CHAPTER 11: HEALING AND HURT
Aragorn watched the Great Gates of Minas Tirith close slowly on the backs of the elf riders, their diminishing figures becoming a blur of movement as they turned their swift elvish steeds toward Ithilien in the last rays of the setting sun. Even as the faint glint of Legolas’ golden hair was lost to the view of the Numenorian king on the balcony of his citadel, the Great Gates clanged shut.
To Aragorn, standing in a stupor seven levels above, the faint clang sounded like a death knell on the friendship he treasured most.
When he finally remembered how to breathe, Aragorn turned despairing eyes to his wife, his body poised for flight, and his mouth tried to form the words he wanted to say.
The king would have walked, but the friend tore off, flinging decorum to the stone walls lined with various insignia that proclaimed his status. He raced like one possessed past bewildered servants and startled guards, footfalls echoing down the long corridors and long legs leaping dangerously over stone steps three at a time towards the stables, carelessly ignoring shocked figures caught in the wind of his passing. 现在知道着急了。。。我希望小莱能晕倒在你怀里，哈哈
A lone stable boy was just closing the doors.
“Get my horse!”
Aragorn’s loud command came so suddenly that the boy felt his body jump out of its skin, wondering if the twain would ever meet again.
But even as Aragorn reached his horse and the stable boy went to retrieve the saddle, they heard the voice of the Steward calling urgently: “Elessar!”
A moment later, Faramir rushed in, flushed and flustered, but relieved to see his king.
“My lord, please – ” he panted, a pleading look in his eyes.
“Faramir, how – ?”
“The guards alerted me... nay, half the servants alerted me! Is something amiss? Where are you going?”
Aragorn realized that the Steward could not have spoken to Arwen yet. “Faramir, he has only just left, I cannot let him go without… ” he was suddenly at a loss for words. The stable lad was bringing the saddle over now.
“Elessar, I know how much you wish to ride after him at this moment, but – I beg you to reconsider.”
“I am King of Gondor and Arnor,” Aragorn declared fiercely, his eyes locked on Faramir’s, surprising him. “Shall I be held captive within my own walls?”
Aragorn’s breath caught in his chest, and it seemed to him that the silence and darkness pressed on him like a solid mass. Ithil the moon was rising early from behind a line of hills, and Aragorn saw in his mind images from the Quest when that same moon had shone over them: an elf, a man and a dwarf running across the plains of Rohan, fuelled only by hope and loyalty to their friends; a Ranger and an elf standing watch together, battling orcs and wargs side by side, giving each other strength and comfort; sounds of mirth shared as they rejoiced in peaceful times; many moments of cheerful laughter and even more moments of quiet joy when speech was not needed. And now there was an image of that beloved elf riding beneath that moon, riding away from him. He squeezed his eyes shut and choked back a cry.
His mind told him to listen to the wisdom of his Steward’s words, but his heart was tempted to follow an errant path.
Nay, it is not wisdom, but duty that guides his words, Aragorn thought. For who in all wisdom can say that the value of a city, or a kingdom, is greater than the heart of a loved one?
Unconsciously, Aragorn sighed. Yet mine is not the freedom to choose. That freedom was bound when upon my head was placed the Crown of Gondor.
“Must I always sacrifice what my heart desires for what the throne dictates?” he lamented, barely above a whisper.
“Legolas is also well aware of the price of running a realm. He sees much and knows your heart, and for that reason, he has stood by you without complaint. You know Legolas better than I, Elessar; surely you know he would not want you to ride out in the dark either; he would not forgive himself if anything happened to you because of it. Set things right with him when the time is ripe.
I cannot restrain you, my lord, but as your Steward, I beg you not to ride out tonight. Give me two days to find out what we can from the prisoner; I expect he will yield to his hunger and thirst and cold by then. We may get new counsel at that time.”
For ten years, he had always placed the welfare of his kingdom first, and for tonight at least, he had to do so again, however much he wished to ride after his friend. Faramir was right, it would be prudent to wait to hear what the prisoner could reveal first.
He only hoped that although he remained within the city walls tonight, the elf would sense the depth of his remorse and know why he could not go where he truly desired.
I hope you, too, will wait, my friend, he added silently, seeing again the image of the elf riding beneath the moon to Ithilien.
The youth and vitality of children – human or elvenkind – and their ability to overcome ailments quickly is a remarkable thing to witness, Eldarion was asking for his favourite dessert by the following evening after he awok. His parents were delighted with his recovery and spent as much time with him as he could, remembering the anguish they had gone through before they were certain they would see his smile and hear his voice again.
