CHAPTER 6: SHADOWS FROM THE EAST
Arwen and Eldarion had not moved from the corner after Legolas left. They sat hunched in fear, listening to the rain. Eldarion turned to her with frightened eyes as if to ask what was happening, and she whispered words of comfort to him, trying not to show her own fear. “Legolas is taking care of the problem, my darling, we must wait here. Be brave.”
During the wait, Arwen’s thoughts raced. She had heard the voice of Lishian earlier as he told Legolas: “They surrounded us, asking for the son of the king.” She began to talk to herself: why did they want Eldarion? How did they know he was there? They must have been following his movements and her own. Minas Tirith was too difficult to infiltrate; they must have waited, biding their time.
After many minutes, there seemed to be fighting in two places – in the distance, the fighting seemed less intense, but there were also sounds getting closer. A shout, like a question, was heard from below – was it from Legolas? – and Galean replied, “Yes, my lord, they are safe.” Then the elf shouted a warning to Legolas: “They come after you! Lishian, draw your bow!”
“No!” Arwen heard Legolas shout in Sindarin a little distance from the tree. “Stay hidden!” And she understood that he did not want the attackers to know that they were in the talan.
Suddenly, there was a horrible cry as something died. Eldarion screamed and placed his hands over his ears. The next series of events took place very quickly, almost in a blur in the dark. As soon as Eldarion screamed, Lishian whipped around and Arwen closed her hand over her son’s mouth. A footstep landed on the floor of the talan to their left, and Arwen swung around, grasping the small knife at her side and swinging it in arc as she did so. Her forearm was quickly stayed by a strong wet hand: Legolas’. Arwen sobbed in relief. She saw the blood on his tunic, streaming slowly from what must have been a deep gash on his shoulder, and the long knife in his other hand, dripping with rainwater and blood. At the sight of the blood, Eldarion gave a loud whimper of fear, but Arwen had no time to react to it herself, for Legolas pushed her and Eldarion even further back into the corner.
[THEY FIGHT]
Legolas, a hiss of pain escaping his lips as he drew his bow, immediately shot the last arrow. Another voice – Legolas could not tell from where – shouted:
“The king’s son! Take him alive!”
As he was turning, he saw another dark shape emerge over the low wall, with a long object in its mouth, aimed directly at them. Legolas widened his eyes in horror and twisted to place his body around Eldarion’s. He heard two a sharp exhalation as something – a dart? – hit the wall where he had been before he moved. A second exhalation quickly following the first, and a dart flew from the long object and found the space between Legolas’ arm and his torso, ripping through part of his tunic before lodging into soft, young flesh.
In the immediate confusion that followed, more footsteps were heard approaching the talan. Another yell came, this time from an Elvish voice, as elves from Pelargir and South Ithilien poured into the tree-house, slashing at the man who had sent the dart and at other dark shapes that rushed to climb back over the wall. Legolas saw an arrow drawn and pointed at the fallen man with the wounded thigh, accompanied by a harsh command to stay still. “Keep him alive!” Legolas commanded. Someone called “My lord!” and rushed to Legolas’ side, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder and frantically searching him for other injuries.
Ignoring the pain from the wound in his shoulder, Legolas (turned) an anxious face back to Arwen and Eldarion. Arwen was crying openly now, holding on to her son, still in shock. The boy seemed to have quietened down. His head was half-hidden in his mother’s grasp, and he was whimpering softly. Legolas could see that his eyes were swollen from crying, his lids heavy.
“Eldarion?” Legolas called gently, seeking to comfort the child. “Eldarion, it’s me. It’s over now, you’re safe.” He took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. The only response from the boy was a weak whimper. “Eldarion?” he called again. He peered at the child’s eyes; they were closed. Legolas felt a sudden terrible sense of unease.
“Eldarion, speak to me!” he said louder. No response. “Arwen, is he hurt? Call him!” his voice was filled with a growing fear.
“Light the candles!” Legolas yelled to the elves around him, and turned back to run his trembling hands over the limp body of the prince, saying a silent prayer. There was nothing on the boy’s arms and chest and abdomen, but as Legolas’ probing fingers reached the top of the little thigh, he froze. He found the long thin dart, half- embedded in the tender flesh, and his heart sank.
“They wanted him alive. They would not have used a poisoned dart. I think… I think the dart was meant to make him fall asleep quickly.”
“He’s just a child,” she whispered, pouring the grief of a mother into those words.
Her words stabbed Legolas’ own heart, but consolation had to wait. His first priority was to get Eldarion to safety and healing.
He was tired, but he turned to the elf and said, “Three ride to Minas Tirith with us.”
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That evening, the king of Gondor had fallen asleep early after another day’s hard ride on his way home. But hardly had the moon risen low in the sky before he awoke with a start, his heart thumping. Something was wrong back home.
Two minutes later, his surprised aides stood in front of their king and heard the order: “We ride for Minas Tirith now.”
