Together they huddled in the passageway outside the cell's outer room. Urgency fomented their deliberation. We need bait to lure Ament out of the cell. He will not release Estel otherwise. The refulgence of the sun's dying rays dimmed in the far end of the tunnel, the end that the Elves and human knew to be the only way out of the underground den. The sun is setting, Elladan determined, his anxiety rising with the thought, and we have decided nothing. Soon the benighted tunnel would be fully dark, with only the dying torchlight in the other room by which to see. We have been down here for a few hours, though most of that time we spent tending Legolas. Said Elf was currently wracked with a fit of agonizing coughs. Jalian hurriedly found a flask in one of the twin's packs, offering it to the thankful woodland Prince. The mercenary's goodwill was a testament to his fear of what should happen if he did not proffer it.
It had only been a few minutes since the trapdoor had slammed shut, its impact sending small piles of soil to the tunnel's floor. Occasional rumbles shook the passageway and in their wake, more dirt fell from between the shoddily placed stone tablets holding the tunnel's ceiling aloft. In those few minutes since the leader had made his devastating ultimatum, the Noldo had exhausted every possibility for aiding his young human brother. The only plausible way to draw the leader from the cell was to meet the mercenary's demands, if only ostensibly. I would have Estel back, but Legolas goes too far.
Elladan's first instinct had been to accept the Prince's overgenerous proposal to make the trade: he stubbornly believed that the leader might still be persuaded with their elucidation of the goblet's curse and the Prince's plan had its merits. However, as much as he loved Estel, Elladan knew the Ranger would rather die than let the Prince put his life in further danger, or allow anyone to trade his life for Aragorn's life. Even should we save Estel, Legolas would still be at risk. Ament cannot be allowed to escape with the goblet, not with an Elf.
Legolas' plan had been simple. He would hand himself over to Ament, drawing the mercenary from the cell, and Ament's retreat to the cell would be impeded by Jalian closing the trapdoor. Estel would be safe and the goblet within their reach. Should they not be able to persuade Ament or otherwise obtain the goblet without force, Tirn would be hiding in the tunnel at ready as a failsafe. An arrow would halt Ament's attempt at flight with the goblet, with the implicit insinuation that the leader's retreat and retention of the Wood-Elf be impeded despite the possible consequences to the Prince.
He is right, Elladan conceded, watching Legolas drain the flask in one insatiable swoop. It would afford us time to find Ament, as he would need to find another Elf before Melfren could be resurrected, should Tirn not have a clear shot at the mercenary himself. He admired the Prince's willingness to sacrifice his life as a last ditch effort, but he would rather it not be so.
The coughing fit finally stifled, Legolas was once again badgered into reneging his recommendation. "It does not matter, Your Majesty. I am not letting you." The sentinel stood resolute in his decision, daring the Prince to argue, which Legolas did without pause.
"It would be best that we solve this without Strider being hurt. There is no other way to draw Ament from the cell." To match his appalling, albeit veracious logic, the Prince added, "I am dead in any case, Tirn." Elladan did not have the time to catch his twin before Elrohir bound forward, knocking the sentinel out of the way when he grabbed the Prince's arm, shaking him roughly. He nearly felled the Wood-Elf.
"Do not speak thusly, Legolas! You are not dead, nor will you be." Elrohir stopped when Elladan pulled his twin's hand gently from the startled, quavering Wood-Elf.
He understood his brother's anger; their mother had made similar morbid utterances immediately after her torture at the hands of Orcs. They had been the words that signified she was submitting to grief, and soon after, she left for Valinor. We are wasting time arguing.
Elrohir studied the beaten dirt floor in the ensuing awkward silence after his outburst. "I am sorry, my friend. But do not be so ready to die, Legolas," he whispered in Elvish. Legolas nodded his head, his face free from expression, but Elladan could tell the traumatized Prince was not ready to cease his argument, and Elrohir's outburst had shaken more than Legolas' body.
Unaware of what was being said, Jalian cleared his throat, refocusing the Elves' attention on the calamitous situation they faced. The mercenary rubbed his scarred head, sending soil flying from the black wisps of hair as he tentatively offered his own opinion. "I think Legolas is right. Ament won't budge. He don't make idle threats, neither." As if to emphasize the scarred man's assertion, wild titters erupted from the cell, muffled by the block of stone between them and the objects of their discussion: Estel and Ament.
