Morithawen woke when Arod broke into a gallop over a particularly rough patch of ground. Thereafter she wished she had stayed in her dreams. They had been pleasant at least, if you discounted the underlying whispers of the Dead that intruded, chanting at her to leave the world with them. She was well past dying, though, despite the fact that now she was awake she had to deal with the dull throbbing of her upper body and the sharp shooting pains of her leg. Legolas realized she was awake and mindspoke her. 'I feared I had overdosed you. We have been riding for hours.'
'Thank Illuvitar for the healing sleep of the Elves and Estel's herbs. I will not complain that I was unconscious for most of this. How far are we from the river?' she asked sluggishly. She was still a bit groggy from the tea. 'Another hour's ride until we camp so that the horses can rest. Then we ride hard again for the river. Maybe a full day's ride. What are you going to do once we get there? You are in no condition to fight,' he stated. She had to think on that one for a moment.
'Leave me with the horse. I can defend myself with my knives if I must, but I doubt it will come to that. I don't think this new Army of Estel's will have any trouble routing the Corsairs. Then when we reach Pelannor, I'll just stay on the ship,' she said, a tone of resignation in her voice. She hated being useless, but she wasn't going to make a hindrance of herself. When they stopped to camp, she drank another mug of tea and woke once more a few hours later. They were already mounted and racing towards the river. The ground was rocky and Arod's gait wasn't as smooth now that he was fatigued. Her leg felt as if someone were digging knives into the breakage points each time his hooves contacted with the ground. Against her back, Legolas leaned in as close as he could, trying to make their bulk more streamlined atop the Rohan steed. She pressed herself flat against Arod's mane and endured as best she could. She allowed tears of pain to flow, freely and silently into the horse's white silky mane. Legolas' hand gently caressed her side as they rode and sang a song near her ear, a soothing ballad of Valinor.
As they rode nearer to the sea, white seabirds flew inland, wheeling overhead with piercing cries. Perhaps it was the ballad mingled with the sound of the gulls that sparked her longing, or maybe it was just the birds, but whatever it was, Legolas felt it too. The sudden urge to see Valinor, to sail away West to the ever peaceful shores, away from all the strife and pain was so powerful that she actually forgot about her pain for a moment.
"I want to go Home," she breathed against Arod's mane, tears of longing now mingled with those of pain. Legolas pressed his lips into her hair and his mindvoice broke on a mental sigh.
'We cannot go, mela-nin. Not yet. There is so much left to do. But alas, the gulls. Their cries pierce my heart. Lady Galadriel warned me about them. I thought not on her words until now,' he mindspoke. The pair of elves spent the next hour fighting their longing. By the time they reached the river, Morithawen's pain was overriding her longing and Legolas was ready for battle against the Corsairs. They made a small camp in the trees sheltering the river shore, making Morithawen as comfortable as possible without a fire. They couldn't warn the ships of their position. Then they left the horses and moved downstream to intercept the ships.
Morithawen was only a little worried about the venture. She wasn't quite sure of the Dead Army's capabilities. But she spent the next half an hour letting her body rest. Her shoulder, wrist and ribs barely even twinged now but her leg ached from the hard ride. She leaned back against a tree and listened intently to the night sounds, waiting for some clue that Legolas was coming for her. What she heard, however, was the faint sound of marching feet. Her heart skipped a beat and she sat back up, listening hard. She didn't start to worry until it became obvious the group of marching...whatevers...were heading in her direction.
"Oh, how very perfect," she muttered, struggling to her feet. She sent a mental warning to Legolas as she steadied herself against a tree. Putting weight on her leg was nearly impossible, but she managed to hobble to where the horses were tethered. For the first time in her life, she wasn't sure of her ability to mount a horse. She needn't have worried. Fear is a serious motivator and she was able to pull herself up into Arod's saddle. It had taken her more time that she was willing to admit and she was in so much pain that she didn't know up from down for a moment. It took having an arrow fired on either side of her to warn her that she had taken too much time. She heard a shout behind her in a language that she only vaguely recognized. She thought it was Haradrim and she was fairly certain she was being told to stay where she was and she wouldn't get hurt. Arod, however, couldn't understand a single world and was spooked by the arrows and the strange voices. He reared up in fear before he bolted. Mori wasn't prepared for the action and she tumbled into a heap on the ground, her head connecting with a large rock. Her starlit world swirled to pitch black.
When Morithawen woke, she found it hard to breathe and the pain in her leg assaulted her in burning waves as she was jolted about. She couldn't understand why it was so dark and why she was curled into a ball, hugging her knees. When she realized why she couldn't see or stretch out she very nearly wailed in distress. She was imprisoned by six smooth wooden walls, a box not quite three feet square. She felt along the sides, desperate for an opening. She put both hands against the top of the box and pushed with all her might. That didn't work so she beat on the wood with the flats of her hands in frustration. All she got in return was a series of sharp thuds from the other side of the box and a muffled shout in Haradrim for her to settle down. Not a chance of that happening. She would rather be taken out of the box and beaten than to be left locked in this tiny space.
