CHAPTER 32: ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

Quietly, with all the stealth and skills that a Ranger, wood elves and highly trained Gondorian soldiers could muster, Aragorn and his small company picked their way through the thick woods to the south of the Table, following their instincts and creating a path where no man had yet trod. Their horses sensed the riders’ need for silent movement and did not emit as much as a snort the entire journey.

The sense of unease Aragorn had felt about Legolas since the previous evening would not leave him. Without being privy to the plan Sarambaq had revealed to the elf king and prince, he felt different scenarios wreak havoc in his mind. That the mad man wished for the death of Thranduil in revenge seemed certain, the Ranger thought, but might he seek the lives of both father and son? Would he duel with one or both elves? Or would he slay them quickly?

Aragorn shuddered and breathed hard, suddenly feeling the forest stifle him as he hurried the riders forward. The small army reached the spring where Aragorn and Legolas had bathed themselves a few days ago, and Aragorn stopped briefly to retrieve Anduril from its hiding place in some bushes. He was just thinking about how good it felt to hold his sword in his hands again when a sudden clang of clashing swords reached the sharp ears of Ranger and elves, bringing them to a tense alertness on their horses and prompting an urge for haste that warred with the need for a silent advance.

Not for the first time, he sent a prayer to the Valar that he and his company would reach the king and prince of the Greenwood in time.

If the elf prince lost his life, the Ranger swore, he would take Sarambaq apart with his bare hands.

It had been more than ten years since Thranduil had seen his son wield a weapon in his hands for anything more than a friendly spar, and it was with both pride and trepidation that he watched the young elf – even with a second bout of poison in his veins – summon his hidden reserves of stamina, strength and skill to defy his opponent, thrusting, blocking and dodging with unconscious grace matched by grim determination. This time, both combatants had to fight to kill, and there would be no holding back. This time, Legolas was truly fighting for his life.

Long did the slender elf prince hold his own amidst the cheers and jeers of the circle of men, his feet matching each step of the larger Adhûnian’s, his eyes constantly on the man’s sword arm in anticipation of moves he had observed the man make during their last encounter. Always at the back of his mind was the need to bring down his opponent, or to fight for time till Aragorn arrived. He did not know how or when aid would come, but the thought of it steeled his resolve.  

As the Adhûnians watched Legolas battle with their master a second time, they felt they were once again witness to a fascinating vision that raised the hairs on their arms. If the elf prince moved more slowly than usual, it was still with amazing artistry, so that the elf prince seemed to be weaving a tapestry of intricate patterns with his moves, deftly twisting himself like fine thread around the cruder motif of his opponent, embellishing the design with touches of gold when he spun faster than the human eye could grasp. And as he moved, the onlookers could almost hear his fluidity, an unbroken sequence of notes in an exquisite song that the elf played on an elvish harp, the rise and fall of the melody articulated with quick, smooth leaps and crouches, and delicate trills created with breathtaking spins in different directions, all woven around a coarser strain that threatened to overwhelm the elven music with its loud pounding beat.  

Again, it was clear to the spectators who would have been the early victor had the elf not been unjustly robbed of his speed, for each sweep and forward thrust of the elvish arm, had it been half a breath quicker, would have hit the exact note it desired to strike.

But it was also painfully obvious to the witnesses that the more unrefined motif, the more robust melody, was slowly gaining dominance. The fairer of the fighters was becoming weary from the exertion of the battle, from lack of nourishment and care, and from the poison that sought to dull his senses. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and the cheeks that had been flushed before the fight were beginning to take on a pale pallor. He was once again fighting to stay alert and on his feet.

As the elf king watched breathlessly from the sidelines, each sharp sound of metal against metal cut into his heart, for it was hard to tell whether the next stroke would find flesh, where it would fall, or who would deal it.

Aragorn led the small company swiftly through the last part of the southern woods. They were almost at the Table now, and all was silent.  

So, Sarambaq has emptied the place, and the confrontation will be on the open plain, Aragorn concluded, frowning. No surprise attacks from surrounding woods that way; he will be able to see anyone approaching long before they can do anything to stop him. All he needs is one command, one word, and dozens of arrows will fly …

The image of Legolas’ face flashed in front of Aragorn’s eyes, and his heart constricted. Shaking his head and telling himself not to think of such possibilities, the king of Gondor unconsciously spurred his horse on in haste, with Hamille alert at his side and the other riders following his lead silently.

