Note:

The elvish used in this chapter is from the movie The Two Towers, or from other stories (my thanks to the authors, whom I will acknowledge as soon as I can remember who they are.).

CHAPTER 28:  DEFEAT IN VICTORY

Tense anticipation tingled in every nerve of each living thing present at the foot of the Table, and they could almost smell upon the air something that was not yet here, but which all knew would soon be drawn: blood.

For, in an arena surrounded by fascinated spectators, two creatures faced each other in a battle for dominance. The thrill of expectation lit the face of every onlooker, save one, on which only horrified anguish was written as the duel began.

It was the giant beast that attacked first. Like Shelob or Ungoliant of the Great Darkness, it lumbered across the grass of the arena with a roar, an angry mass of hard brawn, surprisingly swift and dexterous for its size. Its fierce eyes and deadly sting were aimed only at one prey: a sleek, golden mountain cat which stood poised and alert despite the poisoned fire in its veins, pride flowing in every graceful curve of its body.

The large beast was strong and powerful, seeking to maim with its vicious sting the body of its opponent as it pounced and stabbed in dangerous moves, forcing the cat to depend on its quickness rather than its waning physical strength.

In a series of moves as smooth and unbroken as swirls of water in a lazy river, the sleek creature bent, twisted and spun to evade the brutal thrusts of the monster’s sting. The cat had been robbed of much of its speed, but no poison could have stripped it of its fluid mobility. Neither had it lost the inherent nimbleness of its spring, nor the sharp bite of its twin claws, and none of its courage. It now summoned all of these assets, for – despite the claim of the large beast that its intent was not to kill – one careless swipe, one thrust of the deadly sting in a moment of passion during combat – could erase that claim.

For long minutes, the creatures battled, attacking, evading, and circling each other, pitting brute strength against golden grace, hard might against sinuous agility, loud fury against silent resolve, both fuelled by the images of loved ones.

The large beast was a substantial opponent, for it was not encumbered by clumsiness, and the stab of its sting held polished potency, habitual ease obvious in the assurance of its movements.

Yet to the astonishment of all who watched, it was clear that the nimble cat – with breathtaking speed and fine precision of movement – would have long ripped victory from the larger beast, were it not hindered by ailment and by a warning to defeat but not kill.  Time and again, the sting of the larger beast lunged towards the sleek one, its success thwarted only by dodges too quick for other minds to grasp, to be met with well-aimed swipes of keen claws that made small, painful and non-fatal marks on the flanks of the larger opponent, eliciting angry roars and growls.

Long did they battle on, till sweat drenched their bodies and they panted with weariness, victory not even tenuously favoring the larger beast.

But the exercise, in reopening an old wound, eventually took its toll on the already weaker body of the golden one.

As the movements of the cat were slowed by weariness, one by one, the larger creature inflicted cuts – small but painful nonetheless – upon the flawless skin of its opponent, on its arms and back, when it could not leap away fast enough. Even its lightning reflexes, honed to near-perfection through centuries of battle with an array of foes that human minds could only imagine, were beginning to wear down.

The sun was above their heads when the two creatures paused in their duel, breathing heavily. Sunbeams reflected off the radiance of the cat’s golden mane, although it lay wet and plastered to a head still held high even in exhaustion.

The two beasts faced each other in mute confrontation, contemplating the next move. Stoically, the golden cat ignored the pain of the old wound that had bled afresh, but was acutely aware of an ache in its heart as it considered its feeble chances of withstanding another attack.  

Then, by some unspoken accord, they both knew: it was now or never; the cat could go on no longer.

No power did it possess for another match of physical strength, its only remaining means of defence being its instincts and its desperate will to resist. Breath now came painfully for the golden one, its legs supporting it only on unseen stilts of resolve, its mind saying it would soon be over, its heart weeping for a loved one who would have to pay the price for its defeat.

