Chapter 21

Capture

May 3

Runda Garrison, Southern Gondor

The climb up out of the gorges was difficult, but with Runda Garrison on the high ground Faramir, Erynbenn, and Bartho were able to pull their surviving troops back to safety. When it became clear to the Southrons that they could not storm the summit, they vanished back into the shelter of the ravines.

Bartho was busily securing a tourniquet around Beregond's elbow when Faramir found them. Clapping his captain of the guard on the uninjured shoulder to signify his pleasure at seeing him alive, Faramir continued on at a brisk walk. Orders were speedily given to place the garrison on alert, to send messengers north and south to warn them of Mavranor's victory, and to get aid to the wounded. The other half of Erynbenn's men surfaced, most of them barely walking, but all alive at least. Any bowman still capable of standing were given sentry duty at the perimeters of Runda's promontory to discourage a rush from below.

It wasn't until Faramir had seen to getting the horses moved to a more secure location and had arranged for a foraging party to find extra rations for the injured that he began to feel dizzy. Putting a hand to his forehead, he dimly though it was odd when his glove came away red.

"Come, Faramir," Erynbenn said firmly, and smiled a little when the Steward looked surprised to see him there. "I've been following you since the stables, waiting for you to fall over. You've got to get that stitched up before you lose more blood than you can afford."

"Yes, of course," Faramir sighed, realizing where the lightheadedness was coming from. Obediently he followed Erynbenn back to the Dúnadan's tent and sat while the blood was cleaned from his hair.

To distract him while doing his stitching, Erynbenn asked soberly, "How much use can Mavranor make of the ravines, do you think?"

"Too much," Faramir said with a pained grimace. "She has a safe passage straight to our doors now. These rifts stretch for miles both north and south. And we can't flush her out of there with the amount of men we have; not with all the supplies she's somehow keeping from us, at any rate. I have learned a lesson in thinking further afield — we must beat her tactics, since we cannot beat her men."

"Would scouting out the ravines earlier have prevented this?"

"No. I saw a good ways beyond their attack point. They had done exactly what I'd hoped to do — it appeared their camps and defenses had been in place for several months at least. She has planned this for some time, I deem."

"We can be grateful that at least we now know about it. She cannot surprise us at our doors, even if she can reach them."

"True."

"We can also be grateful," said a deep voice just outside the tent door, "that Erynbenn almost tripped over a tent peg four days ago." Bartho entered, a grim sort of half smile on his face. "Otherwise I might have come back a considerably shorter hedgehog."

When Erynbenn burst into warm laughter, Faramir had to admit to a certain confusion, but that could just have been the blood loss.

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May 5

Northern Rohan

When Aragorn slowly awoke, a new day was just dawning — yet he knew by the ache in his limbs and his own inner sense of time that he had slept too long. The thought of sleeping away precious time that was, to Arwen, a lifeline woke him still further. He needed to rouse Legolas and Tantur, and at the same time he wondered why Legolas had not already wakened him. Had something happened during the night?

In the midst of his puzzling over the previous night's events, he lifted his head from the ground. And all thought was wipe from his mind in a shock of blinding pain from the back of his skull. He moaned softly.

In response he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

"Strider? Come, melon-nin, wake up."

Using every ounce of effort Aragorn tried to sit himself up, but it proved a far more difficult task than it ought to have been. He could not feel his hands except so far as to realize he was bound tightly at the wrists behind his back. His legs were similarly tied, and with every movement pain was redefined for him, taking his breath away. He nearly retched, but his stomach was already empty.

In the end, with a few soft, encouraging sentences from the voice, all he managed was to roll onto his back, thus easing his shoulders and head onto a flat stone beside which he'd been lying. It was a reclining position that allowed him to roughly face the direction of the voice without giving the rampaging mûmakil any more chances to thrust their tusks into his skull.

Once he had lain motionless in a single position for several minutes, the nausea subsided and he slowly opened his eyes. Legolas was sitting across from him and in the few seconds before Aragorn's eyes adjusted, the pale dawn light reflecting off his gold hair and white face nearly blinded the ranger. When the elf's features came into view Aragorn could recognize a familiar pattern of scrapes and bruises across his cheekbones. The small braids over his ears were tangled — oddly so after just one night — but while his legs, unlike Aragorn's, were unbound, the elf looked even less likely to make a break for freedom. A long wound surrounded by shiny burned patches showed through the elf's leggings, and his wrists were not just bound behind him. There was a stake driven through the ropes into the dirt to keep him in that position.

Noting the look of intense anxiety on the wood elf's features, Aragorn swallowed to moisten his throat and muttered, "I was hoping we could avoid this particular stop on memory lane."

