Chapter Ten - Webs of Deceit
Gríma should have said something, he could see that now, and cursed himself avidly for not doing so as he fled up the spiral staircase from the dungeons into the better light. That, at least, was of comfort – the darkness and chill down there had weighed down on him considerably; that spell of Saruman's – whatever it was – certainly had an affect on him. He had been down there for only about twenty minutes, and already felt depression in his heart, though he knew not quite why. Oh, but yes, he did know the reason: that damn Elf!
He had succeeded - in a respect – and failed in another. He had found a weak point that the Elf clearly felt quite strongly about ... but he had failed because he had revealed himself, show his own weakness; if only he had remained composed! Damn that creature!
He came to just outside of Saruman's study, where the old man sat at the ancient table pouring over something, his back to the door. Gríma surveyed him with a cold eye from the doorway, contemplating whether or not he should enter. "No," he thought. "I am in absolutely no mood to bandy with him, even if those were his orders-"
'Do not lurk in the shadows of the door, Gríma – you are not in the Meduseld now.'
Gríma cursed silently at the turned back before arriving at the wizard's side to stand in silence, from which point he could now see exactly what Saruman was looking over. It was a highly detailed map that spanned to the north of Isengard, engulfing Mirkwood and Eriador. He wondered briefly why he looked at this map in particular – it made no sense, as Saruman's focus had always been on Rohan, and after that further south. Why he looked at the wholly uninhabitable largest forest in the whole of Middle-earth he had no idea – surely he was not considering trying to take it?
'Has he broken yet?' The wizard spoke quietly, and there was a tone to his voice that made Gríma look at him with intrigue. It was not quite hope – well, maybe it was...
'I – no, my Lord.'
Saruman drew a line directly across the map with a loaded quill, the nib grating across the parchment as he did so.
'Why?' He did not even look up as he asked the question.
Gríma paused before he answered: 'Because he is - resilient. I think that I have worked into a weakness, and he just-' the memories from those few passed minutes brought back his anger. But he quickly pushed it down again before he continued ... 'comes back with something I am unable to counter.'
Saruman drew another line on the map, and acted as though Gríma was not there beside him, completely ignoring his presence, it seemed, before saying: 'And what else?'
Gríma's feet shuffled slightly. How could he say this without sounding whiny and pathetic?
'He mocks me openly, my Lord.'
When Saruman failed to speak, he continued. 'He says that he has named the skeleton in the dungeon after me, though I know he lies about its meaning.'
'What does he call it?' The voice was soft, oddly soothing. It made Gríma think that he could tell the wizard anything and receive no scorn or mockery.
'"Raeg-Nem."'
Saruman laughed at him, shattering the false sense of security like a rock on frail glass.
'"Raeg-nem" means "crooked-nose". Understandable, really, that he should find it fitting to name the skeleton after you.'
Gríma snarled down at the figure before him as Saruman continued to trace his finger over the inked parchment.
'What would you have me do?' he asked in a pinched voice. 'I hold no control over what he thinks. He does not heed any of my words-'
'What did you find?' Saruman was clearly not willing to listen to him. Why bother?
'Nothing that can be of use, I do not think.' But then he thought for a time, before adding: 'Save that he is very sensitive about his people - scorning them was the only time that I managed to make him angry, to get a reaction. No. He did not like that at all...
'I need more information about him, a little more on his background, family and the sorts.'
Six men ghosted outside the chamber, one of which caught his eye, awaiting the command to go down to the dungeons, to which Gríma gave his single nod of agreement. The Elf would pay dearly for what he had said, very much so, and these faithful six that had come with him from the Meduseld would be more than happy to comply to Gríma's wishes, as they knew exactly what was expected, and enjoyed fulfilling that expectation. Yes, he would pay most dearly for it...
Saruman paused in what he was doing, clearly thinking over what had just been said, before sitting back in his chair and actually looking at Gríma, eye to eye.
'He was of about two-hundred years when the War of the Ring occurred - to you, that means he was a small child - and his father and brother went to fight-'
'A brother? I never knew of such brethren. That is interesting ... very much so...'
