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.