For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree

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CHAPTER 8: THE HEALER’S NEWS



He had seen it many times before – how someone can cower in fear and misery and yet be defiant at the same time. The interrogator saw it now in the pathetic, chained figure huddled on the damp floor in a corner of the cold, windowless dungeon in Minas Tirith, and could not help smirking at the sight of the man who had been placed in his charge.


He peered closer at the figure in the gloom of the cell. The man’s clothes were filthy and he smelt rank. The hair was coarse and unkempt, his face – when it could be glimpsed behind the unruly mane of hair – was roughened. Large round eyes seemed to protrude from the dark face, and on either side of a hooked nose were eyes that housed venom. He was lean and his movements did not seem clumsy despite his untidy appearance; they reminded the interrogator of a creature that could be capable of furtiveness when it wished, a dark furtiveness. The foul-looking man was altogether unpleasant to face, let alone talk to, but talk to him he must.


“Who sent you? Who is your master? What does he want with the king’s son?” he repeated the questions he had been asking for the past day as he walked around the cowering man, his steps sounding loud and menacing in the hollow room. “These you will answer before you are allowed a sip of water or a morsel of food from the king’s kitchens, or any shred of clothing to keep you warm, or any ray of light to brighten your long, long days of captivity here.”


He had said these words again and again so that they would fall slowly and tortuously on the prisoner’s ears, to remind him what he needed to do to survive in this dungeon. “Talk you will, you scoundrel, as your body breaks down from lack of food and water and you waste away. Your tongue will loosen, or your flesh will fall off as you rot.”


There was an involuntary shiver from the tight-lipped prisoner. The interrogator bent close to the foul face, enunciating each word clearly, while trying not to breathe in too much. “But decide whether you wish to wait till you are too weak to help yourself. If you have any wisdom in you, you would save yourself the torment of a slow and agonizing death.”


He carried a whip, which he flicked aggressively and dangerously close to the prisoner without actually harming his flesh, for King Elessar would not allow it, he knew. But he needed for the prisoner to believe he would inflict pain if answers were not given. In addition, he had his towering height, his immensely powerful build and his bellowing voice to instill images of possible violence in his charge’s mind.


The prisoner kept obstinate silence, aside from issuing a venomous hiss.


But your will wavers, the interrogator decided, and it will break. Oh yes, you will talk.




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The sun was already high in the sky when Legolas left the bedside of the last elf he had spoken to, reassured that he would recover. The elf’s brother was one of those who had been slain during the attack, and Legolas had taken a longer time to offer solace as well as to honor the fallen elf with appropriate words.


The elf prince sighed as he returned to the room where Eldarion slept, going past men and women who were exchanging news about what had happened to the King’s son. They hovered along the corridors, hoping to catch whatever news could be leaked out by the healers and servants. Legolas knew the city must be rife with rumours, many of the King’s subjects sincerely worried about the young heir to the throne of Gondor. In his tiredness, the elf ignored all he came across, too tired to even smile. He walked with uncharacteristic heaviness in his step, worn out with worry. Like all elves, he could go without food and sleep for longer than humans, but his spirits were low.


Sitting through the night, he had allowed the events of the last day to play again and again in his mind, and he still had come no closer to understanding who the attackers or what their purposes were. They were fast and merciless, so they must have been trained, but by whom were they trained? Was their leader with them? He wished Faramir’s interrogator could obtain answers quickly.


As aggravated as he was by the need to find answers to those questions, he had been even more greatly troubled by two thoughts throughout the night. First, the senseless assault had resulted in a little boy – the son of Aragorn, no less, lying unconscious next to his frightened mother. Second – and Legolas felt a rush of anger each time he realized this – the assault had taken place in Ithilien, the domain Aragorn had entrusted him to nurture and guard. Repeatedly, he rebuked himself: I should have been able to keep Aragorn’s family safe. No elves should have lost their lives. I should have been more vigilant. I should have anticipated…


“Legolas?” his thoughts were interrupted when he practically walked into Faramir, so lost was he in self-reproach.


“Forgive me, I did not see you,” he apologized to the steward. He realized now that he had walked past the door to Eldarion’s healing room and the puzzled guards in front.


Faramir looked at the elf’s pale face with slightly narrowed eyes. “You need to rest now, my friend. Some food in your body would not be amiss either.” Lifting the tunic aside to peer at the bloodied bandage covering the elf’s shoulder wound, he added, “And that needs changing.” Without another word, he took the elf by the elbow and led him into the healing room.


Sunshine streamed in through the window next to where Eldarion lay. Moving to the still figure, Legolas and Faramir were faintly relieved to see that the boy’s face was less flushed now, and he seemed more peaceful than he had been through the night. But there was no smile on Arwen’s face as she greeted them, and dark circles under her eyes were silent testimony to the anguish she had gone through. Neither she nor Legolas had rested well or eaten since their arrival the previous night.


The sun was starting to slide downward in the western sky before Faramir managed to coerce the two elves into taking some nourishment, but the food tasted like ash in their mouths. Earlier, he had made Legolas sit still while the healers changed his bandage. The bleeding had stopped but it still felt tender and sore. Faramir had left to see to administrative matters that could not wait. Now he returned later to inform Legolas that they had not made much progress with the prisoner; he was still being questioned but he was stubbornly refusing to talk.


“But he cannot hold out for long,” he said with confidence. “My chief interrogator can be very – persuasive.”


Legolas nodded and got up to take yet another look at Eldarion on the bed. Arwen lifted her head from where it lay next to her son, as it had lain through many hours of the night and day, and Legolas noticed with pity how pale and fatigued she appeared, unaware of how pale and worn out he himself was. They exchanged a look, but before they could speak, two healers came into the room, one of them holding something on a small piece of cloth in his hand.


The healers bowed to Arwen and addressed her, “My lady, we have determined the nature of the substance used to coat the dart. It is not widely found or used in this part of Gondor.”


The healer held out the object in his hand; it was the dart Legolas had removed from Eldarion’s thigh. “The substance is a kind of poison,” he continued, causing everyone around him, save his colleague, to stiffen. He added quickly, “Fortunately, it is not used to kill, only to weaken. It causes the body to go cold and numb, and it will cause the mind of a man to lapse into unconsciousness, rendering him defenseless.”


“Eladrion –?” Arwen began.


“The prince is fortunate that only half the dart entered his flesh,” the healer responded, anticipating her question. “It must have been caught in something, perhaps some clothing, before it punctured the flesh.” The small tear in my tunic, thank the Valar, Legolas thought to himself, but that is of no importance now.


“It meant that there was less of the poison to work against,” came the healer’s voice again. “and Prince Eldarion’s body did fight it. The fever was a sign of his struggle, and we made certain that his body received as much water as it could to flush out the poison. Were the prince a full-grown man, he may be waking by now, for the amount of poison would have held wreaked less force on a full-grown man. Being a child, Prince Eldarion will require longer to recover. But we have hope that he will wake before the day is through. Fear not, my lady.”


Arwen’s relief was audible, and both Legolas’ and Faramir’s faces relaxed as well. With moist eyes, the queen turned her eyes back to her son and smiled.


A thought occurred to Faramir. “You said this poison is used – to weaken,” Faramir addressed the healers, careful to omit the word ‘kill’ that the healer had mentioned in his explanation. “How is it made? Who would have the knowledge?”


“Our records tell us that this was a poison used by river folk to catch fish,” the healer replied. When he saw the puzzled looks on the faces of the Steward and the elves, he explained, “The poison was released into a river or lake, even areas of the sea if they could contain the water within catchments, to stun the fish so that they could be easily caught. Only a small amount of poison was supposed to be used so that there would be no ill effects on those who ate the fish. But after a time, folk who wanted to reap large amounts of fish quickly for trade would release too much of the poison, and the lawmakers of that time decided to make the river folk stop the use of it, for it killed too many fish too fast, and those who ate the catch fell ill.”


The listeners digested this information silently, each shuddering at the horrifying thought that Eldarion had been the victim of this poison, as if he were a river fish.


“So where would this poison be found now? Who would make it?” Faramir repeated his earlier question.


“We cannot be certain, my lord. We know that the poison used to be harvested from the ipo plant that grew near bodies of water. I have heard of no such plants along the Anduin, although they may possibly be found there. Perhaps they can be also found further west and south, at the Bay of Belfalas or closer to the city of the Corsairs, where the Umbarians depend much on catch from the sea. Is it possible that – ”


“The men came from the east, near the northern fringes, not the south,” Legolas interjected. “That is what our guards observed.”


“East of Ithilien?” Faramir asked, frowning. “But there are only the northern reaches of the Ephel Duath, and beyond that mountain range, the wasteland of Mordor. It is unlikely that someone could have dwelled there that we have no knowledge of. I cannot envision how anyone could dwell there at all.”


Legolas nodded thoughtfully. “You speak truly, Faramir,” he said, “they may merely have been hiding on the eastern fringes of the wood, at the foot of the Mountains of Shadow. It is easier to fathom them coming from an area further north, beyond the mountains, but there again we meet with little likelihood of a settlement, for there lie only the Reclaimed Lands, on the edge of Gondor.”


It was now Faramir who nodded, his mind traveling to the expanse of land that was once known as the Dead Marshes. On Aragorn’s instructions, a workforce had labored steadily over five years to reclaim the area and fill much of the bogland with more fertile soil so that in time, the land would settle and offer a new site for growing crops suited to the peat. At the moment, however, no husbandmen had yet chosen to erect new homesteads there, for the City and farms to the south were still able to hold the citizenry of Minas Tirith.


“Not there, and further north would be the Wilderland and the Greenwood Forest,” Faramir noted.


“What about further east from the Reclaimed Lands?” Arwen asked, as keen to identify the possible attackers as the Steward and elf prince were


“On the old battle plain of Dagorland? Nay, not likely,” Legolas responded, “but perhaps beyond that… what bodies of water lie to the east of Gondor?”


One of the healers spoke. “I know of one large one – the Sea of Rhûn.” When they all turned to face him, he looked embarrassed, and mumbled that he had heard about it from some of the men who had worked on the Dead Marshes.


“Well does your memory serve you, for your observation is correct,” Faramir said kindly. “There is the Sea, and several small rivers flow into it. Could the men have come from there?” he wondered.


“Does Gondor have any dealings with the people in that area? Would Aragorn have enemies there?” Legolas queried.


“I have no knowledge of any past or recent doings that tie us to the people who live there. We know little of them, and I suspect they of us.” Faramir furrowed his brow. “Perhaps we should look at the maps more closely. And we now have some knowledge that the prisoner does not know we possess. I will inform the interrogator as soon as I can. In the meantime…” Faramir paused and turned to the queen, an apologetic look on his face. “Perhaps this would be a good time for you to take some rest, My Lady?” he suggested politely. “The danger appears to be past, and the healers are ever watchful for changes.”


Legolas knew that at this moment, Arwen would not be mindful of her own need for rest, so he appealed to her love for her son and husband. “Faramir speaks wisely, Arwen. When Eldarion wakes, he will want to see his naneth happy and well.” Then he added gently, speaking softly, “Seeing the reminders of last evening may disturb him. It would not give Aragorn any comfort either were he to face the stains of the terrible experience you went through, when he returns.”


Arwen caught his subtle reference to the fact that she had not changed out of the dress she wore during the assault in Ithilien. Traces of dirt and rainwater stains were clearly visible. She grimaced when she realized that her hair was probably a frightful mess as well.


