Aragorn cogitated quickly as he crawled on his hands and knees back into the confines of the twisted trees, trying to think of a way out: the task of crawling was awkward with his hands tied before him, the leash trailing behind him. We've still no plan, the Ranger worried, his thoughts not drifting far from the Elf he had grudgingly left to the clemency of the mercenaries outside. I would see Ament's plans fail, but how?
Arriving at the center of the cavern of trunks, the Ranger paused in front of the mysterious, handled door inset in a rock foundation, the door itself made of the same stone as the base. The brass handle was discolored from its damp place amongst the debris of leaves and twigs that had found their way down the single shaft of light from overhead. The natural duct was nothing more than an opening the size of Aragorn's arm through which the noon sun trickled, emphasizing the perplexing handle in its bright warmth. The healer had a clear idea of why Ament had desired him to open the door: given the nature of the goblet, it was likely whoever had hidden it would not allow it to be obtained effortlessly. I wish I knew the lore behind this artifact.
"Enough gawking, Strider. Open it." Ament's curly head appeared through the tunnel Doran had hacked from the tree trunks, though the mercenary leader came no further than that which was necessary for him to hold the leash and view the Ranger's actions. Sitting back on his haunches, the healer took a deep breath ere he grasped the door's handle, trying to pull it slowly upwards with prudence. The heavy door would not budge. With a snort of frustration, Ament crawled closer to the Ranger, inspecting the barrier between him and the means to his revenge with contempt.
"Come on, Strider, pull." Again, the Ranger heaved on the stone door, this time pulling with all of his might. Although the rock slab lifted several inches, the weight was too immense for the Ranger's wounded arms, and he released the handle, the stone slamming back into its foundation with a deafening thud. Growling with aggravation, the mercenary scooted forwards until he knelt across from the Ranger.
The shaft of light glinted off a knife the leader had hung on a loop on his belt, and for the briefest of moments, the Ranger considered seizing the weapon, slitting the mercenary's throat, and being done with Ament's evil intentions altogether. I would never make it out of these confines alive, and neither, then, would Legolas survive. Jalian and Doran could take the goblet and the Prince.
The opportunity passed as Ament shifted his position, kneeling across from Aragorn and instructing, "Pull, Strider, as though your life depended on it." With a criminal smirk, the demented mercenary added, "Because it does."
Together the men yanked on the ornate handle, hefting the slab door, grunting with the effort, until they had laid the slab open, the hinges screeching in protest as they dropped the mighty door on its opposite side. A cloud of dust and withered leaves spewed up about them. Ament flattened himself against the trunk wall behind him in caution, unintentionally wrenching the Ranger by his leash forwards over the black, wide hole that the door revealed. Unable to stop the momentum, Aragorn nearly fell into the chasm headfirst: a hand stayed his fall.
Ament grinned at the healer, righting him, as he stated drolly, "Can't have you dying too soon. Might need you later." Both men turned their attention to the gaping maw before them, peering through the grime to ascertain what lay in the darkness. The beam of light from overhead illuminated the void; motes of dust from many years of neglect reflected the sunshine but the vast depths of the tunnel were lit nonetheless, and the bottom of the conduit was evident. A simple ladder, wrought from metal, led down into the orifice.
This becomes more complicated with each breath.
"Doran," the leader called, the voice echoing in the enclosed space. "Fashion a torch." Sneering at the healer, Ament taunted, "Not afraid of the dark are you, Strider?"
The Ranger said nothing but faced Ament's sneer with an expressionless visage. Of course, I will be the one to check the safety of this venture.
"What are you waiting for?" Raising his eyebrows in question, the Ranger did not move, for in fact, he had been waiting for the torch to light his way. Ament detected this, and commented teasingly, "Didn't think I would trust you with fire, did you, Strider? Climb."
Reluctantly, the healer began to descend the ladder, testing each rung warily with one foot before placing the whole of his weight upon it. He could not identify any traps that might hinder his progress or take his life, so he continued to climb down until, at last, his feet hit solid ground. Aragorn looked up at the mercenary looking down at him: his leash had run out of slack and he could travel no further than the end of the ladder. Ament's face was obscured by the darkness, but the sunlight pouring down around the man's head created a sanguine halo of the mercenary's hair.
It did not matter; the Ranger did not need to see the man's face to know he was scowling as he queried, "What's down there?"
The walls of the conduit had been stone; the walls of the tunnel in which he now found himself were nothing but roughhewn timbers holding back the soil. The ceiling consisted of large blocks of stone that rested on the timbers, ineffectively keeping the forest floor from collapsing down. In sporadic places, the tree's roots had broken through the slabs, and the soil had showered down into the tunnel, leaving piles of dirt and broken rock along the passageway.
