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Your Heart Will Be True

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Please view the trailer!: http://aragorn-legolas.5u.com/mediapage.html

Authors: Sarah (the bookish, plausibility-mad realist) and Hannah (also known as Siri) (the crazy, starry-eyed visionary)

Rating: PG-13 for angst, character-torture, battle violence, tense situations, and character death

(oh dear, now that's got you going, hasn't it…?)

Timeframe: Year 7 of the Fourth Age — 9 years after The Return of the King — Aragorn is 97.

Book-based or Movie-verse?: Both. Sorry if it's confusing…

Background: Most of our original characters are reappearing from our other fics: Death or Despair, Thorongil, and Darkest Night. Particularly the last two. I'll post an appendix concerning their histories if enough people want it. Also, even though our combined collection of stories couldn't possibly have ALL happened to Aragorn and Legolas, some of the background for our fics are based on Cassia and Siobhan's Mellon Chronicles. You can read their stories under Cassia's name here on ff.net, or else on their site: www.aragorn-legolas.5u.com 

Disclaimers: All recognizable characters and places in this fic do not belong to us, but are rather the creation of one of the most incredible authors of all time: J.R.R. Tolkien. We have no permission to use Tolkien's characters and places, but are not being paid for our work either. Raniean, Trelan, and Rorin are the property of Cassia and Siobhan, used with permission. All other characters and places are ours.

In Honor Of: Lurker_elf, Cassia, Karina, Belothien, Lady Sandry, MarianaNimeneth, Anarril, Hiro-tyre, and Maranwe: you who reviewed Darkest Night most faithfully and so well! Our feet are still floating two feet above the ground. This is first and foremost in honor of you.

and

ErynLasgalen26, wellduh…, silvanelf, lomeloke, TheRowan and everyone else who reviewed after we were done posting! You have no idea how much unexpected feedback motivates us while we're writing more. Ditto for those who saw the trailer and e-mailed us! Hugs for every one of you.

and 

As ever and always, world without end, etc.: CHLOE! Because… well… because your verbal feedback is gratifying, because your fics are angsty, because your humor is insane, because you are you, and because dedicating our fics to you has become such a habit that we do not think we can stop!

Chapter 1

Southerly Whispers

April 3

Northern Harad

"Curse this weariness," Halda murmured in his native tongue, careful that no one should hear him. Not the words, certainly not the tone of defeat. He pressed back the dark hair that clung damply to his brow.

It was midday and with the exception of the sentries standing at the door, there was not another living thing in sight. The gold light of the sun bleached the color from the sandstone walkway and sapped life from the man's veins. And now, more than usual, he needed his wits about him. He had been chief advisor to Her High Magnificence, Queen Mavranor, for over five years — a record never before achieved — and he did not intend to cross her. Not yet, anyway.

The sentries lowered their scimitars as Halda approached and made sinuous half-bows. What skin showed under turban, layers of cloth, and body armor glistened with sweat and rippled with muscle. Halda's steely brown eyes were unperturbed. He was young and strong in his own right, possessing an intellect far beyond theirs and a position no underling would dare to cross.

He traversed the three flights of steps to the top of the central tower and stood respectfully in the doorway, his hands folded one atop the other.

"Halda?" a voice dripping with honey drifted out to meet the advisor. "Enter."

Halda bowed and obeyed, dropping briefly to one knee as he approached the queen's chair. "Your Highness," he murmured.

A low laugh answered him and for a moment Halda wondered what he had done wrong, but a second later he relaxed as he realized that Mavranor was not looking at him; she was looking at a letter in her hand. For a few more moments she perused the contents of the message, laughing all the while, her face a mask of twisted glee. She was old — any other ruler would have been ousted from power by now — and a hard life of conquest and shrewd dealing had withered most of her beauty. However her eyes were still alive and a sparkling jet black, like dark flames amidst the wrinkles of decay, and her hair still fell long, though it's blackness was striped with shocks of white.

Yes, Halda recognized, she was quite old, but she still proudly wore the brilliant red of the Southron war banners and any who thought her senile usually found themselves inexplicably dead before sunset without a mark upon them.

At last the letter was folded and laid aside and the queen's black gaze turned with an incongruously merry look upon her advisor. "I am pleased you have returned, Halda. My doings become so disorderly when you are away." She sighed. "Just when I found myself in need of your aid here Osto required extra fortifications and you disappeared for nearly six months! You do not have an inkling of how many things can be moved and shaped in that space of time, thou sluggard."

To anyone else the playful words would sound like those spoken to a missed friend, but Halda felt himself tensing under the scrutiny, wondering what hidden meaning there was in her speech. The queen was generally calm and calculating in her dealings, but she had bouts of strangeness that seldom boded well for people caught in the room with her. It was almost madness.

On the other hand, Halda was willing to wager the woman capable of feigning madness, simply to catch her servants off guard.

"I beg your indulgence, my lady." Halda bowed deeply, placing his palms on his chest in a gesture of absolute submission.

Mavranor smiled with satisfaction when her advisor did not make the mistake of offering an unsolicited explanation. Since she was the one who had sent him to Osto in the first place, she already knew why he had been there anyway. "You are forgiven. I have heard excellent reports of the city's defenses; you have completed your task adequately. Get up, there is work to be done." Her voice was now crisp and commanding, with none of the quaverings that old age generally lent to diction.

Halda rose promptly, feeling a little tension leave his shoulders. He recognized her mood now and felt more safe. Admit it or no, she did rely on his loyal service; he was the only person ever to have suggested caution on the rare occasions the queen had put forth an unwise course of action. At least: the only person still living.

"In a few minutes," Mavranor said, "King Sakkata will be coming to discuss recent intelligence I have received concerning the unhappy death of his eldest son. I wish you to be present without being present. After he has gone, I will have certain plans of which to apprise you."

Without another word Halda bowed and moved to a narrow, decorative alcove in the east wall. Sitting in the alcove on a stone pedestal was a slender dagger. Running horses were intricately carved about the knife's handle. It was a weapon that always drew Halda's attention whenever he passed it, both because of the distinctly Rohirric design and because of the dried blood still clinging to it. Though Mavranor never spoke of how it had come to be in her war room, Halda knew it was the weapon that had killed her brother Gwanur in the attacks on Rohan many years before. Thorongil. Even as his mind dwelt on the name, his glance flicked away, as if he were afraid Mavranor had overheard his thoughts.

Behind the pedestal at the back of the alcove there was a panel that slid open just far enough for an agile person — such as Halda — to slip through and hide, watching and hearing everything through carefully concealed holes. His black clothes blended totally with the darkness.

The royal visitor arrived only a few minutes after he had hidden.

Sakkata, ruler of one of the kingdoms abutting Mavranor's lands to the south, was tall even without the crimson turban on his head. His shoulders were broad and his bronze skin calloused from many wars.

Rising slowly Mavranor looked up with her most fragile expression. "You honor me to come so far yourself, King Sakkata. To what do I, a lowly, aged woman owe this very great condescension?"

"It is you who have dragged me here, old crone," Sakkata growled, his dark brows lowering over narrowed eyes. "What is this news you proffer of my son's accident?"

Halda winced at the insult to the queen, wondering what her reaction would be, but she only smiled indulgently, "Are you so sure that it was an accident? What if I were to tell you that King Yelma has boasted otherwise."

Sakkata's face turned rigid. "Impossible. Yelma is my cousin, brave in battle and above murder."

"One man's murder is another man's bravery in battle," Mavranor chided seriously. "But how could someone ancient of days expect her word to be taken without proof?" With a hand shaking slightly from imaginary feebleness, she handed Sakkata the letter she had been reading. "Judge for yourself."

The king snatched the parchment and read quickly, his brown eyes flicking from side to side. "Impossible," he breathed again when he had finished, though the word lacked conviction.

"He speaks of taking your lands now that your son is perished and he asks me to aid him, though of course I would not dare to make such a treacherous step," Mavranor said.

"Do not think me a complete simpleton," Sakkata barked, still angered at his cousin's betrayal. "I know your deeds well, Queen Mavranor. I would not trust a single mûmak of mine in your care. Were it not for the fact that this is indeed Yelma's script, I should not believe the message to have been penned by him. As it is," his fist crumpled the letter tightly, "he shall pay for my son's death."

"Indeed he shall," Mavranor agreed solemnly. "For his crimes he should be stripped of all he owns, for what wealth could possibly be equal to the life of your son? If you should request it, I would readily aid you in removing Yelma from his kingship."

Sakkata shook his head in a curt refusal. "This is a matter I shall tend to myself."

"Very well."

With a mutual inclination of their heads, Sakkata left and Mavranor sat once again. She waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded before she began to chuckle again.

"Come out, Halda! I trust you have enjoyed the spectacle of Sakkata devouring the bait?"

"Quite," Halda said, wondering just what Mavranor had been planning in his absence.

Mavranor was still musing to herself, toying with a stick of sealing wax. "And there were those who said I could stretch my hand no further south because Sakkata and Yelma would support each other through even death. I should say their cousinly alliance is not what it once was."

Halda nodded, fitting the pieces together. Undoubtedly it was Mavranor's mysterious 'Shadow' who had slain Sakkata's son and placed the Southron king in such a rage. He wondered what lies Mavranor had crafted to make Yelma threaten war as well, but it did not matter. What mattered was that it had worked. Yelma and Sakkata would not rest until they had slain each other, and Mavranor would quietly take those soldiers and lands which both kings left behind. The only question was: why her total elation? It was a deception she had woven dozens of times before. It was what had rebuilt her kingdom after her husband had perished in his fruitless attack on Rohan. What was altered this time?

Mavranor was gesturing to him. "Sit, Halda. Great power awaits the mighty queen of the Haradrim, and also those who serve her. Should you care to guess whence my eye has been turned these past months?"

Halda inclined his head, his posture upright in his chair, "I would not presume to know the intricacies of Queen Mavranor's mind."

"Well spoken, Halda, as always," Mavranor said dryly. "Fear not, I shall speak plainly." She drew out a map and spread it upon the desk, her hands shaking not at all as she rested a finger on it.

"Gondor, milady?"

"Gondor," Mavranor nodded. "It has ever been a thorn in my side. With the defeat of the Dark Lord still only nine years distant, Gondor has not yet had time to fully recover her strength and rebuild her defenses. Soldiers she has in only small numbers, for many hundreds were slain before the gates of Minas Tirith and Barad Dur." She paused a moment, an indulgent half smile on her face. "You have a cautionary remark to make; I can see it in your face."

"I only wished to point out that since the fall of Mordor many others of the Southron kings and queens have attempted to take Gondor and none yet have succeeded," Halda explained cautiously.

"It is well recalled. Naturally, I have taken that into account. Though the most crucial of my plans have been arranged just recently while you have been at Osto, the lesser preparations were set into motion years ago. Weapons have been stockpiled, food set aside for the armies, mûmakil bred and trained — and Osto is now a mighty city that will protect my lands from counter-attacks. From Sakkata and Yelma I shall have five times the number of men that any previous would-be conqueror has sent against Gondor's defenses.

"I have offered refuge to those of the Corsairs of Umbar who survived the attack of the Dead — or whoever it was that truly slew them and took their ships — and I have recruited a great many of their folk. There are those of them who have fair skin and light hair, unlike my regular soldiers. I have sent small groups of them into all corners of Gondor and Rohan in disguise as soldiers, tradesmen, and so forth where they stand ready to carry out my orders. My emissaries, if you will; or should you prefer it, my saboteurs."

"What is your battle strategy, my queen?" Halda asked, his expression fascinated and openly flattering.

Mavranor seemed all too pleased to fulfill his request. "We must take them from all sides, including the center. Our main army shall attack all along their southern border and fell them by sheer weight of numbers. I have long been sending spies along that route and they tell me 'tis weak at present. From the east and west they are held in by the mountains of Ered Nimrais and Mordor, respectively, so we and they have naught to fear from those points. From the center I shall raise my Corsair spies to cut off food from the Gondorian army and agitate the population."

"What of Rohan to their north?"

Her smile hardened. "Ah yes. Rohan. Barbarians and murderers, and continually the friends and supporters of Gondor. Together they shall fall, as together they rose, but while I shall keep Gondor whole, for Rohan I have reserved complete destruction. What they once took from me they shall repay tenfold and a hundredfold again. Once Gondor is ours, southern Rohan shall be as an open wound awaiting infection. They are too dependant upon their powerful neighbor and have mounted but little defense there." The sparkle of madness that had flickered to life with her fury against the Rohirrim faded as she finished.

Halda hesitated, a chill running through him in spite of himself. "Do you think they will not come to Gondor's aid, then?"

"Of course they shall try," Mavranor acknowledged, her finger tracing along Rohan and Gondor's shared boundaries. "But that too has been seen to in your absence. At my command my emissaries have summoned a large following of orcs to my cause; remnants from the Misty Mountains, long hidden in Enedhwaith and leaderless. They will travel up through the gap of Rohan and take Gondor unawares from the north."

"Will they be able to keep themselves hidden from the Rohirrim?"

"Secrecy will not matter over much. I have already carefully woven my web, Halda, and King Eomer," she spat the name, "will be far too distracted to pay any significant heed to either the orcs or to the needs of Gondor. When I determined to have my revenge I saw that if discord could be sown between Sakkata and Yelma, it could certainly be sown amongst the Rohirrim Marshals."

"You have indeed considered every detail, my queen," Halda said, rising from his chair to give a deep bow. "I can see neither fault nor flaw in any portion of your plans — but perfection could only be expected from a mind such as yours."

"You should have turned to court flatterer, Halda," Mavranor said calmly, smiling anyway as she rolled the map again. "And it is well you display such warm endorsement, for this plan was launched several weeks ago and is thus beyond alteration. The army even now marches north to Gondor, to be supplemented by Sakkata and Yelma's troops soon — for they shall be swift in their vengeance upon each other. When you leave I wish you to take this message," she handed him a small roll of parchment, "and send it with the gray hawk. That will light the first fires within Gondor itself."

"Might a humble servant ask who has been put in command of your spies?" Halda asked, gazing down at the parchment.

"My Shadow, Halda. I should not have thought you would need to ask."

