Warning: This chapter contains disturbing imagery and makes reference to rape used as a weapon in war.
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I have a difficult task ahead of me and I have dedicated my whole life to it.
– Franz Kafka, The Castle
Chapter 34: That Which Survives
The setting sun lit the scattered clouds in crimson flame and stretched long shadows from the hills across the Pelennor Fields. Leaning over the courtyard wall high upon uppermost level, Dragaer thought that it looked as though dark fingers were reaching across the land to grasp the White City.
It was an appropriate image. They were close now: so close that he had to concentrate to keep the triumph from showing on his face as he moved among the weak, placid fools who populated the city.
A few more hours, he thought. Then he would show them what power truly was. When their city was in flames, their men dead and their women captive, when their children were orphaned and their Queen imprisoned – then he would show Elessar the fruits of his arrogance and force him to drink deep of the cup that he had brewed for himself.
O he would see the King of Gondor on his knees before him. And he would hear Aragorn beg, and he would see him cry, and he would only hurt him all the more. He would bind Aragorn in chains and force him to watch as Dragaer raped his wife before his eyes. Or – a thrill ran through him at the thought – he would bring the Elf Prince and the Queen before him and force him to choose which Dragaer would take.
Dragaer breathed out slowly to compose himself. He was trembling, his heart beating wildly beneath his breast. But softly – he must go softly now. The bird was very nearly in the snare, but a misstep would send it winging out of reach forever. Already there were too many loose threads, too many chanced occurrences that but for Dragaer's quick thinking could have turned disastrous.
First Aragorn had proved frustratingly difficult to corrupt, and frighteningly powerful in his strength of will. Dragaer had never encountered anyone like him, and it had taken all his hard-won skill merely to avoid detection in the palantír. For many months he could only watch as Aragorn maneuvered the seeing stone with enviable ease. It had been long before he dared to insinuate anything to that formidable mind, and longer still before he chanced the suggestion that was foremost in his plan: that Aragorn humble the proud beauty that was his Queen.
The King's reaction to that had been so violent that Dragaer had feared he would abandon the palantír entirely. When at last he had returned Dragaer had held back, afraid of doing anything to drive him away again. He saw the thought to destroy the palantír in Aragorn's mind, and weeks passed before it faded.
Dragaer took the lesson to heart. Powerful though the seeing stone's seduction was, Aragorn was stronger. He could not compel the man directly, and he could not depend upon the palantír's attraction to always overcome his resistance.
He had been close to despair then, and thought that he would have to resort to simple ambush and capture of Aragorn alone. It was an unsatisfactory prospect, for at best it would mean the King's physical pain and death – far less than the complete degradation that his heart craved. Justice required that Gondor's King witness the destruction of his home and people, the death of those he loved and the betrayal of those he trusted – but how?
And then the answer came in the most surprising form of a pale-haired Elven Prince. It was chance that Dragaer saw him in Elessar's mind: chance that he realized the significance of his place in the King's heart. For this love was hidden deep and no less great than the devotion that Aragorn felt for his Queen. And it did not inspire the reactive fury in him when Dragaer cautiously again insinuated the suggestion in his mind.
He had found the chink in the King's armor. And so he began to make his plans anew.
The sun was completely behind the hills and the sky had faded to the colorless hue that precedes nightfall. Dragaer glanced across the courtyard toward the citadel. His guard would have exhausted the search of his room by now, and if he did not think to look for him outside then the Steward's lackeys certainly would. He considered going to meet them indoors and discarded the idea. It would seem more innocent if he were found here enjoying the evening breeze rather than returning from some unknown errand out of his keeper's sight.
He had taken care to appear a model prisoner – or guest, as the supercilious Gondorians called him, thinking he did not see the meaning behind their careful words and 'honor guard'. He had instructed his men to do the same – with leeway granted for the occasional tavern brawl: only natural for sailors on leave. It made it so much easier to evade or distract the guards when he had need to work alone, as when he spoke to Gondor's Queen that afternoon.
