CHAPTER 7: AND WE WAIT
The Elves rode as fast they could in the darkness of the road to the White City. Eldarion lay motionless against Legolas’ chest while his anxious mother rode alongside. The elf’s shoulder ached dreadfully from his wound which one of the elves had bound roughly, but he would suffer no one else to take the child. It may have been his imagination, but it seemed that the child’s body had turned from being cold to a emitting a feverish heat. He wished they could make greater haste.
The man who had been captured in the talan was bound hand and foot, and his foul protests that had plagued elven ears at the beginning of the journey ended when a gag around his sneering mouth was added to the constraints.
Midway on their journey, to their surprise and relief, they met the four guards who had been sent home by the queen, riding towards them. Faramir’s hair had nearly turned white when he heard what Arwen had done, and had insisted that the guards return to Ithilien tonight rather than wait till morning. Legolas was glad for the added security, however minimal, in case they were attacked again on their way to the city. He immediately instructed one of the guards to turn back to Minas Tirtih, to ride ahead of the group and inform Faramir and the healers about the approaching party.
They arrived shortly before midnight, and from then on the healers at Minas Tirith were kept busy. The young prince had indeed developed a fever, and the healers quickly worked to cool his head and body with wet cloths and herb solutions. Eldarion remained unconscious, while the healers worked to determine what the dart had been coated with.
Arwen would not leave her son’s side, and neither would Legolas. His shoulder was attended to as he sat a little distance from the bed where Eldarion lay. The wound was deep and would bleed for a while yet, but he hardly paid it any attention, so focused was he on Eldarion.
After Faramir had ascertained that the young prince and elves were receiving the proper attention, he spoke with Legolas, who narrated the whole affair to him. “We know not their purpose, but it is most likely that they wished to hold Eldarion ransom. To what end is beyond our knowing.”
“We will find out soon enough,” Faramir said with a hard edge to his voice, his mind going to the prisoner who had been dragged to a cell for questioning. He turned to Legolas again, and seeing the blood that had seeped through even the fresh bandage, enquired, “How is your shoulder?”
“It will mend,” came the simple and expected reply. Since the Quest, the elf had been known for making light of any injuries he sustained, counting on his innate elven ability to heal faster than humans. He refused a sling but he limited the movements of the arm, allowing Faramir to help him put on a clean tunic an attendant had retrieved from his own drawers in his room at the palace, so that the bloody bandage could not be seen.
They continued to wait.
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Leagues from the city, the King of Gondor and his company proceeded as fast as they could in the darkness. More than one member of the company questioned the urgency of the return to Minas Tirith, but none spoke of it to the king. How could they question a leader who had fought and survived more wars, tribulations, councils and quests than ten or twenty of the men put together? How could they challenge a Dunedain who had lived longer than most of the men and still possessed the strength of youth? How could they dispute the wisdom of one who had lived in both human and elven worlds, challenged the Dark Lord himself, and gained the respect of wizards, elves, men and halflings?
Unknown to them, Aragorn himself was uncertain why his heart was heavy. Had that been Arwen’s voice calling him softly in his restless dream? Had that been his son reaching out to him for the safety of a father’s arms? Had that been a friend, dearer than friend, who had murmured a painful plea for him to hurry home? Were they waiting for him?
No answers came, none had any to give him. He only knew they would not rest this night or the next day till the miles had flown by and he stepped once more on the threshold of the White City. To see what he would see. To know what he would know.
With a wry grin meant only for himself, he pondered on whether it is always worse for those who wait, or for those who are awaited.
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In the moonlit passage of a small stone fort, a dark figure paced up and down. He could find no sleep either, so intense was the thrill he felt as he envisioned the fulfillment of his desires, so sharp the taste of vengeance on his tongue.
Would they be back tonight? Or tomorrow? Or the next day? Would they bring back what he wanted? Had they hit at the right moment?
Ah, this accursed waiting, he mumbled, his fists clenched. I might have gone myself.
But no, that was precisely what he had not wanted to do. Besides revenge, self-preservation was important to him too. He did not want to be caught or killed. He would train others and send them to do the dangerous deed. If they failed, he would still live to try again till he succeeded. He owed it to him, he convinced himself, twisting at the pain of that memory.
The crooked smile on his hate-filled face was eerie in the moonlight. I will not go to get him, I want him to be brought to me. I want his father to seek me and beg for my mercy. This time, I will be the king.
And with that thought, he continued to pace and wait.
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Legolas stood gazing at the child for some time; although the boy looked for the most part peacefully asleep, the elf could not forget how frightened he had been in the talan, and wished he could have been spared the ordeal. The wound from the dart had closed to nothing more than a small bluish puncture mark, but the young one had yet to wake. At length, Legolas planted a gentle kiss on the damp forehead and returned to his chair across the room.
“Will you not sleep?” Faramir’s voice startled him, as the man approached quietly, studying the elf’s rather pale face. The steward had heard from the healer about the change in the young prince’s condition.
“I will sleep when he ceases to,” came the reply. “I also need to see how my kin are faring.”
“They are well. All have been tended to, and they rest.” Faramir reassured him, drawing a nod of gratitude from the elf. “As should you. Take some food and drink, if you will not sleep.”
“I will eat when Eldarion can,” the elf insisted, and Faramir sighed in defeat. Legolas’ eyes turned hard as he asked, “Has the prisoner revealed anything?”
“No, but he will break soon, we hope.” With that, Faramir excused himself and left.