Halda walked quickly down the hall and across the inner courtyard to the aviary where the queen's messenger birds were kept, each raised to carry her commands to all corners of Harad. It seemed she had procured a new bird — a gray hawk — who would carry messages even within Gondor. Halda gazed into the shining black eyes of the creature, wondering how it had been trained to do such a thing. He also wondered over the identity of the queen's 'Shadow'. That he was an assassin seemed obvious — though his victims never seemed harmed except for their frozen expressions of fear — and Halda had suffered many moments of sheer terror in the night when he would awake to the feeling that someone was in the room with him. Of course, no one had ever been there.

Looking around carefully, making sure that he was absolutely alone, Halda took a wire from his pocket and held it to the heat of the small lantern that lit the dark interior of the aviary. When the wire began to glow hot, he expertly slid it under the queen's seal, slicing the wax disk neatly away and opening the scroll. His dark eyes flicked down the contents. The orders were disguised and layered in secrecy, but he could guess a good deal and he discovered — as he had suspected — that the queen had not actually divulged all her plans to him. Not at all.

For a moment he stood, wondering to what use he might put these disturbing hints, but realizing immediately how dangerous was the ground upon which he was walking. One way or another he did not intend for Mavranor to rule until she died of old age. He had thoughts and plans locked up within his own shadowy mind of which his queen was utterly unaware. But as incredibly urgent as this moment seemed, he knew he had not survived so long by moving hastily.

Rolling the scroll back up he took the wax seal and held it carefully before the flame until the back turned soft again, allowing him to reaffix it as though it had never been removed.

After he placed the scroll in an oilskin pouch and secured it to the bird's leg, he stood for a moment lost in thought. This proved, if any proof had been truly needed, just how latently ruthless Mavranor was.

He pushed his hair back again, feeling so very tired. It was becoming difficult to think, crafty as he was. The queen's presence seemed to cloud the air and madden the senses. He would not allow himself to wonder if this was too great an ambition, too complicated a plan; but his head ached as he considered his options.

Sudden action would not be wise, but complete inaction could mean disaster and a bloody end to more than just his secrets.

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April 3

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Duurben was being followed.

He had sensed it from the moment he had left the dining hall and after sixty-five years as a soldier he had learned to trust his instincts. Reaching up he pushed his gray hair from his face, using the motion to cover his quick glance at the polished surface of a shield hanging on the wall. Sure enough, as clear as any mirror, it showed the flicker of a head being pulled back out of sight a few yards behind him.

The only question now was what he ought to do about it, and he hated to admit that he was uncertain. Likely it was best to accept the inevitable. There came a time when one had to admit one's age, and Duurben had found himself doing it a lot lately; especially in the last week. Not that he was decrepit yet by any means—

The thought was cut off midway as the Captain of the King's Guard paid dearly for his inattention. A warbled war-cry sounded just as the weight of his attacker crashed into the back of his knees, sending him lurching forward.

Old reflexes stood him in good stead, allowing him as he fell to simultaneously twist around and disentangle the arms grabbing at him. Before he had even recovered his breath, he had raised himself back to a crouch and pinioned his struggling foe against his chest, waiting for the boy's laughter and cries of protest to die down before he finally released him.

"Your highness, I would beg you to reconsider your choice of targets if I thought it would do any good," Duurben sighed, rising to a standing position without wasting time to mourn his loss of dignity.

Eldarion smiled broadly up at him, the boy's elvishly pointed ears lending his face an aura of mischief all its own. "It's not at all fair! I tackle Ada all the time, but it only works when he's letting me, which is no fun at all, and Uncle Legolas doesn't even let me. Naneth says no wrestling girls, Captain Erynbenn spends all his time at home now, Uncle Elladan and Uncle Elrohir haven't been here in ages, and Captain Eression's gone with Ada! That only leaves you and Mr. Pippin, and he says all the jumping gives him shivery joints, liver spots, baldness, bruises, and heart attacks. I've only caught you three times this week anyway."

Duurben bit back another sigh, wishing a plague upon the cheeky halfling; especially since Peregrin Took knew full well of the heir of Gondor's propensity for trying his budding combat skills on unsuspecting warriors. If the kind-hearted Eldarion decided to spare Pippin on the basis of these fabled medical complaints, that would only leave Duurben as a viable target. And the Gondorian captain would sooner declare himself the reincarnation of Sauron than complain out loud in the presence of anyone he served.

"As you wish, of course," he said with a short bow. "Before you attempt a fourth attack, however, you may wish to go down to the courtyard. Your father and mother have just arrived." He indicated the window with a short nod of his head and by the time his focus came back to Eldarion, the young prince was already long gone.

Chapter 2

The King's Other Face

April 3

Minas Tirith

Aragorn reigned his horse in, his gaze following the white circles of Minas Tirith and the Tower of Ecthellion rising above him. The wind whipped through his dark hair, bringing the scent of woodlands and earth from somewhere far away and filling his chest with the wild free air of the west.

A gentle touch rested on his forearm and he turned to the elven woman beside him, returning the concerned look in her dark blue eyes with an innocent stare of his own.

"Come back to me, my Dúnadan," Arwen whispered in her own tongue, eyes smiling in spite of herself.

"Am I not beside you, my Evenstar?"

"No, you were far away roaming amongst the hills of the north and the plains of the south — recalling somewhat of those adventures and dangers which filled your life before I entered it."

"Perhaps I was. But adventure and danger did not end when your face first entered my waking dreams, Arwen. I seem to recall a good many things happening afterwards. The War of the Ring, for a mild example." The boyish twinkle in his eyes was hidden by the grave tone in which he spoke, concealing the couple's badinage from the guards dismounting around them. Only Erynbenn and Eression, being Dúnedain, understood the gray tongue anyway, and they were used to such jesting.

Arwen sighed, drawing her hood from her own dark hair and relinquishing her reigns to the stable boy as Aragorn reached up to help her dismount. "What excuse may a poor woman offer? My hand slipped, the universe moved temporarily out of my control, and it was not I who offered your services to escort the most evil token in all of Middle Earth to the fires of the Dark Lord's mountain. That part of the disaster was your own doing."

"Not disaster, surely," Aragorn demurred, raising her slender hand to his lips and kissing it gently. His blue eyes did not try to hide the depth of his love.

Her soft lips curved into a smile as the ring of Barahir flashed green on her finger. "Again, Estel, you have cheated in our battle of wits."

"Blame your brothers."

The wide door of the palace swung open with a crash at the combined push of two children, and a chorus of shouts echoed across the stone courtyard and grassy lawn to greet them.

"Ada!"

"Naneth!"

Aragorn laughed as he caught the flying figure of his daughter, lifting her and spinning her around. "What news, fair Elenwen?" he asked her, smiling as her face turned thoughtful and a good deal more serious than one might expect of a six-year-old.

"Arien took Gilraen and me for a walk, and Eldarion jumped his pony over a bush while I was on it with him, and Naneth's trees are beginning to grow buds, and Pippin says that spring is coming. Oh yes, and I stitched a bird on my tapestry, but it doesn't look like a bird, it looks like a dwarf with feathers," the girl finished, smiling up at her father with a face so like her mother's it was uncanny.

"It sounds as though you were absolutely bored," Aragorn teased. "Next time we leave for a week I shall make sure you have activities to keep you occupied."

"Not at all, Ada!" Eldarion protested earnestly. He was standing in front of his mother, her hands resting on his shoulders as she laughed over her daughter's report. "I tracked and caught Duurben three times while you were gone and he fell right over the third time — he didn't even see me coming!"

The king sighed, wondering how he had come to inherit such an enthusiastic hunter. Oh, he remembered, of course; this is exactly what you wished on me, was it not, Father? When I strung a trip-wire outside your study door…

"Eldarion, what have I told you about tackling poor Duurben?"

The boy gave him a blank look, implying that whatever had been said had left his mind as soon as it had entered.

"Likely he did see you, but he is far too old a friend and too decorous a subject to ever directly request that you leave him in peace. His task is to protect us, my son, and he doesn't need the complication of having attacks come from the very quarter which he defends. If you must tackle anyone, let it be me."

"Aye, or me, your highness," Erynbenn put in from behind the family, his face still boyish in spite of having long since reached full maturity. "Or Eression here — he wouldn't mind over much, I think."

Eression inclined his head in agreement, not actually smiling as his attention was split between the conversation and the emptying wind-swept courtyard.

"Ada, may I?" Eldarion asked, his eyes alight at the challenge.

"Rangers corrupting my son from all sides," Aragorn growled in feigned irritation.

"I fear you must count yourself among their number, Estel," Arwen said, "for you and Legolas have taught our son the greater portion of his combative skills and it would be unjust indeed for you to lay all the blame on other shoulders."

"As usual, my wife is wise beyond the skill of elves or Valar to measure. How can I argue? Come, we must take ourselves inside. Spring may indeed be on its way — and I would not be one to doubt Pippin's word on the matter — but it is not here yet and Elenwen will catch a cold with no cloak on."

Together they entered the palace, Erynbenn and Eression bringing up the rear and closing the heavy doors behind them. Waiting at the foot of the main staircase stood a tall, smiling woman with watchful dark eyes and long brown hair, a small girl holding her hand.

"Arien," Arwen greeted the woman warmly.

"My lady," the lady-in-waiting gave an abbreviated curtsey, letting go of the girl's hand as the child gave a cry of delight and ran to her mother. "I am glad to see you back so soon. Gilraen has been missing you most dreadfully."

Gilraen accentuated this statement by clinging to her mother's knees, burying her pretty face in the folds of warm silver velvet. "Naneth," she said, tilting her head back so that her dark curls parted to reveal her small pointed ears, and her silver eyes danced with energy. "Ar'en braided my hair!"

"I can see that," Arwen laughed, running her fingers through her daughter's loose curls and untangling the white ribbon that had once been tied in a bow. "And have you behaved yourself, my sweet one?"

The girl nodded vigorously, her short nose wrinkling emphatically.

"She was an angel, my lady," Arien put in warmly, her calm features giving away no evidence of her having chased the royal dervish up and down stairs for the past seven days.

Arwen's elven ladies-in-waiting had each traveled to the Havens with their families and she had decided not to replace them with others of her kin. Instead she had chosen Arien, a half-blood Numenorean; for though marriages among that people were rare, her father had been of the northern Dúnedain under Aragorn. Arien had since become a welcome member of the household, both through her role as Arwen's only handmaid and her endless help with the children, and the king and queen trusted her implicitly.

"I thank you for the deception, Arien," said Arwen, kissing Gilraen on the forehead and knowing her wild nature all too well. For a child of only three years, the youngest daughter of Elessar and Arwen had a speed that could match any of Rohan's steeds.

"How was your journey?" the lady-in-waiting asked.

"Quite restful," Aragorn nodded, removing his cloak and feeling glad that for now he was surrounded by people who had no illusions about who he was. In this room he was Estel, and Strider the Ranger, and Ada. Elessar was weary and needed a few days of rest. "Neither beast nor orc nor Southron to be seen. Though that may have had something to do with certain people insisting upon a wide guard perimeter at all times." With great effort he checked his desire to scowl, but Eression gave him a stern look nevertheless.

"It is their duty, sire," Arien said, her brown eyes twinkling. "You would not have them behave disloyally by shirking it, would you?"

"Thank you, Arien," Erynbenn said, sweeping her a grateful bow. "Though there is no reasoning with your king when it comes to his love of freedom. Unfortunately, we were forced to point out the possible danger to the queen before he decided to forfeit his plan to slip away from us. Not that he could have — he trained us too well for that."

Aragorn frowned austerely at the man. "I am still your senior in tracking, Captain Erynbenn, as well as in battle, and I cannot have you belittling me before my children — it might drive me to slip from under your nose in retaliation and leave you to face my wife's wrath. Again, that is."

Arwen's eyebrows rose and Erynbenn winced.

"Actually, I was glad of the peace," Aragorn admitted. "A rogue Southron would have quite ruined the journey."

"If the Southrons attack here," Eldarion said eagerly, "they won't be able to pass the front gates! And if some climb over the walls, I'll help you find them, Ada."

"Thank you for the offer, my son, but there will be no Southrons here and your Uncle Gimli should arrive any day with the dwarves he promised to help refurbish those gates. He has been saying that the first version was only a draft and that the second will put all other examples of dwarven stone-craft to shame. Perhaps you and I shall take him to see Uncle Legolas in Ithilien while he is here."

"He would like that!"

"I agree. Now I must go speak with Duurben and then we shall all go to see those buds your sister says are on Naneth's trees. Go with Arien and get your cloaks."

With an answer of agreement from Eldarion, a solemn nod from Elenwen, and a gleeful squeal from Gilraen at the word 'cloaks', which implied something about being outdoors, all three children raced up the stairs. Arien followed, her cranberry colored skirt swishing with her sure steps as she called after them, "Prince Eldarion, your cloak isn't up there — you left it in the dining hall."

Leaving Arwen to look in on state of the household, Aragorn dismissed Erynbenn from his duties early and ordered him off home to his young wife and son. "King or no, she will do me an injury if I keep you from her longer than is necessary," Aragorn remarked.

"Of course not, for Melima is native to this city and far too in awe of you to do you harm," Erynbenn protested, laughing.

"I am not willing to stake my life on that reassurance."

Once Erynbenn had departed, Aragorn took Eression with him and went in search of his captain of the guard.

Duurben was in close conversation with an impossibly short subordinate when Aragorn finally found him. The diminutive soldier had an intent expression on his face and was carrying his helmet leisurely under one arm.

"Hullo Aragorn!" called Pippin.

"Your highness," Duurben greeted the king with a bow and a smile. "And Captain Eression. I am pleased to see you both returned in good health."

"Greetings, Sir Pippin, Duurben," said Aragorn, touching the man's shoulder warmly. "How has Minas Tirith fared in my absence?"

"Fine as spring rain, and a fair bit of it at that," the hobbit announced cheerfully.

"As quiet as may be expected," said Duurben.

"Meaning 'not very', since my son does live here, after all."

"My lord, you know I meant—"

"Nothing of the kind, of course," the king finished humorously. "Everyone seems bent on presenting my wild young ones in the best light; as if Arwen and I do not know their ways inside and out. Is there then nothing in need of my attention?"

"I do not believe so, no."

Aragorn felt relieved, though he had not truly expected anything to have gone wrong.

"May we ask how things went over with Prince Imrahil?" Pippin asked pleasantly, his hobbit curiosity overriding all of Duurben's attempts to instill a sense of rank in him.

