Silence followed the Prince's proclamation. Legolas shuffled to where a sword lay in the dirt, favoring one leg as he walked in a noticeable limp. At least his thigh wound no longer bleeds, the Ranger noticed of the relatively clean section of trousers over the Silvan's upper leg. He observed blankly as the Prince seized the blade from the ground, swaying precariously as he righted himself. It is a wonder he can stand at all. Legolas shoved the blade carelessly into the waist of his breeches to pull his long, flaxen, but blood-matted hair into a tail at the nape of his neck, tying it into a tight knot. The Prince's oath left no doubt that he spoke truly and none doubted he would find Ament and kill him; it was his failing body that defied the Wood-Elf's pledge, for even as he prepared himself for the battle at hand, the archer wobbled, obviously injured beyond their allowing his participation. Not that I am better off than he is, the Ranger scoffed, realizing that his involvement would also be contested by his twin brothers.
"Legolas," Elrohir began, holding Tirn's head gently from the ground in his hands to place his emptied satchel under it, "you are in no condition to – "
In the orange light of the torch, the fair, bare-chested Elf shone as a golden, heathen savage as he roared, "He is escaped, Elrohir. I will not sit idly by waiting for death while he obtains his revenge or endangers Eryn Galen." Taking the sword in hand again, the Wood-Elf pointed its blade towards Elrohir, his azure eyes darkened with the full measure of his wrath. "I will not quarrel with you. I am going."
Unaware yet of the full implications of Ament's immortality, the Ranger shuffled forwards, kicking up clouds of soil with his plodding step to plead with the Prince. He argued, "Ament can wait, Legolas. He can do no harm if you are with us. We are free to warn Eryn Galen and your father. Besides, Ament can be stopped, even immortals can die."
Immediately, the Ranger felt the fool and bit his tongue too late to stop his thoughtless statement, for before him laid the proof of this in Tirn's sallow body, and in front of him stood more evidence of the susceptibility of immortality to surrender to death, as the Prince faded from grief. Strider warned himself, Watch your words, idiot.
"Nay, Estel." Elladan moved from his spot beside Tirn: he ambled past Aragorn to place himself inconspicuously between the exit and the Prince, picking up the goblet from the soil where Legolas had tossed it. "You do not remember the whole of the legend. Ament will become Melfren." Rotating the seemingly innocent object in his hands, Elladan frowned as he smeared Tirn's blood on his hands unwittingly and threw the cursed artifact back to the ground where it rolled, stopping only when it hit the stone slab that once lay over the sentry. He wiped clean his hands on a nearby timber.
"Melfren is a witch, brother. He will not yield easily to death," Elrohir added, shifting to pack his belongings into his twin's bag. The bad news did not end there: "Legolas is right, we cannot let Ament… I mean Melfren –" the Noldo cursed under his breath in exasperation, "Whoever it is, we cannot let him escape. He is aligned with Mordor. I do not know how long the transformation will take, but we have lost time already."
In concurrent conclusion, Elladan piped in, "It is likely it will take some time before the witch's powers return to him, but I am not sure. We must locate him before he becomes Melfren entirely. He will flee to avoid our finding him." Aragorn saw the twins swap a brief glance and knew what Elladan would say next. "Elrohir and I will find him," the Noldo declared, turning to his human brother and the Prince. "You will both keep watch over Tirn. Jalian will stay, also, and if we do not return, the three of you will seek the Mirkwood border guards to inform them of what is happening."
There is no chance Legolas will agree to this.
The agitated Wood-Elf stepped towards the exit; Elladan barred his way, grabbing the Prince's arm firmly. "No, Legolas. You are too injured to do this. Stay with Tirn and Estel."
But the indomitable Wood-Elf would not be swayed. He jerked his arm free from Elladan's hold and did not bother to challenge the Noldo's commands; Legolas hefted his sword and began a rickety sprint away from them, to the exit. Sweet Eru. Forthwith the Ranger followed the Prince, his chest and belly emitting lacerating pangs of agony as he trotted after his friend.
"Estel!" Pausing, he looked to Elrohir, who was prepared to bolt after them. "Stay here," his brother demanded.
