CHAPTER 20. OUT OF REACH
Their pace was by no means fast, but with the thought of Minas Tirith and safety in their minds Aragorn and Legolas hobbled through the darkened tunnels with relentless fervor.
The idea of being recaptured, especially now that Aragorn had seen how outnumbered they were, was too grim to even consider – therefore without conversation both men immediately made efforts to hide their passage. Legolas, being of the kindred of the Elves, naturally walked with footfalls so light that they made not a sound, and Aragorn had been taught as a Ranger of the North a similar practice. Even though they happened across no one in the dark expanse of tunnels, they both employed this precaution nonetheless.
So black was it that Legolas, with his keen Elvish eyes, could only just make out the figure of Aragorn a few paces in front of him. Were he not preoccupied with the effort of staying on his feet, he might have thought it strange that the rogues had chosen this, of all places, as their hideout. Men had feared the dark above nearly all else since times of old - he knew this fully well - and spending days trapped in the cold, black abyss that had been his prison had made him realize why. Darkness was engulfing, all-consuming; it seemed to dwarf even the bravest, boldest soul. Darkness could drive its way into your heart like a poison, besmirching all of what was once good and whole. It had the uncanny ability to recall the very worst memories and regrets and inadequacies of a man. But above all else, darkness forced one to confront his inner demons and all that was flawed and twisted within oneself; and for this reason - Legolas being one with a past more haunted than he cared to admit - it had struck his heart like an iron vice.
Never before, even in the bleakest days of the Quest, had he feared the darkness itself. He had been apprehensive of what lurked in such places, certainly, but not until now, when he had been utterly cut off from all sight and sound and warmth for such an amount of time, had he realized the bare necessity behind each of these rudimentary senses. In days passed, even the dark of night had been pierced by the stars, but the impenetrable blackness - of both his physical prison and the one forged in his mind - had given him no such refuge.
In short, the dark had driven a sliver of ice into his heart that was far beyond reach by any means he knew of.
He wondered, fleetingly, if this was what it had felt like for Frodo. The brave young hobbit had suffered greatly through the darkness of Mordor, he knew, and even more under the power of the ring. Frodo had returned from those cursed lands with their ghosts still in his eyes, and his heart could never again be at ease from the anguish he had felt and seen there. Legolas admired the hobbit tenfold now, and pitied him in equal measure, if his suffering was anything like the leaden weight in his own chest.
Suddenly Aragorn made a hushed but urgent noise which snapped Legolas from his thoughts. He shifted, silently, until his face was close beside the Elf's, and he could feel his hot breath on his neck as he murmured almost silently into his ear:
"There are men ahead. I can feel their footsteps in the stone."
Legolas trusted Aragorn's tracking abilities implicitly – he had seen the skills Rangers had in such matters – and his stomach clenched slightly at the thought of the men who had brought him to this forsaken place, who had trapped him like a bird in a cage –
He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. It did not aide to dwell on such things.
"This is the only way out, is it not?" Legolas returned in a low whisper.
Aragorn nodded his head slowly.
"Then we have no choice." the Elf stated impassively.
His friend surveyed his pale face as if for signs of reluctance, but met a look of steely resolve.
"You are unarmed, but I can defend the both of us if you stay a few paces behind me." Aragorn murmured as he began to walk again, as though Legolas had any choice but to remain in his wake, his limbs already strained to the utmost degree, his every step a forced, clumsy stumble through the dark.
Gradually the cavern grew lighter as they progressed. The change was almost imperceptible, but after experiencing almost total blindness for days, even the slightest change seemed as obvious as day to night. Besides, he could feel the breath of the wind in the air, could smell the crisp, clean scent of snow that must surely lie nearby.
Aragorn stepped around the corner and out of sight, with a small, relieved sigh that's meaning was immediately clear to his companion – they had reached the end of the tunnel. Legolas forced his legs into compliance, trying not to wince as each step brought a stabbing pain to his chest. He took a final stride around the bend, and –
The light hit Legolas all at once, rendering him blind as his unaccustomed eyes struggled to adjust to the brightness. The air was as cold as it was in the depths of the caves, if not more so, but the raw sunlight tingled on his skin like a chilled shiver. The sensation, the Elf noted, seemed oddly foreign, as though he had forgotten altogether what simple daylight felt like.
