CHAPTER 27:  THE CHALLENGE

Legolas could not remember when he had last felt so dejected, or spent a night as full of sleepless anxiety as this last one. Bound tightly, gagged and lain prone on his blanket all night, he had been filled with fear not for himself but for Aragorn, whom he had not seen since the Ranger left the cave in the evening to see to his horse. The scene from hours ago played in his mind over and over again:

Instead of Aragorn, Sarambaq stomped into the cave, his heavy tread echoing off the walls as he approached the seated elf, his countenance contorted with ugly rage. The two guards trotted behind him, still wearing looks of surprise and disbelief. 

“So you take me for a blind fool, do you, accursed elf?” he had yelled into Legolas’ startled face. “We will see who ends up with the upper hand now!” And as if to prove his point, he dealt the elf a sudden and stinging slap that left a red mark on the pale skin of the elvish cheek.

With his hands and feet bound, even loosely, Legolas was helpless to retaliate, but his first thought was not for himself. Where was Aragorn? Uncertain what Sarambaq meant or knew, he had to try to find out. The strands of golden hair that had fallen loose from the slap did not hide the daggers in his blue eyes as he ignored the smarting cheek and boldly asked: “What do you mean?”

At that question, Sarambaq’s eyes bulged and bellowed louder. “What do I mean? You feign ignorance? You seek to heave greater insult upon me?”

Legolas would not be riled. “If you will not speak plainly, how will I know –”

The man cut him off with a snarl of disgust. “Your insolence astounds me! You still do not seem to realize who the prisoner is here.”

“I know not what it is you want, Sarambaq.”

To the elf’s surprise and unease, the man replied with a smug laugh. “What I want? Let us just say I have what I want for now… and more than I thought I would get.”   

Something in this tone – a hint of betrayal, a strong note of satisfaction, and the silent gloat in his last words – turned Legolas’ blood cold, and an icicle of fear for his friend formed in his heart. Had Aragorn’s true identity been discovered?

“Where is the healer?” he demanded in a voice that began to shake.  

The only response Legolas received was a sickening smirk from Sarambaq, followed by a crisp order to gag the elf and bind him more securely. His repeated queries were left unanswered. When the large man had left, Legolas’ anxiety overcame his dignity; desperately and to no avail did he beg the guards for news of Aragorn, till they tied a gag around his mouth. Either the guards truly did not know, or they were unwilling to talk, and soon Legolas found himself lying alone in the dark, fearing the worst for the friend who had come here for his sake.

He strained his ears to catch any sound, any hint that Aragorn might be nearby, but heard nothing save for the trickle of water and night sounds coming through the cave entrance.

Finally, he closed his eyes, trying intently and desperately to feel Aragorn’s presence, trying to speak to him through his mind.

Estel, where are you? Are you well?

He stilled himself and forgot everything around him.

Reach me, Estel. Speak to me. Let me feel your presence.

Soon, even the sound of the trickling water was as nothing to him.

Estel, reach me. Please.

A moment later, Legolas drew a sharp intake of breath and clenched his fists, for he did indeed sense his friend now.

He squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly and gasped as a chill ran through him. He heard no words from Aragorn, but he needed no words to understand the sensation that had suddenly gripped him, the sensation he knew Estel must be feeling:

Pain.

At that sensation, Legolas strained fiercely against his bonds, struggling with every ounce of his strength to free himself, to get to wherever Aragorn was. But his efforts met with failure, and he finally surrendered, exhausted and utterly dejected. His head sank back on to the blanket, his hair drenched with the perspiration of his struggles. His feelings of guilt and helplessness so multiplied and overwhelmed him that his spirit was all but crushed, and he was unable to stem the silent tears of frustration that trailed across his cheeks and dripped on to the cold hard floor.

Now, close to dawn, Legolas felt exceedingly weary. Sick with worry and not having fully recovered his physical strength, Legolas finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, haunted by visions of Aragorn being tortured.

Dawn in the White City saw Hamille standing quietly beside his horse, waiting for Faramir to finish speaking to the soldiers of Gondor who would be riding with ten elves from Ithilien, on the track of King Elessar and elf prince Legolas. The elves had spent the previous night in the White City, nurturing the hope that two beloved figures would ride through the Great Gates and make their pursuit unnecessary. Even now, Hamille still awaited the sound of the Great gates opening to admit riders, or an excited shout heralding the arrival of a man and an elf.