All five beings turned to the eerie sound. Elladan shuddered with the sudden departure of hope that Ament would be sensible. He is mad – he will see no reason. But we have to come to a decision quickly, or our decision will be made for us. The blood covering Aragorn's throat had frightened the Imladrian Lord, for how shallow or deep the cuts were he could not tell, and so the Ranger's well-being was already in doubt. The maniacal laughter did not alleviate Elladan's worries.
Jalian continued his opinion, his marred face glistening with perspiration despite the chill of the tunnel, "It is the only way boss'll come out of the cell. He won't listen to your story, though. He's crazy. But we don't have any other choice. Maybe if we just draw him out, pretend like we'll hand Legolas over."
We? So now, he is on our side. It is amazing how fear can change one's allegiances. Elladan snapped at the human, unable to hide his acrimony at both the human and the situation in which they found themselves, "And then what? Even should he come out, he will not release Aragorn until he has the Prince. Either way one of them dies."
The woodland Prince flung his blood-matted hair from his face, declaring softly, "It does not need to end with Strider's death."
No, it would end with yours, and Estel would fault us forever, as we would blame ourselves.
The sentry suddenly smiled at Legolas, his abrupt exuberance inciting him to blush brightly and his fair face to light with stalwart determination, "Nay, my Prince, it does not need to end so. I will go in your stead." Tirn began to undo the straps to his quiver, laying it carefully on the ground as he explained his change to Legolas' plan. "If the only way to lure Ament from the cell is to trade a life for the Ranger's life, it will be mine."
He had barely unbuttoned his outer tunic when Legolas protested, "No, Tirn. It is my duty to –"
"It is my duty to protect the Prince of Eryn Galen," the sentry interrupted, yanking his tunic from his shoulders before he bent to remove his boots. He tugged the laces free, standing to kick the leather boots from his feet. "I will not return to your father without you." No one moved, nor spoke. When more inane giggles echoed from the cell, Tirn pressed, his voice brokering no room for further debate, "It is my duty. I will not let you do this, so be quick: switch breeches with me. We will fool Ament into thinking I am you." Legolas still did not move, nor acquiesce, prompting the sentry to advise, "You are a Prince. Your life is not your own to choose death so freely, my Lord."
Elladan anticipated that Legolas would fight, but no argument was forthcoming. Legolas only looked down, avoiding the eyes of the Elves and human surrounding him in the now pitch dark passageway as his hands fumbled with the lacings of his leggings, the only clothing save for his boots that he wore. "I would never ask this of you, Tirn. We cannot allow Ament to escape with the goblet, especially not with you as his captive. Do you understand?"
Legolas' statement of the obvious held an undertone Elladan recognized, and he looked to his twin, seeing the same understanding. If nothing else, it would be better that Tirn die than for Ament to escape with him and the goblet. The Noldo was humbled that the sentry was willing to die for his Prince's desire to aid their human brother. It may not come to that, Elladan responded weakly to his own doubts, hoping they would not lose the sentinel, but eager to reach any decision as the vile cackling continued in the cell behind him.
With a sadly beatific smile, the sentry confirmed, "I understand, your Majesty."
He held the dagger so tightly he could no longer feel his fingers: Ament did not release his grip. He and the Ranger stood as they had before, for they had not shifted since the door had slammed shut, enclosing them in the dark confines of the cell. The leader's blade lay at Strider's throat, gouging the healer's flesh carelessly with each malicious giggle that Ament could not seem to imprison within the effervescent lunacy welling inside him. A Ranger. Another bout of laughter threatened to escape him; however, the leader bit his lip harshly, his teeth bursting through his flesh. He did not feel it. I have none to blame but myself. I was weak to let his story of his parents' death convince me. It is no doubt a lie, too. With his free hand, he groped the rim of the goblet strapped to the belt of his tunic. Human frailty. Fear. Sickness. The threat of mortality. Ament snickered, and then laughed outright when the blade of his dagger scraped across the healer's throat, causing Strider to stiffen against him. No more will these things bother me.