And that was the only thing that had gone right since Elessar had taken the armies into Harad. A few minutes more, he was certain, and he would have swayed her completely. The doubts were already in her mind, seeded by evidence of Elessar's crimes, and Dragaer had simply encouraged them to grow. She would condemn her husband on the morrow. He was almost sure of it.
But he would have been much more certain if he had had a few more minutes with her. How had Aragorn returned so soon? When he had last observed the King – carefully, as he was always careful on the rare occasion when he was forced to initiate contact with the palantír – the man had been a wreck. He was consumed by guilt for his assault on the Elf, near delirious from lack of sleep and implanted paranoia. He had not seemed coherent, much less capable of action.
It all stemmed from his failure to carry through the rape of the Elf. If he had done that one action then all his vaunted nobility, his strength of will, his damnably strong convictions of right and wrong would have been stripped away. Mind and spirit would have crumbled, and the shell that remained would have truly belonged to Dragaer. Then it would be a simple matter, as Dragaer first planned, to slip into the camp with a few men and take the Elf's body from him.
But at the crucial moment Aragorn had faltered, and Dragaer had been forced to change tactics. Thank Eru the Elf had left the camp on his own. He had proved fully as stubborn and frustratingly loyal as Aragorn was morally tiresome, but this last assault had proved too much even for him.
His breaking was the only good thing to come out of the entire debacle, Dragaer thought. He had hoped to watch Elessar take him . . . but even that would have been but a pale shadow of the experience of doing it himself.
He had used rape as a weapon before in war – it was an expedient method of both demoralizing the enemy and exercising his own men's pent up energy. Before the War he had taken his fleet on raids all down the southern coast, and it was not long before his was the greatest and most feared of all the pirate crews. It was remarkable how quickly the most stubborn of town governors would cave once you captured his wife or daughter – or even better if you could manage it, his son.
But the Elf was different. Dragaer had never before encountered a being so determined, so strong, so defiant, who kept on fighting even while he was breaking. He found himself playing the scene over again in his mind during odd moments – remembering the sound of his cries, the smell of sweat and rage and the blood that pricked from the ropes at his wrists and ankles and trickled from his body when Dragaer finished. He had not begged. Not once, in the entire encounter, had he pleaded to save himself. But afterward, when unconsciousness took him, Dragaer had seen his tears.
It was not just the physical act that compelled him to indulge in memory. The Elf's beauty made his ruin all the more enjoyable, but Dragaer had lain with handsome men before. No, there was something else: an intangible, indescribable sense that in taking this Elf he had violated the foundations of Middle-earth itself. Elves were beyond the reach of mortal Men: they were immortal, as untouchable and unfathomable as the gods. Dragaer had broken and defiled one of Eru's Firstborn; he had marred the very order of Creation. The earth should quake beneath him, the heavens should split and the Valar should scream vengeance for what he had done.
But they did not. He wondered if this were how Ar-Pharazôn1 had felt, when he first bound one of the Eldar upon his black altar and raised his knife, and waited for the lightning strike that never came. He had taken that which belonged to the gods, and the gods were powerless to stop him. The knowledge intoxicated him, thrilled him, and he wondered: when he took Elessar's queen would she fight as strongly, would her cries fill him with the same triumph, would he feel the power of her life-force course through him as it left her broken body?
Perhaps. But from Aragorn's mind Dragaer knew that her fate was already sealed, and he did not think it could compare with the taking of a truly immortal life. His thoughts turned again to the Prince, Legolas.
He should be dead. That was another loose end, and it made Dragaer more nervous than all the others. When he had first finished with the Elf he had feared that he would not survive the trip up the river to Minas Tirith. He had seemed so pale, and so cold: his flesh heavy as though the spirit that animated it had already fled. Dragaer had breathed a sigh of relief when they got inside the city with him alive, and expected to hear word that night that the Elf had died.
But the word did not come. And as the days passed Dragaer began to fear that it would never come. Somehow, improbably, Legolas survived.
