We are not prepared, the Noldo complained, scanning the dense woods around them. He could not hear the trees' exultation for the witch's homecoming: he had not the passionate connection to the forest with which Legolas was blessed, and so could only listen for Melfren's footsteps, breathing, or voice... any sign that the Dark witch drew near. I would that Elrohir were with us, the Noldo thought as he concentrated on listening. He had rarely fought without his brother at his side. Elladan sensed his brother's fear for him, as he knew Elrohir sensed his dread to face the witch.
His twin's absence only emphasized the lack of confidence he held in the injured Ranger and fading Silvan's ability to face whatever may come. With a sigh of resignation and a quick prayer to Ilúvatar, the Noldo anxiously turned the pommel of his sword in his palm, its whetted blade creating silvern reflections to dance around the clearing. I wish they had stayed below. Elladan spared another quick glance at the Prince and Estel, both of whom stood much as he, at ready with their senses cast outwards and unaware from where the danger may spring forth. Neither Wood-Elf or human was well enough to participate in battle, much less in opposition to odds that were decidedly against them now that Ament was no more and Melfren was approaching. They had no plan and no time to think of one.
The Ranger whispered, "We cannot just stand here, waiting for Melfren to find us." Aragorn held his own sword in hand, his knuckles and fingers ashen, so tightly were they wrapped around the hilt.
"Why does he return?" Pulling free an arrow from his borrowed quiver, the Prince rubbed the azure vanes at its end thoughtfully, his head cocked to the side as he listened to the trees. Elladan could not discern whether the Wood-Elf was speaking to the forest or to him and Aragorn, but he had not the chance to ask, for across the clearing, directly opposite from where they stood close to the horses, came the obvious rustling of underbrush and the stamping of rapidly approaching feet.
The normally murky woods seemed to draw in on themselves, the boughs of the trees knitting together to block out the light from overhead. The contrast between the light-filled clearing and the murky forest heightened Elladan's unease; he could not see far into the forest and the trees grew ever tighter, such that even in the empty space overhead, where there was nothing to block the morning sun, the limbs seemed to stretch, to meet and entwine, hindering the light from falling upon them. All was in shadow, and an icy zephyr brought the sound of the witch's Black speech with it.
The Noldo shivered from far more than the cold. Melfren is not as weak as we had hoped.
"He casts –" the twin began, intending to warn his brother and friend to be on guard for the witch's magic, but no sooner had his mouth formed the words than Melfren broke free of the thicket, crashing to his hands and knees at the edge of the glade.
Elladan quickly tried to take advantage of the witch's fall by rushing forwards, not desiring to give Melfren the chance to speak any further, his sword thrust out and a battle cry upon his lips. Jumping over the dead campfire and several packs, the Noldo's footsteps were followed closely by Aragorn, his sword drawn, and the bow wielding Legolas. He was close enough to note the gray in the mercenary's vibrantly red hair when he realized they were not fast enough, and knew his folly when the witch peered up at him, smiling malevolently, unconcernedly. With naught but a flick of Melfren's wrist, a searing, numbing pain radiated throughout Elladan's body, his legs gave way beneath him and his arms sagged to his sides. The agony seemed to vibrate his entire body, shaking his flesh and bones until the Noldo was immobilized, his sword falling to the ground from his uncooperative fingers.
Behind him, Elladan could hear the Wood-Elf's groan, followed by a pained grunt from Estel as they, too, dropped to the grass, their weapons tumbling to the earth beside them, within reach if they had been able to budge. While he could move his head, Elladan could not look away from the witch's black eyes, the haughty gaze barely hiding Melfren's mirth as he took his time picking himself from the ground. It cannot end this way, he thought, desperate as he struggled to be free of the invisible shackles holding him motionless and at Melfren's mercy.
"Legolas," the witch nodded in mock congeniality, nodding at the blond Elf, "and Strider." Melfren made a show of brushing the soil and grass from his leggings before ambling casually to stand tall over Elladan. "You, however, I do not know, and have no use for."
The Noldo watched with rapt horror as the vile human's long fingers flitted in the air, as though brushing aside a bothersome bug. He felt the wind rushing around him, under him, stinging his eyes so that Elladan closed them unwillingly. When he could no longer feel the ground under his knees, he flailed his arms as he tried to grab something, anything to cease his dizzying trajectory across the clearing. Elladan felt his head connecting with something solid, an impossibly loud snap ringing in his ears, before he knew no more.