“You are right,” she yielded, looking at the elf with some amusement, their long friendship enabling her to see through the ploy he had used. “I can hardly suffer from some refreshment, and neither would you, Legolas.” In a more subdued tone, she added, “I have not yet thanked you and your kin for saving our lives. We are grateful.”


Legolas was genuinely taken aback. “Arwen, if you had not been there, this would not have happened,” the note of self-reproach evident in this voice. “Thanks are misplaced. Words of deepest regret are what I should be expressing to you. If only I had been more – ”


Arwen cut him off, a startled look on her face. “Legolas, you cannot truly think any of this could have been foreseen by you. No blame do I lay on you or any of your kin!”


His disagreement was on this tongue, but before he could speak, a voice filled with authority, alarm and uncomprehending anxiety cut in.


“WHAT has happened here?”


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CHAPTER 9: THE RETURN OF THE KING

With long strides his aides found impossible to match, Aragorn ran through the corridors of the palace with an energy born of sheer alarm and fear, despite the fact that he and his company had ridden without rest through the night to reach the White City.

As soon as he had reached the third level of the city, one of his councilors – a man given to dramatics, being of the notion that such behaviour would invite the king to notice him more – had run right in front of his horse, apparently willing to run the risk of being trampled if only to gain the king’s attention.

If a voice could take physical form and grovel, Lord Burion’s, as he greeted his king, would have been a fine example. “Sire! Oh praise the Valar you are returned! Oh my Lord – such a tragedy has befallen us, and the city grieves with you! My heart is with you and the queen in this hour, Sire.”

After Aragorn had cursed under his breath and gritted his teeth at the man’s idiotic action, he had demanded to know what tragedy the rambling man referred to. His reply was even more theatrical: “Oh, our precious prince, Sire, your beloved son! Tragedy has befallen him! The Elves, to whom you have bestowed so much kindness, could not protect him! He lies now in the Houses of Healing. The Queen, bless her heart, is devastated… oh woe, oh woe, let me take you…”

Aragorn was not about to let the tedious man take him anywhere. His heart missed several beats, but before the councilor had even finished his speech, his horse had sprinted off to the Houses of Healing, with the horses of his company close on its heels.

The king now ran along the corridor without knowing what to expect, his face drawn and pale, and it was not due to his tiredness alone. Reaching the room where he knew his son would be and startling the guards outside, he burst through the doors and saw his wife, Legolas and Faramir talking. His eyes fell first on his wife, looking pale, shocked and completely disheveled, her dress stained and dirty. He stared without understanding and bellowed, “”WHAT has happened here?”

“Estel!” Arwen called his name with a sob and ran into his arms. “Oh, Estel.”

“My Lord,” said Faramir, bowing.

“Aragorn,” Legolas greeted him softly, pleased to see him.

“Arwen, what is this? Have you been harmed? What is going on? Where is Eldarion? Lord Burion said…” The king’s eyes strayed to the bed then, to the pale and still figure of his son and heir. With a cry of anguish, he ran to the bed, pushing aside the healers, and stared at his child before bending down to touch him, afraid to hurt him, frantically calling his name.

After long moments of not getting a response, he turned an ashen face and wild eyes to the adults in the room and demanded answers.

In the time that followed, Arwen, Legolas, Faramir and the healers told him about the assault in Ithilien, the poisoned dart, Eldarion’s struggle to overcome the poison and the prisoner being held below. At the news that the poison was not as lethal as he had feared, Aragorn closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief.

But at that moment, a little cry of distress came from the figure on the bed, and Eldarion turned blue as he struggled to breathe. With a gasp, everyone rushed immediately to the bed. The healers pushed them away and quickly turned the prince onto his side, gently massaging his upper back. His eyes were closed, but a stream of liquid issued from his nose and mouth, alarming his distraught parents and drawing a small cry from Arwen. For a few more moments, he continued to cough out the remnants of what he retched, but that was apparently what he needed, for he was able to breathe again as soon as the coughing stopped. He went limp again and remained unconscious, but his face relaxed as the bluish tint left it. The healers kept him on his side so that he would not face the danger of choking on his own vomit again.

One of the healers sighed as he turned to the anxious faces of the king and queen. “He is all right,” he assured them, drawing forth sighs of relief from everyone in the room. “His body is still expelling the poison and anything else that causes him discomfort. He was probably feeling nauseous from all the water and herb solutions we fed into him; he needed to retch. We will have to watch him closely to make sure he does not choke again, but I believe he is recovering.”

Despite the small comfort the healer’s words brought them, looks of sorrow and pity washed across the faces of the grown-ups as they thought of how Eldarion’s little body was forced to endure ills he should never have been subjected to. They all felt helpless.

The sight of his son’s suffering seared the heart of the king and the father. He took Arwen’s cold hands with his own trembling ones and held them tightly, letting his grief and his love for her flow through his gaze and his grip. After long moments during which no one spoke, he shook his head and wrinkled his brow.

“This happened in Ithilien? Why were you and Eldarion in Ithilien?” he asked his wife.

“We were visiting, Estel. Eldarion needed a… a change,” she replied sadly.

He then turned to Legolas. “These… these… men, Legolas,” Aragorn almost spat out the word with scorn, “these men who were after my son – where were they from?”

“From east of Gondor, we guess, perhaps beyond the old battle plain,” came the reply. “Whence they first came south to Ithilien, we know not, but my guards have marked their presence on the eastern borders of the wood for some time now. We had not expected so many…”

“Wait!” Aragorn interrupted, a frown on his face. “You marked their presence?” The silence in the pause after the question spoke volumes of disbelief as he continued, “You expected them, Legolas? You – you knew they were there?”

The elf suddenly felt uneasy, as if a hole was slowly, slowly, but surely, opening up to swallow him. It took a few moments before he answered, “Yes, we started noticing shadows lurking on the borders two months ago, but we were not sure what…”

“You knew they were there, you knew there was a threat – and yet you allowed Arwen and my son to stay in Ithilien?” Aragorn had unconsciously raised his voice, his eyes meeting Legolas’, an incredulous look on his livid face.

Legolas stiffened, and Faramir shifted uneasily. The elf thought back to when Arwen told him she had sent the guards back, and when she had pleaded with her voice and her face to let them stay. He remembered how he could not bring himself to refuse them that visit.

But how could he explain all that to the anguished father of an injured child who had been in his domain, and who should have received his protection? Any explanation would seem a lame excuse. Aragorn was right, Legolas conceded, bowing his head. I am to blame, have I not been aware of this all night? I should have known better, he thought. It just seemed so much harsher when Aragorn had put it into words. I am so sorry, Aragorn.

But a voice countered his thoughts. “Estel, it was not Legolas’ fault,” Arwen spoke up. “He did not know, none of them knew this would happen. I was the one who asked him to let us stay…”

“But he should have made the decision to send you home at once, knowing a threat loomed nearby!” Aragorn was not placated. He approached Legolas swiftly and clutched his shoulder in frustration, unaware of the injury, causing the elf to wince and Faramir to take a step forward before checking himself.

The king said fiercely, “You should have sent them away!” He was tired, so weary from his travels and duties and the problems he had had to settle for the last month, his fiefs threatened by intruders, his officers failing to provide protection, and his mind had not yet overcome the sorrow he felt over the death of the villager child, the child who had reminded him of his own son. My own son, he thought bitterly, I have been away taking care of the safety of others when my own son… he gritted his teeth.

“Elessar…” Faramir tried to intercede.

But Aragorn was overwhelmed by now as he recalled the sight of his son’s painful retches. The wrath of a father and protector made him angry at everyone, angry at himself as well, and it seemed to him that his voice at that moment came from someone he did not know. Turning from Legolas, he spat out in frustration, “Can I trust the safety of my kingdom to no one!”

Legolas’ head snapped up, and everyone in the room stopped breathing. The healers froze, Faramir bowed his head, and Arwen could not believe her ears, her mouth slightly agape.

Both Legolas and Faramir felt the sting of the king’s words, but Eldarion had been in Ithilien, and thus the elf felt them more keenly. He stood as still as if he had been struck by lightning. His fists clenched at his sides, his face grew ashen, and his eyes flashed with sudden pain as a vision and words from some other time and place engulfed his senses, drowning him:

How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?

It was happening again, this nightmare, only now, it was real.

Again, as he did so many years ago, he found himself swaying helplessly between emotions that threatened to choke him – shame that he had failed Aragorn’s trust, but also hurt and anger that he did not think he would feel, for no one seemed to remember that some of his kin had died fighting against intruders. None of them had asked for this to happen. Were they to blame? No! …Yes! No… yes…

If only, if only…

As these emotions rushed through him in the fleeting moments in the healing rooms – moments that seemed like an age to Legolas – the bitter realization hit him again, that again, he could not undo the damage that had been done.

There was still no turning back.

But another thought followed immediately on the wave of the last one: there was something he could do in the days to come.

His bright blue eyes seemed coated with ice – or was it tears that he held back with whatever pride and dignity he still had? – as he raised them slowly to meet Aragorn’s. His voice, when he spoke, was soft but steady, with only the faintest hint of suppressed pain.

“I offer you my deepest regrets, my lord Elessar, for failing your trust.”

Aragorn winced instantly, his heart raked by the words, despite his anger. My lord? Elessar? Legolas never called him the name used only by his subjects and in official circles; it had always been his elvish name, Estel, or his birth name, Aragorn. Was this really Legolas who spoke? The question was answered in the next instant when the elf continued in the same tone of voice.

“Your queen and son deserved more than I could offer. I will go now to make amends, to redress the wrong that has committed, as best as I can. I only ask that my kin who are presently under the care of your healers be allowed to recover in the rooms of your city, but they will be certain to depart as soon as they are able, with my thanks.”

Turning briefly to a stunned Arwen, he bowed slightly and said, “As I said earlier, Arwen, your words of thanks are misplaced. I beg only that, if it is not too heavy a burden, you send word when Eldarion wakes. Tell him for me…” but his voice failed him then as it shook.

“Legolas…” she began and reached out to take his arm.

Quickly returning his eyes to the king, who was still looking away, he bowed and said tersely, “By your leave.”

Aragorn felt his mouth going dry, and he turned then to face the elf, choking out the words: “No, Lego – ”

But with all the fluidity and speed of his elven kin, before Arwen could stop him, Legolas had departed from the room, his bearing as straight and regal as it had been all the years of his life.


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CHAPTER 10: NO TURNING BACK

Silence reigned for long moments after Legolas left, several pairs of eyes still trained on the door. Then Arwen swung round to face the king, blinking back tears.

“Estel,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief, momentarily at a loss for words. Then she spoke with a voice laced with sorrow, “Estel, you know he would give his life before he allowed Eldarion or me – you – any of us – to be hurt! How could you – how could you say what you said to him?”

The king remained silent, his face set in an expression that had frustration written all over it, but now there was distress as well. I did not mean it for him, he protested silently. I just meant… what did I mean? Whom was it meant for? Part of him wanted to go after Legolas, but part of him remained numb, rooting him to the spot.

Faramir studied him for a moment, thinking that he had been hard on Legolas, but realized that nothing like this had happened to his family before, and it was a difficult time for all. The Steward felt uncomfortable, sensing that this might be a good time to leave the royal couple alone, so he cleared his throat and excused himself, saying that he had to inform the councilors about Eldarion’s condition and to see to the interrogation of the prisoner. Aragorn barely nodded. Faramir signaled to the healers to leave the room with him, and soon the king was alone with his family.

