CHAPTER 28: THE TIES THAT BIND

Merry awoke with a start from a fitful sleep, and – opening his eyes reluctantly – looked up at the underside of a feebly lit, strange thatch roof.

The hobbit blinked his eyes, taking a few moments to remember where he was, and which unfamiliar bed he had lain in during the night. The thought played at the edges of his mind that the night had been uneasy.

Then he remembered.

The previous afternoon had been pleasant enough after the villagers learned that he and Pippin had been the same two Halflings who had been with King Elessar in the Fellowship of the Ring. Great had been their wonder to know that one of these little folks had saved the life of the Steward of their realm, and the other had helped bring down the Witch King of Angmar, and for many hours, the hobbits had basked in the rapt attention of the curious village folk, proudly answering their questions and happily embellishing some of the accounts.

But then night had fallen, and the hobbits had begun their wait for Legolas and Elrohir while taking turns to talk to Aragorn. As watch after watch passed, and the elves had not reappeared, their anxiety had begun. That anxiety had lingered in their minds even in sleep, and it now confronted Merry upon his waking.

The hobbit sat up abruptly and swung his legs over the bed, ignoring the light snores reaching his ears from the other half of the mattress where lay his sound-asleep companion.

Rubbing the sticky sleepiness from his eyes, he looked across the room to where Aragorn lay, still pale, still unmoving, still showing the slightest evidence of life in the barely perceived rise and fall of his chest. At the foot of that bed sat one of his guards, who was trying hard not to fall asleep. His chair was against the closed door, so that no one could enter or leave without his knowledge.

“Are they back yet?” the hobbit whispered loudly to the stone-faced man, who shook his head voicelessly.

Frowning, Merry walked briskly to the window, his furry feet making no sound on the wooden floor, and peered out. He watched the waking sun tint the peaks of the mountains surrounding Grimwythë an early pink, and recalled the conversation he and Pippin had had with Tobëas and Mathgor the night before:

“It’s past midnight,” Merry said worriedly as he peered out the front window of the cottage, hoping each moment to see two elven figures walking up the path. “I hope nothing has happened to them.”

“Yes, Legolas said they’d be back by now,” Pippin agreed. “I don’t like this.” He turned around to where Tobëas and Mathgor were standing before the fire in the living room, speaking softly. “Shouldn’t we go and look for them, Tobëas?” the hobbit asked.

The two men exchanged a quick look before the guard answered.

“Are we not being prematurely concerned, Master Hobbits?” Mathgor asked, though somewhat hesitantly. “It’s some way to the mountain, and perhaps the elf lords have much to do on the Paths.”  

“That’s true,” the villager agreed. “It’s only just past the midnight hour. They may be back soon.”

“But can’t we go and look anyway?” Merry suggested.

Tobëas shook his head. “I confess my heart would be lightened by their return and any encouraging news they may bring concerning King Elessar,” he said, worrying his lower lip in serious thought. “But… my duty, and that of my men, is to stay with the King,” he said firmly, though not unkindly. “We cannot leave him, and we must trust that the prince will return soon as he has said he will.”

“Well, what about your friends, Mathgor?” Merry asked hopefully. “Can you not gather some men and horses?”

Mathgor shook his head as well. “That mountain has been looked upon with dread and loathing all our lives, and it remains so despite what the King did to release the Dead,” the villager answered. “I’m afraid you’ll not find a single man willing to ride there after dark. Perhaps – if the elf prince is still not back by daylight – we might be able to find some men to go, though you will find them reluctant. But for tonight, we shall have to be content with waiting.”

The hobbits’ faces fell in disappointment, but no amount of cajoling would change the mind of either man. And so they continued to look out the window, and when they grew too sleepy, they went to bed in the hopes that Legolas and Elrohir would soon return and wake them; it was one of the few times they were willing to let someone rouse them from sleep.

But no one had awakened them, for the elves had still not returned. Now, as Merry watched the coming of the new day without any sign of his friends, he knew with a heavy heart that something must have gone amiss.

Where are you, Legolas? he asked silently. Has something bad befallen you? Are you hurt?