And now Aragorn had returned too soon. Too soon, for Dragaer's army was not yet within the gates, and the evidence against the King, while damning, was still circumstantial. Dragaer was torn, for the trial would be sweet, and he longed to see Elessar stand condemned and reviled before his people. But that trial would end with both Dragaer and the King under arrest, for even Gondor's idiot Steward could not fail to suspect the sea captain who had last had contact with the Elf.
If Legolas awoke and gave testimony then even Dragaer's army might not be swift enough to save him. Vengeance demanded that Elessar see and know what Dragaer had taken from him, but it also rather depended on Dragaer remaining alive to take it.
He had to kill the Elf. He knew that. He had known from the beginning that theirs was a death dance, and if the Prince did not die of his injuries then Dragaer must go to him, cover his mouth and nose and force the breath from his body, silence the beat of his immortal heart.
But the Dwarf was with him. Legolas' death was one thing – it would be accepted, as everyone accepted that he was dying now. But there was no way to make the Dwarf's death seem natural – and the stunted creature would not leave the Elf alone! He had entered the Houses of Healing with the Prince, and though Dragaer's men could not keep a constant watch, by all evidence he had not come out again.
It was infuriating, but for the moment Dragaer had no alternative but to wait and hope that the Elf did not wake. And with each hour that passed they drew nearer to the dawn when the city gates would swing open for the market, and then it would not matter if Legolas survived or not.
Indeed, as the time grew shorter Dragaer found himself hoping that the Elf would survive those few more hours. Not conscious, of course, but alive. He had to catch himself from slipping into fantasies in which he held all three of them captive: Elessar and his Queen and the Prince, and he envisioned the horrors he could inflict upon Aragorn once he had power over the two people dearest to him.
With that sort of leverage he would not have to kill Aragorn for a long, long time. And – his heart quickened at the thought – what if the stories of the Elves were not true? From the tales he had expected Legolas to die, or fade, or whatever they called it, within hours of the rape. He had not originally thought he would survive Elessar's attack, and had counted on the army to provide witnesses to the murder. But Legolas had not died, for all he seemed close to it . . . what if he could recover? He seemed strong enough . . . what if he could be habituated to it? He was immortal. Dragaer could keep him, and use him whenever he wished, forever.
Dragaer drew a shuddering breath and clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. This was folly. He was mad to think it, he knew. The Elf had served his purpose: he must be disposed of. Whatever Dragaer's personal desires he would not risk everything he had worked so hard to achieve for mere lust.
He would kill the Elf at the first opportunity, he promised himself. In the meanwhile . . . boot-heels clattered in the stone courtyard, and he turned to see the imbecile guards of the citadel hurrying toward him. He looked back at the darkening hills and permitted himself one swift, fierce grin, and then composed his features into an expression of innocence.
He was turning back to face the coming guards when something caught his eye. He stopped, and leaning over the courtyard wall he stared down into the shadowy plain. A large party of horsemen was crossing the fields to Minas Tirith.
*~*~*
In the blackness of the void, a spark flared. It flashed down a shining wire and went out. The filament glowed in its wake. Fragmented memory – a gleam of silver, the smell of pine – lit a second filament, and then a third, and winked out. Darkness closed in again, and only the after-image of thought remained, fading purple in the black. So it remained until the next spark.
Tiny, feeble lights they were: near smothered by the dark. But each one strengthened the frail wire upon which it ran, and though it glowed for only an instant, it was always succeeded by another. In their hundreds they wove a spider-web shell around the fractured spirit, capturing it and sheltering it from the crushing void without.
Painfully, desperately, Legolas clung to life. There was no time in the void, and he found shelter in memory far from the agony that had driven him here, hidden deep where the storms of pain, humiliation and betrayal could not reach. As he did so the sparks grew brighter, stronger, and came faster, spinning down their threads, shining in the darkness.
The mirrored top spun over the stone floor, shining, reflecting a dozen dazzling images of the lamps overhead. Legolas held his breath, watching, and when the top finally came to rest he laughed. He ran to pick it up and set it spinning again.
