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The Last Wood Elf	By : Mel99Moe Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 4551 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters or places. No money is being made from this story.

Chapter List
- 21
- 22
- 23
Chapter 22 - What Lies Beneath Edoras

Legolas knew they were only dreams, but they seemed so real. It had been a long time since he dreamed of the night his father was killed. Legolas was there in his dream, orcs and their blades swinging at a helpless shape on the floor, his father’s blade sliding across the room, and Elhadron’s arms holding Legolas tight as they made their way to the secret tunnel.
“Go now, Laiqalassë. Hurry! Your father will be along soon.”
He had heard Elhadron as he pushed him through the secret entrance behind the tapestry, and he was surprised that he remembered the tone of the counselor’s voice. He hadn’t heard anyone say his true name in years.
The dream changed after he went inside the tunnel, and he was no longer the helpless elfling. The sound of an orc grunting transformed into a woman’s distant laughing. It was dark, and the air was warm. A breeze blew against his face, but he could not see his hand in front of him. The air changed direction, and it was blowing against his ear. The breeze was scented now … brandy.
Legolas became angry, “Róta, where are you, you dreadful bitch.”
There was another laugh from somewhere deep in the tunnel, echoing and becoming louder as it wafted towards him. Then she stopped and sighed, “Such a shame. You were the best fuck I ever had.”
Legolas thought he could see a light in the distance, a torch perhaps. He started calling out, but he had no voice, only air passed over his lips. Róta was yelling though, calling to the torch owner, begging for help and pointing an angry finger at him.
He could not understand what she was saying, but he knew she was accusing him of something, “No, she lies!” Legolas yelled in an airy whisper.
Then his back felt suddenly cold and clammy. His wrists were sore, and his arms were drained of blood. He was stuck to the wall of the tunnel, as if the rock had claimed his body, and it was encompassing him. Róta was laughing wildly as the torch’s light came closer, “Hang him! Hang him!” she chanted.
* * *
Legolas slowly came around to a sense of unfamiliarity. The air was musty and damp, reminding him of a cave he once explored with Théodred and Eomer when they were younger. Unlike the cave, there was the scent of rusty metal and old hay. To his relief, the sound of Róta’s chanting ceased, but the feel of cold stone against his back was very real, and so were the shackles.
He opened his eyes, and his vision adjusted. He looked up and found his wrists bound by metal cuffs, and holding all of his weight. The edge of the metal cut into his flesh, and his arms were indeed numb. Legolas shuffled his feet and stood. Blood instantly rushed into his arm, and the torture of a million tiny pins stabbed his flesh from the inside out.
The metallic scent of dried blood was strong, and he looked down to find the front of his shirt stained dark red. His ear hurt and his head was pounding. Any movement made it feel worse. Legolas leaned against the wall, and began accessing his surroundings. He blinked his eyes repeatedly to remove the haze that clouded them.
“I’m in the cells?” he asked himself. Why was he here and not at home or at least in the healer’s house? Something had hit him in the head, something heavy. It all came rushing back to him now, the brandy, bare skin, sex … and the sting of his palm when he slapped her. “Róta,” he muttered to himself. It hadn’t been just a dream.
Legolas swiveled at the waist, and winced as the material of his shirt pulled at the dried wounds on his back. Róta had done that, scratched him deep with her wicked nails until he was bleeding and raw. He could still feel the bite marks on his shoulders and the deep scratch that ran along the side of his face. He had hit her after that. She had begged him to. He denied her, but when she attacked him, he defended himself out of instinct. Legolas was so angry at the time that he hadn’t realized she had done it on purpose. He fell into her trap, lost control, and played her game.
He could still feel the skin of her face on his palm, could hear the crack of bone. And as she cried out in pain, he came inside her, caring nothing about her. The worst thing to happen in that one moment of rage and carnal desire was when he undoubtedly knew that he enjoyed it. Of all the times he had made love, he had never felt such complete climax. Just to think about it now made his loins stir. Disgusted with himself, his stomach lurched and bile rose to his throat.
Róta’s voice returned to his memory, “Even now you are so hard.”
