredulous look on his face. “By the Valar, Legolas, you have been slashed by blades, shot full of poison, and kicked in the ribs; you fought a raging fever, and for the better part of yesterday, I was not even sure when I would hear you speak again, that is all!”  

At the confused silence from Legolas, Aragorn sighed and briefly described how he had tracked him, witnessed his fall on the plain, and was now pretending to be Hama the healer in exile from Rohan. He finished his narration by admitting how worried he had been over the wound and the poison. “I think your body has expelled most of the poison now,” he stated hopefully before clearing his throat and adding “although… with all the tea I fed you, I fear you might be visiting the woods often tomorrow to expel more. But at least you’ll be able to walk then, I expect.” He smiled in amusement, imagining his friend’s embarrassment at realizing what Aragorn must have done for him all day. He anticipated the apology on the elf’s lips and shook his head to stop it.

“No burden were you to me, dear friend,” he said warmly, then gently whispered a confession: “but long were the hours of waiting, and for many of them, Legolas, I feared I would lose you.”

The elf looked into the eyes of the Ranger, remembering the agony of his vague, hazy, fevered estrangement from the conscious world. Then he said simply: “I heard your voice.”

Aragorn smiled. “I never stopped calling,” he responded softly, holding his friend’s gaze.

For a few moments, the two friends allowed themselves to reflect on the strength of that bond, their minds touching, needing no words to capture all that their hearts had to say.

Aragorn broke the silence first. “You came back,” he said, “and now that you are awake, my heart is greatly eased, though you are still very weak and will need to rest. I will brook no argument on that score, Elf.”

“And I will offer none, Edain,” Legolas replied with a tired smile.

Aragorn chuckled lightly. “Are you warm enough?” he asked, and was pleased at the nod he received. “Then, if you feel up to talking, I would dearly like to know all that happened since you left Ithilien.”  

The elf seemed reluctant at first, but no longer saw any reason for withholding the information, so he narrated the events of his journey, beginning with a hesitant confession of the intentions that had driven him to make the trip, up to the battle he had fought. At that point, he halted suddenly as he recalled something, looking at Aragorn with wide eyes.

“Aérodel,” he gasped, the memory hurting him. “You saw – ?”

Aragorn pressed a comforting hand to the elf’s shoulder. “I imagine his death was quick, mellon nin, and few horses could be more heroic.”

Legolas sighed and closed his eyes, and the Ranger gave him a few moments of silence, feeling miserable over the revelation he had yet to make to the elf. In addition to the loss of his beloved steed, his friend would soon have to learn the truth about Sarambaq’s intentions.

“Aragorn…” the elf spoke again but faltered, his eyes still closed. The Ranger waited till he was ready to resume. “Aragorn, I could not… I set out to find out more about your foe, but I - I failed to do that, and now, because of me, you are here where you should not be…” His voice trailed off, and Aragorn could hardly hear his final lament: “Why did you come?” 

“You need to ask me that, Legolas? You should know: I came for you.”

“But you should not have. Sarambaq tried to take your son. This place is fraught with danger for you.”

The Ranger sighed sadly, for he knew he could not put off the distressing news any longer. Clearing his throat a little, and keeping his hand on the elf’s shoulder, he ventured nervously: “Legolas, there is something you need to know.”

Something in the Ranger’s tone – heard even above the roar of the rain – sent a small jolt of fear through the elf; he opened his eyes and gazed at Aragorn without blinking. Never releasing his comforting grip on his friend, and feeling more wretched with each word, Aragorn poured out everything that the prisoner in the White City had revealed, about the reason behind the attack on Ithilien and Sarambaq’s true target. As he listened, Legolas’ elvish face tensed first in shock, then hardened in fear and anger, for now he learnt that it was his own father who was in danger. 

“I know not his plans in their entirety, Legolas, but I know he has malice and vengeance in mind,” Aragorn finished, “and so, it is not I, but you who are in danger, my friend.”

The elf’s eyes widened. “Adar! My father, does he…?”

“We sent out riders immediately, both from the City and Ithilien. Your people should reach him in a few days. Your father will be warned.”

“He will come,” the elf said in dismay. “He should not, but he will come.”

“Hamille will try to stop him, Legolas. It is you we should be worried about.”

“I cannot be held here, Aragorn!” the elf said frantically. “I worry not for myself, but for Adar. Sarambaq will lure him here, he – ”

Aragorn hushed him gently, stealing a quick look at the guards. “Peace, Legolas. I understand. That is why we must think of how to prevent that. We have to escape as soon as you are able to ride, though I must confess I know not how or when yet.”

Legolas lapsed into silence again, and all that was heard in the cave was the sound of the rain.

“Ten years,” he mumbled at last, “Ten years of plotting revenge. How it must have eaten at his heart, darkening it.”

Aragorn had no response to that, so he held his tongue. 

“It is no wonder then that I sensed the shadows of Dol Guldur sitting on our prisoner like a dark cloak, and again as I neared this place,” Legolas said in a dejected tone. “Oh, fool was I not to have seen it!”

“None of us knew, Legolas, do not berate yourself so,” Aragorn countered.

The elf merely hissed and turned his face away, and Aragorn allowed him the time he needed to ponder the implications of all that was happening. The Ranger watched the flickering shadows on the cave walls as he waited. But when long moments had passed and still the elf did not speak or turn back to face him, he grew concerned.

“Legolas?” he queried softly, his hand tightening slightly on the shoulder. 

When only silence greeted him, the Ranger’s heart clenched in fear again, and he raised his head while reaching out to turn his friend’s face back in his direction. For a moment, he stopped breathing when he saw that the elven eyes were closed, but exhaled in relief when he saw that the elf had not lost consciousness, for he was biting on his lower lip, holding back his emotions. The fair face was wet and the expression of regret on his face was heartbreaking.

The elf tried to turn his face away again, but Aragorn stopped him gently with a palm against his cheek. The Ranger said nothing, waiting for his friend to swallow what sounded like sobs so that he could speak.

A cough came from the direction of the cave entrance, and Aragorn turned to look at the guards, his body tensing. One of the guards shifted slightly as he readjusted his position against the wall; then his head bowed and he went still again. The Ranger relaxed and turned back to his friend.

“Oh, Eru…” the elf said at last in a low voice that started to shake, and he opened blue eyes glistening with moisture to look at his friend, the remorse in them twisting the Ranger’s heart. “Estel, I am sorry, so sorry.”

Aragorn’s brows knitted in genuine surprise. “For what do you seek forgiveness?”

The anguish in Legolas' voice was palpable as he spoke between uneven breaths. “This evil plan was targeted at me, and at my father. It is bad enough that six of my kin – six good elves – died because of that, because he wanted me. But none of this…” and his voice broke then. “None of this should have touched you or your family. Eldarion… that child was hurt because I was the one being sought.”

“Legolas...”

“Then I came here to seek your foe, but it was mine all along. And now – ”

“Legolas, stop.”

“I should not have come here on my own, and my foolish actions have brought you here into danger.”

“You came to do something for me, Legolas!” Aragorn protested, taking care not to speak too loudly but wishing to emphasize the point. “And do not forget why you even came in the first place. It was because of my harsh words to you in the healing room that night – which is the reason I went to Ithilien to seek you out.”

It was now Legolas who looked surprised and Aragorn who cast his eyes down. “No blame at all should I have laid on you for what happened to Eldarion, my friend. Since that night, every waking minute has been filled with my desire to seek your forgiveness. I went to Ithilien for that purpose.”

“But it turned out that Eldarion did suffer on my account. The dart – ”

“It matters not whom the dart hit,” Aragorn interjected, looking at his friend with wide, firm eyes. “Do you not see, Legolas, even if it had really been meant for Eldarion, that would not change what you did. Even without knowing who the target was, you took care of my son and my wife with everything you had, and you risked your own life. In all of this, it is the vile actions of Sarambaq that are to blame, not you, and the only words that should have reached your ears were my words of gratitude.”

