It commenced with the stone slab directly outside the door Ament and Tirn had just exited, the room exterior to the cell where Strider and his brothers were trapped. The thick stone had buckled with the magnitude of the trapdoor's closure, its supposedly adamantine corpulence not enough to withstand the mass of forest floor above it, nor the abuse of time and lack of upkeep. As it broke, Legolas observed the dark green fletching of his sentry's arrow fly through the air, and its tip embed within his target's back with a crystal-clear thump. Despite the grievous wound the archer had inflicted, he watched his sentry and the mercenaries' leader run instinctually towards the scarcely lit end of the tunnel, dodging the plummeting stone tablets in their effort for survival and rounding the corner before Legolas could manage another shot. His vision was soon obscured by the dense clouds of falling dirt.
My arrow struck him. There is hope. The Prince watched the collapse with astonished horror, his disengagement that which only those of whom believe their end are inexorably upon them are capable. His hands fell to his sides, carelessly dropping Tirn's beautifully carved bow to the ground to be buried under the quickly deteriorating ceiling, and he gawked at the morbid vista afore him. Valar. If we are to die in this debacle, please let Ament be caught, also, he prayed.
He pushed his crouching form further back into the mound of dirt and rock behind him in an effort to avoid the blitz of raining debris, heedless of his muscle's protest to such movement and the radiating agony of his legs, which barely held his weight as he scrambled backwards to evade the falling stones. He need not have worried. Legolas had positioned himself to take his shot at the end of the tunnel where the stone canopy had already fallen long ago: only a massive mantle of dirt rained upon him as the earth rumbled on all sides. He promptly became entrapped in the soil and small stones, unable to run after Ament and Tirn.
Legolas lingered as he was for only a few moments of stunned immobility, covered under an immense heap of what was once Mirkwood's foundation, until the pattering and clattering of the collapse stopped around him, though the cave in continued further down the hall. He attempted to spring upwards out of the mire, the need for air finally driving him into venturing out of the safe, albeit smothering cocoon of earth over him. It hit, I am sure of it.
He could not take the chance that the arrow had not felled his mark, that Ament and Tirn would be out of the tunnel, and that the mercenary would have his cursed immortality. The loose soil and rocks hindered him from eluding the pile, as the ever-shifting, heavy mound impeded the Prince from gaining the hold to be free of its mutable snare. It should have been me, Legolas despaired, striving to reach the surface of his dirt tomb. Ament cannot have escaped, not with Tirn weaponless and possibly injured nearby. His lungs burned and he suddenly did not know which way was up, for his efforts at release had been erratic, and he feared he was merely burrowing through an endless supply of earth. It may have all fallen in on me. There may not be a surface.
His desperation induced his evermore frenzied motions. When his seeking hand finally broke free only to be grasped by another, Legolas did not care whose rough intervention it might be that towed him out of his earthen grave and into the stale but welcoming air.
The mercenary no longer held him, the dagger at his throat had been discarded thoughtlessly in the absolute fear both Elf and human felt. The two had fled from the tumbling rock and soil as the ceiling fell successively, trailing them in their wake out of the toppling passageway. He cannot escape. I cannot let him leave the tunnel. Shortly ahead of the sentry raced Ament, slowed but not deterred by the arrow jutting out disturbingly from the middle of his back. Even in the dim light, the running sentry could see the rapidly discoloring tunic turning a gratifying shade of red, indicating his Prince's shot had been accurate, piercing the human's lungs in a lethal display of Legolas' sophisticated marksmanship. Still the leader ran, however, and so Tirn gave chase, unwilling to cease lest he lose the human, disregarding his desire to see to his Prince and friends' welfare.
It must be destroyed. We cannot have given our lives only for another to obtain the goblet, even should it not be Ament who absconds with it.
And yet, Tirn hesitated, sparing a fleeting glance back into the thick air that was turbid with rubble, the vagrant remnants that were once the subterranean floor of Mirkwood, looking for any sign of life in the darkened tunnel. Prince Legolas. Let him be well. His vacillation exacted upon the sentry a hard levy, for his inattentiveness and faltering step kept Tirn from noting the dropping stone tablet until it was too late. He had naught but the time to throw himself forward, effectively escaping the heavy slab's weight falling upon his head, but not entirely eluding the tile altogether.
