OK, a brief summery ... Aragorn and Gimli hit Edoras, and Gríma makes his –
ahem – delivery. That is all I shall say about that, you'll have to read it
to find out the whole thing.
I can't safely say when chapter fourteen will be up, I haven't even mapped it out properly in my head yet, and I have dead-lines flowing out of my ears, so some time in the next week, fingers crossed.
Right, then – please read, review, and, first and foremost, enjoy!
Chapter Thirteen – Unheeded Pleas
They heard shouts from within as they approached the city, and they did not have to slow for the gates to open. Intrigued eyes followed them as they rode up the road, but they did not react to them. Aragorn and Gimli had far more important things in mind than that.
Théoden jogged down the steps to the Meduseld, clearly notified of their return by the guard that trotted behind him, confusion and concern engraved into his features, Éomer and Gandalf beside him.
'What is it? Where are the rest of the men?'
Aragorn dismounted Brego, walking over to the King with a heavy, urgent stride, looking into each pair of eyes of the most important men in the whole of Edoras.
'Events have unfolded that I will not discuss out here in the open.'
Théoden analysed the face of the interestingly older yet younger looking man keenly. He could see in those pools of grey that there was indeed some thing very, very wrong – he could see fear within those depths, something that he had certainly never held witness to before.
'Come.'
They made their way back up the steps with speed – though this haste was not nearly enough, Aragorn thought. Legolas could be dying for all they knew, and they were just sauntering along!
The Hall of the King was completely vacant of any other life save for the lady Éowyn, whom was situated at a table, a dress in her lap that she was currently tailoring for herself. Aragorn nodded his head briefly to her as she looked up at him, not willing to let it span to more than that courteous gesture.
Théoden ascended to his throne, the very picture of regal majesty, power radiating from him like water from a spring.
'Tell me.'
Aragorn laid into the story, opening the floodgates to release the torrent of information, right from the confrontation between Legolas and Gríma to their ride for the city. He left no detail untold lest it be of import, regretfully informing the King and his nephew of the demise of most of the riders sent with them on this scouting party.
Silence dominated the room when Aragorn had ceased his account of events, in which Éomer pressed his face into his hands at the loss of so many good men. Gandalf remained silent, awaiting some word, some point at which he felt it wise to step in. He did not doubt that there would be such a time in the very near future...
'We must ride out to reclaim them, my King,' Aragorn finally blurted. He was tired of standing around, taking no action. 'We must save Legolas!'
Théoden raised his green eyes to those of the Ranger. Their expression was difficult for Aragorn to read, but he found the apprehensive knot in his gut tighten at their hardness.
'No.'
'No?'
'I will not send out more to be killed – enough blood has been spent of late.'
Aragorn was not hearing this. It was not possible – Théoden refusing to save Legolas? Why?
'Legolas was willing to give his life to aid your people – he nearly did, and you will not save him in return?'
'It is not worth sacrificing the lives of a hundred to recover a corpse,' Théoden responded quietly. 'Nor those other five, before that argument is put forward,' he added sternly.
Aragorn resented that comment deeply. Passing Legolas off as being dead was something that he had not done himself, though the thought that he could be lost had niggled at him for some time. But his Elven name was Estel, and he would be damned if he were not to live up to it.
'But you swore to the Elves that if they ever required aid you would give it,' interjected Gimli, rising from the chair he had perched himself on. 'Surely that covers their prince?'
'I say again, Master Dwarf,' the King retorted, voice firm and harsh, 'I will not risk a hundred lives for one!'
'You have suffered losing a child yourself, Théoden King,' said Gandalf quietly, coming forward for the first time in this argument. 'You do not wish for Thranduil to go through that, do you?'
'Of course I do not wish it upon him! I wish that upon no one! But I am not going to do this! Please understand the position I am in,' he more or less pleaded. 'I cannot do this for someone whom is not even of my charge.'
Théoden felt guilt nudge at his mind at the sight of Lord Aragorn, standing there with his jaws so firmly clamped together that he swore he could hear the teeth cracking. The man was clearly much aggrieved by his refusal, but he really could not afford to lose more men for the sake of a single life – it was a regrettable circumstance, but one which could not be helped.
The grey cloak flurried out behind him as Aragorn took his leave, not a word parting his lips as he exited through the heavy doors, his feet taking him to the stables. He heard two other pairs of feet following him, and he knew to whom they belonged, so he did not turn. It did surprise him, however, when he was flanked by two people of considerably shorter stature than himself, the slap of their feet highly audible.
