CHAPTER 16. FALTERING FOOTSTEPS
Gimli paced back and forth, a habit that he had picked up off Aragorn. The halls of Meduseld were painfully quiet, and the still, calm air led only to his further maddening. Éomer had been forced to attend to various kingly duties soon after sending the letter to Aragorn, and so Gimli had been left alone to fill the time in the empty halls. The King of Rohan had ordered food be set out for the Dwarf, but his nervousness was such that, for the first time he could remember, he could not bear to touch a morsel.
Now that he had reached Edoras, he felt strangely powerless in helping Legolas. His role, he sensed, had now been played, and the exhausting game of waiting for news had begun. Gimli was quite unaccustomed to this. He had always been on the front lines, always in the midst of battle - never safely hidden behind the walls. His chest swelled with a strange sense of guilt. After all, he was secure and comfortable, and Legolas was almost certainly neither. The fact that he could do nothing more to aid his friend was both starkly unfamiliar and entirely frustrating.
Gimli grumbled to himself, a low, growling noise that earned concerned looks from a servant passing by.
Now, with time to contemplate, he felt his mind wandering back, scrambling to make some sense of a situation that seemed to make none. Why had Legolas been taken? By whom? For what purpose?
The Dwarf could answer none of those questions. In his memory, Legolas had wronged no one, harmed none that needn't be hurt, caused no damage that wasn't entirely necessary. He had slain many Men and Orcs, of course, but after the war it was uncommon to find someone who hasn't such blood on their hands. The Elf, Gimli thought scoffingly, had a reputation for being completely and entirely faultless. Even in the heat of battle, his head had always been cool, and his morals concrete. He was as merciful a soldier as one could hope to come across.
So why, then, had he been abducted in the night, without warning nor apparent reason? Gimli's mind wandered for clues, and snagged on a conversation held weeks previously in the Glittering Caves, a time that seemed little but memory on accounts of all that had happened since.
"So you persuaded Thranduil, your father, to send troops to Dol Guldur?" Gimli asked incredulously.
"There were other forces at play; there was the danger that Sauron might attack our people, or else destroy more of the forest. But yes, for the most part, I was responsible." Legolas answered, his tone saddened for reasons the Dwarf could not comprehend.
"You were responsible? You make the gesture sound like one of cruelty, instead of kindness!" Gimli exclaimed. "Why does this sorrow you so?"
"I have not the heart to tell you, Gimli son of Glóin, for never again would you see me in the same light as you do now." Legolas replied, with a cold burst of laughter. "Nay, I have faced judgement enough. I do not need yours to add to my regret."
Gimli began to argue, but Legolas interrupted immediately.
"It is my burden to bear, and bear it I will!" he snapped, his face filled with cold fury, mingled with sorrow.
Legolas' anger had struck the Dwarf as odd at the time, and now, upon reflection, seemed even more so - it was the first time Gimli could recall him ever withholding such information. Before that, the Elf had been as transparent about his past as anyone could be, and seemed to have no reason to be otherwise; but an innocent question had turned him cold and spiteful in a matter of moments.
Perhaps there are shadows in his past, Gimli thought. Shadows that had lurked for an age in wait for a chance at vengeance.
He shook his head firmly, scowling at himself. How could his opinion of the Elf be changed so swiftly? Had he any reason to doubt Legolas' integrity, apart from speculation? There were secrets in his past, of that there was no doubt, but that was little reason to suggest that Legolas had somehow provoked his abduction.
The sooner we get him back, the better, Gimli thought. This guesswork does naught to aid anyone, yet such questions of history and heritage require answers. Let him return and explain it himself.
If he is still alive, that is, said a small voice in the back of his head.
~~~{###}~~~
"How many men guard the White Tower?" the man asked, examining his knife blade curiously.
"I know not. I do not pay attention to such things." Legolas coughed, sending a stab of pain to his broken ribs.
"Let me ask something easier, then: at what hour do the city gates close, nowadays?" he queried, quite serenely.
"If I knew, though I do not, I would not for all the gold in the world tell you." Legolas replied breathlessly.
"You may struggle now, Elf, but soon you will tire. I can do this forever." he stated confidently. "Soon enough you will give in. You value your own life too highly to allow this to go on."
Legolas turned his gaze upwards, his expression cold but determined.
"What if I am not fighting for myself?" he uttered quietly.
The man chuckled darkly, a vile sound that echoed off the cave walls ominously.