When his body hit the ground, the pain of his bare chest thrown harshly onto the sharp rocks and roots under him was nothing in comparison to the agony of the stone slab hitting his legs. The edge of the ceiling tile crashed down upon his thighs before it tipped, slamming downward upon the remainder of his lower limbs. Even with the deafening sound of the tunnel's collapse, Tirn imagined he could hear the sound of his bone breaking, though the snap of one of his thighbones recorded only vaguely in his mind, for his attention was still on Ament, who had forsaken his captive and did not look back as he ran around a curve towards the passageway's exit. Reflexively, the sentinel curled in upon the pain, shielding his head from the unremitting supply of rock and soil that still pelted his prone form.
Let it not end like this, the sentry pled.
Oblivious to anything except his flight, the leader was surprised when he stumbled, falling flat on his face and out of breath. The occasional roar of the walls around him signified that the worst of the cave in was spent, though it may well begin all over again, should the shoddy dwelling be provoked once more. Ament fisted his hands in the soil and rock around him, trying to calm his irregular breathing. The goblet. He could not find the strength to search for the means to his concupiscent, covetous vendetta, and so he lay in the dust, listening. At any moment, he expected the tunnel to be filled with the echoes of Elven feet, or Jalian's footsteps, seeking him for their own revenge or reckoning. Get up, he demanded of himself, you have what you have desired. You've only to make use of it. Lightless and eerily quiet save the intermittent clang of rock upon rock or the soft rustle of falling dirt in the aftermath of the downfall of Melfren's lair, the tunnel offered no warning that he was being pursued. They will come for you if they still live. Rise.
He gathered his hate and greed, enjoying the adrenaline rush that accompanied his internal bolstering of his rancor. As he pushed his weary body into sitting, the mercenary became instantaneously aware that something was amiss. With the change in position came a nauseating pain, and the abrupt loss of his ability to draw in air. Experimentally, the mercenary felt with his hands along his chest, and then his back, trying to find the source of his pain. When his fingers found the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back, its head buried deep within his flesh, the leader struggled not to laugh, knowing he could ill afford the expenditure of air. There must've been another Elf, or Jalian has finally learned how to wield a bow. In his flight, Ament had not felt the arrow hit him, but now the leader realized that for all his efforts, he had not yet obtained his goal and would die. The dark wrapped itself around him, suffocating the mercenary with his own mortality. Eternal darkness. You will die here in this tunnel with these accursed Elves if you do not rise. At least see them dead, Ament. Do not let them live to enjoy their immortality if you cannot have yours.
Although he could see nothing, the leader groped the earth around him, seeking the golden object desperately. He felt along the sod walls, unsure of where he was heading, while he fervently sought the cool gold of the simple goblet. Instead, he found that he was outside a room. Doran. Where is he? Ament did not know the whereabouts or allegiance of his brother's friend, but the anticipation of an ally inspired him. Crawling through the debris, he entered the room, gladdened that the ceiling had remained intact and his way was clear. His knee knocked against something, causing it to roll across the floor, and the leader reached out to stop its progress, noting with relief the oil soaked end of one of the torches Doran had prepared for their earlier exploration of the tunnel. Ament attempted to stand: flashes of bright light blazed before his eyes, expediting his urgent survey with their promise of his upcoming demise. Rigidity in his chest made it ever harder for the mercenary to draw air into his punctured lungs, and he stumbled from the dizziness this malady caused, tripping over a small chair. He remained upright by an unforeseen supporter: a short table halted his fall. This is the room where we imprisoned the Prince, he determined, feeling the inexplicably small table and chair with his hands, the diminutive likes of which had not been in any of the other rooms. I am not far from the exit.
Ament wavered. I will die if I do not find the goblet. It is the only way. However, he did not know how much longer he could persevere. Pulling a flint from his tunic pocket, the crazed mercenary set about lighting the torch. I will last. I will find the goblet, and I will use one of those damned Elves to see through my plan. He drew his sword, his wobbly hold of it a poor threat to any who may come upon him, but he did not fear death – he feared death without revenge. There may be another Elf in the tunnel, or Jalian may have let the others loose.
