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Chapter Eight
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Sunlight flickered against the tiles of the floor, first this way, and then that. It was hypnotizing. Seated on the edge of the bed with his head resting in his hands, Aragorn stared at the first punitive rays of light as they grew with the dawn. His clothes were fresh, his wound re-bandaged, and his stomach full.
And Legolas was dying in the captivity of a corrupt and psychotic Firstborn.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Aragorn blinked hard and sat up straight. He winced in surprise when he saw Arwen standing at the door. Her feet were silent as she moved forward and settled on the bed beside him, watching him quietly in return.
"Hello," she finally said. Her eyes were soft; full of sorrow. She reached out and ran her fingers across his furrowed brow.
"I'm sorry I am hiding," he whispered.
She shook her head. "You're allowed time."
"Where is Haythalm?"
"Throne hall. He will not leave."
Aragorn stared at the silk between them without seeing it. "I have no idea what else to tell them."
"Perhaps you have told them enough. Perhaps now our focus should remain on future steps."
"Of course, my love, you are right."
"Estel." She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing 'til he finally looked up at her. "I have just come from the House. It is remarkable."
His heart fluttered in his chest at her words. "You think it's real?"
"I am as certain as father is." She wove their fingers together, the traces of an exhausted smile dancing at the corners of her mouth. "As certain as you. I believe it is the win he deserves."
The words sliced through him like iron. He choked back a sinister reply, choosing instead to take a deep breath and pull her hand up for the ghost of a kiss. "I know not what I should do. He told me not to follow him. He said the words. I do not know which of his threats are deadly and which are not; he's playing the entire time and I don't know how to pick it apart or decode or–"
Arwen gently touched his chin. "Stop. You know he meant it. It's a risk every time we ride out, but you've been discreet. Perhaps we continue on a bit further each time."
"I do not want to send any more men," he said. "This should never have been my people's burden to bear. I fear the scout being seen; already I worry that they haven't returned even as rationally I know they've hours yet."
"Thank you for finally agreeing to stay back." Arwen's smile was sad, but still it warmed him as they leaned into each other, eyes closing. Her hand ran tenderly across his chest . "I can tell that you've been thinking too long. You should go to your captains; talk through what's on your mind. I want our bed for rest."
He knew she was lying. But he loved her beyond words for seeming to always know what he needed. He lingered there a moment, breathing her in. "I want you safe," he whispered into the quiet room. "I would that you could leave the city. I want you where you would heal, not fear."
"You do not quite understand the soundness that your heart brings to mine, my love," Arwen's eyes shone with unmistakable truth as she stared at him firmly. "You are my home. Here I find my strength; with you. Now go."
–
Legolas knew first that he could hear a dripping sound. Loud, consistent, repetitive. It drove into his mind enough to penetrate the thick fog that he felt he was lying in, and it prompted him to want to open his eyes and see what it was. For several long and agonizingly slow moments he concentrated solely on doing that; first one eye, then the other.
He was met with the sight of a swooping stone ceiling: grey and grim. He had never seen it before.
As the rest of his body caught up with the instinctual part of his mind, he began to feel the hardness of the ground underneath his back and the sharp, agonizing ache on the left side of his head. His hand shook as he reached up and carefully touched his temple, wincing at the blinding pain that further blossomed at the touch. His fingers came away sticky with drying blood. He stared at them, and then his memories flooded forth.
The Haradrim in his room. Darcyn in chains. The Gondorian imposter. Aragorn.
Aragorn.
Legolas ignored the manic protest his head gave and sat up swiftly. As his eyes took in and relayed every inch of the space he was in, the loudest thought pounding through his skull was the fear that his friend, in his anger, had done something foolish enough to be taken as well.
Once he'd seen everything and no sign of the man, he breathed momentary relief and let his head drop.
He was in a stone room. The ceiling, the ground, and the walls were stone. Not alike the smooth white stone in Minas Tirith, but grey, rough, crystalized stone. It had been chiseled out to resemble some sort of a living space, but without much detailed care. High along the walls there were brackets housing burning torches – few of them, and the light they gave off was dim. The lack of it made Legolas feel even more ill. There were many wooden crates strewn everywhere, stacked or piled high along the walls. Slabs of rock that served as makeshift beds covered with old, tattered blankets were lined along one wall, and against the other there was a long wooden table, strewn with dishes and candles and books. Something nestled among the mess caught the Elf's eye.
Spoons.
Waiting another few moments to let his body rest, Legolas stared at the silverware and took a short mental inventory of his condition. The fire that simmered always under his ribs now smoldered quiet, though still hot. He felt as though constantly he was seeing through a small tunnel. His eyes ached, his head ached, his legs ached, his bones ached. He had never felt such a strong urge to crawl out of his own skin. Gritting his teeth, he moved his hand back to the gash in his head and tried to press away some of the pain.