Legolas blinked the white flashes from his eyes, and slowly the world around him came into focus. A few feet more of tunnel remained, and then – his heart leapt at the sight – the sky. Even the dull grey clouds seemed a luxury, snow swirling from above and whipping in the gale like an icy whirlwind.
His pain no longer mattered, his exhaustion was irrelevant – he forced his feet to carry him forwards, following Aragorn's path until the rocky walls stopped and were replaced by open air.
Legolas drew a long, deep breath, savoring the feeling of the cold, clean breeze swirling through his lungs, the pain this brought his broken ribs not preventing the gesture from feeling absolutely glorious. He turned to Aragorn, a beaming smile on his scratched and bloodied face, but met eyes wide with panic.
"No dirweg!" he bellowed, and the Elf ducked just in time for a sharp silver blade to come flying over his head, missing by a hair's breadth.
His balance still damaged, Legolas tumbled aside clumsily as Aragorn stepped to meet the man's blade with his own. The king struck forwards with forceful, relentless blows, his face screwed up in rage, and the Elf soon realized why – the man he fought was none other than his captor and tormentor, his Gondorian features mirroring the hatred in his opponent's.
Aragorn's sword moved with precision and speed, but his enemy matched him blow-for-blow. Legolas scrambled aside as the men spun, circling each other with expert footwork, the air humming with the clangs of metal-on-metal.
The man thrust forwards to his chest, and Aragorn was forced to take a small step back, managing to fend off the swipe but loosing his footing in the bargain. His foe swung forwards with the energy of a madman, the king parrying each wild but dizzying blow with increasing difficulty. The attacks seemed clumsy and rushed for one he had taken to be a soldier, but a second later Aragorn realized their aim – his opponent was slowly steering him back into the stone wall of the mountainside.
Aragorn was struck with the awful, sinking feeling of an animal being backed into a corner by its predator, and he lunged out with a desperate swing. The man stepped aside to avoid the blade, allowing Aragorn to duck out from his disadvantaged position - closer to Legolas, regrettably, but little was to be done about that, Aragorn realized. The king fought back with a fierce upward swing, the blade singing through the air with its speed.
Meanwhile, Legolas struggled to get to his feet again, looking around the bare mountainside for sight of a weapon. He had his bow, but his quiver was empty of arrows – useless - and decided that he would have to fight empty-handed. He took a few strides towards the duelling men, but was hit with such a wave of dizziness and nausea that he stopped dead in his tracks, realizing with great shame that he was too unbalanced to walk, let alone fight.
The two men continued to fight, circling each other like cats engaged in a brawl. Aragorn's enemy fended off his upward swing and returned with a sharp jab at his chest, which he nimbly avoided, at the same time returning with an alternative swipe at the man's ankles. He saw the attack coming and leapt to avoid it, as he landed bringing the sword down onto Aragorn's blade with such dizzying amounts of force that it would have been knocked from the hands of a weaker man.
Aragorn let out an animalistic growl of frustration, and swung his first truly merciless blow at his enemy's neck. The man raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Fighting to kill, I see?" he queried mockingly, smirking as his brought his sword up to chest height, ready to strike. "I would have it no other way."
He stepped forward with a hard jab aimed at Aragorn's heart, but he saw the shot coming and easily knocked it aside. The man was well-trained, there was no doubt about that, but it left him at a distinct disadvantage; where Aragorn's skill was innate and as natural as breathing, this man had been taught every strike and parry. His attacks had a definite pattern to them – forwards, jab, back step – that made them predictable to the last second and inch. Besides this, his fighting style was one that Aragorn was all too familiar with.
"You are a soldier of Gondor." the king stated, through teeth gritted in concentration.
"I thought you would never notice." the man returned with a derisive laugh.
He darted forwards, but the attack was predictable, and Aragorn stepped forwards to meet it with a quick slicing motion that met the man's side. His enemy hissed in pain as the blade came away, dripping with scarlet liquid. Blood began to blossom in red clouds through the fabric of his shirt. He dropped to his knees, clutching a hand to the wound as it began to bleed openly.
"Oh, I noticed." Aragorn stated, panting slightly, pointing his sword directly at the man and leaving him in no doubt of who was victor. "You fight well, but your every blow is structured – it does not do well to fight by the book in battle."