A door opened. "There you are!" a voice exclaimed.
Legolas looked up. "Farothlin, watch!" he said. "See what this does!"
His brother crouched down, balancing on his toes as he examined the top. The whirling mirrors caught flashes of his narrow, high-cheekboned face and dark hair. "Where did you get this?"
"No one was using it."
"Legolas." Farothlin looked stern. Legolas sighed.
"It was in one of the boxes that the Naugrim gave Father. But he wasn't using it, honest."
"Do not say Naugrim, Legolas, it is not polite."
"Father says N –"
"Yes, I know, but you are not him. Would you want Mother to hear you talking like that?"
Legolas scowled. Farothlin caught the top and rose to his feet, cradling it in his hand. Legolas jumped up. "That's mine!"
"I am sure that Father will give you permission to play with it, if you ask him. But now you must come and take your bath. Nurse is looking for you."
Legolas hung back as his brother led the way down the stone passageway. Servants balanced on ladders were stringing fresh green branches through the limbs of the carved stone trees that formed the walls and ceiling. Their pine fragrance filled the air.
Farothlin paused at the corridor junction and looked back. "Come along, Legolas."
Legolas increased his pace fractionally, scuffing his feet along the floor. "I do not wish to take my bath. I have not been outside all day. I am not dirty."
"Oh ho, look who's a cranky one," Farothlin laughed. "Well, if you do not wish to take your bath then I suppose you do not have to. You may stay in your room with Nurse while Tatharin and I –"
"Tatharin is here?" Legolas forgot that he was cross and ran to catch his brother up. "When did he arrive? Why did he not come to see me? How long will he be here?"
"He arrived two hours ago, he did not see you because you were being naughty and hiding from Nurse in the cloakroom, and he will stay for the festival tonight. His patrol must go out again tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? But –"
"Legolas."
Legolas closed his mouth. He was almost six now, and he knew better than to complain about the way that things must be. But that did not stop him from thinking to himself, I wish that Tatharin did not have to go away. I wish that he could captain the Home Guard, like Farothlin, or be Troop Commander, like Sídhan.
"Is Ellomë coming also?"
Farothlin held out his hand, and Legolas took it. "Maybe next year, little leaf. Now come, this is a special day for you."
"Yes," Legolas nodded. "Tonight I am going to stay up to see the lighting of the Winter Tree. Nurse said that I might, if I was good and if I stopped pestering her about it. Which is what I did," he added virtuously.
"Is that so?" Farothlin said. "Very well then, so you shall. But first I must get you ready to see the King."
So it was that forty minutes later Legolas was standing outside of the Elvenking's study, waiting to be admitted. He was dressed in his best green tunic, which fell almost to his knees and was belted at his waist. He liked the belt, which was silver and matched the embroidered vines upon the sleeves and neck of the tunic. He did not like the embroidery, which itched, and he did not like his matching silver circlet at all. It always felt as if it were about to slide down over his eyes, and he could not run or climb while he was wearing it. He had started to protest when Nurse took it out of its case, but just then Farothlin came in to take Legolas to see the King, and Nurse told him to put on his circlet too. He took it out of his pocket and then when Nurse wasn't looking he crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Legolas, and that made Legolas giggle. He did not mind his circlet so much if Farothlin had to wear one too. But he told himself that when he grew up he would not wear it anymore, and no one could make him.
"Prince Legolas," the guard said in a loud voice, holding open the door. He smiled at Legolas. "You can go in now," he whispered.
Legolas smiled back. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly through the door, holding his head very straight to keep the circlet from slipping. Going to see the King was not the same as going to see Father. Legolas had run in and out of Father's study several times that morning to tell him about the decorations that were going up in the Great Hall and in the family rooms, but now he must walk and wait for Cullas to announce him.
All of his princely resolve vanished, however, when he entered the room. Father was sitting in his big chair on the far side of the room and Mother was sitting beside him, and standing around them were Farothlin and Sídhan and –
"Tatharin!" Legolas cried, and ran forward.