One moment, the large beast stared piercingly into the bright eyes of the cat; then, it lunged bodily with sudden and confident might at its foe, seeking to topple it from the sheer force of the charge and thus gain the upper advantage. One split second was all the warning the golden one had before the hideous face of its enemy neared its own. By some design of the Maker that enables a desperate, cornered creature to call forth a hidden reserve of strength and endurance it never knew it had, the golden cat leapt aside with a swift reflex unexpected from one so fatigued, to spin around and throw its own body into the back of the larger beast, sending a shocked giant crashing to the ground, and with one more deft twist, the sharp edge of a cat’s claw was ready to sink into the neck of its fallen foe.

A small hiss of anger was all that escaped the lips of the cat before the whole arena fell into a stunned silence.

Incredibly, it was over.

Against all odds, the golden cat had risen from the depths of its exhaustion and sickness to fight for the life of one it loved, and won.

And from the sidelines of the arena, a deep breath, long held in tense anxiety, was let loose.

Digging his knee firmly into the back of the large Adhûnian and clenching his teeth against the strain of the effort, Legolas grasped a handful of the man’s hair and pulled his head back while his other hand shakily held the point of one elven knife against the tender flesh at the man’s throat.

For Estel, for Adar, he thought.

He had expended all his energy, feeling the nausea of extreme exhaustion, and he did not have any strength left to ward off another blow. He was conscious only of the slim advantage of his weight and his upright position that would allow him to slit the neck of the man and put an end to his miserable life and vengeful plans.

But even as the thought ran through his mind, some instinct told the elf to stay his hand. In the next instant, he knew what it was, for a loud voice erupted from the sidelines: “Hold, or you die!”

Legolas looked up wearily, breathing laboriously, to see a ring of drawn bows and swords all aimed at him, exactly as he had expected before they began, but which he had pushed to the fringes of his thinking once they were in the throes of battle. Had he killed the Adhûnian, he himself would have been dealt instantaneous death, skewered a dozen times over. 

It had truly all been a game for the man, the elf thought in frustration, the goal and rules of which were decided by one sick mind. He saw clearly the futility of his victory for himself, even for his father, whom he knew Sarambaq would want to bring here at whatever cost. No, it was not for them that he had fought. The only prize he had hoped to get from beating his opponent was freedom for his friend.

Sarambaq’s mouth was forced open because Legolas was holding his head back by the hair, and from the mouth now issued a loud gargled scream of rage.

“Let him go!” the voice from the sidelines commanded again.

Aragorn saw that it was Pöras who yelled it, he who had had little sympathy for the elf even when he lay wounded and unconscious. The Ranger looked at Legolas again and caught his eye, urging him with his own wide eyes and nods to lay down the weapons.

Tasting the bitterness of defeat even in his hard-fought victory, Legolas released Sarambaq’s hair and withdrew his knife. He remained on his knees, too weak to stand, and held his knives at his sides. He bowed his head, letting his sweat flow in rivulets across his closed eyes and cheeks to mingle with his tears of frustration and to fall on to the ground in surrender.

With a roar, Sarambaq rolled over and picked himself up, his ego hurting much more than his physical self. Anger born of humiliation was written in his face as he stomped about furiously and issued an order through quick breaths:

“Take away his knives, tie him up!”

As three men came forward to take a hold of the elf and his knives, Legolas looked up at the man and said tiredly: “Your word, Sarambaq. The healer goes free.”

The man looked on the verge of an explosion as he let loose a barrage of colorful curses. Legolas decided to stay silent, watching the mad man release his emotions.

After a minute, Sarambaq did indeed cease ranting, but he gritted his teeth as he responded. “Again, elf, do not presume to make demands here! He will be released as I said, but for a purpose, and all in good time. Only when I say so!”

Estel would be released for a purpose? What purpose did Sarambaq have for him?

Too weak to argue or think any longer, Legolas could not even squirm when his hands were once again tied behind his back.  He could only feel relieved that Sarambaq had said he would keep his word to let Aragorn go.