He waited, hoping for some insight, some sound of the elves’ silvery voices, but only the stillness of the dawn answered him.

Strider needs you, Legolas, the hobbit pleaded. Where are you?

And once more, his only response came from the early birds, taunting him with their light-hearted twittering.

Another sound caught his attention, and he turned around to see Tobëas entering the room. One look at the guard’s tired and worried face told the hobbit that the man had come to the same worrying conclusion: something had delayed the elves – and that something could not be good.

Of one accord, hobbit and guard walked determinedly towards the bed where Pippin still lay unheeding. They would rouse him, and then together, they would give Mathgor grief till the villagers agreed to help them look for Legolas and Elrohir.

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Not for the first time during what seemed to be one of the longest nights of his life, Legolas came awake with a start, gagging immediately on the stink of manure and stale air. His heart was pounding from a feeling of being hemmed in, of being choked by the darkness in the small tool shed where he and Elrohir had been held in captivity for hours.

Fighting the urge to heave the contents of his stomach, the elf drew his knees up and pressed his forehead hard against them, trying to take his mind off the offensive stench. But it brought him little relief, for his thoughts turned to Elrohir, and worry assailed him.

Upon being brought to the shed, their wounds had been further treated with some medicines they could not see, before being made to sit on the dirty, gritty floor, blindfolded, with their hands bound roughly behind them and secured to thick wooden posts. Legolas had, from the start of their captivity in the shed, warned Elrohir not to struggle against the tightly knotted bonds, for the exertion would have taken too great a toll on his wound. Then the men had gagged them, fearing that they would be heard. After the men left, the outraged and exhausted Elrohir had, to Legolas’ relief, succumbed to a healing sleep, indicating his pain only with the softest of moans.

With his companion asleep, however, Legolas himself had, time and again throughout the dark hours, tried to free himself of his bonds. Ignoring the stress to his own arm wound, he had stretched against the tight ropes around his wrists till the fine elven skin bled from the chafing. He had groped with his feet, trying to reach for tools – anything he could possibly have used to cut the ropes with. Failing to find anything, he had slid his fetters up and down along the edges of the post behind him, attempting to wear down the ropes against the rough surface, but all he had succeeded in doing was drive splinters under his skin. Every effort had been in vain, and, like Elrohir, he had finally grown weary from the physical and emotional strain, wetting his blindfold with tears of frustration and cursing his helplessness. The prince had finally lapsed into brief bouts of uneasy sleep, listening for Elrohir’s breathing each time he came awake, for the soft sound was all the reassurance he could obtain that his friend was alive, if not altogether well.

And so the hours had passed, with an anxious Legolas constantly wondering when the night would end and what would happen when morning came.

As worried as he was about the fate of Elrohir, however, his greatest concern was for the friend who lay in deep sleep and in even greater need of aid. His thoughts throughout the cold hours turned ever to Aragorn, whose life and soul were becoming increasingly beyond his reach. That fear plagued Legolas through the torturous hours, hurting him worse than any pain his wound could inflict.

I would be with you, Estel, and cruel are they that keep us apart: you in your darkness, and I in mine, he grieved silently. But you shall not be lost for ever, that I vow! I will find you, and come to you. Hold fast to life and hope, as we will!

Legolas did not doubt that he and Elrohir would eventually be found, for he thought Fierthwain’s plans ill-conceived, and he knew that his friends would not rest till they found the truth.

But would they be found soon enough?

Ultimately, it mattered not to Legolas whether the men would resort to disposing of their captives, for it was not his life that concerned him most; it was the fate of the Phial, and the likelihood that Lord Celeborn would have need of it in the rescue of Aragorn, for had not the Lady sent it to him for a reason? The elf dreaded that the Phial would be lost with him, or if it was retrieved, that it might be found too late.

What if aid should come too late to Aragorn? he thought, tormented by the awareness that each passing moment increased that risk.

The elf felt sick; he began to reel from the darkness and the reek, and most of all, from the fear of losing the fight for Aragorn’s soul. The unbearable pain of that thought cut into his heart more sharply than the cold taste of steel, and he pressed his head harder onto his knees, desperately trying to block out from his mind the frightening image of Aragorn trapped in a cold, dark prison of evil for torturous millennia, never again to see the world or those he loved…

The elf’s throat constricted as he fought against those hateful images.