"Very well, thank you. The Prince is the soul of hospitality and Dol Amroth is prosperous in spite of the recent attacks from the Southrons. It is a good thing that these kings of Harad have not yet tried to unite against us."

"Do you really think they might?" Pippin asked. "If so I'll have to write home to Diamond that Sam and his Rosie should make their visit to us soon. He's very keen on oliphaunts."

"I'm afraid I can't share his enthusiasm in this case," said Aragorn. "We're still not fully recovered in strength and an attack could prove disastrous if placed correctly. I have been meaning to summon Faramir here so that we might investigate the best plan of action should such an assault actually cross the border, but each time the danger has passed and I have neglected to meet with him. Perhaps I am getting old and tired."

"Hardly," Pippin said stoutly. "Why Captain Durrben is a good many years older than you and he's still as quick on his feet as one could hope to be. I only hope I shall be half so sprightly when I grow old."

Duurben gave a long-suffering sigh which was covered by Aragorn's laugh.

"Actually, Sir Peregrin," Eression murmured, when it became clear the king was too overcome with mirth to offer an explanation for his laughter, "King Elessar is about ten years the captain's senior. It is the blood of Numenor that tricks you."

"Oh," said Pippin, shaking his head ruefully over his thoughtlessness. "And here I thought I'd stopped saying outrageous things years ago. I suppose that is why Lady Arien and Captain Erynbenn look so very young still too?"

"Something like that," Eression agreed, not mentioning his own similar ancestry.

"I do apologize, Captain, sir, I meant no offence whatsoever," Pippin bowed to his superior.

"You never do, Sir Peregrin," Duurben agreed. "You never do. And I forgive you, though it is well for you that your service under the Stewards was of but short duration."

Pippin frowned, perhaps recalling the horrible end of the man to whom he had first sworn fealty. "Do you think Lord Denethor would have become bothered by my loose ways?"

The guardsman's face was mostly expressionless, his usual mode when discussion turned to his former lord. He did not answer.

"Having known him many years ago, Pippin," Aragorn said, "I would be inclined to suppose so. Thus it's most fortunate that your current ruler is so very loose in his own ways," he bit back a smile, "and that King Eomer is of a similar disposition."

"Merry's a good deal more proper than I," Pippin pointed out. "Eomer has less trouble to handle than you. By the way, have your children seen you? Eldarion's been missing you terribly and kept insisting on hearing every story I know of you over and over and over and over again. I tell you, Aragorn, next time you go away you shall have to leave us Legolas to keep the lad occupied."

"Legolas has already occupied Eldarion more than enough with tales of my reckless youth. And speaking of my children, I had promised them a walk for which I shall be late if Arwen and Arien are as efficient as usual."

"Best not keep them waiting, then."

As Aragorn and Eression made their way towards the doors again, Eression said, "I would ask you, my lord king, if pity should have a place in jesting."

"You refer to my maneuvering Duurben into calling my son wild and myself loose in my ways, I suppose. Never fear, he does not mind; he knows me too well. And one might also ask whether you have any pity for me. Never once did you succeed in speaking to me by my true name when we still fought in the north, and now that I am king I fear all hope is lost for unstilted conversation!"

"You believe this is stilted?"

"Yes, Eression, stilted enough. We have been friends a long time, whether you name it thus or no. We should not have to still be conversing as a thrall to his owner as you insisted when first you pledged me your allegiance." He cast the captain a sidelong smile. "You still have a great space yet to go, but if it is my duty as your king to cure you of excessive ceremony, then I shall do so. Eventually."

"Yes, your majesty."

"For the sake of the Valar, anything but 'your majesty'! Grant me that at least."

A twinkle might have sparkled from the all too serious eyes. "Yes, sire."

Chapter 3

Concerning Bartho and Erynbenn

April 6

Minas Tirith, Gondor

It was three days after the king and queen's return that a powerful looking soldier on horseback, much spattered with mud from his journey, reached the outer gates. The password he used proclaimed him to be a general in King Elessar's army, and it was a much awed gateman who let him in. Usually such riders were couriers; Gondorian military of high rank seldom rode unescorted.

Leaving his horse at the outer stables — for none but the king and queen and their retinue, or urgent messengers, were permitted to bring horses inside the centermost circles of the city — the general plodded his way towards up the long road to the palace.

As he was wending between the market people in the fifth circle a passing soldier, not recognizing his rank under the heavy cloak, asked, "Will you be passing through the second circle?"

"Barring fire or robbery, yes," the general said dryly. "What service do you wish of me?"

"Oh," the young man laughed, reddening a little, "how did you know I had a service to ask?"

"The city of Minas Tirith is not yet so peaceful nor so content that you would ask after my destination merely to satisfy a raging interest in a fellow citizen's well-being."

"An excellent point, sir," the soldier laughed again. "I had hoped perhaps you could bear this message to the gatekeeper there."

"I will do so," the general nodded, accepting the message and making an elven gesture of farewell.

The young man paused in confusion midway through the Gondorian farewell, but by the time he had recognized the other's salute the general had disappeared around a corner.

Anárion, the gatekeeper at the inner circle, was not as puzzled at the sight of an unattended general as the outer gatekeepers had been, but he was surprised to find one carrying a common message.

"He ought not to have asked it of you," Anárion protested seriously.

The general snorted. "Doubtless he has faults enough, and ignorance is a common malady, but perspective must be kept. He did not ask me clean his boots or muck out his stable or murder his landlord."

A captain entered the gatekeeper's lodge in time to hear the last sentence and his face lit into a wide smile. "Bartho! How good it is to see you! How came you here? I had thought you attached permanently to the southern borders, so seldom do you visit us. I'd wager you've not been this far into the city since King Elessar took the throne!"

General Bartho's face was a dour as ever, but he could not help the light of pleasure that livened his dark eyes. "Greetings to you as well, Captain Erynbenn. I see you still exaggerate. I have been to the city a good many times, and the palace frequently too. But you already knew that full well."

Erynbenn grinned and hugged his old friend, thumping him affectionately on the back as the taller man returned the embrace. "Come, you must dine with Melima, Tavarion and I."

"Gladly, once I have spoken with the king."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Bartho's report was gruff and to the point, rather like his personality, Aragorn thought.

"So Osto has been refortified and supplied with men and weapons. What are the odds that the increased defense is only to keep Queen Mavranor safe from the other Haradic kings?" the king asked, examining the map while watching his general from the corner of his eye.

"That is most likely," Bartho agreed. "But there is also a chance she is expecting a counter-attack from us."

"A counter-attack requires an attack," Aragorn pointed out. "Is there any evidence that she is getting ready to launch one?"

"No."

"Then there is little to do one way or the other."

Bartho accepted the goblet of wine Aragorn poured for him and nodded slowly. "I fear I must agree, though it seems to me that we have been too long without an attack."

"A year is too long?" Aragorn asked rhetorically.

"I brought you this intelligence myself hoping I might take another company of men back with me."

The king nodded, gazing thoughtfully out at the setting sun. "Yes, of course. If you feel it is necessary, I trust your judgment. I believe Erynbenn's contingent is the only one currently in decent enough order to accompany you. Eression's men were sent east to aid Osgiliath in the reconstruction."

The general nodded his thanks. "I've also a good many supplies to obtain along my return, so I should leave soon."

"Of course."

They talked a while longer of various matters until Bartho mentioned that he had been invited to Erynbenn's house to dine and Aragorn promptly ordered him off. The general made his way through the halls, feeling an unfamiliar worry at the back of his mind that he would not be able to make his way out. He had been in the palace before, but never for long enough to memorize its layout. Dúnadan though he was, he soon found himself in front of the entrance to the kitchen with no recollection of how he had come there.

"Doubtless I shall be too late for dinner," he rumbled under his breath.

The door swung open and he stepped out of the way, looking purposefully down the hall so as to conceal his uncertainty. There were prolonged clinking sounds as if the person exiting had become stuck in the doorway.

"Pardon me, sir, but would you be so kind as to hold this while I close the door?" a female voice asked, the words lilting with humor and frustration.

Bartho turned to find himself facing a tall woman, short to him, with her arms full of small trays and a pitcher tucked precariously under one arm. Her brown hair had been fastened back, but it was loose now and coming down in strands about her shoulders, clinging damply to her brow after the warmth of the kitchen.

Quickly he relieved her of several trays, allowing her a free hand to close the door, but when she reached out to take them back he shook his head. "Give me your destination and I'll carry them. Accidents happen too often when one is not laden like a pack mule."

Her eyebrows rose. "That is the first time I have been likened to a mule. I am flattered… I think," she said. Bartho frowned, recognizing the irony but not the cause. Seeing his puzzlement she added, "Thank you for your help. If you'll just follow me."

Moving with the ease of long residence the woman went up several flights and down several halls until she reached a small, private dining hall with the sound of children's voices within. Taking back the trays so that he could open the door for her, she bent her knees in a perforce abbreviated curtsey. "Thank you again, my lord."

She was about to move into the room when Bartho stopped her. "Excuse me… I am uncertain as to the direction of the doors from here. The maze in here would confuse a rabbit."

The woman laughed then, a low, rippling sound of mirth. Her brown eyes twinkled. "Then I am a mule and you are a rabbit; you have quite the silver tongue, my lord. You must travel straight down this hall, to the right, and down the stairs. It is not far at all."

"I'm grateful, er…"

"Arien," she said, still smiling upon him as she might upon a charming lad.

"Lady Arien," he bowed. Turning about he left her and with a last chuckle she moved into the dining room with her load.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

"There you are, my friend. We feared that one of the horrific fates you have so often predicted for yourself had finally befallen you!" Erynbenn jested, standing aside in the door to let Bartho into the small house.

From the kitchen Melima appeared with hers and Erynbenn's small son upon her hip, her blonde hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She smiled brightly at Bartho, pale blue eyes vivid in the after light of the set sun.

"Hello, Bartho! My husband and I have missed you — he especially." She turned with a special glance for her husband.

"Do you need help, dearest?" Erynbenn asked, his attitude still utterly infatuated after three years.

Melima had smiled at him one day when he was making his way through the market and the rest had only been a matter of time, in spite of Bartho's none-too-subtle warnings about women in general and smiling, fair-haired ones in particular. The doomsayer had soon had to admit that he had been wrong in his advice — at least when it came to Melima.

"Eryn, will you take Tavarion for me? He begs to be held, but I cannot coddle and cook at the same time; I know of no one so capable." She laughed.

"I do," Erynbenn replied. He reached to take his son and kissed his wife gently on the cheek before she returned to the kitchen, her face rosy.

Turning back to his friend, Erynbenn opened his mouth—

"No," Bartho said firmly.

"How did you know what I was going to say?"

"Because every time I visit you here you tell me I ought to wed. Erynbenn, few people find bliss in marriage."

Erynbenn sat down, allowing one-year-old Tavarion to stand between his knees. "How would you know? You've never been married."

"I've been close enough."

His friend ignored him. "Besides which I can name you a goodly number of people who enjoy absolute happiness in their marriages. Myself, as you well know, and Aragorn and Queen Arwen, for another easy example. Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn, King Eomer and Queen Lothíriel, Beregond and Veronda—"

"Enough, enough, I see your point," Bartho grunted.

His friend smiled, knowing from many long years of companionship just when to stop pressing him. "Where do you go from here?"

"Back to the border. And I have in my pouch orders for you to accompany me."

"Really?" Erynbenn asked in some surprise. "Is something wrong?"

"Not yet."

The typically dark reply seemed to reassure rather than worry Erynbenn. "Melima will not be pleased."

"You could take her with you."

"I know it's permitted, but I don't like to think of her and Tav so far from the safety of these walls. The border is not yet a secure place to be. No, my friend, it is best for her to remain in Minas Tirith."

"And you call me paranoid," Bartho pointed out dryly.

Erynbenn laughed, causing Tavarion to giggle in response. "True! But paranoia in small amounts is called by a different name: 'caution'. It is a healthy thing to have, Bartho," he glanced sidelong at his friend, "but don't let it control your life."

"Dinner is finished at last," Melima called gaily and both men rose as one, Erynbenn passing Tavarion to his startled friend.

"Here, he likes you."

With a grin the younger man went to the table, leaving Bartho to stare the small boy in the face. Tavarion returned the stare for several silent minutes and then smiled around his fingers, displaying six teeth and squinting his brown eyes into a laugh.

Bartho recalled that he liked laughing brown eyes, though he could not discern when he had first developed the preference. Shaking the thought away, he followed Erynbenn to the table.

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April 6

Somewhere in Northern Gondor

The last rays of the sun had long disappeared and the moon rose, revealing a low woodcutter's house. The woodcutter himself had disappeared inexplicably several months before, but for the most part the local villagers had declared good riddance to the cruel drunkard's passing. At least the new tenants kept themselves to themselves instead of chasing the village maidens. In truth, no one could admit to having ever laid eyes on the new occupant of the house, and it was assumed that the new owner had not yet arrived after all. Whatever the case, Gondorians were not hobbits, and their curiosity did not last long; whether anyone lived there or did not, it affected their lives not at all and was not worth their attention.

Tonight, however, as the stars came fully out there was movement by the secluded house. A gray hawk sailed in on a moist spring breeze, a roll of parchment tied to its leg. From the doorway stepped a tall figure, graceful and silent as an elf, ensconced in a black cloak. He held up an arm that had no falconer's glove to protect it and whispered something in a hoarse voice as the bird landed. Shifting its weight, careful that its claws should not injure its master, the bird waited as he removed the message and gave it a piece of meat as a reward before releasing it towards the old hen coop that was its home.

There was the sound of flint and steel striking and a lantern sprang to life, illuminating the small scroll. The shadowy figure read it carefully once through, memorizing it instantly, and then set fire to it. The orange light reflected in his dark blue eyes as the message fell to ashes.

"Gentlemen," he called, his voice harsh and guttural in contrast to his smooth movements.

From the house there came three other men, each harmless looking tradesmen — if it weren't for the peculiar gleam in their eyes. They had been corsairs once, masters of their own ships and honored for their victories in battle. Now they were a blacksmith, a cooper, and a carpenter, all of them Gondorian (it was believed) and living in a small Gondorian hamlet. And they were only too impatient to claim their revenge upon the king who had brought them to this pass.