Aragorn whispered, nervous to call too loudly lest the reverberations bring the entire tunnel crashing upon him, "It appears to be a tunnel, Ament. Where it goes I cannot see. The roof is collapsed in places."
He received no reply: the leader was busy taking a torch from Doran, who sweated with the exertion and heat of carrying the cloth-wrapped, oiled, flaming limb through the small entrance to the confines where Ament waited. Not wasting any time, the mercenary ordered Doran, "Stay outside with Jalian. I do not trust him with the Elf alone. I will return shortly."
Awkwardly, the man climbed down the ladder, his hands burdened with the leash in one and the torch in the other. When the slack of rope increased, Aragorn moved into the tunnel, though he did not risk going too far without the leader's light. Ament leapt the last few feet from off the ladder, startling the Ranger.
"Go on, Strider," the leader whispered, suddenly awed by the environment in which he had entered.
Bit by bit the two made their way down the passage. They had not traveled for but a few minutes when Ament halted the Ranger with a tug of the leash. "Strider. Look." The mercenary sounded sociable, as though the pair were strolling through a garden, rather than one controlling the other by a strap and threats.
An aperture, the height slightly less than that of a man, was carved into the dirt, with beams of wood encasing the hole for support. Ament held the torch into the doorway, and he and the Ranger were both surprised to see a room beyond it fitted with a rotting table, chairs, and another exit, this one with a proper iron door. Pointing towards the room, Ament did not need to voice his order before Aragorn led the way into the space, which the healer was pleased to note did not appear as derelict as the passageway they had left.
The table and chairs are small. Is this is a Dwarven tunnel?
Ament crept around the room, his mad gaze drinking in every detail, until he came to the solid iron door at the far end of the tiny space. "Open it."
As tired as he was of obeying the mercenary's terse orders, the Ranger complied, tugging the doorknob gently. The door swung open easily, disclosing another room, this one bare except for a pair of rusty, broken manacles attached to a spike that was driven into the rock floor. A prison? What place is this?
Giving the room a cursory glance, Ament led the healer back out of the cell. The leader peered into the barely dispelled darkness, waving his torch around the unexplored remainder of the tunnel, ere striding back towards the ladder, Ranger in tow.
The bright light of the midday sun stung Ament's eyes when he crawled from the twisted tree trunks. Doran waited for him, holding Strider's leash, his hand out to take the still flaming torch from the leader. Nothing yet. That does not mean I will not find it, Ament comforted himself. I need Doran with me and I will not leave Jalian alone with the Elf for long.
Stretching his aching leg, the mercenary made his way to where Jalian sat next to Legolas, leaving Strider and Doran standing uncomfortably at the entrance to the cavern, unsure of what was happening. "Jalian, how does he fare?"
The scarred man shrugged his shoulders, not meeting his leader's gaze. "It's still breathing, that much is sure. I don't know for how long, though. It ain't moved or woke up."
Ament stared at the Elf, his hatred renewing the adrenaline rush he depended on to continue his mad quest. He longed to drive his dagger through the Prince's heart in rage for his father, his mother, and now the death of his brother, but unlike Ramlin, Ament was more logic than emotion, and he schooled his loathing to a tolerable level.
Just enough to keep me going, he thought, as he drove his boot into the Elf's side viciously, the snap of a breaking bone sending waves of delight through the mercenary's sick mind. Legolas curled in on his side instantly, coughing and wheezing to draw air into his abused lungs, his eyes flying open in alarm and misery. Pounding footsteps were Ament's only forewarning that something behind him was amiss, as Doran's yelled caveat came too late to warn the leader of the oncoming healer.
The mercenary was pushed harshly to the side, the force of Strider's body knocking them both to the ground. Ament did not have to time to block the raining blows that fell upon his face and torso from the man's fisted hands. Strider worked him relentlessly, beating the leader in a quiet rage ere Doran and Jalian could haul the healer away, grappling to keep Strider under control with the leash and their own hail of fists and feet. Finally, the healer stopped struggling when Jalian brought him to his knees. Strider's wrath was spent, and yet his gray eyes were filled with bitter fury.
"Ament?" Doran released his hold on the healer, sprinting to the prone form of their leader, whose bloodied, livid face rose from the ground, smiling peculiarly. His step faltering at the sight, Doran questioned, "Ament, are you alright?" He offered his hand to the leader, who accepted, and pulled himself from the ground stiffly, brushing the dirt off his already filthy clothing.
