He searched his new body as he walked, looking for a weapon. Even the most recent of the mercenary's memories were now lost, and Melfren did not know where he might find a sword or bow, or even whether the two beings he was determined to destroy would be worth the effort of finding them. Finally, his fingers lit upon a dagger tied to his person. It is not much but it will be enough. I will make it enough. Muttering Dark words under his breath, the witch was pleased to note the way the dawning morning seemed to recede as he spoke, the tainted trees drawing tighter overhead to block out the light and sky. Perhaps I will not need weapons, Melfren thought, smiling wickedly in satisfaction. There is already some strength within me.
Speaking no more lest he exhaust whatever potency he held, the witch trudged through the thicket, trying to recall from which way he had come. A nagging suspicion festered in the back of his mind – a reminder that he could not understand but could not forget. Legolas and Strider. It did not occur to him that his abilities may have stagnated, that the power he had in his past body may not be as it had been before.
His death had been accidental, not due to battle or murder. It was the very type of death he had wished to avoid, the mortality he despised the most – he had not been able to avoid the fever that had raged through his body, killing him. Even with his magic, his spells, his herbs, and his will to live, nothing could prevent the sickness that stole his breath slowly, until it eventually stole his life. His weakness had become an opportunity to the Orcs and loathsome beasts he had once ruled through terror. They had fouled up his agenda to be brought an Elf by bringing him humans instead, and at his weakest, his orders were not menacing enough to force them to try again. When he could no longer control them, when his threats failed to hold them in awe, the Orcs under his command took flight, and his only chance of surviving fled with them. Melfren had been too weak to find an Elf on his own, to make his enchanted goblet work. Deep within his tunnels he had waited to die, drowning, it seemed, in the sickening fluid of his own fragile mortality. The witch had worked relentlessly, trying diligently to survive. In the end, as all humans must, Melfren had died, alone and raging, but not before he cast one last spell, a curse to any who found his beloved object, his chance at immortality.
Melfren began to walk more quickly. Hatred swamped his consciousness, odium that he could not remember the meaning behind, nor recall the source. They will pay. They will die. All of them. Ahead of him, he heard the snicker of horses and conversation.
Elladan helped Aragorn from the ground outside the trees' opening, carefully pulling him into standing: Estel immediately bent over, clutching his chest in a vain attempt to keep the skin from moving. Ada will be most unhappy with this new scar, the human thought with bitter amusement, trying his best not to cough. The salve Elrohir had spread over the burns earlier seemed to be wearing off, as was the welcomed numbness it had offered.
"Estel?"
The Ranger straightened, forcing himself to ignore the stretch of his charred skin. They had more important matters to attend to than pain. "It will pass, muindor." The twin's skepticism was not lost on the Ranger, but the Noldo nodded wordlessly, handing Aragorn the sword he had borrowed from Elrohir before leaving the Adan standing beside the tree trunks.
The twin wandered around the clearing. Ament could not have escaped far.
"There are too many tracks, Aragorn, and not enough time between them to tell which are new," Elladan complained, eyeing the many prints around the campsite.
The Ranger joined his brother in his exploration. Together they searched the site, trying to find some hint as to which way the mercenary had gone. With as much movement as had occurred in the clearing since they had arrived the night before, it was difficult to determine footstep from footstep, much less one path from the next. The only sign of recent activity was a patch of bloodied, trampled grass not far from the opening to the underground grotto. Aragorn knelt beside it, running his fingers along the flattened terrain.
"This blood is newly spilt," the human muttered under his breath, following the imprints with his gaze to the horses, where they became scattered and unreadable amongst the many others there.
"It may well be Ament." Elladan knelt beside him. "Legolas' arrow struck true, though it did not fell him."
Treading slowly, the human made his way to the mounts, where Legolas was whispering softly in Sindarin. "Something has spooked them." The Wood-Elf soothed the steeds, patting them affectionately.
Immediately, Aragorn made note that none of the horses were missing. "All the horses are accounted for," he called to his brother and friend. "Ament is on foot."
The better for us that he is. Aragorn whispered to his own mount, calming the agitated steed while he checked the soft soil around them. Hoof prints littered the area, obscuring any human tracks.
When he rose, he grinned, seeing that tied to his horse were his sword, quiver, and bow. These he quickly unbound, laying Elrohir's sword aside to strap his own sword around his waist. Regardless of his injuries, the Ranger's spirit lightened as the broadsword's scabbard rubbed against his hip. It is good to be armed again, especially with my own weapon.