With eager expressions they waited for their hooded leader to give them their orders. But he paused and looked over their shoulders, calling a second time in an even raspier tone, "I meant all of you."

A fourth man joined them, also cloaked, and seemingly ill at ease. "I am here, no need to shout."

"Good," the leader nodded. "The queen has spoken and we will have need of you, Hablak." It was a Southron word meaning 'traitor' and the corsairs smirked at its use, though the traitor himself scowled.

"Are you certain you will not go yourself?" the traitor asked. He knew of the leader's strange skill in assassination.

The leader nodded, making his way behind the house. "Certain. And do not question my judgment. In here is the weapon; take it with you now, else you may not have a chance to come back for it without being missed. Unless I send different orders, the day of the attack is set for four days from now. You know what is needed between now and then. Do not fail."

"I won't," the traitor promised, gingerly accepting the woven basket that the leader gave him. "You will have the gold ready for me upon completion of this task? I may not be able to come and claim it right away, but again I might."

"Of course." Where the shadow of the leader's hood ended, the moonlight illuminated a thin mouth which curved into a smile.

Nodding uneasily the traitor turned and strode into the trees. Hidden within the wood was his horse and, if he rode quickly, he would be back in Minas Tirith before sun-up.

"Sir?" the corsair-blacksmith asked.

"Yes, Talas?" the guttural voice was heavy with amusement.

"What are our orders?"

"Ah yes. Come with me and I'll give them to you. Your long waiting has ended. The war will finally begin."

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April 7

Minas Tirith

It was cool the next morning and Bartho rose early, volunteering to go ready the horses so that Erynbenn could bid his family farewell in privacy. Mist clung to the stone streets and only a few craftsmen were about, on their way to their shops.

"You will be home soon?" Melima asked. Her blonde hair wisped about her face and glowed slightly in the white light of daybreak.

"As soon as may be," her husband replied feelingly. "If there is no danger, then we should not have to stay long. Besides, when Eression's men return his company will likely be sent to relieve us."

"That is good," she nodded. The motion of her head seemed to shake some of the moisture from her eyes, sending it trailing down her fair cheeks.

Erynbenn's face contracted with pain and he reached up to gently cup her face in both his hands, wiping the few tears away with his thumbs. "Dearest… please don't cry. I can bear anything else in the world but that."

She closed her eyes, the wet causing her lashes to cling into points, and let herself be drawn against his chest in a close embrace. "I'm sorry, Eryn. It is only that… you just came home. I miss you so terribly when you are away."

"And I you," he whispered into her hair. "I shall send you letters as often as I may and I shall return home soon. I love you, melda." The word was elvish, drawing something of the eloquence of that people. "Like water and air and life itself."

She tilted her head to look up at him, her tears having left dark streaks on his coat. "Am I that much to you?"

"More."

A small smile graced her lips, chasing the shadow from her blue eyes. "Tavarion and I will leave a candle in the window for you, so you will find the house when you return."

"Thank you."

He smiled with an expression of pretended impatience as she adjusted his cloak against the morning chill and handed him his riding gloves.

"I love you too, melda," she whispered. "You take my heart with you."

With a last long look at his small home nestled against the inner wall of the circle, and at the woman standing in the doorway, her pale blue shawl wrapped tight about her shoulders, Erynbenn turned and strode into the mist.

When he arrived at the stables, Bartho was already mounted and holding his horse ready for him.

"Ready?" the general asked.

"Yes." The words were carefully light and sardonic. "Let us go where more great and deadly danger awaits us."

"Not to mention rain, if we don't have a spring frost. We're due for it."

"Naturally."

Chapter 4

Hobbit Knight, Hobbit Holdwine

April 8

Minas Tirith, Gondor

It was not Pippin's fault. Even Duurben had agreed on that point. But somewhere between a diligent night watch and an early breakfast in the kitchens, the hobbit had discovered the errant Gilraen in the act of scaling a tall cabinet of books. What with him being as short as he was and she being as determined as she was to reach her goal — namely: the interesting shiny thing in the glass case on top of the cabinet — she was too far up for him to reach.

For a moment he had debated about whether he had enough time to fetch Aragorn, Arwen, or a chair, and then all decisions were taken from him as the girl lost her grip on the carved scrollwork and fell backwards with a startled shriek. Stepping forward, the hobbit caught her and was slammed full length to the floor, cracking his head hard enough to see stars.

Arien had discovered them a few minutes later, her desperate combing of the palace finally drawing her to the unique scene of a dazed halfling leaning heavily against the wall and a small girl prattling to him about the shiny thing in the case, and how dirty her dress was, and how Eldarion had carved a wood figure of Uncle Legolas all by himself. Gratefully the handmaid had taken the child and left Pippin to muddle along towards the kitchen again.

It was only discovered later, when he complained mildly of still hurting everywhere, that he had broken one of his ribs.

"Valar above, Peregrin," Duurben had exclaimed, examining the dark bruising on his subordinate's small chest, "how could you not notice such a thing?"

"I was hungry," Pippin shrugged.

His captain had merely shaken his head, an exasperated humor in his eyes. "Hobbits."

So he had been dismissed from duty for the day and was instead in the Houses of Healing, awaiting the attention of the Warden and feeling distinctly bored. Humming one of old Bilbo's songs under his breath, he bounced his heels a few times off the oversized chair and finally hopped up with a wince and poked his head around the half open door across from him.

"Hullo, Tantur!" the hobbit greeted the room's occupant. "Are you still in here for that infection of yours? You had Captain Duurben quite worried."

The soldier laughed through his short beard, a little ruefully, "There is nothing quite so embarrassing as to stab yourself with your own sword and wind up sick because of it."

"Even the best make mistakes," Pippin pointed out. It was an interesting fact that the hobbit was actually a good deal better with his little sword than almost half of the other city guards were with their large ones. He wasn't as good as Tantur, though. "If it makes you feel any better, he's proud of you. Except I suppose you're too old for that to please you, eh?"

Tantur shrugged. "I'm not so old as all that, I should hope, but it is an uncle's duty to be proud of his nephew, no matter what the nephew's skill."

"It is not," Pippin declared, thinking of a few of his own uncles who considered him a wandering scamp.

The man conceded the point. "What are you doing here, Master Peregrin?"

"Oh, broken ribs or something," he sighed. "Inconvenient nuisance, if you ask me. I'll miss luncheon and the food they serve here is kept light to prevent upset stomachs."

At that moment one of the Healer's assistants leaned her head about the door and gave a sigh of relief, "There you are, master halfling. The Healer is ready to help you."

"Right," Pippin acknowledged gloomily. "Well, good luck Tantur. Hope they don't keep you locked up here all the time."

Shaking his head, Tantur reassured the hobbit, "No, we are allowed to wander at will so long as we do not overtax ourselves. But though I will be free to go by this afternoon, it is quite fascinating to see the herbs and techniques which are used to heal the sick. I shall almost be sorry to leave."

"Sounds horrid to me," Pippin frowned, "but to each their own and I won't say doctoring is not a useful skill to have. I'll see you tomorrow then, or the next day if Duurben refuses to let you back on duty immediately."

"The next day, then, Master Peregrin," smiled the soldier thinly as he inclined his head. "I know my uncle's cautious streak like a book."

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April 10

Edoras, Rohan

Outside the Golden Halls the perpetual wind that blew between the mountains lashed the last of winter's chill through the clothing of the Rohirrim. At least, through the clothing of those unfortunate few at work outdoors.

Eomer was not one of those unfortunate few, but he was cursed in a far more unique fashion. Sir Meriadoc, his continually hardworking and cheerful right-hand hobbit, called it 'the sheer plagueiness of being king'. Not that he ever said such things inside or even remotely near the Golden Hall itself. No, Eomer had discovered that the best way to induce such bouts of charmingly blunt honesty was to take the hobbit down to the cellars for an evening tankard of ale. And while it was nice to know he could count on Merry never to say anything inappropriate while on duty, there were times when Eomer wished the hobbit had not trained himself quite so well. There were times when Eomer needed blunt honesty.

This was one of those times.

"Westu hal, Eomer King," Merry greeted from the door, the Rohirric carefully pronounced and yet still carrying that endearing hobbit warmth. As if, without using any such words, he'd just announced the sun was shining outside. "Queen Lothíriel told me I was to make sure you didn't work straight through the afternoon meal again."

"She thinks I don't eat enough?" the king snorted. He began shuffling aside a pile of parchment.

"Something of the kind, yes," Merry nodded, closing the door and approaching the desk. "Personally I think you're worrying yourself over something."

Eomer glanced up at the hobbit to find that Merry was already staring right back at him. Perhaps today would be an honest day after all. "Perceptive. What am I worrying myself over, then, Master Holbytla?"

"Maybe those accusations of horse thieving Marshal Eodreth has put to Marshal Freca? Or perhaps the threat of Marshal Helwine to keep for himself Marshal Gleolaf's lower grazing lands if his rights to the eastern side of the river aren't given back. Or perhaps the new, highly unpleasant, rumor that Marshal Fram has kidnapped Marshal Elfwild's granddaughter on the eve of her wedding to Captain Theodran." The hobbit tilted his head and sighed. "Seems to me there's not a whole lot to choose between them — could be any which of them that's bothering you. More likely it's all the above."

"Again I say: perceptive. Do I even want to know where you get your information?" Eomer growled. He wasn't upset with the hobbit, but he didn't like the unexplained volatility that list revealed in his Marshals.

Merry shrugged. "Listening. It's something of a hobby of mine. As Frodo found out to his dismay when he tried to take the Ring to Rivendell with only Sam for company." He grinned a little and Eomer found himself smiling back, albeit with a crease still marring his forehead.

"You have an inkling of how much work I have done to ensure Rohan cannot be approached from foreign enemies without warning," the king said, leaning back in his carved chair. "Both my uncle and grandfather nearly fell to unexpected attacks — Thengel to the Haradrim and Theoden to Saruman — and I swore it would not happen under my charge. Yet it seems I've spent too much time looking outwards. How can so many quarrels and attacks have occurred from within my own borders? How could they have escalated so quickly? I have sent spies to the far corners of Middle Earth, and yet here in Rohan, with Fram and Elfwild suddenly out for blood, our entire southern border is in chaos."

"Good thing the only people to the south of us are Gondorian," Merry put in, taking a seat of his own.

"Aye, Gondorian. And any orcs that might still be lurking in Enedhwaith."

Merry's blue eyes were warm with sincerity. "My lord, if I could speak plainly?"

"Please do."

"Well, then, Eomer, your people love you. More than ever they loved your father or grandfather or any of the others before — and I don't mean that as a slight on your relatives. They trust you. That'll hold them together, no matter what they think their neighbors have done to them. It's a bother and a nuisance having them all picking and squabbling like tweenagers," Eomer had to smile at his description, "but this will pass. And we can't have you making a wreck of yourself with all this worrying."

"Thank you, my friend. I just wish this particular enemy was one I could see."

The hobbit tilted his curly head and flipped the corners of a stack of parchment idly between his thumb and forefinger. "It does seem odd for them to start acting like this all of a sudden, doesn't it? Hm." He fished in his belt pouch for his pipe. "If I may?"

"Please," Eomer nodded, retrieving his own pipe. Between Aragorn and Merry, the king of Rohan had successfully adopted a love for pipe weed. Especially when he needed to think.

Soft rings of smoke began to drift towards the ceiling, translucent and delicate as grass shadows in the evening, or fog over a river.

"You know," Merry said thoughtfully, almost unaware that he was speaking aloud, "when I was about twenty-three and Pip was fifteen he came to spend Yule at Buckland with me. It was crowded and everyone was busy decorating and so forth. So, of course, no sooner had Pippin got there but he proceeded to cause enough mischief to draw every single woman in the place after his head. My mother had a set of tea cups she was particularly fond of, so of course Pip broke three, and then Cousin Celandine found a funny sort of paint on her mirror so that it made her seem to have whiskers when she looked in it, and then Cousin Hilda's spectacles were found tied to the cat's tale, and so forth." He gazed into his pipe and grinned. "Pip's got quite an imagination for someone with cotton instead of brains," he said fondly.

Eomer smiled back, allowing himself to relax. What was it about hobbits that could allow life to be just this simple? Maybe this explained where Aragorn had gotten it.

"Pippin admitted to me that his mother and sisters were used to his antics and usually paid no mind, and he admitted that my relatives seemed tougher, but by then it was too late. It took three days for things to get really serious, and he was going to be staying for a month, so I told him he'd best watch his back because I had no intention of watching it for him. 'No worries, Merry,' he says to me, 'don't you think I can keep myself out of trouble? Trust me.' Needless to say I washed my hands of the affair; it's always the best plan when Pip gets that look in his eyes. But I watched too, and the funniest things kept happening…"

Merry paused to exhale a particularly large cloud. "Every time one of my aunts or cousins would start to come after him, ready with a tongue-lashing, a cat would suddenly leap at their hair, or one of my dad's hounds would start barking for no reason at all, and once one of my Uncle Merimac's ponies came trotting right into the sitting room before old Grandmother Menegilda could properly heft her cane. I knew it couldn't be a coincidence, and sometimes I'd just catch sight of Pip making an odd movement right before it happened, but nobody could figure it out. Inside a week Pippin had been almost completely forgotten. The topic of debate was fastened firmly onto the family pets and what was addling them. Celandine began to wail at anyone who'd listen that all the cats had gone mad, and Mother said that if Dad's dogs made one more sound they were sleeping in the barn, and Uncle Meri said 'not while his ponies were still in there', and Dad said the ponies might be Uncle Meri's but the stables were his, and Cousin Seredic said Uncle Meri's ponies could stand to be trained better anyway, and Berilac said Seredic's wife had a nose like a prune, which of course led to Cousin Hilda slapping poor Uncle Meri."

Perhaps the hobbit noticed that he his lord was looking lost, for he paused and said helpfully, "Hilda is Seredic's wife and Berilac's Uncle Meri's son."

"Ah," Eomer murmured. He supposed it shouldn't count as a lie, since hadn't actually claimed to understand.

"Suffice it to say it was absolute mayhem at the Hall. I barely managed to keep my nose clean and stay out of harm's path, and the disagreements got more outrageous by the day. Absolutely the strangest thing I'd ever seen… Especially with a bunch of good-natured hobbits. Odd, don't you think?"