If aid should come too late for him, even then he shall not be alone! he suddenly vowed, feeling angry tears seep again from his bound eyes. If you remain lost, Estel, I will still come to you. In life or in death, mellon nin, I will be with you. Whatever dark destiny befalls your soul, it shall be my Shadow also, and even if you should forget all, I shall remember for us both – for however long the ages last!

With those determined thoughts, the elf prince fought the torment to his heart and consciously turned his focus once more to Elrohir. Yet he found no ease even there, for when he tilted his head and listened, he heard muffled, intermittent moans, and he was assailed by fresh worry for the elf.

Elrohir’s wound was not fatal, but it was beginning to fester, Legolas guessed, and he wondered if the delay in treatment would cause the elf to lapse into a feverish delirium. If it happened, all he would be able to do was to keep Elrohir company, however poor it might be, for he did not place any measure of hope in Fierthwain’s mercy. In misery, Legolas repressed the temptation to rouse his companion from his troubled sleep, and he descended again into silent, solemn pondering himself.

But now there came to his keen ears another sound that was as a sliver of light piercing through the darkness. It was the proud cry of a rooster from a distant rooftop, and though there was naught to be seen beyond the blindfold in the dark shed, it spoke to him of an approaching dawn. The sound – so common and trivial at any other time – lifted his spirits, even if slightly, from the depths of despair they had plunged into.

Surely, he thought hopefully, the hobbits and Aragorn’s men would be anxious enough by now to initiate a search for them.

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Legolas’ spirits would have soared even higher had he known what was about to take place in the village several farms away.

Hardly had Merry and Tobëas begun discussing their plan to look for the elves than new hope was visited upon them with the rising of the sun: riding in from the west, with the soft golden rays of dawn heralding their arrival, came Celeborn, Elladan and Gimli, and the second group of Gondorian guards led by Aragorn’s councilor, Lord Langley. Celeborn and his companions had caught up with them near Tarlang, and glad had each group been for the company of the other as they rode into Grimwythë.

But no delight could surpass that of Merry and Pippin, who practically threw themselves upon Gimli when the dwarf lord appeared at the door of the cottage, so relieved they were to see their friend and the help that came with him. Gimli clapped the hobbits on the back and immediately launched into an account of what Lord Celeborn had discovered. The news confirmed for the hobbits and Tobëas what Legolas had guessed: that Aragorn was indeed the victim of Saruman’s twisted sense of retribution for releasing the Twice Forgotten.

As soon as Gimli had finished, and before the hobbits could respond, the two elves and Aragorn’s councilor left them to see where the King lay. Then Gimli, Merry and Pippin began tumbling over each other trying to speak at the same time about their separate journeys and present concerns, but it was Pippin who arrested the dwarf’s attention with one plea:

“Gimli, listen! It’s Legolas! We can talk our tongues and ears off later, but Legolas should have been back but he’s not, and you have to help us look for him!”

The dwarf ceased speaking in mid-sentence, for nothing could have halted his animated discourse more effectively than news of the elf of whom he was greatly fond.

“What d’ya mean, laddie: he’s not back? Back from where?” he sputtered, knitting his bushy brows and looking around the room at once. “His horse came to meet us as we were drawing near; I thought he’d sent Amel to hasten us on. So where’s that dratted elf? Isn’t he with Aragorn?  Where did he go? Why – ?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Gimli: he’s not here!” Merry said, cutting him off. “Listen!” the hobbit begged, quickly telling the dwarf all that had taken place since their arrival in the village. He finished just as Celeborn, Elladan and Lord Langley exited from the inner room. They wore concerned looks on their faces, and from their discussion, it was clear that the new arrivals had just learned from Tobëas the same news about Legolas and Elrohir.

“Their horses… you say you encountered them on your way here?” Tobëas asked.

Elladan nodded. “I had thought that Legolas and my brother would be here, and that their steeds were merely glad to run free for a while,” he said. “I did not think we would arrive to find them missing.”