Aragorn peered into the dark confines of the tunnel ahead where the Wood-Elf could be seen rounding the corner to the exit. He looked back to the others, seeing Jalian's confused, scarred face and two identically terrified Noldo. I promised Legolas. I will not let him die. We will fight together. I will not leave him.
"We go together or not at all," the Ranger explained mystifyingly to his bewildered and worried audience, ere he took off in a frantic run to catch the Wood-Elf.
As he sprinted down the tunnel, he heard Elladan order tersely of Elrohir, "Give me your sword, muindor. You and Jalian tend to Tirn," before the twin caught easily up to him, surpassing his hobbled gait just as they came to the door.
The throbbing from his wounds had ceased to the point where Ament was not sure he felt at all. What was once hellish, searing pain was now not even a dull ache. Trying to open his eyes, he was not surprised to find that they did not obey him; the foreign essence within him had taken hold, and he found his world growing ever darker, though it was not from his lack of vision that he felt it to be so. I wish that Doran would come, he thought, his hope that the blond mercenary might still be alive, and willing to help him, faltered but did not expire. To have ensured the Prince's demise, to have experienced the delicate senses of Elven kind, and to have gained his immortality made this new, inexplicable loss that much more acute. Had he the ability to control such a thing, Ament would have wept.
Unable to stop the interloper's will, the mercenary stood, taking flight and stumbling across the clearing to where the horses were tethered, but they bucked away from him, their shrill whinnies and stamping feet breaking the silence of the moonlit forest as they tried to avoid his touch. Not even his own horse would allow the mercenary near but kicked out at him, screeching in fright. The mercenary roved the glade, bumbling about the discarded possessions of men who would never return to collect them, to finally trip over several satchels. His volition not his own, Ament listened helplessly as the aphotic impetus grumbled dark words in frustration. Hearing his voice uttering words not of his choosing broke the mercenary, and he screamed in silent horror.
The mercenary still perceived the vitality that the goblet had bequeathed him running through his body, its vigor and potency no longer gifts, but an imprecation from a source unfamiliar. Without the distraction of the deluge of information his senses had brought him in the tunnel, Ament found his mind in working order: for whom it worked he could not discern. When his body moved, rising unsteadily to its feet again, Ament knew – the evil welling inside him was no longer the alien entity; it was he who did not belong.
Ament endeavored to remain by holding onto that which had kept him alive through his many years of scheming and pilfering, through his sorrow and hopelessness. The mercenary retained his hatred. Remember. He tried to recall the anguish of watching his father die, of burying his mother shortly after. Tenaciously, he held to his mordant desire to witness Thranduil suffer, not just to know the King would grieve for the loss of his son, but to see it.
Remember, Ament. Remember Ramlin. Do not forget your hatred for Strider and what may yet be accomplished. Do not die without seeing him dead. Do not let this happen without knowing Thranduil's brat has passed. The pointlessness of his hate did not occur to him, not even during his dying moments, his nullification. He would not relinquish his reason for living, not even in his death.
The haunted mercenary began to pick his way through the dense foliage surrounding the clearing, pushing his way past brambles and underbrush as he fled.
He leapt onto the ladder, grasping the top rung to pull himself up, only to find that his arms would not support him. With a thud, the Wood-Elf fell back to the ground: his feet had barely touched the soil when he was grabbed from behind by his shoulders and whirled about to face a furious Noldo Lord. Although his body had ceased turning, his vision still spun, and the tunnel pitched underneath him alarmingly.
"Damn it, Legolas. Will you not listen to reason?" the elder twin hissed. Strider huffed beside his irate brother, leaning against the wall of the passageway, as he was unable to catch his breath without stretching his already overtaxed torso.
He should have stayed behind, the Prince worried, noticing the human suffer.
"Do you wish to die? Tirn has sacrificed his life for you, and you would throw it away wantonly." The Prince winced, though not from Elladan's inveighing of his desire to live, but for the Noldo's unwitting admission that the twin healers held no hope for his sentry's survival. Elladan must have realized this, for he replaced his hand on the Wood-Elf's shoulder and tried to apologize.
Legolas cut him off, shaking the Noldo's hand free to ask, "He will die?"
"He has lost a great deal of blood, my friend," the Ranger replied softly, still trying to regain his breath. "Even should his body survive, he may not be the same."
