Author: Mirrordance

Title: Broken Alliances

Summary: A man kills an elf and starts a chain of revenge-killings, resulting in a war between the races.  Now, Aragorn and Legolas must face the only enemy that could make them fall in battle: each other.

* * *

Part 2: The Ransom

* * *

      'I think he is waking…'

      The voices around him drifted, and his mind struggled to grasp at their reality, willing himself to focus, though the darkness was strong and forceful, even if it wasn't inviting.

      'I told you he wasn't dead…'

      Legolas wondered dimly if they were talking about him, as he struggled to open his eyes.

      'I don't think he's waking after all,…'

      'He was already out, Sisto, you shouldn't have hit him again…'

      'Shouldn't have hit him? We damn well should have killed him!'

      I think they're talking about me.

      At last he opened his eyes, though the sight before him was much like the darkness.  He looked around him blearily, blinking to clear his vision.  He seemed to be in some sort of a cave, with its sole opening blocked by a curtain of falling water.  He felt stiff, and tried to move until he noticed that his arms were bound over his head, and he hung a small distance off the ground.  He looked up at the metal shackles about his wrists, and followed the length of the iron bands that were clamped along the roof of the cave.

      "What do you want?" he spoke, disliking the sound of his raspy voice, barely recognizing it as his own.

      He watched as his captors surrounded him, their eyes glinting in the darkness.  They were indeed the brothers, only there was just nine of them left, with the eldest dead.

      The man who tried to choke him in anger—Sisto?--was the eldest now, it seemed.  He was the one the others to look to for leadership.

      "We want your blood, elf," Sisto told him maliciously, moving so close that their faces were inches apart, "but we need you alive… for now."

      He drew out a knife from his boot, letting its edge run lightly across Legolas's cheek as he watched the elf's eyes, hoping to find a fear—a satisfaction that Legolas would not give him.

      Sisto grabbed the elf by the hair, taking a fistful near his nape.  Then he ran his blade through the mass none-too-gently, cutting the hair roughly, and some of the skin beneath it, drawing some blood.

      "This is a gift for your father the King," Sisto explained, "We will seek a bargain with him.  My brother's life, for his son's."

      "You do not wish to court my father's wrath anymore than you already have," said Legolas coolly, "He may give you what you want, but I can guarantee you will not live for very long after.  That is… if you even survive the journey to my kingdom in the first place.  It's a perilous road."

      "Thank you for your concern," Sisto snapped, "But you had better wish we survive, and that your kin can read the map we made of your prison, which we will give them when our brother is given amnesty and freed into our custody.  Because if not… well… let's say the rainy season comes in a few days' time-- earlier if you're unlucky-- and then the water thickens and rises with silt from the mountains, and this cave becomes completely submerged.  With you in it."

      Sisto took a piece of ragged cloth from his pocket.  He let his fingers run through them for a moment, before he used it to gag Legolas with.  The cloth smelled of blood.

      "This is drenched in Jaime's blood," Sisto said harshly, "We placed it upon his neck when we tried to save him.  You will smell it, and taste it, until you are freed or dead from drowning.  But I guarantee you will never forget it."

      To his brothers, he said, "Come.  We leave."

      "Sisto…" one of his younger siblings hesitated, "What if he dies before the other elves find him? These waters are freezing, and he will have nothing to eat…"

      "If he dies before they find him then it's only because they are too slow," snapped Sisto, "And they say elves can withstand unimaginable conditions.  Either way, I don't care.  I prefer that he dies, but I would rather free Leon first, and they may want us to prove that the Prince still lives."

      The men headed towards the mouth of the cave, one by one going through the curtain and fading from sight.  The younger one who had complained to Sisto was about to follow, before he paused and turned towards Legolas guiltily.

      "You killed Jaime," he said softly, "But I know of what you had given to our human causes.  It's a shame, that things must turn out this way.  But you should not have expected us to lie still if we knew we could save Leon.  I'm sorry.  Our hands are just as forced by fate as yours must have been, when you killed our brother to save your men."

      "Tristan!" Sisto called to him from outside.

      "I hope they do find you alive," the boy said to Legolas, before nodding at him and walking away.

