By his next arranged “meeting” with Thorongil, Heolstor had mostly managed to rid himself of his morose mood and was in a very efficient, professional mindset. He was ready to get down to business, and if that entailed pushing hard, then he was going to push hard. There would be no more witty interchange—not that Thorongil looked in any state to do much more than groan. Well, he was rather depending on him being a little more coherent than that once the third stage of the poison took effect.

When Thorongil was brought in, conscious but relying primarily upon the two men behind him to keep him upright, things didn’t look so hopeful. Rador had certainly worked him over well before Mehdal had gotten there.

Bending over, Heolstor tilted Thorongil’s chin upwards with two fingers. Glazed silver eyes stared back, aware, but having obvious difficulty remaining focused on their surroundings.

“Ah yes, Captain, it would appear you’re human after all, and will succumb like any man. This may be our last session after all.”

Heolstor paced around his kneeling prisoner several times before dropping into a seat. Chin in hand, he waited for any sign that the next progression of the poison was taking place. He had no way of knowing exactly what the next evolution would look like, having never had anyone under his concoction last this long. The catatonic appearance could be one of the next effects. Or it could be the aftermath of a Rador-induced concussion. Or it might even be a ruse by Thorongil to make him think he was worse off than he actually was. All things considered, Heolstor decided to wait a while longer.

Not long afterwards he was given all the signs he could have asked for. There was a distinct tightening of Thorongil’s shoulders, followed by an almost soundless gasp, then he curled forward. Aha, the spasms again, apparently even worse than last time.

He watched some more, grimacing and turning to the table next to him to record his observations on a piece of parchment when Thorongil began to retch. He’d done that last time further towards the end when he had been close to losing consciousness. This time it was far more severe. Having almost no contents in his stomach, Thorongil was quickly reduced to involuntary dry-heaves.

Heolstor sat back, raising an eyebrow as his experiment gagged helplessly, locked into a vicious cycle between never-ending spasms and nausea. He’d expected some kind of spectacular finale, but this was really quite impressive.

The retching continued for a long time, and Heolstor spent the time alternately grimacing when he glanced in Thorongil’s direction, and scribbling addendums to his previous notes on the complicated properties of Ethalomyn Hasnephar.

By the time the symptoms had lessened Thorongil was hanging completely limp in the two guards’ grips.

Heolstor set down his quill. “Bring him over here.”

As ordered the guards dragged Thorongil nearer to where Heolstor was seated. One of them—either the epitome of helpfulness, or the epitome of general petty nastiness—gripped him by the hair and pulled his head back for Heolstor’s more convenient viewing. Heolstor faithfully picked up the quill again to hastily jot down a few more details—eyes half-lidded, grey complexion—before turning seriously to the task at hand.

It had been a decidedly one-way conversation so far, and he intended to change that.

“So…you’re looking more companionable and helpful than you were yesterday, Captain—but you do look a little worse for wear.”

Thorongil’s eyelids blinked once, sluggishly, but he was otherwise unresponsive. After his previous display of apparently genuine sickness, and the spasms, as well as the incessant shudders that shook him, Heolstor was inclined to believe the dazed look was also for real. Thorongil’s body was going into overload, moving into a place of detachment where he’d be much more pliable and vulnerable to Heolstor’s skills.

“Why don’t we start out with a few simple questions about your family?”

Heolstor slid naturally into his best persuasive tone, the kind he would have used on a child, and the one he’d found worked best on most drugged-out-of-their-mind individuals. Besides, even Heolstor had to admit, the particular drugged individual in front of him was looking especially pathetic, and it seemed only natural to use a gentler voice, even if it was just a pretence. The glassy, mildly-vacant, and completely vulnerable grey eyes staring through him were a far cry from the steely expression Captain Thorongil usually wore when around him. It was like catching a glimpse into an entirely different version of the man, a man still surprisingly young despite his experience in the ways of the world and of war. That, alone, was interesting to witness, and he hadn’t even begun with this session.

“Tell me, Thorongil, who are your parents?”