Faint sounds of battle from the plain suddenly assailed their ears again, and they tensed. Hamille urgently whispered “Two lone opponents” just loudly enough for Aragorn to hear. Aragorn nodded, knowing he could trust the almost infallible hearing of an elf. He wondered which of his hostages Sarambaq had chosen to fight, for they could not see beyond the woods, but suddenly, something deep in his heart told him the answer, and he gave an urgent signal to proceed even more quickly.

They raced past the empty caves and open area where Legolas had done battle three days ago, and swiftly turned east to go through the last patch of woods that stood between them and the royals of Mirkwood. It would be too far for them to shoot arrows from these woods; they would have to ride out to do that.

But the King hoped the four archers coming from another direction would hit the most critical targets.

Be in place, he prayed. At the right time.

Having fought with Legolas once before, Sarambaq saw the clear signs of weariness in the elf, and he suddenly bore down on him to make him retreat.

Thranduil sucked in a sharp breath and held it as the Adhûnian viciously propelled his sword forward with a determined cry. Legolas sidestepped it to avoid being skewered, but not fast enough to prevent his left forearm from receiving a gash that bled quickly. Thranduil bit down on his lip, resisting the urge to call out and risk distracting his son.

As Sarambaq lunged forward from the force of his thrust, the lithe elf jabbed the elbow of the injured arm into the Adhûnian and, uttering a cry, brought his sword around in an arc to draw it across the broad back. Had Legolas been in possession of his full strength, the Adhûnian could have been sliced nearly in half, but the elf’s strength was waning and he only managed to penetrate the thick armor to leave a long surface cut across the man’s waist. Still, the cut stung Sarambaq’s pride as much as it did his flesh, and the man arced forwards with a roar before he spun around violently, his eyes blazing and his sword a fire brand poised to draw blood in retaliation.

The tired elf looked at Sarambaq steadily, panting, and trying to keep drops of sweat from dripping into his eyes. With a crooked grin and a cunning gleam in his own eyes, Sarambaq charged at the elf, as fast and furious as a raged warg, his sword ready to kill. Again, Legolas leapt aside evasively; it was all he had strength and time for. But this time, the Adhûnian had anticipated it, and he followed the elf’s movement, throwing his heavy bulk into the slender body and sending it crashing to the ground.

And this time, Thranduil could not hold back from shouting his son’s name in fear and anguish.

At the sound of Thranduil’s cry, Hamille stiffened atop his horse.

“The Prince!” he exclaimed in distress.

Aragorn needed no second prompt. Without a word, he and Rallias charged ahead through the barrier of trees, and not even the swift elvish steeds and their riders behind him could match his speed.

Now, now! he called silently to the four archers. For the sake of the Valar, if now is the time – do it!

Sensing the approach of unfamiliar beings, Dárkil let out a small screech of distress.

But his master’s focus, like every Adhûnian’s, was on the fallen figure of the elf prince. 

Struggling with all his might and ignored by guards too awed by the fighters, Thranduil managed to get on his feet, desperately straining against his own bonds till his hands and ankles bled from the chafing, but to no avail.

Sarambaq’s sword stabbed viciously towards the elf on the ground, aiming now for the center of the chest seen through the open shirt: the spot marked by the crude lines carved into the elven flesh. But Legolas’ sense of self-preservation still served him as he rolled out of the way, and the sword plunged deep into the soil of the plain, frustrating the Adhûnian. So close now, so close.

Legolas’ earlier wound in his left side began to hurt, having been reopened yet again. He felt himself growing weaker as he watched his foe yank his sword out. The elf struggled to get up, panting painfully, but Sarambaq was almost upon him again.

Not fast enough, not fast enough, Legolas realized with horror. Adar, forgive me, forgive me.

A short distance away, Dárkil screeched again, a little louder now, a little more urgently.

But all eyes were still fixed on the two figures. Thranduil’s cry of his son’s name was now choked with his tears, lost in the shouts from other spectators of what would surely be the tragic death of an elf prince.