The elf laughed harshly, almost choking on the sound, and his head dropped to his chest for a moment as he exhaled raggedly. It was as if he'd held one breath during all the time Aragorn had been unconscious.

"Thank the Valar, Estel," he said softly in elvish. "I feared that Miksa might have at last struck you too hard."

"At last?" Aragorn asked, puzzled.

Legolas frowned at him. "Don't you remember?"

With his head better cleared, Aragorn groped backward, trying to fill the gap in memory between the fire in the field and this unfamiliar ravine he only now realized was their resting place. To Legolas' relief, not to mention Aragorn's, it came almost at once.

"How is Hwan's knee?"

"You shattered it. He'll be lucky if he walks again; keep in mind, Miksa has all the tender care of a ill-tempered warg — not the healing sort. More the sort to have pulled wings off of butterflies in his youth." Safe in the knowledge that none of their captors could understand his language, Legolas didn't bother to hide his scorn.

"I'd give Hwan my apologies if, well…"

"If you were sorry?" Legolas finished, cracking a small smile. "Your honesty is refreshing. It was sheer bad luck, that was all. In a logical world you would have had your knots undone in plenty of time to bludgeon him with his cooking pot. Considering all you had free was your feet, you made quite an impression."

"Thank you," Aragorn said, a little dully. Along with several vivid memories of Miksa clubbing him into unconsciousness it was also dawning on him how many days had truly elapsed since their capture. His count could be off, but he felt sure there had been at least three full days lost to this nightmarish detour.

"Has it really been three days, Legolas?"

"Five."

"Five?"

"Yes. After our third escape attempt, Miksa threw his mallet at the back of your head. You've been unconscious for most of the past two days — I was…" The elf trailed off before nerving himself to finish the sentence. "I was frightened."

Aragorn felt a pain in his heart, overriding for the moment the cloying fear of his own at the continued delays. "I am so sorry, my friend. Please, you needn't have worried on my account…"

The elf snorted, "On whose account, then, should I be worried? Gimli's? Think not that I have so many friends I can afford to lose one; even a filthy, no-account ranger like yourself."

"You always were unsocial. I say again, though, do not worry. I'm fine — or will be. Our concern must be Arwen. Every hour we spend is another hour her chances dwindle." His eyes closed briefly. "Where are we, do you know?"

Legolas looked about doubtfully — at the ravine walls rising on either side of them, at the pale-haired corsairs lounging about their breakfast fire a short way away. "I fear I do not know; I am not familiar with this country, and you were unconscious for most of the route, so I could not ask you."

"Why are we here, then? I should think a swift death and discarding of our bodies would better suit these barbarians. Why drag us so far?"

"Especially with you making yourself such a walking nuisance the whole way, which was more that I could manage." Legolas leaned forward, lowering his voice a little more. "Their leader, a man they call 'the Shadow' and seem to greatly fear, made arrangements to meet them here in two days time. Miksa's group is the third to arrive, and I think he may have captured us as a sign of his cunning to impress either the leader or the other corsairs." The elf's eyes dropped as he added, "Also he seems to feel the captain would take a great interest in… me. Something to do with speaking the same language."

"Could this leader have once been a Dúnadan?" Aragorn wondered aloud, not liking the idea of his friend becoming such a center of unwanted attention. "Usually it is only the Dúnedain who trouble themselves with the elven tongue."

"Perhaps." But now Legolas' voice dropped to a whisper, "But Aragorn, I have heard enough tales of this one to make my blood run cold. We must not be here when he comes."

Aragorn did not question the elf's judgment. He nodded — winced when the nod proved painful — and then exhaled a silent groan when wincing sent needles across his scratched face. "Can you walk?"

In answer the elf moved his legs, folding them up against his chest. "Well enough. Earuile slung me over the pack horse when I started slowing down, and Miksa put another handful of his powder on the wound. I suspect the stuff of being concocted solely to keep his men from feigning illness, but at least it stopped the bleeding."

It was a calm reply, but Aragorn ached for his friend afresh. Miksa's powder had been applied to a gash he'd received on the forearm and it had continued to burn and sting for more than an hour afterward. He couldn't actually imagine what a large dose in a wound that size would feel like.

"Any thoughts?" Legolas asked, maybe guessing why the human looked so somber.

Aragorn tried to muster up a smile. "Some things to avoid: no more depending on Hwan's stupidity, no attempts at cliff scaling with tied hands, and give the horses a wide berth."

"But we cannot leave the poor beasts behind," the elf protested sardonically, "I think Miksa's stallion likes you."

"Elrohir likes panflas with honey in much the same way. My brother would have eaten Celboril out of house and kitchens, if not for the competition."