He could not hear the Elves outside, nor did he care. They want Strider. They will hand over the Prince, or concoct some scheme to obtain the Ranger. He knew what they knew: the Ranger would not live to see the next sunrise if the Prince was not tendered, and thus any attempt to save Strider's life would compromise Legolas' life. We will see whom they value more. Knowing Thranduilion, he will likely deliver himself to me to save Strider. Why the Elves would want the Ranger was beyond Ament's understanding, but they wanted him, and that gave the mercenary the advantage. That the Prince had already yielded once to save Strider's life made it seem probable that he would do so again. Whatever scheme they intend to enact, they will find it lacking. They can do naught when they are in this cell, and if I let Jalian live long enough to let them out, the Prince and I will be long gone. Of course, he had not yet informed them of this stipulation, but he expected them to obey. Jalian's collusion he felt assured of, as he convinced himself that the Elves had scared Jalian into obeying their first ruse to lure him out of the cell.
Ament could find little over which to be concerned. His life would soon end, or he would have life immortal. Either way, my vengeance has been exacted. Thranduil's whelp will die and I will avenge Ramlin's death by taking Strider's life if they do not hand the Princeling over.
The memory of his brother's death clung akin to fog to his every thought. His death is nothing to me. He was only a means to an end, an end I will achieve without him. It wasn't to have been this way. Never again, never will I lose someone close to me. Never will I feel this loss. That he had been the cause of this loss, his hatred and ill use of his brother the reason behind his own misery, briefly crossed his mind. Throughout their lives, Ament had been the brains to Ramlin's brawn. He had used his wits to shape his brother from the kind child that had cried in a tree, clinging to his older, wiser brother while their father was shredded by Orc and Warg. He had molded Ramlin until the child had become a man of violence and prejudice. He was only a method to obtaining my revenge. From that early morning that the boy had watched his father slaughtered, Ament had promised himself to find retribution. The object of his hatred had not started as King Thranduil; in fact, Ament had not even blamed the Elven warriors who had misguidedly chased the throng of Warg riders into the edges of Laketown.
It was not until their mother had died that the mercenary had turned to hate to fill the void caused by his parents' death. Penniless and landless, Ament began a life of thievery to support his young sibling and himself. The poverty and constant fear had become ersatz companions to his once loving parents, and in this state of perpetual suffering, Ament had found solace in rearing his young brother as an accomplice to his desperate attempts at security through gain. Ramlin would have died without me. He owes me. Chuckling merrily, the mercenary closed his eyes against the darkness, listening to Strider's labored breathing while he waited, barely afloat in his flood of memory. He owed me. And now the Ranger owes me for his life. As the Princeling owes me for the death of my family. And so, the mercenary had lived his life nurturing within his brother a hatred for the woodland King, merely a symbol of his odium, and only its object because it suited his lust for remuneration.
They drove the Orcs and Wargs into Laketown. Thranduil is to blame for father's death, he told himself. As often as he had told Ramlin and himself this explanation, an account the mercenary believed but had not the evidence to prove true, there had existed the fuel for the loathsome fire Ament needed to incite Ramlin's compliance. However, Ramlin's hatred had simmered until it had boiled over, his perverse craving for inflicting pain and misery had emerged, and Ament had encouraged these traits as another method with which to achieve his goal. It was then that the leader had promised his brother that which they had never had, instilling within the youth the same desires Ament himself held for money and power, and the groundless destruction of those that had them. Thranduil will suffer what I have suffered. He will be destitute, landless, without family, and he will forfeit his immortal life to grief with the hideous torture and death of his beloved son. The phantom rationale underlying the mercenary's desire for revenge against the woodland King did not bother him: Thranduil was a scapegoat and Legolas merely another sacrifice by which Ament might obtain what he believed chance to have taken from him, and the goblet to have been given to him by providence as his chance for recompense.
Strider shifted before him, cutting himself against the dagger unwittingly when his body heaved in spasms of pain from the blistered hole that Ament's torch had burnt through his chest. A Ranger. I wonder why the Elves want him.
"Ament."
So they are ready to deal. Smiling to himself, the leader called genially back to the voice beyond the slab door, "Yes?"
"We have discussed your compromise." A pause ensued before the voice added, "Strider?"