Legolas was silent as he reflected on what Aragorn had said.

Aragorn took the elf’s hand and held it tightly, closing his eyes as he voiced his heartfelt apology. “It was I who spoke foolishly in anger, mellon nin, and to my shame, I was so blind I could not see you were wounded, so that my careless hand added to your pain. I beg you to forgive me.”

“I was distressed,” Legolas said honestly, “but I have not held it against you. I have never held anything against you. Not even your words at Imla – ” he stopped abruptly.

Aragorn furrowed his brows, puzzled. “What words?”

The elf did not answer, but looked away. Aragorn would not accept his mute response.

“What words, Legolas? What did you mean?” he demanded.

“They matter not, Estel.”

“Yes, they do. If you remember them, they must matter. Now, tell me: what words?”

“They are nothing.”

“Legolas, please…”

The elf sighed. The nightmare played in his mind again, and his next words were uttered so softly that Aragorn could not be certain he had heard them: “The folk of Thranduil failed your trust.”

Aragorn was stupefied. “What?...When?”

“At the Council called by Lord Elrond. You said…” the elf paused again, but Aragorn grasped and raised his chin so that their eyes met.

“Saes, Legolas, tell me, please.” Aragorn’s voice was pleading now, disturbed by the shadows flitting across the elvish face, not sure if they were from the light of the feeble torches or from a painful memory.

The elf released everything in a rush. “Gollum had escaped. From our hands. My patrol. When I broke the news at the Council, you said – you asked how the folk of Thranduil came to fail in their trust. I never forgot your words, Aragorn, and now I have failed you again. I lost my prisoner, and you are here where you should not be, embroiled in the troubles of Mirkwood. Because of me.”

The Ranger was dumbfounded as his mind worked furiously to recollect the events of the Council and the verbal exchanges that had taken place. Men and elves and dwarves and hobbits and one irate Istari – they had all learnt of the existence of the One Ring and of the dire threat to Middle-earth, and they had all been faced with dismaying discoveries and hard decisions that brought little hope of salvation. It had been a trying time for all, not the least for him, whose destiny had propelled him into the heart of the peril, and on whose shoulders the future of Men and Middle-earth, in part, rested.

In the greater turmoil surrounding the fate of the free peoples of Middle-earth, the Ranger and the future king of Gondor had not realized what his words – impulsively uttered – had meant to one elf whose people had been charged with a creature they did not love, a creature that played a role they had no knowledge of, in a war they could not foresee. He remembered the words now: as blunt an accusation of failure as there could be.

And Legolas had borne that memory for ten years. Kept it in his elvish mind, yet remained unflinchingly loyal to the one who put it there.

Ten years of unresolved pain had festered into bitter venom for Sarambaq, but such pain could not sully the noble heart of Legolas or overpower the love in it.  

For the second time in less than a day, Aragorn felt humbled. His emotions caught in his throat when he studied the look of hurt on the fair face of his friend, though the elf tried to hide it behind downcast eyes. His mouth was dry when he tried to speak.

“Legolas,” he began and swallowed. “My words… they were rash, foolish words spoken in a moment of fear, for each piece of news and each tale told at the Council promised only certain danger and little hope for all of us, for all of Middle-earth.” He paused in brief reflection.

“My heart was in great distress, my mind in turmoil over a precarious future. Yet, that was no excuse for my thoughtless tongue. No, saes, let me finish…” he held up his hand when Legolas tried to interrupt, and continued. “The news you brought to us about Gollum – it was dismaying, although as things turned out, Gollum’s being alive was critical to the fate of the Quest, that you know. But no matter the outcome, you did not deserve the insult I dealt you. Not you, not the elves of Mirkwood, not the folk of Thranduil.” He looked deeply into the eyes of the elf before him. “Will you forgive me once more, Legolas?”

The look of sincere regret and pleading in the Ranger’s eyes plucked at the heart-strings of the gentle elf, who hoped his voice could capture the depth of his love and conviction as he replied:

“I say again, Estel, I have never held anything against you. Hear me and believe me.”

Aragorn tightened the hold on his friend’s hand and allowed a single tear to trace his cheek in the dark as he responded.

“I believe you, dear friend, and that is what brings me shame. Yet, in my shame, I have one more thing to ask of you: as we would wish Sarambaq to release himself from his desire for revenge that has consumed him for ten years, I beg you to cast aside the memory of my words that seems to have haunted you for that long. You have never failed me, Legolas, not in the forests of Mirkwood, not in the woods of Ithilien, and not in the healing rooms of Minas Tirith. No fault could I lay on you for what happened at any of those places. It was my weakness, not yours.”

The elf was silent as his friend bared his soul to him, but his eyes were fixed on the man, and he removed the Ranger’s tear with one slender finger.

“We have been through so much together, Legolas, through fire and snow and hurt and war and death. In all the years I have known you and through all the years of my struggles as the heir of Isildur, I have had no truer companion in elf or man. No one need remind me, for I know what lengths you would go to for me, and you know I would do the same for you. Let no foolish words hold sway over us or come between us.”

“They do not,” came the reassuring reply. “Im innas anna-nin cuil an beria lin,” Legolas said softly, looking directly into the eyes of his friend. “I would give my life to protect yours.”

“A im sui eithel,” Aragorn whispered his pledge in return, returning the steady gaze. “And that is why there is to be no talk about whether this grudge of Sarambaq’s towards you and your father should or should not involve me. Between us, this should not matter.”

Legolas’ half-parted lips seemed on the verge of saying something else, and a shadow of a lingering doubt crossed his fair face. Aragorn waited, but the elf let it go and said nothing, so the man did not press him. Instead, he continued.

“I have missed you, my friend, truly missed you. Whenever the burdens of my kingly duties become too much, my thoughts turn ever to Arwen and Eldarion for solace and warmth, and to you for strength and companionship even across the miles. How I have longed to spend time with you again,” the King said pensively. “Yet here we are now, in another mess,” he added with a sudden chuckle, and a faint beastly screech from above reinforced his observation. “I really do not know what is going to happen, or how we will escape this… but we had better do so, for I have a bottle of good wine back home with our names on it, waiting to be opened.”

In the darkness of the cave, and despite his aching body, Legolas smiled back. For a moment, their conversation and their predicament struck Aragorn as amusingly odd.

“Here we are, saying things from the heart that should be said in another time and place, instead of in the middle of a… well… a battle,” he said with a wry grin.

But the look in Legolas’ eyes was one of profound reflection rather than mirth, as if he was recalling similar moments from some other time and place in his long life.

“What needs to be done and said, should be, in any situation.” he replied sagely. “And perhaps it is in battle, when one is close to possible death, that we feel the reality of those truths keenest, and so should we speak them.”

Aragorn looked fondly at the face next to his.

“Why, my friend, you have grown wise indeed,” Aragorn jested, though he felt a pang of sorrow that the elf should be thinking those thoughts. He still held his friend’s hand and squeezed it again as he said with unmistakable conviction, “I know not what tomorrow will bring, Legolas, but I am with you, and we will get through it together.”

The elf smiled quietly in return, the tiredness in his eyes not escaping the healer’s scrutiny.

“Now… let us rest in sleep again, and I will brook no argument, Elf.” 

“I offer none…” the elven eyes glazed over in reverie even before the rejoinder was finished. Just one moment longer, the Ranger looked tenderly at the fair face, innocent in slumber, before his breath released in a soft sigh and his own eyes closed in sleep.

Tomorrow, a new and different storm would be upon them.

Tomorrow, they would have to face Sarambaq.

But tonight, the two friends would sleep peacefully, secure in the resolution of an uncertainty long kept hidden, and caressed by the solace of forgiveness given and received.