Turning to the door, the ruthless mercenary let his laughter take hold of him. Just outside the entrance, sitting charmingly amidst the fallen rubble, was his sought-after goblet.
The Ranger was cloaked in Elven flesh: the twins had thrown Aragorn to his knees at the first thunderous disturbance, and before the Ranger could dissent, the twins had wrapped their bodies over his to protect him against the perceived danger. Even after the noise had ceased, when the sounds of devastation had given way to a desultory din that resounded from outside the cell, Elladan and Elrohir did not loosen their hold on the human until Estel commented, "Let me breathe, brothers."
His voice was muffled, as his head was pressed between his brothers' chests, but the twins heard him, for they released him soon after. The mortared walls and ceiling of the cell were blessedly intact: nothing but dust had fallen upon them during the harrying time spent listening to the cave in outside their chamber. Having found Ament's abandoned torch, they at least had some light by which to worry now that it was relit.
Elrohir sat beside him on the stone floor, tilting the Ranger's head backwards to inspect the wounds to Aragorn's neck, while Elladan contemplated the trapdoor cautiously. How has this come to be?
Unable to stifle his indignant pursuit of why his brothers had handed the Prince over to his tormentor and the many questions their very presence evoked, the Ranger asked in a voice broken with pain, "How did you find us? Why did you trade Legolas? What have you done, my brothers? Jalian is not a friend to us; we are trapped in this cell while Ament may escape with the Prince, if they are not themselves trapped in whatever disaster has occurred outside."
"Quiet, Estel," Elrohir demanded, holding his brother's jaw forcefully shut while he finished his examination. Content that the Ranger had not sustained anything but shallow gashes to his neck, he added mystifyingly, "It was not the Prince we traded, but his sentry."
Sentry? So it was not Legolas.
His impression of the Elf whose eyes had briefly met his during the exchange was confirmed. "Then there are others who can aid us?"
His hope was slaughtered when Elrohir explained, "Nay, it was only he and us looking for you and the Prince, but Legolas was outside, at ready to fell Ament should he and Tirn leave the room." The Noldo Lord sighed and exchanged a doleful look with his twin, who had taken to running his hands along the timbers encasing the trapdoor in his search for a way out. "We had not anticipated Ament's desire to make our trade in here, for we did not believe him to trust Jalian to let him out. I only hope that Legolas' aim was true."
Aragorn was bereft of understanding of what was occurring; too much had happened without his presence. He knew why his brothers had been willing to make the trade: they loved him and would do whatever it took to see him safe, but not without some assurance that the goblet would not be used. The Prince had been that insurance, though none could have anticipated the cave in would happen just then. Without being told, the Ranger knew that Legolas had likely offered himself in the trade. No doubt, Legolas' sentry fulfilled his duty by keeping the Prince safe, Estel thought with much guilt. That another Wood-Elf had been placed in danger and that yet another immortal life had likely been sacrificed for his weighed heavily upon his conscience. He was pitifully uninformed, and he would stay that way until time could be spared for him and his brothers to converse. We may have time aplenty if no one has survived outside.
Elladan tapped on the trapdoor, testing its strength, or its propensity to reenacting another collapse, as he called, "Jalian… Legolas?"
As thankful as he was that the twins had arrived to aid him and the Prince, that his brothers were now to die with him in the cell only brought the Ranger more guilt. First Legolas, and now my own brothers will die for my foolishness. And the Prince's sentry. Elrohir's prodding of his wounded chest caused the Ranger to cry out, pushing the twin's hands from his burnt flesh as he gasped for air.
"Valar, Estel. What has he done to you?" Elrohir whispered, more to himself than to his brethren. The Noldo ransacked his pack until he had found what he sought, the phial of despicable liquid that Aragorn immediately recognized by smell as that which would kill his pain, but also render him useless.
"No, Elrohir," he told the Noldo, incapable of drawing enough air into his lungs to continue his refusal. Unwillingly, the twin replaced the phial with a concerned frown, choosing instead a tin in which a thick paste of herbs was stored. Through his tunic had the flaming branch burned, and as Elrohir pulled it up to reach the injury, the cloth stuck to the charred skin of his chest and belly and the Ranger could not help but to cry aloud again when Elrohir yanked the tunic free.