___

Bree

___

      While Elessar glowed distinctly from any crowd by the strength of his presence, Strider chose to blend in and watch the world with his keen, knowing eyes.  Both roles suited Aragorn like a second skin, each of his names lending a facet to his complex being.

      The Prancing Pony Inn was as wild and busy as ever, and he leaned back with a pipe as Strider, comfortably blending into the scene with his men, taking over a corner table.

      The atmosphere was as jovial as it always was, though he sighted that an argument was brewing at the table next to theirs.

      "It is genuine, I tell you!" one man said, pounding down his fist, his brew spilling from his pint.

      "Do I look like a fool?" yelled his companion, "You'd have had to kill a damned elf to get that pretty prize, no one of them would willingly yield it!"
      "You think I couldn't kill an elf?" said the man proudly, "I did, I did! I took this from him.  And now I'm selling it to you at a bargain prize."

      Aragorn knew the man was lying, by the way his eyes moved.  But the man did look to be carrying a genuine, elf-crafted sword.  Much like the ones that Legolas and his soldiers carried.  But it couldn't be from them, surely.  This crazed drunkard wouldn't even get close.  But the conversation intrigued Aragorn, and he rose from his seat and sauntered over, trailed by his men.

      "A genuine-elf sword, you say?" he asked, "I wish to see it."

      "I do not trust you strange drifters," the man drawled, "get away from me, I'm conducting business here."

      "Did you really kill an elf?" Aragorn asked.

      "You think I couldn't?" exclaimed the man, "I could pick 'em apart in my sleep! I have more than this one sword here.  There's more where this good quality pieces have come from! I killed 'em all!"

      "I wish to buy all of it," Aragorn told me, "for whatever price you name.  But I want to verify if it's genuine first."

      The man's eyes narrowed at Aragorn's shadowed face, mostly obscured by his dark hood.  "You do not look like you have that much money," he said, but offered the sword to Aragorn, "Careful with the merchandise."

      Aragorn studied the blade.  It was in perfect condition, well-kept.  Well-crafted and very, very distinctly elvish.  The other man had been right, when he said that one could not take such a prize piece from an elf, unless one slays the elf.  The idea was giving him a churning feeling.

      "From where did this come?" Aragorn asked in a low voice.

      "I said I killed them elves!" the man yelled impatiently.

      Aragorn pulled back his hood and grabbed the man by the collar, pulling him towards his face, and holding the tip of the sword against the man's neck.

      "S-s-sire…" the man choked, recognizing his King.  The Inn quieted quickly, and stared at Aragorn in awe.

      "Tell me again, that you killed elves to get this," Aragorn said, daring the man to lie to his King.

      "I… I did not…" the man stammered, blinking and trying to regain his senses, trying to vanquish all traces of alcohol from his muddled brain.

      "From where did you get these?" Aragorn asked him, shaking him once, impatiently.

      "S-some b-b-back-country folk.  They came to my store with several of these," replied the man shakily, "With sets of bows and arrows, and elf armor.  I had to clean the blood off it, but it looked like the real thing.  So I bought it from them and brought it here to trade."

      "Who were these folk?" Aragorn asked lethally, thinking about Legolas and his small band of escorts.  It couldn't be.  No small human force could make them fall…

      "There was nine of them," replied the man, "brothers, from how they looked.  They wanted to barter for orc-crossbows, collections which I acquired from the War of the Ring.  They also wanted armor that could fit their physique, and some provisions.  They seemed like they were at the start of a journey."

      Or a war, Aragorn thought darkly.

      The King pushed the man aside, and turned to his soldiers.

      "We pay the mother another visit."

___

Mirkwood

___

      Thranduil looked at the humans with disgust, as he sat mightily upon his throne. 

      "We are Leon's brothers," Sisto said.  The Elf-King's presence was just that even his confidence shook, even if just slightly.

      "I know," Thranduil told him coldly, "And now here you are, to plead his case, surely."

      "You can say that," Sisto said wryly.  He and his brothers were clutching strange, bulky sacks that they refused to yield to the border guards who had brought them to the King's presence.  Confident that they could handle whichever strangeness the humans brought with them, Thranduil allowed the sacks to remain in the hands of the eight brothers.

      "Is that a present for me?" Thranduil asked flatly.

      Sisto almost grinned.  "Now you can truly say that."