'Before you say a word, Strider,' Merry said, all the severity there was to spare in the entire world dominating his voice, 'we have heard what has been said, and we want to come with you.'
'Legolas is our friend too,' the voice of Pippin piped in. 'The Fellowship was formed to protect Frodo. As he is not here, then we must protect each other, no matter how much bigger they are.'
Aragorn halted, his brow furrowed as he looked at the pair of Hobbits, both of whom now stood in front of him.
'You three risked your lives to come after us,' said Merry. 'We deem it only fair that we return the gesture.'
Their faces were set as he continued to scrutinise them. He did, after all, need all the help he could get...
'You ride with Gandalf,' Aragorn eventually said, pointing to Pippin, 'and you with me.'
The sweet smell of hey hit them as they entered the stables, and several elegant heads extended curiously to observe the five as they walked with such purpose through the building down the stalls. The stable hands gave respectful nods as they passed. Aragorn reached for the slender neck of Brego...
'That horse is too tired to bare you any further this day.'
Aragorn was shocked to say the least when he saw Éomer standing beside him, Firefoot awaiting him, the hands of the Third Marshal applying the tack as he spoke, his experience allowing him to gaze in other directions. The grey horse stood with a slight twitch to his sturdy frame, as though he anticipated action, ready to spring off at the tiniest hint from his master.
'I though that you were Gandalf.'
'Nay – Gandalf is trying to sway the mind of my King, but I think that his efforts are in vain. But I shall be riding with you, as will four of my men.'
'You will disobey the King?' Aragorn asked, an eyebrow raised in askance, and a small smile on his lips.
'This is not disobedience,' the other answered, now rubbing the neck of his horse. 'In order for there to be disobedience, there must first of all be an instruction, and he never said anything to me of staying.'
'You find dangerous loopholes in the rules,' Aragorn commented dryly.
'Yes – loopholes that will probably tighten about my throat before this is through...'
Two fresh horses were brought forward, ready tacked for riding – a fine, spirited chestnut and a far more docile dapple-grey. Aragorn did not need to ask who was to ride which horse.
***
He raised himself to his feet in a wobbly fashion, pressing a hand against the wall to steady himself. That area in his back really hurt, but he denied it any of his attention: there was no way of treating it, so there was no need to worry about it, as worry would make no difference what so ever.
He was parched, days having passed by without any water, though his pride refused to let him call for any. But if he did not have water soon, he was going to die; it was a cold fact of nature. He could go for longer than an adan without liquid sustenance, but not that much longer, and he was fast reaching the limit. By the Valar, he was thirsty...
He walked a little, carefully placing his feet on the dirty floor, just to exercise his legs a bit. They protested, cramp tensing his calves from sitting on them for so long. He even heard clicking in his joints – this did not even happen to such an extent when he was confined to bed rest for lengthy periods. Mind you, he had slept on his back then, not his legs.
There lay another thing that bothered him: the way he had slept when Saruman had taken him unawares. Elves did not sleep with their eyes closed unless they were ill, and he prayed that he was not about to suffer another relapse of the fever – if he did it would kill him for sure ... there was no Aragorn here to save him from it. He did not feel right, not right at all, which, he concluded, was probably due to his environment: it was enclosed, and he felt claustrophobic; darkness pressed in from all sides, oppressing his heart; his body was still trying – in vain – to recover from his severe detriment, and was in dire need of something to keep him going, something that he knew he was unlikely to obtain within a close time to then.
The door opened, catching him off guard – he should have heard Gríma coming. For Gríma it was, baring, to Legolas' great surprise and relief, a jug and bowl of something, which was placed at his feet, rather than handed straight to him.
Gríma stepped back, observing the Elf in the light of the torch one of his followers from Edoras carried, watching him lift the jug and give a tentative sniff. He grinned as he caught the Elf's suspicious eye.
'There is no poison in it, you have my word.'
'And what, exactly, is your word worth?'
Gríma cocked his head at the opprobrious face, in which a pair of eyes filled with such malice burned at him, two workings in glass so sensitive that they trapped more light in a blink than any mortal eye during a lifetime.
'You really hate me, don't you?'
'No,' came the response, 'I do not hate you – I dislike you intensely.'
'I see.' That was all he had to say to that statement. "You will hate me by the time I leave this room," he could not help but think to himself, chuckling mentally. O, he was going to enjoy this part...