Melfren could hardly contain his laughter at the incredulity and horror upon the faces of the Elf and human. They had appeared to be fierce warriors as they had run to him, their weapons drawn and their faces full of hope and anger, but now they were slack, immobile, and completely vulnerable. Reveling in the familiar surge of supremacy at having control over those around him, the witch let himself laugh, his certainty of his success adding to his giddiness. This is too easy. I had thought they would be some challenge. He strode to the fallen, dark Elf, giving the prone form a brutal kick to the head. The Elf's body turned over with the momentum, the inky hair obscuring the Elda's face as his head lolled to the side at a sharp angle, and silvery, dark red blood spilled from his nose and a deep gash across his pale forehead.
"If you've no use for him, then leave him be."
The witch turned, grimacing as the twist of his torso wrenched the arrow wound on his back. He did not see either captive speak but he knew it was the Ranger who had dared to order him, for the fraught human stared at the dark-haired Elf's fallen body with undisguised alarm. Directing his reprimand at the human, Melfren shrugged his shoulders, grinning as he pulled his dagger from his waistband. "I've no use for you, either, Strider, except in your death."
Melfren's other captive was focused only on him, the murderous rage and intense loathing so evident in the Prince's regarding, narrowed eyes that the witch grinned maliciously. This one I hate more than the other, he decided of Legolas, his thoughts turning to the many ways he could make the Elf's life slow to end. He could not remember what ills made his body's previous owner hate these two beings, but Melfren did not care. Without full control over his commandeered body, the witch was weakened, and the riddance of the lingering detestation for the Elf and man before him was its only solution. There is no reason why I cannot enjoy their deaths. I have not smelled the salty aroma of blood for far too long.
Using for support the trunk of the tree against which the he had thrown the dark Elf, the witch crouched beside the bleeding Elda, his dagger in hand. "I've no use for either of you. You would do well to remember that," he explained to his captives.
He watched the Ranger, enjoying the human's fearful ire as he traced the blade of the dagger over one ebony eyebrow of the fallen Elf, but the dagger fell from his grasp, landing in the tangle of black hair. The witch frowned, displeased to find his hand shaking as he retrieved his blade. Instead of growing stronger, I grow weaker.
"I may have use for your companion later," the witch ridiculed, bolstering his confidence by augmenting the Ranger's fear. "He is strong. I am sure he will make a fine Orc."
Strider's glare deepened; thin purple lines crisscrossed the prominent, straining muscles of his neck, the veins standing out as the human endeavored to be free to move. "Do not touch him, Ament."
Chuckling, Melfren gripped his dagger's hilt more firmly to play it across the dark-haired Elf's face, smearing the carmine fluid from the Elf's nose along his cheekbone. "My name is no longer Ament. I am sure you will find me much more formidable than he was."
"You are no different than Ament; he was cowardly, without honor."
The hate he hoped soon to be free of, the odium that prevented him from gaining absolute control over his stolen body surged through him. Trying to stand, the witch stumbled, managing to stay upright only by his hold of the trunk beside him. Melfren quickly looked to the Elf and Ranger across the clearing, hoping that they did not see his weakness, nor notice his heavy breathing as he stood, moving deliberately this time. I must kill them quickly. Though his power over them had not decreased, though they remained motionless, the witch could feel the effort of maintaining his sorcery sapping his strength, and he knew delaying their deaths any longer would run the risk of his spell's collapse, and thereby even the odds against him.
"Ament is no more, and I am no mere human," the witch countered.
"Ament was a murderer, a thief, a liar. Whether you are known by your name or his," the wrathful Ranger spoke again, his raspy voice breaking between words, "you are still no better than he."
The barbs struck deep, though the witch did not know why. Festering virulence streamed through his awareness, breaking his concentration to maintain control over his failing body's actions. So immersed was he in his odious, lingering need for retaliation that the witch stumbled once more, the short blade flying from his hands as he sought to retain his balance. He landed on all fours, fuming at the weakness of his legs and the loitering cause for his debility. Leave. Die. The lurking mercenary's hatred for the Prince and human intensified with each of the Ranger's taunts, pushing aside Melfren's will as easily as the witch had routed out Ament's consciousness. The dark-haired Elf's sword lay on the ground before him; he seized it, rising to his feet in unsteady, jerky movements. I will end this now – their lives and whatever is left of yours, Ament.