      He turned the sack he held upside down, and two decapitated elf-heads hit the ground with a sickening bounce.  His brothers followed suit with the sacks they carried.  Thranduil's eyes widened in rage and he rose threateningly from his throne, as the soldiers about the humans readied their weapons, though held their ground as they waited for an order from the King.

      "We have come to return your soldiers, sire," Sisto said boldly, "And to tell you that unless you give amnesty to Leon, and freedom for us all to leave your Kingdom, and your solemn vow never to pursue us and disrupt our lives, your son will be joining these unfortunates in the… what's that place? The Halls of Mandos, they say?"

      Thranduil's face contorted in a dreadful scowl.  "You are a disgusting, shameful people with no honor."

      "But we still have your son," Sisto pointed out, "Now you don't have much time.  You see, we have arranged conditions such that time is of the essence."

      "Tell me where my son is," Thranduil commanded, threateningly moving close, "And I will ensure that the passing of you and all your brothers will be quick and painless."

      "Your time is running out," Sisto said flatly, drawing out Legolas's hair from his pocket.  He had tied a crude knot about the smooth, golden strands, and tossed it to Thranduil, who caught it cleanly, and held it reverently.

      "Our lives for your son's," Sisto said, "You're a father.  You shouldn't even have to think about it."

      Thranduil's jaw set.

      "Your time is running out," Sisto said again.

      "Fine," said Thranduil, "You get what you want.  But this doesn't end here.  You had better believe I will find a way around you."

      "In the meantime," said Sisto wryly, "Set up those amnesty papers, arrange for our safe passage, and show us that our Leon is alive and well."

      Thranduil gave a barely-perceptible nod to one of his men, then led the way towards the dungeons.  All eight other brothers trailed, as well as the King's wary guard.  Other guards reverently held the heads of their fallen comrades, looking at each other with fear, uncertainty, grief, and great anger.

* * *

      The thick dungeon doors parted, and the sight that greeted the new arrivals was horridly brutal.

      "Leon…" Sisto's voice shook, as his eyes laid upon his brother's body, bloodied and limp and very, undoubtedly dead.  His hands were cut off, and he was stabbed repeatedly.

      "What is this…" Thranduil himself whispered.

      Sisto and his brothers turned to the King angrily, but the King's soldiers needed no orders this time, and held the struggling humans easily.

      "You are vile!" Sisto yelled and cried at the King clawing desperately at those who held him, "Vile! Your son will die, he will! You wait and see! He will die in such a horrid way! He will pay for your crimes! He will pay!"

      "Take them away," Thranduil commanded shakily, holding his son's hair tightly, feeling as if he had already lost him, watching the shouting, struggling, cursing humans as they were overpowered into one of the prisons further along the halls of the dungeon.  Thranduil looked upon the golden strands in his hands, and some of the tips were rusted with blood.  His heart ached, and his eyes blinked at the tears that threatened to spring from them.

      Legolas… My son…

      He turned angrily towards the dungeon guards, "You had better be able to tell me precisely what happened here."

      "We… we do not know, sire," one of them stammered.

      "It is your job to know!" hollered Thranduil, "Who last entered this man's prison?"

      "I did," a smooth, regal voice replied from the entrance to the dungeons.  Lady Amalia, the mother of Lord Rios stepped forward boldly, facing the King.  She showed him that beneath her coat, her regal dresses were bloodied, as were her hands.

      "We thought…" said one of the soldiers, "We thought she had your permission, sire.  She said she did.  And she is the victim's mother…"

      Thranduil grabbed the dungeon guards by their collars and tossed them into the dungeon with the dead human. 

      "Lock yourselves inside it," his voice grated, "And stay there and think of your mistake.  You had better hope I find the inclination to free you in a few days."

      He turned to Amalia angrily, and the woman looked at him with the defiant eyes of a vengeful mother.  "And you…"

      "He deserved to die," said Amalia coldly, "And by my hands, no less."
      "Do you know what you cost me?" Thranduil asked her softly, which was more lethal than his loudest, booming voice.  He fisted his hand about Legolas's hair, and shoved it before her eyes.  "This is all that I have left of my son.  You had better pray we find him alive, because if we do not, I will send you to the executioner's block and bury you with the body of your son's murderer."