A glint of anger passed over the wizard's face at being interrupted, and Gríma fell silent at the glare.
'Two went away, one returned. At the loss of her eldest son, Thranduil's queen grew mad with the grief, and set out with a small party in the dead of night to find her son - but she never got any further than the forest edge, as they were set upon by Orcs. All were killed.
'Teetering on the edge of tipping into the black of total elven grief, Thranduil focused himself almost entirely on his remaining son, and a bondage was formed of exceptional strength, which still stands today.'
Gríma nodded slowly to himself, an idea gradually forming itself in his mind, growing faster and faster, until it was fully fledged in his brain, like a Fell Beast ready to fly out and seek its prey. Family was something that Gríma had never had before in his life – well, not a close-nit one like he had seen in the Meduseld, anyway. But he had a fairly sound idea of how important such relations could be in a tight bond like that, and he imagined that Legolas and his father would be little different. Actually, the fact they were so very, very close in their broken family unit was of extreme importance, and Gríma could see it working to their advantage. How was an entirely different kettle of fish, though...
'There is an Elven lord,' Saruman began spontaneously, 'who lives in the Woodland Realm named Daerahil. He is very close to his Liege and his son...'
He heard the door above the dungeons go. That was the first sign to him that something was amiss: Gríma had just left. Why would he be coming back? That made no sense to him, no sense at all. Then his keen ears picked up on who was coming down the stairs: six separate beings, he was able to decipher, and they were Men, by their talk – not Wild Men, though...
A knot of cold dread seized his stomach. What were those footsteps bringing? He was sure it would not be food or drink; he had, after all, just made Gríma very angry...
The cell door opened, and the six men slipped in, all carrying torches. They entered with deliberate slowness, and Legolas was able to scrutinise each one of them as they looked at him, unnerving grins set on their faces. He knew these men: they had been the ones in the Meduseld, the ones who had tried – and failed – to stop Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli and himself from getting to the King; plainly they had been Wormtongue's bodyguards.
Legolas had never dreamt that he would be disappointed to not see Gríma, but he knew with utmost certainty that he was now, and he gave a sad inward sigh as he accepted what was about to happen to him, something that those eyes full of burning iniquity promised him.
Something glinted dully in the light of the flames on one of the men's hand – was that a knuckleduster? Yes, his eyes confirmed, it was.
"Eru, what have I done to deserve this? Was taunting Gimli about being tossed really that bad?"
'We've come to make your stay here as ... uncomfortable as we possibly can,' one of the men cajoled, simply making himself sound utterly stupid to the Elf as he tried vainly to exercise what he thought was a clever wit.
'Thank you,' Legolas replied flatly. 'I'm sure you'll try your best.'
The man was now standing before him, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. 'Oh don't worry,' came the response. 'We intend to.'
Legolas doubled over, practically choking in pain as a fist was planted with formidable force into the stretch of muscle just below the arch of his ribcage.
'Is that the best you can do?' he gasped. "No, you fool!" the sensible half of his brain screamed. "Don't provoke them, you imbecile!" The other, more stubborn half made his mouth spit in the face of his assailant ... only to be greeted by a foot in the ribs.
"Perhaps provoking them is not such a good idea..."
***
They had had to stop for a brief rest for the sake of the horses, who were in dire need of a break after the constant gallop Aragorn had made them maintain: there was no sense in riding them to death – it was a very long way to Edoras.
Provisions were non-existent, and they had stopped by a stream, deeming water to be more important that food, as they had had nothing to drink for two days, which was way too long. The horses joined them in their session of slaking their thirst, and then wondered out a little to gaze.
'I could do with something,' Gimli commented, and his stomach gave a groan of agreement.
'We have nothing,' Aragorn replied bluntly. 'Not a crumb of lembas, nor a shred of dried meat.'
There came a short pause before: 'What is your plan, Aragorn?'
Aragorn ran a wet hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 'We should reach Edoras within a day. Then we shall alert the King of ... what has occurred. We should be able to ride back out within a couple of hours.'