The Ranger, however, struggled violently, trying to say something and earning himself a smack on the head from his captor and a hard look from Sarambaq.  

“So, you want to talk now, healer?” Sarambaq taunted. “If you had done so earlier, you would have saved yourself a lot of pain.” He gave an unexpected order: “Remove his gag.”

As soon as the cloth was removed, Aragorn looked at Sarambaq and said: “Please, let me see to his wound; it bleeds again.”

Sarambaq looked with disgust at the elf. He would not say it aloud, but he truly desired the elf to remain alive for now. It was this intent that made him deliver his instruction: “Take them back to the cave, and set a tight vigil! No more risks will we take.”

Aragorn and Legolas soon found themselves back in their cave, and the elf immediately leant against the wall near the back of the cave, his hands bound behind him. The guards released Aragorn’s bonds so that he could tend to the elf, but not without a stern warning to avoid any attempt at escape. “You know not whom you deal with in Sarambaq,” were their parting words.

Yes, I do, he is a maniac with a heart of darkness, the Ranger thought, but said nothing as he knelt and grasped Legolas’ shoulders, studying the pale elven face and closed eyes.

“How many more close calls can my human heart take, elf?” he lamented.

“I truly had no choice, Estel,” Legolas explained wearily. “He would have killed you, you heard his threat.”

The Ranger released a sigh of sad regret. “I know, and I thank you, dear friend. How I wish it had not fallen on your shoulders to fulfill such a bargain, mellon nin,” he said ruefully. “I would not have asked it of you.”

“Do not even think I would have allowed that to pass,” Legolas insisted. “Remember our pledge, Aragorn, for I hold to it. You would have done the same for me. I only hope he will keep his end of the bargain.”

Aragorn could only bow his head in silence, for words would have been inadequate to express his appreciation of the elf. After a moment, he began to look over his friend’s wounds. When he stretched to examine the elf’s back, he winced suddenly at the sharp pain in his own ribs.  

“Easy, Estel,” Legolas said immediately in concern. “What happened yesterday? Did you tell them the truth? Do they know who you are?”

The Ranger shook his head. “Sarambaq had me taken in the evening, just after I had spoken to Rallias and begun to put into motion our plan of escape. I barely had time to turn back to Rallias and tell him not to go anywhere before they dragged me into a cave. Long did he grill me with questions, but I yielded nothing.”

“And they tortured you for it,” Legolas stated, studying his friend’s bruised face. “Are you badly hurt? What did they do…”

“Elf, can you please look at me and see that I can still outrun you by a league?” the Ranger interrupted, shaking his head in exasperation. “Now let me look at your own wound; I shall have to patch it up again.”

The elf did not argue and allowed the Ranger to work on the wound with herbs and clean linen from his pack. “It is not too bad, I think,” he claimed, ignoring the Ranger’s mumble of disagreement, “but you look a mess, Adan,” he added with a small smile.

“You are not such a pretty sight yourself, Elf,” the Ranger rejoined, not truly meaning it, and the elf grinned in spite of his aches. “But that was a mighty fight, my friend,” the Ranger declared in a tone of quiet pride. “Well did you defend the repute of the elves – and my life; Sarambaq is the one who bears shame.”

The two friends kept silent as they pondered on the earlier events and Aragorn focused on cleaning the smaller cuts. His heart filled with sympathy for the elf who had suffered so much physical affliction in the last few days.

“What now, Aragorn? What comes next in the plan of that mad man?” Legolas wondered worriedly.

“Legolas, I may be wrong,” the Ranger ventured, keeping his eyes on his work, “but I think he was… testing himself… for when he confronts your father.”

The elf nodded. “I had the same suspicion. Before we fought, he said he wanted to see elven skills, so I suppose he made me fight him today for that reason: so that he can study the moves Adar might use.  That would mean he is preparing to duel with Adar himself, for that is what would give him satisfaction. In addition, our battle today may have given him some sick pleasure as well, as he said. It was for his sport, for he is still keeping me alive as bait to lure Adar here.”