But no such sound came to bring him relief.

The shades of pink and yellow that streaked across the dark blue sky were reflected in the bright eyes of the elf as he stood watching the dawn, his breath misting in the air. The expression of calm on his fair face masked the sense of unease he felt beneath, from which he could not disengage himself. He knew not why, but his heart told him that his prince was not at peace. A movement at his side made him turn, and he found himself looking into the sensitive blue eyes of Queen Arwen. The silent exchange between them told him that she too shared his disquiet.   

But there was also another emotion in Hamille’s face – one that the queen did not share.

“Did we make a mistake, my Lady?” he asked sadly. “Did I err in agreeing to let the king go alone? Shall I come to rue that decision?” 

The queen’s face softened at this revelation of guilt, and her voice, when she spoke in response, pulsed with kindness and sincerity. “Even the wisest cannot see all ends, Hamille, and these words echo across the years to us from one of the wisest of all: the Lady Galadriel, who has seen Valinor, lived through four ages of this world, and returned once more to the Undying Lands. If such a one as she could not tell where one road or another leads, how shall we, who can make decisions guided only by the strength of our convictions and the limited vision of our young minds? We are all fallible, even the Lord Elessar, for all his greatness.”

The elf of Ithilien gazed at the queen, digesting her words.

“Rue not the decision you and Elessar made, Hamille, for it was agreed upon with the noblest of intentions. True, they have not yet returned, but who among us can say that they would have if you had gone with him, or whether your company may have brought upon them even greater danger instead?”   

Hamille reflected on these words and looked upon the speaker with gratitude.

“Beseech the Valar for their safe return, my Lady,” the elf said quietly at last. “For two whom we love.”

“That prayer has been on my lips since news of their departure first reached me, Hamille,” the Queen responded with moist eyes and a small smile. “My only comfort is that they are together.”

“Aye, my Lady, and I hope that is enough till we can reach them,” said Hamille. Faramir beckoned to him then, and he bowed to Arwen. “We must depart now.”

“Ride safely yourself, Hamille. Namárië.”

A clasp of hands was all that Hamille exchanged with Lanwil and Faramir before he leapt nimbly on to his horse and led the group of men and elves out of the White City to look for two who were close to their hearts, in a land that was not.  

Legolas was awakened by a hand shaking him roughly and pulling him into a sitting position. The cave was much brighter now, and Legolas knew it must be mid-morning.

He immediately looked around for Aragorn but his heart fell when he saw no one but the guard standing over him; it startled him to see it was Brûyn, with a smirk on his face.

“We meet again, Elf prince,” the sallow-face man said in a smug tone, “but how different our positions are now, eh?” 

Even if he were not gagged, Legolas would not have deigned to make a reply. All he could think of was where his friend was and what Sarambaq intended to do with him. As much as he hated the large Adhûnian, he wanted to see him again if only to find out what he had done with Aragorn.

He did not have to wait long. A second man came with a dagger and proceeded to cut the rope binding the elf’s feet, after which he removed the gag, but left his hands still tied at his back.

“Sarambaq wants him out there,” he informed Brûyn.

“Please,” Legolas pleaded as soon as he could speak, looking from one man to the other, casting aside his pride. “Please tell me, what news of the healer?”

A smug look appeared on the face of the newcomer. “Maybe he has left you to your fate, Elf,” he said jeeringly.

Leoglas’ heart gave a lurch. Left? The word drew mixed feelings from the elf. Perhaps Aragorn had indeed been forced to flee. He wished the Ranger had truly fled and escaped from this mad situation created by a madman. His heart lifted slightly at the thought, but as soon as it had been formed, it dissolved with the realization that Aragorn would never have left without him, or without telling him.   

“And what is my fate?” he asked calmly.

“You are about to find out, Elf prince,” replied the man, the smug look still plastered on this face.

The two men held on to Legolas’ arms as they dragged him roughly out of the cave and along a path leading toward the foot of the Table. This was the first good look the elf had had of the area beyond his own cave and the woods immediately outside, for his movements before this had been highly restricted.