“I confess I do not know this strange tale as fully as some of you,” said the tall councilor of the Minas Tirith court. “But I have heard tell that the Paths of the Dead are an altogether dreadful place; is it possible that the horses were terrified and ran off?”

“They may have,” said Elladan. “But it disturbs me that they would have fled so far from their masters.”

“Could the prince be still at the Mountain, nevertheless, looking for answers?” Lord Langley suggested.

“It is possible,” Tobëas began hesitantly, “but –”

“Nay, not likely!” bellowed Gimli, surprising them all. The dwarf placed his hands on his hips, plainly disturbed. “Under different circumstances, I might believe it – for that princeling forgets the time of day too often for his own good! – but with Aragorn in this state… why, I cannot believe that he would leave that man’s side for this length of time – not unless something hindered his return!”

The hobbits nodded readily in agreement. “That’s what we think, too,” said Pippin. “He said he’d be back at midnight, and maybe an hour or two late is no cause for worry – but see, the sun is up, and as sure as I’m a Took, he’d be worried sick about Strider by now and come back. So we think something’s gone amiss – we just have to look for him and Elrohir – and if we had the means and a map, we’d have already left!”

“Hammers and tongs, someone should have gone to look for them in the night!” cried Gimli in annoyance, his voice shaking the walls of the cottage. His heart was troubled by an image of his elven friend lying hurt and untended, not knowing how close to the truth he was.

“Do not judge them too harshly, Gimli,” said Celeborn sagely. “Tobëas was only doing his duty by his King, and the villagers cannot yet overcome their long-held fear of the Mountain.”

“But we do have the means and the men now to look for them, Master Peregrin,” said Lord Langley readily. “Some of us must remain here with the King, but Tobëas – you and your men shall leave for the Paths as soon as you can be ready.”

“Should we not first question some of the villagers?” Gimli suggested. “Would they know anything?”

“I doubt it, Master Gimli,” Tobëas answered. “I spoke with them when last we were here; they know precious little about the Paths. We would have a better chance of finding Prince Legolas ourselves.”

“And find him we must,” Celeborn said quietly, his face growing grave as he looked around at Aragorn’s friends and men. “This is hard to hear, but we must be aware: Elessar is already very weak and he cannot last much longer. We need to free him from the Shadow Realm – or lose him to the darkness. And to free him, we need the Phial of Galadriel that Legolas carries.”

“Have you found a way to save him then, my lord?” asked Merry eagerly.

Celeborn hesitated a moment before he nodded. “Aye, I have found a possibility,” he said. The elf lord quickly explained to a captive audience what he had discovered in Saruman’s runes, and how within the same spell lay a chance for Aragorn’s salvation.

“Then – you can bring him back, my lord?” Tobëas asked hopefully.

“There is no certainty, Tobëas, though I wish I could say otherwise,” answered the elf lord honestly. “But I see no other way, and that is why we need to retrieve the Phial as soon as may be. We have to find Legolas and Elrohir.”

“And not only for Estel’s sake, Daerada, for my heart begins to feel great unease,” said Elladan, frowning. “Something is amiss with Elrohir… he is in distress…”

“Then we must hurry,” said Celeborn gravely. “Never has your bond with your brother spoken in error. He and Legolas may need our aid as much as Elessar does.”

As one, the group headed for the door of the cottage and trooped out in earnest, and even though the newcomers were hungry and weary, all thought of food and rest departed with the last traces of night; even Pippin hushed the gnawing voice of his stomach that usually awoke with the sun.

They soon found that they were no longer alone, however, for by the time they reached the path leading to the stables, a crowd of villagers had gathered there despite the early hour, having been roused by news of the latest arrival of visitors from the White City. Again, men, women and children – wrapped in warm cloaks against the chill of morning – stared in awe at both elves and yet another group of Gondorian men – and not all the looks were friendly.

“My lord, we meet again!” Dèormal the Elder called out, walking briskly up to Celeborn, his breath misting in the cold air.

Celeborn swept his eyes over the crowd, recalling how readily many of them had chosen to look upon him and his kin with suspicion, and he wondered if the Elder’s smile had been genuinely conceived or plastered on for the meeting. But he had little time for such concerns and was saved from the need for small talk when Mathgor appeared with a pleasant greeting of his own; this at least Celeborn knew to be sincere.

