Hail to all reviewers and readers, and many thanks for your wonderful
reviews *bows to all, stooping too low and consequently falling flat on her
face.*
Ok, this is the chapter where things start to happen ... you will find out what that means all in good time, and please forgive me for the slowness of the posting thingy; I'm one of those people who writes in wondrous leaps and bounds of speed – and then trips and breaks her nose. This one is nice and long, and there are a few more of those on the way, as well as some shorter ones – very inconsistent, but they're chapters, so it doesn't really matter, just as long as the content is good ^^. There is more, and I'm off on a posting spree, which will hopefully work, giving this a grand total of eleven chapters to date, with more on the way...
Enough of that, it's time to get on with the story. No prologue, I don't believe in them. Oh – can I just say to any whom are reading my work for the first time that I strongly suggest reading the prequel to this – Here we are – before this one, otherwise some elements of this particular tale will not make sense. It is possible to read this one on its own, it's just that passing comments and references will seem odd otherwise... __________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Three - Whisperings in the Night
Aragorn and Gimli prepared themselves for sleep beside the fire. They would be safe, they knew, as there was going to be a sentry of twelve men surrounding the camp; there was no real need for being uncomfortable that night for fear of having to flee.
Gimli straightened after making what he deemed a fairly reasonable pillow from his elven cloak and looked about him. There were Aragorn's things on the other side of the fire, and the odd tent of the band of Éomer's men who had been selected to go on this small scouting party stood about them. Something was not quite right, though... After some thought he realised that Legolas' gear was missing from the scene.
'Hi! Legolas!'
The Elf turned at being called, observing the Dwarf and quietly waiting to see what he wanted. He held in his hands his bow and quiver, nothing more, and was positioned beneath the boughs of an ancient, gnarled oak.
'What are you doing over there?'
'Going to bed.' With that, Legolas flung his quiver across his shoulders, and bent his knees in a cat-like fashion. He made a single leap and grabbed a branch some ten feet from the ground. He agilely hooked his leg over the bulk of the branch and stood upon it. Gathering a little momentum from the live wood he stood on by pushing his feet down rhythmically, he leapt once more, so that he was now stationed some twenty feet up in the air, sat on what looked to Gimli to be a particularly narrow branch.
'You cannot be serious, laddie,' stated the Dwarf in pure disbelief.
Legolas merely smiled down at him, now sitting with his back pressed against the trunk of the tree, the quiver buckled so that it hung from the branch.
'Gimli,' began the Elf, 'every night we spend upon the ground, I loathe. I hate sleeping on the ground. For me, being in a tree is far better - and safer - than being on the ground.'
'Safer? How can it be safer?' He turned to Aragorn for support, whom had just arrived back from a talk with the captain Éomer had selected to accompany them. The ranger gave him an amused smile.
'I know not, my friend,' came Aragorn's reply. 'He tried to get me to see that side of sleeping in trees many years ago-' Legolas gave a humoured snort at this '-and that experience of spending a week in the healing chambers of the Mirkwood King persuaded me that the ground is a far better option.'
Legolas openly laughed at this, a sound which rang through the small clearing like clear, sharp music.
'Do not blame me, Estel, for your poor sense of balance! And what, exactly, are you implying about my father's healing chambers?'
'Oh, there is nothing wrong with them at all, mellon nin: save the fact that - and I speak from experience - it is much better to be a visitor than an occupant, as your father's head healer can be merciless when it comes to painful injuries.'
A far-off look came to the Elf's eyes as he reminisced about home and the things that they had got up to all of those years ago that had made both of their adars frequently furious with them. 'Still,' Legolas continued, coming back to the present, 'trees are far better for those that have a sense of balance.'
'But how can you be even remotely comfortable on a twig that is too narrow for even a sparrow to perch on? Creatures with two legs belong on the ground, I say, and those with wings in the trees.'
'Ah, Gimli my Dwarven friend,' said the Elf, shuffling a little and pulling up his hood, closing his eyes to the world as he rested his head against the bark. 'That is a very contradictory statement: birds have wings, true, but they also have two legs. Bats have wings, yet they dwell in your beloved caves. By what you say, you ought to be in the open, sleeping on the ground when you are home, because the bat needs the cave. Or should the bat sleep on the ground also, for they too have two legs. Perhaps they should be in the trees, as they have wings like birds. So who is in the wrong? The bat, or the Dwarf? The bird, or the Elf?'
Gimli stood gaping soundlessly for a minute, knowing not how to respond to this, until he finished the debate with: 'Shut up, Pointy-ear.'
There was little that the others could see of the Elf's countenance - which was only the tip of his nose and a small part of his lips. But even with that tiny section of his face visible to the world, it was plain to see that he smiled.
The travelling cloak curled about his legs, echoing all movements that he made. Despite the fact that it did this, no sound was emitted which was likely to betray him to any that cared to listen. And there would be none to listen by the time his men had finished...
Leaving Orthanc had been the hardest bit to accomplish - most of the main exits were flooded with the water of the Isen which those moronic Ents had let loose. All save one, down which Saruman had sent him with the order to lead a company of Wild Men whom had not disbanded after the fall of Isengard and the defeat at Helm's Deep like the rest of their lice-infested kin. No, they had stayed, holding true to their pledge of loyalty to the wizard that had been made through the oath of blood.