“That may be,” Aragorn agreed worriedly, his eyes on his work.

“Of course we may be wrong,” Legolas continued. “It would be much easier for him to use his bowmen for an… an easy kill…” the elf’s voice dropped to a whisper, “…when the time comes.”

Aragorn winced at those words and looked up. “We will not let that come to pass, Legolas.”

“As I said, I shall not play his game willingly,” the elf said with resolve. “No matter what happens next, Estel, he has given his word – for what it is worth – that he will release you – ”

The Ranger spluttered. “How is it that one of the wise Firstborn, more than a thousands years in age, finds it so hard to comprehend something I have said repeatedly: I am not going anywhere without you!” he said vehemently. “It is enough that I am still allowed to live. I am not – ”

“Estel, think of Arwen and Eldarion.”  

An expression of pain – and a hint of anger – crossed the Ranger’s face. “There is no need to remind me of them!” he retorted, louder than he intended. Legolas immediately lowered his eyes and ceased speaking, not in submission, but in sympathy. The action, however, made the Ranger regret his tone instantly; he placed a hand on the elf’s chest.

“Forgive me, my friend, forgive me,” he pleaded. “I did not mean – ”

“Ú-moe edhored, Estel, there is nothing to forgive,” Legolas said quietly, “I understand. This situation weighs heavy on both of us.” He sighed and looked pointedly at his friend. “But they need you, Estel.” 

“So do you. They are in a safe place. You are not.”

“Were we battling orcs and if there were a means of escape, I would be overjoyed to have your company and your strength, Estel,” the elf argued gently, “but we are dealing with a demented mind, and one who now has seen through your guise, to an extent.” He paused to let this thought sink into Aragorn’s mind. “You have to leave, if he will release you. Perhaps you can better design some aid for my father and me that way,” Legolas reasoned.

Aragorn held his head in his hands and sighed, his turmoil and struggle apparent.

Then Legolas remembered something Sarambaq had said, and added: “…although… he did say he still needed you to serve some purpose…”

Aragorn looked up quickly. “What purpose?”

The answer came sooner than they expected, when a voice called strongly from the cave entrance.

“Well, has the elf been made whole again?” Sarambaq asked in a shout, approaching them, Närum closely in tow. Sarambaq’s face still held a trace of the anger he felt at an embarrassing defeat at the elf’s hands, as his eyes took in the fresh bandages under Legolas’ shirt, which the Ranger proceeded to lace up. Närum had a look of deep displeasure on his face, which he trained on Aragorn.

“Hama – or whatever your name is, healer,” Sarambaq addressed the Ranger. “Let it not be said that I do not keep my word. You shall be released.”

Aragorn and Legolas stared at this unexpected declaration from the Adhûnian. The elf’s heart leapt; the Ranger’s fell. As long as he had not had the liberty, there had been no question in Aragorn’s mind that he would stay by Legolas’ side, whatever happened. Now – he had to make a choice about the best course of action to pursue.

“But only so that you can perform a task for me,” the man added triumphantly.

“What task, and what if I refuse?” Aragorn demanded.

“Oh, I do not think you will refuse this one,” Sarambaq said confidently, “not if you value your… friend here, for that is what he is, is he not – a friend? He fought to seek your release.” Then he gave Legolas a gloating look. “Little did you know, Elf, that I never meant to kill him. I need him for the task.”

The eyes of both friends widened, and Aragorn desired to skewer him for that confession alone. To have made Legolas fight for nothing…  Their eyes never leaving the man, they asked as one: “What is the task?”

“A simple one,” came the reply. “If you are truly in exile, it may cause you some… discomfort, or shame, perhaps even a little danger. But if all that is a bluff, then it will cost you nothing.” He paced a little distance from them and turned around, his face hard. “Know this: if I had time, I would beat the truth out of you, stranger – healer – whatever you are. But I do not wish to while away the days on that. I wish for this to be completed, and quickly.”