"You shouldn't have done that, Strider," the oddly jovial leader informed the healer, limping slightly as he walked to where Jalian held the interloper down with the leash and a well-placed hand in his hair. Indicating to the disfigured man to move backwards, Ament picked up the still lit torch that Doran had tossed to the ground in his rush to help the leader. Jalian moved away immediately, retaining his hold on the leash such that the healer's arms were jerked up and behind his head. For his part, the healer could not hide his fear of the approaching flame but he sat unmoving, staring defiantly at Ament.
He thinks he is courageous. We shall see how long it takes before he screams.
"We need him, Ament, for now. Can this not wait?" Doran's anxious voice shattered the entranced leader, and he paused, considering the options.
We do need Strider alive. He can live through a tiny burn, can he not? Not bothering to answer the blond archer, Ament grabbed the front of Strider's overcoat, wresting the healer towards him as he thrust the blazing limb into the young human's stomach. The healer screamed in agony as the flaming wood seared through his tunic and skin, the smell of burning flesh filling Ament's nostrils. He inhaled deeply, taking great pleasure in the pungent odor and shriek of pain and fear. When he had his fill, he threw Strider back, the limp healer falling to the ground, panting heavily. Ramlin would have enjoyed that.
Doran and Jalian gawked at Ament in horror, sickened by his gratification in Strider's torture: the leader paid them no mind, instead crossing to the Elf, who watched the healer solemnly as he struggled to breathe. "You bring nothing but suffering to those around you, Princeling," he taunted before kicking the Elf again, this time aiming for Legolas' temple, which sent the Prince into oblivion.
"Ament?"
The leader rounded on his minions, his temper settling. Jalian was sitting next to Strider, his eyes wide with remembrance, it seemed, of his own burns. He held the man's bound hands away from his stomach while grabbing for a water flask to wash the flesh wound clean with the cool water. Doran, however, was the one who had tried to gain their leader's awareness, and prodded again, "Ament?"
"What is it, Doran?" I am in no mood for arguments.
Hesitating, the blond mercenary asked him, "What of the goblet? Did you not find it?"
"No. Not yet. I need you in the tunnel with me." With a shake of his head to clear the haze of his depleted anger, Ament commanded, "Jalian, get Strider up and about. He has work to do. As for you, Doran, grab the Elf. He and Jalian are coming down with us."
The two mercenaries hastened to follow their leader's orders, their allegiance to Ament reaffirmed by the fear of enduring his disapproval. Ament watched, wiping his bloodied nose on the sleeve of his tunic as Jalian helped Strider to stand, the healer doubling over reflexively in distress as his burned skin expanded with his movement. He will know better than to try my patience next time. Snorting to himself, the leader amended, Next time I will offer him no leniency.
Doran dragged the Elf across the clearing by his arms, the fair head bouncing against the ground harshly. Running a shaky hand through his tangled hair, Ament rebuked himself, I cannot lose sight of the ultimate goal. I cannot let my anger destroy my plans. He knew he had gone too far with the Elf, that the Prince was likely already injured mortally. He knew that Strider was expendable only insofar as the Elf was not in need of a healer – but he could not help to feel rage. And he knew then, as he sat watching the wounded healer try to crawl back into the tree's confines and the Prince being lugged unceremoniously to the same destination, that he was, in fact, losing his mind.
Tirn, Elrohir, and Elladan had stopped their horses, preferring instead to sprint silently the remainder of the short way to where they believed the mercenaries, Aragorn, and Legolas to be camped. The horses would not have lasted much longer, anyway, Tirn thought. The three Elves had pushed the beasts beyond their endurance, hastening in their expedition with increasing apprehension that they would arrive too late. When Elladan had declared they were getting closer to their quarry, an assertion made from the newness of the tracks they were following, the three Elves had begun their run. Now, half an hour later, Tirn slowed his pace in response to Elladan's hand held high in the air, his own pace nothing more than a crawl. Elrohir and the sentry made their way quietly to Elladan, peering over dead brambles with him.
They had come upon the camp, much to their surprise. Normally, the Elves would have heard the sounds of the men before they had come this close to their site, but all they could hear was the nickering horses' soft hoof beats on the grass. The campsite was entirely abandoned. Bedrolls, satchels, bags, dirty bowls, bloody linen, and other various signs of recent activity were strewn about the glade haphazardly, and the forest floor was trodden with footprints. A nauseating smell permeated the air around them, reminding Tirn of how the men in Laketown would brand their livestock for identification.
Where is the Prince?
"That is Estel's bag, and his horse grazes yonder," an excited Elrohir whispered, glad to have some indication that his brother still lived.