      "I did not know…" Amalia said softly, "I did not know…"

___

Arnor

___

      They had traveled and worked through the night, feeling time press against them.  Night had turned to day but it remained distinctly, ominously dark.  Although Aragorn knew for a certainty that the dark clouds and harsh storms to follow them were simply because it was the rainy season, he could not help but feel it lent even more urgency to the air.

      He and his soldiers had come from the mother's house to find that her sons were indeed gone.  The widow was drawn, anxious and profoundly unhappy.  Aragorn got the distinct feeling that her sons had acted without her counsel.  The group left the farm at once, and headed for the path that Legolas and his men were supposed to use to return to Mirkwood.

      Aragorn had acquired almost inhumanly-excellent tracking skills from his years as a ranger, and he knew that once the rains fell, a lot of their clues would vanish with the flowing water.  The clouds over their heads indicated that that time would be soon.

      "A disturbance here," Aragorn murmured, noting the patterns on the soil, as he hopped off his horse and went on all-fours to look at the ground closely.

      "I can smell old blood," frowned one of Aragorn's soldiers, "A lot of it," he added, more quietly, dismounting from his own horse and following his nose.

      "This is where they battled," Aragorn concluded, "And where elves fell," he nodded towards some deep, streaks in the ground, "Drag-marks.  They took the bodies elsewhere."

      The group followed the streaks, and it brought them to a small clearing, where undoubtedly, dried blood rusted the land, and the soil was disturbed, as if something was recently buried beneath it. 

      Or someone, Aragorn thought achingly, at the same time still fervently hoping that he would not find his friend here.

      "Shallow graves," one of the soldiers said disapprovingly.

      Lightning streaked across the sky, lending them more light for a quick moment.  Aragorn noticed more streaks in the soil that he had not looked at before.  Two more drag marks, this time leading out of the burial site, instead of towards it.

      "Looks like they had dragged one body out, instead of in," Aragorn observed, picking up a strand of golden hair.

      Is this yours, Legolas?, he wondered.  The elf was such a dear friend to him, that along the course of their lives together, he felt that somehow, if Legolas were dead, he would know it without a doubt, feel that ache in his heart the moment his mellon passed. 

      He followed this instinct. 

      "We follow these tracks," Aragorn decided.

      "And what of the graves, Sire?" asked Sergio.

      "Whoever lies there is already dead," said Aragorn tightly, "If we do not follow these tracks before the rain washes them away, we will have no culprits, and no survivors.  We will have absolutely nothing."

* * *

      Aragorn at that moment, could not have known how right he was.

      The rain had fallen hours and hours ago, and the curtain of foamy waterfalls covering the cave's mouth had turned into a churning, opaque brown.  The water level had indeed risen, and Legolas was waist-deep in its frigid, wild current.

      It was always dark in this cave, the only indication that time passed (or ran out, however one chose to look at it) was the rise of the water, and that was not comforting at all.

      At least the weight was gradually being removed from his already-skinned wrists as he rose with the water, Legolas thought, his teeth beginning to chatter.  Elves were resilient, but they did not have hides, not that he did not wish for it at the moment; the water was blindingly, numbingly cold, after spending endless hours in it.  It was also thick with mud and silt from the soil of the mountains, and retained the cold more.

      He tested his binds again, tugging at it.  But the humans had known what they were doing when they bound him.  Gritting his teeth in determination, Legolas grabbed the shackles with his fingers and pulled himself up.

      Crying out as his side flared in pain, he released the shackles and splashed back into the water, now fully and miserably wet, with his side hurting and his wrists smarting.

      And the storm still roared outside, and the water only seemed to rise before his eyes, offering him no comfort, or hope. 

* * *

      The rain had washed away at the tracks, but had at least given them a more manageable search-radius.  By now, night had fallen and the rains raged, though Aragorn refused to stop, feeling an urgency that he could not seem to explain, or fully comprehend.

      The trail led the troupe along a river that flowed from a busy waterfall and they paused to take a drink, only to discover that it was practically mud, running with silt from the mountains and miserably thick with it.

      Aragon winced, knowing that his men and horses were weary and cold, and that they could not travel for very long without water.  They must return to town soon, and this he refused to do without finding out what lies at the end of the trail they have been following.