Thorongil’s eyes were focused on him now, but he wasn’t responding, so Heolstor deepened his voice and increased its note of fake gentleness. “Your father, your mother—who are they?”

Heolstor waited patiently. Thorongil’s brow furrowed, as if in pain, but he still didn’t say anything.

“Alright, why don’t you tell me about your home? Where did you live as a young child?”

“Nowhere,” Thorongil finally croaked out a reply to that question.

Heolstor raised an eyebrow. “You never had a home as child?”

There was that frown again. “Wandered…many places.”

“Hmm…” Heolstor was back to avidly scribbling notes. “So your parents never had a permanent dwelling. How interesting. Where are your parents now?”

The silence was so long after that question Heolstor had almost given up and gone on to another question for fear he’d close up again, then Thorongil responded huskily: “Dead.”

“I see. How did they die?” An irreverent question, probably, but Heolstor felt like prying. What was the good of all this work if he didn’t put it to thorough use? He was getting used to the way Thorongil would pause for a long time between questions, as if fighting an inner battle. Admirable: even now he was struggling to win control, however vainly. Either that, or these questions held particular emotional discomfort.

“Orcs killed them.”

“And when did this happen? Recently?”

“I was…young. A very long time ago…I was there.”

“Why weren’t you killed by orcs? How did you escape?”

The thick sorrow clouding Thorongil’s eyes relaxed abruptly into a look of fondness. “My brothers…they came. They rescued me.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Two.”

Heolstor was pleased to note that Thorongil was speaking more in a monotone now, as if his body, at least, was succumbing to poison rushing through his veins. “Any sisters?”

“No.”

Thorongil had hesitated to give his parents’ names. Obviously there was a great deal of pain wrapped around his earliest memories of them, since they’d apparently died when he was young. But he seemed less inhibited about his brothers, so maybe he could begin delving for more details from that angle. “What are your brothers’ names?”

The open fondness resurfaced, but the response was less than helpful. “El…”

“One of your brothers’ names is…El?” Silence. “Both of your brothers’ names are ‘El’?”

If he hadn’t known better, the smile that played around the edges of Thorongil’s mouth might have looked mocking. Of course, Thorongil was too far gone to still be mocking him, even if he’d been consciously aware of his presence anymore. But there was a definite touch of teasing in his expression as he gave a soft, ambiguous, “No…”

Well. He’d just leave specific names alone for the time being, then. “So, your brothers, they raised you alone?”

“No.”

Heolstor sighed. He was getting a lot of yes’s and no’s now, without much elaboration. Frustrating, but doable. He just wished he could get Thorongil to open up. Valar curse the man, he was as stubborn half dead and in a poisoned trance as he was when he was “normal”. “Who did raise you?” A nostalgic smile instantly brightened Thorongil’s face—a good sign surely. Maybe this foster parent, or parents, was the key?

“Adar-nin.” /My father./

Heolstor waited in silence. One of the main tools he’d specifically designed the poison for was its ability to dig into the subconscious and dredge up old memories, good and bad. It was easy to see that Thorongil was reliving some enjoyable part of his childhood, as his eyelids slipped closed, and beneath, his eyes began to move rapidly back and forth, his breathing comfortably shallow.

“Illumë…varna.” /Always safe./

Wonderful. Fantastic. Dear gods above don’t let him go off on that Eru-forsaken language again... Time to try and redirect the conversation. “Where did this…‘Adar’ raise you?”

“Már—Imladris.” /Home—Rivendell./ "Atar-nya illumë—” /My father always—/

“As fascinating as all that is, why don’t you use Westron, Captain?”

“Am man theled, Erestor? Ú-aníron—” /Why, Erestor? I don’t want—/

Heolstor’s façade of kindness finally slipped as he snapped, “Enough!” He knew as soon as he’d said it that he was going to have to re-master his emotions or risk blowing the whole thing.

The effect had been instantaneous on Thorongil, bringing him sharply back into the present from where ever his mind had been wandering, leaving him looking confused, but a little more aware of his surroundings.

