"He is heading back towards the camp," the leader discerned cannily, his shrewd gaze measuring the path of the sun against their current whereabouts.
"Why?" Doran stopped short, his eyes never leaving the telltale sign that the Prince had traversed this way: a small, blood-spattered indentation in the ground.
Ruminating on this very quandary, Ament merely shook his head, "Perhaps he goes after the goblet, though he cannot hope to find it without knowing where it is. I do not believe he would go back for a horse; it would not be worth it to him to take such a chance when he is so close to freedom." They continued their tracking silently.
Perhaps he goes back for Strider.
Despite his inclination to trust the healer in Fulton, and since that night, Ament could not shake the disquieting conclusion to which Doran's retelling of the events at the time of the Elf's escape led him. I have been too yielding. The story of his parents' death at the hands of Elves swayed my thinking. Cogently pondering this twist in allegiance, the leader could not reconcile Strider's story with his actions. Strider has betrayed me. He told the Prince to run. Regardless of his intentions, his actions have made him a liability. If we do not find the Elf, Strider will die. If we do find the Elf, Strider will die once the Elf has served my purposes. Ament would not forgive the healer's possibly unwitting role in allowing Ramlin to die by the hands of the Prince.
"Do you think he goes back for Strider?" Doran's query cut short Ament's musing.
Doran is not as stupid as he seems.
"I do not know. I can think of no other reason," the leader conceded, shaking his bushy red head again.
If he does go back, then he only saves us the trouble of finding him.
"We are almost to the camp," Ament assured, "we will find out his objective soon enough, and where Strider's allegiances lie."
Legolas stumbled, his legs giving way under him again. I will not make it much longer, much less to the camp, the Elf despaired, but then chastised himself, My end draws near, and I welcome it. I am selfish to wish death now.
The sun had risen fully, and the Mirkwood forest was resplendent with the fading of the shadowed woods by the orange-red hues of the new morning. Heaving himself up once again, the Prince carried on, though he slowed his pace somewhat to accommodate his quaking limbs. Another tangled root from a Dark tree tripped the Wood-Elf, sending him sprawling out onto the ground, irritating his many wounds into a dissonant symphony of myriad aches and pains. He considered staying where he was, though only briefly, for the sound of footsteps reached his sensitive ears and the Prince knew the mercenaries were looking for him still and were not far behind.
It may be better for them to catch me. At least then, I will make it to the camp.
Discarding the resigned thought immediately, Legolas trod onwards, attempting vigilantly to maintain his distance between the coming mercenaries and himself. Ramlin had carried no weapons with him when he had come to check on Meika, Strider, and Legolas, save the dagger the Wood-Elf now held, and the blade that Ramlin had slain Meika with, so Legolas was ill equipped to take on the advancing humans, especially in his current condition. Licking his bloodied but dry lips, the Prince staggered once more, this time maintaining his balance through sheer will. It was then that he heard the voices.
"Do not be a fool, Jalian. Do you really think that Ament will share his good fortune with you once he has what he wants? You cannot be so blind."
Strider. He is alive, thank Ilúvatar. Finally, I have reached the camp. The Elf did not hear Jalian's response, for the footsteps behind him grew louder as they fell more quickly, their pace increasing. They have seen me. They are almost upon me. Legolas ran incautiously towards the campsite, his determination to remove the healer from the mercenaries' grasp propelling him to use the last of his effort to do so. A flying arrow hit the tree beside him; the Elf spared a glance to the rear to see Ament notching another arrow. At least his aim is not as accurate as Doran's.
"Jalian! The Elf is coming towards you!" Ament's cry reverberated through the woods, causing several startled birds to screech their displeasure as they took to the sky from their perches in the trees.
Another arrow flew past Legolas, landing harmlessly in the brush several feet before him, evincing to the Prince that Doran was not actually trying to strike the Elf with a projectile, but merely trying to slow him down. Lacking any other course, and knowing he could not outrun the mercenaries, or their arrows, for much longer, the Wood-Elf leapt into the nearest untainted tree, his blood drenched boot slipping on the bark ere he hauled himself securely onto the branch. He did not cease his flight, though, and climbed carefully across the limb into another untainted tree nearby. Picking through the trees will slow me down.
"He has taken to the trees, Jalian, watch for him above!" The warning came from beneath the Elf.