His brother laughed and caught Legolas before he could crash into him, swinging him up and around in a circle. "Little leaf, look at you! I think you have grown three inches since I saw you last."
"I can ride Wicka all by myself now," Legolas told him. "And I can climb to the very top of the Big Oak, and I can read stories if someone helps with the long words, and I can write letters if Father draws the shapes for me first – I'll show you!"
He dashed toward Father's desk, but a cough from behind drew him up short. "Legolas, wait," Mother said. "You may show Tatharin later. Now you need to come here."
Legolas turned. "Yes Mother," he said. He walked back to stand next to Tatharin, but Mother motioned him closer. She straightened his circlet, which had fallen askew, and then she tucked a loose tendril of his hair into the braid that went down his back. Legolas suffered these ministrations quietly, but when she licked her thumb and reached to wipe his cheek he squirmed away.
Mother laughed. "All right then," she said. "Now go and stand there," she motioned toward the center of the carpet, "and see if you can greet your King and Queen properly."
"Yes Mother." Legolas walked to a place in front of the two chairs. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head, careful to keep the circlet from slipping off again. "Your Majesties," he recited, "Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Greenwood, at your service."
"Well done," Mother whispered.
"Rise Legolas, and come forward," Father said. He did not smile. He was wearing his 'king face', as Legolas thought of it. Both he and Mother were dressed in their court robes, their winter crowns of holly carefully trimmed so that the sharp leaves did not prick their skin.
Legolas stood and moved to the right side of Father's chair. Farothlin winked at him and then looked straight ahead. He and Sídhan and Tatharin were standing very still next to Mother's chair.
"Tonight is the beginning of the Winter Festival," Father told him. "Do you know what we will do to celebrate?"
"Yes, Sire," Legolas said. "You will light the Tree, and then there will be the feast, and music, and the Solstice Dance through the trees. Nurse said that I might stay up to see the Tree," he added hopefully.
"Yes you shall," Father said. "In fact, little leaf, you will have a very important part to play tonight."
He took a silver knife from under a fold of his robe. Legolas held his breath. It looked just like the daggers that his brothers wore, except that where Tatharin's knife had a little willow tree carved at the base of its handle, and Farothlin's had a tiny harp, this one had a small leaf, curled slightly at the edges.
"Do you remember why we light the Winter Tree, Legolas?"
Legolas concentrated. He wanted very badly to touch the little knife that Father held, to see if it were really as sharp as it looked, and it was hard to think about anything else right now. He put his hands behind his back.
"The Tree tells people that even when it is dark, like now, we still have light. It means that bad things can't reach us here."
"Very good," Father said. Mother beamed.
"We are safe here, but we must fight very hard to keep the bad things away," Father said. "Do you know what they are?"
"Thranduil," Mother said quietly.
Father looked at her. "He already knows," he said.
Legolas did know. "Orcs, and spiders, and bad wolves," he said. "And the goblins in the mountains. Ellomë is fighting those."
"Yes," Father said. He sighed. "This is a very dark time for our people. Some are wondering if we will ever succeed. They think that perhaps we should give up the forest, and go where the evil cannot reach us."
Legolas felt cold. Yesterday, he remembered, a big group of people had come to see Father. They had been very angry about something that Legolas did not understand, but he thought it might have had something to do with the people who had gone missing in the South, the ones that Sídhan's patrols had not been able to find.
"I do not want to give up," Legolas said. "I would miss the Big Oak, and the river, and the mountain. This is our home."
"You are right," Father said. "We have been driven from our homes before, but we will not be now. The Sindar may not understand, but the Avari and the Laiquendi surely do."2
"The forest depends on us," Mother said. "As do the people of Eriador."
Legolas looked from Father to Mother and back again. They expected something of him, but he was not sure what. "I am going to be a warrior like Farothlin when I grow up," he said. "Father, you do not need to go away. Just wait a little while until I am bigger. Then I will help you fight, and we will win."