Eomer's brown eyes grew suddenly sharp, staring with intensity into the hobbit's face as the small story teller turned to gaze back at him. "A strange happening indeed, Master Merry. Very strange. And it sounds as if guessing the source of the mischief did not help you much in tracing it."

"No, I suppose not, but I didn't really try either."

For a while they smoked together in the silence of their own thoughts. Eomer's mind was moving quickly through the possibilities. He couldn't actually fathom who might want to orchestrate such a thing, but he was more certain than ever that his Marshals did not have such crimes in them. Something else was at work. Or someone.

"Were the arguments finally brought to rest?" Eomer asked absently.

"Well, yes," Merry nodded, grinning and exhaling the last of his smoke. "Family peace was restored, and then some, just in time for us to light the Yule log."

"How?"

"Oh, it was my mother, of course. Eyes in the back of her head, ears for whispers, and a nose for trouble. She went to clean Pip's room and low and behold: a little bottle of Aniseed (it attracts every cat in fifty miles, you know), and one of those whistles dogs can hear but hobbits can't, and twenty other such bags, bottles, and oddments. I don't know where he got it, but it was clear what he'd been doing with it. Everyone was so busy lecturing Pippin for the rest of the month that they had no cross words left for each other." He stood up and tucked his pipe away. "Except for Uncle Meri, who wasn't a bit cross. I don't know why, but he thought it was the perfect joke and that Pippin was brilliant; said he'd like to take a leaf out of Pip's book. And when the bottle of Aniseed disappeared from Mother's confiscation cupboard… well, nobody was very surprised that every cat in Brandy Hall spent the rest of Yule following Cousin Hilda around."

Eomer could not help but chuckle as Merry finished and bowed. "May I return to my duties, my lord?" he asked.

"If you wish, then by all means. Tell Lothíriel I will eat in just a few minutes."

It was another hour after the hobbit left, and Eomer was still wrestling with the mystery, when a messenger entered and presented him with a three narrow scrolls — several were his usual spy reports. The first two were from the north borders and said little of much interest, which was comforting. The seal of the third bore a crouching cat. Slitting it open, he laid it flat and after reading the first half he exhaled in relief. "Very good, Merry. If only more kings were as clever as hobbits." Holding the paper closer to the light, he continued to read… but now his face darkened. What was he to make of this?

The message was short, implying that the informer in question was concerned about interception. It read simply: Crimson Lady and Advisor beginning work on masterpiece. Transmits disguised infection to the horse's hooves; avoid seaweed. Immanent threat to Lord Ranger and family; 10^th of month. White tower in peril of deluge. Gold hall in peril of fire. - Queen Beruthiel

'Immanent threat to Lord Ranger and family'… Eomer stared fixedly at the paper, his calloused fingers clenching hard. The information of 'Queen Beruthiel' he would never doubt.

But it was already the tenth of the month.

"Oh Valar," he breathed. "Send the help I cannot give."

Chapter 5

A Friend on the Doorstep

April 10

Minas Tirith, Gondor

A breeze picked up from the east, running its long course, throwing up the fallen leaves and rustling the sparse branches of a single tree which grew between the stones in front of the guardhouse. At his post as gatekeeper Anárion shut his eyes, enjoying the last remnants of the fading sun against his face as the sounds of evening gathered around him.

Anárion opened his eyes once more and, as though it had been borne in on the wind, an elf stood before him. He was standing straight, yet not stiff; as though the surroundings him gave him ease and comfort. This impression was furthered by the slight smile that hovered on his fair mouth as he stepped forward.

"Greetings, Anárion son of Meneldil."

To this the guard smiled in return and bowed briefly. "Welcome, Prince Legolas!" Then Anárion shook his head. "Though, with all respect, your highness, I wonder if you can now even count how many times King Elessar has told you to enter without the many formalities. Please tell me you did not halt at every guard house from the outer circles to here."

"It is an act of caution I wish to keep intact for your king's sake," Legolas demurred. "Say there was an act of crime, I would wish myself to be above the suspicion of those guarding the outer circles."

To this Anárion could only laugh, "Aye, yes, Prince Legolas, you would indeed be of great suspicion. It is said that Mirkwood royalty are giving to pick-pocketing and horse thievery; best to keep all eyes open. But for my part you may consider yourself allowed within the innermost circle. And as I imagine you would prefer to present yourself unannounced to the king, I shall break with that formality and let you on your way."

Legolas chuckled as well. "Thank you Anárion. I believe I shall surprise him! It has been a long time since last we met and I cannot pass on such an opportunity."

The gatekeeper sighed in a show of forbearance. "So it was said by the sons of Lord Elrond when last they came; it must be a common trait of elves."

"Common enough of those who know your king, at least," Legolas agreed, before bidding a final farewell and continuing on past the guardhouse and through the outer courtyard, wondering if he would need to inquire after the king's whereabouts or if he would stumble upon him on the way. Night was coming on quickly.

In truth he was anxious to see his dear friend again; it had been quite a long time since their last meeting. All the fates had seemed to be working against them — distractions from weather to war — and due to this he had not even seen the youngest child of the royal household, though Gilraen was nearly three.

Elves did not count hours, days, nor even years with much thought, but ever since the day Legolas had met Aragorn, time seemed to have adjusted for him to a mortal pace, and each moment he was away from his friend made him wish for another visit. To Rivendell, as it had been, and to Minas Tirith as it was now.

Legolas paused just outside the gardens when he sensed that someone was following him. Letting out a silent sigh he turned off into the garden and began strolling between the patches of vibrant flowers and greenery spilling over white stone. Slowing his pace even more, he pretended to find the plants truly fascinating despite the fact that in the dimness his own natural light was the only way to see them at all. Knowing that his tracker was close behind him he began formulating his plan, and at the same time he heard the sound of voices just ahead.

Taking a moment to listen he easily picked out Aragorn's deeper voice making occasional comments, blended with the lighter, musical sound of Arwen, who was speaking the most, and a scattering of youthful laughter he could place as Elenwen and her sister — or so he guessed.

A spark of old mischief grew in the prince and he moved towards the ornamental stone pond of water used to sustain the lush gardens. Perching lightly at the edge, he stared at his reflection on the dark water and waited for the precise moment…

As his tracker sprang from the bushes, Legolas stepped neatly to the side. Clearly the person had not noted how close the elf had been to the edge and after a moment's attempt to correct his awkward lunge, the young human slipped over the edge and fell with a splash into the pond, coughing and spluttering as water was washed up in his face.

"Hello, Eldarion." Legolas bent over the youth with a puckish grin on his face.

Eldarion squinted through the dark at the glowing being above him.

"You cheated, Uncle Legolas," the boy accused wetly from where he sat.

"Ah, but when one is being tracked one is forced to make his own rules." Before Eldarion could work up a response to that, Legolas reached down swiftly, grabbed the boy by the collar, and pulled him up out onto the white path. "Is that your father I hear, Eldarion?"

The boy began to squirm in his 'uncle's' hold, but to no avail.

"I think it is," the elf mused, barely concealing his laughter.

Pulling Eldarion every step of the way, Legolas soon reached the source of the voices.

Sitting in the midst of stands holding open candles, the family had finished their evening meal long ago and were now sitting in the cool grass. Elenwen was trying to braid flowers into her younger sister's hair while the young one tied blades of grass in knots. Arwen sat in a blue dress the color of predawn and she was reading aloud from an elven tale while her husband held her against his side with one arm, his eyes following the words as she read them.

All the occupants of this peaceful scene looked up, however, as Legolas appeared from the darkness dragging the struggling Eldarion with him.

"Pardon the intrusion, my lord," Legolas apologized formally — barely containing his mirth, "but I believe this belongs to you." He then released Eldarion who stumbled slightly and turned a sheepish smile on his father.

"You should teach him to track better, Strider," Legolas continued, enjoying the use of the fond nickname here in the company of Aragorn's family. "I would have thought he'd know not to ambush an elf so close to water when the light is poor."

Aragorn laughed at that and shook his head. "I would have thought, mellon-nin, that you'd abandon that trick after I nearly caught cold when you did it to me."

"He did that to you, Ada?" Eldarion seemed pleased with the idea.

"Aye," Legolas nodded. "Though fair is fair: I asked him to track me."

Aragorn and Arwen rose now and Arwen lifted a blanket from the grass and wrapped it around her son's shoulders, laughter dancing in her eyes. She whispered something in the elven tongue that caused her son to laugh.

Aragorn skirted his daughters' sitting place and stood before his friend, his great pleasure evident in his silver blue eyes. After a moment he drew the elf into an embrace which Legolas returned immediately.

"I have missed you, my friend," Aragorn said at last pulling away and smiling at the elf. "It has been at least three years since last I have seen you and four since you have seen my family." He smiled down at his youngest who was now clinging shyly to his cloak. "You have not even met my Gilraen!" Aragorn picked the small girl up and Legolas was immediately struck with the similarities. Dark, wavy hair bounced haphazardly around the small face and her wide blue eyes held hints of silver, like her father and brother. Her face was drawn up in a wary expression that Legolas had certainly seen on another face before.

"Maut Omentie, young one," Legolas smiled at her and watched as her expression shifted to confidence — and the familiarity increased.

"Maut Almaarea," she responded in a small, clear voice. Aragorn laughed and squeezed the girl affectionately.

"Gilraen is a very trusting child," Arwen said, and smiled as well. After greeting Legolas she took the small girl from Aragorn and immediately Gilraen began to look sleepy in her mother's arms.

"That sounds like another I know," Legolas nodded, watching as Arwen led her children back to the house and Arien appeared from her work indoors to take Elenwen by the hand.

Aragorn smiled at his friend's words before ushering the elf towards the door. "Arwen and Arien will be putting them to bed; you must be tired after your journey."

"Not so tired as you might think," Legolas protested. "I have been anxious to see you, my friend, and such desire tends to erase fatigue from a journey."

"Yet I am unmoved. Come in and sit, and food shall be sent for directly."

Legolas shook his head, "Well then I will not waste time arguing with you, Strider; not if it pleases you."

"It does," Aragorn concurred with a nod. "And then you may tell me all that you have done since we last parted."

When the meal was brought the king and his guest both were deep in conversation about recent happenings in Ithilian.

"I do not know if I ever communicated this fully, but I am grateful to you for bringing aid for the purging of evil in Minas Ithil. Especially since I know it cannot be without fearful memories for you."

"Worry not for me, Strider, it can hold no evil that taints me any longer. Even now it looks a good deal better than it did; Faramir has lent us much aid in our work and we are grateful for his help. But tell me what has happened here in Minas Tirith."

"Not nearly enough to tell," Aragorn replied, gesturing the elf towards the table where the meal was laid out.

"Then all is well with you?" His ironic smile said that he didn't believe it.

"Yes, very well, amazingly. And peaceful, but for the Southrons and Eldarion's ambushes of Duurben in the corridors…"

At this they both had to laugh. "Poor Duurben," Legolas sighed wryly. "He is ever forbearing with your son — which is something I cannot seem to manage."

"You are an elf," Aragorn assured, still chuckling. "It would not be in your nature to let a mortal win."

"How unfair of you!" Legolas cried in mock injury. "I do hope to find you have not poisoned the hearts of your young ones against me in such a fashion."

"Not in the least; they all regard their uncle of Mirkwood just as highly as they do those in Rivendell."

Legolas rolled his eyes. "And from this I am to garner comfort?"

"Indeed you are!" a new voice replied merrily as Arwen came into the room. "My brothers have nearly as many tricks to play on their nieces and nephew as you, good Legolas, and they cannot hope to spring their traps half so well and with such good result as you."

"You see, Legolas, I know every trick the twins ever learned and much to my wife's dismay I have conveyed them all to my own children." In speaking Aragorn rose from the table and offered his place to Arwen, but she gently declined. "I fear the thrice-compounded assortment of mischief I may expect from my grandchildren. Arwen, you will not join us?"

"I had better not stay awake long, my Estel, a long day spreads from tomorrow's dawn. I am taking the children out for the day."

"All at once?" Aragorn seemed completely surprised as he wrapped his arms around his wife. "I'll have your word that you will not go alone."

She smiled at that kissed him gently. "Your children are not yet as troublesome as you Estel; I would not worry so."

Legolas watched them with a smile lurking lightly on his face. His attention was pulled away, though, at the sight of another figure approaching them at a staggering walk, tripping over a long white gown.

Aragorn saw her as well and scooped young Gilraen up into his arms with a smile. "And what has gotten you up at this hour, my child?"

Gilraen's eyes were still glassy with sleep and she stared almost unseeingly at her father before leaning against his shoulder. "I had…a pony and the …the elf and Eldarion made one too…"

Aragorn laughed, hugging his daughter to him before passing her to his wife.

"I believe I will return this one to her bed and retire for the night," Arwen announced with a last kiss to her husband.

Aragorn turned back to his friend after being sure that Arwen and Gilraen made it safely to the stairs.

"I honestly don't know what we will do with her," the king sighed fondly. "That child refuses to stay in her bed, even in sleep, and we constantly find her wandering in the strangest places. Her older sister sleeps far too soundly and never notes her passing until she's already left the room."

The elf still seated at the table was laughing by this time and Aragorn glared him down good-naturedly.

"What is it, my friend?"

"You," Legolas replied without preamble. "You are so happy and your children so very much like you, your lady is so dear to your heart. Strider, when first I met you, I never would have pictured you in this place; but now that you are here and your life has become what you have secretly dreamed, I cannot imagine you anywhere else."

Aragorn could not help a stab of old humor no matter how hard he tried. "Does that make you wish for a family of your own, then?"

"Never in my life!" Legolas proclaimed with a laugh. "And don't you dare give your wife ideas of searching anyone out for me."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

All was quiet.

This, then, must be the moment. The traitor was distantly aware of the merry sounds drifting up from the lower floor. He could easily hear the hum of his own breathing, the rhythm of his heart beat pounding in his head, but as he crept down the hall not a sound could any ear have heard...not even that of an elf.

All was deadly quiet.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

"And how are Raniean and Trelan?" Aragorn's question was eclipsed by the elf's laughter.

"Oh they are well — but for all my eternal years I have never seen them put up such a fight as when I told them I was coming alone to visit you!" Legolas shook his head. "They predict my father will leave these shores soon and then it will be my duty to rule the people; I think it has made them more conscientious than usual."