“Well met again, Mathgor,” the elf lord said in response. “How does your father fare?”

“Much better than when last you saw him, my lord, though he is an old man and cannot be up and about as before,” the villager answered. “Will you and your companions break fast with us? If you will give us a little time –”

“Thank you, Mathgor,” the elf lord replied. “But we must decline your gracious invitation for the moment; we have a pressing matter to attend to. It concerns the elf prince and my other grandson.”

Mathgor’s smile faded, and his eyes darted to Tobëas. “Are they yet not returned from the Paths?” he questioned.

“No,” said Tobëas, “and we are riding out to look for them.”

“Might anyone in the village have come across them, by any chance?” Gimli chimed in on impulse as his eyes roamed over the crowd.

Mathgor looked over his shoulder at his fellow villagers and shook his head. “I doubt it, Master Gimli,” he said. “We have had no dealings with the… with that place… for ages, years beyond count. No one would choose to venture there. But I shall ask them if you wish.”   

As Mathgor returned to the crowd, Gimli caught a movement at the corner of his eye, and he turned in that direction.

“Hrrmmph!” he grunted when he saw that it was Fierthwain and some other men standing some distance away from the other villagers. Not surprisingly to Gimli, they seemed to be studying the newly arrived visitors with some reserve and a hint of disdain on their faces. The dwarf snorted. Remembering all too well the hostile reaction they had shown during the last visit, he turned his eyes from them and paid them no further attention, for Mathgor was now coming back.

“As I said, my lords, no one has seen them since yesterday,” the man told the waiting group. “Perhaps they have just been preoccupied and will return in a while?”

“Or perhaps they merely lost their way in the night?” Dèormal suggested.

“Legolas would never get lost, be it night or day!” Merry said, clearly annoyed at the Elder’s assumption. 

“Wherever they may be, we cannot wait idly for them to return; we will look for them,” Celeborn said, and without revealing too many details, he told the two villagers why it was imperative that they find Legolas and the Phial quickly. Mathgor’s face grew solemn a little at the news, and he drew a deep breath.

“In that case, my lord, let me offer my aid,” he said. “I will not ride to the mountain with you, for it still holds too much terror, but my friends and I will scour the land for you. I beg your pardon, Master Hobbit, but we cannot discount the possibility that they may have strayed from the route, and if they have indeed done so, we will find them for you; we know the land well.”

Accepting Mathgor’s offer, Celeborn and his company resumed their walk towards the stables. When Mathgor and Dèormal reached the crowd, they began to explain their task and ask for volunteers to ride with them, while the King’s company looked on gratefully.

Suddenly, a childish voice piped up, and a small figure came running towards Mathgor.

“Mathgor, Mathgor! Are you riding out?” asked a bright-eyed little girl, who patted the man’s thigh to stop him, just as she had done to Legolas’ on his earlier journey here.

Gimli and Elladan looked on in amusement despite their worry, for they saw that it was Perienna, the same child who had walked boldly up to Legolas and asked if he was a real prince. Her eyes were as wide and curious as they had been then.

“Can I come along, Mathgor, please?” she begged eagerly. Mathgor had, on occasion, entertained the children of the village by letting them ride with him.

“Not this time, Perienna,” answered the man without breaking his stride. He looked down at the eager face, nonplussed at the sudden request. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

“No, I sneaked out, don’t tell her, please,” the child answered with a mischievous smile as her little legs churned to keep pace with the men. “I want to come with you, Mathgor!”

“No, pumpkin,” the man said fondly. “Where I’m going, you cannot follow. It’s a… it’s not a very nice place.”

“But… aren’t you going… to… the farms?” the child protested breathlessly, almost running alongside Mathgor. “Where else would you go? Please… take me along!”

Mathgor knitted his brows, puzzled even as he was amused at her persistence. “No, that’s not where I’m riding to,” he answered. “But why would you wish to go to the farms? It’s baking day, isn’t it? Should you not be helping your mother bake?” 