These were the last things he remembered before he was knocked unconscious, and he felt as though he was still in her home. His body reacted as if he had just finished with her, and his cock came to life. He could not stop what was happening to him. A vision of her battered face flashed before his eyes, and Legolas heaved and leaned forward, spilling the contents of his stomach down his bloodied shirt. Some of it fell to the dirt floor of his cell, and splattered his bare feet. His body convulsed until there was nothing left but dry heaves, coughing and sputtering. The smell of fresh vomit mixed with the rest of the foul smells and there was no escape, no source of fresh air. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on open skies and lush fields of grass until he had calmed himself.
He regained some control, and looked around at his surroundings. Legolas was inside small dark cell. A faint glow from a single torch gave enough light for his elf eyes to see his surroundings, not that there was much to see. There was obviously a cot with a poorly stuffed mattress and a bucket in the opposite corner. He wished he had seen that before he vomited. It would not have matter though, as he was restrained by chain and shackles. The walls of the cell were carved from stone, and thick rust colored iron bars lined the front of the rocky alcove. There was not much more outside of the cell, a wooden bench, the torch on the wall and another bucket. No windows lined the wall; the cells of Edoras were buried beneath the city. There seemed to be no other prisoners either, or at least, Legolas could not hear anyone. The only sounds seemed to be the rats scurrying along the edge of the walls and dripping water.
He tried to evaluate his injuries again, and how he got them. The side of his head hurt worst of all. Something hit him. Yes, he remembered now. He was leaving, his back turned to Róta, and received an unexpected blow to his head. He was hit hard enough that he blacked out and fell, but he could still hear, and his mind was still sharp. The sound of glass breaking was familiar. She must have hit him with something and it shattered when it fell from her hand. The pitcher, he reminded himself … and brandy, the strong scent of brandy.
“She hit me with the glass pitcher,” he said aloud, no one there but the rats to hear him.
Just before that moment, she tried to make him stay for another drink. He found that quite odd after they . . . after their lewd behavior. She had been insistent that he take more brandy. Why? When he wouldn’t stay, and wouldn’t take the offered drink, she snuck up on him knocking him unconscious. And now he was in a cell. Legolas’ heart started to beat rapidly, “Shit! She swindled me!”
Why? His mind raced to remember everything that happened that led up to this, but there was not much to go on. She was new to the city, but so were other people. She was a blacksmith, odd considering that Grima had sent most of them away.
Grima … Damnit, he should have known. The old worm must be involved in this. Legolas’ mind started to clear, “She said she was employed by the King … a dagger.” It made no sense at all, but that could only mean that Grima was part of this. Did he know Róta?
As Legolas tried to figure it out, he heard the sound of hinges creaking, and light spilled into the dark corridor. Someone was coming into the jail. Legolas pulled himself away from the wall, and stood tall and straight. He would not let them think he was weakened, though he was.
It looked like an apparition of death floating down the corridor, a black ominous shadow with a white ghastly face glowing in the dark. Grima approached with two of his henchmen guards. The guards stood one at each side of the cell door with Grima in the middle. The King’s advisor glared at Legolas, remaining silent as if considering his words before he spoke. Legolas’ eyes narrowed, but he was judging the distance between himself and Grima’s neck. If only he wasn’t chained to the wall.
“Legolas,” Grima started in a menacing voice, “You have been charged with a crime, an attack upon one of our citizens.”
“I have done nothing,” Legolas growled, careful not to say too much until he knew what Grima wanted from him.
“Nothing you say? That is not what the blacksmith says. You remember her don’t you or were you too obscured by drink to recall?”
“Nothing happened between us that was not mutual. If she has told you anything else then she lies.”
“She lies does she?” Grima’s bony hands eased out of his flowing sleeves as he crossed his arms. “And I suppose the bite marks between her thighs, on her neck and shoulders are imaginary. Her swollen face and cracked eye socket are just a figment of her imagination. And the sticky remnants between her legs . . .” Grima paused as he watched Legolas’ eyes widen and his mouth fall open. “Oh yes, the healers did a thorough examination, and found evidence of the rape still clinging to her cunt.”
Legolas was horrified. “Rape? It was not rape. I would never do such a thing. It goes against the very laws of the elves. You know this Grima.”
“I know that there is a very distraught and shocked woman claiming you forced yourself upon her against her will. I know that the King was a fool to ever bring an elf into this city. I know that your kind can never be trusted,” Grima said as his voice became louder with every word. He looked at the guards and waved a hand in the air. “Leave us,” he commanded. When the guards hesitated, he glared at them and yelled, “Now!” They left instantly, and Grima brought his attention back to the elf. He took a key out from his sleeve, unlocked the cell door and entered the dirty room. He was careful not to get too close to the elf, though. Even in chains, Grima was still fearful of him.