Aragorn smiled and took a drink from his cup. "Ah, so they still fear that upon a visit to my halls you will be killed? I am terribly offended. You know we strive to keep our roads as safe as may be."

"It is all null when one is entrusted with one's prince," Legolas replied with a smile. "I think father gave them a stern speech before we left and they feel it is their responsibility to keep me safe at all times."

"I must then concede the point; for with us, my friend, there is no telling when danger is lurking around the corner."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

The traitor's hand lay upon the silver handle. Turning it soundlessly he felt the door give and come open just slightly…just enough.

Crouching in the dark on the floor he reached into the woven basket swiftly…but it was a little too swiftly.

With a barely contained cry the man recoiled his hand, gripping it with his other fingers and moaning silently between his teeth. Shaking off the sudden wash of pain that swelled over him and squeezing tightly where the blood was dripping from him, keeping it from spattering on the stones, he returned his attention to the basket. Curse the beast; now he would need the herbs and quickly.

It seemed the reptile was hungrier than he'd thought.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

"But you seem to be greatly at peace here," Legolas pointed out, taking a sip of the wine offered him. "All except your mention of Southrons."

"I do hope they shall give us no trouble," Aragorn nodded. "I suppose you know that Queen Mavranor is still a leading monarch in Harad?"

Legolas looked up quickly and met his friend's gaze. "Surely she can't still have a vendetta against you… if she even knows that you are king."

"That is a question, but I see no way she could get such information. Still, she could not hate me much more for being her brother's murderer than she can hate me for being the King of Gondor, and I cannot ignore the possibility of the threat. Hers in particular could be great."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Gently. Ever so gently. The shadows hid the secret well as it slid from the basket as a whisper to the floor.

A quiet hiss escaped into the still air as the traitor turned down the hall, vanishing into the night shadows.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Transparent eyelids slid and slid. It saw its chance. Oh how wonderful it would be to taste more blood. Much more. Everywhere around it there was the sound of life. It could taste the sweet young breaths in the air. But here, closer at hand, was a strange and delicious scent…elven it seemed… familiar… fresh…

Closer. Ever closer. Gripping sinuously upward, curling across the white coverlet.

A hand. Moving gently in sleep.

Sleep.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

"Rohan keeps us alerted to strange activities. They are more vigilant than I had ever credited them; I think they have learned, better than most, the value of watching for trouble from afar. Should Saruman's treachery find a chance to repeat itself tomorrow, it would be discovered and thwarted before this time next week. And for that and many other reasons I am continually grateful for Eomer's aid."

"I would hope as much," Legolas nodded. "It is good to see the renewed alliance standing so strongly."

"Yes it is, and it will serve us well, as it has before; of that I am certain." Aragorn raised his cup again to his lips but paused, suddenly noticing his friend's face.

The prince dropped his hands to his knives and turned slightly.

"Legolas?" Aragorn asked warily.

"I'm not sure…" the elf frowned as he turned his head towards the stairs. "Something—"

Legolas's words were cut off abruptly as a scream rent the air.

Chapter 6

Of Treachery

April 10

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Aragorn was on his feet in an instant, but the moment he stood the fear that clutched his heart held him fast and he could only stare up the dark stairs that led up to his family's chambers.

"Aragorn!" Legolas' voice jolted the king from his semi-trance and he felt his feet suddenly moving very fast. The elf reached the stairs first, but as they turned the first bend Aragorn pushed past his friend and reached the floor above an instant before Legolas. Aragorn didn't wait to see if the elf was following as he slammed the door to his and Arwen's room open.

His eyes strained against the dark as he took in the scene reflected in the dim candlelight. Arwen lay still across the bed, as though turned to stone, her face turned towards the ceiling. A stifled sob turned his attention to a small, terrified figure quailing by the door that connected their room to their daughters'. Gilraen stood petrified against the wall, her eyes nailed to something moving on the floor.

The viper was undulating swiftly across the polished wood, its sleek, lithe body caught sporadically in the flickering fire light… its intent fully focussed on the warm blooded creature before it. It reared its head, coming level with Gilraen's bare feet.

All this Aragorn saw in a moment. His hand went to his side, there was a flash as his knife was thrown end over end, a dull thunk as blade came down to cleave the snake's head neatly from its body. The throw was hard enough to imbed the knife deep in the wood floor, and blood pooled from the dead snake's body as it lashed about in death. Aragorn held out his arms to the frightened girl and Gilraen threw herself headlong against him.

"A-ada!" The girl was trembling all over, crying into his shoulder. "Naneth was screaming!" Aragorn's thoughts were immediately on Arwen as he lifted Gilraen up. He caught sight of Legolas standing in the doorway, searching keen-eyed for a further threat. Wordlessly Aragorn passed Gilraen into the prince's arms.

Dropping down beside the bed Aragorn grasped Arwen's hand — and found it cold as ice.

"Arwen." Aragorn heard his own hushed voice in his ears and tried to speak clearer as he placed a hand on Arwen's forehead. "Koiva, meleth-nin."

Arwen's face was growing pale beneath Aragorn's fingers and he began to fear the worst as he called her again.

"Arwen!" His voice held more fear and desperation than he had intended, and in the silence that followed every sound seemed to fade as though he were going deaf. He could vaguely hear Legolas trying to quiet Gilraen's tears behind him and something like feet running on the floor. "Wake, Arwen," he whispered, clutching her hand, begging her spirit to remain, certain that if he could hold her hand tight enough he could keep her there. With all the strength in his being he called for her, reaching as he had never reached, exerting whatever skill of healing there was within him and concentrating it in one desperate, silent cry.

Suddenly Arwen inhaled sharply, a strained painful breath that came out as an agonized cry. Her blue eyes opened wide and, though they were glazed with pain, they were alive. Aragorn quickly moved into her sight, sitting on the bed beside her.

"Arwen, what happened?" Aragorn asked urgently, although he guessed too well. He took her other hand in his own.

Arwen seemed unable to understand where she was, but her last moments of consciousness were apparently clear as day. "I heard it strike!" she whispered, her eyes flickering from side to side, unable to focus. "Estel…?" Her voice trembled on the brink of silence. "The children?"

"They are well," he whispered back. Taking first her right arm then her left Aragorn at last found the deep, swollen marks of the viper's bite in Arwen's left forearm.

"She was bitten." Aragorn tried to keep his voice calm. His heart was throbbing with dread and his mind was strained to the breaking point, but he knew full well that now was the time to keep his head and concentrate on what must be done, lest all his fears come to pass. Closing off all feeling, he put it away

Arien had come and was holding Gilraen now. Legolas was crouching on the floor, studying the dead snake, but he looked up as his friend spoke to the handmaid.

"Arien, quickly, take Gilraen and Elenwen to Eldarion's room. Tell Duurben I must see him immediately, then stay with the children. Lock the doors."

Arien nodded and ran from the room to do as she was bidden.

Legolas rose from the floor and moved to where Aragorn was closely inspecting his wife's wound. The elf at once recognized the look of resolute calm and concentration on the king's face. He feared what would happen when Aragorn's heart would be allowed to catch up with him, but for now it was held in check.

"Strider," Legolas came to stand beside his friend, "I recognize the viper. Do you have any Lhandlas?"

"We should have a full stock," Aragorn replied touching Arwen's pale cheeks with the back of his hand, feeling for fever and finding only cold. His voice was strained as he tried to speak aloud to his friend and maintain in his mind the gentle call which was the only thing holding his wife to the light.

"It should help cure the poison."

Aragorn nodded once, then looked up to see Duurben standing in the doorway. Pippin was behind the captain, his hobbit eyes wide. Keeping hold of his wife, Aragorn beckoned them in. He could see the thoughts playing clearly behind Duurben's darkened eyes.

"My lord," Duurben saluted Aragorn in a low voice. "Arien tells me someone stole into your private chambers."

"Yes, Arwen has been bitten by a viper. Legolas says that he recognizes it and that we need to administer Lhandlas with all haste."

"I can fetch some back from the Houses of Healing," Pippin offered immediately, his face unnaturally serious. "I know where they keep it."

"Fetch athelas as well," Aragorn commanded as Pippin left the hall at a run.

"What are my orders, my lord?"

Aragorn started slightly, having not noted Eression's presence behind him.

"We have an assassin loose in the palace," Duurben responded first, voice dropping even lower. "Gather the forward sentries and search for him. If he personally released the snake here it is unlikely that he could have gotten far."

Eression gave a short nod and departed.

Duurben turned back to Aragorn, concern evident in his eyes. "What of your children, my lord?"

"Arien is with them in Eldarion's room," Aragorn said briefly, his breath shuddering a little with effort. Arwen's body had begun to tremble just noticeably.

"I will double the guard on their room."

Aragorn distantly felt Legolas move up behind him and he nodded in agreement with his captain's words. Good. Duurben would watch over his children.

"My lord," Duurben was hesitant, his eyes resting with anxiety on the queen's shadowed face. "I cannot know for certain how any man could have slipped past the sentries, we may have a traitor in our midst."

"The thought has come to me also," Aragorn nodded faintly. "But I trust you to seek him out."

"Then I shall go, my lord." Duurben bowed and left.

"Estel." The soft sound of his old name drew Aragorn's attention to his friend. "What can I do?" The elf's blue eyes watched him closely. Aragorn turned back to his wife and considered the question.

Arwen's eyes were shut again and her fair face was pale as though all blood had drained from it, but great shadows like bruises were appearing under her eyes. The swollen mark on her arm had grown red and a black film cast over the blood. The trembling of her body was more pronounced and her breath was rasping in her throat. For a long time Aragorn could not answer, something had caught in his throat, restraining all speech. Though he felt himself moving to cup her face in his hands, felt his forehead touch hers as he strengthened his call, he could not be sure that he moved by any conscious thought. What did he need? A miracle.

"I will need boiling water," Aragorn said at last, his eyes flicking to his friend. "If you could send one of the men on the lower floor to get it and then make sure Pippin fetches back the right plants I would be grateful."

The prince agreed and left immediately, though at the door he paused and turned to look back. Aragorn was moving Arwen gently to the center of the bed, giving him more space to sit, and he had begun to whisper urgently in elvish, holding on with all his strength.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

"Prince Legolas! Legolas!" The elf looked up at the sound of his name in time to see a hobbit rushing towards him.

"What is it Pippin?" Legolas caught the distressed expression on the hobbit's flushed face and immediately felt worried.

"There is no Lhandlas to be found!" The hobbit was still calling all the way across the hall but he had reached the elf upon his final word.

"What?" Legolas' concern grew as he began to walk back towards Aragorn's room, he had sent a servant to fetch back boiling water and had been coming to check on Pippin when the hobbit had found him. "Aragorn felt certain there would be a stock."

Pippin ran quickly to keep up with the elf's long steps. "Iorwen said the same, but she could not find it in any of the store rooms."

"Iorwen has not been a maid of the houses long, has she?" Legolas was tempted to return to the Houses of Healing and search himself.

"Not really, but the herb-master was there and he knew no better, he felt certain that they had a stock just a few days past, but they had not needed any of it until now. They can't explain it!"

Legolas let out a long breath and paused at the head of the stairs. "Pippin, can anyone hunt for more? It is a common enough plant."

Pippin nodded, but seemed at a loss. "It will be hard to find; there's been a great deal of rain and Lhandlas is easily drowned." As if suddenly remembering, Pippin reached inside his cloak and withdrew a piece of folded cloth. "The athelas has been pressed in there," he explained, handing it to Legolas. "Should I go search for Lhandlas?"

"Yes," Legolas agreed with a nod. "And with all haste, master hobbit. I would not say this to Aragorn, but I fear that if Lhandlas cannot be found there will be no hope for the queen." Pippin nodded soberly. Legolas had heard of Pippin's recent marriage to Diamond of Longcleave just a year past, and even without much real experience in such feelings himself, the prince could easily read the sympathetic fear in the halfling's eyes. Legolas rested a hand briefly on Pippin's shoulder and met the hobbit's gaze. "Do not fear, Peregrine Took, it will be well. Only let haste speed your feet and I will not detain you for another moment."

Pippin's left the hall as if his hairy feet had been given wings. Legolas found the servant with the water waiting outside Aragorn's chamber door; taking the water from her, he reentered the darkened room.

More candles had been lit, casting a brighter light in room. Aragorn still sat beside Arwen, his whole body bent over her as if to shield her from harm. He had cleaned the wound as best he could, but was clearly waiting for the herb that would heal her.

Setting down the steaming water, Legolas moved up behind Aragorn, laying a hand on his shoulder and silently handing him the athelas leaves. They would do his friend good as well.

"Where is the Lhandlas?" Aragorn asked when the elf moved from the bedside.

"I'm afraid there is none to be found in the Houses of Healing." Legolas hated having to deliver such news to his friend.

Aragorn tried not to let his fear show, but Legolas knew him too well.

"I have sent Pippin to gather searchers to find some of the plant and will go myself unless you have need of me here."

Aragorn shook his head, but he didn't look up. The athelas was still pressed between his palms as he watched Arwen steadily. She looked as one frozen to death, her face white and her lips tinged blue-black in hue. "I wonder," Aragorn's voice was distant growing fainter, "if you would be sure my children are all right and do not fear for their mother and me."

"Of course."

Aragorn nodded, at last moving to drop the athelas into the water after he had breathed on and crushed the leaves. The clean fresh scent filled the room instantly bringing joy to Legolas' heart though he did not request it. Aragorn's face seemed to lose some of the strain and though Arwen still looked deathly pale, her trembling eased.

Legolas left the room reluctantly.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Even as the night descended heavily over the city, its occupants were waking. Beginning at the center a wash of light spread to the edges — torches lit to aid the soldiers in their search. In a fleetingly incongruous thought, Captain Eression reflected that the city's children would be restless in the morning if deprived of much sleep. He shook his head to clear it.

"Captain Eression!" A voice hailed him from down the street and he turned to see a young lieutenant named Thenin, usually attached to Erynbenn's company, running from a guardhouse just ahead. Thenin came to a halt, his dark hair swinging around his face.

"Report, Lieutenant."

"We've searched up through the Third Circle. Sir…with all due respect, Captain, I am not sure I understand who or what we are looking for."