Gimli nodded in acknowledgement at this, though his mind boiled with questiones... Why had this all happened? Would the King consent to having his men ride out to Isengard again? But there was one, which stood out first and foremost in his thoughts...
'Is he going to be alright?'
Aragorn lifted his grey eyes to those of Gimli. Deep and sorrowful was how Gimli perceived them, their colour reflecting both the mood of the Ranger and his own.
'I wish I knew,' came the response in a restrained voice, restricted by what Gimli knew to be inner pain and worry right from the depths of his very soul. Gimli had a foundation knowledge of how much Legolas meant to Aragorn, and he knew that he could not even begin to imagine how incredible the sense of vexation and ache must be for the Ranger concerning the situation of their friend – Aragorn's best friend. They simply did not know, and that was the worst thing. If he were dead or alive they had not a clue, nor had they any means of attaining that information. Seventy-two years Aragorn had known Legolas, and even in the life of a Dwarf that was a sizable amount of time. To an Elf it was probably little more than the bat of an eyelid, the beat of a heart; though that single blink seemed to have had an incredible effect on Legolas if he were willing to offer his life for the one he had blinked at.
Aragorn leant back forward over the bank of the stream, splashing his face with the cold water before abruptly rising and emitting a shrill whistle, to which the horses responded, plodding over to them loyally. Brego rubbed his face against Aragorn's arm, forcing the Ranger to give slight smile of amusement. Arod, however, stood off from the Dwarf, eyeing him with clear suspicion, and the distrustful look was answered by Gimli's expression. Aragorn chuckled at this spectacle.
'Gimli, my friend, if you do not trust him, then the feeling will be returned ten-fold to you.'
'It is not the horse I distrust, Aragorn: 'tis the evil glint in his eye!'
'Gimli, he is a horse. Horses do not have evil glints in their eyes. Just go up to him, let him know that he has nothing to fear from you.'
The Dwarf eyed him before he began to slowly advance upon the beast – something which Aragorn had thought to be unlikely to happen, but found to be highly amusing. A tentative hand extended out to a slender neck, giving a series of ginger pats.
'There, you see? You are a natural!' Aragorn laughed, especially when he received a scathing glance for his mockery.
'No: the Pointy-ear is a natural – this horse only bares my presence because of the Elf...
'Why did he do it, Aragorn? What is he, to have done that? Insane?'
Aragorn heaved a sigh, absent-mindedly rubbing Brego's muzzle. 'He is many things – mad, certainly. But insane? No, Legolas is not insane.'
Gimli snorted. 'I suppose there is a difference between madness and insanity?'
'Oh yes – it's a very fine line – though Legolas does tend to overstep it occasionally,' he muttered, reflecting upon the various events which had unfolded during Aragorn's more youthful years ... that – interesting – meeting with the cave troll had certainly come about during a small eclipse of insanity over Legolas. True, it had landed both of them in the healing chambers of Orophon's House for a month, but it had definitely been an experience Aragorn was never likely to forget until the day he died. "And probably after that," he reasoned.
He hauled himself into the saddle, Brego shifting under the new weight, magnificent head tossing, ready for whatever his master commanded.
Grudgingly, Gimli set his left foot in the stirrup, which was situated a little too high for his short legs. He grabbed the saddle, dragging himself into the seat with a considerable amount of effort. He was eternally grateful for that saddle and those reins; indeed, had Legolas had his way, then there would not be either a saddle or bridle, and they would have ridden "elf-fashion", and then Gimli would not have had a single chance of escape as they had two nights ago.
Aragorn turned his gaze south-east in the direction of which lay Edoras and, more importantly it seemed at the moment, help. With a nudge from his heels, Brego launched forth with all strength restored and endurance doubled, Gimli and Arod behind them – but only because Aragorn had given the horse of the other a slap to get him moving.
And so they rode, determined not to stop until they had reached their goal.
***
Legolas could see red now, as he looked up briefly at his abusers – that was not through anger, mind, but due to the blood from a cut – or several – that had been made by many a boot, and had managed to trickle down into his eyes.