Heolstor left the silence untouched until Thorongil relaxed a fraction, then began again as if nothing had happened, “Tell me more about your family—in the Common Tongue, if you will.” No response. “Why don’t we move forward, to when you’re bit older? You’ve been such an enigma during your time in Rohan, I don’t even know where to begin with questions, so why don’t you just start talking about the first thing that comes to mind?” Afraid to lose the conversation, he gave a last, overly-bright bit of encouragement, “Just tell me about what you did, who you met—that sort of thing.”

“Wandered.”

“You went back to wandering, like your parents?”

“Sometimes.”

“You returned home, sometimes?” Heolstor worked to fill in the broad gaps between the monosyllabic answers. “You visited friends, perhaps?” As Thorongil seemed to perk up at the word “friend”, he ventured, “You had a friend you spent much time with?”

“Yes.”

The reply was as fondly spoken as when he’d been speaking about his brothers, or “Adar”. Something about Thorongil’s wistfulness compelled him to ask, “Is this friend…dead?”

“No!”

It was the first animated response any of his questions had garnered, but before he could think about how to respond, or pry further, Thorongil was volunteering more information, as he was once again immersed in memories. This time, apparently, they weren’t so pleasant.

“No—no—Adar said he would recover! He said he would be well, he’s doing just fine…” Thorongil was breathing heavily, panic lacing his words. “Legolas, mellon-nin… You will recover, you have to, you must…” The pleading words ended in heavy pants for air, as Thorongil swallowed thickly, wincing at the strain of doing so while his head was titled at the awkward angle it was being held back at. He moaned feverishly, sweat trickling down the side of his temples. “You can’t do this to me, mellon-nin, please…”

Heolstor wrote the information down abstractly. Thorongil was quiet again, and looking the picture of exhaustion. “Well, I’ll take all that to mean that you did have a friend, then.” And a very close one at that. From the way Thorongil had reacted, he couldn’t quite figure out whether the friend had indeed died, or if Thorongil were merely reliving this friend’s near death. Either way, he figured it was probably best not to press that subject anymore.“Let us move forward again. Tell me, Captain Thorongil, have you ever been married?”

Dull grey eyes rose ever so slowly to meet his. Now that he was looking directly into them, they looked so much older than Heolstor had ever noticed, almost the incongruous opposite of that glimpse of a young Thorongil he’d caught earlier on. They were so weary, down to their very depths, that they looked like all the life had been drained out of them, and for a moment—just a brief, infinitesimal moment—Heolstor almost shared his pain. He almost hesitated. Almost.

“Well, have you ever been married? Have you ever been in love, Captain?”

Thorongil’s face twisted with pain. “Yes…” he uttered it with tenderness, but so quietly Heolstor had to lean closer to hear. “…love her…so much.”

“Ah, so you have a patient wife waiting somewhere for your return, and maybe a few children, eh?”

“Never…married.”

Heolstor did a rapid mental review of Thorongil’s life, or the sketchy details he knew of it. First off, he’d never had a settled home as child. Then, he was orphaned at a young age. Thirdly, it sounded like he may have lost his best friend, in some traumatic way or other. Fourthly, he was, apparently, as tragic in love as in the rest of his life. He remembered the dried roses, and the letter, he’d found in the drawer of Thorongil’s desk. He’d already firmly pressed any pity he might have felt to the side, but he was certainly incredulous. Don’t tell me the lady’s dead as well; nobody is actually that unlucky.

As casually as he could, he inquired, “If you never married her, then where is this…fair damsel of yours? Does the lady not return your love?” Or are you that unlucky?

“Oh Arwen…” Thorongil closed his eyes, and would have undoubtedly let his head hang forward if it weren’t for the brutal and persistent fingers gripping him by the hair. “Nae Undomiel...meleth-nin. Gerich veleth nin, heerf. Goheno nin, goheno nin... Meleth nin thel-methen le… ” /Alas Undomiel, my love. You have my love, always. Forgive me, forgive me… My love will kill you./

Heolstor clenched and unclenched his jaw as the beseeching, heart-broken words dwindled into shuddering gasps for air. He could see it was futile now. He angrily acknowledged it, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. Thorongil was dying, succumbing to the poison at last. He motioned to the guard to release his hold on Thorongil’s hair, having read on his pale, sweat-streaked face all the confirmation he needed that his experiment had reached its peak and was now past it. Thorongil was a strong-willed and strong-minded man, but he wouldn’t survive the poison much longer, and in his current state there could be no hope of getting anything more out of him.

