He could not muster any energy to force his wrecked body into running faster. Already the tunnel gyrated riotously in the faint light from up ahead, the orange hued ambience adding to Legolas' dizziness. In the wake of the collapse, this part of the passageway was spared the same devastation as the rest of the tunnel, and for this the Prince was thankful, as there was little to impede him from running headlong across the loose soil to find Ament and Tirn. After the violence he had endured, the suffering his captors had forced upon him, and the prolonged torment of being bound or caged, the Prince's forethought was greatly diminished, as was his warrior's intuition, both of which advised him stealth was more important than speed.
He slowed, however, as he approached what he vaguely remembered to be near the end of the tunnel, the section in which led to the room of his imprisonment. A foreboding crept up his spine as dark and lingering as the foul water in the Enchanted River. He crawled along the ground on his hands and knees, making sure to hide in the shadow of the curve in the wall so not to be seen. Legolas listened: the echo of quick footsteps met his ears. Ament is escaping.
Oblivious to all but this worry, the Elda forsook secrecy to sprint around the corner with his sword at ready, though the sight there precipitated his shambling step into stopping. The dim light of a torch cast no shadow on the Elf that lay right next to it, exposing in full the horrid state of his sentry. The woodland Prince staggered to Tirn's unmoving form. Let it not be, Legolas pled, dropping to his knees beside the sentinel. He immediately noticed the worst of the sentry's injuries, and so grabbed for Tirn's throat, wrapping his long fingers tightly about the Elf's dripping hide to press the skin tenaciously, eager to aid the valiant warrior's body in stopping the flow of blood but not yet able to ascertain exactly from where it had come. To his surprise, a strip of cloth was wound about Tirn's neck. Under the cloth, in frail and uneven patters, the flesh barely moved with the weak effort of the sentry's heart. The closed, sunken eyes flickered but did not open. Thank Valar. He is not yet gone.
His free hand flitted over the sentry in uncertainty. Let him not die. Across the fallen Elf's legs lay a large stone slab that covered the sentry's lower limbs from mid-thigh downwards, encasing the remainder of the sentinel's body under its weight. Pooled blood darkened the dirt; in the burgundy mud, in the very center of the irregular, elliptical puddle of muck, laid the blond head of his sentry. A forgotten sword, half buried under the soil, lay nearby. The goblet sat ostentatiously in the dirt far above Tirn's head, the silvery blood that the Prince knew to be his sentinel's rolled in fat droplets down its brim, painting the golden artifact with the evidence that Legolas had feared to find. It is too late. It is too late for us all. Immediate hopelessness took hold of him. Ament has procured his immortality. Did my arrow do Ament no damage at all?
From the end of the tunnel where he had only just fled came a muted thump. The trapdoor. Reflexively holding himself over his fallen friend, Legolas hovered in trepidation that whatever means Strider and the Noldor had taken to prevent another collapse would fail. But nothing crashed down upon him save for a slight shower of soil, and after a few more fretful moments, he sat back on his feet in relief; that is, until an additional thump echoed from the end of the tunnel in which he sat. Unaware of the construction of the lair's entrance, as he was unconscious upon entering it, the Wood-Elf could only speculate as to what barricade they would now face in leaving: he paid the noise no mind, sure that Ament was not approaching but running from him. An anguished scream ensued shortly after, muffled but identifiable as Ament's, and the archer smiled faintly at the sound. Or perhaps he is hurt, after all.
Seeing to his sentry again, Legolas felt the faltering pulse under his fingertips and was provoked into action: he left the strip of cloth as it was, and instead removed the shirt he wore, Tirn's shirt, to tear it into several narrow pieces. Though he did not know much of healing, he had treated and been treated many times before, and knew that the hidden gouge on his sentry's neck had already begun to form a fragile new layer of skin. This scab had likely adhered to the cloth strip. It was the only thing keeping the already ashen Elf from complete exsanguination; to remove it would only restart Tirn's bleeding, and so he left it be, despite his desire to see the extent of the damage done. Winding the newly torn cloth around the sentinel's throat, Legolas tied firmly each piece with care, afraid to strangle the Wood-Elf should he bind the strip too forcefully. When done, he picked the sentry's head gently from the mud and slid the remainder of his shirt under it before replacing Tirn's head on the ground. The stone he could not move on his own, not even were he healthy, and so he reluctantly left it as it was.