Tonight, in the gloom of an enemy’s cave, the ten-year-old shadows of a Ranger’s words, and the dark nightmares that had accompanied them, would vanish from an elf’s mind in the light of a renewed understanding shining brightly from the depths of two souls bound by love and loyalty.

I know not what tomorrow will bring… but we will get through it together. 

As the night passed for Middle-earth, and the rain fell around them, and the stars wheeled overhead in a cloud-covered sky, they held on to those words and to each other for strength and comfort. 

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~In the end the Shadow was just a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. ~

- J.R.R. Tolkein., The Two Towers - 

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Note:  There is nothing more precious – or harder to come by – than such depth of friendship and devotion. I thought it deserved a chapter by itself. The elvish lines in this chapter were kindly lent to me by Deana, who used them in her story Tears of a Soul, published at another site. My thanks to her.

CHAPTER 25:  HOSTAGE OF HATE

Aragorn finished applying a clean bandage to Legolas’ wound in the early light of day, and pulled the blanket up to the elf’s chin, making him as snug as he could against the chill of a misty morning.

“Sleep as much as you can, and while you can,” Aragorn said softly to his friend, placing a hand on his brow.

“I do feel tired still, Aragorn,” the elf admitted, looking at the Ranger through half-closed eyes, “although my mind can hardly rest for worry.” 

“You need the sleep to recover, and I fear Sarambaq will not leave you alone for long, once he knows you have awoken.” Aragorn reminded him. “I need to scout around, but I shall not tarry overly long. When you wake later…”

Aragorn was stopped in mid-sentence by a pale hand that had escaped the blanket to hold the Ranger’s arm in a light grasp. “Be careful, Estel,” came Legolas’ concerned reminder.

“I will,” the Ranger smiled reassuringly. “I will tell them I need to gather more herbs. That way, I can wander around more freely, I hope. But I will return as soon as I can, and when you awake later, you can have a bit more of the lembas.  Go back to sleep now.”

Aragorn frowned a little when Legolas complied readily with his advice, and the Ranger thought how ironic it was that he should be glad the elf obeyed his instructions, yet, the submissiveness worried him, for the elf would never have done so willingly were he up to his usual strength. Neither would the elven body, which had gone through the snowstorm of Caradhras unfazed, feel the cold of this cave, yet it did. The flesh wound was healing remarkably quickly on the immortal elf, but Aragorn recalled how, earlier, the elven strength and grace of the elf prince were all but absent as he leaned on Aragorn to walk into the woods and relieve himself. His hand had also been shaky when he fed himself a small piece of lembas Aragorn shared with him, and when he held a cup of water to his lips.

The poison has exacted much from him, the Ranger realized worriedly, but I hope sleep will help his healing abilities to work faster.

With that thought, he washed himself at the rock basin in the cave, put on a tunic and hid a dagger in the side of his boot, hoping he would not have to use it. After making certain that Anduril remained out of sight, he left the sleeping elf and ventured outside. The guards had left the cave at dawn when it was clear that the elf was hardly able to walk on his own, but just as Aragorn was leaving, two new ones took their place at the cave entrance.

“Where are you off to?” one of them demanded of the Ranger.

“To see to my horse and your wounded companions,” Aragorn replied easily. “The elf rests still. Do not stir his sleep.”

After a brief discussion with the other guard, one of them hurried after Aragorn, much to the Ranger’s annoyance, but there was nothing he could do to refuse the surveillance. The first place Aragorn went to was the stables, to make sure Rallias had been fed, and to brush him down. As he worked, his eyes wandered discreetly around the Adhûnian camp, noting that many of the men did not seem to be doing anything in particular: some were taking a quick breakfast, some seeing to the horses, some merely standing and watching. But there were also men sitting around a fire, cleaning and sharpening the blades of swords, scimitars and daggers, and making crude arrows. This last scene disturbed Aragorn, for they were clearly preparing for some event.

He wondered where Sarambaq might be. A screech from the flat top of the Rock above suggested an answer, and he tensed. 

He will go to the cave soon, he thought anxiously, and I must be there when he does.

In the meantime, he would explore the area a little more, to see if there was any means of leaving the camp unnoticed, thinking even as he considered the possibility, that there would be little likelihood of doing that successfully. Sarambaq would almost certainly not leave them alone today. The only small comfort Aragorn was able to nurse was that the Adhûnian did not seem to desire an end to Legolas’ life yet.

But he will not wait long to exact his revenge, the Ranger realized grimly. Can we be prepared for it? Oh, Valar, watch over us, he pleaded.

Aragorn made a pretext of visiting the wounded men he had treated yesterday, changing linen where he needed to, and pronouncing other wounds already mended.

“You have good hands, healer,” one of the wounded remarked. “You could make a living in Adhûn if you choose to settle there.”

Aragorn could not suppress a smile of amusement. I am needed elsewhere, and for much more than healing, he thought, but all he said was: “We will see.”

Needing an excuse to scout the area outside, he remarked quite clearly and audibly that he needed to find more herbs in the woods. But no sooner had he stepped out of the cave where the wounded men lay did he hear loud voices heading towards the cave Legolas was in. His heart gave a lurch and he followed them, cursing himself for not having returned there sooner, and trying to control his pace so as not as to raise the suspicion of the guard at his heels.

As he expected, Sarambaq was striding purposefully in the direction of the cave, Närum behind him. When the men walked past the lone guard, Aragorn could not help quickening his own strides. He reached the cave entrance just as the men stopped next to the prone figure of the sleeping elf. 

“Where is the healer?” Sarambaq bellowed, looking around. 

“I am here,” Aragorn responded quickly, again feigning a meek tone. “I was seeing to the others who need treatment.” Närum gave him a nod of silent acknowledgement.

Sarambaq swung scornful eyes on him, and again narrowed them as if he was trying to recall something. But his interest quickly returned to the elf.

“Did he awake?” he asked brusquely.

“Briefly,” Aragorn replied as nonchalantly as he could, walking slowly to where they were. “But he is still very weak, and will continue to sleep for much of today, I expect.”

Sarambaq growled and looked so aggravated that Aragorn feared he would kick the elf again.

“Sleep is what he needs to get back on his feet again,” the Ranger said quickly, “He can hardly walk on his own yet, for much poison was in his veins. But if that is what you desire for him to do, he must sleep. And I will have to seek more herbs to make him tea.”

Sarambaq looked even more annoyed, as if he was not quite sure if that was what he wanted. He looked like he was about to make a remark, but just then, Legolas stirred and uttered a soft moan. His eyes fluttered open slowly.

Everyone looked at him, and Aragorn went to his knees beside his friend, pretending to bend over and check his brow for a sign of fever, although he knew it was quite cool. The Ranger’s whole body was tense, but he hid the tension behind the calm façade of a healer. When Legolas looked at him in a daze, his eyes warned the elf to speak cautiously. His lips, hidden from Sarambaq’s sight, mouthed voicelessly: “Hama.”

“Well, well, elf prince,” Sarambaq said, not bothering to hide his disdain. “You wake.”

Legolas started at that voice and turned to see for the first time the Adhûnian – former minion of the Necromancer in Dol Guldur, and hunter of his father. His eyes focused, and as a spark of anger flashed in them, Aragorn prayed that he would be able to control it. He was grateful at the elf’s silence.

“Do you remember me, elf prince?” Sarambaq asked, tilting his head and sneering.

Legolas stared at the man for a long moment, his fine eyebrows knitted. He guessed that this was Sarambaq, and he was trying to recall if he had seen the man before in Dol Guldur. He had been on many patrols, but the dangers were always so acute, and the orcs and men he fought off so numerous, that his attention had always been on keeping himself and the members of his patrol alive; he paid little or no attention to any individual foe.

“No,” he said finally.

Sarambaq’s lips curled in contempt. “Of course not, prince,” he snorted. “I was just one of the many unnamed troops you and your royal father cut down in Dol Guldur without a second thought! Of course you would not know me then.” As the man paused, he bent lower and stared Legolas in the eye, hate written all over his face. “But you will know me now! It is by my will you are here, and foolish were you to think you could face me alone!”