Eression let out a long breathe. He felt much the same way but he was determined to do his work thoroughly nonetheless. "Any sign of an intrusion," he explained. "Especially near the inner circle."

He did not voice his further thoughts before his subordinate, but he could not help feeling the entire search was useless. If there had been an intrusion into the city itself the likelihood of finding evidence of it was very slim. If the assassin had been planted in the city for quite some time, finding him in Minas Tirith could be impossible.

Shaking his head, Eression looked down the darkened street. It was likely that they had lost their chance to catch the intruder (or traitor, as the case might be), but further investigation would have to be conducted in the morning and by then the trail would be cold…if indeed there was a trail to be found.

"Gather the men, Thenin," Eression said at last. "We can search no further this night. Send several sentries to aid Sir Peregrin and the others."

"As it has been commanded," Thenin replied, saluting again and departing.

A good man, Thenin son of Beren; he bode fair to carry on his father's good reputation. Not more than a lad, yet ever since his father's fall to death in the Battle at the Black Gate, Thenin had been noticeably determined to prove himself. He was doing well thus far.

"Tantur!" Eression hailed another soldier standing in the side ally.

"Captain," Tantur nodded as he saluted a little wearily, his eyes heavy. Many of the soldiers had been dragged from their beds to help.

"I want the forward sentries back at their posts. Report to Duurben and inform him that we have found nothing and I have recommended the continuing of the search at dawn."

"Aye, sir," Tantur nodded. Because Duurben was his uncle Tantur was often the one sent as messenger and he was used to it.

After Tantur had gone Eression joined the men on the last level. Rarely did they open the outer gates at the dead of night. Eression had posted sentries by the gate to see that no unwanted guests entered while they were herb hunting.

Eression caught sight of Peregrin Took; the hobbit was moving quickly through the grass, calling orders to the other searchers.

Pippin glanced up as Eression approached. "I'm afraid I have no time to talk, Captain Eression," he said as respectfully as he could, and he returned to scouring the sodden grass for the desired plant. "I must keep up the search."

"Indeed, by all means." Eression agreed immediately, wishing that he could aid but having no real idea what was being sought.

A silence hung in the darkness that lay between the two before it was broken by Pippin's sigh. "This is all really horrible."

"Yes," Eression replied heavily. "I think Duurben will feel it a failure on his part when time is granted him to think at all. Such a swift blow to us all… swift and hard."

"I've no doubt that Aragorn feels it." Pippin bent down in the grass to examine a plant and Eression crouched beside him.

"I'm sure that he does." The words were soft and nearly drowned by Pippin's cry of relief.

"Here then! Right at my feet! Nearly trodden under in all my hurrying." Pulling gently on the wide leafed plants in the grass, Pippin drew up the herb by the roots, wrapping them in a small cloth.

"Is it dry enough, then?" Eression asked.

"Enough."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Legolas had all ready made up his mind not to make his presence known to the children. He knew that Elenwen would beg to know why they had been rushed away in the middle of the night. Eldarion would want to help. Gilraen would have a million questions.

So he approached the door and, after receiving a nod from the men standing guard, Legolas cracked open the door to Eldarion's dark room, but did not pass the threshold.

A voice reached his ears immediately, a warm flow of words spinning a tale to a captive audience. It took Legolas only a few moments to realize he knew the story being told.

"And it exploded into a blaze of colors," Eldarion whispered in a hushed tone. "When everyone looked up they saw it was a huge fiery Oliphaunt swooping down on them!" At this he leapt at little Gilraen who let out a squeal and shrank back into Arien's lap, grinning up at her brother. The handmaid herself was drawn and quiet, but smiling gallantly for the childrens' sakes.

"Get back to father," Elenwen said, adopting her bossy tone, and her brother obliged.

"Well, Uncle Legolas and Captain Duurben had just found the enemy camp and were trying hard to find father before--"

"Skip to the part when Uncle Legolas finds Ada," Elenwen cut in.

"Elen—" Eldarion's forbearing tone forced Legolas to stifle a laugh.

"Or the wedding dance!" Elenwen exclaimed, remembering suddenly.

"I want to dance!" Gilraen chimed in excitedly getting up and tugging on her brother's hand.

"I want to hear about Ada and Uncle Legolas and the big plant," Elenwen changed her mind once more.

"Elen, you know Uncle Legolas tells that one best," Eldarion argued as Gilraen continued to hang on his arm.

The girl shook her head immediately. "No he doesn't, he doesn't make all the funny faces."

"Elenwen, you really ought to let your brother speak," Arien remonstrated gently.

With relief that they were alright, Legolas decided to leave the children to their antics; he wasn't sure he would be able to withhold comment for much longer.

As the door closed at his back, the elf again felt the weight of all the sorrow around him. It seemed that within the small room was the last remnant of innocence to be found, and who knew if it would last?

He reached the door of Aragorn's chambers for the third time this long night and nearly collided with Pippin.

"We've found it!" The hobbit's breath came fast as he held out the cloth to Legolas. "Captain Eression is keeping the searchers out to find as much of it as we can, but I came ahead with this."

"Thank you, Pippin." Legolas smiled with relief, took the plant, and entered his friends' room.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw that Arwen't skin had altered still more; every inch was gray, like ash, and her lips were turning black. Legolas stood in the doorway for a moment, transfixed, fearing that they were too late. But no, Aragorn still worked feverishly over his wife's body, other herbs had been brought to him and he was talking ever more urgently to her as he worked.

"Aragorn." Legolas handed him the cloth.

Aragorn looked worn and grim but a load seemed to lift from his heart at the sight of the Lhandlas.

"It is too late to save her with this alone," he whispered softly, looking up at the elf. "It has filled her body."

"I know," Legolas nodded with a sigh. "But it will do her some good."

Aragorn gave one nod before mixing up the proper salve. Legolas did what he could to help but neither spoke until the herbs had begun to take effect. "Koiva, meleth-nin," Aragorn whispered over and over, "Lasto beth nîn. Tolo dan na ngalad."

There was no change at first but slowly the grayness faded a little, leaving Arwen's cheeks merely pale, and then she let out a soft breath. After several agonizing moments, her eyes opened and though they were glazed and heavily dilated even for the dim light, she managed a small smile when she recognized Aragorn.

"Estel," she whispered softly, her eyes fluttered shut again in sleep. Aragorn let out a relieved breath that he had been holding back in fear of the worst…and yet he knew it wasn't over yet.

"My lord." The voice drew Aragorn's attention as he rose stiffly and he saw Duurben standing in the door.

"A report Duurben?" Aragorn's voice had regained some confidence, but Legolas could tell that much of his strength was gone.

"Yes sire, if I may."

Aragorn nodded to the guard before turning to Legolas. "After that, Legolas, please can you tell me what you know of this viper and its poison and if you know of full remedy."

Chapter 7

Groping in the Dark

April 11

Minas Tirith, Gondor

The palace was hushed next morning, with the city almost as quiet. By some swift means the news had spread that Queen Arwen was deathly ill, and it was only in catching the somber faces in the marketplace and the anxious whispers at the guard outposts that Duurben realized how attached the people had become to their lovely queen. Black banners were hung outside many of the shops, as if death were inescapable.

Desperately he tried to keep morale up, particularly amongst his men. They needed to be alert in case of a second attack. It took no great intelligence to realize that the queen had not been the only target. King Aragorn had escaped only through the sheer chance of Legolas' unexpected arrival, and the children's deaths would not have been too far off.

Duurben readjusted his cloak against the damp morning air. He knew that, though he had tried, it was unlikely his men were at all reassured or heartened by his encouragement. It was difficult to be encouraging in the aftermath of so total a failure in one's duty. Had this been a war, with a second-in-command ready to take his place, he would have already begged to be relieved of duty. It was inexcusable. As Captain of the Palace Guard it was his responsibility to prevent happenings such as these! There was no other purpose in his being there. And yet it had been right under his nose — while he himself had been on duty — that the entire royal family had nearly been assassinated.

"Captain?"

Duurben flinched, but turned to face the voice. "Yes, Master Peregrin?"

"The king's busy just at the moment, but he asked me to find you and give you this." Pippin handed him a folded piece of paper.

The note had been very hastily written. There was no seal, and the parchment appeared to be a section torn from a larger piece. It read simply, "Duurben: We shall speak this afternoon. Until then you are not to even contemplate leaving my service, committing suicide, or anything else rash or irreversible. If ever you held to your duties above all else do not abandon me now, my friend. — Thorongil"

Exhaling slowly, Duurben slid the message into his belt pouch. It had a desperate tone that worried him — the king was strained to the breaking point — but it cleared his mind a little to have a few orders he could obey.

"Oh good." Pippin sighed in relief.

"What is it?" Duurben asked, frowning.

"You've stopped looking like death on two legs. I was afraid you were blaming yourself for all this, or something stupid like that."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Legolas had taken up a position in the back corner of the Hall of Kings, behind the platform and the white throne of Gondor and just outside the door of a smaller room that Ecthelion and Denethor had used as a study. Aragorn used it in a similar way, but the books and scrolls were arranged in a fashion that reminded the elf strongly of Lord Elrond's library in Rivendell.

It was this room that Aragorn used more than the actual throne room — at least when assigning smaller duties or conversing with only a few people. Even when in the hall, he rarely sat on the throne unless the formality of the situation demanded it; most often he was to be found standing.

Arwen was sleeping peacefully just at the moment, the chief healer was examining her and a maiden from the Houses would be sitting with her when he was done so that Arien could continue to watch the children. Both jobs were ones that Aragorn would not have normally entrusted to anyone, but there were other things pressing. Just now he and Eression were talking.

"I need someone I trust to carry a message for me," Aragorn said.

"Of course, my lord."

"It is a long journey, and there are few among the regular guard who have the abilities to make such a trek — especially as I will need anyone who goes to travel with more than the usual haste. I do not know how much time is left to us…" His face was so composed, Eression still did not understand in which direction his instructions lay.

"Where, sire?"

"Rivendell. I need you to bring back my brothers. Arwen's brothers."

Eression had been standing at Aragorn's side, watching his profile, but now he took an involuntary step forward so that he was facing his king. Legolas himself looked up sharply, suddenly realizing what Aragorn was trying to prepare for.

"You will accept this mission?" Aragorn asked quietly. "There is no one else I can send, Eression."

"Yes, my lord Elessar." With a slow bow, in which he never took his eyes off his king, Eression turned and left the room. From the expression on his face as he passed, Legolas could tell Eression had never seen Aragorn like this before. The king was on the brink of losing hope.

Aragorn was sorting through a pile of dispatches, finding nothing of great import. He was clearly hoping to be done quickly and return to his family. There were guards everywhere — Duurben's efforts to make certain no second attempt would be made on the lives of the royal family. For once, Aragorn had not tried to avoid them.

"My friend," Legolas said softly, "I hate to see you like this."

"I'm sorry," he sighed, his eyes still scanning the papers before him. "But it seems clear to me…" His voice broke off, his calm fragile. "I am losing my wife, Legolas. I do not know what the snake was that bit her, but the poison reached her heart before the Lhandlas was administered — there is nothing now that can cleanse her body. Eventually the poison will overwhelm her. I cannot think of anything else to do…"

Legolas shook his head, fervently pressing back against the wall of inevitability. "No, Aragorn! I recognized the snake — it is a Mornelet, native to Mirkwood."

It seemed Aragorn had entirely forgotten to ask his friend about the viper, for now he looked up and appeared to be listening attentively. "So it was most certainly brought here for this purpose?"

"I am afraid that is how it appears. Still, there is hope yet. Lhandlas cures the poison if administered in time; but there is another cure if that is not managed. The Lhandlas must be administered regularly, so that the poison's progress is slowed almost to nothing, and then there is a medicine my father discovered which cleans the toxin from the blood — Raniean was bitten during a boarder skirmish and we were trapped for months before we could get home; he recovered with its help. If we can obtain some soon, Arwen will be well."

"Are you sure of this?" Aragorn asked searchingly, not daring to believe it.

"Yes, Estel. I am certain."

Aragorn fingered the Evenstar on its chain. "Would you go for me, gwador-nin? I cannot leave Arwen, and there are none I would trust more to bring it in time."

"Of course."

They stood in silence for a long while; the length of their friendship taking the emptiness from the quiet. But it did not last.

"My lord king?" an elderly man in gray robes queried, bowing in the doorway. It was the healer who had been with Arwen.

"What is it? Is there something wrong?" Aragorn asked swiftly, crossing the narrow room.

"Nothing immediate, my lord, no. But though the herb is slowing the poison's progression, I fear it is still moving unnaturally fast. Perhaps it is some unfortunate effect that strikes only the First Born." He glanced appraisingly at Legolas, but the elf shook his head.

"This poison's effect on immortals is quite slow."

There was a hissing intake of air as Aragorn's face went white as chalk. "Arwen… she is not immortal, Legolas."

Legolas' eyes closed briefly. He had not thought of this. "Master Healer, how long… would…" the elf could not finish his question, not with his friend standing beside him. Not with his own mind reeling at the thought of Arwen actually perishing before her children were grown. Not with the horrible realization dawning in his mind, so soon after he'd given his friend hope…

"Two months, perhaps," the healer murmured. "If she is strong."

"She is," Aragorn said fiercely. "But, two months — Legolas, there is no time…"

Legolas could not speak. He shook his head slowly, hating the cruel fate that had placed them all in this room. With a bow, the healer went back to his duties.

"What was the cure?" Aragorn asked. "Is there any way we could duplicate it?"

"It was the sap of a tree — but a special tree. It was planted by my father and his kinsman, Celeborn of Lorien. In their youth they had fought at each other's side and grown close as brothers; something my father had not experienced in his own family. After Orophir's death they became separated by the distance of their kingdoms, but before they parted they had begun work on a special plant.

"Perhaps it was a mallorn originally, father never quite explained, but from their friendship it grew taller and stronger than any tree they had ever seen. At the moment when both of them touched it, it bloomed and shone white as the sun. It was the sap that they discovered had strange healing properties. You could not take much before the light began to fade, but only a very little was needed for most injuries."

"Could any be gotten without Lord Celeborn? For he is gone across the sea."

"Yes. The sap, when taken by one person alone or by two people who are not bound in their friendship, is a poison even stronger than the Mornelet's. Still, when we needed a little for Raniean's sake, he and Trelan were able to waken the tree together."