In the silence of the healing room, the king and queen remained as immobile as their child on the bed. For a while, all they could hear was each other’s breath. Then Aragorn turned and walked over to the bed on which his son lay. He looked on the young face and touched his unmoving hand.

But he still felt numb inside. He could not think, he could not feel. He was just numb.

As Arwen studied him, she saw how weary and bowed with worry he looked. Now was not the time for an argument, not while they waited for their child to wake. “Estel,” she said gently, approaching him. “Sit, my love, and rest. You are exhausted.” After a pause, she added, knowing he would not need elaboration to understand: “It can be mended.”

Aragorn removed his eyes from the figure on the bed then and looked at her with so much sadness it twisted her heart.

“I must go after him…” he began, and made to walk toward the door, but before he could take two steps, a weak murmur came to their ears, and a small voice uttered a word: “Nana…”

Both king and queen were bent over the child in an instant. “Eldarion,” they breathed in unison.

As the little sea-grey eyes of the child fluttered open, his parents smiled through tears as their felt their worries wash away like a cool waterfall. The child’s eyes fell on the figure he had not expected to see. “Father,” he whispered, just before the king broke into tears and gathered his child into his arms.

But for Aragorn, despite the huge wave of relief he felt, they were not all tears of joy.


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Legolas felt as if a thousand daggers were piercing his heart as he walked out of the healing room and past the guards Faramir had posted. He had held his head high as he left, but as soon as he was beyond the door, he found himself trembling before he had taken ten steps. What just happened in there? He was shocked and confused, he did not know what to think, what to feel, unaware that his friend, the friend he loved more than his own life, was feeling the exact same way. All he knew at this moment was this reality that seemed to stab at the core of his being. He suddenly felt robbed of breath and held a hand out to the cold stone wall to steady himself.

A dozen lords and ladies of the court looked at him as he exited. They had heard the loud voice of the king within the room but could not make out the words uttered. At the look of torment on the elf’s fair face, they attributed it to some change in the young prince’s condition and whispered quietly among themselves. Most of them were sincerely concerned about Eldarion. Many of them also knew Legolas, but the distress in his face dispelled any thoughts of approaching him for news.

Legolas walked on as fast as he could to distance himself from them, not really cognizant of where he was headed. He heard light footsteps behind him and looked up as a fair elvish voice address him. “My lord?”

One of the Ithilien elves who had ridden to the city with him was standing before him now, eyeing his prince with concern. He held out a hand hesitantly, wondering if Legolas needed support. Legolas collected himself quickly.

“I am all right, Hamille,” he assured the other elf in the musical Sindarin language they shared, but did not trust himself to speak further. At the sight of the ashen face, Hamille’s features hardened a little.

“You endured the king’s ire,” the elf said very quietly so that no one else could hear, forgetting that the humans nearby would not have understood them anyway. It was a statement, not a question, and Legolas guessed then that Hamille must have heard what transpired in the room earlier. An elf’s hearing was much more acute that of human ears.

“You heard?” Legolas questioned in the same soft tones.

Hamille nodded, his bright elven eyes expressing dissatisfaction. “It should not have been thus.”

“What happened in Ithilien should not have been thus,” Legolas replied immediately.

“Yet it was not by your hands it came to pass,” Hamille retorted.

“Even so, there were no other hands that could have kept the prince from harm,” came the rejoinder. More gently, Legolas remarked, “I am not a father, Hamille, but I imagine that a father’s anguish is hard to bear.”

Hamille made as if to reply to that, but thought better of it. No matter what he said, he knew, his prince would counter it.

“Speak to no one else about this, please,” Legolas requested, and Hamille nodded. Satisfied, Legolas changed the subject. “You sought me? Is something the matter?”

“Lanwil has just arrived. He brings news,” Hamille replied a little more loudly now, piquing the interest of the people who had strayed close enough to see them and hear them talk but not comprehend their exchange. “They caught another one of the vile attackers before he could escape. He rode here immediately to inform you.”

Legolas straightened at once. “Is the man here?”

“No, he is being held in Ithilien. They were not sure whether to bring him here.”

That is good, Legolas thought. That is exactly what I need. “And Lanwil?”

“He is visiting the others in the healing rooms.”

Legolas had no time to think further on the incident with Aragorn in the healing room, although he knew the impact of it would be felt again as soon as he had a moment to reflect. Something more urgent had to be taken care of now. He placed his hand on his kinsman’s shoulder and the two elves walked quickly to the rooms, ignoring the stares of the people around them as they watched the graceful movements of the fair beings.

Lanwil was sitting on a bed beside Lishian, whose deep shoulder wound was healing, but got up when Legolas entered the room. “Mae govannen, Bridhon nin,” he addressed his prince, placing a hand to his chest. Legolas returned the greeting and clasped the elf’s arm. Their conversation was entirely in Sindarin, so the healers could understand naught.

“You have the prisoner securely kept?” asked the elf prince.

“Aye, my lord,” replied Lanwil. “We await your return, or your orders to bring him here.”

“Hannon le,” Legolas thanked him. “You did well. I will return now and we can question him. The one who is here has not talked. How are our friends?”

Lanwil paused and thought, guessing that the elf prince was referring to the elves who had been injured but not brought to Minas Tirith. “They are well. They have been tended to. What of those here, my lord?”

Legolas looked around him at the elves in the room. “They will heal fast, as you know, and they will be able to leave soon. You must be tired. Have you eaten?”

“Aye, my lord,” Lanwil replied, his eyes traveling over Legolas’ face and body. “Have you?”

Legolas opened his mouth to answer and realized with a sudden jolt that he truly could not remember. He did not answer, for he did not wish to lie.

“And your wound, my lord?” Lanwil asked again, one eyebrow raised, almost accusingly.

Legolas smiled. “It has been taken care of,” he was glad he could respond honestly to this query at least. “Are you too tired to ride back with me?”

“No, I am ready.”

“Would you prepare our horses then? Hamille can stay with our friends here. I will speak with them. Wait for me at the stables.”

Lanwil bowed and left immediately. Legolas took a deep breath.

I have disappointed you, Aragorn, and perhaps I deserve the hurt I feel, he thought.

He closed his eyes as he realized that he had, against his will, admitted he was hurt. Torn inside. But not helpless.

Does our friendship mean less to you now than it did once, Estel? he wondered sadly. No matter. I will do this for you. I will find the one who hurt you and your family.

With that resolve, he opened his eyes and went to the elf closest to him. He took some time to give each elf words of encouragement and asked them to leave the White City as soon as they were able to, assigning Hamille the task of meeting with the king and expressing their thanks before they departed. Then he thanked the healers himself and left for the stables.


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Once Eldarion had awakened and the healers had ascertained he was indeed out of danger and on the road to healing – he even took a little fruit juice – the king and queen could finally be persuaded to take some respite in their own chambers, leaving the child in the capable hands of their most trusted healers.

The thought of going after Legolas flitted across Aragorn’s mind, but the elf would have left the city by now, he thought sadly, and his child had just woken. What if he asked for his father? No, he could not leave him yet. Aragorn was also truly exhausted. He resigned himself to the need for rest and sleep.

A new dawn may bring new counsel, he told himself in a feeble attempt at self-comfort, recalling that, ironically, those had often been Legolas’ words during the Quest of the Ring, Legolas who had frequently buoyed his spirits with reminders that even in darkness, there still was – and always would be – hope.

While they waited for hot baths to be drawn for them, Aragorn and Arwen sat on comfortable chairs on the balcony outside their sleeping quarters. Dusk had descended on the city, adding to the gloom in Aragorn’s heart. But the fragrance of honeysuckle and lavender that Legolas and his elves had planted in the gardens wafted by on a fresh breeze, soothing them a little.

Arwen noted her husband’s silence and pained features and knew what – and who – occupied his thoughts. She had been shocked at her husband’s outburst at Legolas, but she was also certain enough about the depth of the love between the two to know that Aragorn would be hurting as much as his friend and that he would have regretted his words almost as soon as he had uttered them. His sigh only reinforced her belief.

“I did not mean it, Arwen,” he said with his head bowed, knowing she would understand what he was referring to. “It was not his fault, but I know I made it sound as if it was. And now… he has left.”

His tone caught at her heart. “Estel… he will know this. He will understand.” But for the first time, her words held a little less confidence than they always had before. For some reason, her mind went back to the grimace of pain she had seen in the elf’s eyes when Aragorn had clutched his shoulder and instinctively whispered, “I hope it has healed.”

“What do you hope has healed?” Aragorn queried, and she started; he had heard her.

She said nothing, knowing that the knowledge of it would cause him even more remorse. There was no time to answer even if she had wanted to, for at that moment there came upon the wind a sound of horses riding, leaving the stables of the seventh level where they were. Aragorn’s head whipped up and he shot out of his chair, one long stride taking him to the wall of the balcony. He peered into the darkening surroundings.

He could just make out two horses riding downward, in the direction they would take to leave the city. Dark hair and golden hair glinting in the setting sun flowed behind the slender figures, and Aragorn gasped. “He is only just leaving!” he whispered. “I could have…” He felt like calling out the name of the friend he had loved and hurt, but he knew that at the speed they were riding, it would be no use. All he could do was watch helplessly, hoping, hoping that Legolas would, as he had in the past, pause at the Great Gates and turn around to ride back up.

He watched and waited, clutching at the stone wall till his knuckles were white, and Arwen waited with him. Gracefully, the two figures rode, onward they pressed. Now they were hidden, and now they reappeared briefly, as they descended each level.

The Great Gates were closed at dusk, as they were at this moment, but the guards must have seen the unmistakable elf forms approaching some way off and were even now opening them for the riders to go through. The elves slowed down a little and Aragorn held his breath. Legolas now approached the open gates at a canter. Aragorn’s eyes never left him.

“Turn,” Aragorn said under his breath, willing the elf to do so as he had done so many times before. “Please turn, my friend. Give me a chance to set things right.”

But the horse never broke the canter, and Legolas, not turning, not looking back, rode through, taking a large piece of Aragorn’s heart with him.

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CHAPTER 11: HEALING AND HURT

Aragorn watched the Great Gates of Minas Tirith close slowly on the backs of the elf riders, their diminishing figures becoming a blur of movement as they turned their swift elvish steeds toward Ithilien in the last rays of the setting sun. Even as the faint glint of Legolas’ golden hair was lost to the view of the Numenorian king on the balcony of his citadel, the Great Gates clanged shut.

To Aragorn, standing in a stupor seven levels above, the faint clang sounded like a death knell on the friendship he treasured most.

When he finally remembered how to breathe, Aragorn turned despairing eyes to his wife, his body poised for flight, and his mouth tried to form the words he wanted to say. They did not need to be, for Arwen knew and understood. She understood, but the caring wife in her could not stop her from murmuring in a quivering voice: “It will be a long ride. Perhaps a bite to ease your hunger and thirst first?”

“His were not,” came the short, strangled reply. A quick squeeze of her hand, a tearful smile from her, and he was running.

The king would have walked, but the friend tore off, flinging decorum to the stone walls lined with various insignia that proclaimed his status. He raced like one possessed past bewildered servants and startled guards, footfalls echoing down the long corridors and long legs leaping dangerously over stone steps three at a time towards the stables, carelessly ignoring shocked figures caught in the wind of his passing.

A lone stable boy was just closing the doors.

“Get my horse!”