'Legolas?' she sent frantically, mentally. The reply she got was faint but relieved. 'Morithawen? Where are you?' he pleaded. Just the brush of his mindvoice was enough to calm her spirit a little.
'Alive, stuck in a box. I'm with a company of Haradrim soldiers, I think. I'm sure we're headed towards the battle, mela-nin.'
'I am coming for you, A'maela-nin.'
'No! No, Legolas. Stay with Estel. We will meet again in Minas Tirith, I swear it. Go, my warrior. The larger battle is most important and Middle Earth needs you more than I. I love you, Legolas,' she sent as strongly as she could. Those words cost her more than she would ever admit. She could not be selfish now. She would see Minas Tirith and Legolas again, no matter what she had to go through to get there, but she had to face this trial on her own. She hadn't foreseen and she didn't know, but she hoped that pure determination and love would help her keep her vow to see Legolas again.
'Morithawen...'
The despair in Legolas' faint mindtone nearly broke her, but she sent one last mental caress and then concentrated on bashing her hands against the inside of the box again. It seemed like forever before her struggles bore any fruit. The top of the box was lifted and she was grabbed roughly by strong arms and dragged up out of the box. She couldn't stop a cry of pain as all her weight was balanced on her bad leg for a moment. Then she was hurled face down to the ground and she lay there for several seconds, gathering herself. In those seconds, she realized that it wasn't so much her frantic beatings that had gotten a response from her captors as the arrival at a camp. A camp filled with orcs.
"Well, if it isn't a pretty bird come to roost in our camp. Do you think it would sing for us, boys?" asked a harsh, amused voice in common. She looked up into the face of her captors and schooled her features to cold indifference. A dirty, rough hand grabbed her chin and pulled her back up. She could not hide the flicker of pain in her eyes when she was forced to use her bad leg again for balance. The orc laughed roughly and wrenched her face from side to side as if inspecting her. His hands scratched her cheeks and tugged on her ears, his rough skin catching on her hair and mussing her braids.
"Pretty little bird indeed. She'll sing for Praskagh, for certain. He loves to break the pretty ones until they sing," he said, sticking his face close to hers. His warm, putrid breath made her light headed and nauseous as he spoke, "Play with her a while and then put her back in the box boys. Don't rough her up too much, though. The chief will enjoy opening this little present."
'Legolas!' she screamed both aloud and mentally as the orc captain pushed her into the crowd of grasping hands. She reached for her knives and the crowd scattered. She didn't have enough, but before she went down, eight orcs lay dead or mortally wounded. Miles away, sailing down the river towards Pelagir, Legolas' heart quivered with anger and frustration. His hand tightened on his bow and his hands echoed the quiver in his heart. Beside him, Gimli peeked over the side of the ship and then reached out to pat Legolas' thigh.
"We're arriving, my friend. Channel that anger, Master Elf. There are orcs to kill," he said gruffly. Legolas didn't respond, but when the boats scraped against the docks, he was completely focused on the battle to come. If his face was a bit more fearsome and his arrows flew with more force, then it was only to his benefit. When he traded his bow for his knives, his fury was a terribly beautiful thing to see as his enemies fell beneath his finely honed, deadly grace.
Morithawen whimpered when she woke, her entire body screaming in pain. She was curled back in on herself again, the wooden sides of her prison pressing in on her physically and mentally. She understood now what Elrond had meant about her own quest. She wished to go back into her dreams rather than face reality right now. In her dreams, the pain was a distant memory and she could forget the feel of rough hands ripping at her clothes and the bite of the whip against her sensitive skin. The splint on her leg hadn't survived the beating. The strips of cloth tying it had been a target for those with the whips, a contest to see who could cut them away. One of the breaks that had started to mend had rebroken and she knew it needed to be reset before it started to mend wrong. In this one case, the quick healing of elves was against her.
It took her a moment to realize that the box she was in wasn't moving any longer and the sounds coming to her from beyond her tiny prison were the sounds of battle. She heard the thunder of hooves and some distant thunder that she couldn't identify. She was on or near Pelennor, she would bet her very life on it. She was torn between making her presence known and staying quiet. The language of Rohan was obvious in the yells around her, mixed with the screams of dying orcs. It was that very welcome sound that made her start beating on the top of her box with bruised and bloodied hands. She pushed past her pain and fear, crying out for someone to help her. The sounds of battle began to move away from her, becoming more distant. The strength in her arms drained away and her voice became hoarse from her shouts. Despair crept over her and she could only plead in whispers as the sounds around her dwindled away. She gave one final, desperate scream and lashed out with her good leg, kicking the side of her prison before she dissolved into helpless tears.
Morithawen wasn't sure how long she waited in the darkness. Minutes, hours or days she waited, sometimes stirring to beat weakly on the box lid or shout hoarsely. Twice she thought she heard horses approaching but both times there was no response to her weak attempts to draw some attention. As her wooden prison cooled with the sinking of the sun, she began to feel the chill. If she hadn't been hurting so much, she might have worried that she was feeling the cold. Instead she slipped deep into the arms of despair as the hope that she would be found slowly died. Her last thought was of her beloved.
"Oh Legolas. I'm sorry."
