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.”