The operation of his brain had become sluggish with the pain, and now he had resided to wondering whether or not the men would get bored soon and leave him alone, with the hope which forever hung in the back of his mind that someone would kick him a little too hard on the head and he would be able to slip into unconsciousness.
He had tried to curl up in order to spare both his broken arm and injured side, but that had not worked as well as he had thought it would, as he could feel his side burning with re-awakened pain. Whether it bled or not he could not he was not overly sure, but he had made certain that it was not to be seen as a weak point, keeping the level of pain that could be seen in his face to a minimum.
"Look at you!" one half of his brain shrieked. "How could you just let them do this to you? How can you just cringe here like some animal and take it?"
"It hurts too much," the other side protested feebly. "I can't move..."
"You are pathetic! Do you call yourself a warrior? These are MEN you are allowing to break you! Adar would be ashamed if he were to see you now, ashamed!"
Fight back ... could he fight back? Was he capable of that?
"TRY!"
His good hand found the chain, acting almost without his brain as it sealed a tight grip on the metal. Legolas forced his mind and body to cooperate, pushing his agonised muscles into action.
There was a Man coming at him now, from the right, he could hear – that was how they had been doing it, attacking individually, delivering a kick or punch then moving off to make way for another to have his turn.
Legolas heaved his body up to swing on the chain, and thrashed his legs out in a coordinated fashion in the direction of his assailant. He felt the soles of his boots connect with the bone of two shins, and gained considerable satisfaction when he heard a snap, accompanied by a pained cry and dull thud as a body hit the floor.
He pulled himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and looked about him. There was one on the floor, clutching at his legs, and there were a further five, all hanging back, plainly surprised that their sport could stand and indeed strike out.
'You will not touch me again,' Legolas warned, wondering whether or not his words would be heeded. 'Not one of you, or I shall break your legs too.'
There was something about that that seemed to install a small amount of respect into these men – or so it appeared – as the leader of the group said:
'Come – we have don our work here.'
They filed out, two supporting their lame companion, the door slamming behind them and cutting off all light.
Legolas sank down against the wall in his pain, finally able to express it on his face as much as he liked.
TRANSLATIONS
Adar - Father
Gríma should have said something, he could see that now, and cursed himself avidly for not doing so as he fled up the spiral staircase from the dungeons into the better light. That, at least, was of comfort – the darkness and chill down there had weighed down on him considerably; that spell of Saruman's – whatever it was – certainly had an affect on him. He had been down there for only about twenty minutes, and already felt depression in his heart, though he knew not quite why. Oh, but yes, he did know the reason: that damn Elf!
He had succeeded - in a respect – and failed in another. He had found a weak point that the Elf clearly felt quite strongly about ... but he had failed because he had revealed himself, show his own weakness; if only he had remained composed! Damn that creature!
He came to just outside of Saruman's study, where the old man sat at the ancient table pouring over something, his back to the door. Gríma surveyed him with a cold eye from the doorway, contemplating whether or not he should enter. "No," he thought. "I am in absolutely no mood to bandy with him, even if those were his orders-"
'Do not lurk in the shadows of the door, Gríma – you are not in the Meduseld now.'
Gríma cursed silently at the turned back before arriving at the wizard's side to stand in silence, from which point he could now see exactly what Saruman was looking over. It was a highly detailed map that spanned to the north of Isengard, engulfing Mirkwood and Eriador. He wondered briefly why he looked at this map in particular – it made no sense, as Saruman's focus had always been on Rohan, and after that further south. Why he looked at the wholly uninhabitable largest forest in the whole of Middle-earth he had no idea – surely he was not considering trying to take it?
'Has he broken yet?' The wizard spoke quietly, and there was a tone to his voice that made Gríma look at him with intrigue. It was not quite hope – well, maybe it was...
'I – no, my Lord.'
Saruman drew a line directly across the map with a loaded quill, the nib grating across the parchment as he did so.
'Why?' He did not even look up as he asked the question.
Gríma paused before he answered: 'Because he is - resilient. I think that I have worked into a weakness, and he just-' the memories from those few passed minutes brought back his anger. But he quickly pushed it down again before he continued ... 'comes back with something I am unable to counter.'