His eyes quickly took in the flat rock and the caves underneath, and the men milling around. A foul stench assailed his sensitive elven nose; it came from the top of the rock – the flying beast and his meal, he concluded. His eyes roamed, seeking one particular figure, and was downhearted to note its absence. 

He was led to an open grassy area where he was told to wait. Hearing the neighing of horses, he listened for the sound of Rallias, but before he could discern anything, Sarambaq came into view, his hand resting confidently on the hilt of the sword at this waist, fingering the hilt.

The action was not lost on the elf. Legolas did not feel cowed by the man, but he found himself hoping to avoid a physical confrontation, for he knew he had not fully regained his strength, and his wound was newly healed. He stood quietly, waiting to see what would happen.

The Adhûnian walked up to him and cocked his head at the elf, his eyes running up and down the slender figure.

So, Elf prince,” he said, “no longer so weak, are you now?”

Legolas did not answer or flinch, nor did his eyes leave the man’s. What game are you playing today, Sarambaq? he wondered in silence.  

As if he had heard the question, Sarambaq turned to the men behind him and gave a one-word command: “Prepare.”

Legolas watched the Adhûnians gather in a wide circle around them, some talking excitedly, some looking nervous, others nonchalant. Närum appeared among them, and to Leoglas’ horror, he was positioning a few men with bows and arrows, and men who looked confident with swords, in the innermost ring.  When his eyes met Legolas’, there was a look in them that had not been there before: a curious mixture of anger, blame and sympathy.

The elf could not suppress the small wave of alarm that washed over him as he eyed the armed men.

Had Sarambaq changed his decision to keep him alive? Were they going to execute him now? Before he even had a chance to see his father? Before he could find out where Aragorn was?

He looked around him, seeking a way out and trying to find some clue to where Aragorn might be. Then his eyes alighted again upon Sarambaq and the mocking smile on his face.

“Frightened, Elf?” Sarambaq repeated the taunt he had thrown him in the cave two days ago.

“Is there reason for me to be?” Legolas rejoined calmly. His quiet challenge had the opposite effect on the Adhûnian, who snarled and hollered to one of the men: “Bring his things!”

This time, Legolas could not hide his surprise when a man approached him with some items in his hands. The elf had no trouble recognizing what they were:  his twin knives, the elvish design on them unmistakable.

Legolas was surprised again when Sarambaq told his minion, “Untie his hands, give him the knives!”

Those words filled him with both elation and dismay, for he wanted nothing more to hold his weapons in his hands again, but if Sarambaq was handing them to him, that must mean one thing: the Adhûnian intended for him to fight.

The elf looked around again. Even in his weakened state, it was possible for him to put up a fair amount of resistance against those who wielded swords, although his usual ability to evade blows might be hampered, but the sight of the bowmen deflated him; he did not think there was any likelihood of dodging that many arrows shot from close range.

Then another thought gripped and horrified him: was he, perhaps, expected to run – like quarry? 

The elf was disgusted. Does he want sport? Does he want me to run like some woodland prey? If so, I will not give him the pleasure.

And there was an even more important reason for him not to run.

Even if I could lose them in the woods, I cannot leave without Aragorn.  

The thought of the Ranger made him stand straighter as his hands were unbound, and he clenched and unclenched his fists to rid them of their stiffness.

“Take the knives,” Sarambaq told him when the knives were held out to him.

Legolas did not need a second invitation. Whatever the man had in mind for him, he wanted his weapons back in his hands. He snatched them, inadvertently cutting the palms of the man who held them, drawing a passionate curse from the Adhûnian lips.

It felt good to hold the knives again, and from the force of habit, immediately adopted the stance he usually took when surrounded by foes. Certain that he was expected to fight, he took a deep breath and turned his nerves to ice, and his whole form became one of calm preparedness. His senses were attuned to movement from any direction, honed through his countless encounters with giant spiders, orcs and other hostile beings since he was old enough to hold weapons during the Third Age. If his life was to be taken today, he would not make the execution easy.

His eyes roamed the circle of men, wondering which of them would deal the final blow or shot. Legolas was not afraid to die, but he wished with all his heart that he could see Aragorn again before he did.

Estel, wherever you are, be with me in spirit, for I am with you. Saying a silent prayer for the safety of his friend, he waited for Sarambaq to give the command for his men to attack.