"From Elladan?"

"From my father."

The attempt succeeded in drawing a smile from the elf. "What would I do without you, mellon-nin?"

"Live a long, quiet and uneventful life, untroubled by filthy rangers and desperate quests alike," Aragorn replied firmly.

"Horrors."

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By the time the pounding in Aragorn's head had subsided enough for him to sit the rest of the way up, it was late afternoon and the two friends had come no further in deciding upon a likely escape.

It was growing cool at the bottom of the ravine for the sun had moved beyond the narrow opening above them and shadows had long since begun to cover them. Though the sun was unlikely to set for several more hours, already it began to feel like evening.

Legolas sat up a little straighter, his keen eyes narrowing and his nose wrinkling just slightly.

"Smell something?" Aragorn asked softly. "And don't you dare say, 'You, Strider'."

A fleeting smile touched the elf's mouth, but his eyes held firm. "Trouble, my friend."

Through the undergrowth there now came filtered noise of approaching feet, treading heavily. There was no respect for either caution or the plants underfoot in that sound. Another group of the corsairs, likely, and with an even more brash captain than Miksa, if that were possible.

The first sight of the man at the front of the group confirmed that guess. He was certainly a corsair, though with that strangely pale brown hair all these disguised corsairs seemed to have. More telling were the way his beard was woven into a mesh of small braids, and the strange roll to his walk that suggested a life on a ship. His clothing was handsomely Rohirric in design, clashing with the sneer on his lips.

"Miksa," he called, a veneer of friendship over his scornful greeting.

Miksa rose from beside the campfire. It was easy to see this new group of men was larger and more formidable than his own group, but what Miksa lacked in muscle he more than made up for in cruelty and sharp words. "Ringa. So at last you arrive. You have, perhaps, some pitiful excuse for all your noise? Perhaps you think the Shadow will favor you if you reveal the hiding place he chose for us. Perhaps the great Ringa has many prizes to show the Shadow to prove his greatness. Or perhaps it is your fat belly weighting you to the ground that makes your ordinary gait sound like the steps of a mûmak."

"Tactful," Aragorn grunted sarcastically, his body tense. As Miksa's prisoners, he and Legolas couldn't afford for the corsair to get himself lynched by Ringa.

Fortunately, Ringa laughed, though he looked furious. "And what of you, Miksa? Do you bring great prizes for the Shadow? As if he could be swayed by your paltry offerings."

Now Miksa's face began to turn red, his usual reaction to a challenge — as Aragorn had cause to know. "Blind fool! Don't you see them here?" The corsair stalked over towards his 'prizes'. "Prisoners for him to question. And this one!" He caught Legolas' hair and wrenched the elf's head to the side, showing off Legolas' leaf-shaped ears.

Aragorn stiffened, but was not given an opportunity to do much. Ringa had descended upon him, dragging him forward by his leather vest to take a closer look at his face. The corsair looked blackly from one to the other, snorting derisively. "A fine catch, Miksa," he said sarcastically. "This one can barely keep his eyes uncrossed. Worthless!" All the same he continued to look Aragorn over, shoving him from side to side as if performing an inspection. The ranger's world was flashing with painful light at each movement.

"But this one," Miksa persisted, releasing the elf and jabbing a finger towards him for emphasis.

"Oh, aye, that one you might keep." Ringa's large hands paused at Aragorn's neck, puzzled by the narrow glint of a silver chain. "You'd have been better off feeding this one to the wargs."

Aragorn didn't realize what was happening until it was too late, and Legolas only realized the danger half a moment before. With a snap like an icicle breaking, the chain around Aragorn's neck unclasped and the greedy corsair pulled Arwen's Evenstar into the open.

The sight of it was enough to make everyone speechless. The white gems glittered and shone like pale fire, the silver caught the fading light… one could almost imagine a crystalline note of music vibrating the air as the pendant swung back and forth gently.

"NO!" Aragorn shouted, lunging forward. "No! Arwen, NO!" They could not take her away from him that way! He wouldn't let them!

Ringa's hand slashed back reflexively, catching the bound human across the throat and knocking him back into the stone wall behind him. Pain erupted throughout Aragorn's skull, driving the breath from him with a choked gasp. Darkness was trying to take him and he fought it desperately, indistinctly realizing that Miksa's voice had taken up his protest.

"Hand it over, Ringa! You've no claim to it!" Miksa's men moved to back him up, every one of them entranced by the necklace.

Ringa barked a laugh. "Surely you couldn't have been such a fool, Miksa! You did not even search them? And I thought your stupidity knew some bounds. No matter, I will say nothing of your carelessness to the Shadow when I present him with my prize here."