Father laughed, his big laugh that made Legolas feel warm inside. His brothers laughed also, and Mother smiled, but she was blinking very fast. She looked as if she also wanted to complain sometimes about the way things had to be.
"You are already a great help to me, little leaf," Father said. "And tonight you will be a help to our people. You will give them hope."
Legolas' legs were beginning to tire from standing still for so long. He felt confused, and a little cross from all this talk that he did not understand. "How will I do that?"
"You are too young for a proper coming of age ceremony," Father said. "But your spirit is strong, and your mother and I love you very much. Our people know that. Tonight I want you to stand with me and your brothers in front of them. I am going to give you this knife, your oath blade, and then I will tell our people that as they have given us their loyalty, so we have given them our lives. Everything that I have, every one whom I love, is given to defend them and our land. Young as you are, you will be . . . the ring that seals our troth, so to speak." Father looked at him solemnly for a moment and then one corner of his mouth quirked up. "We will have to think of something else for your coming of age ceremony."
Legolas swallowed. He still didn't understand what Father meant, but it sounded important. He wanted to make Father proud of him. But he was going to be given a knife, a real one, and he knew what that meant. Farothlin had told him what happened when a warrior took a new knife. He felt hollow inside.
In a small voice he asked, "Will it hurt?"
Father opened his arms and Legolas climbed quickly up into his lap. Father wrapped his arms around him and rested his cheek on top of Legolas' head. His hair fell down past Legolas' shoulders, making a soft golden curtain around him. Father took one of Legolas' hands in his and opened it, so that Legolas' little palm was resting in Father's big one.
"I will take the knife and make a small cut, right there," Father touched the pad of skin beneath Legolas' thumb. "It will be very fast, and yes, it will hurt. Then I will touch the flat of the blade to the cut, like this." He pressed the cool metal very lightly against Legolas' hand. "I will say some words, and I will put the knife in its sheath and put it on your belt, here." He touched Legolas' silver belt, just above his right hip. "Afterward I will put a bandage on the cut, and it will not hurt for very long. Do you think you can be brave for me while I do this?"
Legolas bit his lip. He wanted to have the knife, and he wanted to be brave for Father. He wanted to help the people and the forest too, although he was still not sure how this would do that. But he did not want to hurt.
Very quietly he said, "That is what warriors do. They let themselves be hurt, so that other people don't have to be. Is that right?"
Father did not answer for awhile. Legolas could hear his heartbeat, solid against his ear. He could smell the forest scent that always clung to Father's skin and hair, no matter how long he had been indoors. It was quiet.
Then Father took a deep breath. "Yes, little leaf. That is what warriors do. It is what princes do as well."
"Then I will be twice as brave, Father, because I am a prince and I am going to be a warrior too."
In the void, the sheltering cage was growing stronger. Legolas turned from memory, and considered. He could think more clearly now, and the electric light of his thoughts lit the mesh that anchored his faer and illuminated the barrier beyond the void.
The storms there still battered against the emptiness within, and the void was shrinking under the onslaught. There was no time in this place, but that did not change the fact that soon he would be forced to act.
If the fragile web of love and duty that he had woven was not strong enough, it would tear open under the assault and his spirit would escape the circles of Arda, forever. If it were strong enough, then he would be plunged back into the hurricane of pain, sickness and humiliation that he had come here to escape. He did not yet remember what had caused that hurt, but he sensed that the memory was very close to him now.
He could choose to break open the shell now and flee, to Mandos if the Vala would have him, or simply into nothingness. With the howl of the storm growing ever louder, fading into nothing seemed an attractive thing.
Or he could fight, and anchor himself again to a body that felt like an instrument of torture. He still might die that way. Or he might live, trapped until the world's breaking, in agony.
I will live to kill you myself.
The words still glowed hot within him, and they too lit and strengthened the filaments that bound him to this world. But now they were joined by others, words that he had forgotten in his shame.
That is what warriors do. It is what princes do as well.
And he remembered still others, promises made to an Elven Queen who had become mortal, to a Dwarf who stood steadfast at the side of an Elf. And most of all, an oath made to a man who might no longer be worthy of it . . . but that did not alter the bond laid upon an Elven soul.