Legolas sensed the advisor’s fear. He always had. This was one reason Grima had always managed to avoid close contact with him. Legolas played up this fear now, though there was not much he could do while shackled to the wall, “You may not trust me, Grima, but most of Rohan is suspicious of you.”
“That may very well have changed recently,” Grima smiled evilly, “I told Théoden to be rid of you, but he would not listen. I told him the day would come when you would turn against Rohan, and he called me a fool. The elves hold a maniacal magic, luring men into thinking that they are powerful and all knowing, making women swoon with just one look. It’s all just a game to the elves though. Once they earn that trust, they rape the women and slash the men’s throats as they sleep.”
“I did not rape Róta. If anything, she raped me. She made me do things against my will. She wanted everything I did to her,” Legolas retaliated angrily. A sickening smile spread across Grima’s face and suddenly it all became clear. Legolas took another step away from the wall and glowered at the man. “You did this. You are involved in all of this,” he whispered in disbelief. “I have known of your animosity towards me. I know of your hatred and your fear.” Legolas thrust his body forward, coming to the end of his chains, and it made Grima back away, his smile instantly fading.
“I can feel that fear now.” Legolas smiled wickedly, “You should be frightened, Wormtongue, for if I ever get out of this cell—”
“I would think twice before finishing that sentence,” Grima warned. “But then, you will not get out of this dungeon any time soon, and when you do, it will be to march you to the gallows.”
“Théoden would never let that happen. There are people here that will know I did not … could not do such a horrendous deed.”
Grima reached into the opening of his robes and retrieved a scroll of parchment. He unrolled it, and held it up for Legolas to see, laughing quietly to himself.
Legolas read quickly, the words ‘Death by Hanging’ standing out like a beacon. He felt his heart miss a few beats, and then searched the bottom of the document for Théoden’s signature. His body went numb with shock when he saw the illegible scrawl, hardly noticeable as being that of the King, but Legolas somehow knew that it was indeed written by Théoden’s ill hands.
Grima’s fear turned into loathing, “Théoden listens to no one but me now, and when I told him of the deplorable things you did to this woman, he signed it right away. You are as good as dead, but first I want to see you wither away in here for a while. I understand that it pains an elf’s soul to be locked away like this, with no sun, no moon, no stars to look to at night. A quick hanging is not punishment enough.”
Legolas glared at him, “Why are you doing this? I have never done anything to you. I have ever been faithful to Théoden and his house. Théodred and Eomer are like brothers to me. And Eowyn . . .” He paused as he saw Grima’s face change from malice to longing at the mention of the shield maiden’s name. “That’s it isn’t it? That is really what is at the center of all this … Eowyn. Don’t think I have not seen the way you look at her. And you call me a rapist.”
Grima’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened, “I would never do to her what you have done to Róta.”
Legolas ignored his comment, “Eowyn despises you, Wormtongue. No matter what you are planning, she will never agree to anything you offer her.”
“What I could offer her is much more than this dust-covered city could ever give her. She deserves more than an uncle who treats her as a servant rather than a niece, or a war mongering brother who deserts her, and leaves her in the filthy hands of a loathsome elf.” Grima narrowed his eyes and looked upon Legolas with disgust, “I’ve seen how you brush a hand over her knee or the way you touch her hair. She is a symbol of purity and beauty, and you would defile her the way you do the servants and the bar maids. Don’t think I have not been watching you too. More than once have I heard amatory moans of lust coming from you room. You roam around the city collecting women like trophies, sticking your prick in anyone who will spread their legs for you. You are nothing but a menace and a threat.”
Legolas strained against his bindings, wishing he could wrap his hands around Grima’s neck, “Ever since you came back to Rohan, the city and its King have been failing. I know you have everything to do with it, but my strongest instincts say that you do not work alone. My guess is that the White Wizard taught you some of his magic. Is that it? We already know he is responsible for the breeding of the Isengarder orcs, but to attack at our borders was not enough. It’s you isn’t it, Grima? What did he promise you in return for ruining the city and its King?”
