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hurt eldarion

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CHAPTER 8: THE HEALER’S NEWS

He had seen it many times before – how someone can cower in fear and misery and yet be defiant at the same time. The interrogator saw it now in the pathetic, chained figure huddled on the damp floor in a corner of the cold, windowless dungeon in Minas Tirith, and could not help smirking at the sight of the man who had been placed in his charge.

He peered closer at the figure in the gloom of the cell. The man’s clothes were filthy and he smelt rank. The hair was coarse and unkempt, his face – when it could be glimpsed behind the unruly mane of hair – was roughened. Large round eyes seemed to protrude from the dark face, and on either side of a hooked nose were eyes that housed venom. He was lean and his movements did not seem clumsy despite his untidy appearance; they reminded the interrogator of a creature that could be capable of furtiveness when it wished, a dark furtiveness. The foul-looking man was altogether unpleasant to face, let alone talk to, but talk to him he must.

“Who sent you? Who is your master? What does he want with the king’s son?” he repeated the questions he had been asking for the past day as he walked around the cowering man, his steps sounding loud and menacing in the hollow room. “These you will answer before you are allowed a sip of water or a morsel of food from the king’s kitchens, or any shred of clothing to keep you warm, or any ray of light to brighten your long, long days of captivity here.”

He had said these words again and again so that they would fall slowly and tortuously on the prisoner’s ears, to remind him what he needed to do to survive in this dungeon. “Talk you will, you scoundrel, as your body breaks down from lack of food and water and you waste away. Your tongue will loosen, or your flesh will fall off as you rot.”

There was an involuntary shiver from the tight-lipped prisoner. The interrogator bent close to the foul face, enunciating each word clearly, while trying not to breathe in too much. “But decide whether you wish to wait till you are too weak to help yourself. If you have any wisdom in you, you would save yourself the torment of a slow and agonizing death.”

He carried a whip, which he flicked aggressively and dangerously close to the prisoner without actually harming his flesh, for King Elessar would not allow it, he knew. But he needed for the prisoner to believe he would inflict pain if answers were not given. In addition, he had his towering height, his immensely powerful build and his bellowing voice to instill images of possible violence in his charge’s mind.

The prisoner kept obstinate silence, aside from issuing a venomous hiss.

But your will wavers, the interrogator decided, and it will break. Oh yes, you will talk.

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The sun was already high in the sky when Legolas left the bedside of the last elf he had spoken to, reassured that he would recover. The elf’s brother was one of those who had been slain during the attack, and Legolas had taken a longer time to offer solace as well as to honor the fallen elf with appropriate words.

The elf prince sighed as he returned to the room where Eldarion slept, going past men and women who were exchanging news about what had happened to the King’s son. They hovered along the corridors, hoping to catch whatever news could be leaked out by the healers and servants. Legolas knew the city must be rife with rumours, many of the King’s subjects sincerely worried about the young heir to the throne of Gondor. In his tiredness, the elf ignored all he came across, too tired to even smile. He walked with uncharacteristic heaviness in his step, worn out with worry. Like all elves, he could go without food and sleep for longer than humans, but his spirits were low.

Sitting through the night, he had allowed the events of the last day to play again and again in his mind, and he still had come no closer to understanding who the attackers or what their purposes were. They were fast and merciless, so they must have been trained, but by whom were they trained? Was their leader with them? He wished Faramir’s interrogator could obtain answers quickly.

As aggravated as he was by the need to find answers to those questions, he had been even more greatly troubled by two thoughts throughout the night. First, the senseless assault had resulted in a little boy – the son of Aragorn, no less, lying unconscious next to his frightened mother. Second – and Legolas felt a rush of anger each time he realized this – the assault had taken place in Ithilien, the domain Aragorn had entrusted him to nurture and guard. Repeatedly, he rebuked himself: I should have been able to keep Aragorn’s family safe. No elves should have lost their lives. I should have been more vigilant. I should have anticipated…

“Legolas?” his thoughts were interrupted when he practically walked into Faramir, so lost was he in self-reproach.

“Forgive me, I did not see you,” he apologized to the steward. He realized now that he had walked past the door to Eldarion’s healing room and the puzzled guards in front.

Faramir looked at the elf’s pale face with slightly narrowed eyes. “You need to rest now, my friend. Some food in your body would not be amiss either.” Lifting the tunic aside to peer at the bloodied bandage covering the elf’s shoulder wound, he added, “And that needs changing.” Without another word, he took the elf by the elbow and led him into the healing room.

Sunshine streamed in through the window next to where Eldarion lay. Moving to the still figure, Legolas and Faramir were faintly relieved to see that the boy’s face was less flushed now, and he seemed more peaceful than he had been through the night. But there was no smile on Arwen’s face as she greeted them, and dark circles under her eyes were silent testimony to the anguish she had gone through. Neither she nor Legolas had rested well or eaten since their arrival the previous night.

The sun was starting to slide downward in the western sky before Faramir managed to coerce the two elves into taking some nourishment, but the food tasted like ash in their mouths. Earlier, he had made Legolas sit still while the healers changed his bandage. The bleeding had stopped but it still felt tender and sore. Faramir had left to see to administrative matters that could not wait. Now he returned later to inform Legolas that they had not made much progress with the prisoner; he was still being questioned but he was stubbornly refusing to talk.

“But he cannot hold out for long,” he said with confidence. “My chief interrogator can be very – persuasive.”