So,” Legolas responded calmly, “you are Sarambaq, of whom Brûyn spoke.” 

“Yes, I am he,” the man replied, his voice thick with derision. “And I am the father of the fine young warrior whose life was taken by the elven king of Mirkwood!” 

Upon hearing those words, Legolas tried to sit up.

“We were defending our realm that you and your Dark Lord threatened,” he retorted in a weak voice, increasing Aragorn’s anxiety. “You were ever encroaching past our borders.”

“Grraaahhh!” A roar of rage erupted from the Adhûnian, and he stepped closer to the elf, his whole body as tense as a whip. “We were not past your borders when your high-and-mighty father attacked us at the last! He and his insufferable friends from across the mountains assaulted us!”

“To take back what was once a great green wood, teeming with life,” Legolas argued, till struggling to sit up, his usual calm demeanor threatening to dissolve in the passion of justifying a mission to which every Mirkwood elf of the Third Age had been committed. “A great forest enjoyed by the free peoples of Middle-earth before the Necromancer stained it and filled it with his Shadow! My father and Lord Celeborn were merely reclaiming what Sauron corrupted and took for himself. The Greenwood was not his or yours to begin with. The elves could not have trespassed into a realm that was theirs at the start.”

Sarambaq was stunned into silence, for he had not expected the sick elf to retaliate, even with words.

Aragorn felt his own hair turn several shades of grey. He hoped for Legolas to remain silent, yet he could understand the elf’s passion. He helped Legolas sit up so that he would not be so helpless at least, and fought to keep a tight rein on his own nervousness, for he could not let his façade slip.

The elf’s blue eyes were fixed on the Adhûnian. He showed no fear, and his voice as he spoke again was calm, deadly calm, which filled Aragorn with dread, for he knew that the elf would now rather die than retract his words. He had seen that look and heard that tone before: when Gimli had been threatened by Eomer at their first meeting, the elf had drawn his bow and arrow to defend the dwarf, blind to the dozens of spears that had been raised and aimed at himself in response, so furious was he at the insult leveled at his friend.

Aragorn let him speak, but kept a hand on his chest.

“I know not the full circumstances surrounding your son’s death, and I regret that it had to happen, as I regret the unnecessary death of any living being. But we were in a war, and you would have known full well the consequences of being embroiled in one. After all, not a small number of my kin have died at your hands, and perhaps at the hands of your son.”

Sarambaq blanched, but the elf was not finished.

“If my father killed your son, it would not have been an act he enjoyed, of that I am certain. And he would not have taken any life unless his own had been in danger. If your son had lived, he would have slain my father; that is the ugly truth of war.”

Sarambaq could not have looked more pained than if the elf had struck him physically. 

His eyes bulged in his angular face as he yelled his response:

“But it is not your father who lies cold and dead!”

Sarambaq advanced even closer to the elf, towering over the seated figure, who stayed coldly immobile. Aragorn was almost frantic with worry at what the man might do in his rage and found himself wondering how fast he would be able to retrieve Anduril from its hiding place. He placed another hand firmly on the elf’s shoulder and squeezed it, willing him to remain calm as the Adhûnian continued his rant.

“My son did not even receive the dignity of a grave to hold his body, for I was forced to flee Dol Guldur! No cover to keep him from the vultures that would feed on his flesh as he lay rotting! Do you know how that knowledge has tortured me for ten long years?”  

Yes, I do, Legolas thought, for I was not always able to retrieve our dead, the elves you slew. But he did not say this aloud, seeing that Sarambaq was growing more livid. He was wise to have held his tongue, for the next instant, the Adhûnian unsheathed his sword and placed it at his neck. Legolas did not flinch, but the Ranger by his side swallowed hard. Knowing his friend was still too weak to fight, his fixed his eyes on the blade, ready to deflect it with his bare hands if he had to.

The fury and pain in Sarambaq’s face was fearsome to behold, and his next words dripped venom. “I have waited ten years for you to come within my grasp, elf! And you will bring your murderer of a father to me.”

At the mention of his father, a flash of fear crossed Legolas’ eyes, but his face remained impassive. My father is no murderer, he retorted silently, but different words left his lips. “You seek retribution, do you not? A life for a life?”

The Adhûnian merely growled in reply, pressing the sword closer against the skin and drawing a thin trickle of blood.

Aragorn tightened his grip on the elf’s shoulder and reminded himself to breathe. He wants Legolas alive, he wants him alive, he frantically reminded himself, but his other hand slowly moved to feel the tip of the dagger hidden in his boot.

“Take my life then, if it will give you satisfaction,” Legolas continued in a steady voice that belied his turmoil. “A son for a son, and so shall the debt be paid.”

What are you saying? Aragorn asked silently, panic washing over him as he looked at his friend with wide eyes. Do not challenge him, do not.

As Sarambaq and the elf faced each other, each unblinking, neither retreating, the tension in the cave grew thick enough to cut with a knife. 

The heavy silence was broken by an unexpected command from the Adhûnian.

“Get up,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, his sword not leaving the elf’s neck.

Aragorn tensed even more and bit on his lower lip till it bled, looking first at Sarambaq, then at Legolas and back again at the Adhûnian. Närum and the guards, who had remained absolutely silent throughout the exchange, also looked extremely ill at ease, not knowing what to expect.

When Legolas did not respond, Sarambaq repeated his command, more forcefully this time: “Get up!”

Aragorn decided he had to step in. “He cannot…”

“Shut your mouth!” Sarambaq cut him off, swinging the blade in his direction now.

Seeing this, Legolas quickly tried to stand, placing his hand on Aragorn’s arm, both for support and to tell his friend not to antagonize the Adhûnian. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he stumbled. Aragorn caught him quickly.

Sarambaq looked at the Ranger suspiciously. “Why are you so concerned about the elf?” he asked.  

“I am a healer, I care for all who receive treatment at my hands,” the Ranger replied, clenching his teeth but keeping his tone casual as he helped the elf to steady himself. 

“I am up,” Legolas declared quickly to draw attention away from Aragorn. His breathing was still a little ragged, but he tried to stand firmly upright. “I am up,” he said again. “What do you wish?”

Sarambaq said nothing, but the fire in his eyes still smoldered, his blade now pointed back at the elf’s chest. After glaring at him a few more moments, he unexpectedly lowered the blade, and turned around to walk a yard in the opposite direction. Then he swiftly pivoted back to face the elf and issued another command: “Approach me.”

No one moved, not even the elf who had been given the instruction. Legolas merely continued to stare at the man.

“Approach me!” Sarambaq shouted his command again.

Slowly, willing his unsteady feet to move, Legolas started towards him, frustrated that his usual impeccable elven balance was still upset by the effects of the poison. Aragorn made to follow, but the Adhunian sent him a glare that halted him in his tracks.

Do not go too close, the Ranger sent out a silent, desperate warning to his friend, hoping that the elf would somehow sense it. As if he did, Legolas stopped just within reach of the blade if Sarambaq should decide to swing it, but far away enough to evade it if he were fast enough. Aragorn could see that even in his unsteady state, the elf’s arms and legs were poised to defend himself or sidestep an attack.

“Closer!” the Adhûnian yelled, taunting the elf. For long moments, the elf and the man just stood confronting each other. Yet Aragorn could see the elf’s face growing pale, drawing upon what strength he had to remain standing. Legolas walked again, but the dizziness increased, and finally, his legs sagged. Aragorn moved quickly to catch him as he sank to the ground. 

“He is still too weak, as I said,” he said to Sarambaq, unable to hide some of his anger.

Sarambaq smirked and laughed. “Not so strong now, are you, elf prince? Where is the famed agility of the elves?”

Aragorn saw the icy look return to the elf’s eyes despite his physical weakness, but Legolas kept his composure and spoke, looking steadily at the Adhûnian as he did.