They know my destination is the camp. Less than a hundred yards of intertwined trees lay between him and the campsite. I will never reach Strider before Ament and Doran. He still did not cease his flight; his wounds throbbed horribly with each movement and his consciousness was quickly leaving him. Wood-Elves do not fall from trees, Legolas, he reprimanded himself. Stay alert. There must be a way.
"Where, Ament? I do not see it," Jalian complained nervously. Legolas could see the mercenary through the leafy bough of the tree on which he bolted. As he grew closer to the clearing, he realized that Ament and Doran were waiting on its edge, huffing from their long dash.
"I think I know what will make him come out. Get Strider," Ament ordered Jalian as he handed his bow to Doran, commanding him fiercely, "Do not shoot unless absolutely necessary. I still want him alive."
Legolas advanced painstakingly to a tree adjacent to the clearing via a maze of limbs, trying to avoid any that could not or would not hold him. His step faltered when Strider appeared beside Doran and Ament. The man was pale and blood stained his tunic: a wad of linen was tightly wrapped against his middle, but the healer stood proudly, defiantly. What gave the Prince pause, however, was the knife Ament held to the young healer's throat while Jalian detained him.
"Come back for your friend, have you, Elfling?" Underlying Ament's taunts was the beginning of a threat: the Prince understood the mercenary's implication before he continued. "Come out, now, or I will demonstrate to Strider how you killed my brother."
He knows Strider aided me. Of course. Why else would I return to camp, if not for him? I do not know where the goblet lies. Ament does not bluff, and I will not leave Strider to his death.
Without waiting for a reply, Ament removed the blade at his captive's throat as he elbowed the healer in his wounded side harshly. Although it must have aggrieved the human greatly, Strider did not make a sound as he bent slightly forward before Jalian pulled him back upright. "Come down, now." With a quick thrust, Ament had buried the dagger in the flesh of Strider's upper arm, the hilt sticking oddly out from his leather overcoat. The healer grunted softly in pain as the leader cautioned, "Do not make me wait."
The Prince's heart ached watching the young healer's agony. With Ramlin gone, Legolas reasoned that he had little to fear from the men concerning his personal safety except his eventual death, which would come regardless, given his dismal health and sorrow at the moment. If he could escape, my father could be warned of Ament's deranged plans, whatever they might truly be. Thinking quickly, Legolas could find optimism only in the human's flight, a feat that he could not himself achieve with naught but a dagger. Knowing that his body was close to collapse, the Prince concluded, My life is forfeit whether I surrender or flee, but Strider has a chance, and I cannot let Ament kill him when there is still a chance for us to stop their plan. Legolas fingered the knife he held, and then hastily shoved the blade within his soiled boot, praying the blood loss had not made him irrational in his decision: Please do not let this become an error that will cost us both our lives.
"I had planned to let Strider live for now, but fine, Princeling," Ament goaded, savagely yanking the blade free from the healer's arm, eliciting another quiet groan of pain from the young human. "I guess his fate does not concern you."
The leader had not even lifted the blade to Strider's throat before Legolas dropped from a tree only a few feet away, surprising the humans by his abrupt action and closeness to them. Unable to take the further trauma to his wounded legs, the Elf fell onto his hands and knees, his bare, bloody chest roiling with the endeavor to breathe through the excruciating agony radiating throughout his body. He said nothing but sat back on his heels, waiting for the men to take him. Under different circumstances, and had he the strength, the Elf would have laughed at the astonished looks on the mercenaries' faces. Strider, he noted, appeared both incredibly stunned and concerned.
"If you move, he dies." Ament held the dagger again at the healer's throat ere he turned to Doran, "Tie him." The mercenary darted back to the camp to find rope, and upon his return, Legolas patiently allowed the man to wind the rope around his already bleeding, chafed wrists into tight binds, expecting he would likely die in them.
Observing the blood drenched body of the Wood-Elf, Aragorn worried, It is a wonder he has any left to flow through his veins. He could not yet tell the extent to which the Elf was injured but from what he could see, it would take much to keep the Prince among the living. What possessed you to come back, Legolas? But the Ranger knew the answer: the Elf had come back for him. He shows more valor than I have these past days. When Doran had tied the Elf, hefted the fair creature to his feet, and then dragged him back into the clearing, Ament faced Strider, a mad, gleeful expression belying the usual scowl of his demeanor.
"You should have stayed in Fulton, Strider. I promised you, become a liability and die. Prove your worth by keeping the Elf alive, or you will expire with him."