Trying to reassure the Prince, Elladan proffered, "Tirn is strong. He will fight. He is not lost to us yet."
The Noldo's choice of words was fitting, and the downtrodden Wood-Elf listened to the growing, oddly euphonic melody of wrath building within him. I am no longer the one who is lost.
The twin's information only confirmed what Legolas already knew to be true. "I do not welcome death, no more than I welcomed my captivity and torture at the mercy of these vile humans, but I will not let these trespasses go unpunished, nor allow such evil to exist." The Prince pulled himself back onto the ladder and peered up to see the newest obstacle that barred his path from felling the ruthless mercenary he sought: a large stone door with no handle, and no indication that it would be easily lifted. "You will not stop me, Elladan Elrondion. Do not try," he warned without looking at the Noldo; he was sure he would fall if he looked down as he climbed towards the exit, for his vertigo increased at the abrupt motion and his muscles were weak.
"I come not to stop you, Legolas. While I would certainly prefer you to remain in safety, I cannot order you to do so, nor would I, except that I worry that you have suffered enough already. Besides, it seems I cannot even keep my own kin from fighting," Elladan rumbled, and at this, the archer dared to look down to see a blurry Noldo glaring at his young human brother, who smiled wanly in return. "I will help you."
"Your brother is as obstinate as a mule," Legolas muttered, testing the weight of the slab of stone above him to find that it was nearly as heavy as that which had laid over Tirn. "And if you truly wish to assist me, help me lift this infernal door." Elladan climbed the narrow ladder, standing a rung below Legolas so that they were the same height. The Noldo was stouter and taller than the lithe, shorter Wood-Elf, but the two Elves were still uncomfortably wedged together in the small space. The Noldo stood behind him on the ladder, pressing unintentionally against the Prince.
It is only Elladan, Legolas reproved his tremulous body, trying to cease the shudders of disgust and dread at having another so near.
"Push, Legolas." Obediently, the younger Elda pushed upwards with all his might, eager to be free of his position, only to find himself indebted to the Noldo's nearness, for his legs buckled under him, and the Prince would have fallen had not Elladan been behind him.
I cannot hold this much longer. The slab door had risen, but the length of their arms prevented them from gaining the force to push the stone open entirely; the tiny gap between the stone and the floor of the grotto above their heads allowed a draught of fresh air into the stale, dusty tunnel. Legolas closed his eyes at the scent, his alacrity resuscitated by the reminder of life in contrast to the tomb-like lair.
"Do not let go," he advised. If you do not do this, Legolas, you will never get out. Using the enclosure and the tightness of the Noldo's body to counterbalance his movement, the archer twisted upwards, sliding against Elladan as he tried to place his feet on the rung higher. Bending his knees to ascend, the Prince was shoved further into the Noldo: nausea swelled within him at the feeling but he continued until both his feet were firmly planted one rung higher, his elbows bent to keep the slab up without raising it any higher. "Move up."
Elladan complied, moving to step up, careful to avoid touching Legolas unless possible. Of course, such a feat was unfeasible, and the Wood-Elf leant as far forward into the ladder as he could, until the rungs dug into his abused chest, forcing the air from his lungs and the sword at his waist to chafe his skin. Being nude in front of Elrohir and Tirn when he and his sentry had switched clothing had not been as difficult to endure as this, for then he was only exposed, now he was touched, and his weary mind could not discern the difference between the neutral friction of Elladan's body and the recent memory of Ramlin's abhorrent desires.
Only a little more. When the Noldo was as tall as Legolas once more, they straightened their bent arms, lifting the door until it was half way open: it was not enough.
"Can you climb still, Legolas?" The Wood-Elf clambered higher, the fresh air spurring him onward, though his arms began to shake at the effort of keeping the door ajar. To let it fall shut would be to let it fall on his head. Behind him, Elladan repeated his own efforts, and together they heaved the stone slab upwards in a burst of effort. For a brief moment, it appeared that the slab would fall back on them, but it teetered, momentum finally causing it to plummet to the ground above, open and no longer a hindrance to their progress.
Thank the Valar, the Prince thought, scrambling up the last rungs in his haste to be liberated of the sepulchral passageway. He crawled into the tapered, distorted cavern, moving quickly to the side to allow Elladan to pass through the exit. We are under the trees, Legolas reminded himself, surveying the odd spectacle of entwined trunks around him.
