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.