And now he paced as he waited for them to do their bloody work in the forest; one thing that he would credit them with was their ability to skulk without being seen through trees, an unbelievably good asset. He was confident that those louts of Éomer would not be aware of their deaths as they approached in the night. Only an Elf would pick up on their movements ... which was why he worried, because none of the scouts knew where the damn Elf was. They had spotted him briefly earlier in the night, but then he had disappeared. Gríma had seen the sharpness of the Elf's hearing at Edoras, and he was not ashamed to say that he fretted about him. In order to achieve what he had been sent to do, the Elf must not be there - at least, he must not be in a state that enabled him to tamper...
He turned his head at the sound of an approaching man. It was the one he had appointed to lead the others as they performed their murderous acts; Gol his name was, or something equally ridiculous. He stood silently before Gríma, fumbling like a moron with the bloodied tip of his knife.
'And?'
At the impatience of the word, the man straightened.
'All of the look-outs are slain. We have taken five hostage, as you wanted.'
'You are sure of this?'
A grin spread over the dirty face. He needed no words to know that it was true.
'You left the three alone?'
The face of the other fell at these words.
'We left two alone; there were not three. No Elf.'
Gríma sighed with exasperation at this, and commanded Gol to tell his men to stay away from the clearing while he worked. This was something that he wished to do in private, and as he stalked through the trees for those few minutes, he had the perfect opportunity to reflect over all that had happened to him, right from his being kicked out of Edoras to leading this rabble of filth that Saruman liked to call his allies.
He came to the edge of the clearing, just out of the range of the dying light of the campfire. Yes, there they were, sound asleep, two of the causes of his suffering ... particularly that Aragorn. Saruman wanted them all alive. That was not going to happen.
He entered the camp now, the fall of his feet making no noise as he crossed the grassy earth to where the fire's embers cast their flickering shadows across two faces engulfed in deep sleep. Soon to become a very deep sleep from which neither would awaken.
He drew the shallow leather pouch from his pocket with gloved hands and undid the string. There it was, sitting at the bottom of the pouch, lining it with its fine powder. The fastest poison that he had ever developed sat in his hand, looking like a fine golden dust in the firelight, innocent and quite beautiful to his eye.
He had come to Aragorn, the very bane of his life. Just to look upon his sleeping form made him sneer and wish to kick out. But no, that would be unwise. Better to just do it while he slept, this thief of his freedom and future.
He bent down over the other man, the pouch extending out over his face. He wanted to see the fear and pain in his eyes as Aragorn's muscles went into intense spasms, wanted to hear his spine snap as his entire back convulsed. His hand began to tip...
It was the creak of a bow being bent that made him stop dead in his actions. Damn. He turned his inclined head a little so that he could see the archer. That small movement was enough for the cold, sharp tip of the arrowhead to cut into the skin of his temple. Deeming it unwise to move his head any further, Gríma allowed his eyes to find the face of the one who had ruined his plans - not that he needed the confirmation of his eyes to know whom it was.
Legolas pinned him with his deep blue eyes, cold despite the fires' heated glow.
'Well. There you are,' sneered Gríma. 'We were wondering where you had disappeared to.'
'Did you not think that the best place to find an Elf in a forest is in the trees? Take back your arm!' The words were softly spoken, little more than a whisper, yet they maintained a threat that dared him to disobey.
Gríma grinned broadly. 'Do you know what this is, that hovers over the face of your friend?'
He boldly straightened himself, pulling away from the arrow a little, his hand still extended, and the arrow keenly following his movement.
Legolas breathed in deeply through his nose. His brow knotted briefly before he replied: 'It is Dragon's-tooth root ground with Holinghail milk.'
Gríma nodded at this. 'So. Are you not going to lower your bow?'
The Elf was caught in a dilemma that he could not resolve. He knew exactly what the two different plants did individually. When added together, he was sure that they would bring about certain death, for he knew that Dragon's- Tooth root when mixed with another toxin could bring about whole different manners of death. But he knew not how it would kill when paired with Holinghail milk, as that particular plant grew in the South and he had had few encounters with it.
If he lowered his bow as the Man wished him to, Aragorn would more likely than not get the powder in his face. His skin would absorb it instantly. He would die with certainty within five minutes, and there was no way it could be washed off.
If he shot Wormtongue, Aragorn would die, as the snivelling rat had the foul powder situated so that, either way, it would land on his skin. They were in a stalemate, a deadlock in which neither could move for fear of the actions of the other.
Here was an interesting situation, as far as Gríma was concerned. There stood the Elf, unable to decide what to do, and here he was, with the Elf in his complete power.
As he looked upon the face of the Elf before him, his lip curled as he took in the altered features of the immortal.
'So,' he began softly, 'it appears that you received my gift.' When the Elf failed to react, he added: 'I wondered what it would do to Elves; from the look of your face, it did not do you much good.'
Legolas inwardly snarled at the sneering mockery, but kept his tongue still and face carefully impassive.
'Tell me,' Gríma continued to jibe, 'did it hurt-' he placed such emphasise upon the adjective that Legolas was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his face emotionless '-did the pain make you scream, O Elven Prince?'