The man laughed breathily, shaking his head with a strained smile.
"Hindsight is a marvellous thing, is it not?" he replied airily, attempting to mask the pain in his voice.
Without warning the man leapt to his feet, simultaneously whipping a dagger out of his boot where it had been hidden from Aragorn's sight. In one quick, smooth motion he seized hold of Legolas, gripping his tunic tightly with one hand, the other pressing the blade to his throat. The Elf made a small noise of surprise, his body instantly becoming rigid as the cold metal rested against his jugular, his heart beating fast.
"Unhand him now." Aragorn ordered lowly, such loathing in his eyes as Legolas had never seen.
"And lose my advantage? Nay, I like this situation far better." the man replied, giving a short, barking laugh.
The king's face was alight with horror as the knife glinted at his friend's throat, his blue eyes wide with distress.
"Aragorn, noro, an ngell nîn!" Legolas said pleadingly, slipping into his native tongue in his anguish. "Run, please!"
"Avon! Odulen an edraith angin." Aragorn replied immediately. "I will not! I came here to save you-"
Their enemy made an impatient noise and pressed the blade harder to the Elf's neck. Aragorn inhaled sharply, and Legolas twitched in discomfort, unable to fully mask his dread.
"I am happy to talk, but let it be in the Common Tongue." the man suggested, smiling charismatically. "I am sure by now you realize that my threats are not empty."
Aragorn's jaw clenched tightly as he eyed Legolas. Now, in the daylight, the full extent of his wounds was visible – the long, deep gash across his shoulder, the criss-crossing cuts all down his arms, the blue-black bruising on his chest visible through his tattered and torn shirt. His hair hung limp and in places was stained crimson (presumably from the cuts on his forehead and cheek), and his sickly-pale skin was marked with dirt and blood.
"Do not harm him." Aragorn stated, quiet but firmly. "I will give you whatever you want, as long as he does not come to harm."
The man smiled widely. "An excellent choice, Elessar. The first good choice you have made in your rule, may I note."
Aragorn frowned deeply, hand still curved around the handle of his sword. "I recognized your face the moment I saw you, but I cannot match it to a name. Who are you, and what wrong have I done you to earn such hatred?"
"You do not know my name? I should not feel insulted, really – of course my name is not worthy of the memory of the king." the man spat scornfully. "Perhaps this will jog your memory: I once served in the White Guard."
Aragorn's frown deepened. The White Guard were the most elite soldiers in all of Gondor, their primary purpose to protect the White Tower and its residents – currently, Arwen and himself.
"You served the house of the Stewards, then?" Aragorn queried, unable to recall seeing the man whilst he had been in rule.
"Aye, until the house was forsaken." the man replied grimly.
"The house remains still." Aragorn returned immediately, mind flashing back to Faramir, his close friend and advisor.
"You mean to say it lives on through that pathetic younger son, Faramir? If he is the last of that house then it is as good as dead." the man spat, the chilling wind having not a fraction of the coldness of the soldier's tone. "He was not worth the sacrifice I payed to maintain his safety."
Aragorn's eyes widened as he suddenly realized the identity of the man before him.
"You are Beregrond, a Guard of the Citadel!"
Aragorn's mind flashed back through the months that had passed. Still he remembered them as clearly as though they had been yesterday – how could he forget? The war had just ceased, and he had been crowned king: these were Gondor's days of glory!
Aragorn had spent the morning on his throne in the Hall of Kings, giving praise and reward for the many acts of valour that had kept the city safe. Hundreds of soldiers had come before him, with glad tidings and joyous words to the new king, but there was one matter to be dealt with that boded less happily in Aragorn's heart.
The man was led before him, in the cloth of a prisoner, his hands manacled together. His eyes were dull and void of any hope – a stark change from the lively soldier Aragorn had met just days before.
"Beregrond, by your sword blood was spilled in the Hallows, where that is forbidden. Also you left your post without leave of Lord or of Captain." Aragorn stated, solemn formality in his tone. "For these things, of old, death was the penalty. Now therefore I must pronounce your doom."
The king looked down onto the prisoner with a piteous gaze.