Legolas gulped down the water – it had clearly been left to stand for a while, by its taste, but that did not bother him in the slightest. Better to drink old water than nothing at all. He emptied the container, caring not about the fact that he guzzled the contents noisily.
He cast a sceptical eye on the soup, not allowing it to leave the swimming pieces of meat. He could smell the bowls' filling, and it was no meat that he had ever eaten before, and he had a huge scent vocabulary when it came to such foods. He had eaten practically everything within reason – and there was only one time that he had had the severe misfortune to smell this particular meat during a stage of imprisonment that he had undergone by the hands of Orcs. It made him wretch dryly, and Legolas flung the dish across the room, his hand covering his mouth.
Gríma laughed, a low sound that echoed hollowly in the dungeon.
'Is that not to your taste, Thranduilion?'
Legolas did not grace that with an answer, but gave Gríma the most scathing look he was capable of. "No," he thought bitterly, "rotting human flesh most certainly is not to my taste!"
Gríma cleared his throat and looked at the corners of the ceiling – or where he thought the corners were, anyway, as the torchlight did not reach that far. Finally he turned his gaze back to the Elf, the vague hope that he would have stopped glaring at him by now proving to be a waste of thought.
'I have something for you,' he began, drawing out a tightly folded piece of parchment. It gave him a slight twinge of satisfaction to see the Elf's eyes flicker briefly with interest. 'We intercepted an eagle flying from your homelands – it was heading for Edoras, but it is just as well we got it, seeing as you are not holding residence there.
'I am very sorry,' Gríma said as he handed the letter over to the other, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice level and sincere. The pair of blue eyes snapped up to his face at these words, and he was startled by how very – naked he felt under their penetrating stare. But they lowered again as the fingers unravelled the piece in his hands, and it was Gríma's turn to inspect the Elf's face as he read...
"Dear Prince Legolas,
It is my greatest grievance as friend of your family and a lord of the royal court –
Legolas felt his gut knot at these words. He knew this handwriting – it was that of Lord Daerahil, indeed a long-standing friend of his family, trusted advisor to the King – his father – and almost an uncle in Legolas' eyes. This was not the type of letter he had expected...
"-to inform you of the tragic demise of your father, Thranduil the Wise, during an..."
The letter continued, but Legolas did not read the rest. He could not breathe, his chest feeling as though it had been clamped in an iron cage. He sank to the floor, his heart crushed inside him. A gasping sob reverberated through the dungeon as his grief started to set in, the letter falling from his hand as he let it go.
Gríma had asked Saruman how he would know if the forgery had worked or not, to which the wizard had answered with an unhelpful: 'You will feel it when it happens.' He had resented that comment at the time, seeing it as dismissive. But now, as he stood there with the Elf on the floor, he knew what Saruman had meant. He did feel it. It was a sensation that he had never been subjected to before, and he could safely say that he did not like it. Not at all. He could not describe it fully, but it was like a drop in the atmosphere, a sudden and violent wrench at his soul. He felt depression weight itself on his shoulders like a waterlogged cloak whose clasp he was unable to release. Gríma had to get out of this room – "It will be better out of here," he conceded with himself.
'Come,' he ordered his servant. Looking at the other man, Gríma saw that he felt it too, just by his facial expression – confusion and sadness could be read in it. He decided to risk a last glance at the Elf. Legolas, he found, was looking right at him, and the eyes of the immortal scared him considerably. They were tear-filled, yes, but they were also completely desolate of any emotion save one, and that was intense pain. Yet, besides that, they were dead, empty...
Gríma forced his feet to move him out of the door. "It is this room that is doing it, it is that spell," he kept telling himself fervently. "It will pass, it will pass, it will pass..."
They left the chamber, the heavy door clunking shut as the key turned the lock. But the feeling had not passed at all, and he found that he had not enjoyed that as much as he had thought he would. His heart was a dead weight in his chest ... was this what guilt was like?
It was irreversible what he had done, he knew that, and he also knew that the Elf was doomed to die – what was it Saruman had said? The heart of an Elf was the beings' greatest asset, and also their greatest weakness – to strike an Elf in the heart was to wound him beyond aid...
There came a long, low wail of despair and brutal pain that he knew originated from the Elf, and he fled up the spiral staircase to get away from the noise, hands clasped over his ears in an attempt to shield himself.