Saruman drew another line on the map, and acted as though Gríma was not there beside him, completely ignoring his presence, it seemed, before saying: 'And what else?'
Gríma's feet shuffled slightly. How could he say this without sounding whiny and pathetic?
'He mocks me openly, my Lord.'
When Saruman failed to speak, he continued. 'He says that he has named the skeleton in the dungeon after me, though I know he lies about its meaning.'
'What does he call it?' The voice was soft, oddly soothing. It made Gríma think that he could tell the wizard anything and receive no scorn or mockery.
'"Raeg-Nem."'
Saruman laughed at him, shattering the false sense of security like a rock on frail glass.
'"Raeg-nem" means "crooked-nose". Understandable, really, that he should find it fitting to name the skeleton after you.'
Gríma snarled down at the figure before him as Saruman continued to trace his finger over the inked parchment.
'What would you have me do?' he asked in a pinched voice. 'I hold no control over what he thinks. He does not heed any of my words-'
'What did you find?' Saruman was clearly not willing to listen to him. Why bother?
'Nothing that can be of use, I do not think.' But then he thought for a time, before adding: 'Save that he is very sensitive about his people - scorning them was the only time that I managed to make him angry, to get a reaction. No. He did not like that at all...
'I need more information about him, a little more on his background, family and the sorts.'
Six men ghosted outside the chamber, one of which caught his eye, awaiting the command to go down to the dungeons, to which Gríma gave his single nod of agreement. The Elf would pay dearly for what he had said, very much so, and these faithful six that had come with him from the Meduseld would be more than happy to comply to Gríma's wishes, as they knew exactly what was expected, and enjoyed fulfilling that expectation. Yes, he would pay most dearly for it...
Saruman paused in what he was doing, clearly thinking over what had just been said, before sitting back in his chair and actually looking at Gríma, eye to eye.
'He was of about two-hundred years when the War of the Ring occurred - to you, that means he was a small child - and his father and brother went to fight-'
'A brother? I never knew of such brethren. That is interesting ... very much so...'
A glint of anger passed over the wizard's face at being interrupted, and Gríma fell silent at the glare.
'Two went away, one returned. At the loss of her eldest son, Thranduil's queen grew mad with the grief, and set out with a small party in the dead of night to find her son - but she never got any further than the forest edge, as they were set upon by Orcs. All were killed.
'Teetering on the edge of tipping into the black of total elven grief, Thranduil focused himself almost entirely on his remaining son, and a bondage was formed of exceptional strength, which still stands today.'
Gríma nodded slowly to himself, an idea gradually forming itself in his mind, growing faster and faster, until it was fully fledged in his brain, like a Fell Beast ready to fly out and seek its prey. Family was something that Gríma had never had before in his life – well, not a close-nit one like he had seen in the Meduseld, anyway. But he had a fairly sound idea of how important such relations could be in a tight bond like that, and he imagined that Legolas and his father would be little different. Actually, the fact they were so very, very close in their broken family unit was of extreme importance, and Gríma could see it working to their advantage. How was an entirely different kettle of fish, though...
'There is an Elven lord,' Saruman began spontaneously, 'who lives in the Woodland Realm named Daerahil. He is very close to his Liege and his son...'
He heard the door above the dungeons go. That was the first sign to him that something was amiss: Gríma had just left. Why would he be coming back? That made no sense to him, no sense at all. Then his keen ears picked up on who was coming down the stairs: six separate beings, he was able to decipher, and they were Men, by their talk – not Wild Men, though...
A knot of cold dread seized his stomach. What were those footsteps bringing? He was sure it would not be food or drink; he had, after all, just made Gríma very angry...
The cell door opened, and the six men slipped in, all carrying torches. They entered with deliberate slowness, and Legolas was able to scrutinise each one of them as they looked at him, unnerving grins set on their faces. He knew these men: they had been the ones in the Meduseld, the ones who had tried – and failed – to stop Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli and himself from getting to the King; plainly they had been Wormtongue's bodyguards.