* * *

      Legolas jolted awake.

      I had fallen asleep?, he wondered inanely, surprised.  By now he had ceased to shiver, and he pondered if that was a good thing.

      Probably not.

      His body was leaden, his muscles stiff.  It's as if he had become a part of the cold, had become annexed to it. 

      The water had risen so much while he slept that the roof of the cave was just a forearm away from his head.  He was completely floating now, and there was no weight upon his wrists at all.  He struggled to maneuver his fingers and remove his gag, although to scream for help was undoubtedly useless, since the roaring water of the falls practically guaranteed that the water too, would drown his voice as it intended to drown his body.

      The gag came off, and Legolas blew it away from his face.  He watched as the cloth fell to the water and drifted away from him.  Sisto was right; he would never forget the smell of Jaime's blood.  Hours and hours he had breathed it, without getting accustomed to it.  The air in the dank cave was comparatively fresh and sweet, even if he would soon be deprived of it.

      "Help," he said tentatively, his voice wavering, weak.  Even in his best form, the raging water would keep him from being heard, and more so now.

      "Help!" he yelled, stronger, deciding he would still try, "Help!"

* * *

      Maybe it was not his ears that heard it.

      Aragorn was squatting by the water's edge, pondering where the fading tracks would lead him to next, when he watched a strange piece of cloth being carried by the current past him.  He reached over and took it, noticed the running blood on the cloth.

      He looked at the waterfalls.  Thought he heard something.  He narrowed his eyes as he tried to look past the furiously cascading mud-water.

      Aragorn motioned for one of his soldiers.  "Look at the falls.  Does that look like solid rock to you?"

      "It seldom is, sire," replied the soldier, "Perhaps a cave, behind the water."

      Rising quickly, Aragorn went to his pack, grabbed a rope and removed his coats and outer-most tunic, as well as his heavy sword, tossing it to his stunned subordinates.  They stared at him as he tied the rope about his waist and tossed the other end to Sergio.

      "Sire?" the loyal man asked worriedly.

      "Try not to lose me," Aragorn told him, just before he dived into the water, making the man scramble to get a decent hold of the rope.

* * *

      Aragorn quickly found that the cave was almost completely submerged, and his eyes scanned the narrow breathing space between the water and the roof of the cave.  His eyes rested on the familiar and very stunned face of his friend.

      "Legolas!" he exclaimed.

      "Aragorn?!" replied Legolas, "What are you--?"

      "Never mind," Aragorn said, swimming to his friend's side and looking anxiously at his face, marred by bruises and paled by the cold.  His hair, chopped raggedly and fell in strange layers.  Aragorn held his is face and stared at him intently.

      "What?" Legolas asked breathlessly, wondering if he was dreaming, or dead.

      "It's a new look for you," Aragorn said, trying to make light of the situation.  The elf had been too cold to the touch, and his eyes were dazed and somewhat unfocused.

      Aragorn turned to the shackles.  Reaching below the water, he took a dagger from his boot and tried to cut at it, to no avail.

      "I'm going to need my sword," he said to Legolas, "I have to leave you for a moment."

      Aragorn's heart pumped in anger at his friend's captors when he saw Legolas's face contort in momentary fear, before he masked it again.

      "I will return quickly," Aragorn promised him, "But I need my sword to free you."

      "I know, I know," Legolas said, "I'm sorry to doubt.  I'm afraid you're just a dream and if you go away, I will wonder if you were ever here at all."

      "I'm not a dream," Aragorn promised him, before diving into the water and swimming away.

      You are the reality, Legolas thought, Pulling me away from this nightmare…

      Aragorn returned in good time, although it felt like eternity as the water rose past Legolas's chin, necessitating that he look up just to be able to keep breathing.  Aragorn worked valiantly with his bounds, hacking at them, until they finally snapped free.

      Suddenly without the anchorage, Legolas was pushed backward into the cave by the current, and pulled under.  He'd have drifted further, if Aragorn had not grabbed him by the tunic and dragged him out of the cave and into the banks of the river.

      Hacking and struggling to recover their breaths, the two friends laid beside each other on the banks of the river, as Aragorn's men hastily tried to cover them with coats and blankets.