“The days of the Dark Lord are over, Sarambaq. Enough men and elves have died on his account. Has not too much blood been shed? For that is what will happen if you start another battle…”

“Battle?” the man echoed the word mockingly. “I do not want another battle, I only want you and your father!”  

“Taking my father’s life will not bring back your son,” Legolas countered. “And there will be more blood spilled than just my father’s and mine. Surely you know that the elves will not let this rest. Many of your men’s lives, too, will be forfeit, as will yours. If we each continue to seek retribution, where will it end?”

Well said, Legolas, Aragorn thought approvingly, looking pointedly at Närum, whose face was set and unreadable, but Aragorn knew that the elf’s words had stirred particular emotions, and that they would be warring within him.

“Do not presume to counsel me on bloodshed!” Sarambaq’s next words exploded in their ears as he walked toward the elf on the ground. “Do you think I care now? Do you know that the blood flowing from my son’s body is all I see in my waking and sleeping moments?”

The man’s eyes grew wild, and with a loud yell, jerked his sword upward. In the brief moment that he raised his blade and moved to strike, Legolas lifted his arm to shield himself, and Aragorn immediately yanked him backwards.

Just half a breath later, the sword slammed into its target.

In the sickening silence that followed, the sound of the impact reverberated in the air and in several pairs of ears.

Everyone and everything froze, and time seemed to stand still.

The mouths of the Adhûnian guards hung open. Even the water in the cave seemed to have ceased its flow.

Aragorn’s arm remained locked around the elf’s chest. His other hand swiftly dropped the dagger it had retrieved, out of sight behind him.

And Legolas’ arm stayed raised.

Sarambaq gave a loud snarl and yanked the sword free of the ground – a spot near where the elf had been – into which it had been deliberately and vehemently driven. He made no move to raise it again. After a long moment during which he merely glared at Legolas, he spoke.

“Frightened, Elf?” he asked in a quiet, threatening tone, before stating: “It is not yet time.”

The words sent out a chilling message that the true purpose of Sarambaq’s plan still awaited the elf, that the peril was simply delayed for now, but despite the warning in the words, everyone seemed to release in unison the tension in their bodies, and the elf lowered his arm slowly.

He still wants Legolas alive, Aragorn realized, letting his breath out in relief, relaxing his hold on his friend but still keeping a shaky hand on the elf’s chest. He could hear the sound of the flowing water again, but elf, Ranger and Adhûnians all looked at Sarambaq with bewildered expressions on their faces.

What emerged from Sarambaq’s mouth was jeering laughter. “Look at the great elf prince now, shakier on his legs than a new foal!” he taunted.

Aragorn was as incensed as the elf, but both held their emotions back.

“What are your intentions?” was all Legolas asked.

“You will find out, Elf, when your father gets here.”

“How will you reach him? He knows not where I am, where we are.”

“Come now, Elf, do you pretend that you would not have sent him word? I know your news will bring him to the White City soon; he would want to come to where his son is! I still wonder that you were brash enough not to wait for him but to approach my camp on your own. Then again, the arrogance of elves should not surprise me, thinking you can conquer all.”

Legolas saw no point in explaining that he himself had not learnt the truth till the night before, or that a message had been sent to his father, though not by him. The explanation would mean revealing Aragorn’s identity, so he said nothing of that matter and chose only to repeat his query: “How will you reach him?”

“How I send the message is not your concern, Elf! Do not forget that you are now my prisoner, so cease your impertinence!”

“Leave my father out of this,” the elf said obstinately. “You have me. My life for your son’s. You do not need my father’s.” Aragorn resumed his grip on the elf’s shoulder and gritted his teeth.

“Your father’s life,” the Adhûnian said, a strange note entering his voice. “You have no idea how much your father’s life means to me,” he said cryptically and laughed again, leaving everyone even more befuddled.

Ignoring the elf, he turned to Aragorn. “When will he be able to stand and walk on his own? Tomorrow?” 

“The day after, more likely,” Aragorn replied, trying to delay whatever Sarambaq had in mind. “Too much movement will reopen his wound, and the poison wears off slowly.”

The man looked at Aragorn doubtfully but considered what he had just witnessed. The dratted elf could hardly stand for more than a minute. One more day would not hurt, and Dárkil did need time to heal as well.  

“I have waited ten years, I can wait a little longer,” he said with a grunt and turned on his heels to face Närum. “Bind him,” he ordered, and began to walk in the direction of the cave entrance. But on a second thought, he whipped around and added in a low voice: “Keep a cautious eye on the healer – he is too sympathetic towards the elf for my liking.”

The softly delivered instruction escaped the Ranger’s ears, but not Legolas’. As Närum and the guards spoke and fetched rope to bind him with, Legolas turned to Aragorn with a worried look, and under the pretext of letting the Ranger help him back onto his blanket, whispered urgently: “He suspects, Aragorn. Be cautious.”

“I will,” the Ranger promised, shuffling his feet and the things around him more loudly than needed to cover their whispers. “Keep your thoughts on getting stronger. What happened here was much too close for comfort, my friend. I thought my heart would give.”

“What does he intend to do with me? What game is he playing?” the elf wondered, as his friend cleaned the small cut on his neck where Sarambaq’s sword had lain. 

“Apart from using you to bring Thranduil here, I do not know. But we must get away tomorrow if possible, when you are stronger. I will try to think of something. In the meantime, please – do not challenge him,” the Ranger said pleadingly.

The elf looked at him quizzically.

“You offered your life,” Aragorn hissed, exasperation creeping into his voice, his eyes and hands now checking the various cuts and larger wounds. “Why? Did you want my coming here to be for naught? Why did you do it?”

Legolas sighed. “Partly because I wanted to find out if he truly means to keep me alive…” he began.

“A fine way to find out,” the Ranger mumbled sarcastically, but the elf ignored it.

“…and partly because I do not want Adar to be the victim,” Legolas continued emphatically, setting his lips in a grim line, and added: “Nor you.” He clutched Aragorn’s elbow urgently. “Aragorn, please, will you consider – ?” 

“Nay!” the Ranger replied firmly, knowing what the elf was about to ask. “I will not leave you here so that your father and I can be safe.”

“Aragorn – ”

“No!”

“You can come back for me later – ”

“Would you leave me if our positions were reversed?” the Ranger demanded, keeping his voice low with a great effort, his eyes alternating between glaring at his friend and checking the guards at the cave entrance. “Would you break the pledge we made last night?” When the elf kept quiet, he demanded again: “Would you?”

In his anxiety and frustration, his hands pressed on the tender injury more roughly than he intended, drawing a wince from the elf, and the Ranger immediately lightened his touch, murmuring an apology.

Legolas said nothing still, but closed his eyes, shielding them with one hand, and Aragorn knew the elf was feeling miserable.

“No,” came the pitifully soft reply at last, and the sadness in the elvish voice melted the Ranger’s heart. He understood his friend’s feelings of helplessness and guilt, but he wanted the elf to accept that he would not leave. He placed a hand lightly on the elf’s chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath.

“We stay together, Legolas, as we promised,” he insisted gently. “Unless and until we are forced apart, I will not leave. Saes, mellon nin, please do not ask that of me again.”    

The elf nodded resignedly, removing his hand from his eyes to gaze at the ceiling of the cave. The tumult of emotions in the blue orbs clutched at Aragorn’s heart. Were his strength back to normal, Legolas’ spirit would be indomitable, but the elf was not used to having his fine elven balance and physical strength stripped from him, even temporarily. With the thought of his father’s life, and possibly his friend’s, in danger, and with all chance of escape or resistance dependent upon his recovery, the elf’s sense of despondency and guilt must be overwhelming.   

“Legolas, your strength will return, it will only be a matter of time,” the Ranger said in an encouraging tone. “Come, my friend, let us eat something, and you can rest again after that.”