Legolas had never dreamt that he would be disappointed to not see Gríma, but he knew with utmost certainty that he was now, and he gave a sad inward sigh as he accepted what was about to happen to him, something that those eyes full of burning iniquity promised him.
Something glinted dully in the light of the flames on one of the men's hand – was that a knuckleduster? Yes, his eyes confirmed, it was.
"Eru, what have I done to deserve this? Was taunting Gimli about being tossed really that bad?"
'We've come to make your stay here as ... uncomfortable as we possibly can,' one of the men cajoled, simply making himself sound utterly stupid to the Elf as he tried vainly to exercise what he thought was a clever wit.
'Thank you,' Legolas replied flatly. 'I'm sure you'll try your best.'
The man was now standing before him, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. 'Oh don't worry,' came the response. 'We intend to.'
Legolas doubled over, practically choking in pain as a fist was planted with formidable force into the stretch of muscle just below the arch of his ribcage.
'Is that the best you can do?' he gasped. "No, you fool!" the sensible half of his brain screamed. "Don't provoke them, you imbecile!" The other, more stubborn half made his mouth spit in the face of his assailant ... only to be greeted by a foot in the ribs.
"Perhaps provoking them is not such a good idea..."
***
They had had to stop for a brief rest for the sake of the horses, who were in dire need of a break after the constant gallop Aragorn had made them maintain: there was no sense in riding them to death – it was a very long way to Edoras.
Provisions were non-existent, and they had stopped by a stream, deeming water to be more important that food, as they had had nothing to drink for two days, which was way too long. The horses joined them in their session of slaking their thirst, and then wondered out a little to gaze.
'I could do with something,' Gimli commented, and his stomach gave a groan of agreement.
'We have nothing,' Aragorn replied bluntly. 'Not a crumb of lembas, nor a shred of dried meat.'
There came a short pause before: 'What is your plan, Aragorn?'
Aragorn ran a wet hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 'We should reach Edoras within a day. Then we shall alert the King of ... what has occurred. We should be able to ride back out within a couple of hours.'
Gimli nodded in acknowledgement at this, though his mind boiled with questiones... Why had this all happened? Would the King consent to having his men ride out to Isengard again? But there was one, which stood out first and foremost in his thoughts...
'Is he going to be alright?'
Aragorn lifted his grey eyes to those of Gimli. Deep and sorrowful was how Gimli perceived them, their colour reflecting both the mood of the Ranger and his own.
'I wish I knew,' came the response in a restrained voice, restricted by what Gimli knew to be inner pain and worry right from the depths of his very soul. Gimli had a foundation knowledge of how much Legolas meant to Aragorn, and he knew that he could not even begin to imagine how incredible the sense of vexation and ache must be for the Ranger concerning the situation of their friend – Aragorn's best friend. They simply did not know, and that was the worst thing. If he were dead or alive they had not a clue, nor had they any means of attaining that information. Seventy-two years Aragorn had known Legolas, and even in the life of a Dwarf that was a sizable amount of time. To an Elf it was probably little more than the bat of an eyelid, the beat of a heart; though that single blink seemed to have had an incredible effect on Legolas if he were willing to offer his life for the one he had blinked at.
Aragorn leant back forward over the bank of the stream, splashing his face with the cold water before abruptly rising and emitting a shrill whistle, to which the horses responded, plodding over to them loyally. Brego rubbed his face against Aragorn's arm, forcing the Ranger to give slight smile of amusement. Arod, however, stood off from the Dwarf, eyeing him with clear suspicion, and the distrustful look was answered by Gimli's expression. Aragorn chuckled at this spectacle.
'Gimli, my friend, if you do not trust him, then the feeling will be returned ten-fold to you.'
'It is not the horse I distrust, Aragorn: 'tis the evil glint in his eye!'
'Gimli, he is a horse. Horses do not have evil glints in their eyes. Just go up to him, let him know that he has nothing to fear from you.'
The Dwarf eyed him before he began to slowly advance upon the beast – something which Aragorn had thought to be unlikely to happen, but found to be highly amusing. A tentative hand extended out to a slender neck, giving a series of ginger pats.