“But I want to see the prince!” the child cried in disappointment. “I want to play the game too!”

It sometimes takes whole herds of wargs and oliphaunts to stop the fervent charge of an army, but never had Gimli seen one child’s annoyed plea stop two elf lords, a dwarf, two Hobbits, a company of villagers, and a whole group of Gondorian soldiers with such immediate effect.

More than twenty pairs of booted feet crunched to an abrupt halt at the little girl’s words, and both Elladan and Mathgor were on their knees before her at once.

“The prince? What do you mean, Perienna?” the man asked.

“Have you seen him?” Elladan questioned urgently. “What game were you speaking of?”

The morning air had suddenly turned tense, and even the mist seemed to be hanging in suspense as the whole group of men crowded in on the child to hear her answer. Perienna’s eyes narrowed as she noticed the large circle of men converging on her, and she moved closer to Mathgor, a little nervous.

“Do not frighten the child,” said Celeborn, placing a hand on his grandson’s shoulder and suppressing the tension in his own nerves. “Let Mathgor speak with her.”

“Tell us, Perienna,” Mathgor coaxed gently, taking the girls’ hands in his own. “Did you see the prince? When, and where?”

The child hesitated at first, then nodded. “Last night,” she stated.

A murmur ran through the group, to be quickly hushed by Dèormal.

“Aren’t you playing the game, too?” the girl asked Mathgor, who shook his head in incomprehension. “That’s why you’re looking for him, aren’t you?”

“No… well, yes, I am looking for him,” said Mathgor. “But… what game are you talking about?”

“I think they were all playing a game,” the child replied. “He was hanging over the horse, you see; it was carrying him in a funny way, and that other elf, too, the one who looks like you – ” she pointed to an astonished Elladan “ – they were both hanging over it!”

She stopped for breath, not knowing how her pause was causing a dwarf lord to almost burst at his sides with suspense. “I... I stayed up last night, Mathgor, but don’t tell Mama, she’d be upset,” the little girl continued. “I was looking for my palace in the moonlight… you know, I told the prince I do that,” she said, whispering the latter part to Mathgor.  “I saw them on horses. And they were all moving quietly, like when I play ‘find me’ with Deedyn. They were going there.” Perienna stood on tiptoe, lifted her arm and pointed it in the direction of the village farms. “You can’t see the place from here, of course,” she told Elladan with a serious face, “but it’s – there!” 

Several heads were swimming with this new piece of information, trying to understand it. Yet others were beginning to be skeptical, recalling how the little girl had told Legolas that she sometimes imagined seeing shining palaces in the moonlight.

“Young lady, how could you tell it was the prince?” Gimli ventured.

Perienna exhaled in impatience as if the dwarf lord had asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

“His hair, silly!” she replied passionately. “I saw it hanging down – no one else’s hair shines like that in the moonlight!”

Another murmur arose among the listeners as they grew more convinced by the child’s tale, but the full meaning still escaped them.

“You say they were… hanging… from a horse, Perienna?” Mathgor pressed on.

“Yes!” she replied.

A suspicion entered Elladan’s mind. “Do you mean… they were draped over it?” he asked.

“Yes, it was funny!” the child answered, giggling. “You can ask them how they did that.”

“Ask them?” Elladan said. “We have to find them first.”

“But that’s the game, isn’t it: to find them?” the child said excitedly, then clapped a hand to her mouth.  “Oooh, maybe I’m not supposed to tell you!” She whispered again to Mathgor: “I hope they won’t be angry at me.”

“No, no, Legolas won’t be angry at you, believe me,” Gimli assured her, drawing closer.

“Nooo, not the prince!” the girl corrected him, exhaling in exasperation. “I meant Fierthwain! And Moley! And Caleth!”  

This time, the murmur grew to a roar of shock as the names were mentioned, and Elladan rose from his knees swiftly, his face a mask of anger. Mathgor, on the other hand, paled.

“Fierthwain? Moley… and Caleth?” he asked, his throat suddenly feeling dry. “Were they… were they with the prince?”

“Yes… I think it was them,” answered the girl. “They were all whispering, you know, like in the game – you have to be very quiet, or others will know where you are. Ask them – but don’t tell them I told you!”