He could feel his left arm begin to tremble slightly with the bow's weight, and he also felt the panic begin to grasp his heart. His muscles were still considerably wasted in his arm and shoulder from the poison's effect which had ripped though his body with the deadly efficiency of a warg's teeth. He cursed himself fervently for not drawing a knife instead. He had not counted upon being caught in this type of situation. Damn this worm!
'Elven Prince,' Gríma repeated to himself, revelling in this moment when he could openly mock the Elf and not get killed for it. 'King Thranduil's only Elven Princeling; you must be very close to your father, being his only son.'
There was something about the way the words were uttered which filled him with cold dread. They chilled, just as the poison had done in its first stage.
'Tell me,' said the worm, leaning forward a little and locking eyes with Legolas. 'How is your father?'
The feigned concern made the hair rise at the nape of Legolas' neck, and he gave a slight shift of unease.
There it was - what he had been aiming for all this time - that slight shift of the Elf's back foot. Such a minuscule movement that told so much. He had found it at last, the weak point in the armour, the place where he could slip his knife into and twist it for the best effect. He needed to push the knife deeper - much deeper - to gain what he wanted.
'My father is perfectly fine, thank you.'
Gríma picked up on the insincerity of the politeness of the words, as he knew he was intended. He raised a hairless brow as he replied with a quiet, questioning and horribly knowing tone which chilled Legolas to the core: 'Really?'
Legolas felt his checks flush, and the slight tremble became a visible shake; as to whether it was from muscle fatigue or pure rage he knew not, neither did he care.
'How came you, slithering snake, to become such a gutless wretch?' His voice shook despite himself, his anger was so intense. Control was slipping away like an evil day into an eviller still night. 'Why so much spite towards us? You alone manufactured your fate, not we. It was your choice to be moronic and side with the wizard who uses you for what you really are: a snivelling, weak little man of absolutely no use to the world save to carry out the foul doings of others more powerful than yourself.'
Aragorn's eyes fluttered open as he heard this exchange, this war of words that took place above his very head.
'That letter you sent back to your father was very touching, may I say.' He had chosen to ignore what the Elf had said for the moment, though it rubbed against his nerves. 'It almost brought a tear to my eye when Saruman read it out; I wonder ... do you think that your father will appreciate the extra gift I put in it for him?' At that he began to laugh, high and cold into the night, his watery eyes glittering with mirth at his words.
The arrow screamed through the air as the bow was flung to the side - it had not even hit the ground when Wormtongue found his wrist was being bent back. It was a lightening-speed reaction that Gríma had expected but not anticipated; he had thought that there would be no way that the Elf could get to him before he could loose the powder over the sleeping man below him. Plainly not, for Legolas had his wrist in an iron grip as he somehow managed to draw the string on the bag with his fingers, even though both hands were occupied. He bent the limb almost to the point of breaking, until Gríma released both a cry into the night and the draw-string bag, which was kicked into the fire by Legolas' boot.
A fist connected briefly with his nose as the restraint on his wrist was lifted, and he was thrown to the ground by the sheer force of the impact. Clearly the strength of the damnable being had not been completely destroyed by his poison.
His mouth was filling with blood from his nose even as the toe of the Elf's boot jarred into his ribs with merciless might. There was nothing that he could do to counter this attack save try to cover his face with his forearms to act as a feeble shield against the pure wrath of the other.
Aragorn could do naught but stare at his companion as he lashed out at the figure on the ground that whimpered like a beaten dog as each kick landed upon his ribs - always his ribs. There was blood all over the shirt of Wormtongue, blood on the ground, on his face, the surest sign of a broken nose. It was all happening too fast for Aragorn to cope with ... and they offered no mercy when the knife was pressed against his throat from behind, his arm being bent back painfully.
The hate fuelled his blows, made them come harder. Such hate as he had never felt in all his millennia. It consumed him terrifyingly, engulfing all sense of the pain he caused the wretch at his feet. He cared nothing for him, this filth that writhed like a beheaded slow-worm, pathetic in his fruitless struggles. He afforded an Orc more mercy than this, and he was fully aware of the fact as he drew back his foot for the eighth time.
He was on the ground before he knew what had happened, the weight of one of the Wild Men pinning him down, the wind out of his lungs. There was the tang of blood in his mouth, and an agony in his left arm that screamed against the pressure of the combined weight of both Elf and Man - but he cared not for it, for what his other sense offered him swallowed his complete attention.
Gimli and Aragorn struggled against their captors, each with knives at their throats, each bound, each as helpless as de-clawed, de-toothed kittens.
The weight atop of him lifted as the Man rose to his feet - he did not remain so, however, for Legolas lashed out with his feet again and struck him at the back of the knee, and Legolas himself abruptly stood, about fifteen other Wild Men beginning to press in in a wide arch.
He picked up his bow - and hesitated. The hesitation allowed two of the Men to charge at him, and his only defence was to clout them round the back of their heads with the piece of wood, holding the bow in his right hand as pain shot up and down his left too intensely for it to take the weapon. The attack had been clumsy, uncoordinated, somewhat like that of an Orc ... but Orcs were incredibly dangerous in numbers, especially when they went for an injured quarry.
Their companions hung back, those with bows not thinking to use them. It was only the frenzied 'KILL HIM!' from Wormtongue that made them move towards him again, some drawing blades, some bows, some picking up random pieces of wood from the earth.