And then he shook himself, slowly raising himself to his feet as his gaze returned to the pile of spoons. There were seven of them in total. It was obvious that no attention had been paid to them; but something about them stuck out bright in the Elf's mind. He had absolutely no idea why, but he felt the urge to hide one. So he carefully slid one from the edge so as not to disturb the thick layer of dust and walked quickly over to several pots in the corner of the room.
He'd barely straightened from dropping the spoon when he heard the rattle of keys outside of the door. He ignored the way his heart instinctively quickened with fear as he moved back closer to the wall and planted his feet, clenching his jaw and watching the door pull slowly outwards. It spilled in little more light from the hall, but there stood five men with their faces swathed in black cloth. Most of them held tall and darkened spears. Memories of a different time, of long ago perils in distant lands flickered and then cooled to embers in the back of the Prince's mind. First he must try to understand why these men, now, held him locked in a stone cell as he slowly died.
There was a long moment of silence. Two of the men in the back would not meet his eyes; he could see their absolute terror of him as they hid behind their companions and clung to their spears. Legolas felt sorrow tug at his mind. Many of the Easterlings believed the Eldar to be evil; beings who practiced dark sorcery. He wished only to feel anger. But he pitied them.
"We did not know if you would be alive." The man in front spoke first. Legolas could feel his disgust; disgust seeded into hatred. "I'd hoped you would be coiled and stiff by now."
"Who are you?" he asked softly.
The man spit on the ground at his feet. "Speak when spoken to."
Raising an eyebrow, Legolas hoped his voice fell much kinder on their ears than he felt it in his heart. "Please, there is no need for such things. I wish to speak with you and try to come to some sort of an–"
"Do you know why we are here?"
"You?" Every shred of his patience vanished as he stared unflinchingly at the man. "Or him?"
"Us," the man growled.
"He has most likely promised you many things that he does not ever intend to give."
Two of them laughed. "We need nothing from him but access. We wish to feast next to the bones of the King of Gondor. This, his anger will allow."
Legolas had no desire to let any part of his mind or his heart be known to this enemy. And still he knew that his fury shown in every crevice of his face as he refused to back down from the crazed look in the Haradrim's eyes. But even as the words enraged him, they did not surprise him. There had always been unfriendly relations with the Men of the South and the kingdom of Gondor. For many, many years it had been a battle to find a resemblance of peace between the two realms; the alliance between Sauron and the Easterlings during the war of the Third Age had done nothing to advocate that peace. But Aragorn had been trying hard to absolve wounds that he had absolutely no part in creating and make treaty with the people of Harad. He was slowly becoming successful. Many of them traded now with Gondor; often they traveled to stay in the cities. Progress of friendships and alliances had slowly begun to flourish across the far lands. But there would always be seeds, and Darcyn had known exactly the ones to water in order to win the twisted fealty of the Haradrim that still hated the kingdom of men.
Without a single hint of a doubt did he know that Darcyn would die by his hand before this was done. He would not leave Middle-earth before it.
"How long have you known him?" he quietly asked the deluded men staring him down. "If you do not yet know the full extent of the hysteria in his mind it must not have been long."
"How dare you believe you can speak to us this way," was the Haradrim's incensed and oblivious reply. "It takes everything in me not to spear you where you stand."
Legolas could have screamed with frustration. His head and his heart were pounding; he could feel a familiar, persistent ache throughout him making itself known and though it was cool in the stone room, thick sweat had broken out over his brow. "How many are you? Was he speaking truth of his numbers?"
"If the fair one had not told us to let the poison kill you slow, you would be nothing more than worm food now," the man said. "Apparently he would rather you die like an animal. On your own, in a cage."
The sharp words flew from his mouth before he'd even decided to speak. "He keeps me here because he knows that if he met me in battle I would behead him."
The men of Harad laughed. "No. You are here because the fair one asked for you, and you were given."
He knew they goaded him. He refused to entertain them. The agony growing by the moment inside of him pressed him harder to find out what he wanted to know before the surety of darkness took his mind from him once more. "Tell me what he plans to—"
He was interrupted by the sharp press of a spear. It pierced the skin of his throat, sending warm blood down his skin. He stared fixedly into the Haradrim's eyes as the rest of his companions behind him melted back into the shadows of the hall, one by one disappearing into darkness. "If we enter this room before the fair one's returned and find you have finally choked on your blood, I am to bear you to the city. I am to drop your vile and disease-riddled corpse at the King of Gondor's feet." Legolas' heart was cold at the madness in the gaze of the Easterling as they both refused to look away. "I cannot decide if the look on his face would be worth more than whatever the fair one would do with you next if you survive the war. We shall see."