He listened, but the command never came. And none of the men moved.

Instead, the man himself approached and took up a fighting position, standing a few yards in front of the elf. In the hush following the movement, the sound of his sword being drawn grated on every ear, so keen that it seemed to cut through the fibers of the very air itself.

Legolas knitted his brows. What was Sarambaq up to now? Did the man want to fight him himself?

Mutely, the hefty Adhûnian and the slender elf prince faced each other: one heated with fury, the other coldly composed; each studying the other, and neither afraid.

Then the Adhûnian raised his sword and issued the challenge. “Now, elf, show me the skills for which your kin is famed. You and I shall engage in combat.”

So, Sarambaq did want to fight. But the armed men…?

A suspicion crept into the elf’s mind then and filled him with disgust. Sarambaq wanted the victory of the kill, he guessed, but he needed the armed men for security, a coward’s security, in case he could not attain the victory without aid. For all his sound and fury, the man could not fight his own battles, not during the attack on Ithilien, and not now.

As if he had read Legolas’ mind, Sarambaq said something that took the elf completely by surprise: “Worry not, Elf, it is not your turn to die today." He paused, enjoying Legolas’ confusion. “But I want you to fight me.”

The elf held his knives firmly but pointed them earthward, making no move.  “Why?” he asked. 

Sarambaq had expected this reluctance. “Yours is not the right to question why,” he replied sternly. “But if you must know, let us just say I shall enjoy the challenge.”

Legolas stood still, rigidly defiant. “I am not here to give you the pleasure of a sport that makes little sense.”

Sarambaq looked incredulous. “Are you afraid, accursed elf?” the man barked, taking a step forward.

Legolas could not help a small smirk, his elven pride affronted. “Afraid?” he asked disbelievingly. “You, who have placed men with weapons around me in insurance lest you fail, ask me if I feel fear? Why should I fight you, if the fight will not be fair?” 

The bellow from the Adhûnian sent a flock of birds flying off in startled response.

“You are in no position to demand fairness, or to say what is or is not fair, you son of a murderer!” he snarled. 

“I see your design. You fill me with your poison so that you can dominate me in my weakness,” the elf said boldly. “And you call my father the murderer? He would never do what you are doing now.”

“Damn your insolence, elf! I shall take pleasure in tearing you limb from limb myself when the time comes, but if you wish to retain your limbs till then, it would do you well to remember you are my captive, and you shall do as you are told!”

“I see no reason to provide you with sport,” Legolas replied without moving. He knew he would have to defend himself if the man attacked, but he was adamant about not giving the man any misplaced sense of true victory before then. 

The men around them were stunned into silence, astounded by the audacity of the elf; some thought him extremely brave, others found him outrageously foolish, but all waited with bated breath to see what would happen.

Sarambaq looked like he would explode, but with great effort, he restrained himself and merely said: “No reason? Then let me provide you with one – a good one.” He turned to his men and yelled a command: “Bring him!”

Legolas’ brows knitted. There was an immediate commotion on his right where the caves were, and a few moments later, his blood ran cold as he watched a figure being dragged into the ring.

Estel? he breathed, his eyes immediately widening in distress. Oh Estel, what have they done to you?

The Ranger’s hands and legs were tied, his mouth was gagged, and his face showed apparent signs of having been abused: the brow above one eye seemed a little swollen, the bruise on one cheek was turning blue-black, and a trickle of dried blood ran from one side of his mouth to his chin. The way he was hunched forward suggested that his body had also been tormented. But his eyes were clear and spirited as they locked on the elf. He was very much conscious, Legolas noted gratefully.

The elf took a step in his direction, to find his path instantly blocked by a sword at his chest. At that sight, the Ranger shook his head and his grey eyes widened in caution as he looked at the elf with silent assurance to say: I am not badly hurt. Be careful.

Controlling his wrath, Legolas turned to Sarambaq and demanded through gritted teeth: “Why have you done this to him? He is but a healer!”

Sarambaq’s eyes widened, and he laughed. “He is but a healer?” he echoed mockingly, and in that moment, Legolas realized with dismay that the Adhûnian must have found out the truth.