The healer drew a deep breath; Ament could feel the Ranger's chest heave with the effort. "I am here, Elladan. I am well."
You lie again, Strider. You are certainly not well.
"We will trade the Prince for the Ranger. Give us time to retrieve Legolas."
He thought of Doran, where the tall archer was, and why he had not stopped the Elves. Grinning so widely it hurt his face, Ament replied, "You will find the Prince in a cell at the beginning of the tunnel." Or you will run into Doran, who will whittle your bones into new hilts for his swords. "And do not take too long, Elf." He received no reply, but the mercenary knew his words would be heeded.
Sweet Eru. Elrohir helped the Prince remove his tattered leggings. The sticky cloth peeled from Legolas like a second skin, replete with its own supply of silvery blood. How does he even stand? His breeches must contain more blood than he holds within his veins. Elladan and Jalian had left the tunnel, going into the room outside the cell to speak to Ament, and Elrohir could hear his twin talking with the leader and speaking to Estel. This plan may work, if Legolas will have the strength to pull his bowstring, not to mention to aim. When the cloth was finally free of the Silvan's feet, Elrohir helped the Prince stand up straight. Ai Valar. It is just as I saw.
Across each of the archer's slim hips were bruises so dark and distinct that Elrohir could isolate each finger that had gripped Legolas' fair skin. The Noldo had seen this in his vision; he had known how the Prince had clawed at the dirt to remove his body from Ramlin's grip. The evidence of the cruelty nauseated Elrohir: though he had seen it happening, he had still not been prepared for the reality of it. Blood was smeared between the Elf's thighs and down his legs, and though much of the sanguine fluid came from the various cuts that decorated Legolas' lower limbs, the twin knew that the Wood-Elf had been abused brutally, that the Prince was beyond merely ill-treated. He looked to Tirn, catching the sentry's desolation at the state of his charge. Ament did not lie: his brother treated him properly indeed. Perhaps Legolas is right, Elrohir despaired. He may well not survive.
Silently, the sentry handed his leggings to Elrohir, who kindly helped the unsteady Prince to put them on without falling. He could not fathom what courage it had taken the Prince to live this long, to persevere through his torment, much less his confinement in the darkened cell or the altercation with the mercenary in the passageway, but Elrohir knew the Wood-Elf's strength was fading, as was his health. If we do not tend these wounds and get him to Eryn Galen soon, he truly may as well be the bait in this rash scheme instead of Tirn. Another cloud of soil fell from the precariously upheld ceiling, the pattering of clods of dirt and stones falling several feet before them. The completion of his twin's conference with the irrational leader hastened Elrohir's effort to clothe Legolas. I will not have him exposed in front of Jalian. Despite his recent beneficence, he is still the Prince's captor.
Tirn wore a mask of unconcealed melancholy as he pulled on the woodland sovereign's bloodied breeches. Elrohir grabbed the sentry's tunic, hauling it swiftly over Legolas' shoulders ere he began to lace the Wood-Elf's leggings. "Thank you, Elrohir," the Prince whispered sternly.
The tremble of his voice and body belied that archer's fierce expression, and the Noldo could not help but to respond, "You are welcome, my friend." He hesitated. "Legolas, are you certain you can –"
"Yes." His face set in grim resolve, the Wood-Elf bent stiffly to retrieve his sentry's bow and quiver from the tunnel floor. "I am certain. My arrow will fly true."
Nodding, Elrohir added to himself, knowing the Prince's reputation for being one of the best archers in the Greenwood, Though whether it will find Ament or Tirn is yet to be seen.
Elladan and Jalian appeared through the doorway. "We have procured more time. I told him we were fetching Legolas from his cell." His twin poured their last skin of water onto the dirt floor, and Tirn and he smudged the dark soil in a credible facsimile across the sentry's chest and face, mimicking the Prince's bruises fairly well. When Elrohir had helped Legolas position himself in the far, darkest end of the tunnel where the soil and rock were heaped from a previous collapse, he removed some of the Prince's bloodied bandages, taking them to Elladan. After the cloth had been wound around Tirn's form in its various appropriate places, Elladan appraised their work, asking Jalian, "If you did not know him to not be the Prince, do you think you could tell it was not Legolas?"