"I am sorry, Estel," the Noldo lamented. "I did not mean to hurt you. We used the last of our water to paint Tirn with mud for bruises; else, I would wash these burns, brother. For now, this will relieve the pain, but it will sting at first." Aragorn's nausea returned as the ache of his burnt flesh was revived in vivid detail. The sweet smelling paste soon numbed his skin, however, which was a welcomed sensation.
Elladan knelt beside his brothers, eager to see the damage done to the human ere Elrohir bandaged the wound with clean linen. "Ada and King Thranduil will never let you and Legolas play together again, since you can't play nice." The Ranger snorted at the uncalled for jest, and then immediately regretted it when his movement pulled at his wounds, which were unbearably tight.
Elrohir glared at his twin with mock austerity. "Do not encourage him, Elladan."
"I doubt Legolas will ever desire to see me again after this travesty is over." If it is not already over for him, he added to himself. "He has suffered much."
Standing and walking to the trapdoor, Elladan pounded harder on the slab of stone barring them from their freedom, Legolas, and the other responsibilities that Aragorn felt were his to shoulder. To his surprise, a voice answered the incessant knocking; Jalian's words were a mere murmur to him, though he knew that to the twins it was as loud as the falling ceiling had been to him earlier, "Stop already, mate. Don't knock so hard. I've no wish to dig my way out of another cave in, thank ye very much."
Perhaps there is some good in Jalian, yet.
Calling, "Let us out, Jalian. Open the door," Elladan aided Elrohir in picking Aragorn up from the floor.
Please let us out, the Ranger hoped of the mercenary, unsure that Jalian would comply.
Another voice, a broken and quieter voice, responded, "Not yet. We need to find a way to keep the door from slamming as hard as it did before. I must agree with Jalian, I've no desire to be mired in the ceiling yet again."
Legolas. Praise Ilúvatar. The twins were as relieved as the Ranger was that the Prince was alive.
"The bedding, get the bedding." When his brothers stared at him, uncomprehending, the Ranger pointed towards the master's bedroom. "Therein lays a bed. We can use the bedding to cushion the door's closing once we are freed." They left him standing at the trapdoor and hurried to the other room. The Ranger shouted to the human and Elf outside, "Are you both well?"
Jalian replied, "I'm alright. The ceiling barely fell in here, mostly just outside in the tunnel's where it came down."
"And you, Legolas?" He heard his brothers coming through the doorway with piles of moldering bedding in their arms, the mostly rotted straw mattress dragging behind them.
Silence met his question. Thinking they had not heard him, Estel made to shout again, but the mercenary answered, "He's not here. Took my short sword and ran down the hall. Off to find Ament and the other Elf, I reckon."
Sweet Eru.
He tried pulling his legs free from the thick tile that lay on it: the pain of his broken bone cutting into his muscle halted that attempt. He tried to dig under his legs, to make a groove in the dirt floor so that he could free his limbs: the earth he removed was only replaced by more earth, the shifty soil would only slide back, and his arrangement on his stomach did not allow him the mobility to reach far enough to dig the dirt away for this effort to be of much use. Wonderful. Tirn laid his head on the ground. I should have let the stone fall on my head. Idiot.
Bouncing rays of light danced along the walls, and it took the sentry by surprise to realize that someone was coming down the tunnel. As no one had passed him, and by Legolas' account, no other mercenaries were left, Tirn knew it could only be Ament. He scrambled to find a weapon; he had left his bow and quiver with the Prince, and his sword and dagger had been left with the twins so that Ament would believe him to be the Prince. How is he still alive? The Prince's arrow struck true. Frantically, he searched the ground for anything he might use as a weapon only to find nothing but dirt and rock. If only I were a Hobbit, these rocks would be useful as defense, he thought testily to himself.