"NO!" Miksa shrieked. In a wild move, he lunged for his large rival, trying to grab the treasure back, but the other corsair's knife was faster than his leap. His fingers were still whole inches away from his goal when he was stabbed in the belly, his rush halted. Miksa fell over, howling in pain, and the tension of long days of hiding and of the disputed necklace drove his men into action. With yells and curses in their own language, the corsairs charged each other.

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It looked for a moment as though Aragorn and Legolas might get trampled beneath the mob's feet, but then Miksa's men drew a little way back to get burning branches from the fire. With the some of the dry brush igniting and the sounds of screams mixing in the air with the smoke, it was easily clear to Legolas that now was the best hope he and Aragorn had to make their escape.

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Legolas ignored the stinging pain as his burns were stretched by his movement and he braced his legs against the ground. Though they had appeared to do little more than sit, both he and Aragorn had been doggedly working to free themselves once again. Using his fingers Legolas had been scraping at the dirt around the stake to which his hands were bound. Now, hoping he had done the job well enough, the elf pushed against the ground with his feet, straining forward as the muscles in his arms stretched painfully taut. For a moment he felt sure his shoulders would dislocate themselves, and then there came a crumbling, sliding sound and the stake pulled free of the ground.

Legolas fell over from the released tension, but he rolled nimbly enough back into a crouch. "Strider," he whispered.

Aragorn was still sitting exactly where Ringa's blow had left him, except that he was leaning forward now and his eyes were more dazed than the knock would have warranted.

The elf cursed silently, recognizing what had happened. Of all the things for their captors to take, and at such a time… In another moment Aragorn would see — his ever-dependable mind would adjust and realize it was only a necklace — but the same could happen to the corsairs by then, at which point this chance would be lost.

Sliding himself around so that his bound fingers could find his friend's, Legolas sought the ropes and discovered that Aragorn had already scraped them half way through against a ridge of flint rock in the ravine wall behind them. The knots themselves were complicated, but with the rope so badly scored it did not take long for Legolas to undo them.

"Aragorn," he hissed, risking the human's real name, "your hands are free! I need you to untie mine."

For one eternal minute, Aragorn's hands lay limp and unresponsive against his own. He could feel the human's quickened breath and through a long understanding of his friend's heart he could almost sense the consuming tide of despair trying to dash down Aragorn's walls. The Corsairs had taken his beloved away from him… what would they do to her? The elf waited, praying that the wall would yet hold — that their opportunity would not fade now — that somehow the hope for which Aragorn had been named would survive yet again.

Then Aragorn moved. Without speaking, his freed hands drew apart from each other and Legolas could feel him turning around so that he could see what he was doing. Quick fingers, calloused from horse reigns and swordplay, undid the elf's ropes and then he in turn moved to face Aragorn. It was with incredible relief that he saw he had almost misjudged his friend.

Aragorn met his eyes squarely, "Arwen's in Minas Tirith. And she's alive."

Legolas nodded once.

The flames in the bushes were glowing ever taller, bringing back eerie memories of the capture and spurring the two companions on to swifter action. Aragorn's legs were easily freed, with four hands working at them.

With all the shouts and curses and clashes of knives against knives and burning clubs against skulls, an oliphaunt could have walked down the ravine and gone unnoticed. However, had the night been as still as a garden pond in the Shire, the disappearing tread of the two prisoners would yet have been as soundless as ghosts.

As the reached the top of the trail out of the ravine, Legolas buckled the quiver he had rescued to his back again, but kept one of his knives in hand. Aragorn's sword and knife might have been harder to retrieve, since Miksa had claimed them for his own, but Miksa was now too dead to care if they went back to their owner.

The king paused only once to look back, and one could imagine a flash of pure white light shone for a moment out of the redness and smoke below. Legolas rested his hand briefly on Aragorn's shoulder.

Together they turned their backs on the ravine and set off into the ever-thickening darkness.

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Shortly after the glow of the flames had been left completely behind, there had come sounds of pursuit, but the Corsairs were not well equipped to go tracking an elf and a ranger in the dark. Especially not when the elf's own light was more than enough to guide the two friends amidst the rocks and trees, and furthermore not when the ranger could tell by the mere sound of the earth how far away they were and how many were in their company.

When Aragorn found them shelter in a depression in the earth under a fallen oak, the two friends gratefully fell into it and lay silent for a long time. Naturally, Legolas would not admit that his leg was paining him greatly, and Aragorn would say nothing of the dizziness that still plagued his vision. On the other hand, they both knew perfectly well when the other was feigning wellness, so such admissions were unnecessary anyway.

"Aragorn?" Legolas whispered gently.

"I will be well, gwador-nin."

"Good."