His composure, like a bowstring stretched too far, was on the verge of snapping, and the image of Elladan's lifeless face bent at an impossible degree towards his inert chest was enough to shatter the Ranger's prudence. When he had seen his brother's body flying through the air, Aragorn's horror at being helpless to stop it was ameliorated only in that his taunting of the witch had captured Melfren's attention away from the Noldo. However, now that the witch stood in front of them, angrier than before and Elladan's sword in his hand, Aragorn felt foolish for his words, because though he may have saved his brother from immediate death or torture, he now had to watch the Prince die beside him, as immobilized and helpless as he, and his brother would soon follow. Think of something, Estel. Stall him.
The witch's appearance was terrifying: the mercenary's mad demeanor of before was transcended by Melfren's truly demented behavior. Three times now the witch had fallen, giving the Ranger hope that Melfren was not as well as he appeared. He must have a failing. He is immortal, not invincible.
"You are wrong, Strider. Ament was a mere man, doomed to die, while I am not. Ament is departed." Melfren wavered on his feet, his face feverish but pale. Intermittent expressions of calm and discontent flickered across the witch's features, as though his mind could not decide how he should feel.
Elladan's words from earlier returned to the Ranger: We must locate him before he becomes Melfren entirely. He will flee to avoid our finding him.
The witch had not fled, he had returned, intent, for some reason unknown to Aragorn, to kill him and Legolas. Melfren made no mention of the forgotten goblet, and had not desired to slaughter Elladan as he wished to butcher the Prince and Ranger. Hoping to procure more time to find a way to use this information, he mocked the witch, saying without understanding the latent meaning of his taunt, "You only use Ament's human body – you will suffer his weaknesses."
Melfren's glowered down at him silently. The conflicting emotions on the witch's face swayed towards anger, replacing the previous affected calm. He replied, "You know nothing of it, Strider." The witch swung Elladan's sword through the air in front of the Ranger's face, missing him by inches. "You call me a liar? You have lied since I first met you in Fulton. You say I've no honor? Do you think yourself less guilty of kidnapping than I?" The witch's glower deepened, and he turned to the Wood-Elf. "But you are the murderer, aren't you, Princeling? You and your kind."
The witch's condemnation registered in Estel's mind but his focus lay in how Melfren spoke to him, rather than what was said. He talks as though he were Ament, the Ranger noted, watching carefully how the witch scowled, and realizing that he needed to act soon, or this discernment would matter little.
"You are responsible," the confused and angry witch whispered to the quiet Elf Prince. Melfren shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
Perhaps the transformation is not yet complete, Estel thought, excitement causing him to sigh in relief.
He asked the witch, "For whose deaths?" In his peripheral vision, he could see the Wood-Elf turn his head to stare at him with bewilderment. He turned, also, facing Legolas for a moment, and saying nothing but willing the Elf to trust him. As though he had heard the Ranger's silent plea, Legolas nodded and Estel continued, "For whose deaths, Ament? For your parent's, for Ramlin's?"
The mention of Ramlin caused the witch to stammer incoherently, his voice growing softer, his body trembling as he stepped forward, sword outthrust at Legolas. "You killed my brother," the witch charged, the tip of Elladan's sword resting on the Prince's breastbone. "You killed my family. I promised you I would make you pay, Thranduilion."
The Ranger was baiting him. With every taunt, the witch felt the seedling hate within him grow until it had blossomed beyond his ability to control. He knows. He knows I am weakened by Ament's hatred for them.
Melfren heard the words he spoke to the blond Elda, saw himself place the blade upon the Elf's breast, and knew the end of the Prince would follow, but it was not his volition that made it happen. It does not matter, he decided, trying with all his might to press down upon the blade. As long as they are dead, it does not matter. The toil of sustaining his sorcery, of holding the two captives immobile, was weakening his ability to control Ament's loathing. The witch retained his hold over the Elf and Ranger and spoke to the hatred, to Ament, Have your revenge. Kill them and be done with it.
"Had I the chance, I would kill Ramlin again."
The Wood-Elf's words were not meant to taunt him; the Prince's icy blue gaze and enraged sneer signified the sincerity of his declaration. An image of a burly man, his unseeing eyes opened to the sky and the shaft of an arrow visible above the thick throat, finally broke his tenacity, his spell over the human and Elf dissolved.
Hate was all he knew, all he could feel. He slowly pressed the blade's point on Thranduilion's bare, bruised, and emaciated chest, his deleterious smirk spreading, as the Elf's white skin broke open.