He had to take this from a realistic point of view: there was one of him, sixteen of them. He had not enough arrows to take them all down, and his bow-arm had attained some hurt or other that he knew without even analysing it would render him useless with the Lady's gift. He had knives, but again only one arm would be able to carry through with using such weapons.
He turned his eyes despairingly to his friends' faces. His eyes came to those of Aragorn, and he saw the instruction in them. It was unmistakable in its meaning, yet every sense told him to stay for the sake of his companions. He could not - would not - leave them to their fates. But the side of him that still thought rationally told him to bolt, and to do it now, even as Aragorn shouted the words to him.
Fear for the Elf welled in the two as they watched the ever-closing circle. Legolas had injured himself, Aragorn plainly saw, for he held his left arm up close to his chest, his fingers loose and face paling. Yet he still brandished his bow threateningly, daring any to challenge him again. It was a hopeless situation, though, no matter how hard Legolas wished to resist it, and the pair knew it. Wormtongue had issued the order of death to him, and both knew with a sickening certainty that the Wild Men were only too willing to comply.
Aragorn fixed his gaze firmly with that of Legolas as he looked over to them, desperate plea in his eyes, his fair face knotted with indecision. "Go," he instructed the Elf without words. "Get out while you can." There was the Elven stubbornness which refused to relinquish in Legolas' face, but Aragorn would not allow that to win. He vociferated the words into the night air, clear and strong.
He did it. Legolas' cloak flew out behind him as he ran into the darkness of the trees, but not without calling to them that he would find them. Ten of the Wild Men followed, happy at having a chase before the kill - the ultimate sport for them, while their fellows fetched some of the horses of the doubtlessly dead members of the Riddermark. One of the horses was recognisable as being Arod, who went with about as much will as an eagle into the cage of a songbird.
'Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya, mellon nin.' He uttered the small blessing quietly as he watched the Wild Men notch arrows to strings and give chase, six horsemen plunging after them. Legolas was fast and sure of foot, but these too were Men borne of the forest, hunters by trade and nature.
***
Legolas hared through the trees, hardly daring to believe what he had just done. It felt like the deepest treachery to him, to leave his friends in their plight. He would go back for them, he swore to the Valar that he would.
An arrow embedded itself inches from his head in a tree trunk as he ran past the huge living statue. A sharp change of direction in an attempt to throw the archers a little caused a few curses behind him. The alarming thing was that they were not too far behind him - not far at all.
The thunder of hooves sounded behind him, crazed cries from riders echoing nightmarishly through the forest, baying for blood as the wolf does after the deer.
He cleared a fallen tree with no problem, the leap a simple action for him, landing lightly on the other side. At least that would slow them a bit - but he was mistaken, for horses followed closely behind.
He skidded to a halt with a startled cry as his way was unexpectedly bared by a horse and rider who sprang out before him, the horse rearing in alarm. The rider brandished a sword, giving a triumphant cry to the air, and he spurred his reluctant grey steed to bring Legolas' death.
'Ai! Daro, Arod!' He held out his good hand to the horse in a commanding fashion. 'Daro, mellon nin!'
Arod stopped sharply at his master's instruction, causing his mount to tumble from his back, a sickening crunch as he landed headfirst depicting that his neck had broken.
Legolas ran to his horse, taking the reign with his good hand and struggling into the saddle, which turned out to be a near impossible act to carry through with a broken arm.
'Noro lim, Arod.' He needed not to shout the words to his horse - he knew he would comprehend the meaning just as well in softer speech as he would in a yelled command, and, sure enough, Arod instantly took flight through the trees, arrows raining in at them from an alarming amount of angles.
He knew not where he went. He did know how to get back to the campsite though - the churned ground was a fairly conspicuous indication as to which direction that lay in. He knew with certainty that there would be none at the camp if he were to return - and that was a large "if". As good a steed as Arod was, he was not as swift as one of the Mearas, and it would be one of the Mearas that he would require to out-run the other horses; doubtless they were of Arod's stock. His injury prevented him from felling a few Wild Men with arrows, and the pain was becoming very pronounced with the jolts over the uneven ground, so much so that he saw spots of light dance in his vision. By the Valar, not again...
They drew up alongside the edge of a cliff, the sound of rushing water reaching him above the pound of hooves and the thrum of his blood in his ears. Some fifty feet it was to the raging river below, which churned angrily over rapids as if the whole world had wronged it.
There was a narrower point in the gully that he aimed for, and he rode hard along the edge; Arod would be able to take the leap, he was confident of that. An Elf could also easily take the jump - but not a Man. That would at least lessen the numbers of his pursuers considerably.
An arrow hit his back with such power that it unseated him from the saddle, throwing his body to the ground where he rolled with the fall ... until he rolled no longer, and plunged down past the level of the ground.
***
TRANSLATIONS
Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya, mellon nin. – May the Valar protect you on your journey under the sky, my friend. Mellon nin – My friend Ai! Daro! – Oh! Stop! Noro lim – Ride fast
*Chuckles evilly* Can he survive having a hole in his back? Can he survive a fifty-foot drop? Is he even alive? And what of Aragorn and Gimli? See? I said this was the one where things started to happen: the pleasant drabble about birds and sunny skies is OVER, my friends! Chapter Four – Tethered Souls is hopefully here *crosses fingers and prays to the Valar*. Keep reading, and reviews would be beautiful! Hannon le!