Dárkil was on its legs now, screeching madly, terrified.

Other calls began to join the beast’s – voices akin to its own, yet different, and they mixed with frantic cries from human throats to rent the air.

But no one paid heed to these new and strange sounds.

Sarambaq himself was too far gone. Nothing filled his vision and mind except his moment of triumph. He raised his sword for the final blow, ready to hack right through Legolas’ arm that was already raised in futile defence.

A desperate cry of alarm and anguish from a bound and immobilized Thranduil went up at the same time as the passionate roar of fury from the King of Gondor, now charging out from the woods with Anduril, the Flame of the West, raised high in signal. 

Their hearts stopped at the sound of metal penetrating flesh.

Suddenly, the plain erupted with an explosion of noises as human yells reverberated against fierce elven cries, and riders raced out from the woods behind Aragorn, drawing their bows.

The weapons of the elf riders were still too far away for firing, yet – astonishingly – arrows pierced the Adhûnians around Thranduil, arrows that flew expertly through narrow spaces between human obstacles to bring down the men closest to him before they could even realize what was happening. Bewildered, the Adhûnians swept their eyes from their fallen companions to the elf riders from the woods, uttering shouts of surprise and confusion.

But suddenly someone yelled “Look! Look!” and now the Adhûnians – in a flash of understanding – trained their eyes skywards from whence the arrows had come, and they finally saw what had brought forth the terrified screeching of Dárkil: from out of the clouds came four soaring eagles that had borne Thranduil from Mirkwood to the White City – with the formidable Windlord Gwaihir at their head – swooping down upon the Adhûnians as mighty thunderbolts, dreadful in their power and rage.

At Aragorn's signal, the four sharp-eyed archers who rode upon them had loosed their own swift and deadly metal-barbed arrows, and even from a distance, two had taken down Pöras and another man near the elf king. Another two had pierced the sword arm of Sarambaq when he poised for the fatal blow to the prince, the earlier admonishment from Thranduil to try and take the man alive the only thing stopping the archers from sending their arrows into the man’s head.

Pandemonium ruled on the plain as startled Adhûnians ran about in haste and prepared to do battle with approaching assailants from both directions.

Sarambaq added his own cry of pain to the chaos of sounds, his bloody arm dropping his weapon, and only the elven reflexes of Legolas saved him as he rolled aside before the blade could fall on him. Shocked and enraged beyond conscious reason, Sarambaq picked up the sword with his other, less effective arm and began to hack desperately at Legolas. Weakened though he was, the elf was fuelled by the sudden turn in events and called upon all his remaining reserves to evade each wild stroke. Groping urgently on the grass, his eyes never leaving the Adhûnian, Legolas found the sword he had dropped earlier and used every ounce of strength in his arms to block yet another downward thrust from Sarambaq.

As a horrified Thranduil watched, the Adhûnian gave a hard kick that took the sword out of Legolas’ hand, and the elf king, hands and feet still bound, tried to shuffle towards his son. An Adhûnian started after him, when – unexpectedly – the voice of Närum yelled “Hold!”, and the man stopped dead in his tracks.

With a blood-curdling yell, Sarambaq prepared to end the elf prince’s life a second time, but Legolas, once again with the grim determination of a cornered creature, used his leg to throw the man off-balance with a sweeping arc to the ankle. Startled, the Adhûnian toppled over and lost his hold on his sword, but as the weapon flew from his hands, it ripped into Legolas’ thigh, eliciting a loud cry from the elf, before skidding over the grass to land several feet away.

Just as the man fell, two arrows that had been aimed at his body – sent by the eagle riders – whistled past and embedded themselves firmly in the ground inches from where his head had landed.

Seeing the near misses and the futility of trying to retrieve his blade without being pierced by more arrows, Sarambaq picked himself up and raced desperately towards Dárkil, calling for the steed as he did so. The beast responded immediately, half-flying and half-running towards its master with a loud screech, uncaringly knocking over men in its path.

At the sight of their master running, and alarmed by the wild charge of the beast, the Adhûnians started to panic, caught between defending themselves from the airborne archers and approaching riders on the ground. Sarambaq used the chaos to reach his steed faster than he thought possible and clambered on.