He walked around the comforted horses to where the Prince was stroking the mane of Meika's mare absently. "Take these, Legolas." Aragorn handed the Silvan his bow and quiver, waiting for the Elf to strap them round his bare chest before he passed the Prince Elrohir's Elven sword. "It has served my brother well. Let us hope it retains its reputation." Although he did not say it, Aragorn knew it was also much lighter than the sword the archer carried now, which the Ranger recognized to be Ament's blade.
He will need the advantage. As another spasm of agony erupted from his chest, the human amended, So will we all.
Legolas swung the long, beautiful sword through the air. "Do you not think it would be more fitting that Ament die upon his own blade?"
He almost laughed, thinking the Prince to be making a dark joke, but seeing the resolve in the Wood-Elf's bruised face, Estel merely replied, "I would rather he die by a blade of Elven make." Legolas nodded, contemplating the justice of such symbolism seriously, it seemed to the Ranger.
Elladan joined the two friends, scanning the trees behind the horses. "As long as he is dead, I have no preference."
They searched again, seeing no perceptible tracks on the ground around them that indicated where, after making his way to the horses, Ament had traveled. Great Valar. We cannot lose him this easily.
"We will get the others, split up, and find him. We can take the horses," Aragorn suggested. "He will be weakened and –"
"It is too dangerous for us each to go alone, and if we went in pairs we are more likely to miss him. Besides, who would stay with Tirn? I do not trust Jalian." Elladan rubbed the bridge of his nose in consternation, an action that reminded the Ranger of his adopted father.
I would that Ada were here now.
"Legolas, what say you?"
The two brothers looked to the Prince for his input, but the battered Wood-Elf paid them no mind. He was watching the stars as they faded in the sky, their brilliance overwhelmed by the greater luminosity of the climbing sun. Just when Aragorn made to ask the Silvan again what advice he could offer, the Wood-Elf spoke: "There is no need."
Elladan queried, "No need for what, Legolas?"
"To find Ament. He is no longer. Can you not hear the cursed trees rejoicing Melfren's return? He is coming this way." Legolas turned his smiling face upwards once more, watching the stars lovingly as the last of them vanished from view. He grinned at Estel and Elladan, disarming the brothers. "I have seen the stars once more. I am ready."
Elrohir looked to the exit, ignoring whatever puerile chatter Jalian was attempting to engage him in, and cursing his brothers to have left him here. He would watch over the sentry with care, doing whatever it would take to keep Tirn amongst them, but Elrohir would rather his human brother have remained in his stead, letting him accompany Elladan. Estel is in no condition to be fighting, he worried. The Prince he would not have tried to persuade to remain, if he had even been given the chance: Legolas would not have yielded, and if any deserved to witness Ament's death, it would be Legolas. Neither would Estel have yielded. I would have more luck convincing a cave Troll to sunbathe. Placing two fingers over Tirn's neck, he felt the skin move with the fitful rhythm of the sentry's heart. Do not leave us, Tirn.
"Do you think he'll pull through, mate?"
The question cut through Elrohir's musings, and the Noldo rapped his fingers against the hilt of his sword impatiently. "I cannot tell. It depends on many different factors." Jalian sounded concerned about Tirn's welfare, but Elrohir was unwilling to afford the mercenary any leniency.
Elladan did not trust him, the healer contemplated, watching the scarred human's movements closely. While Jalian had kidnapped the Prince, helped to keep him and later Aragorn captive, the mercenary had also aided them more than once, and so the Noldo was undecided. Aragorn seemed to have some faith in him, though.
They both sat beside Tirn, waiting impatiently for some word or sign from Elladan, Estel, and Legolas. Jalian fidgeted, plucking at the dirt beside his knee. "What do you mean – factors?"
If he doesn't stop rambling…Elrohir threatened, but didn't have the heart to finish. Jalian had done little but speak pointlessly since the others left. Pulling in a deep breath, the Elf found more patience by noting the sincere, troubled inquisitiveness of Jalian's question. He is just as scared and worried as I am, albeit not for the same reasons, I would wager.
"It depends on where he is cut and how deeply he is cut. Although Elves are quicker to heal than the Edain, such a wound is usually fatal. His death may be slow, or he may recover. I do not know, and only time will tell us."
Jalian nodded his head, his confusion not relieved in the slightest. "Guess Meika was right all along, he was." Drawing shallow lines and circles in the soil, the mercenary's face was filled with a grief that the Elf did not understand.
As much as he did not want to continue the inane conversation, Elrohir asked nonetheless, "Who is Meika?"
"He was a friend of mine. Ramlin killed him, for wanting to help Strider and the Elf."
Surprised, and momentarily forgetting the peril in which the topics of their conversation were currently mired, an astounded Elrohir asked, "Your friend tried to aid Strider and Legolas?"