TRANSLATIONS
Adan – Man Estel – Aragorn's Elven name, meaning 'Hope' Thranduilion – Son of Thranduil
I can't safely say when chapter fourteen will be up, I haven't even mapped it out properly in my head yet, and I have dead-lines flowing out of my ears, so some time in the next week, fingers crossed.
Right, then – please read, review, and, first and foremost, enjoy!
Chapter Thirteen – Unheeded Pleas
They heard shouts from within as they approached the city, and they did not have to slow for the gates to open. Intrigued eyes followed them as they rode up the road, but they did not react to them. Aragorn and Gimli had far more important things in mind than that.
Théoden jogged down the steps to the Meduseld, clearly notified of their return by the guard that trotted behind him, confusion and concern engraved into his features, Éomer and Gandalf beside him.
'What is it? Where are the rest of the men?'
Aragorn dismounted Brego, walking over to the King with a heavy, urgent stride, looking into each pair of eyes of the most important men in the whole of Edoras.
'Events have unfolded that I will not discuss out here in the open.'
Théoden analysed the face of the interestingly older yet younger looking man keenly. He could see in those pools of grey that there was indeed some thing very, very wrong – he could see fear within those depths, something that he had certainly never held witness to before.
'Come.'
They made their way back up the steps with speed – though this haste was not nearly enough, Aragorn thought. Legolas could be dying for all they knew, and they were just sauntering along!
The Hall of the King was completely vacant of any other life save for the lady Éowyn, whom was situated at a table, a dress in her lap that she was currently tailoring for herself. Aragorn nodded his head briefly to her as she looked up at him, not willing to let it span to more than that courteous gesture.
Théoden ascended to his throne, the very picture of regal majesty, power radiating from him like water from a spring.
'Tell me.'
Aragorn laid into the story, opening the floodgates to release the torrent of information, right from the confrontation between Legolas and Gríma to their ride for the city. He left no detail untold lest it be of import, regretfully informing the King and his nephew of the demise of most of the riders sent with them on this scouting party.
Silence dominated the room when Aragorn had ceased his account of events, in which Éomer pressed his face into his hands at the loss of so many good men. Gandalf remained silent, awaiting some word, some point at which he felt it wise to step in. He did not doubt that there would be such a time in the very near future...
'We must ride out to reclaim them, my King,' Aragorn finally blurted. He was tired of standing around, taking no action. 'We must save Legolas!'
Théoden raised his green eyes to those of the Ranger. Their expression was difficult for Aragorn to read, but he found the apprehensive knot in his gut tighten at their hardness.
'No.'
'No?'
'I will not send out more to be killed – enough blood has been spent of late.'
Aragorn was not hearing this. It was not possible – Théoden refusing to save Legolas? Why?
'Legolas was willing to give his life to aid your people – he nearly did, and you will not save him in return?'
'It is not worth sacrificing the lives of a hundred to recover a corpse,' Théoden responded quietly. 'Nor those other five, before that argument is put forward,' he added sternly.
Aragorn resented that comment deeply. Passing Legolas off as being dead was something that he had not done himself, though the thought that he could be lost had niggled at him for some time. But his Elven name was Estel, and he would be damned if he were not to live up to it.
'But you swore to the Elves that if they ever required aid you would give it,' interjected Gimli, rising from the chair he had perched himself on. 'Surely that covers their prince?'
'I say again, Master Dwarf,' the King retorted, voice firm and harsh, 'I will not risk a hundred lives for one!'
'You have suffered losing a child yourself, Théoden King,' said Gandalf quietly, coming forward for the first time in this argument. 'You do not wish for Thranduil to go through that, do you?'
'Of course I do not wish it upon him! I wish that upon no one! But I am not going to do this! Please understand the position I am in,' he more or less pleaded. 'I cannot do this for someone whom is not even of my charge.'
Théoden felt guilt nudge at his mind at the sight of Lord Aragorn, standing there with his jaws so firmly clamped together that he swore he could hear the teeth cracking. The man was clearly much aggrieved by his refusal, but he really could not afford to lose more men for the sake of a single life – it was a regrettable circumstance, but one which could not be helped.
The grey cloak flurried out behind him as Aragorn took his leave, not a word parting his lips as he exited through the heavy doors, his feet taking him to the stables. He heard two other pairs of feet following him, and he knew to whom they belonged, so he did not turn. It did surprise him, however, when he was flanked by two people of considerably shorter stature than himself, the slap of their feet highly audible.