'There, you see? You are a natural!' Aragorn laughed, especially when he received a scathing glance for his mockery.
'No: the Pointy-ear is a natural – this horse only bares my presence because of the Elf...
'Why did he do it, Aragorn? What is he, to have done that? Insane?'
Aragorn heaved a sigh, absent-mindedly rubbing Brego's muzzle. 'He is many things – mad, certainly. But insane? No, Legolas is not insane.'
Gimli snorted. 'I suppose there is a difference between madness and insanity?'
'Oh yes – it's a very fine line – though Legolas does tend to overstep it occasionally,' he muttered, reflecting upon the various events which had unfolded during Aragorn's more youthful years ... that – interesting – meeting with the cave troll had certainly come about during a small eclipse of insanity over Legolas. True, it had landed both of them in the healing chambers of Orophon's House for a month, but it had definitely been an experience Aragorn was never likely to forget until the day he died. "And probably after that," he reasoned.
He hauled himself into the saddle, Brego shifting under the new weight, magnificent head tossing, ready for whatever his master commanded.
Grudgingly, Gimli set his left foot in the stirrup, which was situated a little too high for his short legs. He grabbed the saddle, dragging himself into the seat with a considerable amount of effort. He was eternally grateful for that saddle and those reins; indeed, had Legolas had his way, then there would not be either a saddle or bridle, and they would have ridden "elf-fashion", and then Gimli would not have had a single chance of escape as they had two nights ago.
Aragorn turned his gaze south-east in the direction of which lay Edoras and, more importantly it seemed at the moment, help. With a nudge from his heels, Brego launched forth with all strength restored and endurance doubled, Gimli and Arod behind them – but only because Aragorn had given the horse of the other a slap to get him moving.
And so they rode, determined not to stop until they had reached their goal.
***
Legolas could see red now, as he looked up briefly at his abusers – that was not through anger, mind, but due to the blood from a cut – or several – that had been made by many a boot, and had managed to trickle down into his eyes.
The operation of his brain had become sluggish with the pain, and now he had resided to wondering whether or not the men would get bored soon and leave him alone, with the hope which forever hung in the back of his mind that someone would kick him a little too hard on the head and he would be able to slip into unconsciousness.
He had tried to curl up in order to spare both his broken arm and injured side, but that had not worked as well as he had thought it would, as he could feel his side burning with re-awakened pain. Whether it bled or not he could not he was not overly sure, but he had made certain that it was not to be seen as a weak point, keeping the level of pain that could be seen in his face to a minimum.
"Look at you!" one half of his brain shrieked. "How could you just let them do this to you? How can you just cringe here like some animal and take it?"
"It hurts too much," the other side protested feebly. "I can't move..."
"You are pathetic! Do you call yourself a warrior? These are MEN you are allowing to break you! Adar would be ashamed if he were to see you now, ashamed!"
Fight back ... could he fight back? Was he capable of that?
"TRY!"
His good hand found the chain, acting almost without his brain as it sealed a tight grip on the metal. Legolas forced his mind and body to cooperate, pushing his agonised muscles into action.
There was a Man coming at him now, from the right, he could hear – that was how they had been doing it, attacking individually, delivering a kick or punch then moving off to make way for another to have his turn.
Legolas heaved his body up to swing on the chain, and thrashed his legs out in a coordinated fashion in the direction of his assailant. He felt the soles of his boots connect with the bone of two shins, and gained considerable satisfaction when he heard a snap, accompanied by a pained cry and dull thud as a body hit the floor.
He pulled himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and looked about him. There was one on the floor, clutching at his legs, and there were a further five, all hanging back, plainly surprised that their sport could stand and indeed strike out.
'You will not touch me again,' Legolas warned, wondering whether or not his words would be heeded. 'Not one of you, or I shall break your legs too.'
There was something about that that seemed to install a small amount of respect into these men – or so it appeared – as the leader of the group said:
'Come – we have don our work here.'
They filed out, two supporting their lame companion, the door slamming behind them and cutting off all light.
Legolas sank down against the wall in his pain, finally able to express it on his face as much as he liked.
TRANSLATIONS
Adar - Father