Legolas knew he should follow Ament. The sentry's sacrifice would be for nothing if the mercenary was not stopped, and for this knowledge, the Wood-Elf's conscience was torn. He did not want to leave Tirn until the twins arrived to aid him; he did not want to allow the sentry to die, no matter the consequences. In a guilt-ridden but selfish fit, Prince Legolas wanted to lie next to his sentry, to end the watch over the dying Tirn by his own demise. He looks much as I did, as I would have, if I had not let him talk me into switching places. The pains the twins had taken to dirty and muss the flaxen locks of his sentinel, the trading of Tirn's relatively clean clothes for Legolas' blood-soaked breeches, and the bruises and marks they had painted on the sentry with mud made Tirn look all the more like the Prince, now that the sentry had his own bruises and dirtied hair, and even their sallow, bloodless complexions matched. I should not have let him do this. I will die but he may have lived.
Tirn's eyelids fluttered again, his brow knitting briefly into a frown before giving way to the calm of his deathlike state when the Prince murmured a soothing lie in their native tongue, "Rest, Tirn. All will be well."
Settling his back against the intact wall behind him, the archer railed at himself for his despair that Tirn had no prospect, no odds of living. He is not yet dead, nor are you, Legolas. He looked towards the passageway's end, debating whether to give chase to Ament or wait for the others. He checked on the sentry, feeling for the faint pulse with his trembling fingers. Finding Tirn's heart to beat still, Legolas laid his weary head back against the wall and closed his eyes. I will wait for Strider and the Noldor. Then Ament will die. He swallowed thickly, fighting the overpowering urge to cough.
His exhaustion ceded to anger at himself for allowing this predicament to continue for so long, for allowing Tirn to take his place, and at his inability to keep his father and Mirkwood from the fugitive Ament's plans. Most of all, his ire grew for the mercenary. I will see him dead, felled by my hand, he promised himself before speaking aloud, making a plea to the fallen sentinel, "Do not die, Tirn. Do not leave me behind." The Prince did not know the sentry well; decorum and a substantial difference in age prevented their friendship, but he smiled in remembrance of an Elfling gone astray in the forest, found by his sentry. "You cannot keep your promise if you are not here. Who will find me when I am lost?" As the anger and hate grew within him, overcoming his despair and melancholy, he welcomed the strength it brought, knowing he would need it. It should have been me.
They followed the Prince's path through the collapsed tunnel easily, even without torchlight. It was the only way through the rubble and mounds of dirt. Wood-Elf or not, Legolas digs like a Dwarf, Elrohir mused, admiring the persistence with which the Silvan had managed to break through every earthen obstacle they came across. He's likely already dug himself out of the tunnel.
"Eh, careful mate, you're not so steady on your feet, now," he heard Jalian reprimand kindly. Elrohir looked back to his human brother, who was doubled over with an arm clutching his middle, and his other arm in the grasp of the disfigured mercenary. "Got to be more mindful of how you move, Strider. No need in tearing them wounds open."
The Noldo watched Jalian's mothering attentions, amused when Aragorn glared at the mercenary, a look Elrohir had been the recipient of many times in the past. He never was a cheerful patient. Not that he should be with those burns, he thought, scrutinizing his young human brother vigilantly to be sure that the Ranger was well enough to continue.
Elladan, who was trailing the two humans and his twin's progression through the tunnel, and who had only just crawled through another of Legolas' excavations, stood, brushing the soil from him as he advised Estel solemnly, "Listen to him, brother. He is experienced in these matters. Move cautiously." If Jalian was offended at Elladan's reference to his disfigurement, he did not show it, but aided the annoyed Ranger as they continued down a relatively unscathed portion of the tunnel.