'Before you say a word, Strider,' Merry said, all the severity there was to spare in the entire world dominating his voice, 'we have heard what has been said, and we want to come with you.'
'Legolas is our friend too,' the voice of Pippin piped in. 'The Fellowship was formed to protect Frodo. As he is not here, then we must protect each other, no matter how much bigger they are.'
Aragorn halted, his brow furrowed as he looked at the pair of Hobbits, both of whom now stood in front of him.
'You three risked your lives to come after us,' said Merry. 'We deem it only fair that we return the gesture.'
Their faces were set as he continued to scrutinise them. He did, after all, need all the help he could get...
'You ride with Gandalf,' Aragorn eventually said, pointing to Pippin, 'and you with me.'
The sweet smell of hey hit them as they entered the stables, and several elegant heads extended curiously to observe the five as they walked with such purpose through the building down the stalls. The stable hands gave respectful nods as they passed. Aragorn reached for the slender neck of Brego...
'That horse is too tired to bare you any further this day.'
Aragorn was shocked to say the least when he saw Éomer standing beside him, Firefoot awaiting him, the hands of the Third Marshal applying the tack as he spoke, his experience allowing him to gaze in other directions. The grey horse stood with a slight twitch to his sturdy frame, as though he anticipated action, ready to spring off at the tiniest hint from his master.
'I though that you were Gandalf.'
'Nay – Gandalf is trying to sway the mind of my King, but I think that his efforts are in vain. But I shall be riding with you, as will four of my men.'
'You will disobey the King?' Aragorn asked, an eyebrow raised in askance, and a small smile on his lips.
'This is not disobedience,' the other answered, now rubbing the neck of his horse. 'In order for there to be disobedience, there must first of all be an instruction, and he never said anything to me of staying.'
'You find dangerous loopholes in the rules,' Aragorn commented dryly.
'Yes – loopholes that will probably tighten about my throat before this is through...'
Two fresh horses were brought forward, ready tacked for riding – a fine, spirited chestnut and a far more docile dapple-grey. Aragorn did not need to ask who was to ride which horse.
***
He raised himself to his feet in a wobbly fashion, pressing a hand against the wall to steady himself. That area in his back really hurt, but he denied it any of his attention: there was no way of treating it, so there was no need to worry about it, as worry would make no difference what so ever.
He was parched, days having passed by without any water, though his pride refused to let him call for any. But if he did not have water soon, he was going to die; it was a cold fact of nature. He could go for longer than an adan without liquid sustenance, but not that much longer, and he was fast reaching the limit. By the Valar, he was thirsty...
He walked a little, carefully placing his feet on the dirty floor, just to exercise his legs a bit. They protested, cramp tensing his calves from sitting on them for so long. He even heard clicking in his joints – this did not even happen to such an extent when he was confined to bed rest for lengthy periods. Mind you, he had slept on his back then, not his legs.
There lay another thing that bothered him: the way he had slept when Saruman had taken him unawares. Elves did not sleep with their eyes closed unless they were ill, and he prayed that he was not about to suffer another relapse of the fever – if he did it would kill him for sure ... there was no Aragorn here to save him from it. He did not feel right, not right at all, which, he concluded, was probably due to his environment: it was enclosed, and he felt claustrophobic; darkness pressed in from all sides, oppressing his heart; his body was still trying – in vain – to recover from his severe detriment, and was in dire need of something to keep him going, something that he knew he was unlikely to obtain within a close time to then.
The door opened, catching him off guard – he should have heard Gríma coming. For Gríma it was, baring, to Legolas' great surprise and relief, a jug and bowl of something, which was placed at his feet, rather than handed straight to him.
Gríma stepped back, observing the Elf in the light of the torch one of his followers from Edoras carried, watching him lift the jug and give a tentative sniff. He grinned as he caught the Elf's suspicious eye.
'There is no poison in it, you have my word.'
'And what, exactly, is your word worth?'
Gríma cocked his head at the opprobrious face, in which a pair of eyes filled with such malice burned at him, two workings in glass so sensitive that they trapped more light in a blink than any mortal eye during a lifetime.
'You really hate me, don't you?'
'No,' came the response, 'I do not hate you – I dislike you intensely.'
'I see.' That was all he had to say to that statement. "You will hate me by the time I leave this room," he could not help but think to himself, chuckling mentally. O, he was going to enjoy this part...