For the folk of the Great Wood . . . and for the love of the Lord of the White Tree.
In a place without direction, Legolas gathered the strength of his will and turned to face the pain and memory that divided him from the waking world.
The barrier screamed with the voice of one that was breaking in body, mind and soul.
Legolas steadied himself, and then went out to meet it.
*~*~*
Dragaer contrived to be in the citadel entrance hall when the Steward came hurrying down to greet the horsemen's leader. Orders had been given to find shelter and stabling for the newcomers and their horses, and in the confusion of rushing soldiers and servants Dragaer was quite forgotten. He stood quietly, half-hidden behind the curve of the descending staircase, and watched.
The leader was of similar height and build to Faramir. As he stepped forward to grasp the Steward's forearm the hood of his cloak fell back, revealing a finely chiseled profile and shoulder-length black hair. Dragaer gritted his teeth. It was Imrahil, Gondor's southern lord. He had been a thorn in Umbar's side since long before the War, and his network of spies had made Dragaer's task five times harder than it should have been. On two occasions he had been forced to use the palantír, riding out with a search party himself to find and kill scouts that otherwise would have given the entire ruse away.
A dark-haired young woman ran through the crowded hall to throw her arms around the Prince, and Imrahil hugged her tightly in return. She would be his daughter, Lothíriel: the new Queen of Rohan. Dragaer recalled Amdir saying something about her when he had reported the date of the market opening. He seemed to have taken something of a fancy to the girl. Perhaps Dragaer would give her to Amdir and his men for a bit of fun after the battle. It might increase her value as a hostage if Imrahil and Éomer King knew that there were fates other than death that threatened her. And it would be suitable retribution for the headaches that her father had given him.
"I came as quickly as I could," Imrahil was saying. The small party was moving toward the stairs. They spoke quietly, so that Dragaer had to concentrate to pick out their words among the babble of voices around them. "I only regret that I could not bring more."
"Why is that?" Faramir asked. "And why did you come at all? We sent no message to Dol Amroth."
"Did not King Elessar tell you? He is here, is he not?"
"Yes, but . . ." Faramir ran a hand through his hair. "It is complicated. In any case he said nothing to us of Dol Amroth."
"H'm." Imrahil looked searchingly at the Steward. "I think you have much to tell me, nephew. But for my part, three days ago two of my scouts reported that King Elessar had crossed the river into Gondor's territory. He sent word to me that the army was behind him, and that I was to muster my Knights and follow him to Minas Tirith."
"Did you see the army?" Faramir asked. Dragaer held his breath.
"No," Imrahil replied. Dragaer relaxed again. "I had assumed that they took a different route than Elessar and came through Umbar and so north along the river. But if they are not here . . ."
"Why did you think that?" Faramir was frowning.
Imrahil shook his head. "A few days before I received Elessar's message one of my sources in Umbar arrived at Dol Amroth. He was badly burned and near death. He told me that Umbar was burning – that it had been attacked. I sent a full contingent of Knights to aid the battle – I would have gone myself but for my promise to guard the Harad Road. When I found no sign of Gondor and Rohan's army after Elessar passed through I assumed that it had also moved to counter the threat at Umbar."
"Did your source tell you who attacked the city?" They were climbing the stairs now. Dragaer pressed back into the shadows to keep from being seen.
"No," Imrahil said. "It was night, and they carried no flags or banners that he saw. The light of the flames was more of a distraction than an aid – particularly after he was injured. But he did say that they were cloaked, so that he could not see their faces. Whether that was due to their custom or simply so that they would not be identified he did not know."
"The Haradrim wear veils over their faces," Faramir muttered.
"A question of my own, if I may," Imrahil said. They had reached the top of the stairs, and there they paused. "Why did Elessar not lead the army himself to Umbar? He told my scouts that it was Minas Tirith that was under attack. Indeed I had feared that I had left myself without the resources to aid you, for I had only these fifty Knights remaining to come with me. But now I see that I am not needed after all. The city is at peace."