"Ah, so you are being noble." he spat with contempt. "You are protecting your comrade. I understand this loyalty. But tell me this, Elf - if he were in your position, would he do the same?"
Legolas writhed, his discomfort only partially attributed to his physical injuries.
"Well? Would he?" he taunted, circling the Elf like a shark closing in on its prey. "Would he allow himself to be tortured to protect you? I think not."
Legolas frowned, his face flickering with pain. But this time, it did not issue from his wounds - his chest constricted in agony as he recalled, once more, his friend's betrayal of him and his kindred, the insults that had slipped so casually off his tongue-
"It matters not." he blurted out, shutting off his memories with haste. "My loyalties to the King are strong, regardless of what you may inflict on me."
His captor laughed lowly. "Nonetheless, it is not hard, I should think, to give me answers. Dear Aragorn would understand - after all, I gave you little choice in the matter."
The man gently nudged Legolas' back with his boot, pushing him onto his stomach. His chest and shoulder exploded in such fiery pain that he had bite his tongue to stop himself crying out. He wished he would pass out again, to let unconsciousness abate his wounds for a while. Or, better still, he wished for death, for surely it could not be worse than this...
"Well? What say you?" the man demanded harshly.
"You have taken me, bound me, wounded me, and now you expect my assistance?" Legolas returned, struggling upon each word. "Your plan is flawed."
The Elf could not see his captor's face, but he was sure that it was twisted into a scowl. Suddenly he felt a hand grip his hair tightly, using it to haul him agonizingly onto his knees, and he realized with a jolt that he had gone too far. He heard the chink of metal from behind him as the man unsheathed his sword. Legolas closed his eyes, heart thudding in his chest.
Ae Adar nín i vi Menel, no aer i eneth lín, he prayed hurriedly. Tolo i arnad lín,
caro den i innas lin-
He heard the blade whip through the air and shrank in anticipation of the strike, but was shocked as it simply brushed by his feet, neatly cutting the bonds between them. Legolas peered up at him through the strands of hair hanging dank on either side of his face, his face blank in bewilderment.
"Stand up." he barked shortly.
Legolas frowned, his blue eyes oceans of pained confusion.
"STAND!" he roared.
The Elf clumsily shifted his feet into action, every cell of his body on fire as he stood, propping himself up on his less-painful leg. Every muscle strained to support his weight, and he felt himself pale.
"You have nerve, Elf." the man declared, striding back a few paces before pivoting to face him. "And for that, you may have this bargain. Walk to me, and you may go free."
Legolas shook his head in puzzlement, quietly thinking that he could barely stay standing, let alone walk. "I do not-"
"The bargain is simple! Reach me, and I will release you." the man stated, smiling with false warmth.
"Why?" he asked bluntly.
His captor shrugged. "A test, I suppose, of your strength. Of your worth."
"What if I refuse?"
"Then you lose your chance to escape." the man returned smoothly. "But it would be a shame, would it not, to pass on such an opportunity, after all the energy you have out into struggling against me?"
"And if I should reach you, why should I trust a madman to keep his end of the bargain?" Legolas asked tiredly.
"My word is honorable - you will go free." the man assured him. "Besides... have you any choice but to trust me?"
The Elf sighed inwardly. "Of course not. That is the purpose of your bargain, is it not? Tempt me with escape, and make me trust the word of one I never should."
The man made no reply, and Legolas took the moment to rushingly think, his mind drowsy and washed over with pain.
Do I refuse the offer, and be made a coward, he thought. Or partake, and be made a fool?
"Make your move, Elf." the man snarled impatiently.
Glancing at the short distance between them, Legolas made a final decision. His breathing ragged, he forced his limbs into movement, finding even a single step almost impossible. His usual grace and litheness turned to shakiness and clumsy movements as he stumbled forwards unsteadily, taking a few small paces and struggling to keep his balance. Head rushing dizzily, he faltered - his knees finally gave out, and, hands tied as they were, there was nothing to break his fall as he slammed into the hard, jagged rock.
The man laughing coldly whilst his victim flexed in agony, a small trickle of blood flowing from his forehead from where it had hit the ground. His taunts came soon after, voice laden with smug sarcasm.
"Legolas, the so-called prince of Mirkwood, shakier on his feet than a newborn foal!"