"Where are they? Do you think they have perceived our coming and fled?" Elladan turned, facing his two companions. "There are no signs of spiders, or of any other beast, for that matter. Where have they gone?"
The sentry had no answer, and in his intense obsession to have one, suggested, "Why do we not look around their campsite? Surely we will hear them before they come upon us." The twins nodded their assent, and the trio slinked guardedly into the campsite, glancing about them for some sign of the living.
Tirn's eyes caught a silvery, bloody patch of grass close to the remains of a campfire. This is the Prince's blood, I am sure of it, the fair Elf thought uneasily, inspecting the patch momentarily before passing it by to continue his search. He walked the perimeter of the camp, noting the many trails that led from the clearing into the woods surrounding them. Perhaps they were forced to flee, but why would they not take the horses? The keening of a dying tree rapidly drew the sentry's attention, his eyes considering the destruction that had occurred at the other end of the elliptical glade. Splinters of wood sprinkled the ground, as did much larger chunks of the wailing, tainted trees that had their trunks carelessly hacked away. Why this ruin?
Running past Elrohir and Elladan, who were scrutinizing a branch meticulously, Tirn sped to the mangled, twisted trees. His eyes lit upon the hacked aperture between the trunks. It looks as though something were dragged from the trunks, the sentry distinguished from the pattern of the fragments of bark and the flattened grass leading to the opening.
"What have you found, Tirn?" Looking behind, the sentry saw that the twins had trailed him, and were examining the scene with as much curiosity as he displayed.
"I am not sure, my Lords, but it appears that something was dragged from the cavern the trees make with their malformed trunks. What, I do not know."
Elladan held up the limb he had earlier been analyzing, his face animated with sudden understanding, "Not from, my friend. In. They have dragged something in."
"Into the trees, Elladan? There is no space for as many men as there are horses to ride them, including the Prince, to hide between the tree trunks," Elrohir offered skeptically. "What makes you think such?"
His excitement fallen, the Noldo explained, "This was a torch, was it not? They would have no reason for a torch in the daylight, and this is recently burned." Tirn only then noticed the end of the limb was wrapped in cloth and slicked with oil, though its very tip was bloodied and blackened, and still smoked with the last embers of its dying flame. Elladan did not wait for a reply, "And there are no men. I don't know, muindor, I only thought that there was no place else for them to go," the Elf finished in a disappointed rush, his discontent that they had not yet found their brother causing his head to hang in melancholy.
"We should scout the area. Follow the sets of tracks that lead away from the camp. Most seem to have returned, but there are a few trails that do not have a returning trail, or their tracks are convoluted. They may have gone in these directions, brother." Elrohir placed his hand comfortingly on his twin's shoulder.
Elladan's hopeful voice queried, "Can you not see where they are?"
Elrohir only shook his head. "I do not control it. It comes as it pleases. I would that it came, for then we would have some guidance. Until then, or until we find some clue, let us resume looking." Holding his hand out to the sentry, the Noldo Lord urged, "Come, Tirn, let us search where our attentions are more apt to find results."
Tirn said nothing, nor did he take the wise Elf's hand. "I will at least look, my Lord," he declared, aware that he might be offending the Noldo's wisdom, but he was unwilling to leave the affair uncontested. Ignoring the Elf's indulgent glance, Tirn crawled through the hole into the cavern of the trunks. His soft gasp of shock had both twins following his progress into the cavity.
His waking thoughts were that he had died, that he lay in his corpse with his lifeless eyes closed, but when he opened his lids, when he thought he had opened them, the blackness remained. No light filtered through to the dank, musty place he inhabited. Where am I? Trying to touch his eyes to assure himself that they were indeed open, the Elf realized his hands were bound, as were his feet, and then Legolas' memory returned to him. It had been less than half a day since he had been struggling under Ramlin's hatred and only five since he had departed the halls of his father to complete a routine check on a scouting party.
The Elf feared he had gone blind, that Ament's boot had stolen his sight from him, but his reason stewed, and he did not hold fast to this fear. He had greater qualms about which to worry. Where is Strider? The Prince had seen the final moments before his world, it seemed, had turned markedly dark. Strider should not have suffered to keep me from harm, Legolas decided, testing the binds at his wrists. It was neither as warm nor as dry as it had been before he had lost consciousness, and thus the Elf concluded that he no longer lay in the same place as he had, though where he lay now he could not ascertain. The hard rock beneath him, cooler air around him, and lack of sound convinced him that he was inside some shelter. I cannot hear the trees. Why is there no light?