Not knowing what else to do, the elf sat up obediently and accepted the lembas Aragorn handed him. “I will bring you some meat later, if they let me have it,” the Ranger offered.

Just then, Närum approached them with some rope. Legolas immediately tensed and lowered the wafer of lembas, staring the Adhûnian in the eye.

“Is that really necessary?” Aragorn questioned calmly, suppressing the true extent of his anger and irritation. “He can hardly walk, and there are two guards on watch.”

“I have orders,” Närum said gruffly, studying the obstinate look on the elf, “but it can wait till you finish your food. Just do not cause any trouble.”

The Adhûnian departed, leaving the rope and brief instructions with the two guards. True to Närum’s orders, Legolas was bound only after he had eaten and drunk, and the Ranger could only sit by and look on helplessly. At the healer’s insistence, however, the bonds were left loose enough for the elf to move his hands and feet a little.

Aragorn had expected his friend to struggle, but the elf remained coldly detached, his blue eyes showing no expression as he watched the guards robbing his hands and legs of freedom. This response, or lack of it, filled the Ranger with unease, for he did not know if it was a good sign. He knew that his elven friend felt trapped and extremely affronted, but there was little he could do without arousing further suspicion. When the guards had gone back to the front of the cave, he spoke again to the elf, seeking to comfort him.

“I wish I could loosen your bonds, Legolas, but I cannot do it now,” he sighed. “Perhaps tonight, when the guards are less watchful. I need to look around again, but I will not stay away long. Can you try to get some sleep, my friend?” 

Aragorn anticipated listless submission or stubborn muteness in response, but to his surprise, the elf answered firmly and determinedly, looking at the Ranger with clear blue eyes. “I will, Aragorn, if that is what it takes to recover my strength. I do not wish to be held prisoner here for long. I may not know exactly what Sarambaq has planned for me, but he will not find me a willing player in his game.”  

The Ranger felt a weight lifted off his shoulders at Legolas’ words, and for a moment, Aragorn actually praised the rope fetters that had rekindled the elf’s defiance. The elven spirit was back, the fighter had returned, and it lightened the Ranger’s heart no end. He gave his friend’s arm another grateful squeeze, and sat back, waiting for his patient to fall asleep before he quietly left the cave.

The Ranger’s thoughts were on tomorrow.

But for the rest of this day, he gathered herbs, tended the injured, talked to Rallias, and studied his surroundings, playing out his charade and waiting while Legolas fought the poison to regain his strength. 

For the rest of the day, Sarambaq, too, saw to his own task of healing his flying steed, digesting his plans and biding his time. 

In the White City, a worried Steward, a calm and collected Queen, and visiting elves from Ithilien sat and discussed tentative plans of their own. This was the second sunrise after the departure of the King and the elf prince, but despite their anxiety and impatience to ride after them, they had agreed to the suggestion made by the King: they were to follow only if the two companions were not back in four or five days.

In ignorance of what was happening, and afraid of upsetting any plans already in motion, Steward, Queen and elves decided to observe that agreement. They, too, would have to wait.         

Somewhere between the borders of the Wilderland and the Greenwood, elf messengers rode as on winged steeds, racing over leagues of plain and hill and forest, slowing down for no one. For two and a half days now they had steeled their hearts and minds against exhaustion, and for two days more, riders and horses would journey with all speed, with little or no rest, under the scorching rays of Anor and the faint light of Ithil, weaving an urgent path through the thick forests of Eryn Lasgalen, for they had been charged with a task: to deliver a missive of disquiet to the elven King of Mirkwood.

This day, they and they alone would not be waiting.

CHAP 26:  Plans

Aragorn awoke to a pale dawn and the faint sound of birds. He stretched and yawned, blinking away the cobwebs from his eyes, and immediately looked over to where his friend had lain sleeping.

He could not tell which part of him leapt more violently – his heart or his body – at the sight of the unoccupied spot.

Still befuddled with sleep, he raised himself and reached out to pat the cloak in which Legolas had been tucked, and instantly felt stupid when he found nothing in it. His eyes shot to the cave entrance and saw the two guards positioned as usual, but no elf. Before he could even panic, however, a voice behind him startled him:

“I am here, Aragorn.”

The Ranger swung around ungracefully on his behind, to see the elf seated against the wall of the cave, hands and feet still bound, watching him with an amused expression. Whether it was the hours of sleep he had had, or the copious amounts of tea he had been fed the previous day, or the elf’s own resilient spirit that had done it – perhaps all of them together – Legolas looked much more at ease this morning. The sight of him sitting, instead of lying helplessly, sent a ray of joy into the Ranger’s heart once it had found its way back into his chest.

“When you have finished delighting over my consternation, Elf, you might tell me how long you have been up,” the Ranger grumbled good-naturedly, making his way over to his friend. He added in a softer tone: “How do you feel today, Legolas?”

The elf noted the concerned but hopeful look on the face of the man who had again tended to him most of yesterday and part of the night till he dropped from exhaustion, and thought how fortunate he was to have this friend. For the sake of this man, because he knew it would ease his heart, the elf smiled.  

“Less like warg spit than I did yesterday,” he replied.

The healer chuckled and studied the elven face, warmed by the thought that here was a companion who could still share mirth with him even under such circumstances, and greatly comforted by the knowledge that there were no longer any unresolved matters between them.

“It is good to have you back, my friend,” he said softly, referring to more than the spot of color that had returned to the elf’s cheeks.

“You brought me back,” Legolas replied immediately, blue pools of gratitude shining from behind long lashes. A grin accompanied his next words: “I had no choice, Ranger, you would not leave me alone.”

“Never,” the Ranger affirmed with a grin of his own, “you do not get to escape my clutches so easily, Elf.”

He examined the red marks that the rope bindings were leaving on the fine elven skin around Legolas’ wrists and ankles and wished he could slash the bonds there and then. But those marks were the least of his concerns at the moment.

“Can you lie down again, Legolas? Just for a while, so I can check your wound,” he requested. When the elf grimaced in reluctance, Aragorn was again amused at the irony of his own reaction: the elven streak of recalcitrance was back, which pleased the Ranger but exasperated the healer. He repeated his earlier question.

“How long have you been awake? How did you move here by yourself?”

“Since dawn,” the elf replied as he allowed Aragorn to help him recline, “and very, very slowly. Movement was not easy, as you can see,” he added with a nod towards his legs. “But I felt like sitting up.”

“That is good,” the healer pronounced, lifting the shirt and removing the bandage slowly, a satisfied expression claiming his features. “Yes, and this is healing well, too. Praise Eru for whatever he put into immortal blood to help you mend so fast.” He said this from his heart, without a tinge of envy or thought for his own mortality. But the elf looked at him in concern.

“Does that mean we can leave today?” he asked expectantly, anxiety lacing his voice. “Your pretence cannot go unnoticed for long.”

It was then that the Ranger realized: the reason Legolas had been so determined to recover quickly was not first and foremost for himself, but to extricate his friend from the danger of being discovered, from the threat of the façade being unmasked. Aragorn paused in the midst of applying fresh linen and clamped a hand briefly over both of his friend’s bound ones.

“Yes, we will,” he replied. “I do not think we can afford to wait any longer; Sarambaq will be back for you tomorrow. I was not able to scout very far, but I think our best chance is to escape through the woods to the south. We have to wait till dark.”

“With Rallias?”

“Yes, I will try to make him understand where he needs to go to meet us,” the Ranger replied, then hesitated. “Do you think he will?”

“Understand?” the elf asked, raising his eyebrows. “Aragorn, Rohan raised him, and I trained him. If that horse could talk, he would.”

Aragorn chuckled. “You place much confidence in your skills, Elf,” he teased.

“My skills?” Genuine surprise was in the elf’s voice. “No, indeed, Aragorn. Rallias is descended from a noble line of beasts, and you are a sensitive master. I merely taught him to listen to your voice. If he understands you, it is because of your bond with him.”