      The rain fell mercilessly upon them, and the winds whipped.  But Legolas barely noticed it, glad as he was to just be out of the cave, and cold as he was to barely notice anything.

      Aragorn waved off his soldiers and rose to his feet, turning to Legolas who was swathed in a blanket and also more-or-less rising, supported by two men.

      "You found me," the elf said to him wearily, "Have you seen any of my soldiers?"

      "We only found a gravesite," Aragorn admitted.

      "I'm surprised," Legolas said bitterly, "That your barbaric humans even had the decency to even have them buried."

      Aragorn raised an eyebrow at him, taking slight offense before sighing, "You are angry, and hurting.  But I wish you would not say such things."

      Legolas stared at him, nodded.  He tried to push himself to his own feet and shrug off the men who were trying to help him, but his knees buckled beneath him.

      "I have to return to Mirkwood," he said, his voice strained, "Those fools want to strike a bargain with my father.  My life for their brother's freedom.  I have to assure the King that he needn't do such a thing, that I am well."

      "You will not travel yet," Aragorn said insistently, "because frankly, you aren't well.  I will arrange for riders to inform your father that you are safe.  But you stay with me, and you heal before you go gallivanting off."

      Legolas and Aragorn shared a horse, the elf sitting in front of the King, swathed in a wool blanket.  He moved awkwardly, and winced the bounces of the horse, his side protesting the movement.  Behind him, he felt the warmth of Aragorn's body.

      "You're warm," Legolas commented tiredly over the din of the falling rain, "Are you ill? You seem too hot."

      "No," Aragorn replied worriedly, "You're too cold."

      "How do you know?" Legolas teased half-heartedly, sighing.

      He felt Aragorn move closer against him, lending him his warmth wordlessly, and he accepted it gratefully.  In his friend's nearness, Legolas felt comfortable and safe, despite the anger that was raging in his heart for all that had happened to him, and his men.  He was too tired, too overcome by the limitations of his body, to have to do anything about the bitterness poisoning his soul. He let his heavy eyelids close over his dimming vision in deep weariness.

      "Legolas?" murmured Aragorn, feeling him go limp.

      Legolas? Aragorn's heart beat faster, nudging his friend to respond to him.

      "We stop at the nearest shelter we find!" Aragorn said to his men, willing his horse to move faster.

* * *

      Why does this look familiar?

      Legolas opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at the jagged roof of a cave…

      He shot up awake, crying out at the pain in his side from the movement, and found Aragorn beside him.

      ~Calm down,~ Aragorn said to him in elvish, intentionally using the tongue the elf felt most familiar and safe with, ~You are with friends now.~

      Legolas caught his breath, calmed his racing heart. 

      From one cave to another…

      He glanced towards the mouth of the cave, and the rain still fell in the world outside.

      ~I hate caves,~ he commented wryly.

      ~We had to find shelter.  You were so cold," he admitted, "I was worried."

      Legolas noticed that they had placed him as close to the fire as they dared, and that he was covered not only in Aragorn's coats and blankets, but also some that had belonged to the soldiers.

      ~They said that you looked as if you needed it more,~ Aragorn told him, following his eyes to the cloths, ~They respect you.  And admire you.  You are among friends, Legolas.  Say what you will about the humans who had harmed you and your men.  But you are well-loved here.~

      ~I beg you not say such things to me now,~ Legolas said shakily, closing his eyes in remembrance of his fallen comrades, ~I told them not to kill the brothers, they were only fools.  My soldiers lost their lives, following what I had said.  And your fool-humans showed them no mercy, or respect.~

      ~We are not all of us alike,~ Aragorn said to him.

      They fell to an awkward silence.

      ~I wish to return to Mirkwood,~ said Legolas, ~I must ensure my father that I am safe.~

      ~My riders will--~ said Aragorn, until Legolas cut him off.

      ~You don't understand me, Estel,~ he said softly, ~I can't stand to be here.~

      Aragorn watched him intently, his heart constricting, knowing what that last statement had meant.  Legolas could not stand to be here, in this land that held foul memories.  He could not stand to be here with all the bitterness he regarded its people with.  He could not even stand to be here with me.

      Aragorn averted his eyes, hurting. 

      ~I will escort you to Mirkwood myself,~ he told his friend quietly, staring at the fire.

TO BE CONTINUED…