“Tell me, why would just a healer have joined the Grey Wizard in an intense search for the creature Gollum in the realm of the Dark Lord?” the man asked. “For they were together, were they not? His face – ” he said, looking at Aragorn, “did not come to memory till I remembered the wizard and their foray into Dol Guldur.  And after they found the creature, they delivered it to your stronghold. Does my tale ring true?”

Sarambaq was already sure he had seen Aragorn before, and Legolas found no point in denying it. He kept quiet.

“Curses on his stiff neck, he will not tell me more, but you and he must have known each other before this,” he stated, then demanded, “Who is he?”    

The elf started. So Sarambaq did not yet know of Aragorn’s kingship?

At Legolas’ muteness, a sword was quickly pressed against Aragorn’s neck, and the elf blurted out: “As you say, he is someone I knew before this.”

“Someone you knew? Who is he? Speak quickly!”  

Legolas looked at his friend and made desperate guesses.

Although the Adhûnian did not have dealings with Gondor, they must have had news of the return of a king to the country. But that the King was a Ranger of the North before was not likely known to them, for there were many of Aragorn’s own subjects who were not entirely familiar with his history, let alone people from beyond the borders of Gondor and as distant as the Sea of Rhûn. Sarambaq himself had focused his attention on Mirkwood, on his father and him. The elf decided that they did not know the truth in full, and was determined to protect Aragorn’s identity at all costs, for who knew what this mad man would do if he realized what an important hostage he held.

“He is a healer as he said,” Legolas insisted, truthfully. “He was helping the wizard.”   

“His pack contains nothing but herbs,” one of the nearby Adhûnians volunteered.

So, they have searched Aragorn’s things, Legolas realized. It was fortunate then that the Ranger had secretly transported Anduril, wrapped in their clothes, to the spring where they bathed the day before, and stealthily hidden it there in the undergrowth. Since Sarambaq had grown suspicious, the Ranger had thought it safer to move the sword out of the cave. They had planned to retrieve it when they escaped.

“A healer from Rohan, helping the Grey One? Why?” Sarambaq questioned doubtfully. At the elf’s silence, he moved a step towards the Ranger. “Speak!”

“He has skills.”

“What skills?”

“Of what import is that to you?”

“What skills?!”

“Tracking skills.” There, Legolas had spoken the truth and hoped this would satisfy the Adhûnian. He did not remove his eyes from the large man, who mulled over the elf’s words for a moment.

“A healer and a tracker? Strange bedfellows,” he commented doubtfully. “How came he to this place when you did? Was it by chance or design? Was he following you?”

“Did he not say?” Legolas queried. “Then neither will I.”

“Pah! I grow weary of this!” the Adhûnian growled impatiently. “What you choose to say or not is of no matter now.  I have two fools in my hands who thought they could pull wool over my eyes. Neither has proven to be as clever as he thought, and one of them – ” he raised his sword and pointed it at Legolas “ – has the choice of fighting me, or – ” the sword swung towards Aragorn “ – the other dies!”

Legolas’ eyes flew to his friend, his mind in turmoil at this unexpected turn of events, and the man’s next words deepened his distress even more.

“If you defeat me, he lives,” Sarambaq stated. “If you lose, so does he – his life.”

Legolas sucked in a breath. Now he had to fight this man to save Estel? He could hardly do it to save himself, he thought honestly. Now Estel’s life would be forfeit? Oh Eru…

“Heartless are you to place the weight of another life on my shoulders after all you have done to weaken me,” Legolas stated bluntly to Sarambaq, although his eyes were fixed on his friend.

“Those are the only options I offer. Choose quickly!”

The Ranger shook his head vigorously, his own eyes wide with concern, telling his friend not to do it, not while he was still not fully recovered. He had not heard Sarambaq’s declaration that he had no wish to kill the elf yet.

Legolas’ own concerns were for the Ranger. What choice do I have? he thought in frustration. He knew there would be no chance of the man releasing him, but Aragorn…  

“You will let him go?” Legolas asked, turning back to Sarambaq and missing the frantic plea on the Ranger’s face.

The Adhûnian looked at him with a smirk. “If you win, yes,” he replied in a cunning tone, gloating over some hidden meaning the elf did not understand.

The elf could not hide his contemptuous disbelief of the man’s avowals, but he knew he had little choice aside from the hope that some shred of decency in the mad man would compel him to keep his word.  Legolas’ shoulders drooped, and he said softly in a tone of defeat: “I have no choice then.”