"Estel, can you make it?" the elder twin asked.
The Ranger's head materialized from the opening and Elladan immediately aided his sibling into the grotto. Crouching, the trio looked to each other, unsure of how to proceed. Strider voiced the others' concerns, "What if he is out there? We can hardly take him by surprise crawling one by one out of here."
"I do not know, muindor. Let us hope he is disabled by the transformation," the twin replied, standing stooped over to cross the small room to the hacked opening to the forest. "Do not come out unless I tell you to do so, understood?" Elladan glared meaningfully at Strider before turning his glower to the Prince, both of whom nodded in fraudulent obedience. "I mean this."
The Ranger grumbled in discontent, "Go already, brother. We will wait." With a final warning frown, the twin slid quietly through the aperture, leaving Strider and Legolas entirely alone. "I am sorry, my friend, for Tirn, for what happened to him, and to you." Strider held his tortured stomach as though it might take flight, his kind face burned with exertion and shame.
"Do not worry, Strider. Tirn will heal." Absently, the Silvan rubbed his hands together to return the feeling to them, to ameliorate the bitter cold that seeped through his body. Perpetual waves of grief assailed him, dragging him under into the gray void, and he fought them, if only to see his oath through, to see Ament dead.
"And what of you, Legolas? Will you heal?" Clutching his chest as a spasm of pain wracked him, the Ranger wheezed, doubling over as he toiled to breathe without more agony.
"You should have stayed with Elrohir, Strider. It is not too late," the Prince eluded, unwilling to admit to his human companion that he expected he would not live through whatever occurred next. However, it is too late for me.
"Legolas –"
Elladan's call interrupted their short conversation. "Ament is not here. It is safe to come out."
It has been a long wait. Forcing his inimical, stolen body into working proved to be a harder task than the burgeoning witch had anticipated. He worked as an unpracticed puppeteer; in the many years with nothing but immeasurable time and meaningless continuation, Melfren had not had the body with which to move, if action had been at all possible in the endless shadows of nonexistence. But the wait is over. This fool has relieved me of nothingness only to find it himself. Images flashed before his mind's eye, scenes of thievery, small moments of camaraderie towards a burly man who he discerned to be his victim's brother, and other trivia that Melfren did not care to retain.
He knew what awaited the human upon his removal. The spirit would be disembodied, freed of its earthly shackles only to be swept into an eternal void, a timeless, senseless oblivion. Melfren did not wish to return to this void. After seemingly an eternity of waiting for his cursed goblet to bring him back, the witch wanted nothing more than to lay claim to this new flesh, to become again. Die. Leave. But something kept the witch from complete control over his new body: the memories the other had he could extirpate, plucking them easily from his new mind as weeds from the ground. Yet two memories resurfaced repeatedly, one of a man being torn by a pack of Wargs, the other of the brawny brother lying dead in the forest. Despite his efforts, he could not root out these memories, nor the intense hatred associated with them. I will not cow to your insignificant yearning for retaliation, the witch avowed.
He knew he was being followed, information obtained from the fear he felt from his new body, fear he had felt from his fledgling inception back into existence, warned him of this. The witch had recognized the tunnel to be his home, a place where he once conducted experiments for the Dark Lord and for his own pleasure, the place where he died. A root caught his boot, tripping him. Yellow eyes tracked him, their interest both an affinity for the Darkness they acknowledged and hunger for the blood from the wound on his back.
Moreover, he knew that the vivid hatred that preoccupied him, overwhelming his fragile hold on the body he inhabited, would only be quashed by its removal. Melfren regained his feet, looking back from where he had run. The clearing was long beyond his sight but he did not need vision to know what lay there. Legolas. Strider. When there was nothing left of his victim, naught but these two names, two memories, and odium so robust the witch could only accept it or be conquered by it, he gave in to its soothing familiarity. Though the hatred was not his, the emotion was familiar, and so he allowed it to take him, keeping it as his own, if only to eradicate it.
Melfren did not have the strength to fight the hatred, for the hatred was what barred him from accumulating his forgotten strength; however, he had the means to eliminate this hatred. He will be gone after this. It is just as well, the witch conceded, walking back towards the clearing.