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.