They waited impatiently for him to continue, which he did. “You are to return to Ithilien, to deliver a message from me to the elves there.”

Legolas and Aragorn stole a quick look at each other before looking at Sarambaq again.  

“The message is for the murderous elven king,” Sarambaq said, delighted at the sight of the elf stiffening. “Oh, I know he will be there, I am certain word would have reached him. And if he is not when you arrive, he will go there soon, you just need to wait.”  

“And what is the message?” Aragorn asked in a clipped tone.

“Just this: that he should come to this place immediately.”

Legolas and Aragorn tensed. The summons that they expected had come at last.

“He is to come alone,” Sarambaq continued. “You, healer, are not to return here.”

The reaction from Aragorn was immediate, though he tried to keep his tone neutral. “But how shall he know – ?”

“Again, you level an insult on me. I will send men with you, of course, and they shall ride back here with the king.” The man paused, stressing his next warning: “Tell the elves: if I should see a hint of anyone else riding with them, or if I should fail to hear from my men within three days, in which case I shall assume they have been held captive...” he turned to Legolas and finished the warning: “I will slit his throat faster than you can say ‘Elf’.”

You are one sick spawn of an orc with the blackness of Mordor and the decency of a warg’s behind, thought Aragorn, fuming, a fresh wave of fear for Legolas’ safety washing over him at the same time. He looked at the elf, who returned his gaze with calm acceptance.

How am I to leave you, mellon nin, the Ranger lamented in his heart, knowing what this mad man is capable of?

Go, the elf said with his eyes and a slight tilt of his head.

“Can you not send someone else in my place?” Aragorn asked Sarambaq, making one more attempt to stay with his friend. “His wounds – ”

“Gah, I am past caring about those!” came the angry response. “And it would be difficult for my men to make it past the borders of Ithilien, for the elves would not have forgotten their faces so soon. They might be shot full of arrows on sight if they did not have you with them! Your coming here, therefore, was as another gift to me, for you are now a surer way now for my message to be delivered. So think no further about refusing this task – or you yourself will perish here without any regrets on my part! Now – choose!” 

Aragorn’s turmoil doubled, but he knew, like Legolas had earlier, that he had no choice other than to obey. The elf caught his eye again and repeated his encouragement: Go.

The Ranger bowed his head in defeat. “I will go,” he stated reluctantly. “But let me first leave enough materials for him to see to his wounds… please…” Aragorn begged, his dignity nothing in the face of his anxiety at leaving Legolas alone among uncaring men.

For some reason, the Ranger turned to Närum, beseeching him silently. The look of displeasure had not left his face since his entrance to the cave, but as he now looked at the two friends, a trace – just a slight shadow – of sympathy brushed across his features.

“I will bring him out,” he said unexpectedly to Sarambaq.

Sarambaq turned on him with a scathing reminder: “You brought him here in the first place! Little do I have on which to base my trust in you again!”  

“He helped the men, regardless,” Närum retorted, a little defiantly but careful to keep his voice down. “And he has done nothing thus far to endanger us. I will not move from this very spot till I bring him out to you. And you do want to keep the elf prince alive still, is that not so?”

The two Adhûnians – of almost equal height, with Sarambaq just a shade heftier – eyed each other silently for a moment, but Sarambaq was the first to speak again.

“So be it, Närum,” he said to the captain of the men he knew he depended on, “but he must leave in a short while. I will not stand for any more delays.” And with that, without another look at the elf and the Ranger, he turned and stormed out of the cave, face as dark as storm clouds.

After his departure, Närum turned back to the two friends and said sternly: “Do your work quickly, healer, and do not cost me my head.”

Aragorn stood and nodded his head slightly to the Adhûnian. “Thank you,” he said simply.

The Adhûnian’s expression did not soften. “I need not your thanks, healer. And you have not mine, for I was beguiled by you. But consider this payment for the services you rendered my companions.” 