Aragorn’s loud command came so suddenly that the boy felt his body jump out of its skin, wondering if the twain would ever meet again. It took the befuddled lad a few moments to be convinced that this was his king and not a demon visited upon him. He barely managed a hesitant “S - S - Sire?” before the desperate king steered him quickly towards the doors, yanked them open himself, and repeated his command. Holding a lamp in one shaking hand, the lad walked in, the king right behind him. The horses snorted and snickered in their stalls.

But even as Aragorn reached his horse and the stable boy went to retrieve the saddle, they heard the voice of the Steward calling urgently: “Elessar!”

A moment later, Faramir rushed in, flushed and flustered, but relieved to see his king.

“My lord, please – ” he panted, a pleading look in his eyes.

“Faramir, how – ?”

“The guards alerted me... nay, half the servants alerted me! Is something amiss? Where are you going?”

Aragorn realized that the Steward could not have spoken to Arwen yet. “Faramir, he has only just left, I cannot let him go without… ” he was suddenly at a loss for words. The stable lad was bringing the saddle over now.

Slowing his breathing, Faramir furrowed his brows for a moment but then began to understand. He walked over and touched Aragorn’s elbow lightly, motioning him to the outside of the stables. Aragorn stood unmoving, knowing instinctively, even without Faramir saying a word, that this was going to be one of those wretched moments when he would be expected to struggle between duty and desire. He followed the Steward reluctantly but did not stop the stable boy from saddling his horse.

When the cool breeze of early night was on their faces, a discreet distance from the open doors of the stables, Faramir turned to his king and took a deep breath before he spoke. Even in the gathering dark, Aragorn could see the concern in his face.

“Elessar, I know how much you wish to ride after him at this moment, but – I beg you to reconsider.”

“It is something I dearly wish to set right, Faramir,” the king said quietly and not a little firmly.

“There is much to set right, my lord, but nothing is more urgent at this time than your safety and what it would mean for Gondor should something befall you. Even if you left now, you would have to ride all the way to Ithilien before you caught up. With things as uncertain as they are…”

“I will take an escort then,” Aragorn argued.

“We do not yet know the full purpose of your enemy, Elessar. We do not even know who your enemy is!” Faramir countered. “If indeed they were determined enough to wait till the queen and the prince had left the safety of the city walls, who is to say they do not lie in wait for you now? Even an escort may be nothing more than a deterrent. It may not be enough.”

Aragorn gritted his teeth and his foot lashed out in a most unkingly manner at a wooden water trough nearby. The sound sent a nearby squirrel scurrying up a tree.

“I am King of Gondor and the Northern Lands,” Aragorn declared fiercely, his eyes locked on Faramir’s, surprising him. “Shall I be held captive within my own walls?”

Faramir was silent for a few breaths, and his eyes did not blink or waver from their gaze. He knew his king was speaking from exasperation, not arrogance. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle.

“Nay, my lord, but as King of Gondor and the White City, you are duty-bound to defend them from whatever malice threatens them. As far as we know at this moment, there is a malice that has threatened your family. If any of you are taken hostage, what will be the fate of the City and Gondor?”

Aragorn’s breath caught in his chest, and it seemed to him that the silence and darkness pressed on him like a solid mass. Ithil the moon was rising early from behind a line of hills, and Aragorn saw in his mind images from the Quest when that same moon had shone over them: an elf, a man and a dwarf running across the plains of Rohan, fuelled only by hope and loyalty to their friends; a Ranger and an elf standing watch together, battling orcs and wargs side by side, giving each other strength and comfort; sounds of mirth shared as they rejoiced in peaceful times; many moments of cheerful laughter and even more moments of quiet joy when speech was not needed. And now there was an image of that beloved elf riding beneath that moon, riding away from him. He squeezed his eyes shut and choked back a cry.

His mind told him to listen to the wisdom of his Steward’s words, but his heart was tempted to follow an errant path.

Nay, it is not wisdom, but duty that guides his words, Aragorn thought. For who in all wisdom can say that the value of a city, or a kingdom, is greater than the heart of a loved one?

Unconsciously, Aragorn sighed. Yet mine is not the freedom to choose. That freedom was bound when upon my head was placed the Crown of Gondor.

“Must I always sacrifice what my heart desires for what the throne dictates?” he lamented, barely above a whisper.

“Nay, not always,” came the quiet reply. Aragorn looked up and realized he had spoken aloud. On the face of his Steward was an expression of gentle understanding but also of wistfulness and painful memories. Faramir turned away as if ashamed.

“Not always, Elessar,” he repeated. “Believe me when I say I know the turmoil in your heart, for you have been king for ten years, but I had been the son of the Steward for twice that, and longer. I have tasted the weight of duty and the grief of sacrifice, having to choose between them and the sweetness of free will more times than I care to remember. Oft did I desire to flee the caustic tongue of my father and lord, and fly from the devastation left by battle after battle against the Dark Lord as we held him at bay, but duty held me and made me drink still from that cup of bitterness.”

Aragorn felt strangely embarrassed that he was witness to such naked thoughts from a man who had served him faithfully for ten years. Yet he felt honored by the honest words from the man of Gondor, who continued to face away from him, his hair lifting gently in the breeze.

“And yet I will not say that I had not freedom all those years,” Faramir continued, still not looking at Aragorn, “for I learnt that there are times when one can set aside the sword, or scepter, or crown – whichever we wear, according to our lineage – and follow the heart.”

He turned around now. “But the times have to be the right times. They may be too few and too slow in coming, but they are there, they will be there.”

Aragorn could only be amazed at his Steward as he continued to bare his thoughts. He was too enraptured to notice that it was very quiet in the stables or to wonder what was happening with his horse.

“You will be the greatest of our kings, my lord. We all see it in you, your nobility and your strength. The light of Eärendil is in you. My father, though he had my fealty, will seem but a shadow in your light when your full reign has come to pass.

“Yet the greatest of kings can be bowed by care. I was more fortunate than you, Elessar, for I had a father and an older brother who bore much of the weight of the kingdom. You, however, are alone. Alone, you bore the destiny of a long line of kings, alone you still are on your throne, for your own heir is still but a child. The load I carried as son of Denethor is but a bale of straw compared to the stone walls and problems of every city and every province you carry on your shoulders now and will have to bear in the years to come.

“That is why I have pledged to serve you and aid you where I can. When the weight of your burdens bends you, I shall try to hold you up, and when doubt blinds you, I shall try to act as your eyes.

“You are newly returned from a long, tiring tour and perhaps cannot see what I do. Let me act as your eyes now, this night. I know not what dangers lie outside these walls, or indeed whether any lie in wait, but in ignorance, it is better to heed caution.”

Aragorn’s eyes were now moist and he was glad for the cover of night. What Faramir had said, he already knew and had already accepted since the day Gandalf placed the crown on his head. But it comforted him to know how much Faramir understood, and that he was willing to help him face his kingship.

As if reading his thoughts, the Steward added, “Legolas is also well aware of the price of running a realm. He sees much and knows your heart, and for that reason, he has stood by you without complaint. You know Legolas better than I, Elessar; surely you know he would not want you to ride out in the dark either; he would not forgive himself if anything happened to you because of it. Set things right with him when the time is ripe.

“I cannot restrain you, my lord, but as your Steward, I beg you not to ride out tonight. Give me two days to find out what we can from the prisoner; I expect he will yield to his hunger and thirst and cold by then. We may get new counsel at that time.”

Aragorn gazed at his Steward with new respect and appreciation, moved beyond expectation. After that speech, so impassioned yet delivered so calmly, how could he not defer the desire of his heart once more? For ten years, he had always placed the welfare of his kingdom first, and for tonight at least, he had to do so again, however much he wished to ride after his friend. Faramir was right, it would be prudent to wait to hear what the prisoner could reveal first.

He only hoped that although he remained within the city walls tonight, the elf would sense the depth of his remorse and know why he could not go where he truly desired. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair.

Somewhere, a nightingale began its singing, and brought him to awareness that Faramir was waiting for his answer. Aragorn gripped the shoulder of the faithful man of Gondor warmly, and smiled in the faint moonlight.

“Long have I known that power cannot ride alone, for responsibility will always be its companion. This is clear to me, Faramir, yet when my heart is sore from many trials, my eyes may fail to see, as you say. I thank you for reminding me tonight, and I say to you, that if I had not answered the call of my destiny, yet would Gondor have a great and wise king in you, my friend.”

To this last remark, Faramir only shook his head and said, “Time will prove that Gondor’s greatest king has come to the throne at the right time.”

“Whether or not that is true remains to be seen,” Aragorn replied. “As does the wisdom of this decision to delay going to Legolas, for my heart still draws me there. Yet I will heed your counsel tonight, Faramir, and I will wait two days as you propose.”

I hope you, too, will wait, my friend, he added silently, seeing again the image of the elf riding beneath the moon to Ithilien.

“Sire?” A soft voice broke the lull in the conversation, and both the King and Steward were suddenly aware that the stable lad had been waiting patiently by the stable doors, the lamp in one hand and the reins of Aragorn’s horse in the other. The two men looked at each and could not hold back smiles, but while one was of relief, the other was tinged with sadness.


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The youth and vitality of children – human or elvenkind – and their ability to overcome ailments quickly is a remarkable thing to witness, Arwen thought to herself over the next two days as her son recovered astonishingly well from the poison of the dart. Perhaps the amount of poison was really too small to do much damage aside from rendering the child unconscious, perhaps it was the healer’s treatment that successfully purged the poison, or perhaps it was the child’s strong constitution, but whatever it was, Eldarion was asking for his favourite dessert by the following evening after he awoke, and was back in his own room that night. The next morning found him ready for a game of chess with his father.

His parents were delighted with his recovery and spent as much time with him as he could, remembering the anguish they had gone through before they were certain they would see his smile and hear his voice again. Although the child was still tired sooner than usual, his color had returned, and he was clearly as cheerful as ever.

Arwen wished her husband were doing as well, however. Despite his pleasure in Eldarion’s recovery, he was snowed under by paperwork that had piled up and by court matters that had been awaiting immediate deliberation upon his return. He was also still concerned about the city’s defenses, afraid of a second attempt on his son. Faramir sought to reassure him as much as he could, pointing out the attack had taken place in Ithilien, not the White City.

Patiently and anxiously, as he had promised Faramir, he also awaited results of the interrogation taking place in the dungeons below. By the end of this day, he had to get some answers.

He faced his responsibilities with stoicism, but Arwen knew that a feeling of unrest hung like a cloud over his head, and she knew why. Always, at the back of his mind, was what lay unresolved between him and Legolas. Arwen knew he would have ridden off to see the elf that night if Faramir had not stopped him, but his regal duties had to be settled first. Eldarion, too, needed his father’s presence; it was just as well Aragorn did not leave so soon after his recovery.

Some desires of a king’s heart have to be deferred, Aragorn reminded himself again and again, when desires have to bow to duty. Even when the king never wished to be king.

He had considered sending off a rider with a message for Legolas the very morning after Faramir had delayed him, but dismissed it almost immediately when he realized what an insult that would be. His friend deserved better, much better, than a piece of parchment. He deserved a personal apology.

Even as he sat in his office trying to ward off thoughts of his elf friend to focus on the papers arrayed before him, a guard approached him and bowed.

“Sire,” he said, “Hamille of Ithilien requests an audience with you.”