Sitting back in his chair, Heolstor took his time scrawling a conclusion at the bottom of the parchment, then he turned back to the two guards. “Release him, you can leave where he is now.” They complied, allowing Thorongil to sag limply to the ground at Heolstor’s feet. Heolstor rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles were tense and beginning to ache from the strain of the day. “Go get Mehdal.”

***

A new course of action was forming in Araedhelm’s mind. It wasn’t much of a plan, and the details were slow in coming, but the key was, it was a plan of action, as an alternative to a plan of sitting around thinking optimistic thoughts.

The men below never seemed to relent in their noise-making, which made his task all the easier as he crept along the ridge to his left. It sloped gradually, and there was plenty of trees and brush to cover his movements. His aim was to get close enough to the largest of the tents, the one he assumed Heolstor occupied, and find out what plans Heolstor had. As unlikely as it was that he’d be able to get close enough, and actually hear something worthwhile, he wanted to at least try before going back and getting his men as backup.

The tent was actually quite ideally located. Backed up against the ridge as it was, he could almost have accomplished his task by staying on the ridge in a position directly above it, but not quite. Still, if he continued down the ridge, then doubled back under it, through the foliage the ran beneath it, it was possible to get directly behind the tent without being seen.

At least that plan worked out in theory. Now he had to put it to the test. The brush along the base of the drop-off looked dense enough, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he got there. He was just reaching the place in his plan where that question would be answered.

Through the trees he kept an eye on the clearing, as he crouched to edge to the right against the steep rock wall and slipped into the protection of the underbrush as he moved along it. Once he was in position, as close to the tent as possible without losing his cover, he knelt, shifting with a wince the when the incredibly coarse grass prickled his knees even through the cloth of his pants.

There was a conversation going on, he could hear that much, but between his rough breathing and the adrenalin- and exertion-induced thudding of his heart, he spent a few frustrating moments trying to distinguish actual words. All the while, he had the maddening feeling he was missing vital information. Thinking like that, of course, didn’t help slow his heart-rate, and it was only after several more neutral, divertive thoughts that he was able to reliably hear anything. The first voice he heard was, disappointingly, not Heolstor’s. But the replying voice reassured him that he was listening in on the right conversation.

“…understand that, my Lord.”

“I have given him some already. Only give him more as necessary.”

“Forgive me, my Lord, but how will I know if he needs more? I do not feel entirely…competent, in this matter.”

“I think you’ll be able to tell. You may read the notes I have taken, and if any of the symptoms listed there become more serious, give him more. I’d like him alive if at all possible.”

“If he should…die, my Lord, I—”

Heolstor was obviously tired, and obviously becoming more than a little exasperated with the other man’s hesitancies. “Mehdal, I need you to focus on what I’m telling you instead of making excuses. This is the kind of response I would expect from weaker men than you. If you turn into a spineless incompetent, I’ll… Just don’t. Don’t go there.”

“Yes, my Lord. I did not mean to imply I would be unable to handle it… I will read your notes, and I will take care of everything else, as you have instructed.”

“Good. I know you will. Let me explain it to you in a little more detail.” There was the noise of clinking glass. “This is the antidote. Do not get it mixed up with the other vials, and do not give him more than a few drops at a time. A few drops can combat the poison for some time, although scattered doses won’t even begin to purge it. Just keep him alive until I return. And in Eru’s name keep all those idiot friends of your brother’s away from both of the prisoners.”

“I will, my Lord.”

“Any other questions?”

“Do you know how long this will take?”