A small cunning laugh followed, the laugh of someone who was playing a game and was delighting in his opponent’s ignorance of a concealed trick. “How very clever of you to notice that,” he commented sardonically, taunting the elf. “You have no choice that I can see. If you win, Elf – if you defeat me and you keep your wits about you…,” he swept his arms over the circle of men surrounding them, “the healer rides from here, and you get to live another day.”

Legolas frowned at the man’s cryptic warning. If you defeat me and you keep your wits about you…you get to live another day. 

After a moment, he realized what it meant: he was being told that even if he could defeat the man, he was not at liberty to kill him. Or he himself would be killed.

What a choice. A choice offered by a coward interested only in sport.

The elf looked at Aragorn again, noting the wild plea in the Ranger’s eyes for his elven friend to abandon the fight. Aragorn’s struggles were in vain, for two men held on tightly to his arms, and a sword was still placed threateningly at his neck. His muffled voice came through the gag in pitiful, muted cries.

Legolas turned to Sarambaq again, his face ashen. “May I speak with him before we begin?” 

The man took on the righteous look of one who grants transgressors a small mercy. “Briefly, elf. Do not keep me waiting.”

Legolas walked over to his friend and looked him steadily in the eye, ignoring the men holding the Ranger. Further pretence seemed pointless now, and he spoke softly in Sindarin, in a voice full of apology.

“You should never have been brought into this, Estel. Have they injured you badly?”

Aragorn shook his head, trying to mumble words of reassurance.

“I would kill those holding you now, Estel, but I fear it would have any consequence other than their happily plunging their blades and arrows into us without hesitation, although he has said he does not wish to take my life today.” Aragorn looked relieved at those words from the elf, but blanched instantly at the ones that followed.

“Yet I have no choice but to fight him, for he has said he will release you if I defeat him. I can only hope he will keep his word, that there is some honor left in him.”

The Ranger, trying to protest through the tight gag, gave a firm shake of his head, holding the elf’s gaze with a sad look of his own; what little strength Legolas had would be taxed, and despite Sarambaq’s declaration, anything could happen in the heat of combat. Anything.

Legolas felt his eyes misting as he studied the face of his friend he loved, and saw beyond it faint visions of a lady elf and a little boy waiting for him. The elf continued quickly before his voice could choke. “Many times before have I fought for you and beside you, mellon nin, but never have I felt so inadequate as I do now, when your life is in my feeble hands. If I should fail… forgive me, forgive me.” He took both of his knives in one hand, and placed his free hand lightly on Aragorn’s chest, afraid to hurt any sore spots on the Ranger’s body. Aragorn wondered that a touch so light could burn a hole in his heart. “The Valar keep you safe, dear friend.”

There was nothing more Legolas could say, for the look they gave each other said it all. The Ranger’s own eyes were filled with sorrow and understanding as the elf bowed his head once, then lifted it again to give his friend a smile before turning away to walk back to Sarambaq.

Moments later, the mid-morning sun that should have brought cheer to the surrounding woods and warmed the hearts of all within became a spotlight on the two combatants who faced each other – one confident, the other determined and defiant. Legolas realized with apprehension how long he had been on his feet today and how his strength was even now draining slowly from his limbs. He prayed his body would not give out, not while Aragorn’s life was in his hands.

This was one fight Legolas he felt he had little chance of winning, yet it was one he could not afford to lose, for the price of a loss was too high to pay. The knowledge cloaked him in the darkness of sorrow but also filled his heart with a cold rage and a deep resolve he had felt only a few times in his life. With the image of his father in his mind and Aragorn in his sight, he waited for Sarambaq to make the first move.

And as a bound and horrified Ranger watched on helplessly, they began.  

The same sun that shone on Legolas and Aragorn saw Thranduil and his small escort of three elves arrive at their destination in the north of Mirkwood. Having ridden ceaselessly since the wee hours of the morning, Thranduil was weary but grateful that the one he sought was there.  

The elven king stood a little breathless but determined as he voiced his plea:

“Long has it been since our last meeting, but I now come at the request of King Elessar of Gondor, and as the father of a much loved son, in the hopes that you will succor us in our time of need, Lord.”

And the one he had ridden through the night to find listened to the tale he told.