Grima said nothing, but his eyes gave him away. Legolas had no more doubts of Grima’s intentions, “Poison the King, force Eowyn into a marriage, and you think you’ll take the throne. Is that what Saruman promised you, the crown of Rohan? You forget that Théodred would serve in his father’s place, or Eomer, should something happen to his son.”
Grima’s face screwed up into a devious smile at the mention of Legolas’ friends, “Surely you must know I have eyes and ears all across Rohan, and not just in Edoras. I know that they have disobeyed direct orders of the King. They roam here and there, killing at will. Théodred acts as though he has already been crowned. I warned them and they did not listen. Now they are in violation of treason according to the laws of Rohan.” Grima laughed and unconsciously took a step towards Legolas, “While your death papers were drawn up, I also had warrants drawn for Théodred and Eomer. As soon as either one steps foot into the city, they will be arrested.”
Legolas roared with anger and jutted towards Grima. The man gasped and jumped backwards, crashing against the iron bars, but he quickly recovered and left the cell, locking it and hiding the key within his black robes.
“You won’t get away with this, Grima!” Legolas shouted.
“Oh, I see things much differently, and soon you will be on your way to Mandos’ Hall … after I break your spirit,” Grima hissed. With the cell safely locked and Legolas still chained to the interior wall, Grima’s sense of empowerment came back, “Don’t you see, you were in my way, the only thing standing between me and the throne. Théodred and Eomer … they were easy enough to remove, but you . . . Théoden trusted everything you told him as if you were some kind of a seer. The others treated you as if you were one of the Valar come to walk amongst men. When I came back, no one trusted me anymore and it was all because of you. Now, no one will believe you, and I will regain my position upon the council and soon the throne.”
Grima’s hands disappeared beneath his cloak and he seemed to shrink back into the darkness. “We are through here. Soon you’ll be a swinging corpse and Eowyn will grieve, but it will be me who is there to comfort her, and then Rohan will be mine.” He laughed beneath his hood, and turned down the corridor. The door to the cellar opened, but Grima paused and calmly said over his shoulder, “I hope you enjoyed my little gift. I hear Rota is quite the professional, and a vixen from the look of that scratch on your face. I’d say she gave you more attention than most of her other clients. Damn the elves and their fair beauty.” Grima didn’t care that Legolas knew the truth. He would be dead soon anyways.
The door to the jail closed, and Legolas was once again alone. He felt completely helpless. Théodred and Eomer must be warned not to return to the city, but how could he get word to them? The guards could not be trusted; they were Grima’s men. With the lies that must already be spreading about the alleged rape, Legolas could not count on help from any villagers. “Eowyn,” he whispered. She was the only person who would help, if she too hadn’t fallen for the lies. Would she come though? Would she be allowed to visit him? Legolas had a feeling he’d be denied any and all visitors, especially now that Grima’s lies were exposed.
* * *
Two days passed since anyone came to the jail. Not even the guards came. There was no food, no water, and the light of the torches burned out long ago. The chains of his shackles were just long enough that he could sit on the dirt floor, but it left his arms stretched as far as they would go, and the metal cuffs cut into the flesh of his wrists. He could sit, at least, but not at long intervals. He had slept this way for the past two nights, and his skin was raw and bleeding where the metal had cut in. His shoulders hurt from the odd position, but there was nothing he could do. He had to sit from time to time.
Legolas looked longingly at the wooden bucket across the cell. He had tried multiple times, without success, to kick it with his foot, and bring it close enough to him. If he could just sit on the bucket, it would give some relief to his arms, which were now numb. The slightest movement sent tiny stabs of pain throughout his muscles.
“They are weakening me,” he thought. He knew Grima did not trust him, even locked in a cell. The bindings would guarantee his confinement; though there was not much he could do, even had he not been bound to the wall. The dirty cot looked like a luxury by now, and he was jealous of the rats that ran freely along the floor, stopping to drink water that slowly dripped down the far wall. Food he could manage without for a while, but water … he needed water soon.
Sometime late on the third day, someone finally came to the jail. Legolas heard the creaking of hinges and the rattling of keys. Two sets of footsteps came down the corridor and stopped outside of his cell. One person held a torch, while the other unlocked the cell door. Legolas was sitting on the floor, barely able to lift his head to see who had come. The light from the torch hurt his tender eyes, unused to any brightness.