"Elladan, what are you doing? The sun has set, my twin, and I'd like to make the city before it rises again," Elrohir stated wryly, glancing over his shoulder at his twin. The elder of the pair had turned his horse to trot over to another of the numerous circles of dead orcs and men scattered on the edges of Pelannor. They had already passed so many pockets of death that they could do nothing but avert their eyes and keep riding. They could do nothing for so many with the small group of Dunedan they rode with. This time, however, Elladan had been drawn to this particular wooded area by something he couldn't put a finger on.
"Peace, Ro. I don't know why, but something tugs at me here," he said. Elrohir sighed softly and motioned for the Dunedan to ride on before reining his mount closer to his brother's. It was a moment before the hoofbeats from the Dunedan horses faded away but after that the twins sat quietly, listening to the night wind. Just as Elrohir was about to tell Elladan they had to move, a muffled sound broke the quiet. It might have been missed by any other than Elven hearing, but Elladan was off his horse and across the clearing like a shot. He shoved an orc body from a large wooden trunk and studied the lock on the trunk as Elrohir dismounted and walked over at a slower pace.
"It didn't sound like an animal," he stated quietly.
"No. In fact, if I'm not mistaken it was an apology. In Elvish. Ai, brother, do you think you can pick this lock?" Elladan asked in distress. Elrohir brushed his brother aside and examined the lock closely in the moonlight.
"Perhaps, if I had more light," he said. Elladan nodded and moved to a still smoldering firepit, stirring the coals until he had enough heat to light a torch. He stood over Elrohir with the light as the younger twin used a slim dagger and a metal pin on the lock. After a few moments, it clicked open and they quickly opened the box. Their gasps were as identical as their features and they both reached to pull their bloodied and broken foster sister from the wooden box.
"She's cold, Ro. But her fea still remains," Elladan said grimly, pulling the battered elf maiden close. Elrohir nodded.
"We need to get her to father," he said softly. Elladan shook his head.
"He's days behind us, Ro. We don't have that much time. No, we need to find Estel and Legolas."
About an hour later, the twins thundered into the city of tents pitched on the plains of Pelannor. Their precious burden rode in front of Elladan wrapped in a heavy cloak. Their terse inquires about Lord Aragorn pointed them towards a large tent in the center of the camp. Elrohir dismounted first and took Morithawen from Elladan. The guards in front of Aragorn's tent, a pair of Dunedan, reached out and drew back the flaps of the tent without question. Aragorn was sitting at a small table with his head in his hands. When he looked up, Elrohir managed a grim smile.
"You look like something the Orcs dragged in, Estel," he greeted. The words didn't even register on the man. He was already across the tent with his hands on the folds of the cloak, peeling them back.
"Oh, Mori," he sighed. He looked up at Elrohir and then back at Elladan. The elder twin had swept into the tent after Elrohir. He nudged his brother towards the bed and spoke to Aragorn quietly.
"What happened to her, Estel? We found her locked in a box on the edge of Pelannor, surrounded by dead orcs. Her light is nearly gone out and her body is broken," he said. Aragorn followed Elrohir and completely uncovered his foster sister. There were tears in his eyes as he realized she had been stripped and flayed until every inch of her skin was stained with blood.
"She was injured on the Paths of the Dead and we left her by the river when we went to take the Corsair's ships. She was taken by the Haradrim and then passed off to the Orcs," he stated softly as he moved his hands to her leg and grimaced. He shouted for the two Dunedan at the entrance of his tent.
"Horuan, send someone into the city to find Legolas and then order me a tub and as much hot water as can be brought. Moranik, see if you can find me some athelas and some clean bandages. I'll need something to use as a splint as well. I don't care if you bring me a pair of broken pikes, anything."
When Legolas pushed into Aragorn's tent, the man and Elladan had Morithawen immersed to her neck in steaming water. Crushed athelas sprinkled over the water made the atmosphere inside the tent fresh and each breath was a soothing balm to the spirit. No amount of athelas could soothe the storm in Legolas' heart, however, as he dropped to both knees beside the wooden tub. Elladan relinquished his place at Morithawen's head. Legolas' hands wove through the damp red-gold strands as he cradled her head. His thumbs brushed her cheeks gently as if brushing away tears, only the tears were on his own cheeks. Elladan met Aragorn's eyes over the Mirkwood prince's head and their expressions were grim. Aragorn was very glad that he had washed the blood from Mori's face and hair as soon as he had enough water to do so. He was also glad this was the second tub of water. The first has been stained pink with Morithawen's blood.
"Oh, mela-nin. You have broken my heart into small pieces. Come back to me, my beautiful ray of light. Don't leave me here alone," Legolas whispered softly in elvish. Aragorn fought tears of his own. He had never seen Legolas so vunerable, not even when Morithawen had been buried under rubble in the Paths of the Dead. He thought he knew why. Legolas did not have the option of digging through rock to pull her out to safety. This time, he had been forced to wait and count on fate to bring her back to him. It had shaken him. Aragorn was as worried about his friend as he was about his foster sister. If Morithawen didn't pull through, Legolas wouldn't survive the grief her passing would bring.
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