The Ranger said nothing as he was pushed into the camp, paying no attention to the throb in his limb. With a mighty shove, Jalian knocked Aragorn to his knees on the ground beside the prone Elf. From the closer vantage point, the healer could see the Prince's battered body too well. The once blond hair was stained red with blood, his fair face was discolored various shades of black from bruises, as were his torso, ribs, and back. What alarmed Aragorn most was the Elf's blood-soaked leggings and boot. The arrow wound had been hastily bandaged, stopping most of the hemorrhaging, but the race through the forest had not allowed the creature's Elven healing to close the wound and it bled still.
Sweet Eru, my friend, how have you made it this far? As though he had heard the Ranger's inquiry, Legolas rolled his head towards Aragorn, opening his blackened eyes ere his drooping eyelids snapped shut when he unexpectedly began to shudder violently with a coughing spell. He did not open his eyes for a second time, yet, his breathing returned to some semblance of normalcy, and the Wood-Elf had the peaceful look of unconsciousness.
"How long will he live, Strider?" Ament still held his bloody dagger in hand as he loomed over the Elf and healer, peering anxiously down at the captive.
"I do not know. Untie me or I can do nothing for him," the Ranger demanded.
With his blade, the leader cut the ropes at Aragorn's wrists, and immediately the healer reached for his satchel, stopping short only when Ament growled, pointing the dagger at the Ranger. "Do not test me. You are expendable. I do not care what role you have played in the Elf's escape. If you try it again, I will see to it that you plead for death before I grant it to you, understood?" Estel did not answer, but snatched the bag in hand, rapidly wrapping a length of linen around his newly acquired wound so that it would not interfere with his tending the Elda. "How long, Strider? You said it would kill him. How long does he have?"
At first, the healer was not sure which injury or conversation the leader referred to – until he remembered Ament's threat to kill him as Legolas killed Ramlin. Legolas has slain Ramlin, but what happened before this? Please, Valar, no, the Ranger prayed, let Ramlin not have abused him.
Aloud he asked, though he dreaded the answer, "What will kill him?'
Ament's response was snide, insane giggling that simultaneously impelled within the healer the forceful yearning to relieve the mercenary of his sniggering head and the overwhelming desire to weep for the immortal. "My idiot brother finally had his fill of your Elf friend." His laughter dying all of a sudden, the leader declared, "Mirkwood royalty has again stolen my family from me. I will have my compensation for their deaths, with the Princeling here as bait."
Aragorn turned his attention from the leader back to the Elf before him. Ament has lost whatever sanity he held. He intended to kill Ramlin himself. Ramlin is dead and Legolas fades. This could not possibly become any worse.
The mercenary barked, "How long will he live?"
"I do not know. I have never seen an Elf fall into despair before, though it may take days, even weeks yet."
"Good, good. We've time aplenty." Ament shouted across the clearing, "Jalian, guard these two while Doran and I look for the goblet." The leader bent down to wipe the blood, Aragorn's blood, from his blade onto the grass nearby before crossing to Doran. Jalian complied, leaving the conversation he and Doran had been holding to sit close to the exhausted Elf and sorrowful healer.
Proffering a flask of water, the mercenary commented apathetically, "It will live?"
Unable to endure Jalian's deprecating attitude towards the Prince any longer, Aragorn seized the bladder and spat, "Its name is Legolas, and he is no doubt several centuries your senior, at least, and the heir to the throne of Eryn Galen. You should have more respect, human."
Holding enough conscience to appear shamefaced, Jalian responded childishly, watching the healer rip away the cloth from the Elf's thigh to tend his arrow wound, "You're human, too, Strider."
Aragorn disregarded him, intent on his toil. The arrow has sliced deep into the flesh but I do not think it will be fatal... if he has not already lost too much blood. It is the wounds I cannot see to that I fear may be his undoing. Rummaging through his belongings, the healer selected from his dwindling supply of herbs what he knew would stop the life giving fluid that seeped from the Elf's thigh. After washing the injury clean and applying a thin paste of his mixture to the torn flesh, the Ranger bound bandages securely about Legolas' thigh, wishing he had a needle with which to sew the gash shut. Next, he rebandaged the Elf's other leg, where, Strider noticed thankfully, the marks made by the hunting trap were reopened but no longer bleeding.
Having seen to the most egregious of his charge's wounds, Strider ran his trained hands over the Prince's body carefully, looking for breaks or hidden injuries. Finding none that needed urgent consideration, the Ranger took his time in cleaning Legolas' bloodied face and torso before smoothing another paste over the contused flesh and then dribbling water between the Elf's parched lips. He did not want to be removed from the Elf's presence; he wanted the Prince to see him, not his captors, upon his awakening, and found whatever task he could to make it appear as if he were tending the Prince.