Aragorn brightened a little at that statement. At the king’s nod, the tall, dark-haired Sylvan elf stepped into the room, his light footsteps making no sound on the rich carpet. Aragorn stood to receive him, his hands straightening his tunic from sheer habit. As usual, they greeted each other with their hands on their chests and a slight inclination of their heads.

“Mae govannen, Hamille,” the king said graciously and with a genuine smile. “It is good to see you.”

Hamille, looking groomed and poised as elves would be, returned the greeting with a smile as well, but Aragorn noted that the smile did not quite reach his eyes. His speech, however, was as polite as it ever was, betraying nothing amiss.

“King Elessar, I come on behalf of my kin who have been convalescing under your roof,” his fair elvish voice spoke in Sindarin. “Please receive our gratitude for the kind attention of your healers. We return to Ithilien today.”

“You are most welcome to stay longer,” Aragorn responded in the same language with which he was totally at home, and his heartfelt tone of hospitality softened the elf’s own expression a little, “although I understand you must be anxious to return home.”

When the elf nodded and made as if to take his leave, Aragorn quickly delayed him. “Wait, Hamille. It is I who should thank you and your kin for what you did for my wife and child. You have my deep gratitude and my condolences over the brave elves you lost.”

“My lord, you have already expressed this,” Hamille reminded him, remembering the visit the king had paid the recuperating elves just the day before. “It was our duty and our honor.”

“No, not your duty, and noble was your act,” Aragorn countered.

“It was an honor to defend the queen and the prince,” Hamille stated in return, “and it was our duty to Prince Legolas.” At the mention of that name, a hint of hardness, almost imperceptible, seemed to enter the elf’s eyes again. “Whatever and whomever he chooses to protect, we are behind him, regardless of the cost.” Hamille knew he sounded less gracious than he usually was and that Legolas would be most displeased to hear it, but he could not forget what he had heard in the healing room that evening.

Aragorn felt his guilt increase at that declaration and briefly wondered if there was an underlying meaning to Hamille’s words. Had Legolas spoken of the incident in the healing room to the elves? But just as soon as that thought entered his mind, he banished it; it was not in Legolas’ nature to share his hurt with anyone. Whatever it was Hamille meant, Aragorn thought, he had no right to pry, and he did not really want to, for no one needed to remind him of the pain he already felt. He only wished he could talk to Legolas that very instant.

He half-determined to ask Hamille to deliver a note for him, but quickly realized that it was no substitute for a personal meeting; it seemed demeaning somehow. So he asked instead that the elf convey his respects to the elf prince. After debating for a moment, he added, “Please tell him I am grateful to him, and that – and that I will meet with him as soon as I can.” Then, in a softer voice: “Tell him I truly wish to.”

“I will,” Hamille replied, and with a slight bow, turned to leave. Arwen came in just then, carrying a covered basket.

“Hamille, I heard you had come in here,” the queen said, casting a brief smile at her husband as well. “I am glad to have to caught you before you left.”

“My lady,” Hamille greeted her, inclining his head.

“Please tell Legolas that Eldarion has awakened and is recovering well,” she said. “He will want to know.”

“Aye, he certainly will, and the news will do much to lift his spirits. It will please him to know that you are certain of it yourself.”

“Hannon le, Hamille, and please give him these,” she handed him the basket. “There should be enough to share, but he will enjoy them most. Please,” she whispered in a conspirational tone, “make certain he eats.”

Hamille smiled, accepted the basket without asking about the contents, and left.

Later, as Aragorn sat watching Eldarion eat his third blueberry tart after lunch, a smile touched his face. He and Legolas shared a love for blueberry tarts as well, and he knew, without asking, what had been in the basket Arwen gave Hamille.

Aragorn silently thanked the Valar for restoring his son’s health and for how well he was recovering. He himself had eaten little, mulling over the matters he needed to discuss with his Ministers later that afternoon, and wondering how soon he could settle affairs of state, and how soon it would be all right to leave Eldarion so that he could ride to Ithilien.

Legolas, he sighed. I wish I could talk to you now, mellon nin. But soon, I hope, soon.

“Legolas?” Eldarion said the name through lips covered in sticky blueberry topping. Aragorn realized then that he must have said the name aloud.

The child seemed to remember something and stopped eating. Arwen looked at him, slightly puzzled. He leant close to whispered into his mother’s ear, “Is Legolas still hurt? I did not like to see it.” His eyes were wide, and a hint of moisture laced them.

Arwen swallowed as she realized that Eldarion was envisioning the blood he had seen dripping from the elf’s shoulder in the talan. She quickly wrapped an arm around the child and placed her forehead against his.

“No, darling. It has been taken care off. He is all right now,” she said soothingly.

“They hurt him,” the child stated in a small voice, dropping his eyes.

Arwen caught Aragorn looking at his son with a puzzled expression and decided she would have to explain later. “Yes, they did. But the healers treated it like they took care of you. His shoulder is mending, and he will be happy to know you are better too.”

“Will he come here soon? I – I do not want to go there,” the child whispered, burying his face in his mother’s dress and staining it with the stickiness on his lips. “Not yet.”

His parents exchanged a look. They had not foreseen that the experience in Ithilien might have left the child with an unpleasant impression of the place itself. They would have to help him overcome that fear eventually. He had elvish blood in him, and he too should feel at home in friendly woods.

“He will come when he can, darling,” Arwen whispered back. “But you have to get well first. You will need your strength to handle your bow when he teaches you to shoot again.”

Those words brought a lump to Aragorn’s throat. He was reminded again just how much Legolas meant to his whole family, and his feeling of remorse deepened. Eldarion seemed consoled by his mother’s assurances and returned to his unfinished tart, quickly devouring what was left and leaving the table to have his hands and face washed.

Arwen turned to her husband to answer the question she knew was on his tongue.

“He was wounded in his shoulder, Estel,” she explained simply. “Eldarion saw it.”

“Was it deep? How did I not see it?” The king’s eyes were filled with concern now.

“It was bandaged and – ” Arwen narrowed her eyes as she tried to recall what she had seen that night, “and I think he had changed his tunic. The one he was wearing was… it was torn, and… it was… stained.” She did not have to say what with; Aragorn knew.

Horror gripped him then as he recalled vaguely where his hand had carelessly clutched Legolas that night. Had the elf shown pain? How had his own eyes missed it? Aragorn looked at Arwen with pleading eyes as he gasped his question.

“Arwen, did I – ? I did not – ? Did I… add to his pain?”

Arwen considered her response. She did not want to make her husband feel worse than he already did, but she could not lie, so she said softly, “You did not know, and he would not hold it against you.”

Aragorn moaned and buried his face in his hands. He never thought he could hate himself as much as he did then. Legolas, forgive me, forgive me, he begged silently, his breath strangled in his throat. He was barely aware of Arwen’s caresses as they tried to remove the feeling of sorrow that would not leave him.

I will wait till the end of today as I promised, Faramir, he determined silently, but whether or not the prisoner talks, I shall leave for Ithilien tomorrow. This time, nothing will stop me.

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CHAPTER 12: QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

Deep in the windowless dungeons of Minas Tirith, the towering figure of the interrogator stood patiently before his charge, trying to ignore the dank musty smell emanating from the mildewed floor and walls of the cell, and from the foulness of the prisoner himself. One weak lamp on the wall above the prisoner, one on the far wall, and a small opening with iron bars in the heavy wooden door cast all the miserable illumination that was allowed in the cell, enough for the occupants to make out each other’s silhouettes and, if they were close enough, facial features.

The prisoner was bent over his knees today, his hands shivering from hunger. The wounds in his thigh and torso had been cleaned again and rebound. He had not been fed yet, but he would not die from his wounds at least; Lord Faramir made sure of that.

After lunch, the Steward of Gondor had pressed the interrogator to drag answers out of the prisoner by whatever means before the sun set, for the king had told him in no uncertain terms that he would ride to Ithilien tomorrow, with or without information about a yet unidentified enemy.


The fool must be starving, the interrogator observed. Almost three days now, but this will be the day. He will be broken today.

He was frankly amazed that the man had held out this long with that much recalcitrance. Besides the occasional scowl and an incoherent raspy growl that went with it, he had not responded in any way. He was either very loyal, very foolish or petrified over the consequences of being branded a traitor should he ever be found out.

Not much chance of being found out, the man of Gondor snorted to himself. You will never be released if Lord Faramir can help it.

The interrogator was doing something different this afternoon. He had brought in a low stool and a low wooden table, which he placed a very safe distance from the prisoner securely chained to the far wall. At a knock on the heavy door, the large man walked over, opened it and received a tray handed to him, mumbling thanks. He took the tray over to the table and lowered himself onto the sturdy stool.

On the table before him now sat a plate of hot, steaming food, a mug of ale and a mug of water. He stretched himself and proceeded to lick his lips audibly and rub his hands together, making a show of inhaling the tasty aroma of meat and potatoes, knowing that, despite the dankness of the cell, it must smell just as tantalizing to the ravenous prisoner, even if he could not see the food.

Noisily, he picked up a fork; the meat had already been cut up into bite-size bits in the kitchen – no knives were allowed down in the dungeons. He stabbed at a piece of meat and slowly inserted it into his mouth, chewing audibly and murmuring sounds of relish. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the prisoner’s gaze was fixed on him, or rather, it was on the table. Even in the dark, the interrogator could see the glint in his eyes and the pathetic desperation on his face.

After eating one more piece, he took a swig of ale from the mug, gurgling some down noisily and smacking his lips after, with a satisfied “aaaaahhh”.

The prisoner moved restlessly and whimpered.

The interrogator smiled secretly. He stuck a very small but juicy piece of meat on the end of the fork and got up from the stool. Walking lazily to the prisoner, he held out the fork to the man on the floor. With a raspy growl, grubby fingers shot out to grab the food, but the interrogator pulled it back just out of reach of the fingers.

The growl turned into a yell as the hunger and thirst, exacerbated by the cold and damp of a three-day stay in captivity, turned into desperate need. The interrogator smirked and thrust the fork forward again so that the shaking fingers could pull the small piece of meat off the prongs and pop it instantly into a dehydrated mouth. The prisoner chewed greedily on the pitifully small morsel and reached for more, but found none waiting. He saw the large man going back to the table to pick up the plate of food and a mug. Then the large man placed the food on the floor, and the prisoner stretched out to grab at it, his chains drawn taut. But although the tempting aroma of the food was much closer now, it was painfully out of reach. A howl of frustration was emitted from the figure in chains, and the interrogator sat back on his haunches to look at him.

“It tasted good, did it not? There is more here if you want it. Food and water,” the interrogator asked in an enticing voice. “Tell me where you are from and who sent you, and you will get it.”

The foul man yelled louder, frustrated, but his throat was too parched to yell for long. He collapsed back on the floor, furious and weeping.

“Why do you protect your leader?” the interrogator challenged. “Will he reward you for your silence? Even if he would, you are now in the dungeons of the king – you cannot get back to he who commands you. We can arrange it so that no one ever sets eyes on you again.”

He walked closer to the whimpering figure and asked in a taunting tone: “Who – will – feed – you – then?”

“I do not protect him!” the prisoner cried hoarsely, suddenly whipping around and catching the interrogator by surprise. “I… I… I fear him.”

The large man controlled his breathing. Carefully now, he told himself.

“You fear him?” he prompted.