The beast, which had been poised for flight, took off immediately in the direction of the Table, but as it gained height, one of the archers sent an arrow into its side. As before, although Dárkil gave an angry screech of pain, the arrow pierced its leathery hide but a little, and it continued its flight. Two more arrows soon joined the first, however, and though the flying steed could not be brought down that way, it clearly felt the sting of the elven arrows, for it flew a little unsteadily, and instead of bearing its rider clearly away from the area, it descended beyond the woods before the Table, and those who had been watching it knew it must have alighted on the flat rock for its rider to remove the arrows.

The Adhûnians on the plain continued to panic, some shooting wildly at the approaching alliance of men and elves, and getting skewered in return with the unmatched precision of elven archers. Evaluating the situation quickly, Närum continued to yell “Hold! Hold!” in all directions. His companions, confused and startled by the command from their leader, looked doubtfully at him and at each other, but Närum, striding purposefully, kept calling forcefully to them till they obeyed his order and ceased to move forward, although their weapons remained drawn and their bodies were tensed for action.

Seeing the step Närum had taken, Aragorn likewise held up his hand to slow his own army. The elves and Gondorians responded to Aragorn’s command, but rode in response to some unspoken understanding among them to surround the astonished Adhûnians in a smooth, easy move, their bows and blades held ready. The Adhûnians looked at the elegant elvish beings and their steeds in awe, and were even more astounded when four giant eagles landed with breathtaking grace near them moments later to await further instructions.

Aragorn and Hamille rode quickly up to Legolas, dismounting even before their horses had stopped completely near the figure on the ground. An elf who had ridden up to Thranduil quickly cut the bonds around his ankles and chest, and without waiting for his hands to be freed, the fearful father ran and dropped to his knees at his son’s side. Legolas, clutching at his wounded thigh, tried to calm his father.

Before his knees could touch the ground, Aragorn had already torn off part of his own tunic to staunch the elf’s bleeding. The Ranger greeted his friend with a quick smile while Hamille swiftly freed Thranduil’s hands from the remaining bonds. The Greenwood king immediately bent over to clasp the face of his son, and the immensely relieved monarch planted a tearful kiss upon the brow, not even conscious that he had knocked into Aragorn and interrupted his examination of the fresh wound. The Ranger tactfully moved aside.

“Adar, worry not, the wound is not deep,” the elf prince assured his father with a small smile, earning a raised eyebrow from his friend. “Have you been harmed?”

“No, ion nin,” the older elf replied shakily.

Aragorn would have allowed the father and son more time, but two urgent matters had to be seen to.

“My lord, let me tend to his wound,” he said gently, addressing the first matter. 

Thranduil removed his hands instantly as if they had been scorched by Legolas’ flesh. “Of course, of course,” he mumbled absently.

As his hands went back to applying pressure on the elf’s wound, Aragorn caught Thranduil’s eye again and stated firmly: “We need to take care of Sarambaq. He is in those woods,” he said, indicating the direction with his head.

A look of unbridled outrage returned to the elf king’s face at that reminder and he opened his mouth to voice his agreement when the archers who had been on the eagles stepped up to them. Aragorn gave his friend’s arm a small squeeze and signaled to Hamille to see to the wound before getting to his feet with the elf king.

“Come,” he said, “we can…”

“No, I thank you, Elessar, but this is my fight,” Thranduil interrupted him.

Aragorn looked about to protest, but held his tongue. He looked at Hamille and Legolas, who were both clearly dismayed. They addressed the king in unison.

“Adar – ”

“Heru nin – ”

“This is my fight,” Thranduil repeated, his voice deadly calm, and the elves and Ranger knew then that no argument would dissuade him. Aragorn nodded, aware that this, too, was a father who had almost lost a son and sought to remove the threat. He had no right to expect otherwise of him.

At least his warriors will be with him, the king of Gondor thought as he knelt once more to see to Legolas.

“Saes, Adar,”the voice of the elf prince called softly and suddenly, and Thranduil dropped to his knees again, ready to deflect his son’s attempt to change his mind.