"All penalty is remitted for your valour in battle, and still more because all that you did was for the love of the Lord Faramir. Nonetheless you must leave the Guard of the Citadel, and you must go forth from the City of Minas Tirith."
The man's lips mouthed the words 'go forth' in horror, and his face paled. He bowed his head, shoulders shaking slightly as he struggled to maintain composure.
"So it must be, for you are appointed to the White Company, the Guard of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and you shall be its captain and dwell in Emyn Arnen in honour and peace, and in the service of him for whom you risked all, to save him from death."
The man's eyes swam with tears of joy, and Aragorn barely had time to shoot him a quick smile before he was whisked away, replaced by more soldiers in need of praise and response.
"But I do not understand – you received the tidings gladly!" Aragorn questioned in confusion.
"You mistook my horror for gladness – in your mind, I am sure, you had done me some grand favour, and you saw it thus." the man stated shortly.
"I saved you from certain death!" Aragorn stammered incredulously.
"From death, perhaps, but your ruling was as good as." the man snarled in response. "You appointed me, without consultation or discussion, to Faramir, of all people? That pathetic man could not tell an Orc from an Easterling – I can scarcely believe he was related to his brother at all, for all their differences! I only ever served that fool to earn favour with his father. I resented the man."
"I still do not understand – how could you go to such lengths for revenge when your supposed wrongs are so slight as this?" Aragorn asked in utter confusion.
"Oh, you do not? Allow me to continue, then." the man said fierily. "Furthermore to being assigned to a master I could scarcely hate more, you would have had me sent off to Ithilien. Ithilien! My house has abided in Minas Tirith since the city was built. You would have me uproot my whole history, my whole family, my whole life, to go and live in the woods with the likes of this forest scum?!"
He nodded his head sharply at Legolas, who had clenched his fists so tight that they turned white as he struggled to hold his tongue. Aragorn, too, was struggling to come to terms with his enemy's warped logic.
"And you think that this is justice? To kidnap and torture an innocent bystander for a crime that was actually a favour?!" Aragorn blurted out, horrified. "This is not justice – it's reckless hatred!"
"That may be the case, were I the only one. But I am not, am I, Elessar?" the man emphasized his title mockingly. "Every one of my men tells a similar story – of how you scrambled their lives, relocating them here and there, with little concern for the families they would have to move, or else leave behind! Your 'peacekeeping' has shattered more lives than it has saved. You are presumptuous beyond belief, assuming what is best for the people rather than allowing them to choose their own fates. Our lands lived happily for centuries under the rule of the Stewards – Gondor needs no king, and certainly not one such as you!"
"Your lands lived happily? You lived in fear and darkness, too clouded by bureaucracy to realize the extent of the danger that lurked on your doorstep." Aragorn returned furiously.
"I would rather live in ignorance than under the rule of a king too self-absorbed to consider that there are wills other than his own." his foe spat.
Legolas avoided meeting his friend's eye, but the king was too enraged to notice.
"You are a madman." Aragorn hissed.
"Perhaps that is true, but it is you that led me to be so." the man replied with an air of disinterest.
Aragorn let out a snarl of rage, and raised the sword in his hand to chest height, the blade glinting threateningly even under the dull grey clouds. His enemy took a cautious step backwards towards the cliff, bringing a stumbling Legolas with him.
"Release him, now."
The man laughed openly, the sound catching and disappearing almost instantly in the wind.
"Or else what?" he asked, grinning broadly.
Aragorn did not play to the man's luring.
"Release him." he repeated slowly, an icy authority of suppressed rage in his tone that made Legolas shiver.
His enemy smirked.
"With pleasure." he replied, a savage joy in his eyes as he removed the dagger from the Elf's throat. Legolas took a shaky step away from his captor, watched carefully by Aragorn, whose sword was still raised ready for an attack.
"Oh, and I almost forgot-" the man added, tapping the Elf on the shoulder.
He began to turn, and felt the man's fist collide hard with the side of his face. Legolas stumbled back in shock, and felt the ground disappear from beneath his feet. His blue eyes widened momentarily in surprise, and he barely had time to register the fact before he was falling, falling through empty air -
Frozen with shocked disbelief, Aragorn watched as the slender figure fell back, arms outstretched desperately for the aid that was, for the first time ever, too far from reach.