“Yeees…” The voice grew hoarser, the parched throat making it difficult to talk. The large man picked up the mug of water from the tray. It was only half-filled with water; he only wanted the throat to be wetted, not the thirst satisfied. He handed it to the prisoner, who grabbed it and drank greedily till the mug was empty. “More,” the thirsty man demanded.

“Talk first. You said you fear him? Why?”

“If you knew him, you would fear him too. He has no – no mercy.”

“I know him not. What is he like?” The interrogator’s past experience with spies told him that for some reason, if he asked for the identity of their leaders too soon, they would not talk. It was easier for them to talk about the persons first.

“Nasty, vicious. Always angry. He knows what he wants.”

“What does he want?”

“The king’s son, you fool. Could you not tell?”

“We will see who is the fool,” came the reply. He was used to this. “Why does he want the king’s son?”

The prisoner chortled, if a chortle it could be called, coming from a throat that was still dry. “Revenge, why else? That is all he thinks about.”

“Revenge? For what?”

“His son, the king killed his son in the war! That is all I know. Now give me food first.”

The interrogator drew in a breath. So, the motive: revenge. A son for a son. “Tell me more.”

“I do not know much more. Food first!”

“Not so fast. What is his name? Where is he?”

A growl, followed by silence.

“What is his name? Who is he? Where can we find him?”

“If he knows I talked, I will be dead!”

“If you do not talk, you will be dead. From hunger and thirst. He cannot reach you here.”

Silence again.

Time to take a chance. “Very well,” the interrogator said, picking up the plate of food and empty mug from the floor and heading back to the table. “You may not see me for a long – ”

A loud growl was emitted, followed by a name the interrogator had waited to hear: “Sarambaq!”

Good, he gets desperate. He will answer quickly. The large man turned around to face the prisoner again. “What was that again?”

“His name is Sarambaq, and he will kill me, he will kill me,” the man said miserably, hiding his face in his hands.

“He cannot reach you here. Where is he? Where does he hide?”

“His – his halls. In Adhûn.” The reply was mumbled.

“Where? Remove your hands so I can hear you.”

“Adhûn!”

“Where is that?”

“By a river. Near the sea.”

“The sea? The sea in the west?”

“No, no. The Sea of Rhûn.”

The interrogator smiled inwardly in satisfaction. Lord Faramir was right: the attackers had come from around the Sea of Rhûn as he had guessed from their use of the ipo poison. The large man knitted his eyebrows as he tried to recall the little he knew of that area: the Sea lay east and slightly north of the White City. But he knew nothing of the people who lived there. Lord Faramir must be told.

“Are you from there?”

“Yes. He took me into his service. Miserable service, but a man has to eat. And we fear – fear for our families, if we should refuse.”

The interrogator nodded. The evil masters in this world never changed. They always held others hostage to fulfill their greedy demands.

“What is your name?”

Silence.

“Your name?” Louder now.

“Ködil!” It came with a growl.

“Ködil,” the interrogator repeated. “How long has he been there? Has he many troops?”

“Too many questions! I want food.”

“How long?”

“About nine or ten years now, after the Dark Lord fell. I know not how. He only told us the Dark Lord fell. He went there after the king destroyed his home.”

“The Dark Lord? Sauron?”

“Yes.”

The interrogator nodded. He did not know all there was to know about the Quest of the Ring, but everyone in the White City knew that after the Fall of Sauron, King Elessar’s armies had indeed assiduously sought out and disabled many rogue bands of orcs and men. But some escaped without a trace; it was assumed that many had left Gondor. He supposed Sarambaq must have led one such band.

“How far is Adhûn from here?”

“More questions! No, no, food first!”

“How far?”

Ködil hissed in exasperation, but he needed to get his food. “Two to three weeks on foot, a slow walk.”

The interrogator let out a low whistle. “How did you know the king’s son would be in Ithilien?”

“We watched. Waited and watched. Sarambaq made us.”

“He was not with you that day?”

A snort accompanied the reply. “No, he would not risk his life. He only risks ours.”

A thought occurred to the man of Gondor. “It’s a long way from Adhûn to Ithilien. How do you exchange news?”

“What?”

“How do you communicate with your master? It takes time for you to travel between the two places. Does he send word, ask for news?”

Another snort came. “He has Dárkil.”

“What is a Dárkil?”

“Not a Dárkil, you fool. Just Dárkil. His – his – flying demon.”

This was interesting news, the interrogator thought. Interesting but not welcome. He sat back on his haunches and addressed the prisoner again. “Tell me about Dárkil,” he commanded.



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The air outside Sarambaq’s halls in Adhûn reverberated with the screech of the foul creature, as it fed on the stinking meat of carrion. Its master studied in admiration the strong wings and legs of the black beast. The jaws at the end of the longish neck were bloody with its meal, the eyes alive and eager.

A smirk of satisfaction crossed Sarambaq’s face as he recalled when he had first surprised the Dark Lord with his creation – a cross between a giant eagle and one of Sauron’s own flying steeds, the ones the Dark Lord had bred for the use of his Nazgul. Sauron had been impressed that Sarambaq had managed to capture the giant eagle, subduing it to his own will after many months of torture. Kin of Gwaihir the Windlord himself, the eagle had been a prize catch, and when it bred with the Dark Lord’s own steed, the product had been a beast with the ferocity of Mordor and the swiftness and sharp vision of the eagle race.

Dárkil he had named it, and it was one of the reasons Sarambaq had a strong hold on the services of his minions and the residents of the surrounding village. No one dared defy the Master when they knew full well what the jaws and claws of his beast were capable of doing if they refused.

Too unfortunate it is only one of its kind, Sarambaq pondered. He had not been able to produce another. The giant eagle had died in captivity, and now that the Dark Lord’s steeds were vanquished along with him, Sarambaq had little hope of repeating his evil-driven success.


No matter, he thought, I will use this one for as long as I still have it.

He now waited a little impatiently for the creature to finish its meal so that he could start on his journey. He had decided that he had had enough of waiting for news and intended to have Dárkil bear him to the Table. Perhaps some of his useless minions were already there and could tell him what was happening.

The Table was a huge rock formation surrounded by thick woods, located just a three-day trek away from the fringes of Ithilien on the borders of Gondor, so named because of its flat, plateau-like top upon which Dárkil could land with ease. It also offered a vantage point from which Sarambaq could see anyone approaching, if they were not hidden by the woods. At the foot of the wide rock were caves in which Sarambaq’s troops stored provisions and weapons. These stores, replenished regularly by the few riders allowed to ride Dárkil from Adhûn, enabled the troops to spend long lengths of time watching Gondor without having to return all the way to Adhûn for supplies. As far as they knew, there were no settlements lying in the forests between Ithilien and the Table.

The location of the Table also meant that Dárkil could fly as close as possible to Gondor without being easily spotted by the sharp eyes of the elves who guarded Gondor’s borders. Indeed, the beast would appear nothing more than a stray eagle in the skies to the east when it was seen by elves, and it was totally beyond sight of the guards in the high towers of the White City.

Unknown to Sarambaq, the remnants of the force he had sent to Gondor were indeed already headed there. Having failed to take the king’s son, they had decided to retreat to the Table to recoup and strengthen themselves before trekking back to Adhûn and facing the inevitability of Sarambaq’s wrath. Little did they know that they would be meeting their dreaded master sooner than they expected.

Half an hour later, the beast had finished its meal. Sarambaq mounted this prized steed of his and headed for his destination, unaware that deep in the dungeons of Minas Tirith, one of his minions was talking about this very creature.



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So, that is how Sarambaq has kept such a close eye on the royal family in Gondor, the interrogator thought. He wondered with disquiet what elsethe dark Master would have seen and might have planned beyondthe capture of the prince.He wanted to find out more about his plans, but it was clear from the heated protests and agitated reactions from Ködil that he would speak no more till he had been given food. The large man finally stood.

“After you eat, you will talk some more.” This was not a question, it was a demand.

“I do not know much more!”

“Then you will tell me all you know. Everything about Sarambaq.”

The prisoner nodded miserably.

The interrogator walked up to the prisoner now and looked ferociously at the pitiful figure with as much menace as he could conjure in his eyes. The large man’s voice was but a whisper, but the venomous warning in it was unmistakable.

“If you lie to me or hold anything back, you will taste not only my whip, but the ire of the Lord of the White City. And THEN…” the prisoner was almost wetting himself by now. “… and then you will not see me, or food, or water, or light, till the end of your days in this dark, dark hole. Do you understand this?”

The man’s eyes bulged out even further, if that was possible, and nodded several times.

“All right,” the large man said, drawing up to his full height. “Now you can eat.”



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A similar line of questioning was taking place in the woods of Ithilien the day after Legolas rode back from Minas Tirith, but the elves were having less success with their own prisoner. Unlike what was happening in Minas Tirith, the thought of starving the detestable man, as furious as they were with him, never crossed their minds. The only times the evles showed no mercy was when they faced Sauron’s orcs or when they fought the giant spiders that invaded Mirkwood, and even then, they always sought to inflict a quick death. At all other times, the gentleness of the elves over-rode any thought of violence or torture. They would have preferred to break the prisoner’s spirit in other ways, but there were no dark cells in their fair woods to aid them.

The cave dungeons of Thranduil Oropherion would be a better place for this, Legolas thought wryly, although his father’s caves were in fact airy and not quite as fearsome as he thought them to be. I will have to manage with what I have.

A grimace marred his fair features briefly as he recalled the last time he had made that decision and the consequences of that action. I tried to keep them safe with what I had, he remembered, but it was not enough. Fleetingly, he hoped Eldarion had awoken and was recovering.

Aragorn’s face flitted across his mind and he felt a pang of sadness again. Thoughts of his friend had dominated his mind on his ride back from Minas Tirith last night. When he thought of all that he had ever shared with the former Ranger, a member of the Fellowship of the Ring, and now the King of Gondor, he could not believe that Aragorn’s words were anything more than a careless utterance born of frustration. Yet he never imagined that those words could hurt so deeply.

He wished he could find out everything behind the attack – who planned it, what their intentions were, why they wanted with Eldarion, and where they were hiding. But he would be content with an answer to the last question if that was all he could obtain, for that was what he had resolved in the healing room: he could not undo what had happened, but he could try to locate the enemy’s base and learn more about him, or them.

He had thought of doing the questioning himself but quickly abandoned the task to the other elves, for at this moment, he felt he had not the patience or tenacity to slowly and skillfully draw out answers from an obstinate source. Perhaps he would not be aggressive enough, not in the right way. Prowess in battle and leadership skills were quite useless in an interrogation. He could not suppress a grin as he honestly wondered whether the other elves would be able to accomplish any more than he could. He recalled how more than sixty years ago, his father had failed to coerce Gimli’s dwarf ancestors and kin into revealing anything when they had stumbled into the elf realm and been caught.

Elves make terrible interrogators, he conceded. Ah, well, if we draw nothing out of this man from the East, I will have no choice but to send him to Faramir. But they would try their best first.

Legolas shook his head and told himself to focus on the task at hand – a task that he wished were not necessary. He was writing letters to the families of the six elves who had been slain during the attack. They had all been so loyal to him, leaving Greenwood to follow him south to Ithilien. He had known them for hundreds and hundreds of years, and he recalled fondly how all of them had sparred with him in training, climbed trees and hunted spiders with him, and how he and some of them had landed themselves in trouble as elflings. If they had remained in the Greenwood or if they had sailed West with the ships, they would not now be in the Halls of Mandos where dead elves go, he thought with sorrow in his heart. These were the first six elves who had died since they came south, and although none of them would have regretted being slain in battle, he vowed he would do everything he could to make sure they were the last. A promise he may not be able to keep, he knew, but the sharpness of the sorrow he felt at the moment compelled him to make it.