He had considered sending off a rider with a message for Legolas the very morning after Faramir had delayed him, but dismissed it almost immediately when he realized what an insult that would be. His friend deserved better, much better, than a piece of parchment. He deserved a personal apology.
Even as he sat in his office trying to ward off thoughts of his elf friend to focus on the papers arrayed before him, a guard approached him and bowed.
“Sire,” he said, “Hamille of Ithilien requests an audience with you.”
“King Elessar, I come on behalf of my kin who have been convalescing under your roof,” his fair elvish voice spoke in Sindarin. “Please receive our gratitude for the kind attention of your healers. We return to Ithilien today.”
“It is I who should thank you and your kin for what you did for my wife and child. You have my deep gratitude and my condolences over the brave elves you lost.”
“My lord, it was our duty and our honor.”
“No, not your duty, and noble was your act,” Aragorn countered.
“It was an honor to defend the queen and the prince,” Hamille stated in return, “and it was our duty to Prince Legolas.” At the mention of that name, a hint of hardness, almost imperceptible, seemed to enter the elf’s eyes again. “Whatever and whomever he chooses to protect, we are behind him, regardless of the cost.” Hamille knew he sounded less gracious than he usually was and that Legolas would be most displeased to hear it, but he could not forget what he had heard in the healing room that evening.
Aragorn felt his guilt increase at that declaration and briefly wondered if there was an underlying meaning to Hamille’s words. Had Legolas spoken of the incident in the healing room to the elves? But just as soon as that thought entered his mind, he banished it; it was not in Legolas’ nature to share his hurt with anyone. Whatever it was Hamille meant, Aragorn thought, he had no right to pry, and he did not really want to, for no one needed to remind him of the pain he already felt. He only wished he could talk to Legolas that very instant.
“Please tell him I am grateful to him, and that – and that I will meet with him as soon as I can.” Then, in a softer voice: “Tell him I truly wish to.”
Later, as Aragorn sat watching Eldarion eat his third blueberry tart after lunch, a smile touched his face. He and Legolas shared a love for blueberry tarts as well, and he knew, without asking, what had been in the basket Arwen gave Hamille.
Legolas, he sighed. I wish I could talk to you now, mellon nin. But soon, I hope, soon.
“Legolas?” Eldarion said the name through lips covered in sticky blueberry topping. Aragorn realized then that he must have said the name aloud.
The child seemed to remember something and stopped eating. “Is Legolas still hurt? I did not like to see it.” His eyes were wide, and a hint of moisture laced them.
“No, darling. It has been taken care off. He is all right now,” she said soothingly.
“They hurt him,” the child stated in a small voice, dropping his eyes.
Arwen caught Aragorn looking at his son with a puzzled expression and decided she would have to explain later. “Yes, they did. But the healers treated it like they took care of you. His shoulder is mending, and he will be happy to know you are better too.”
“Will he come here soon? I – I do not want to go there,” the child whispered, burying his face in his mother’s dress and staining it with the stickiness on his lips. “Not yet.”
“He will come when he can, darling,” Arwen whispered back. “But you have to get well first. You will need your strength to handle your bow when he teaches you to shoot again.”
Those words brought a lump to Aragorn’s throat. He was reminded again just how much Legolas meant to his whole family, and his feeling of remorse deepened.
“He was wounded in his shoulder, Estel,” she explained simply. “Eldarion saw it.”
“Was it deep? How did I not see it?” The king’s eyes were filled with concern now.
“It was bandaged and – ” Arwen narrowed her eyes as she tried to recall what she had seen that night, “and I think he had changed his tunic. The one he was wearing was… it was torn, and… it was… stained.” She did not have to say what with; Aragorn knew.
Horror gripped him then as he recalled vaguely where his hand had carelessly clutched Legolas that night. Had the elf shown pain? How had his own eyes missed it? Aragorn looked at Arwen with pleading eyes as he gasped his question.
“Arwen, did I – ? I did not – ? Did I… add to his pain?”
“You did not know, and he would not hold it against you.”
Aragorn moaned and buried his face in his hands. He never thought he could hate himself as much as he did then. Legolas, forgive me, forgive me, he begged silently, his breath strangled in his throat.
I will wait till the end of today as I promised, Faramir, he determined silently, but whether or not the prisoner talks, I shall leave for Ithilien tomorrow. This time, nothing will stop me.