"I was hoping you'd still be alive, Thranduilion." Ament stumbled around the curve ahead, the torch bobbing carelessly, while in the other hand he held tight a sword in his unsteady grip. "I would've liked to keep you around for a while but I suppose…" The man faltered, his jaw slack as he moved his torch closer to the sentry. "You're not the Prince." Tirn said nothing. The human repeated, "You're not the Prince. You…" Ament dropped his sword, appearing on the verge of either tears or laughter as he fumbled at his belt, pulling free the goblet. "Nay, you're not the Prince, but you'll do," the leader snickered, falling to his knees just out of Tirn's reach. "You'll do nicely."
I'll not quench his blood thirst, the sentinel vowed, twisting his incarcerated legs without further regard to the scrape of his broken bone within his flesh. I must get free.
He could see the mercenary's back as Ament leapt towards him, torch forgotten in a pile of soil as he brandished the goblet like a weapon. The leader was bleeding profusely from the arrow that still protruded, his belabored breathing and rickety movements evidence of his oncoming demise. The Noldor had not elaborated exactly what would happen should the mercenary have his taste of immortality but Tirn imagined that Melfren, should the fable prove true, would not succumb so easily to an arrow wound. Even as he turned his entrapped body to avoid the nearing mercenary, the Wood-Elf knew he could not evade the human: he was in no position to fight the leader, weaponless and injured. The goblet struck him hard across the back of his head, and again, until he could feel the skin of his scalp break and his vision swam sickeningly. Still he could not free himself, try as he might.
Tirn shoved the man to gain time to try his escape again. The human fell backwards onto the flaming torch, and the sentry was briefly satisfied upon hearing the leader's howl of agony and the hiss of the mercenary's backside against the flame. He did not waste time enjoying his satisfaction or pondering on his crippling worry about his Prince and friends, but began once more his vain attempt at freeing his legs from their heavy confines. He cannot bring Melfren back. I will not be his sacrifice. Ament's shriek became convulsive coughing, and the mercenary's body floundered in his endeavor to remove himself from the potentially searing pain of the fire and to regain his breath. By a strength emerging from desperation and fright, the mercenary vaulted forward again, pelting the sentry across the face with the goblet.
This time Tirn was not so quick to recover, and his head smacked the soil floor before he was aware that he had been hit. Ament made good use of this lapse; he seized his sword from the floor only to stab the sentry through the hand, temporarily impaling the sentry's limb into the deep mass of dirt on which he lay, ere the leader pulled the blade free. Taking the goblet up again, Ament continued his assault, unreservedly merciless as he beat the felled sentry with the solid object repeatedly in the head and shoulders.
"Your companions will wither away in their cell, like the Prince will fade." Unable to move as he fought unconsciousness, much less answer the mercenary's jibe if he had at all desired to, Tirn's body lay still though he moved his head to glare at the mercenary. His bottomless, aged sapphire eyes bore into Ament's such that the mercenary shifted his gaze, preferring instead to stare at the Wood-Elf's bleeding head wounds than the uncompromising glower of the sentry. "It matters not, Elf, for I will have all of eternity to find the Prince, if he still lives. And if he does not, then Thranduil can be destroyed in other ways." Cackling, and then coughing, the mercenary picked the sentry's head from the floor by the hair at the nape of Tirn's neck. "I suppose I should thank you, Elf, for your immortality," Ament taunted the beaten, vertiginous Wood-Elf. "But you and your kind owe me this."
This being said, the mercenary drew his sword across Tirn's neck, opening the sallow skin over the sentry's jugular vein with his blade until the sanguine, silvery fluid that pulsed through his victim's body spilled forth in a torrid rush.
He closed his eyes. He did not know whether it was from the blackening trauma to his skull or from the blood loss, but the sentry found that he did not care. He had tried. He had given his life.
It could have been the Prince lying here, he comforted himself.
The cool, uneven rim of what he knew was the goblet was pressed to his throat, and into it drained his life. He dared not open his eyes, for he did not wish to see what would come of Ament's foul interference with Ilúvatar's will. Mayhap someone lives yet, he thought of his friends. Mayhap there is still hope. When the goblet was filled to Ament's satisfaction, the sentry heard, rather than saw, the gluttonous imbibing of his blood by the dying mercenary, as he heard the distant, slow approach of another in the long passageway. Someone still lives, he thought as his mind faded into unconsciousness, faintly smiling in his hopes that the someone would be his Prince.