Thoughtfully, the scarred mercenary glanced between the now clothed Prince and his reproduction. "Naw. Not unless I looked real hard." He pointed to Tirn, "'Ceptin' his hair looks too clean, and he ain't as skinny."
Together the twins pulled the sentinel's ignored braids from his blond hair, mussing the locks in knots and tangles with mud and the blood from the Prince's breeches that Tirn now wore, recreating Legolas the best they could before turning back to Jalian. "We can do nothing about his not being as thin as the Prince, but I doubt Ament will notice in his race to flee from us. What of his hair?"
Shrugging his shoulders, Jalian conceded, "It's better, eh? He'll be fooled, no doubt about it, since boss don't know your friend's with ya and being as its dark in here."
"Then I believe we are ready," Elladan stated.
With a final scrutinizing glance at the sentry to ascertain he would pass as the Prince, and another glimpse at the Prince to make certain he was aware and prepared, Elrohir took Tirn's arm and walked behind Elladan into the room outside the cell. Eru, please let this ploy work.
As pleased and encouraged as the Ranger was that his Elven brothers had miraculously appeared, he worried, Why have they promised Ament the Prince? What plan have they contrived? Above all, the healer hoped that his brothers had a plan, that Legolas had not convinced them to trade his life. Surely they are not so daft. Ament would have the goblet and the means with which to use it should they comply with his demands. His other reasons for seeing the Prince through this ordeal were less concerned with the common good, and more concerned with his own culpability in the Prince's current state; moreover, Strider had made a promise. He would not leave the Elf to die.
The leader's hot breath blew in his ear as Ament spoke, his first words to him since they had been locked inside the cell room again, "A Ranger. You are a good liar, Strider." Not believing the mercenary desired an answer, the young human kept his silence, pushing back against the leader to avoid the blade at his throat when another bout of laughter rocked Ament's body. His voice grew softer as Ament whispered in the Ranger's ear, "But you cannot lie your way out of this, Ranger. The Prince's blood will spill, but not until Thranduil has turned over his riches and lands."
Even with the dagger biting into his flesh, Aragorn contested, "Thranduil will give no ransom, not when his son is dead or dying. You are a fool, Ament, to believe the King would hold Legolas' life in higher regard than his kingdom and people."
With a quick flick of the mercenary's wrist, another gash welled with blood across Estel's skin, the soft flesh under his chin opened in a shallow wound. "You may be right, but my revenge has come either way, has it not? His son will die, and his life will be tainted with grief. And I will still have all of eternity to revel in his anguish."
A thud outside the slab door terminated their conversation. "Ament?"
The mercenary leant his forehead against the back of the Ranger's hair, his voice so low that Aragorn could barely hear the softly spoken words. "Death or immortality. This is the moment of decision, Strider. I will make you a promise: do not try my patience. Do not try to save the Prince and I will spare your and the other Elves' lives. Agreed?"
Aragorn lied without compunction, "Yes."
"Good," the mercenary whispered ere he raised his voice to address those outside. "We are ready. Do you have the Prince?"
"We do. Jalian will open the door."
Shortly thereafter the slab moved, its thick corpus revealing the darkened room outside the cell, lit only by the faint luminescence of the dying torch in the wall stones. His brothers stood with the oblique form of the Prince between them, and Jalian huffed with exertion to keep the trapdoor ajar on the opposite side of the room. Aragorn looked for some sign from his brothers, some indication of their plan, but they avoided his eyes. No, Valar, please do not let them be consenting to Ament's fiats.
"Give us the Ranger," Elladan stated, his hand seemingly holding Legolas from falling to the ground.
Ament sniggered, the blade again jerking across Aragorn's skin in more painful but superficial cuts. "Not until I have the Prince. And not until I am assured that you will not follow us." Although Ament's eyes did not deviate from their focus on the twins, the leader's next comment was obviously pointed at Jalian. "Keep the door open, idiot, or I swear I will hew your hideous head from your shoulders." To the twins he instructed, "You, my friends, will bring the Princeling in here to make our trade." Elladan and Elrohir exchanged an expressionless glance, though to the healer it said much.
They did not expect this. Please do not follow his demands, brothers.
"Come now, before I change my mind."