There was no warning of the sharp knee brought up into his ribs. The agony of it snatched him instantly back into darkness.
–
After leaving Arwen, Aragorn was in the throne hall within minutes. The corridor was the fullest it had ever been since he had taken up his reign of Gondor – soldiers and captains gathered around dozens of tables set throughout; talking animatedly and pouring over maps. Haythalm was close to his chair and surrounded by a platoon of his own, giving short, jerking motions of his hands. Stopping several feet away, Aragorn clasped his hands behind his back and stood to fondly watch and wait.
When most of the soldiers had moved their eyes from the captain to their King, Haythalm finally noticed that they were no longer listening. He turned, an irritated look on his face that relaxed into realization as he gave a quick nod. His sharp eyes took in the other man's entire profile in one glance and Aragorn knew that his friend had basically read into the depths of his mind. "My lord."
"Captain." Aragorn returned the nod. "May I have a word?"
Dismissing his men, Haythalm let the King lead him into a quiet space between two columns of stone. The captain's face had softened, but Aragorn spoke quickly before he could. "Do you have anymore questions?"
Haythalm's eye roll was fond. "Yes—how are you?"
Aragorn shoved him lightly, surprised to feel even the urge to smile. "I'm ready for no one to ever ask me that ever again. Has Beregond arrived yet?"
"They are here, yes. Faramir is with them in the first level. They wanted to go out after Anim but I sent Joln to convince them to wait until you had time to speak with them."
"Hannon le." Aragorn's eyes absently watched a small group of his men. The soldiers were sparing; practicing prudent and wide sword moves that had saved their lives not long before. He knew they did their best to rally one another. Nerves swirled almost palpably around the hall – despite the quiet now in the absence of another attack, they were all terrified. Not one of them would soon forget the horror of watching the Elves descend.
He could feel Haythalm studying him intently for a few moments in silence, before he heard his friend draw in a deep breath. "There is something I've wanted to tell you since the letter, but I fear I've failed you simply from hysteria. I… basically."
Folding his arms over his chest and raising a fond brow, Aragorn nodded for him to go on.
"The first soldier; the young man killed on the fields. I'm not sure he died out there."
Aragorn raised his other brow. "Why not?"
Haythalm seemed hesitant to answer; as if he believed his words would be rejected. But Aragorn knew his face was stern and the captain would be aware of his duty to truth. "Because of where he was stationed. He was on watch at the beacon in the forest. Amon Dîn."
Aragorn was still. He stared numbly, now, at his friend. "There are men at the beacon?" he breathed after an unknown stretch of silence.
"I stationed several at each following your coronation. Not for fear of them being needed; simply to be kept after. Eight men. Cordil was one of them."
"I saw those plans." Aragorn's mind and heart raced alike. He turned, almost as if in a daze, his eyes wide as he stared at the soldiers. "I forgot them; that was months… They were as close as the beacon. That close. All this time."
"My lord." Haythalm stepped in front of him, trying to command his attention once more. Aragorn knew a scowl darkened his distracted eyes as he looked back towards his friend. "Don't be foolish. They would not possibly have stayed there."
"How do you know?" Aragorn demanded. "It's truthfully perfect. Think. We would never have thought to look. Scouts would have passed right around–"
"You cannot fit an army inside of a beacon tower," Haythalm glared at him. "Perhaps a fraction at most – not an army. Was he lying about having one?"
Aragorn knew his captain was right before the man had even finished speaking. He ran a hand through his hair, staring furiously at the ground. "Where are they, Haythalm?"
"If I thought they had him at Amon Dîn, I wouldn't be here. I would be there. Please know this, lord."
The words made love catch hard in Aragorn's throat. He smiled quietly at his friend. "I know."
"My lord! King Elessar!"
The shout split through the staggered noise rattling around the throne hall, cutting into Aragorn's heart like glass. His heart leapt up into his mouth as he took off running in the direction of the voice. He met a panting watch-guard near the Doors with Haythalm's shoulder right at his own and from the moment he saw the man's face he knew what he would say. The guard's eyes were full of horror as he gasped out, "They are coming."
Aragorn's heart plummeted at the words despite knowing them nonetheless. He felt Haythalm nudge his arm with his own; a small gesture of support amid the spread of fear. "How many?"
"More, lord." Using his spear to straighten himself, the guard drew in a shuddering breath and stared somberly at his King. "More."
–
TBC
Hope to see you back friends. I'd love to hear from you too.