Ok, this is the chapter where things start to happen ... you will find out what that means all in good time, and please forgive me for the slowness of the posting thingy; I'm one of those people who writes in wondrous leaps and bounds of speed – and then trips and breaks her nose. This one is nice and long, and there are a few more of those on the way, as well as some shorter ones – very inconsistent, but they're chapters, so it doesn't really matter, just as long as the content is good ^^. There is more, and I'm off on a posting spree, which will hopefully work, giving this a grand total of eleven chapters to date, with more on the way...
Enough of that, it's time to get on with the story. No prologue, I don't believe in them. Oh – can I just say to any whom are reading my work for the first time that I strongly suggest reading the prequel to this – Here we are – before this one, otherwise some elements of this particular tale will not make sense. It is possible to read this one on its own, it's just that passing comments and references will seem odd otherwise... __________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Three - Whisperings in the Night
Aragorn and Gimli prepared themselves for sleep beside the fire. They would be safe, they knew, as there was going to be a sentry of twelve men surrounding the camp; there was no real need for being uncomfortable that night for fear of having to flee.
Gimli straightened after making what he deemed a fairly reasonable pillow from his elven cloak and looked about him. There were Aragorn's things on the other side of the fire, and the odd tent of the band of Éomer's men who had been selected to go on this small scouting party stood about them. Something was not quite right, though... After some thought he realised that Legolas' gear was missing from the scene.
'Hi! Legolas!'
The Elf turned at being called, observing the Dwarf and quietly waiting to see what he wanted. He held in his hands his bow and quiver, nothing more, and was positioned beneath the boughs of an ancient, gnarled oak.
'What are you doing over there?'
'Going to bed.' With that, Legolas flung his quiver across his shoulders, and bent his knees in a cat-like fashion. He made a single leap and grabbed a branch some ten feet from the ground. He agilely hooked his leg over the bulk of the branch and stood upon it. Gathering a little momentum from the live wood he stood on by pushing his feet down rhythmically, he leapt once more, so that he was now stationed some twenty feet up in the air, sat on what looked to Gimli to be a particularly narrow branch.
'You cannot be serious, laddie,' stated the Dwarf in pure disbelief.
Legolas merely smiled down at him, now sitting with his back pressed against the trunk of the tree, the quiver buckled so that it hung from the branch.
'Gimli,' began the Elf, 'every night we spend upon the ground, I loathe. I hate sleeping on the ground. For me, being in a tree is far better - and safer - than being on the ground.'
'Safer? How can it be safer?' He turned to Aragorn for support, whom had just arrived back from a talk with the captain Éomer had selected to accompany them. The ranger gave him an amused smile.
'I know not, my friend,' came Aragorn's reply. 'He tried to get me to see that side of sleeping in trees many years ago-' Legolas gave a humoured snort at this '-and that experience of spending a week in the healing chambers of the Mirkwood King persuaded me that the ground is a far better option.'
Legolas openly laughed at this, a sound which rang through the small clearing like clear, sharp music.
'Do not blame me, Estel, for your poor sense of balance! And what, exactly, are you implying about my father's healing chambers?'
'Oh, there is nothing wrong with them at all, mellon nin: save the fact that - and I speak from experience - it is much better to be a visitor than an occupant, as your father's head healer can be merciless when it comes to painful injuries.'
A far-off look came to the Elf's eyes as he reminisced about home and the things that they had got up to all of those years ago that had made both of their adars frequently furious with them. 'Still,' Legolas continued, coming back to the present, 'trees are far better for those that have a sense of balance.'
'But how can you be even remotely comfortable on a twig that is too narrow for even a sparrow to perch on? Creatures with two legs belong on the ground, I say, and those with wings in the trees.'
'Ah, Gimli my Dwarven friend,' said the Elf, shuffling a little and pulling up his hood, closing his eyes to the world as he rested his head against the bark. 'That is a very contradictory statement: birds have wings, true, but they also have two legs. Bats have wings, yet they dwell in your beloved caves. By what you say, you ought to be in the open, sleeping on the ground when you are home, because the bat needs the cave. Or should the bat sleep on the ground also, for they too have two legs. Perhaps they should be in the trees, as they have wings like birds. So who is in the wrong? The bat, or the Dwarf? The bird, or the Elf?'
Gimli stood gaping soundlessly for a minute, knowing not how to respond to this, until he finished the debate with: 'Shut up, Pointy-ear.'
There was little that the others could see of the Elf's countenance - which was only the tip of his nose and a small part of his lips. But even with that tiny section of his face visible to the world, it was plain to see that he smiled.
The travelling cloak curled about his legs, echoing all movements that he made. Despite the fact that it did this, no sound was emitted which was likely to betray him to any that cared to listen. And there would be none to listen by the time his men had finished...
Leaving Orthanc had been the hardest bit to accomplish - most of the main exits were flooded with the water of the Isen which those moronic Ents had let loose. All save one, down which Saruman had sent him with the order to lead a company of Wild Men whom had not disbanded after the fall of Isengard and the defeat at Helm's Deep like the rest of their lice-infested kin. No, they had stayed, holding true to their pledge of loyalty to the wizard that had been made through the oath of blood.