Although each letter contained a similar message of explanation and condolence, Legolas took care to insert a few lines that said something unique about the particular elf he was honoring, along with an item from the elf’s belongings, so that each missive would read like a personal note rather than a cold announcement. After the last one had been written and signed, he sighed and stood to stretch himself. He had considered returning to the Greenwood himself to meet the families; nothing could replace a personal visit. But at present, he really wanted to find out more about the attackers and to track them down if he could. He decided two other elves would leave for Greenwood tomorrow to deliver them on his behalf, and he would go himself at a later time.

Right now, they had to dress and prepare for the ceremony at twilight. Tonight, they would gather at the graves of their fallen kin to sprinkle blossoms and scented water on them, and they would sing songs of lament to honor them beneath Ithil and the stars of Varda.



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In the White City, the king of Gondor looked on the same stars at twilight and thought fondly of the friend who used to sing under them. One more dawn and one more moonrise, and he would ride to that friend.


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[Recommended]

CHAPTER 13: CHOICES

The darkness of the night above the Table seemed to redden with the heat of the dark figure as Sarambaq exploded with fury at his minions who had managed to escape the clutches of the elves of Ithilien. Returning to the Table many minutes ago, their hearts had sunk when the light of their torches revealed the shapes of their master and his demon beast waiting for them. Fear and trepidation enveloped them now and coursed through their veins as they faced their master’s wrath.

“How could you fail to take him?!” the dark figure bellowed, towering threateningly above the men who cowered before him. “It was the right time, the right place! Had he been in the White City, or under the protection of his father, you would not have the ghost of a chance, but in the woods – ! And the elves were fewer then! It was the right time and place! How could you fail?”

No one knew if they were meant to answer that question, but one minion, bolder or perhaps more foolhardy than the rest, replied, “The elves fought strongly, Master. We did not think they would resist so …”

“Yes, fool! You did not think!” the dark master’s voice roared straight into the speaker’s face, shocking him into a quaking silence. “Fools, imbeciles.” His ire was growing by the minute as he paced back and forth. Suddenly, he stopped and turned on the cowering figures again.

“Was anyone taken?”

“Yes, Master,” the same man answered, shaking and expecting another roar in the face. “We think perhaps two, though we cannot be sure.”

“Scum,” the dark figure muttered again. “Worthless scum. If they talk…”

More pacing, more muttering, as the air seemed to grow redder. Watching him warily with eyes that seemed to be playing tricks, some of his silent minions actually thought they saw him growing larger, until, with a shock that sent shivers down their spines, they realized that he reminded them of the Dark Lord Sauron.


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How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?

The spear began to burn in the flame of Aragorn’s words. But to his horror, new faces now looked at him with fire in their eyes – the faces of the families of the dead elves. They opened their mouths but no words came, just flames, more flames, and each breath was filled with grief, grief that took shape and swirled and wrapped itself as flame around the spear. The fiery object, pointed at him like an accusing finger, came closer and closer, faster and faster…

“Daro! Daro!” Legolas shouted for it to stop, and sat bolt upright.

The elf woke up in a cold sweat again, just as he had the last few times the nightmare haunted him. He cursed it as he slowed his breathing, looking around him. He was in his talan, alone, in the middle of a woodland night, and no accusing faces were anywhere near him. The letters he had written lay neatly stacked on the small dresser nearby.

A slight rustle of leaves, light footsteps and a fair voice, laced with concern, came from outside the closed door. “Heru nin? My lord?”

With their sharp ears, one or more of the elves must have heard his shout. Perhaps his curses too.

“I am fine,” he hurriedly assured them from where he sat on his bed. “Just a small disturbance.”

He sighed when he heard them descending the tree and lay back down, placing a hand over his eyes.

Will the nightmares ever stop? he asked to no one in particular. Are they all so angry at me? Do they all blame me?

Unbidden, a single tear trailed down the side of his face.

What more could I have done? Ai, what more could I have done? I am but an elf. If I had the foresight of an Istari or the power of the Valar, I could have prevented this. Do you all blame me? My friends, my kin… Estel? Do you all feel I have failed you?

He stifled a sob, and in the darkness of the talan, bathed faintly in the light of Ithil, the Wood elf searched his heart. His mind wandered the pathways of his memories, lingering on the smiles on the faces of the slain elves, the words they had exchanged, the songs they had sung for hundreds of years. Aragorn’s Ranger face came into view, fresh with the vigour of youth and alive with laughter as he jested, the grim set of his jaw as they walked side by side through the darkness and death of Hollin, Moria, Helms’ Deep, Aragorn throwing himself on orcs threatening to slice through his friend, Aragorn clasping his arm when his own life was saved by the swift arrow of the Woodland elf, his smile radiant with ecstasy as he embraced his elf friend at his wedding, his face soft with gratitude when Legolas returned with elves out of the Greenwood, Aragorn seeking him out to exultantly share the joy of the birth of his son, the face of the king gradually lined with the weight of kingship, the two companions sipping wine quietly, wordlessly, in the moonlit gardens of Minas Tirith, lost in memories and the warm comfort of a friendship that did not question.

Long and hard Legolas looked into his heart. Do they blame me?

Finally, an answer came back to him. A tentative answer, poised on the edge of a knife, to fall either way.

No, not them. It is I who blame myself. The nightmares are of my own making.

Or are they?

We have been through so much together. Our friendship is stronger than this. I know this.

But something at the back of his mind nettled him, telling him this was hard to accept, making him feel guilty as if he was being allowed to take the easy way out. What? What? Why is this not right?

The words. Aragorns’ words. Fail in their trust… Can I trust the safety of my kingdom to no one?

Legolas hissed through his teeth. He could not forget them. They were the reason his heart could find no tranquility. Not yet.

But I will overcome this nightmare. I have to.

As the soft sounds of nocturnal woodland animals and insects, and whispers of a cool scented breeze floated in through the open windows, Legolas allowed them to soothe him.

I will find Aragorn’s enemy. That was his last thought as he drifted back into sleep.


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The Wood elf kept himself busy from the moment he woke from the troubled sleep.

Earlier in the day, he had sent off the two elves to the Greenwood, armed with his letters he had written, one of which was to his father. Thranduil had never been very happy with his son’s decision to come south, and Legolas knew this news would only add to his displeasure. Pushing that thought to the back of his mind, he had spent the rest of the time examining the borders, doing anything and everything he could to take his mind off the questioning taking place and the answers he was waiting for.


The rain clouds gathering overhead did little to cheer his mood. As Anor slowly slid into the west, her radiant fingers penetrating the grey blanket every now and then to touch the leaves of Ithilien in brief, golden caresses, the first drops of rain came. Sipping berry juice from a goblet, Legolas raised his eyes to the sky and studied it. The rain clouds were churning overhead but the winds were strong, blowing them to the south. They would not be the ones receiving the brunt of the storm.


It will be a stormy night in the White City, he observed, as his golden hair whipped in the wind. Already distant flashes of light could be seen further south and west where the City lay.


Ignoring the light dizzle, and sheltered from much of it by the roof of branches and leaves above, Legolas pondered on just how he hoped to find the guilty ones and bring them to justice. Eldarion might be out of danger, but Aragorn would want to free his family of further threats, now that they had seen how far the enemy was willing to go to get to the king’s son. Of course the threat had to be removed.

Legolas wanted to help Aragorn, but even if they did manage to find out the enemy’s base, he could not hope to launch an assault with the few elves he had. These Men seemed trained. They were not as skilled as elves – thank Eru for that, or the consequences would have been worse – nor were they as capable as the armies of Gondor and Rohan, but they were organised and trained, he noted. No, he could not risk the lives of the Ithilien elves in a march on their camp. He would need Aragorn’s armies for that, though he loathed the thought, wishing he could spare the king the danger.

He reached a tentative decision. Faramir’s interrogator would probably get more answers out of the prisoner held in Minas Tirith, but in the meantime, perhaps he could make their own captive in Ithilien show him the way to the hideout, or as close to the hideout as possible. He could scout out the vicinity and bring back information that would help them develop a better plan of attack.

He realized he had been assuming these were stray bands of outlaws, but he really did not know who or what they were.

I will find out what I can find out soon enough, he thought.

He needed to calm himself, to contemplate. Soon, he found himself sitting in the rain, against the huge oak in which Eldarion’s tree-house was built, the talan in which the child had faced the frightening attack. Legolas listened to the wind sighing through the oak leaves, finding comfort. Like all Wood elves, he was able to commune with trees, not in words, but through a sense of what they were feeling, as if they could indeed speak with him. He could feel the thrum of the old tree immediately as it welcomed the contact with the Wood elf. He smiled at the sense of satisfaction from the oak as its leaves were bathed in the late afternoon shower.

Before long, he was thinking through his plans.

Am I doing the right thing? Should I wait?

He sensed a hum of sympathy from the tree at his hesitation. Legolas placed a hand on a large root, feeling as if a friend were beside him. The oak hummed again, coursing earthy tones through the elf’s sensitive body, and the image of Aragorn flashed in Legolas’ mind. He lifted his face to the rain.

Or should I wait for Aragorn to make a decision? But what can Aragorn do now? He is worried enough over his son, he cannot think about this now.

The tree hummed slowly now, keeping a rhythm. Legolas responded to that rhythm, slowing his thoughts.

I should wait for Aragorn to act.

Legolas, however, could not convince himself to do that. The enemy has just failed. We cannot wait for him to make new plans. We need to strike before he does it again.

A murmur, like a sigh of understanding, resonated in the wood.

I cannot stay and do nothing. I have already said I would make amends, redress the wrong. This is what I can do.

The oak hummed a note of warning then, and Legolas waited. Not disagreement, he decided, but a warning.

You worry that I might fail, that I might be seen. I will be killed.

Legolas hesitated only a moment before he responded.

It will not be the first time I ride into uncertainty and danger.

The tree hummed again, uneasily this time, sending out low, deep notes of melancholy.

Your elves will die with you. A distant peal of thunder reached the elf’s ears.

The statement sent a thrill of shock through the elf, as if the tree had actually spoken, so deep was its lament. At the thought, Legolas’ eyes wandered over to where some of the elves were gathered, talking and laughing a little. Beneath the trees, the fair faces, filled with the light of life and tilted towards the rain even as his was, were so radiant that he felt a sharp ache as he imagined the light gone from them. Their voices were lifted in a song of rainbows and colors, its sweetness grazing his heart. He remembered the vow he had made yesterday: no more deaths if he could help it.

Then I will go alone. No one else needs to lose his life.

The hum from the tree was somber.

I may not lose mine. I only wish to scout.

The tree did not lose its note of sorrow and sympathy, but now it throbbed strongly. With… pain?

Legolas was puzzled. Not its own pain, the elf thought. Then whose?

A sudden gust of wind blew a smatter of rain into his face. The tree pulsed more strongly, and Legolas felt the answer come to him.

Your own pain. You are doing this because you are hurt.

It was not an accusation, it was not a condemnation. It was a simple statement from another living being helping him to come to terms with his own feelings.

Long years of a deep friendship guided Legolas’ response: Yes, but he spoke in anger. It is not what his heart feels…that is my hope.

He felt the note of doubt from the old tree.

I believe so.