“Please, Adar, be careful,” the prince said, looking deeply into the eyes of his father. Thranduil smiled first in surprise, then in pride, for his son understood him and his need to erase the threat. He could not allow Sarambaq to endanger them again.

“I will prepare the others,” Hamille said and started to walk towards the rest of the elves.

“Nay, Hamille,” said Thranduil, holding his hand up to stop the elf. “I will do this my way.”

Hamille, Aragorn and Legolas were dumbstruck. Once more, they all spoke in unison.

“My Lord – ”

“Heru nin – ”

“Adar – ”

“There is no time to waste,” Thranduil protested. Turning to Aragorn, he nodded and said quickly: “I will express my thanks fully later, but I must see to this first.” And without another word, he walked swiftly to Gwaihir and spoke to the Windlord.

Aragorn helped Legolas to sit, and together with the whole group of astonished Adhûnians, they watched Thranduil and three other elves soar to the skies on the eagles, armed with bows and arrows. Not a moment too soon did they take off, for the cry of Dárkil came from the Table as it rose into the sky with Sarambaq on its back, its head already turned towards the east in desperate flight.  

But the beast of the Adhûnian spawn – now wounded, though not incapacitated – was no match for the speed of the Windlord and his kin, which soon caught up with the abomination that had been spawned from one of their tortured own. As men and elves watched from the ground, the eagles surrounded Dárkil on all sides so that the beast was forced to swerve in a frantic bid to escape the arrows of elven archers and an enraged elf king.  

Screeching in terror, Dárkil ended up flying back haphazardly towards the plain, not far from where the whole crowd of men and elves were gathered. It headed south, its rider turning his head back to look at the eagles which followed close behind. Elves and men ran towards the gully to watch the spectacle, Aragorn supporting his elven friend. As the beast reached the air above the gully next to the plain, three eagles flew below it, and three arrows were loosed from elven bows. Two slammed into the underbelly and chest of the beast, and one lodged once more in the joint between one wing and the body. A fourth arrow – shot from above by the hand of Thranduil himself – flew straight and true into the head of the beast. With a terrifying shriek of pain, the beast twisted, but still remained airborne.

At a loud command from the elven king, all four eagles now swooped upon the injured beast from different directions, ferocious in their attack and in the cries they raised. As their elf riders clung on fiercely, two of the majestic birds clawed at the wings of the demonic beast, and the other two boldly headed straight for the neck, to sink their beaks and claws deep into the more vulnerable flesh at the throat. 

The shrill death cry of Dárkil was dreadful to hear as the beast finally began to fall, plummeting towards the depths of the gully below.

Its rider, crying out himself, lost his hold on his beast and fell helplessly, still clutching his sword fiercely in one hand. But even as he began to fall, with an unexpected surge of strength, the man drew back his arm and launched the sword with all his might, straight at the elven king who, by some unforeseen twist of the wind, was close enough to the path of the sword for it to hit either him or the Windlord in seconds, even if the eagle swerved.

A cry went up from the ground, and so intent was everyone on the scene playing out above their heads that no one noticed the elf prince Legolas swiftly take the weapons from an elf standing near him. As Sarambaq fell through the air and flung his sword, the most accomplished archer of the Mirkwood realm drew bow and arrow with all his remaining strength, tracked the path of the sword with eyes so keen they defied human understanding, and fired, all in one smooth motion before Aragorn even had time to be surprised. The elven missile struck the target and threw it off its trajectory to fall harmlessly away from the elves and eagles. Aragorn and the elves nearby spun around to look at the prince with wordless astonishment and admiration.

But the eyes of Legolas himself were trained on Sarambaq. Leaning on his friend again and standing carefully on his uninjured leg, the elf watched the man fall at last into the waters of the river below. In moments, the body was gone, carried by the swift waters to what they assumed would be the watery grave of the underground river. Where it would end up, whether it would remain lodged in some deep, dark crevice under the rock, or whether it would be carried by the river right through to Adhûn, they could not yet guess.

As they watched the body of Sarambaq disappear from sight, men and elves alike loosed a sigh of relief. The Adhûnians – even greedy Brûyn – suddenly realized, to their own surprise, that they were glad he was gone. They moved slowly away from the edge of the gully in a daze, all thoughts of battle gone from their minds, since the reason for their fighting in the first place had drifted away, drowned in the cold waters of death even as he had been immersed in a stormy sea of hate for the last ten years of his life. 