And now he paced as he waited for them to do their bloody work in the forest; one thing that he would credit them with was their ability to skulk without being seen through trees, an unbelievably good asset. He was confident that those louts of Éomer would not be aware of their deaths as they approached in the night. Only an Elf would pick up on their movements ... which was why he worried, because none of the scouts knew where the damn Elf was. They had spotted him briefly earlier in the night, but then he had disappeared. Gríma had seen the sharpness of the Elf's hearing at Edoras, and he was not ashamed to say that he fretted about him. In order to achieve what he had been sent to do, the Elf must not be there - at least, he must not be in a state that enabled him to tamper...
He turned his head at the sound of an approaching man. It was the one he had appointed to lead the others as they performed their murderous acts; Gol his name was, or something equally ridiculous. He stood silently before Gríma, fumbling like a moron with the bloodied tip of his knife.
'And?'
At the impatience of the word, the man straightened.
'All of the look-outs are slain. We have taken five hostage, as you wanted.'
'You are sure of this?'
A grin spread over the dirty face. He needed no words to know that it was true.
'You left the three alone?'
The face of the other fell at these words.
'We left two alone; there were not three. No Elf.'
Gríma sighed with exasperation at this, and commanded Gol to tell his men to stay away from the clearing while he worked. This was something that he wished to do in private, and as he stalked through the trees for those few minutes, he had the perfect opportunity to reflect over all that had happened to him, right from his being kicked out of Edoras to leading this rabble of filth that Saruman liked to call his allies.
He came to the edge of the clearing, just out of the range of the dying light of the campfire. Yes, there they were, sound asleep, two of the causes of his suffering ... particularly that Aragorn. Saruman wanted them all alive. That was not going to happen.
He entered the camp now, the fall of his feet making no noise as he crossed the grassy earth to where the fire's embers cast their flickering shadows across two faces engulfed in deep sleep. Soon to become a very deep sleep from which neither would awaken.
He drew the shallow leather pouch from his pocket with gloved hands and undid the string. There it was, sitting at the bottom of the pouch, lining it with its fine powder. The fastest poison that he had ever developed sat in his hand, looking like a fine golden dust in the firelight, innocent and quite beautiful to his eye.
He had come to Aragorn, the very bane of his life. Just to look upon his sleeping form made him sneer and wish to kick out. But no, that would be unwise. Better to just do it while he slept, this thief of his freedom and future.
He bent down over the other man, the pouch extending out over his face. He wanted to see the fear and pain in his eyes as Aragorn's muscles went into intense spasms, wanted to hear his spine snap as his entire back convulsed. His hand began to tip...
It was the creak of a bow being bent that made him stop dead in his actions. Damn. He turned his inclined head a little so that he could see the archer. That small movement was enough for the cold, sharp tip of the arrowhead to cut into the skin of his temple. Deeming it unwise to move his head any further, Gríma allowed his eyes to find the face of the one who had ruined his plans - not that he needed the confirmation of his eyes to know whom it was.
Legolas pinned him with his deep blue eyes, cold despite the fires' heated glow.
'Well. There you are,' sneered Gríma. 'We were wondering where you had disappeared to.'
'Did you not think that the best place to find an Elf in a forest is in the trees? Take back your arm!' The words were softly spoken, little more than a whisper, yet they maintained a threat that dared him to disobey.
Gríma grinned broadly. 'Do you know what this is, that hovers over the face of your friend?'
He boldly straightened himself, pulling away from the arrow a little, his hand still extended, and the arrow keenly following his movement.
Legolas breathed in deeply through his nose. His brow knotted briefly before he replied: 'It is Dragon's-tooth root ground with Holinghail milk.'
Gríma nodded at this. 'So. Are you not going to lower your bow?'
The Elf was caught in a dilemma that he could not resolve. He knew exactly what the two different plants did individually. When added together, he was sure that they would bring about certain death, for he knew that Dragon's- Tooth root when mixed with another toxin could bring about whole different manners of death. But he knew not how it would kill when paired with Holinghail milk, as that particular plant grew in the South and he had had few encounters with it.
If he lowered his bow as the Man wished him to, Aragorn would more likely than not get the powder in his face. His skin would absorb it instantly. He would die with certainty within five minutes, and there was no way it could be washed off.
If he shot Wormtongue, Aragorn would die, as the snivelling rat had the foul powder situated so that, either way, it would land on his skin. They were in a stalemate, a deadlock in which neither could move for fear of the actions of the other.
Here was an interesting situation, as far as Gríma was concerned. There stood the Elf, unable to decide what to do, and here he was, with the Elf in his complete power.
As he looked upon the face of the Elf before him, his lip curled as he took in the altered features of the immortal.
'So,' he began softly, 'it appears that you received my gift.' When the Elf failed to react, he added: 'I wondered what it would do to Elves; from the look of your face, it did not do you much good.'
Legolas inwardly snarled at the sneering mockery, but kept his tongue still and face carefully impassive.
'Tell me,' Gríma continued to jibe, 'did it hurt-' he placed such emphasise upon the adjective that Legolas was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his face emotionless '-did the pain make you scream, O Elven Prince?'
He could feel his left arm begin to tremble slightly with the bow's weight, and he also felt the panic begin to grasp his heart. His muscles were still considerably wasted in his arm and shoulder from the poison's effect which had ripped though his body with the deadly efficiency of a warg's teeth. He cursed himself fervently for not drawing a knife instead. He had not counted upon being caught in this type of situation. Damn this worm!