Aragorn smiled and shook his head as he fastened Legolas’ tunic. The elf would never realize that elven skill and sensitivity reached beasts in ways that humans could never hope to do; the bond between horse and rider came so naturally to Legolas that he sometimes assumed it worked the same way for everyone. Still, if the elf trusted Rallias to understand what they needed, it would do well to listen to him.

The Ranger discreetly looked over to the two guards and saw that they were, as usual, not paying them much attention. One of them was yawning and the other threw them a casual glance before turning back to face the woods outside.

“Legolas, do you feel up to a walk to the woods now? We will tell them we need a bath,” Aragorn asked, lowering his voice even further.

“Which we do,” the elf said quickly. Despite the circumstances, his eyes lit up at the prospect of their cleaning off four days’ worth of dirt from themselves, the Ranger needing it decidedly more than he did, in his opinion.

Aragorn chuckled. “There is a spring not far from there. The fresh air will do you good, and I want to show you where you should head, in case we are separated for whatever reason.”

“My head does not swim so badly today.” The elf whispered back. “I will go.”

“That is good to know, for we may need to walk for some distance tonight. But for the rest of the day, though I know it may be difficult for you, can you act weaker than you feel? Just a little longer. Sarambaq obviously wants you on your feet, and we want Sarambaq to think you are still too weak for that.”

The elf nodded, and Aragorn quickly and quietly told him what he had planned.

At the end of his explanation, the elf nodded his agreement and prepared to sit up. But Aragorn placed a hand on his shoulder and looked at him, not knowing how to say what he feared to say.

“Legolas…” he began and stopped. The look on his face was almost apologetic. “This plan – ”

“Estel, I understand,” the elf interrupted him, sensing his difficulty. “There can be no certainty. We can but try.”

Aragorn sighed and nodded in agreement. “And try we will, my friend,” he said determinedly as he helped Legolas into a sitting position. Suddenly, the elf paused. It was now his turn to look uncomfortable, as if there was something he wanted to say but was hesitant to do so. When the Ranger looked into his eyes, he knew why. 

“Estel, I might slow you down – ”    

“We will not have that argument again,” Aragorn said firmly. “Whatever happens, we stay together, you stubborn elf. Now wait while I get the guards to loosen your bonds so you can walk.” The elf could only sigh resignedly.

Soon, they were in the woods, studying them silently and communicating without words while they washed themselves at the spring under the watchful eyes of the guards. Legolas knew he felt much improved but restrained his movements for the sake of appearances as Aragorn suggested.

The two friends spent the rest of the day much as they had the previous one, largely undisturbed except for another brief visit from Sarambaq and Närum, during which Legolas feigned sleep. The guards informed them that the elf had not been moving about much, and his bonds were still on him, so there was no cause for great concern or wariness.

“All is well so far, Legolas,” Aragorn told his friend in the late afternoon. “Let us hope they will continue to leave us alone till tonight. I have to leave to talk to Rallias now and to check on the men. I will return with food for dinner.”

“Then we wait?” the elf queried.

The Ranger nodded. “Then we wait, till the opportune moment.”

Aragorn left the cave and spent some time giving Rallias a brushing down. Ignoring the curious gazes around him, the Ranger sang softly in Sindarin to the horse so that the men who passed them, amused by the strange melody and sounds, would think it was an old folk song. Little did they know that into his song he wove his instructions to the horse, telling it what to do and where to go, trusting once again in the intelligence of the animal. When he had finished, he quietly loosened the knot holding Rallias’ reins to a tree, and went in search of food.  

It had been an uneventful day for everyone else at the Table, but for the Ranger and Elf,   a tension was in the air that they hoped no one else would feel, as they waited for sunset and nightfall. 

Faramir paced up and down the King’s office, his steps tracing the lines of orange on the floor from the rays of the late afternoon sun shining through long slats in the wall. As he ran a hand through his brown locks, he wondered how much more of his hair would remain on his head before King Elessar returned. An instant later, he could not help chuckling in disbelief at the gesture, for it was a habit of the very person he was thinking of.

There was a knock on the door, and it opened to reveal a guard; behind him stood Hamille and Lanwil, waiting to be admitted.

“My lord, Master Hamille and…”

“Come in, come in,” Faramir said, waving the guard away. 

“Faramir,” Hamille acknowledged him with a slight bow.

Faramir spoke without preamble, his restlessness apparent. “Hamille, four days now. It…”

“It is time, we can wait no more,” Hamille finished for him.

“Thank Eru you agree!” Faramir exhaled in relief, his face visibly relaxing. “I will have my men prepare. They will be ready to leave at first light tomorrow.”

Lanwil nodded. “As will we.” 

“It is agreed then, we ride at dawn, unless they return tonight. Come, we need to plan,” said the Steward, inviting the elves to seat themselves. He left them briefly to order refreshments, and when he returned, he proposed: “I believe one of you should lead the men, if it is agreeable to you.”

“Will you not?”

“Much as I wish I could, my duty is here while the King is absent. I am also aware that your tracking skills are considerably better than mine,” the Steward admitted modestly.

The elves nodded, accepting the acknowledgement without arrogance or ceremony. “Then I will go,” Hamille offered, “but you had best stay in Ithilien, Lanwil, to dissuade our Lord Thranduil from going after us in haste when he comes. I must beg your aid as well in this matter, Faramir.”

“I will do my best, Hamille, although I cannot hope to hold him any more than you can,” the Steward promised with a sympathetic grin. “But our riders will reach him tomorrow at the earliest, and it will surely take him as long to get there. You will in all likelihood return before he even arrives… at least, that is my fervent hope.”

At those words, Hamille and Lanwil exchanged a knowing look that the Steward did not miss. In response to Faramir’s expression of inquiry, Hamille said:

“With his son in enemy hands, and by the request of King Elessar, he may be here sooner than we think, my friend.”

Sarambaq sat in the shade of one of the few loose rocks on the flat top pf the Table, watching his beast gnaw on the ribs of some creature his men had hunted for a roast. The man was pleased that the arrow wounds were already healing well, for Darkil played a big part in his plans. It had to be strong enough.

The thought of what he had planned for Thranduil and his son filled him with a sense of bizarre satisfaction. He had already decided that the confrontation would be here, not in Adhûn, for he was unwilling to wait longer; the time was now ripe.

Sarambaq’s attention turned to the men milling about below. If everything went according to plan, the likelihood was great that he would not see any of them again, but they did not know that, save one whom he had told. In truth, he himself could not see very far into his own future beyond getting his revenge.

Much less still was his concern over his men. Only for a fleeting moment did he wonder what they would do after his plan had been executed. Many of them had served him for ten years since his departure from Dol Guldur, and he supposed they would have to return to fishing and husbandry.

Dol Guldur, he thought sleepily, the heat of late afternoon making him drowsy.

So much had happened in that place. His life had changed because of his service to the Dark Lord. He had suffered much and lost even more. As his thoughts dwelled on his dead son again, he savored the thought of the coming meeting with the elven king. This time, the elves would not have the victory. He wished he could let them all know that they could not win everything – not the king of Mirkwood, not the elf lord from across the mountains, not the White Wizard who had scoured Dol Guldur looking for the creature Gollum. The wizard thought they had not noticed him moving about, thinking he had been stealthy enough, but they had noticed… they just had not done anything because of his wizard’s power. A hazy vision of the grey figure played before his sleepy eyes, and he laughed mockingly at the memory of a powerful wizard hunting down the likes of a skulking, slimy creature...

Sarambaq suddenly jumped up as if he had sat on hot coals. His eyes shot wide open, fully alert now. His fists clenched as he strode to the edge of the Table, seeking something.

Then he yelled for Närum.

The cool and dark of twilight descended on the Table, and a guard lit once more the torches in the cave where the elf prince was held. As Aragorn had instructed, Legolas sat quietly in the shadows at the back of the cave, drawing little attention to himself.