The cell door made a high-pitched screech as it opened and Legolas cringed. He looked up to see a guard standing just inside his cell, “Water, please,” he croaked. His throat was so dry that his vocal chords barely worked.
The guard hesitated and regarded Legolas with a wary eye, “Try anything, and I’ll stab you,” he said in warning.
Legolas shook his head, “No, I’ll not do anything.”
The guard turned and nodded to the second guard with the torch, “It’s alright. Bring the bucket, and sit it next to the cot.
The second guard put the torch into its holder on the wall, and then proceeded to carry a bucket into the cell. The first guard kept an eye on Legolas, making a small dagger visible in case the elf decided to make any sudden moves. Legolas didn’t even try to get up, but he noticed that they put the bucket far out of his reach. What was the point of bringing him water, he thought.
To his surprise, the first guard motioned to the torch bearing guard, who came up to Legolas and reached for the shackles. The man fumbled around with his key, but finally released both of Legolas’ hands before he quickly moved away from the elf’s reach.
The sudden free movement of his arms was painful, but Legolas made circular motions with his shoulders, “Thank you,” he said in barely a whisper.
The guards said nothing more, and started to back out of the cell, but the first guard stopped, glared at Legolas’ weakened form, and spit into the bucket. Then both guards left, locking the door after they stepped out. In their hurry, the second guard left the torch on the wall and exited the jail.
Legolas slowly got to his feet and walked to the cot. It felt very strange to have any kind of range of motion after being shackled to a wall for three days. He sat on the grungy mattress, and leaned down, looking into the bucket. A nasty glob of slimy phlegm floated in the center. Legolas dipped his hands into the bucket of water, scooping up the guards uncalled for remains, and tossed it into the corner. The water smelled of rust, probably dipped from an abandoned well, but he did not care, and neither did he care about the guards attempt to taint the water with his spit. It was wet, that was all that mattered. Legolas cupped his hands and pulled water from the bucket, drinking deeply. It tasted horrid, like liquid copper, but he drank it none the less.
It took every last ounce of his energy to satisfy his thirst. What he needed now was elvish healing sleep. The cot smelled like old urine, and he didn’t want to think of the nasty things that might be living inside the corn husk stuffed mattress. Surely they would be attracted to the heat of his body, not exactly the kind of partners he cared to share his bed with. It was at least a place to lie, and that was just what he did. Legolas closed his eyes, and envisioned trees and cool breezes, quickly succumbing to slumber.
* * *
“Legolas,” said a whispered voice, soft and sweet.
He thought he was dreaming. Who did the womanly voice belong to? Perhaps he was imagining Audwyn, or one of the twins from the tavern.
“Legolas, wake up. We haven’t much time,” she said again.
His exhausted mind played tricks on him, and he envisioned the voice belonging to one of the Valar, “Have you come for me then? Shall this be the day I meet the Doomsman himself?”
“There will be no trip to Mandos for you today … not if I can help it.” The womanly voice held a bit of anger in it, “Now awake or I’ll take matters into my own hands, and deliver you there personally.”
Legolas’ fogged mind began to clear and he smiled, “Ah, only a shield maiden would threaten a dying elf with death.” He rolled over onto his back and looked up into the face of Eowyn.
“And it will be both our deaths if you do not get up.” She gently pushed his hair from his face and kissed his forehead. “Oh Legolas, you look awful.”
Legolas let a small laugh escape his lips. “I feel awful.”
“Can you sit up?” she asked. When he tried, she put a hand beneath his shoulder and helped him. Eowyn had never seen Legolas in such a deteriorated state before. He was so weak. She could feel it in his arms and legs as she helped lower them over the edge of the cot. His hair was stringy and dirty, not the salubrious shine she was used to seeing. And his eternal glow had faded to a sallow grey. Eowyn hated seeing him like this, but even more she hated Grima for allowing this to happen. “What have they done to you?”
He did not answer her, but his mind lingered on only one question, “Did you bring food? They have not fed me since they brought me here.”
Eowyn reached into a pouch hanging at her side, and pulled out a piece of bread torn from a larger loaf, “I had a feeling they hadn’t. Here,” she said, shoving the bread into his hand. Then she pulled a small flask in the shape of a teardrop from the pouch, uncorked his and gave that to him, “Something to wash it down with, wine.”