'Elven Prince,' Gríma repeated to himself, revelling in this moment when he could openly mock the Elf and not get killed for it. 'King Thranduil's only Elven Princeling; you must be very close to your father, being his only son.'
There was something about the way the words were uttered which filled him with cold dread. They chilled, just as the poison had done in its first stage.
'Tell me,' said the worm, leaning forward a little and locking eyes with Legolas. 'How is your father?'
The feigned concern made the hair rise at the nape of Legolas' neck, and he gave a slight shift of unease.
There it was - what he had been aiming for all this time - that slight shift of the Elf's back foot. Such a minuscule movement that told so much. He had found it at last, the weak point in the armour, the place where he could slip his knife into and twist it for the best effect. He needed to push the knife deeper - much deeper - to gain what he wanted.
'My father is perfectly fine, thank you.'
Gríma picked up on the insincerity of the politeness of the words, as he knew he was intended. He raised a hairless brow as he replied with a quiet, questioning and horribly knowing tone which chilled Legolas to the core: 'Really?'
Legolas felt his checks flush, and the slight tremble became a visible shake; as to whether it was from muscle fatigue or pure rage he knew not, neither did he care.
'How came you, slithering snake, to become such a gutless wretch?' His voice shook despite himself, his anger was so intense. Control was slipping away like an evil day into an eviller still night. 'Why so much spite towards us? You alone manufactured your fate, not we. It was your choice to be moronic and side with the wizard who uses you for what you really are: a snivelling, weak little man of absolutely no use to the world save to carry out the foul doings of others more powerful than yourself.'
Aragorn's eyes fluttered open as he heard this exchange, this war of words that took place above his very head.
'That letter you sent back to your father was very touching, may I say.' He had chosen to ignore what the Elf had said for the moment, though it rubbed against his nerves. 'It almost brought a tear to my eye when Saruman read it out; I wonder ... do you think that your father will appreciate the extra gift I put in it for him?' At that he began to laugh, high and cold into the night, his watery eyes glittering with mirth at his words.
The arrow screamed through the air as the bow was flung to the side - it had not even hit the ground when Wormtongue found his wrist was being bent back. It was a lightening-speed reaction that Gríma had expected but not anticipated; he had thought that there would be no way that the Elf could get to him before he could loose the powder over the sleeping man below him. Plainly not, for Legolas had his wrist in an iron grip as he somehow managed to draw the string on the bag with his fingers, even though both hands were occupied. He bent the limb almost to the point of breaking, until Gríma released both a cry into the night and the draw-string bag, which was kicked into the fire by Legolas' boot.
A fist connected briefly with his nose as the restraint on his wrist was lifted, and he was thrown to the ground by the sheer force of the impact. Clearly the strength of the damnable being had not been completely destroyed by his poison.
His mouth was filling with blood from his nose even as the toe of the Elf's boot jarred into his ribs with merciless might. There was nothing that he could do to counter this attack save try to cover his face with his forearms to act as a feeble shield against the pure wrath of the other.
Aragorn could do naught but stare at his companion as he lashed out at the figure on the ground that whimpered like a beaten dog as each kick landed upon his ribs - always his ribs. There was blood all over the shirt of Wormtongue, blood on the ground, on his face, the surest sign of a broken nose. It was all happening too fast for Aragorn to cope with ... and they offered no mercy when the knife was pressed against his throat from behind, his arm being bent back painfully.
The hate fuelled his blows, made them come harder. Such hate as he had never felt in all his millennia. It consumed him terrifyingly, engulfing all sense of the pain he caused the wretch at his feet. He cared nothing for him, this filth that writhed like a beheaded slow-worm, pathetic in his fruitless struggles. He afforded an Orc more mercy than this, and he was fully aware of the fact as he drew back his foot for the eighth time.
He was on the ground before he knew what had happened, the weight of one of the Wild Men pinning him down, the wind out of his lungs. There was the tang of blood in his mouth, and an agony in his left arm that screamed against the pressure of the combined weight of both Elf and Man - but he cared not for it, for what his other sense offered him swallowed his complete attention.
Gimli and Aragorn struggled against their captors, each with knives at their throats, each bound, each as helpless as de-clawed, de-toothed kittens.
The weight atop of him lifted as the Man rose to his feet - he did not remain so, however, for Legolas lashed out with his feet again and struck him at the back of the knee, and Legolas himself abruptly stood, about fifteen other Wild Men beginning to press in in a wide arch.
He picked up his bow - and hesitated. The hesitation allowed two of the Men to charge at him, and his only defence was to clout them round the back of their heads with the piece of wood, holding the bow in his right hand as pain shot up and down his left too intensely for it to take the weapon. The attack had been clumsy, uncoordinated, somewhat like that of an Orc ... but Orcs were incredibly dangerous in numbers, especially when they went for an injured quarry.
Their companions hung back, those with bows not thinking to use them. It was only the frenzied 'KILL HIM!' from Wormtongue that made them move towards him again, some drawing blades, some bows, some picking up random pieces of wood from the earth.