"Captain!"
Dragaer turned, annoyed. He had been so intent upon the conversation above that he had not noticed the approach of one of his own men. Amdir stood close by, staring up at him with wide eyes.
"Captain, what should we do? There are soldiers everywhere – we'll never get past them! We can't get to the gates –"
"Shut up!" Dragaer snapped. He grabbed the man's arm and hustled him away from the stairs, through the press of people and out into the courtyard. He pulled Amdir into an empty guard's station along the citadel wall.
"Nothing has changed," he snarled. "This is only a distraction – more for them than it is for us. Fifty Knights, that's all he's got. Add those to the five hundred guards that Elessar left here. That's all. We've got six thousand horsemen coming. Get those gates open and there'll be nothing that can stop them. It's a city to pillage, just like any other. Odds are you won't even see a soldier in battle, you lily-livered coward."
"But, the plan –"
"The plan is the same! Only difference is, you've got fifty more drinking partners tonight. They'll be fresh on leave, and for every one that wakes up with a hangover in the morning I'll give you a dollar of gold."
Amdir looked uncertain, but kept his doubts to himself. "Yes, Captain."
"Good. Now get the men out there. You can shake off the guards any time. And remember: don't come back to your rooms tonight. They're liable to try arresting us all if they get through the trial tomorrow, but there's no sense giving them the opportunity if they feel ambitious tonight."
"Yes, Captain. We'll wait until dawn, then?"
"Unless you want to try raising the portcullis by yourself."
Amdir gave a weak smile. He had started back toward the citadel when Dragaer called him back. "One more thing. If any of our men – any one – gets drunk tonight I will personally flay your skin from your bones and hang it on the city gate. Understood?"
Amdir gulped. "Yes, Captain."
"All right then. Go."
Amdir went. Dragaer moved in the opposite direction, out into the courtyard. The citadel entrance was flooded with light. People were scurrying over the steps on errands, or else clustering here and there to talk together. He walked away from the noise, out where the grass was soft and cool under his feet.
The night sky was spread with stars. Looking down over the circles of the city, Dragaer saw their fire mimicked in thousands of lantern lit windows. Minas Tirith was a galaxy unto itself, waiting to be conquered.
In the level just below him there stretched the bulky complex of the Houses of Healing, all dim grey stone and shadowy courtyards. He stared at it for several long minutes, and then slowly he began to smile.
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A/N: The flashback to Legolas' childhood is set in the year 2460 of the Third Age, the year that Sauron returned to Dol Guldur. It was a dark time for Mirkwood indeed.
My assertions about Legolas' age and possible siblings are entirely my own and have no basis in canon, although there are some wonderfully well-written essays in support of the idea that he is 'young' for an Elf, perhaps between 500 and 700 years old.
Within the confines of my own fiction I have taken the liberty of suggesting that Thranduil had seven sons, all trained as warriors, of whom Legolas is the youngest. Four of Legolas' brothers are mentioned in this chapter. Two, who are not mentioned, were killed in the Battle of Dagorlad along with Oropher and two-thirds of Mirkwood's army.
Perhaps it is a bit cheeky to suggest that Thranduil matched Fëanor's feat in having seven sons. But if Fëanor, who lived in Aman under the blessing and protection of the Valar, had so many . . . then why not Thranduil, who after all rules Mirkwood, the one place in Middle-earth where I think that Elven immortality cannot be taken for granted.
1 Ar-Pharazôn: The last high king of Númenor, who coveted immortality and led his people to worship Morgoth. The Silmarillion states that he offered human sacrifice, victims taken from the Númenoreans who remained faithful to their friends the Eldar and to Ilúvatar. Whether he actually killed Elves in the same way might be a question for debate . . . but if he did not then I'm certain it was not for lack of trying.
2 Avari: The Unwilling, the name given to the Elves who did not answer the Valar's call.
Laiquendi: The Green-elves, whose history is given in the Silmarillion.