Despite the removal of their biggest threat, Hamille and the elves still surrounded the Adhûnians discreetly, watching and guarding them without any overt strategy, till further instructions came from Aragorn or Thranduil.

The King of Gondor himself took time to breathe one of the longest sighs of relief he had ever breathed. He turned to his elven friend, looking first with joy and fondness upon the face he had not been completely certain of seeing again, then with pity and sadness as he studied at close range the awful mark carved into the chest of the friend whose hurts he would rather have borne himself than to see him suffer so. He did not yet know the full story behind the mutilation, but tears sprang unbidden to his eyes nonetheless as he noted the attempts the elf had made at tending to the wounds himself, using the remnants of the herbs he had been left with, but no clean linen. That the elf had been poisoned again was also clear to the eyes of the healer, and he could not stop the feeling of anger and regret that washed over him as he started to reproach himself for having left the elf alone.

“No, Aragorn, lay no blame on yourself, this was not your fault,” Legolas said softly, surprising the Ranger. “You did the right thing by leaving, my friend, for by doing so, you brought aid to my father and me, and for that, I thank you. Hannon le.”

Aragorn wondered that Legolas could still smile in spite of everything he had been through, and that the elf’s first concern – as it had always been – was still for his human friend. The King of Gondor shook his head and embraced the elf as firmly as he could, trying carefully to avoid putting pressure on the wounds. Only a deep sigh escaped his lips, for his voice caught at his throat, and he had no immediate words to accompany his mix of emotions. The elf returned his hold, partly out of a need to lean on him and take the weight off his injured leg, partly to reassure him, but mainly because he was truly glad to see his friend again.

When he could finally speak, Aragorn pulled away, while still letting the elf hold on to his shoulder for support. He looked into the blue elven eyes and smiled. “Teach me how to shoot as you did, my friend, and we will have no debts between us,” the Ranger jested, drawing a small laugh from the elf.   

Aragorn knew they should be returning to the others, but he wanted to make one more statement and ask one more question.

“No thanks are needed from you, Legolas, no debts between us,” he insisted seriously now, and held his friend’s gaze till the elf nodded. Then he drew a deep breath and asked quietly: “If you are not opposed to speaking about it, my friend, could you tell me why this mark on your chest was made?”

If anyone else had asked him the question, Legolas would likely have declined to answer, for the memory was indeed painful to recall, but he explained Sarambaq’s intent to Aragorn without hesitation. When he had finished, the King of Gondor wished he could have cut off Sarambaq’s arm himself as punishment for his cold-blooded deed, but he said nothing, for the man was already gone, and he knew that his elven friend would not wish to dwell on the matter. The healer in him spoke instead.

“The scars will heal in time,” he said, seeking to comfort the elf, and was himself consoled by the ready nod he received. “I know we will speak of many more things when we are back in the City, but for now, tell me, Legolas: other than what I can see, are there other wounds I should know of? Did he do anything else to you?”

The query prompted Legolas’ mind to recall the pain and torment Sarambaq and his men had put him through the previous evening when they had used their cruel blades on his chest, when they had pierced his skin with the poisoned dart and when he had struggled against them, but noting the concern on the healer’s face, the elf decided that Aragorn did not need more information to add to his self-imposed sense of guilt. It was, after all, over now.

Legolas shook his head and replied, “Nay, Aragorn. It is as you see.”

The healer hesitated a moment and narrowed his eyes before asking for confirmation. “You are not hiding anything from me, are you, Elf?”

Legolas grinned and shook his head. “No, ‘Hama’,” he teased. “Go back to Rohan, and leave a tired elf alone.”

The two friends laughed warmly at that reply, and walked slowly back to the plain, one leaning on the other. They first joined Thranduil in thanking the landed eagles, to whom the elf king and his son owed their lives.

“As you once delivered the Istari Mithrandir from danger, Lord, you have most kindly aided me in removing a threat to one I hold dearer than life,” Thranduil addressed the mighty Gwaihir with a respectful bow. “You have my undying thanks.”