He had to take this from a realistic point of view: there was one of him, sixteen of them. He had not enough arrows to take them all down, and his bow-arm had attained some hurt or other that he knew without even analysing it would render him useless with the Lady's gift. He had knives, but again only one arm would be able to carry through with using such weapons.
He turned his eyes despairingly to his friends' faces. His eyes came to those of Aragorn, and he saw the instruction in them. It was unmistakable in its meaning, yet every sense told him to stay for the sake of his companions. He could not - would not - leave them to their fates. But the side of him that still thought rationally told him to bolt, and to do it now, even as Aragorn shouted the words to him.
Fear for the Elf welled in the two as they watched the ever-closing circle. Legolas had injured himself, Aragorn plainly saw, for he held his left arm up close to his chest, his fingers loose and face paling. Yet he still brandished his bow threateningly, daring any to challenge him again. It was a hopeless situation, though, no matter how hard Legolas wished to resist it, and the pair knew it. Wormtongue had issued the order of death to him, and both knew with a sickening certainty that the Wild Men were only too willing to comply.
Aragorn fixed his gaze firmly with that of Legolas as he looked over to them, desperate plea in his eyes, his fair face knotted with indecision. "Go," he instructed the Elf without words. "Get out while you can." There was the Elven stubbornness which refused to relinquish in Legolas' face, but Aragorn would not allow that to win. He vociferated the words into the night air, clear and strong.
He did it. Legolas' cloak flew out behind him as he ran into the darkness of the trees, but not without calling to them that he would find them. Ten of the Wild Men followed, happy at having a chase before the kill - the ultimate sport for them, while their fellows fetched some of the horses of the doubtlessly dead members of the Riddermark. One of the horses was recognisable as being Arod, who went with about as much will as an eagle into the cage of a songbird.
'Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya, mellon nin.' He uttered the small blessing quietly as he watched the Wild Men notch arrows to strings and give chase, six horsemen plunging after them. Legolas was fast and sure of foot, but these too were Men borne of the forest, hunters by trade and nature.
***
Legolas hared through the trees, hardly daring to believe what he had just done. It felt like the deepest treachery to him, to leave his friends in their plight. He would go back for them, he swore to the Valar that he would.
An arrow embedded itself inches from his head in a tree trunk as he ran past the huge living statue. A sharp change of direction in an attempt to throw the archers a little caused a few curses behind him. The alarming thing was that they were not too far behind him - not far at all.
The thunder of hooves sounded behind him, crazed cries from riders echoing nightmarishly through the forest, baying for blood as the wolf does after the deer.
He cleared a fallen tree with no problem, the leap a simple action for him, landing lightly on the other side. At least that would slow them a bit - but he was mistaken, for horses followed closely behind.
He skidded to a halt with a startled cry as his way was unexpectedly bared by a horse and rider who sprang out before him, the horse rearing in alarm. The rider brandished a sword, giving a triumphant cry to the air, and he spurred his reluctant grey steed to bring Legolas' death.
'Ai! Daro, Arod!' He held out his good hand to the horse in a commanding fashion. 'Daro, mellon nin!'
Arod stopped sharply at his master's instruction, causing his mount to tumble from his back, a sickening crunch as he landed headfirst depicting that his neck had broken.
Legolas ran to his horse, taking the reign with his good hand and struggling into the saddle, which turned out to be a near impossible act to carry through with a broken arm.
'Noro lim, Arod.' He needed not to shout the words to his horse - he knew he would comprehend the meaning just as well in softer speech as he would in a yelled command, and, sure enough, Arod instantly took flight through the trees, arrows raining in at them from an alarming amount of angles.
He knew not where he went. He did know how to get back to the campsite though - the churned ground was a fairly conspicuous indication as to which direction that lay in. He knew with certainty that there would be none at the camp if he were to return - and that was a large "if". As good a steed as Arod was, he was not as swift as one of the Mearas, and it would be one of the Mearas that he would require to out-run the other horses; doubtless they were of Arod's stock. His injury prevented him from felling a few Wild Men with arrows, and the pain was becoming very pronounced with the jolts over the uneven ground, so much so that he saw spots of light dance in his vision. By the Valar, not again...
They drew up alongside the edge of a cliff, the sound of rushing water reaching him above the pound of hooves and the thrum of his blood in his ears. Some fifty feet it was to the raging river below, which churned angrily over rapids as if the whole world had wronged it.
There was a narrower point in the gully that he aimed for, and he rode hard along the edge; Arod would be able to take the leap, he was confident of that. An Elf could also easily take the jump - but not a Man. That would at least lessen the numbers of his pursuers considerably.
An arrow hit his back with such power that it unseated him from the saddle, throwing his body to the ground where he rolled with the fall ... until he rolled no longer, and plunged down past the level of the ground.
***
TRANSLATIONS
Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya, mellon nin. – May the Valar protect you on your journey under the sky, my friend. Mellon nin – My friend Ai! Daro! – Oh! Stop! Noro lim – Ride fast
*Chuckles evilly* Can he survive having a hole in his back? Can he survive a fifty-foot drop? Is he even alive? And what of Aragorn and Gimli? See? I said this was the one where things started to happen: the pleasant drabble about birds and sunny skies is OVER, my friends! Chapter Four – Tethered Souls is hopefully here *crosses fingers and prays to the Valar*. Keep reading, and reviews would be beautiful! Hannon le!