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.