"We've no time for caution," the Ranger hissed through teeth clenched in pain. Estel's urgency galvanized Elrohir's own desire for haste, and he again took the lead, increasing their pace. While most of their journey through the tunnel was over or around seemingly harmless piles of dirt and stone, several times they were forced into crawling through holes made through the debris that appeared as though they would fall at the slightest provocation. The short, smooth ceiling of before was now cavernous and jagged since the stones had fallen and the ground above them had crumpled into heaps of pebbles and dirt to bar their way. Had not Legolas already traversed the tunnel, the journey would have been much slower.
Elrohir tested the next pathway, little more than a narrow cavity in an otherwise impenetrable wall of soil, stone, timbers, and roots, while hoping that his brothers would not need to dig him out should the precarious passage fall. We've not time for such a hindrance. We need to be careful, he thought, but Estel is right, we've no time for caution either. Again the Noldo's thoughts turned to the Prince and Tirn, both of whom he feared for greatly. The Prince had obviously found passage via this opening, for there was no other way around it. Charily, he crawled through the hole, poking his head through to the other side of the peculiar hollow to find that past the crude opening the walls were mostly intact. Elrohir was alarmed at the faint illumination of torchlight. Quickly, he retreated, pulling back to confer with his brothers.
"Someone is ahead," he whispered, telling them all he knew, as scant as that information was. "I cannot determine who it is due to the curve in the wall, but the tunnel is mostly undamaged, and whoever it is, they've a torch." Elrohir exchanged a tacit accord with his twin, the mutual understanding not requiring words or eye contact as it passed between them. They would go together to see who was ahead, leaving Estel and Jalian behind.
Unexpectedly, the mercenary, unaware of the Elves' plans, offered, "Let me go, in case it is Ament. He expects me to have followed him." Jalian loosed his hold of the Ranger and stepped forward, but Elladan shook his head in negation, an act not able to be seen by the two humans but caught by Elrohir.
Elladan's clipped tone managed to stop the mercenary. "No. Elrohir and I can steal upon him without being detected. We will go. Stay with Estel."
It was clear to all that Elladan did not entirely trust the mercenary-turned-supporter not to defect to Ament's side if given the opportunity. Without waiting for anyone's consent, Elladan pushed past his twin to crawl through the opening, leaving Elrohir to follow. Before making his own way into the tunnel beyond, the Noldo turned to Estel, pointedly telling the oftentimes-rash Ranger, "Wait for us here. We will come back for you when it is safe. Understood?" Still clutching his injured stomach and chest with one arm, Aragorn nodded his agreement, albeit with a defiant stare, and the pacified Elrohir dropped to the ground to trail after his twin.
Elladan loitered impatiently on the other side of the aperture; as soon as he saw Elrohir clear the hole without problems, he took off at a slow run down the long hallway, holding to the shadows along the inside of the wall that eventually curved into itself. He waited for Elrohir to catch up before they took off again, this time at a slower speed. To a human their footfalls would have been undetectable, and on this they relied as they crept round the curvature, pressed together, their hands on the hilts of the swords belted at their waists. They peered down the lit tunnel, not seeing the two Wood-Elves until they were nearly upon them, as they were sidling along the convex curve of the same wall against which the Prince and sentry were positioned.
The sight of Tirn lying under a stone slab and Legolas sitting motionless with his eyes tightly closed caused Elrohir to pause in his step, his chest contracting at the macabre image before him. Not daring to breathe, the Noldo drew the impulsive, horrifying conclusion, They are dead. The woodland creatures were almost indistinguishable, for each was bruised, bloody, and shirtless, and only the clean breeches that Legolas wore indicated that it was the sentry who lay on his stomach, lifeless and deathly still under the stone slab, and not the Prince.
Elladan hesitated beside Elrohir, looking to his dismayed twin with a similar visage of consternation ere creeping to the Prince to whisper, "Legolas?"
With some difficulty did Legolas open his eyes, his hand flying to the short blade on the ground beside him; the Noldo breathed in relief to see the Prince alive. The Wood-Elf's eyes focused on Elladan weakly and his head lolled slackly, as if Legolas could not awaken from a drunken stupor: except the Silvan was not drunk, but slowly surrendering to Elven grief and the trauma of his captivity. Legolas abandoned his weapon when he recognized who stood in front of him. Elrohir watched the trodden Wood-Elf strive to speak, the words only slightly louder than his labored breathing, "It should have been me." His own voice aroused Legolas from the inertness plaguing him; the Prince suddenly sat upright, his voice lucid this time and his vision clear as he demanded, scrambling towards Tirn, "Help him. I cannot move the stone alone."