Gimli, Elladan and Aragorn’s men needed no prompting from the child to approach Fierthwain, for they were already halfway to the men before she had finished speaking. Merry and Pippin, not truly understanding what was going on, for they had not been acquainted with Fierthwain before, followed Gimli’s lead.

“Fierthwain!” Gimli bellowed, striding purposefully towards the men, who had been watching the proceedings from a distance, too far away to hear what Perienna had been telling the group.

Seeing the stormy approach of the furious elves and dwarf and the King’s guards, Fierthwain’s companions began to fidget uneasily and whisper nervously to each other. The other villagers hovering nearby watched in puzzlement.

“What have you done to my friends?” Gimli demanded with a roar as he came close, his hand already on the hilt of his axe. “Speak if you value your head!”

Gasps escaped the lips of the men around Fierthwain, but the man himself assumed a stony expression and stood straight. “What are you saying?” he asked calmly.

“The prince, you foul piece of meat!” Gimli shouted, no longer holding back his ire. “And the other elf! You must have taken them when they returned from the Paths – what have you done with them?”

Now louder gasps came from the other villagers, but the man raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “What are you saying? We have no idea where they are,” he insisted. “We are but simple farm folk; what would we know of elves and curses and visits to the Mountain of the Dead?”

The man’s steady demeanor might have made his denial believable, but the frightened, furtive glances exchanged by the other men drew doubt and suspicion before another word could be spoken. Still, despite the ensuing interrogation by Lord Langley, Fierthwain held to his story, and his men would not yield their secret.

Finally, it was the Lord of Lothlorien who broke down their defenses. There was a cold deadly light in the sharp blue eyes as he stepped up to Fierthwain and placed one hand hard against the man’s chest while gripping his shoulder tightly with the other.

“Fierthwain, do you remember what I said to you when first we met here?” asked the elf lord in a quietly icy tone. “When you hindered the King’s communication with your uncle, I told you that while this hand prefers to grasp another in peace, or to administer healing, it is quite capable of striking you down where you stand.” And as he had done the first time, the elf lord looked deep into the defiant eyes of the man, and issued him a challenge: “Now, if you – any of you – know the whereabouts of my grandson and the elf prince, and yet choose to secret it from me, I shall demonstrate the swiftness and the power with which I can end your life.”

Celeborn swept frosty eyes over the nervous-looking men around Fierthwain. “I take no pleasure in meting out retribution, but if you delay and cause them greater harm than I can forgive – expect no mercy from me, or my kin, or the hand of King Thranduil,” he added. “Choose swiftly, for my patience wears thin!”

For some moments, Fierthwain remained motionless. He felt a strange, alarming heat from the hand on his chest, and he locked eyes with the elf lord, staring rebelliously into the blue depths. But it was akin to challenging the power of the sea, and at length, the man had to look away, sweating. And as the breaking of some unseen will, the resilience of his men crumbled as well. As the horrible truth was finally revealed by the terrified villagers who had taken the elves captive, the King’s company and many of the villagers were stunned: the first group into wrath, and the latter into mute shame.

“How could you? You filth!” Merry cried, drawing his short sword and aiming it at the guilty men.

But the hobbits’ action was unnecessary, for Aragorn’s guards had surrounded them and bound them before anyone could even think of fleeing. After a brief bout of questioning at sword point, the men quickly disclosed the location of the shed where Legolas and Elrohir were being held, and the elves’ companions lost no time in riding there.

A barrage of curses flew from Gimli’s and Elladan’s lips when they had thrown the shed door open to reveal the bound and gagged elves in their torn and blood-covered clothes. Tobëas and his men rushed to untie the captives while Elladan and Celeborn went to their knees at Elrohir’s side, for his wound was clearly the more severe, and Gimli marched towards his elven friend, hiding his relief beneath loud grouses.