Legolas gulped down the water – it had clearly been left to stand for a while, by its taste, but that did not bother him in the slightest. Better to drink old water than nothing at all. He emptied the container, caring not about the fact that he guzzled the contents noisily.
He cast a sceptical eye on the soup, not allowing it to leave the swimming pieces of meat. He could smell the bowls' filling, and it was no meat that he had ever eaten before, and he had a huge scent vocabulary when it came to such foods. He had eaten practically everything within reason – and there was only one time that he had had the severe misfortune to smell this particular meat during a stage of imprisonment that he had undergone by the hands of Orcs. It made him wretch dryly, and Legolas flung the dish across the room, his hand covering his mouth.
Gríma laughed, a low sound that echoed hollowly in the dungeon.
'Is that not to your taste, Thranduilion?'
Legolas did not grace that with an answer, but gave Gríma the most scathing look he was capable of. "No," he thought bitterly, "rotting human flesh most certainly is not to my taste!"
Gríma cleared his throat and looked at the corners of the ceiling – or where he thought the corners were, anyway, as the torchlight did not reach that far. Finally he turned his gaze back to the Elf, the vague hope that he would have stopped glaring at him by now proving to be a waste of thought.
'I have something for you,' he began, drawing out a tightly folded piece of parchment. It gave him a slight twinge of satisfaction to see the Elf's eyes flicker briefly with interest. 'We intercepted an eagle flying from your homelands – it was heading for Edoras, but it is just as well we got it, seeing as you are not holding residence there.
'I am very sorry,' Gríma said as he handed the letter over to the other, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice level and sincere. The pair of blue eyes snapped up to his face at these words, and he was startled by how very – naked he felt under their penetrating stare. But they lowered again as the fingers unravelled the piece in his hands, and it was Gríma's turn to inspect the Elf's face as he read...
"Dear Prince Legolas,
It is my greatest grievance as friend of your family and a lord of the royal court –
Legolas felt his gut knot at these words. He knew this handwriting – it was that of Lord Daerahil, indeed a long-standing friend of his family, trusted advisor to the King – his father – and almost an uncle in Legolas' eyes. This was not the type of letter he had expected...
"-to inform you of the tragic demise of your father, Thranduil the Wise, during an..."
The letter continued, but Legolas did not read the rest. He could not breathe, his chest feeling as though it had been clamped in an iron cage. He sank to the floor, his heart crushed inside him. A gasping sob reverberated through the dungeon as his grief started to set in, the letter falling from his hand as he let it go.
Gríma had asked Saruman how he would know if the forgery had worked or not, to which the wizard had answered with an unhelpful: 'You will feel it when it happens.' He had resented that comment at the time, seeing it as dismissive. But now, as he stood there with the Elf on the floor, he knew what Saruman had meant. He did feel it. It was a sensation that he had never been subjected to before, and he could safely say that he did not like it. Not at all. He could not describe it fully, but it was like a drop in the atmosphere, a sudden and violent wrench at his soul. He felt depression weight itself on his shoulders like a waterlogged cloak whose clasp he was unable to release. Gríma had to get out of this room – "It will be better out of here," he conceded with himself.
'Come,' he ordered his servant. Looking at the other man, Gríma saw that he felt it too, just by his facial expression – confusion and sadness could be read in it. He decided to risk a last glance at the Elf. Legolas, he found, was looking right at him, and the eyes of the immortal scared him considerably. They were tear-filled, yes, but they were also completely desolate of any emotion save one, and that was intense pain. Yet, besides that, they were dead, empty...
Gríma forced his feet to move him out of the door. "It is this room that is doing it, it is that spell," he kept telling himself fervently. "It will pass, it will pass, it will pass..."
They left the chamber, the heavy door clunking shut as the key turned the lock. But the feeling had not passed at all, and he found that he had not enjoyed that as much as he had thought he would. His heart was a dead weight in his chest ... was this what guilt was like?
It was irreversible what he had done, he knew that, and he also knew that the Elf was doomed to die – what was it Saruman had said? The heart of an Elf was the beings' greatest asset, and also their greatest weakness – to strike an Elf in the heart was to wound him beyond aid...
There came a long, low wail of despair and brutal pain that he knew originated from the Elf, and he fled up the spiral staircase to get away from the noise, hands clasped over his ears in an attempt to shield himself.
TRANSLATIONS
Adan – Man Estel – Aragorn's Elven name, meaning 'Hope' Thranduilion – Son of Thranduil