Even in the dying light of the nearly spent torch, Elrohir could clearly see the flush that spread from the mercenary's throat over his face, its absence in the scarred flesh of Jalian's features giving the human a blotchy appearance. With shame the mercenary spoke, his voice quiet and his face lowered, watching his fingers draw their meaningless patterns in the dirt. "He did. I tried to tell him not to, that Ament would have his head for it. But Ramlin told us what he wanted to do to it, and Meika couldn't abide by no creature being tortured, especially not by Ramlin. That one took pleasure only in suffering."
It was painfully evident what 'it' the mercenary referred to, and so Elrohir let the man speak, distracted by the insight into the circumstances of the Prince and his brother's situation, circumstances which he had yet to hear.
"Ament used to say that he'd taught Ramlin all he knew, how to get information from people, how to bully, how to pilfer and connive. He taught him the most important lesson of all, he'd told Meika and me, when he told us about his plan." The mercenary stole a glance at Elrohir ere he swept the soil flat with the palm of his hand, erasing the myriad patterns violently. "Said morality was naught but what a man decided is moral. Ament told us that how far a man was willing to go to get what he wants was like a line drawn in the sand," Jalian explained sheepishly, "or something as such. I'm no good at thinking. He just told us he didn't have no line and that he would do anything to get what he wanted. Said if we were the same, we could be rich men."
Elrohir was appalled at the logic and would have normally argued, had not his brothers and friend been above them, likely fighting for their lives and the welfare of many others. "All of this for riches?" Despite himself, the Noldo could not help but let his ire and disbelief paint his words. "Are all these lives worth money?"
"That's what Meika was right about. I would have traded all your lives for coins a week ago," Jalian snorted, "not like I haven't done that kind of thing before. I've been working in the slave trade most of my life, selling Elves, Dwarves, men and women, children. Meika used to tell me that I was selling what was important to get what weren't."
His friend was a smart man, the healer decided. Utterly confused and irate, Elrohir prompted, "But your friend still went along with Ament's plans, even though he claimed to know better?"
"You've obviously never been poor," the mercenary assumed correctly, sneering scornfully at the Noldo's fine clothing. "You've never wanted for anything, no doubt. Grew up with all that you asked for that money could buy. Fine food and wine, garments – even glory and fame are for the rich like you. Never heard a song praising the poor farmer who works himself to death to feed his kids, or to feed you rich people." The mercenary was ranting outright, his tirade growing louder as his own anger grew. "Meika was poor, like the rest of us. Ain't our fault that we were poor, that we weren't born to some wealthy family to inherit money from or take care of us. Meika just wanted some land and a house. Maybe a wife and kids. But not even these things, what you well-to-do ones take for granted, was enough to convince Meika to let the Elf suffer. He was a good man."
Elrohir was dumbfounded temporarily. He conceded the veracity of Jalian's claims about his wealthy lifestyle. It was not that he and his family had never suffered or were spoilt; no, their family had been as filled with strife and uncertainty as any other, but they had never lacked food, or shelter, and lived in finery that would feed entire human villages for the length of their days. He loathed admitting this to the human; he did not wish Jalian to think the differences in how they lived were enough to condone the mercenaries' actions. But a man cannot be faulted for wanting such simple pleasures in his life.
Elrohir said what he hoped would purge his kindhearted desire to console the human's sadness and his less than benevolent need to point out that regardless of the reason why, the mercenaries were still unjustified for kidnapping and torture. "If it is as you say, and your companion tried to save Legolas and Strider, then he acted virtuously, even if no songs are sung for him or none remember his actions."
Smiling sadly, the mercenary's vague explanation came full circle, his angry outburst ending softly, "Meika told me that even if we got all the wealth in Middle Earth from Ament's scheme, he would never be happy because of how we'd got it. Said fairly much what you just said. He was right in it, too: said Ament was wrong, that it wasn't money, but the line in the sand that's what's worth dying for."
The mercenary began to weep silently, tears trailing down his dirty, splotched face. The clean streaks made by the tears added to Jalian's already unsightly visage but to Elrohir the man was not a hideous, wicked human any longer, but merely misguided and desperate. Who knows, the Noldo thought, checking Tirn's pulse yet again and finding it the same, unsteady beat, if I had lived Jalian's life, I may well have turned out just as he did.
They sat for some moments, neither speaking. Elrohir's thoughts suddenly returned to his brothers and Legolas, his chest contracting in a dizzying fear. It was not the same awareness he had felt before when he sensed Estel and Legolas' turmoil, but a deeper, familiar knowing. Elladan. A dread so great that he could not breathe engulfed him, crushing him. What is happening? However, he knew what was occurring above him, for the overwhelming fear that emanated from his twin's consciousness to his own could mean only one thing, They have found Melfren.