“As you have mine, Lord,” Legolas added, bowing in his turn.

“And no less my own, Mighty One,” Aragorn finished, with a gesture of his own.

Perched majestically upon the ground, The Windlord eyed each of them with the keenness and wisdom of the Old.

“I should be paying homage to your own aged nobility, King Thranduil, but I accept your gracious thanks and proffer you the same words I did Mithrandir: no burden were you to bear, my friends,” the Windlord replied. “As I abhorred the evil of Sauron, so did I wish to aid in dispelling the remnants of his Shadow. I will not deny, either, the satisfaction that my kin and I feel in bringing an end to the man who tortured one of our own, and who disgraced us by spawning a demon from an eagle that was once as noble as any.

“Before we return to our home in the North, let me provide you one more service. I believe a speedy return to the City would be beneficial for the elf prince, who needs healing. We will gladly bear you and your son forth, Lord Thranduil, if you so wish.” 

Thranduil and Legolas accepted this offer gratefully after Aragorn assured them that he would take care of matters here. Before they left, however, Legolas took a moment to thank Närum for the small kindnesses the man had rendered him in Aragorn’s absence, and in turn, the Adhûnian expressed deep regret over everything that had been inflicted upon the elf while he and his men had been in the service of Sarambaq.

“Pain was given and borne on both sides,” the elf prince said sagely in response to the Adhûnian’s apology. “I wish I had not had to fight your men in Ithilien or on the plain when I first arrived, for it gave me no pleasure to take their lives. If we can agree never to let such another such situation arise, and you can promise never to cross the borders of Ithilien or the Greenwood, save on friendly terms, let us consider this matter settled here, Närum, for you are a good man, and I shall not forget your aid.”

Elf and Adhûnian parted on those terms and with far more courtesy than when they had met, to the satisfaction of both parties.

After promising Aragorn that he would rest while he let the healers of Minas Tirith tend to him, and after being assured in turn that his weapons would be retrieved from the caves, the exhausted elf prince departed for the White City with his father, on the wings of the last of the Great Eagles of Middle-earth.

Aragorn and the remaining elves spoke with Närum and his companions, proposing that if no more animosity was visited upon Gondor or Ithilien, the Adhûnians would receive none in return – an arrangement that the Adhûnians were only too glad to agree to, for they had seen that the strength of the Gondorians and elves were not to be taken lightly.

While the other Adhûnians were clearing the plain of the spoils of their skirmish, and the Gondorian soldiers and elves helped them bury their dead, Aragorn approached Närum to fulfill the promise he had made before he left the caves.

“You took care of my companion as you said you would, Närum. What would you ask of me in return?” the King asked.

“If a peaceful existence for me and my men can be assured, King Elessar, that will be sufficient reward for me. I have tired of the years of service to Sarambaq and wish for nothing more than to return to a life of quiet,” Närum replied. “In truth, you owe me nothing, for you were taken against your will at the last, and you returned Ködil as you promised. I only wish our leader had been one as noble as you.”

Aragorn smiled at those words. “Were you a Gondorian, Närum, I would gladly take you into my service. But your men need you and your leadership. Therefore, let us part in peace, and let me extend an invitation to you to visit the White City when you wish, as long as you come in friendship.” 

“My companions and I will have much to put in order when we return to our homes, but I thank you for your invitation… Sire,” Närum replied politely. “When the time is right, I will visit, and it will be in friendship.”

Aragorn nodded courteously, and the Adhûnian – moved by the graciousness of the King of Gondor – lowered his head in respect. With that, their verbal agreement was sealed.

The grey clouds that had greeted this day and blocked out the sun earlier now melted away, and Anor shone once again on this area of woods and plains just beyond the borders of Gondor. And on this day, the name of King Elessar Telcontar became known to the men of Adhûn, their acquaintance opening the way for more friendly encounters between the realm of Gondor and its neighbors in the East that lasted throughout the reign of the Lord of the White Tree.

Note:

The battle is over… but the drama is not. The tale has not quite ended yet – nothing more to do with Sarambaq, however.

Stay, if you still wish to continue the journey of this tale with me.  :–)