Waiting in silent and tense anticipation for Aragorn’s return, Legolas mulled over their plans. Later in the night, when the guards were less watchful, they would overpower them and make for the woods. They would trek to a place beyond the spring, where they hoped Rallias would be waiting for them, and they would leave the area through those woods. Beyond that, they would have to go through the western woods once more and ride fast to reach the borders of Gondor. They would have Anduril, but Legolas’ bow and knives would have to be left behind, for they were in Sarambaq’s keeping.

Legolas could only hope that the stars would shine good fortune on them tonight.

Time passed slowly for the elf while he waited. He listened to the trickle of water as if they were playing a long overture, and each flicker of flame from the torches seemed to burn for an age, each breath of his was but one of a million that he had exhaled since twilight.

Hours passed, but there was still no sign of Aragorn.

Waiting in the darkness, Legolas felt his anxiety grow as he imagined dreadful possibilities, each worse than the last. This cave was too far away from the main cluster for him to hear anything that might be happening, and he was located too far in. There would be no point in asking the guards anything either, for they would offer no news.

After a while, he told himself to be more hopeful. Perhaps Aragorn was making final preparations; perhaps he was engaging the Adhûnians in conversation, putting them at ease so that they would not suspect a late-night escape. Yes, it was a tactic Legolas knew Aragorn could use. Perhaps…

It must have been around midnight when the elf heard the guards stir and speak in tones reflecting curiosity and puzzlement as they looked in the direction of the path leading to the cave. Legolas could see the light of an approaching torch, and his heartbeat quickened.

At last. Aragorn.

With a sense of tense excitement and a slight thrill of nervousness, he looked toward the front of the cave, ready to see a sign from the Ranger that the time for departure was not far away.

In the next instant, the floor dissolved beneath him as the figure of Sarambaq filled the cave entrance, his hard, furious eyes seeking and boring into those of the elf that abruptly lost their sparkle.

Hours later, in the deep of night, elf riders and elvish horses at the point of collapse gained urgent admittance past the elven king’s gates in the Greenwood forest.

They had traveled through the Greenwood at dangerous speeds, trusting their horses not to stumble over roots that would throw their riders into solid tree trunks, or gallop beneath low branches that could knock elf heads off their necks. They had made only a small detour in the stretch of forest that had been given to Ghận-Buri-Ghận and the Wildmen, taking care to keep to the specific path on the eastern side of the forest that had been kept open for occasional traffic between Thranduil’s realm in the north, Celeborn’s in the south, and Gondor and Ithilien further south. No other concession would the Wild folk make, and the elves observed it faithfully. Still, the elf riders of Ithilien arrived almost half a day earlier than expected, having pushed themselves to the limits of their endurance.

Within minutes, Thranduil was aroused from sleep and handed the document penned in Aragorn’s own hand. The shout of shock, fear and anger that erupted from the king did indeed rival that of a herd of raged oliphaunts as Hamille had predicted. The whole palace was aroused from their night’s reverie and thrown into an angry turmoil as the distressing news spread from mouth to mouth. And in another few minutes, a group of elves prepared for immediate departure to Gondor, riding their swiftest horses.

The Elf King, however, much as his heart wished to be in Ithilien that very instant, would not be going with them.

His advisors looked at him with wide eyes, their tones reflecting their disbelief. “Heru nin, my Lord, you will not go with them?”

Thranduil’s expression was grim.

“Nay,” he confirmed.

Despite their surprise, the elves were relieved. They had thought it would be impossible to keep their King here, where he would be safe. But their hopes were shattered at the sound of his next words.

“Nay,” Thranduil repeated. “I will follow, but I must first ride elsewhere.”

Thranduil of Greenwood never thought he would ever be called upon to obey any instruction of an Adan, even if he were a king. But this time, he would delay even his journey to his son to fulfill the instruction of Elessar of Gondor.

Note:  Aragorn's reaction to a missing Legolas upon waking  is inspired by an episode in Nightwing's To See A World.

CHAPTER 27:  THE CHALLENGE

Legolas could not remember when he had last felt so dejected, or spent a night as full of sleepless anxiety as this last one. Bound tightly, gagged and lain prone on his blanket all night, he had been filled with fear not for himself but for Aragorn, whom he had not seen since the Ranger left the cave in the evening to see to his horse. The scene from hours ago played in his mind over and over again:

Instead of Aragorn, Sarambaq stomped into the cave, his heavy tread echoing off the walls as he approached the seated elf, his countenance contorted with ugly rage. The two guards trotted behind him, still wearing looks of surprise and disbelief. 

“So you take me for a blind fool, do you, accursed elf?” he had yelled into Legolas’ startled face. “We will see who ends up with the upper hand now!” And as if to prove his point, he dealt the elf a sudden and stinging slap that left a red mark on the pale skin of the elvish cheek.

With his hands and feet bound, even loosely, Legolas was helpless to retaliate, but his first thought was not for himself. Where was Aragorn? Uncertain what Sarambaq meant or knew, he had to try to find out. The strands of golden hair that had fallen loose from the slap did not hide the daggers in his blue eyes as he ignored the smarting cheek and boldly asked: “What do you mean?”

At that question, Sarambaq’s eyes bulged and bellowed louder. “What do I mean? You feign ignorance? You seek to heave greater insult upon me?”

Legolas would not be riled. “If you will not speak plainly, how will I know –”

The man cut him off with a snarl of disgust. “Your insolence astounds me! You still do not seem to realize who the prisoner is here.”

“I know not what it is you want, Sarambaq.”

To the elf’s surprise and unease, the man replied with a smug laugh. “What I want? Let us just say I have what I want for now… and more than I thought I would get.”   

Something in this tone – a hint of betrayal, a strong note of satisfaction, and the silent gloat in his last words – turned Legolas’ blood cold, and an icicle of fear for his friend formed in his heart. Had Aragorn’s true identity been discovered?

“Where is the healer?” he demanded in a voice that began to shake.  

The only response Legolas received was a sickening smirk from Sarambaq, followed by a crisp order to gag the elf and bind him more securely. His repeated queries were left unanswered. When the large man had left, Legolas’ anxiety overcame his dignity; desperately and to no avail did he beg the guards for news of Aragorn, till they tied a gag around his mouth. Either the guards truly did not know, or they were unwilling to talk, and soon Legolas found himself lying alone in the dark, fearing the worst for the friend who had come here for his sake.

He strained his ears to catch any sound, any hint that Aragorn might be nearby, but heard nothing save for the trickle of water and night sounds coming through the cave entrance.

Finally, he closed his eyes, trying intently and desperately to feel Aragorn’s presence, trying to speak to him through his mind.

Estel, where are you? Are you well?

He stilled himself and forgot everything around him.

Reach me, Estel. Speak to me. Let me feel your presence.

Soon, even the sound of the trickling water was as nothing to him.

Estel, reach me. Please.

A moment later, Legolas drew a sharp intake of breath and clenched his fists, for he did indeed sense his friend now.

He squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly and gasped as a chill ran through him. He heard no words from Aragorn, but he needed no words to understand the sensation that had suddenly gripped him, the sensation he knew Estel must be feeling:

Pain.

At that sensation, Legolas strained fiercely against his bonds, struggling with every ounce of his strength to free himself, to get to wherever Aragorn was. But his efforts met with failure, and he finally surrendered, exhausted and utterly dejected. His head sank back on to the blanket, his hair drenched with the perspiration of his struggles. His feelings of guilt and helplessness so multiplied and overwhelmed him that his spirit was all but crushed, and he was unable to stem the silent tears of frustration that trailed across his cheeks and dripped on to the cold hard floor.

Now, close to dawn, Legolas felt exceedingly weary. Sick with worry and not having fully recovered his physical strength, Legolas finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, haunted by visions of Aragorn being tortured.