It was obvious of whom the archer spoke, and Elrohir glanced to the sentry, noting for the first time the crimson stain that seeped through the tunic on which Tirn's head lay. Is he even alive?
Moving with his brother to the sentry's prone form, Elrohir inquired, "Where is Ament?"
Legolas stumbled to his feet, grabbing the edge of the stone slab while the twins did the same. "My arrow struck true, but he has escaped," the Silvan began to explain before the effort of raising the block silenced him. Together they lifted the enormous tablet, though Elladan and Elrohir bore much of its weight, and heaved it across the narrow passageway where it landed with the thunderous, clamorous complaint of the supporting timbers it shattered.
Tirn's femur stuck out from the cloth of his borrowed leggings. Its end twisted to the side and protruded far more than a simple break would have in striking evidence that the sentry had struggled to remove himself from underneath his rock captor. Forthwith, the twins began the art they learned from their father, the skill of healing. While Elladan saw to Tirn's legs, sweeping his hands over them for other breaks or injury, Elrohir sat next to the torch implanted in the soil beside the sentry's head. Where has all this blood come from?
"What has happened?"
Aragorn's voice startled the Noldo. He looked up to see Aragorn walking to them. Estel never could follow an order. We should never have taught him to walk so quietly.
Jalian ran forward from behind the Ranger, shrugging his shoulders in apology. "I tried to make him stay, I did."
Amidst violent coughs, the Prince endeavored to continue speaking, only to be hushed by Elladan. "Sit, Legolas. We will see to Tirn." The Wood-Elf did not bother to heed the advice.
He needs water. Elrohir seized his flask from his hip only to remember it was empty. Legolas bent over, grabbing his knees as he fought to breathe and remain standing. The Ranger hobbled to him, holding the archer upright, which earned him a grateful nod from the Prince.
Elrohir gently slid the flaxen hair from the sentry's face. He gasped loudly at the sight of the blood-soaked cloths wrapped around Tirn's throat. The skin under Elrohir's fingers was clammy, and the pulse of the Wood-Elf's heart was feeble. "His throat is slit," the Silvan managed, wiping blood from his mouth onto his bare arm. "I do not know how badly."
"You did not see it?" Elrohir, like Legolas, loathed removing the wrappings.
"It was bandaged when I came across him," the Prince supplied, clasping Estel's arm as another fit of coughing took hold of him.
He has lost too much blood, Elrohir despaired, looking to his brother to find the same conclusion manifest on his twin's face. Regardless, Elrohir pulled his satchel to him to find the items required to tend the rest of the Wood-Elf's wounds. First wiping clean the blood from the sentry's skin, the Noldo applied a paste to the lacerations and bruises on Tirn's face and shoulders. The sentry's hand was pierced, the palm opened in a gash filled with dirt and blood. I cannot clean this properly. We need water, Elrohir thought again, but derided himself, I suppose this is the least of Tirn's worries.
Having set the sentry's broken bone as well as he could with cloth and pieces of broken timber, Elladan demanded, "Jalian, help us turn him over." The mercenary rushed to aid Elladan flip Tirn gradually while Elrohir held the sentry's head, turning it smoothly in time with his body in hopes of not aggravating Tirn's neck wound. Laid upon his back out of the muck, the Wood-Elf appeared even paler. The dirt and bruises on his chest contrasted with Tirn's pale skin drastically.
"Sit Legolas, please," Elrohir heard Aragorn implore the Prince, who had ceased coughing.
Once more Legolas ignored the advice. The archer walked from the Ranger to pick up a golden object from the dirt. He held it out; the gory goblet dripped blood, and it was then that the nagging suspicion in Elrohir's mind, in everyone's mind, was brought to the forefront and confirmed.
Tossing the artifact to the ground next to Aragorn and Elladan, Legolas declared, his cobalt eyes lit with burning, bitter fury, "Ament has used the goblet. He has his immortality though he will not have it long. I will find him, and I will kill him."