"No." Tightening his hold on the dazed Wood-Elf, Elladan argued, "We've no reason to relinquish the Prince if you will only entrap us in the cell to meet a slow death."
Guffawing so piercingly that Aragorn flinched, Ament retorted, "You will do as I say if you value the Ranger's life. Besides, Jalian will release you once I have left with our Elfling." When the twins hesitated, the leader twisted his dagger into Estel's throat, the sharp point digging mercilessly into the thin flesh over his jugular vein. "Do not tempt me." Estel could feel the resulting bead of blood dripping down his neck.
Stepping forward as though to halt the leader's motion, Elrohir granted, "Fine. But do not harm the Ranger further."
No, Elrohir, what are you doing? He trusted his brothers implicitly, but their actions confused him, and he yearned to warn them not to trust Jalian, not to place Legolas in this peril. The blade at his throat stayed his objections before he could even phrase them. At Ament's indication, little more than a stinging jab at his neck, the Ranger tread backwards with the leader, allowing enough space for the Noldor to drag the injured Wood-Elf with them into the cell, though they never removed their intense gaze from the lead mercenary. All were ensconced within the cell, save for Jalian, the door still thankfully ajar, when Ament began his snide laughter anew.
"Toss the Princeling this way."
Observing with horror, Aragorn noted the carelessness with which his brothers threw the Wood-Elf to the floor in front of him. They cannot be serious. They cannot trust Jalian or Ament to let us out afterward, and they certainly cannot believe my short years to be worth Legolas' immortal life.
Ament ordered, "Pick him up, Strider. We can't let his Highness lay on the dirty floor, can we?" Flexing his knees in cautious timing with the mercenary's so as not to slit his throat on the blade Ament still held, Estel grasped Legolas' arms, pulling the Wood-Elf from the floor and to his side.
For a brief moment, the Silvan and Ranger's eyes met, and it was then that the healer wondered idly: Is this not Legolas? Abruptly, Aragorn found himself flying towards the waiting, open arms of his Elven brothers, which held him close to them as Ament began to snicker hysterically.
"Thranduilion and I have much to discuss," the leader snarled, his scowl manifest on his barely visible visage as he wrenched the Wood-Elf to him, an act that Aragorn only just turned to see. Bumping his groin against his captive's hip, Ament adjoined, "Or perhaps Ramlin said all that needed to be said?"
It was merely the twin's firm grasp on him that kept the Ranger from leaping forward, heedless of the eventualities, to rip the mercenary's degenerate heart from his chest. He will not suffer their vile touch again. But Elladan and Elrohir's grip did not give, and Aragorn watched with increasing horror as the Prince was pulled from the room forthwith.
I should not have let him do this, the Wood-Elf reprimanded himself as he heard Ament's foul words. He waited in the shadows, his bow drawn, prepared to kill the mercenary – or his sentry should he not be able to fell the leader. I should not have told them I could do this. It was not his abilities that he doubted, nor his physical strength: it was the doubt of his pragmatic mind telling him that it should be him, not Tirn, who placed himself at risk. His sentinel's words had swayed him, and Legolas had been deterred from taking the course Tirn now undertook by the sentry's reasoning; for indeed, a Prince's life was not his own, and Legolas knew he had made the right choice, even as the bile rose in his throat with his perceived disloyalty. Look this way, bastard. I want you to see who has shot the arrow that kills you.
"Shut the door, Jalian." In the back of the Elf's mind, Ament's directions registered, and he feared that the disfigured mercenary would betray them, but foremost in his thoughts were his recognition of the events around him, and the exceptionally faint shadow of the human hauling his sentry into the hallway. A screech, followed by the jolting slam of the slab door, confirmed that Jalian had followed his boss' command.
Their plan had been borne of fear; it had been hastily thrown together in the echo of Ament's deleterious laughter. However, when Ament crossed the threshold, Legolas reveled in the sensation of the fletching of Tirn's arrow running past his fingers as he let the projectile fly. He knew the arrow would embed in the only target available to him in the scant time he was allowed, for the Prince's vision turned unexpectedly dark when the force of the slate door meeting its timber and stone encasing sent reverberations throughout the unstable tunnel, and the ceiling began to collapse around him.