There was uncharacteristic indecision in Heolstor’s answer. “I…cannot be certain of an exact time. I hope, if everything goes as planned, I won’t need too much time. However, you can’t assume anything will go as planned. At this point, many things could go wrong. I don’t consider Ecthelion or Thengel to be among the easily gullible. I don’t underestimate their intelligence. Even though you know I prefer to eliminate as many risks as possible, I have to tell you there are more variables than I care to admit.”

“I understand, my Lord.”

“You are the only man amidst this camp full of short-sighted idiots who does. I count on that a great deal.” There was a smile in Heolstor’s voice, and Araedhelm guessed this was probably one of the rare occasions where the man came close to giving a compliment. Of course, he tempered the near-praise with a stern warning. “Be sure you do not disappoint me.”

“I will do everything I can not to. Before you leave… Out of curiosity, my Lord, did you get any useful information out of him?”

Heolstor gave a grunt, not of total disappointment, but neither of total satisfaction. “The poison worked, there’s no doubt of that. Later, when I have the chance to analyze what he said, I may find some things of interest. However, he wasn’t as forthcoming as I’d hoped he would be. That is why I’m counting on you to keep him alive in my absence.”

The conversation ended there, but it took Araedhelm a while longer process it all, and even longer than that to gather himself together enough to move elsewhere to finish his thoughts in comparative safety. It was a lot of information to take in, especially since he’d missed the first half of the conversation, and his brain was working to fill in the blanks.

There was, obviously, the most cheerful news to contemplate. Heolstor was leaving. Of course, Araedhelm hadn’t heard where he was going, but he could make a dismal guess. But for his current priority it was encouraging. With any luck, Heolstor would take half the camp with him. Araedhelm knew he couldn’t exactly storm the camp. Even though he’d already decided he’d need to go back and get his men before he attempted anything, he knew himself, plus the additional handful of men, still wouldn’t make odds worth contemplating. The answer to that problem, a more stealthy approach to rescuing the prisoners, was half-formed in the back of his mind.

But there were some blanks that couldn’t be filled in satisfactorily whatever way he looked at them. His elation at finding out that Heolstor would be moving out was eclipsed by one word in particular: poison. There were a lot of sentences, too, that had him worried out of his mind with the implications. “…did you get any useful information out of him?” certainly didn’t do anything to allay his fears. Had they used some kind of truth serum on either Thorongil or Théoden? No, Heolstor had specifically said poison. Besides, at the beginning of the conversation they’d been discussing an antidote of some kind. An antidote to keep the prisoner alive.

He knew he couldn’t let himself dwell too much on who the recipient of the poison had been. The thought of a child, any child, undergoing poisoning and apparent inquisition made Araedhelm’s want to rip Heolstor to pieces. The thought of Théoden—his prince—undergoing that was worse. And if it wasn’t the case, what a wonderful alternative that left him with. By all means, let them have tortured his captain. That was much easier to contemplate. I swear by all the gods they’re going to regret it either way. At least he could hold to the knowledge that whichever one the poison had been given to was still alive. This “Mehdal” had better do his job and keep Théoden and Thorongil both alive, or he wouldn’t be in trouble with Heolstor alone.

He reached the spot where he’d left Rynawl with his lead rope tied securely to a tree branch. As he approached, Rynawl seemed to give him an exasperated look that said he knew the demand that would soon be made of him. Even if his horse wasn’t exactly happy with the decision, he looked a whole lot more resigned than Araedhelm himself felt. It seemed wrong on so many levels to be leaving his prince and his captain behind now that he’d just found them, even if he was technically going in order to rescue them. While he was off “rescuing” them, anything could happen to Théoden or Thorongil. Heolstor seemed to keep his men in line with an iron will, but who knew if this more subdued lieutenant would protect the prisoners as he’d been ordered.

Unfortunately, before he could even begin to consider the suddenly all-too-alluring aspects of revenge, Araedhelm recognized the agonizingly long list of preparations he still had to make. Even though his path was now laid out before him, the route mapped sketchily in his head, he knew the road back to Halodawn was going to be even worse on his considerably shaken and thrumming nerves than his first ride through the hills.