“Praise Béma for sending you here, my lady,” he said, then remembered his reason for being here. Legolas abandoned the bread and wine in his lap, and took her hands instead, “Eowyn, I didn’t do it. Please, you have to believe that I—”
“Oh, my dear Legolas, I knew the moment I heard that you could never do such a thing.” She brought his hands to her lips and placed a gentle kiss upon his fingers. The surety in her voice was more life sustaining than the food and drink she had brought.
“Then you must be the only one. The look of fear and resentment upon the guards faces surely speaks for the rest of the villagers. They must think I am some vile creature.”
Eowyn’s comforting smile faded, and she looked down to their joined hands, “It would be a lie if I told you otherwise. There are some, those who have been influenced by Grima and his followers, who believe Róta’s story. Legolas, she has done all she can to ruin your name.”
“She is still in the city?” he asked, and something that resembled fear and shame coated his words. He saw anger wash over Eowyn’s face as he spoke, and regretted his vulnerability.
“I have yet to see her, but when I do—”
“Eowyn, no, you mustn’t go anywhere near her. She works for Grima. He sent her to ruin me, and she has done just that. I was a fool to fall into this trap.”
“A fool, yes,” she reprimanded, “Did I not tell you I did not trust her? Men … always thinking below the waist.” She reached out and touched the side of his face, turning it to the side so she could get a better look at the long scratch, “And elves obviously,” she added.
They sat in silence while Legolas took up the bread once more, chewing slowly. The movement of his jaw made the scab stretch and open. Eowyn took the moment to glance around the cell. Legolas watched her eyes widen as she spied the shackles. There were blood smears on the wall where his wrists had rested. Her eyes left the wall and came back to him, now full of grief for him.
“Do you know what they plan to do to you?” she asked regretfully.
Legolas nodded, unable to answer with a mouthful of bread.
“I won’t let them,” she said, “They will have to take me to the gallows with you.”
Legolas swallowed the bread, took a drink from the flask to help wash it down, and smiled slightly, though it hurt to do so, “Always the shield maiden.” He looked past her, out into the hallway, and gestured with a nod, “How did you get in here?”
Eowyn smiled slyly, “The guard that is on duty tonight … he is not completely swayed to Grima’s side, and I know something about him. The little coward holds a secret, and he fears my knowledge of this more than he fears Wormtongue.”
Legolas’ eyebrows shot up at this, “My dear sweet Eowyn … a blackmailer?”
“You have not seen the extent of my wrath,” she answered, but her face went somber in an instant, “I cannot stay long, but I had to come.”
Legolas finished the wine and handed her the flask back, “Take this so they won’t find it. I won’t risk them finding out that you came to me.” He had only eaten half of the bread, but he hid the rest beneath the mattress of his cot, “I’ll keep this though. It will be gone before anyone comes.”
“I’ve sent word to Eomer and Théodred, about your situation, but I fear they may not get it. Grima has strict control of the messengers. The boy I sent has not returned, and I fear what might have happened to him,” she informed as she stood from the edge of the cot, and Legolas saw her worry.
“Not Gellír, the boy who helped you with the dusting that time,” he inquired, but the look Eowyn gave him confirmed his question.
“He believes you, Legolas. He came to me right away and said he wanted to help you. I could not send any of the regular messengers, and I thought Gellír was small enough and smart enough to slip away unnoticed. Now I worry that I may have made a mistake.”
Legolas reached for her arm, and squeezed it, “I am sure he is fine. He is very smart and sly. He is a thief, is he not?” Legolas remembered the reason Gellír was sent to Eowyn in the first place, having been caught stealing from food carts.
Eowyn forced a smile, “I’m sure you are right.”
Legolas released her arm, “Eowyn, you mustn’t let Théo or Eomer come back to Edoras. Grima has spies everywhere, and not just within Edoras. He knows that they have broken laws and roam the Riddermark without permission. Grima has drawn up warrants for treason against them both. If they come back, they will be arrested.”
There was a sudden sound of hinges creaking. The main door to the jail had opened a crack, “You must leave now, my lady.” It was the guard who let Eowyn in.
She hurried to the cell door, went out and locked it back up. Legolas felt the pull of his heart, as he desperately wished he could follow her. Eowyn must have seen the look on his face, “I’ll do what I can, Legolas. I will get you out of here somehow.” With that, Eowyn hastened down the corridor and slipped out unnoticed.
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The Last Wood Elf