Now the tree pulsed again with doubt, more strongly, demanding an answer to… a question?

What, my friend? What do you ask? Legolas queried.

The throbbing increased, and again the image of Aragorn appeared in the elf’s mind.

You ask if this is what Aragorn would want?

The tree hummed agreement.

Legolas smiled sadly. Perhaps not. Perhaps I am being foolish. I do not know if this is the right decision.

The elf turned around and knelt before the tree, pressing his wet forehead and palms against the equally wet trunk as he made his decision.

But I want to regain his trust. If I die, I die trying.

The tree hummed its doubt again, but Legolas’ mind was made up.

I will do this for him. This is my choice.

The old oak’s thrums softened then and slowed into rest even as the shower of rain lightened. Even unbidden, it had played its part, not to choose for Legolas, but simply to listen as the elf weighed and confirmed the decision for himself.

“Hannon le, old friend,” the elf whispered, and got up.


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Read next post for part 2

[Recommended]

CHAPTER 13 : Part 2

Dusk had descended and the rain had stopped when Legolas heard joyful greetings in the main clearing where the elves usually gathered. Walking over quickly, he saw Hamille, Lishian and the elves who had returned from the White City dismounting from their horses, taking off their wet cloaks and shaking the wetness from hair that had escaped protective hoods.

Smiling, Legolas greeted each of them, and they clasped each other.

“The skies wish to wash the City tonight, my lord,” Hamille jested, smiling. “We just escaped the torrents.”

They retreated to a long table where some elves quickly laid out wine, juice, bread and fruit for the refreshment of the travelers. Most of the wounds were almost completely healed, but studying their pale faces, Legolas reminded all the recuperating elves to rest after the meal. Their cloaks had fortunately kept them dry for the most part. He was truly glad to have them back in the woods where the trees and blossoms and open spaces would be as healing as food and medicine for them.

Hamille, with a bright smile, placed Arwen’s large basket on the table before his prince, and sat down beside him.

“A gift from the queen,” he announced cheerfully. “I kept it dry. She gave me express instructions to see you eat the contents.”

Legolas gave a small grin, but his face turned serious as he asked, even before checking the contents of the basket: “How is the young prince?”

“Well awake and recovering well, my lord,” came the confident reply, which pleased Legolas immensely. “Queen Arwen assured me herself and wanted you to know it too.”

“That is good. Thank the Valar,” Legolas breathed, his fingers tracing the woven patterns on the wicker basket. “I cannot imagine what I would have done if he had…if it had been worse.”

“Worry not, bridhon nin. I believe he will be beseeching you for archery lessons before long,” Hamille jested, pleased that a smile lit the elf prince’s face at those words. He paused before adding, “King Elessar sends you his respects and thanks.”

He saw Legolas stiffen slightly at the mention of the king, and the smile threatened to fade from the fair face, but he had to convey the entire message he had been entrusted with. “He said he will meet with you as soon as he is able… and that he truly wishes it.”

The smile returned, but now it seemed pensive. Why does friendship with the Edain have to be so complicated, Hamille wondered, shaking his head slightly.Wishing to cheer his prince up again, he pointed to the basket and asked teasingly: “Now, are you going to share the treats with us?”

To Hamille’s satisfaction, Legolas chuckled. Removing the calico cloth covering the basket’s contents, the elf prince teased him in return: “Are you certain you did not consume some on your ride home?”

The elves laughed and their eyes lit up when neatly packed and tasty-looking blueberry beckoned to them from the basket. After removing a tart with nimble fingers, Legolas pushed the basket to the other elves.

One of the elves spoke, looking at Lishian. “It is the anniversary of Lishian’s birth today, let us drink to his happiness. And perhaps he can have two tarts!”

Joyful voices cheered and joined in the toast as Lishian blushed.

“Thank the Valar you are still with us to share this, Lishian,” his soft-spoken prince said with heartfelt appreciation, and everyone nodded. Looks of sadness crossed their faces as they remembered Galean and the other elves who were no longer there, and Legolas briefly regretted having reminded them of their absence. He quickly added in a more cheerful tone: “Come, these tarts were not baked merely to be looked at!”

The elves laughed and set upon the basket again. As the sixth tart was being carefully removed from the basket, the elf who had lifted it noticed a piece of paper wedged in a corner of the basket. He dislodged it and read the writing on it.

“There is a note for you, my lord,” he informed Legolas and handed him the note.

Puzzled, the elf took the paper and noted his name written on it in a graceful Elvish script. It had to be Arwen’s, he thought. Unfolding it, he read the contents.

Stealing a discreet glance, Hamille observed his prince’s eyes glisten. Not wishing to invade his privacy, he quickly engaged the other elves in a narration of an amusing incident with one of the healers in Minas Tirith, shifting the focus from the elf prince.

Legolas folded the paper, tucked it into the side pocket of his shirt, and turned his head to swiftly wipe the wetness from his eyes before facing his friends again with the same pensive smile from before. Hamille did not miss the traces of moisture on his prince’s long lashes, but noted that the fair face framed by soft golden hair seemed a little, just a little, comforted.

The clear sapphire eyes of the elf prince were trained on an elf narrating his experience, but his mind was running over the words he had read in Sindarin:

Estel grieves. He loves you and his regret is deep. Be patient, and trust in what you share.

Determination flashed in the blue eyes.

Even more so now, I will try to find out who hurt his family, he vowed.


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The little gathering in the clearing was interrupted when one of the elves who had been questioning the prisoner approached them to inform Legolas of the outcome.

“Bridhon nin, we have been given some information,” he said, addressing his prince.

Legolas bade him sit and listened to what he had to say. Quickly, the elf told him that the man’s master was named Sarambaq, and that he had his halls in Adhûn near a river that flowed into the Sea of Rhûn. The same thought that had crossed the mind of the interrogator in Minas Tirith flashed through Legolas’ mind now: Faramir had guessed correctly.

“But Sarambaq was not with them that day, my lord. Only his men came.”

Coward, Legolas thought. “What does Sarambaq want with the king’s son? Did he say?”

“No, my lord. He said naught of that, he knows only his master wants the king’s son alive. I believe he truly does not know more. He says the one they took to the White City knows more, he was one of the leaders.”

“Very well,” Legolas nodded and thanked the elf. “Hannon le. I have only two more things to say to him myself.”

The prisoner was sitting on the grass, hunched over, his legs bound with a metal chain to a tree. Food and water had been given to him.

Legolas stopped in front of the man and nodded to Lanwil, who stood guard nearby.

“Take some rest and food,” he told the other elf. “I will speak to him alone.”

Legolas waited till Lanwil had left to join his friends in the evening meal, out of the range of hearing. He did not want any of the elves to have knowledge of what he was about to ask and say to the man. He studied the prisoner in silence. He saw the dirty clothes and disheveled appearance, the long rough hair and lean frame, leaner than most men were. Something about him reminded Legolas of … what? He could not quite place it. Was it the large eyes? The look of defiance in them? The gaunt face? The way he sat, almost doubled over? Was it…?

Legolas did not know yet. He looked at the figure in disdain. Yet he is but a minion, doing what he is told, the elf reminded himself and his look softened.

“What is your name?”

The prisoner looked at him with unfriendly eyes. “Brûyn,” he answered curtly.

“Very well, Brûyn. My friends have asked you all the questions you claim you can answer,” Legolas stated. The man nodded. “I have one more. How far is – Adhûn, is it not? – how far is it from here?”

The man stared back with defiance. But Legolas’ eyes were steady; he did not waver. Finally, the man squirmed as he answered, “Two weeks, if we walk fast. Three maybe, if we go slowly.”

“What if we ride?” Legolas pressed.

“I cannot answer that, I have never ridden here.”

Legolas nodded, accepting the response as the truth. “I have one more thing to say to you tonight, but it is not a question. It is a command. Had you come to our realm in peace, you would be our guest. But you came uninvited and with hostility, and you are now our prisoner. You will have to do as we tell you.”

The man glared at him with a look of rebelliousness and curiosity.

“I need you to show me the way to Sarambaq’s place – where he lives.”

The man instantly started and shook his head vehemently. “He will kill me!” he declared in horror.

“You fear him, your master?”

“Yes! His anger will know no bounds.”

“He will kill us both if he sees us, but if you lead me where he cannot see us, he cannot kill us. We will simply approach the place, then turn around and come back here. I cannot release you, you must know that. Lead me so that he does not see.”

The man kept shaking his head, insisting that he dare not. He squirmed and tried to escape the chains that bound him. “No! No!” he cried, as the chains rattled.

The small commotion attracted the attention of the elves at their meal a distance away, and Legolas saw Lanwil get up slowly from his seat. He held up a hand as a signal for the elf to stay where he was.

Legolas looked back at the man. He stepped closer and spoke in a low tone, quickly but firmly, holding the man’s eyes with his own.

“The Lord of the White City will not let this matter rest for long. Look, if you do this now, I will bring you back and you can stay in the White City to be judged by King Elessar, who will be a much fairer master than Sarambaq can ever be. But if you do not show me the way now, he will lead his armies there soon, and we will hand you back to Sarambaq. We will imprison you with him, wherever he spends the rest of his days. You will face him till the end of yours. Does that prospect sound good to you?”

Brûyn glared at Legolas, knowing he was being given little choice.

“What is your choice?”

As the man mulled this over and looked long at Legolas, a strange look came into his eyes and he seemed to peer more closely at the elf, studying his hair and his face. Without warning, he leered. The elf could not help a shiver as he encountered the focused stare and for some inexplicable reason, paled and unconsciously took several steps back. At his movement, Lanwil started making his way back to them at a hurried pace.

To Legolas’ surprise, Brûyn relaxed his stare then and replied, “I will take you.”

“Good,” Legolas whispered and added sternly, “We leave at first light tomorrow. Speak to no one else about this. Do not cross me on this.”

The prisoner swallowed at the power in the elf’s bright eyes and nodded.

Lanwil reached them moments later and he looked from Legolas to the prisoner, puzzled. Legolas placed a hand on the elf’s arm to reassure him he was fine, and he gave a final nod to the prisoner, who only stared at him in silence.

“Why did you not finish your meal?” Legolas asked Lanwil kindly in Sindarin.

The elf looked curiously at his prince, not totally convinced that all was as innocent as it seemed, but answered politely: “I have eaten enough, Bridhon nin.”

Legolas smiled. “Will you do something for me before you retire tonight? Could you wash the filth off our prisoner and give him fresh clothes?”

“Our clothes?” The elf asked, horrified at the thought of putting elvish clothes on the body of the disgusting man.

Legolas gave a small laugh and a shrug of his slender shoulders. “They may be too elvish for him, and ill-fitting, but what else do we have?”

Lanwil’s eyes narrowed even more. Could this not wait till morning, he wondered, but he replied: “Of course.”

Mumbling his thanks, Legolas returned to his meal and his quiet plans. He could not fathom what these strange people wanted from Aragorn and his son, but he had to help to remove this threat.

It was only after he walked away that Legolas realized what had bothered him about the prisoner: a dark, black shadow seemed to be around him all the time, like a cloak or a second skin. Legolas knew of only one place in Arda that he had actually stepped into, where he had always sensed the same shadow of blackness covering everything. He shuddered at the memory.


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At that very moment, Aragorn himself was shuddering, and a chill enveloped him. The fierce storm that flayed the White City with whips of rain and lightning could not match the tumult in his own heart as a dark plan was revealed to him.


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