In spite of his considerable pain, the Elf's cheeks flushed red in embarrassment. He was perfectly aware that this had been the plan, that his captor had known he could never reach him, and yet he burned still with shame. He had never felt more horrified at himself, that he could not even gather the strength to walk a few strides and snatch away his freedom when it was offered so easily.
"How far have you fallen, Legolas? How easily defeated are you?" his captor hissed antagonistically. "Once a warrior, a comrade-in-arms, a diplomat - but what are you now? What have you become?"
Legolas fought back tears as the footsteps echoed away into the distance. It seemed to him as he lay there, bound, humiliated, and every inch of him throbbing with pain, that the cold had just gotten colder, the darkness, darker.
~~~{###}~~~
Aragorn rode like the flaming tendrils of Morgoth himself were behind him. The White Mountains drew nearer and nearer, and the king took a moment to assess his surrounds - it was not a part of the country he was particularly familiar with.
They seemed impossibly colossal, and towered over the land, soaring further skyward as he neared their base. Even now, when spring was nearly passed and summer begun, the peaks were capped with snow. No pass led through the steep terrain, and there was no cease in the solid, rocky barrier - a feature that usually Aragorn would observe happily, seeing as it guarded Gondor from northerly invasion. Today, though, it marked what would undoubtedly be a long and hazardous ascent towards the summit.
Aragorn slowed the horse's strides enough to regain sight of the tracks he was tracing, and followed their path towards the foot of the mountains. High, high above, he could see a large, natural platform of rock, as though a lookout had been chiseled into the mountain face.
There could scarcely be a more opportune location for a lair, Aragorn thought somewhat despairingly. Nearly impossible to penetrate, and high enough to act as a viewing platform for the surrounding lands. Not to mention how hidden away it lies - I could count on one hand the amount of men that have passed this way in the last age!
Aragorn rode with a clenched jaw, his fists curled tensely around the reins.
Soon the ground steepened, going in a few short minutes from flat to sloped to so steep that his horse could barely navigate it. When the last of the grass disappeared to rock beneath the creature's hooves, and he could go no further without climbing, he dismounted. Tucking the reins tightly into a crevice to ensure his horse was there when he returned, Aragorn turned to the mountain. With a slight frown, he lifted his boot and propelled himself upwards onto the rocky face.
The climb was slow and laboring. On occasion, he would find a stretch of stone that he could walked on, as though they were steps. In other parts, he scrambled for footholds and handgrips, creeping up the stone face like an awkward spider. Pebbles clattered threateningly under his boots, and his weight sent small chips of stone plummeting downwards - as though he needed any reminder that the only thing below to break his fall was more rock.
Aragorn suddenly hissed in pain, his hand snagging on a jagged shard of rock and drawing a thin stream of blood. He retracted instinctively, almost losing his balance in the process. His stomach fell as his hand scrambled to regain purchase on the unforgiving stone, his cut not aiding in the least as his fingers became slippery with crimson liquid. His heart thudded loudly in his throat, a cold, plummeting fear overcoming him -
He managed to grasp a small crevice, taking the strain off his legs and other arm and allowing him to regain his balance. He took a moment to steady his breathing, before hauling himself up onto the rocky ledge, heart still pounding fast.
Aragorn clenched his eyes shut, wiping the blood off his hand and onto his shirt absentmindedly. He took another few deep, steadying breaths, before getting to his feet again.
From here, the climb was easier - not so much a cliff face, but rather just steep, rocky terrain. Sharp points jutted out and snagged on his cloak. The air was laden with chill that swirled and pierced his lungs icily, and the stone was cold to touch. The wind whirred dangerously, not strong enough to throw him off the side of the mountain, perhaps, but strong enough to threaten it.
When it seemed he had been walking for an age, Aragorn glanced upwards and sighed audibly in relief. Not far up from him was a large, flat rocky clearing, and behind, leading into the mountain, a cave. He did not doubt that this was the right place.
Aragorn quickened his pace a few strides, before stopping sharply. A flicker of movement above him caught his eye, and he jumped hastily behind a rock formation. Peering around the boulder, his eyes widened - a man, appearing to be an archer, by his weaponry, was scouting the stone clearing.
Frowning slightly, Aragorn ran a quick plan through his head. He did not want to alert anyone to his presence, so he would have to be swift and silent. He drew his sword and went to run, but suddenly felt a cold blade press against his throat.
"Move, and you are dead." a voice stated flatly. "Drop the weapon."
Aragorn let go of the sword, letting it clatter loudly onto the stone, and raised his hands slowly.