“You rock-headed elf – you couldn’t get through one journey without landing yourself into trouble, could you?” he grumbled as he removed the dirty blindfold, his heart moved to pity and rage at the sight of the wound in the elven arm, the dusty, tear-streaked cheeks and the blue eyes that squinted at the sudden exposure to light. The dwarf swallowed the lump in his throat and continued to rattle on as he worked next on the gag around his friend’s mouth. “Letting yourself get stabbed and blindfolded and gagged! I suppose you take delight in dragging me out to this... this pretense of a farm and this stinking tool house just to free you!” As the cloth fell away and the elf took a deep, welcome breath, the dwarf stepped back, placed his hands on his hips in feigned irritation and asked: “Well, what have you to say, Elf? What have you to say?”

Legolas gave Gimli a weak smile before responding solemnly, his lips forming only one word: “Aragorn.”

Taken aback, Gimli could not respond for a moment, and Legolas spoke again while rubbing his freed wrists, ignoring the abrasions on them: “Aragorn – how does he fare?”

Shaking his head, Gimli approached his friend and clasped his large hands around the elven ones. “Spare a thought for yourself, Elf,” the dwarf said gruffly. “Aragorn is still with us. But we must hurry to help him out of that evil place, my friend. So let’s get you back to clean clothes – I never thought I’d see the day I’d say that to you! – and some food, and I expect you shall want to see Aragorn as well.”    

Legolas offered no argument, but embraced Gimli with his uninjured arm, and greeted Celeborn and Elladan with fondness. Great was his gladness at seeing the well-loved familiar faces again.

Half an hour later, during which a little news had been exchanged with their rescuers, the two liberated prisoners found themselves back in the cottage where Aragorn lay. There would be time enough later for Lord Celeborn and Gimli to visit their fury upon Fierthwain and his mates, but for now, it was Elrohir and Legolas who needed their attention. Baths and healing herbs had been prepared for them by a pair of relieved hobbits with the ready assistance of embarrassed villagers. So it was that Elrohir was gently tended to by his worried brother and grandsire, given food and drink, and laid on a bed in a separate room to rest in quiet.

Yet none of those comforts claimed Legolas’ attention. He determined that as soon as he could clean himself of the stains of violence and appear less upsetting to a six-year-old, he would give a deserving little girl the heartfelt thanks of a ‘real prince.’

But for now, no other need over-rode that of being at Aragorn’s side again. Only by seeing him with his own eyes would he trust that the friend he loved still lived and breathed, and that hope was still alive for his salvation. Thus, as hurt and soiled as he was, the elf prince shrugged off all offers of help, and strode firmly past the door of the cottage to the room where the King waited in silence.

And there, the two friends were reunited, one coming to his knees before the other, with regret written clearly over his fine features.

“I did not mean to leave, Estel,” the elf said brokenly. “But I was always with you.”  

Gimli watched for a moment as the elf studied voicelessly the ashen face before him. Then the dwarf walked forward and patted the slim shoulders comfortingly.

“Take some time with him, Elf,” he said. “You both need it after your ordeal. Some things heal better than food and herbs.” With those words, Gimli left them and closed the door quietly behind him.

Legolas bowed his head, troubled for a moment by what would need to be attempted soon to save Aragorn’s spirit from the Shadow Realm.

Then he looked up and smiled gently, for all that he desired now, at this moment in Time, was to speak to his friend – even though he knew the figure before him was not whole – to tell him how dark the moments were when he thought he might not see the man again, and how glad his heart was for this meeting.

From Legolas’ lips there flowed words from the heart. And when he had finished, Man and Elf shared a silence without awkwardness as they had done many times before, one grasping the other’s cold hands, finding strength in that simple union.

And it mattered not that one friend lay in oblivion, for in the mere company of the other, there lay comfort; and through their touch flowed – for a brief time – the healing of the body and spirit that only love can bring.

Note:

There’s much more on my plate right now than I expected, so don’t be surprised by one-month intervals between chapters. I’d meant to write a longer chapter, but this quickly written one was all I could manage. So I guess there will be one installment more of the final ones I had planned. As usual – excuse mistakes and feel free to notify me of them.

Thanks to the wonderful readers who sent in reviews to keep me company – they’re like the hold Legolas has on Aragorn’s hands: they give me comfort. 

Now, if anyone would like to contribute to a wish list for what happens to Fierthwain and his goons, you're welcome to.