Legolas nodded and got up to take yet another look at Eldarion on the bed. Arwen lifted her head from where it lay next to her son, as it had lain through many hours of the night and day, and Legolas noticed with pity how pale and fatigued she appeared, unaware of how pale and worn out he himself was. They exchanged a look, but before they could speak, two healers came into the room, one of them holding something on a small piece of cloth in his hand.

The healers bowed to Arwen and addressed her, “My lady, we have determined the nature of the substance used to coat the dart. It is not widely found or used in this part of Gondor.”

The healer held out the object in his hand; it was the dart Legolas had removed from Eldarion’s thigh. “The substance is a kind of poison,” he continued, causing everyone around him, save his colleague, to stiffen. He added quickly, “Fortunately, it is not used to kill, only to weaken. It causes the body to go cold and numb, and it will cause the mind of a man to lapse into unconsciousness, rendering him defenseless.”

“Eladrion –?” Arwen began.

“The prince is fortunate that only half the dart entered his flesh,” the healer responded, anticipating her question. “It must have been caught in something, perhaps some clothing, before it punctured the flesh.” The small tear in my tunic, thank the Valar, Legolas thought to himself, but that is of no importance now.

“It meant that there was less of the poison to work against,” came the healer’s voice again. “and Prince Eldarion’s body did fight it. The fever was a sign of his struggle, and we made certain that his body received as much water as it could to flush out the poison. Were the prince a full-grown man, he may be waking by now, for the amount of poison would have held wreaked less force on a full-grown man. Being a child, Prince Eldarion will require longer to recover. But we have hope that he will wake before the day is through. Fear not, my lady.”

Arwen’s relief was audible, and both Legolas’ and Faramir’s faces relaxed as well. With moist eyes, the queen turned her eyes back to her son and smiled.

A thought occurred to Faramir. “You said this poison is used – to weaken,” Faramir addressed the healers, careful to omit the word ‘kill’ that the healer had mentioned in his explanation. “How is it made? Who would have the knowledge?”

“Our records tell us that this was a poison used by river folk to catch fish,” the healer replied. When he saw the puzzled looks on the faces of the Steward and the elves, he explained, “The poison was released into a river or lake, even areas of the sea if they could contain the water within catchments, to stun the fish so that they could be easily caught. Only a small amount of poison was supposed to be used so that there would be no ill effects on those who ate the fish. But after a time, folk who wanted to reap large amounts of fish quickly for trade would release too much of the poison, and the lawmakers of that time decided to make the river folk stop the use of it, for it killed too many fish too fast, and those who ate the catch fell ill.”

The listeners digested this information silently, each shuddering at the horrifying thought that Eldarion had been the victim of this poison, as if he were a river fish.

“So where would this poison be found now? Who would make it?” Faramir repeated his earlier question.

“We cannot be certain, my lord. We know that the poison used to be harvested from the ipo plant that grew near bodies of water. I have heard of no such plants along the Anduin, although they may possibly be found there. Perhaps they can be also found further west and south, at the Bay of Belfalas or closer to the city of the Corsairs, where the Umbarians depend much on catch from the sea. Is it possible that – ”

“The men came from the east,” Legolas interjected. “That is what our guards observed.”

“What bodies of water lie to the east of Gondor?” Faramir asked. “I know of only one large one – the Sea of Rhûn. Several small rivers flow into it. Could the men have come from there?”

“Does Gondor have any dealings with the people in that area? Would Aragorn have enemies there?” Legolas queried.

“I have no knowledge of any past or recent doings that tie us to the people who live there. We know little of them, and I suspect they of us.” Faramir furrowed his brow. “Perhaps we should look at the maps more closely. And we now have some knowledge that the prisoner does not know we possess. I will inform the interrogator as soon as I can. In the meantime…” Faramir paused and turned to the queen, an apologetic look on his face. “Perhaps this would be a good time for you to take some rest, My Lady?” he suggested politely. “The danger appears to be past, and the healers are ever watchful for changes.”

Legolas knew that at this moment, Arwen would not be mindful of her own need for rest, so he appealed to her love for her son and husband. “Faramir speaks wisely, Arwen. When Eldarion wakes, he will want to see his naneth happy and well.” Then he added gently, speaking softly, “Seeing the reminders of last evening may disturb him. It would not give Aragorn any comfort either were he to face the stains of the terrible experience you went through, when he returns.”

Arwen caught his subtle reference to the fact that she had not changed out of the dress she wore during the assault in Ithilien. Traces of dirt and rainwater stains were clearly visible. She grimaced when she realized that her hair was probably a frightful mess as well.

“You are right,” she yielded, looking at the elf with some amusement, their long friendship enabling her to see through the ploy he had used. “I can hardly suffer from some refreshment, and neither would you, Legolas.” In a more subdued tone, she added, “I have not yet thanked you and your kin for saving our lives. We are grateful.”

Legolas was genuinely taken aback. “Arwen, if you had not been there, this would not have happened,” the note of self-reproach evident in this voice. “Thanks are misplaced. Words of deepest regret are what I should be expressing to you. If only I had been more – ”

Arwen cut him off, a startled look on her face. “Legolas, you cannot truly think any of this could have been foreseen by you. No blame do I lay on you or any of your kin!”

His disagreement was on this tongue, but before he could speak, a voice filled with authority, alarm and uncomprehending anxiety cut in.

“WHAT has happened here?”

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