“You have my thanks, nevertheless,” the Ranger insisted. “You are a far more decent man than he would ever be, Närum.” He moved to prepare the things Legolas would need to dress his wounds in the next two or three days, for that was how long he was willing to leave the elf, and no longer; he would return somehow.

“Who are you, Hama?” the Adhûnian asked, catching both the elf and Ranger off-guard. The two glanced briefly at each other before the Ranger responded.

“You may find out when the time is right, Närum, but for now, let us just say I am one who would rather see this end without bloodshed – on both sides,” he said cautiously as he worked. “As you value your companions…” he continued, looking at Legolas, “I value mine.” This was the first time he had openly admitted his friendship with the elf, and he hoped this fact would be enough to justify his façade, even without the details.

With a heavy heart, the Ranger started to explain the use of the linen and herbs to his friend, but Legolas stopped him, careful not to mention Aragorn’s real name as he said: “I have watched you… I know what to do.”

Sadness and anger gripped the Ranger as he gathered his things and prepared to leave, feeling like he was abandoning his friend. He regretted having to depart without Anduril as well, and resolved to come back for it later. Even if he had it now, attempting anything at this point would be foolish: they were trapped in a cave, with a horde of men outside, and the elf could fight no longer. The message, too, had to be delivered, and quickly.

As Aragorn walked about, Närum watched him quietly, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of his sword.

Noting his apprehension, Aragorn assured him: “You have nothing to fear from me, Närum. I just need to speak briefly with the elf prince, and I will depart.”

Närum nodded slightly and turned to face the other wall, giving the two companions a chance to say their farewells. He did not voice his thoughts, but he too was tired of the whole game Sarambaq was playing; he too wished it would be over soon.

Aragorn knelt in front of the seated elf and grasped the elven shoulders once more, looking deeply into the blue eyes that were fighting despair and sorrow. Neither man nor elf knew what would happen next. They were still alive, and they would continue to hold on to each moment of hope, but both accepted that they could not yet read the page where Legolas’ fate had been written.

“Car u mereth, Legolas. Calen uva u firith,” the Ranger said, pouring as much encouragement and conviction as he could into each word. “Do not fear. Light will not fade.”

The elf did not reply, afraid that his voice would break. He did not fear for himself, but for his father, and he despaired because he knew the elven king would not heed his son’s plea for him to refuse Sarambaq’s summons.

He did not desire for Aragorn to come back either; Dárkil must be healing, and he knew what the beast could do to the Ranger and Rallias – he knew because he had been through the torment of an attack. But he also knew he was powerless to stop the Ranger from attempting a rescue.

“Promise me something, Elf,” the Ranger demanded, searching the blue eyes. “Do nothing rash while I am gone.”

The elf attempted a small smile as he replied. “With my hands and feet in ropes – not likely.”

But the Ranger did not smile as he held the elf’s eyes and shook his shoulders gently. “Promise me.”

Legolas swallowed and nodded. His hands were bound behind him, so he could not reach out to return Aragorn’s grasp; he could only return Aragorn’s gaze with a steady one of his own, dispelling the darkness of tomorrow with the light of his elven eyes. If this was the last time his friend saw him, he wanted his expression to be one of courage and love, and if this was the last time Aragorn would hear him speak, he wanted his words to be of hopeful promise. But before he could say anything, the Ranger embraced him and placed his forehead against the elf’s.

“Gar'estel, mellon nin,” Aragorn whispered. “Have hope.”

“Valar berio lle, aran a adanath, Tenna’ ento lye omenta,” Legolas whispered back. “May the Valar protect you, lord of Men,till we meet again.”

Aragorn pulled away reluctantly and looked into his friend’s eyes once more. “Wait for me, I will return.”

With those words, he stood and turned to Närum. “I am ready,” he stated. Casting his friend one last look and receiving a brave smile in return, he dragged himself out of the cave, feeling keenly the daggers that tore his heart in two, leaving part of it with a helpless elf in the gloom of uncertainty.