Remembering the blade he had hid hastily in his boot before surrendering to Ament, the Silvan arched his back, disregarding the violent, jabbing pains that shot throughout his body at the movement. His hands, tied behind his back, could almost reach his feet, but the pain from his broken, worn out body kept him from reaching the far tucked hilt of the dagger. Come, Legolas, it is only pain. That no one had yet stopped his motions evidenced to the Prince that no one was nearby, for without doubt they would have halted his attempts. Not if Strider is dead, his perfidious mentality offered him, because the others are too arrogant to stop me.
With immense exertion, the Silvan finally caught hold of his boot with his numb fingertips, clutching the leather with all his capacity, ere he slipped his fingers within, hoping that the mercenaries had not found the hidden weapon that he himself had nearly forgotten. A red bolt of agony spread throughout his ribs at the attempt but Legolas would not give in, and so his fumbling fingers finally grasped the hilt of the weapon, pulling the knife free incautiously and slicing his ankle and calf.
The pain did not register. It was too insignificant in comparison with his other torture. Dagger in hand, the Elf relaxed his body, allowing his tormented ribs and back relief. He did not rest for long, though; turning the blade about, the Prince sawed at the ropes, carving sloppily into his skin as he cut the cord. For the first time in several days, Legolas' hands were completely free of rope around his wrists. Immediately, he curled into himself, his torso and lower body griping with waves of nausea-inducing pain, while he cut the ropes about his legs blindly. Only then did he feel his eyelids, deciding that indeed he had opened his eyes.
The Wood-Elf lay still, listening. Hearing nothing, the Prince cajoled his bedraggled body into sitting upright, crying softly aloud as his abused body grated against the hard, stone floor on which he laid. The Prince felt shattered into a thousand different points of intense agony, each one calling out to him its howl of suffering: he ignored them all. I have to get out of here, wherever here is. Legolas again felt his eyes desperately, confused as to why he could see nothing. There was no place for miles around that we could have sought shelter. Unless I have been unconscious for some time.
This thought, combined with his concern for his father and Strider, incited the Prince to search around with his hands where he sat, groping the rock in hopes of finding some clue as to where he was. He found nothing at first, nothing but the cool, rough stones and a layer of dust. However, his hands soon discovered a short stake, attached to which a pair of rusty, broken manacles lay. A cell. I am imprisoned. The unearthing of the shackles discomforted him; Legolas could not be assured how long he had been unawares of surrounding events, where the mercenaries had taken him, when his captors would return for him, or even whether his captors intended to return for him. A panic took hold of the Elf, and he searched the stone floor madly with his hands, his wild eyes perusing his dark cage.
It was his skull, not his hands, that found the wall, and the unforgiving contact with the wooden timber nearly sent the Wood-Elf back to unconsciousness. His head ached fiercely, robbing him of the ability to think rationally, though his increasing alarm at his surroundings also deprived the Prince the aptitude to calm his probing, and soon Legolas was exhausted from the search. He could not crawl any further, and so he sat, back against the stone and dirt wall, when he first began to feel the waves of terror wash over him.
I am underground. This is no more than a tomb. Drawing his knees to his chest, the Elf rested his weary head on them, wrapping his arms around his legs and curling his body in on itself. No. This is too much.
All that had happened to the Elf, all that he had endured, and all that he feared came crashing down upon him in one hideous moment. Legolas shut his eyes tightly, willing the darkness to clear and he to wake in his bedroom, this experience with the mercenaries never to have happened.
Eru, please, I do not want to die in here without having warned my father.
Without compunction the Elf would have given his life for his home; yet, dying in a dank, cold cell with naught but time to reflect on the ills done him seemed a high price to pay for one Elf, and the Prince wished only that his father would find him, as he had promised many years before. He comforted himself by thinking; Ada would never have negotiated with these foul men. Even if I had lived, he would never have responded to their threats of my death. My life means nothing in comparison to Eryn Galen.
The Prince began to hum a tuneless melody, just a fabrication of his maltreated faer. I wish I had seen the stars one last time. He pictured the halls of his father, the gardens that he and his mother would explore ere she left to answer her calling for the sea, and the verdant forest of the Greenwood. Finally, the Elf felt at peace. He could almost hear the reverberations of his heart slowing, its beat giving way to his sadness. A dim light shone through the darkness. Is this what it is like for humans to die? Will Strider feel this, too?
His memories of the human were few and horrible, but Legolas hoped the healer had somehow made it to safety, though he held no hope that the man had found his way to warn King Thranduil. Soft voices called to him, urging him to follow their demands. Legolas could not hear their insistent words and he did not desire to try to discern of what they spoke. The voices became more adamant and the light brighter, compelling the Elf to open his tired eyes.
"Legolas?"