Please, Legolas, wake. I swear to you I will see you out of this alive, no matter what it takes.
Miserable, the Ranger sat beside Legolas in the morning sun, contemplating the Elf's return and the torment the archer had undergone. Ament was occupied, paying no heed to his idleness. The culpability is mine. I should have forced him to leave when he chose to stay for his father. I should never have kept him here in the first place. What have I done? Pinching the bridge of his nose harshly, the young healer fought back the surge of tears that threatened to fall. He came back for me, I am certain. I have done naught but facilitated his suffering and yet he returned to aid me. He handed himself back into captivity to save me. He no longer cared about maintaining his sham; it was useless as a means to keep him alive, and even this he no longer cared about as long as the Prince escaped. Instead, the Ranger tried to withhold his emotion for Legolas, for should the Elf awaken, Aragorn knew he would need his wits about him to get the Prince out of this mayhem.
"Someone has been poisoned," Elladan decided, poking through a pile of half crushed herbs that appeared to have been dumped onto the forest floor. They had followed the tracks, spurring their tired horses beyond their endurance to reach Estel and Legolas before Elrohir's prophecy was fulfilled. However, when they had come across the abandoned campsite, all had agreed to allow their mounts to rest and to use the opportunity to investigate. Even so, the three Elves hurried their inspection, eager to be on their way.
"What do you mean?" Tirn stood over the Imladrian Lord's shoulder, trying to determine what had inspired Elladan's conclusion. They are skilled in much that I would learn.
"These herbs are used to draw poison from a wound and help the body expel them," the elder twin explained, "and, of course, with the dead spider bodies lying about it is an obvious conclusion."
Elrohir joined his brother and the Silvan sentry, stepping over a shriveling spider carcass along his way. "This is Estel's work. He used every herb he carries that would have any effect. He has never treated a spider wound, it would seem."
Tirn could contain his suspicion no longer, his worry having been riled to extreme heights by the two Lords seemingly calm bearing and Elrohir's previous revelations. He asked ere he could convince his tongue to follow the counsel of his mind instead of the concerns of his heart, "Why would your brother be abetting the men who took the Prince?"
Elladan stood, and the twins faced Tirn in unison, their identical expressions equally affronted but similarly sympathetic. "I assure you that he is not aiding these men willingly. There is much of this we do not know, Tirn," Elladan protested.
The sentry attempted to apologize but was interrupted by Elrohir. "Nay, Elladan. He is right to ask this... but you are right, also. There is much hidden from us."
"You know more than you say, muindor. What information do you hold from us?" Elrohir's qualms about his brother's silence were clear in his stern manner.
Tirn watched the exchange uneasily although he, too, desired to hear the unforthcoming tidings Elrohir kept. Ai Valar, I did not mean to start a family dispute.
Sighing wretchedly, the reluctant visionary shook his head as he walked to his horse, admitting, "I saw briefly what was happening. I have seen into Legolas' thoughts." He paused, addressing Tirn pointedly, "He trusts Estel. He knows of our brother's identity but the mercenaries do not. Why they have chosen him as their captive, how Estel became involved, and why they have not made it to safety I do not know. I have only seen the present, not the future. I do know that our brother would not allow the Prince to be harmed if he could stop it."
"Mercenaries?" Elladan queried, and he and Tirn trailed Elrohir to their mounts.
"Yes. I did not see the entirety of their aims." Elrohir's countenance was grave as he spoke, again directing his explanation to the sentry, "Legolas fled. He was chased through the woods while he was dangerously injured and could not escape his pursuer." Rubbing his aching head lightly, he continued quietly, his own distress at witnessing the missing Prince's ordeal causing his typically beautiful voice to rasp with emotion, "I saw Legolas being abused for one of his captor's pleasure."
Tirn clutched his steed's mane, twisting it between his fingers, not noticing the mount nickering softly in reprimand. No. It cannot be, not our mirthful Prince.
"He is alive?" Elladan and Elrohir barely heard the quietly whispered question.
Stepping forward and tenderly removing Tirn's hands from his horse's tangled tresses, Elrohir confessed ruefully, "He slew his attacker and fled more pursuers. He intended to return to the camp for Estel. His whereabouts and well-being I know nothing of now. I am sorry."
"But you said if he made it back to camp then they were likely lost to us. We cannot hope to reach him in time. What now?"
Elrohir had no answer for this; he hung his head unhappily. His twin, however, had assurance for them all, pronouncing impassionedly, "We can always hope. And if we are too late, then we will not let their deaths go without reprisal."
If the fool farmer has lied, I will hunt him down, leisurely killing him and everyone he knows. For over two hours since recapturing the Elf, Ament and Doran had searched the trees in the clearing. I cannot have misunderstood him. This has to be the place of which he spoke.
When the leader had first heard about the goblet he had dismissed it as a mere legend, a tale that drunkards would pass the time wishing to obtain, telling what they would do with their immortality, and therefore he never gave the artifact but fleeting fancy. His doubt had been replaced with fervid belief when Ramlin had returned from visiting Doran in Fulton with rumors that a farmer there claimed to know the location of Melfren's fabled goblet.
"I can find no hollow trunk, Ament. Have you any luck?"
"None yet, Doran. We will find it," Ament assured.
"Are you sure this is the right place?"
Had not Ament desperately needed the archer's help, and had he not been probing this very issue himself, the leader would have gladly buried his sword in the man's belly, so great was his aggravation. No, that would not do. I seem to be running short of mindless thugs these days.
"Do you see the trees up ahead, at the edge of the clearing, where the many trunks twist together and their boughs are intertwined, and their limbs knotted together?" Doran nodded. "The farmer told of these trees, saying that the goblet was two days travel due east of the copse of trees we passed at the river, and hidden in the hollow of a tree on the edge of this clearing, where these misshaped trees lie. I am sure that this is the place."
"Perhaps he meant that the goblet was hidden within the disfigured trees themselves," Doran offered hopefully.
Again, Doran surprises me with his intellect. Why he was ever Ramlin's friend I cannot surmise.
"Perhaps. Good thinking, Doran. Meika had a hatchet, did he not? Go fetch it." Without waiting for the mercenary to return, the leader stalked to the glade's periphery, analyzing the warped trunks, tapping them in various places, listening for the obvious sound of a hollowed trunk. Mirkwood was filled with malformed trees, especially this far south, but none had he seen in his years in Laketown or the journey here were as twisted or numerous in their shared deformity as these.
This must be the place. I count at least seven trees. Ament's eye fell on an aperture between two of the trunks. Mayhap it is in the hollow between the trees, and not within them. Hatchet in hand, Doran returned, glaring trenchantly back at Jalian, Strider, and the Elf.
"What is it?" Ament eyed Jalian, who turned away at his leader's attention.
"Nothing," the blond mercenary replied promptly. His eyebrows shooting up in further suspicion, Ament glared at Doran, who conceded, "Strider and Jalian were talking but I know not of what."
"It does not matter, Doran. Jalian does not share our desire to seek retribution. He is dispensable, as is Strider. You will help me avenge Ramlin's death, will you not?"
"Of course, Ament. Ramlin was a good friend to me," the tall archer replied zealously, his face haggard with grief and rage.
My idiot brother serves me even in death. It is well that the Elf killed him, and I did not have to, else Doran would meet his end sooner than later for he would surely not be so accommodating otherwise.
"Here, do you see this gap? Cut the trees so that we can see what lies between the trunks," Ament commanded, standing back to give the mercenary room to work.
Splinters of wood flew through the cool air, landing haphazardly along the grassy earthen floor of the forest. Ament paid them no mind, for his mind focused only on the days ahead, the work to be done to ensure that his plan's execution went flawlessly, unlike its shaky beginnings. Thranduil's wealth will be mine. He cannot be so callous as to allow his only son to live in agony when his riches would easily buy his freedom. My revenge has already been exacted. Ramlin has had his fun, the Elf Prince will die from Ramlin's handling, but before he does, I will have an immortal life with which to enjoy Mirkwood's treasures, and a goblet that will ensure that I will never lose another life dear to me again. Stifling the urge to laugh, an impulse that was becoming a constant battle within the leader's mind, Ament stared at the sun, thinking that soon he would no longer be occupied with its daily journey, for he would see so many noontimes after today that time would no longer hold any authority over him. The cessation of Doran's chopping drew the mercenary from his thoughts.
"Ament," Doran shouted excitedly, "the trees twist around an open space. I can see it."
Hastily, the leader moved behind the archer, peering into the gloom within the revealed gap, following Doran's pointed finger to a tarnished object that lay within the tree's confines. The goblet. Nothing can stop me now.