"But they are in Ithilian, and the tree is in Mirkwood…" Aragorn said hollowly.

Again, Legolas could only nod. But a thought was pulling at the back of his mind — something his father had told him — a detail he had left out. He frowned hard, his smooth forehead creasing. "Wait… Lorien." He looked up. "My father's tree was merely a shoot off the original. The tree they grew was in Lorien, Aragorn. A swift journey could bring the sap back well within the two months."

By this time, Aragorn's nerves seemed to have been stretched thinner than spiders' silk. He was staring at his feet, his hand still caressing the jewel at his neck. Legolas wondered if now were the time to say what he knew he must.

"Aragorn, I cannot do this alone."

The human looked up, seeming to look right through him, not understanding.

"You are the greatest and truest friend I will ever know. In truth, you have been more than a friend; though I fear I cannot find words to express what you are to me. I cannot wake the tree alone. It is beyond my strength. But…" he reached over to touch Aragorn's shoulder, "we could."

"I — cannot leave," Aragorn said slowly. "Arwen, the children — and I am king now, Legolas, I can no longer disappear without warning."

"Iston, mellon nin. I know."

As Legolas watched, though, he could see the struggle in his friend's soul — as if there were naught but a pane of glass between the heart of Aragorn and the world. Ultimately, this was a decision that Aragorn would make not as a king, but as a husband. As a man desperately and hopelessly in love.

A matter not for logical thought, but for the heart. And the choice had already been made.

"Legolas, would you please summon a messenger. It seems time is our enemy."

The elf left immediately and returned with one of the city's mounted messengers, Siniath, a trustworthy man who knew all the usual routes well. They found Aragorn completing a hasty letter at his desk. He sealed it as Siniath bowed.

"Take this to Lady Eowyn as quickly as your horse can bear you. It is a matter greatest urgency."

"Why Lady Eowyn?" Legolas asked, as Siniath left.

"I cannot think of anyone else I would sooner entrust with the childrens' care, and Arien will be needed to stay with Arwen. Eowyn should arrive within three days, at the most. Faramir will be with her if I know him at all. If anything should run amiss, I pray he will be able to see to it. He is a wise man and trustworthy."

"Aragorn," Legolas said, a note of suspicion in his voice, "do you then mean to leave without informing anyone?"

"No, and yes. I would not leave Arwen or the children without explaining the reasons, but I know Duurben all too well. He will not let me go unescorted, and we have no time to spare for extra men. We shall have to travel as we once did, my friend," he said softly, extinguishing the candles with his fingers and rolling away the last of his papers. "When the world was simple."

"You think the world was simple then?" the elf asked skeptically.

"In retrospect, I do. Come, I have many other details I must arrange if I am to be gone for over a month. And I have a captain of the guard who needs seeing to; a message won't hold him down forever."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Hunching in the shadows, the traitor cursed in every language he had ever learnt, trying to bite down the nagging pain that was tainting his every movement. He had taken some of the Lhandlas he had stolen as soon as he had been able, but though the unexpected bite of the viper had not reached his heart, it seemed he had misjudged the dosage.

As he had predicted, there was going to be no opportunity for him to leave the palace that day and he settled in to wait, his mind working furiously. In case his first attempt had failed he had been given a second plan to try, but now it was far from his mind. He was dying, slowly but surely, and what use was there for money if he were naught but a corpse in the back corner of Minas Tirith?

Risking a slow look around from the end of the balcony just behind the Hall of the Kings, he heard snatches of a conversation and paused, silent and unnoticed, hardly daring to breath lest he miss what was being said.

"…was the sap …. discovered had strange healing…"

"Could any be gotten…"

"Yes ………. waken … tree together."

"…Mirkwood…"

There was a pause, and then, "Wait… Lorien …… swift journey ……….. sap …… two months."

The traitor had heard enough. All that remained was to retrieve his pay and find the tree. Preferably before whoever the king sent did.

Turning, he slipped off . One way or another he would find a way out of the city that night. But first he had to collect a verification of the king's death, and for that he had an idea... He needed to get into the halfling's room.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

April 11

Somewhere in Northern Gondor

At the door of the old woodcutting cottage, the strange leader of the corsairs stood, the Shadow, his hawk perched on his shoulder. Its head shifted from side to side, its eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"It seems he will not be coming," the Shadow rasped, his voice like metal grating against metal. The bird shifted in response. Then the leader turned his head, as if scenting something from far off. "Or perhaps…"

Five minutes later a horse appeared in the yard, its rider looking stiff, as if he'd been riding a while.

"Well?" the Shadow asked, quiet as coarse sand.

"It is done," the traitor said shortly. His tone was strained, but that was only to be expected. All such men seemed to face a moment of realization — one where it became apparent to them what they had just betrayed. All except for the leader himself. He remembered no such pause.

"Have you proof?"

"For the king, yes — if those black banners in Minas Tirith aren't proof enough. Here." The traitor reached into his pouch and produced a leaf-shaped brooch, the delicate silver stem looping across the finely crafted piece. "Elessar was given it by the elves of Lorien when he passed through there before his crowning."

There was a silence as the gloved, capable fingers of the Shadow as he fingered the brooch. "Yes," he said softly, recognizing the workmanship. "They do not give these out lightly or to strangers. Very well. Your reward." He took from inside the door a leather bag heavy with gold and handed it the traitor, a sneer on his hidden face. "You'd best run now, hadn't you, Hablak?"

"I suppose I had… Vardnauth," he returned, his voice soft.

For a moment they gazed at each other, and Vardnauth seemed to be considering whether to cut the hablak down for his forwardness. Then he gave his thinnest and most dangerous of smiles. It was a smile that promised the traitor death should he ever attempt to make use of his knowledge. "Discovered my name, have you. You are cleverer than you appear."

Without another word, the traitor turned and mounted his horse, the bag of blood money in his hand. He left the clearing at a gallop.

Entering the house, the hawk following him in a short swoop of flight, Vardnauth pulled a strip of parchment out and wrote a brief report for Queen Mavranor. Attaching it to the bird's leg, he held the door wide for it and it soared off into the night.

He walked as silent as a shadow towards the stables and entered them to find several of the corsairs waiting in the dimness, one of them awake on watch while the others slept.

"Come," Vardnauth rasped. "The work here is finished. When the battle begins there will be much to do from this side of the lines; we must make sure no supplies can move towards the Gondorian troops. Talas, you will remain here and keep watch." Snapping his fingers towards a lean black horse who came obediently forward, he mounted and together they rode north towards Rohan in a rumble of hooves.

Chapter 8

The Concealment of Many Things

April 13

Ithilien, Gondor

The sun shown brightly as she moved through the garden. Had it ever been so bright before? No, she thought not. No other day could possibly match this — the warmth, the rising breeze, scents of roses. Eowyn felt like a child, which was odd considering the news she had to tell.

The lady fairly flew through her garden, her feet leaving nearly invisible prints on the damp ground and her white skirts swirling gaily around her ankles. She was full to bursting with her news, and now that she was certain that it was time to share it the path back to the house seemed doubly long. Her pace quickened and soon she reached the door to her husband's study.

Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, was sitting in the midst of some thousand documents and sorting through each with an ever deepening frown. He had been at work for hours and a headache seemed immanent. Eowyn did not usually interrupt his work if she could help it, but he always welcomed her presence when she did.

It appeared he had been working altogether too long because the moment he looked up at her the frown disappeared entirely and he leapt up at once. Eowyn did not have time to react before she was suddenly swept right off her feet and spun in a complete circle. Faramir set her back down and kissed first her lips then her forehead and finally moved back a pace to look at her.

"Good morning, my lady. Thank you for coming; I need the excuse. You look lovely."

Eowyn was smiling brilliantly and her eyes sparkled. He must have seen the secretive look in them because he was immediately intrigued.

"What is it?" he asked, watching her smile broaden.

She liked this very much, standing here in his arms while unbeknownst to her dear husband their very first and long wished for child lay between them. She was so happy and so breathless with joy that she couldn't find the words, but she didn't want to simply blurt it out so she just looked up at Faramir as though he could surely guess her secret.

Faramir clearly saw that there was something she wanted to tell him, but he seemed to have no idea just how wonderful it was; tilting his head to the side, his eyes sparkling with mischief, he tried to read her thoughts.

"Ah!" he said suddenly. "Your roses are in bloom."

Eowyn laughed merrily and shook her head. "Though they are, my lord, it is not for them that I am in such elation."

"Well you cannot be this happy to see me." Faramir teased, pulling her close. "And I swear to hold you prisoner until I know your secret."

The smile on Eowyn's lips grew full and she opened her mouth, resolved to say the first words that came to her mind—

"My lord?"

The man who had spoken upon entering stared fixedly at the opposite wall, apparently embarrassed at intruding on the lord and lady's privacy. Faramir, who recognized the man at once, released Eowyn with a half grin and turned his attention to the messenger.

"What news from Minas Tirith, Siniath?" he asked, and his face grew more grave. The official messenger did not often come to their door, for Aragorn never called on Faramir unless he was in the great need.

Siniath moved forward after bowing his head to first Faramir then Eowyn.

"My lord, King Elessar sends an urgent request for the Lady Eowyn to come care for his young children for a time."

"What has happened?" Eowyn asked, moving up next to Faramir and grasping his arm.

"My lady, I fear that Lady Arwen has been struck by a deadly illness and she is unable to leave her chambers. King Elessar trusts you alone in the care of his children, if you will accept."

"I am to accompany her," Faramir said, not quite a question.

Siniath nodded in easy assent. "The king said that you would request it and he given full permission for you to leave the ruling of Ithilien to your regent so that you may escort the Lady Eowyn to Minas Tirith."

Then all eyes turned to Eowyn and she looked first at Siniath, then long at Faramir. She could see many things playing through his stormy gray eyes; something bothered him. But he smiled slightly in encouragement.

"Of course I shall come, and with all haste," she acquiesced calmly.

Siniath nodded and left them so as to return with the news to Minas Tirith. As soon as he was gone Faramir turned to Eowyn. She was saddened to see that his face was growing troubled. He tried to cover it with a jest. "I should have known when Legolas decided to go visit Aragorn that trouble would follow. I had not thought it would occur so quickly, though. This is unsettling."

"It will not be so dangerous as you think, Faramir," she assured him, gently touching his face.

"It may." Faramir shook his head. "I cannot explain it, but I do not feel at ease about this…but indeed you must go and I will stay as long as you have need of me."

"Of course," she whispered.

Faramir kissed her again and then moved away. If he was to accompany her, he had many things to set in order before absenting himself.

It was then, as she lay a hand across her stomach, that Eowyn realized that her moment had passed. Now was simply not the time to tell her worrying husband the secret she carried.

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April 15

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Legolas did not see his friend much over the four days that followed Aragorn's decision to go with him. The human seemed to be possessed of feverish energy. Legolas had grown so accustomed to believing that he would never be more than a prince in his own land, he had forgotten how many tasks Aragorn must now delegate to others without giving away his intentions. Of course, much of the basic functions of the Gondorian government were capable of running themselves — a fact which allowed her king to travel to meetings with Imrahil in Dol Amroth and Eomer in Rohan — but it seemed there were a thousand and one items of a more delicate nature that Aragorn was striving to leave in good hands.

When he wasn't absorbed in business, Aragorn was with his children, and more often: sitting at Arwen's bedside. Though he could not be sure, Legolas felt that there was a permanent current of strength which ran between the husband and wife. Aragorn had relied heavily upon it to keep Arwen alive on the night of the attack until the medicine could be brought. Perhaps it was their love; perhaps it was merely another facet of Aragorn's gift of healing.

Still, in spite of all the sense of purpose that now filled Aragorn's eyes, Legolas was anxious for his friend. He was sleeping very little now, and if he ate, Legolas was not able to catch him at it. There was a fixity to the human's mood that had less to do with having dealt with his own internal battles and more to do with the constant distractions that kept him separated from himself.

For his part, Legolas contented himself with watching from a distance and lending a hand where he could. He took the children for a walk around the high courtyard one afternoon — practicing bow shooting with Eldarion, admiring Elenwen's crooked embroidery, pulling a sodden Gilraen from the fountain around the White Tree — and he helped Pippin and some of the healers in a search for more Lhandlas. The hobbit was quite bothered for he declared that he had somehow misplaced his Lorien brooch, but Legolas had only pointed out, teasingly, that Pippin had a habit of leaving his brooch in odd places and Pippin had sniffed and given up the subject.

On the side, he also surreptitiously gathered provisions and searched about in Aragorn's possessions for the sword that Thranduil had given him long ago. It was unlikely the human would wish to bring something so recognizable as Narsil with him on this journey.

Legolas was carrying the sword, freshly sharpened, back from the armory when he turned a corner to find Aragorn standing silent by a window. The elf opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. His friend was holding a slumbering Gilraen in his arms. It was an unusual position to find the child in, even in the twilight hours. Her small face — a delicate, feminine copy of what her father must have been as a child — was serene and peaceful, her pink lips parted so that her breath whispered softly in and out, moving the strands of hair that always wisped about her face.

Aragorn was rocking a little, side to side, and murmuring a soft song in elvish that seemed to suit the fading light outside. The white stone of the palace around them glowed faintly in the dimness. Slowly Legolas moved forward until he was behind them, watching the sun set beyond the mountains.

From down below, there came a clattering of hooves on stone and Aragorn's song faded. Legolas' keen eyes could clearly see the faces of the riders as they dismounted in the courtyard. Eowyn, her golden hair loose about her; Faramir, holding her horse, but allowing her to dismount on her own; Beregond, the captain of Faramir's personal guard.

"Would you like me to go and greet them, my friend?" Legolas asked, his voice nearly inaudible.

Aragorn did not seem surprised to see him standing there. "That would be welcome. I must put Gilraen in her bed."

Legolas nodded and laid the sword on a nearby table, going light-footedly down the stairs to the main doors. He came outside to find Eowyn and Faramir already almost up the steps. Their expressions changed from anxiety to a touch of relief at the sight of him.

"Legolas," Eowyn breathed. "May I gather that if you have seen fit to leave Lord Aragorn's side then all hope is not yet lost?"

"The message we received was rather brief," Faramir agreed. "Please, friend, can you not tell us what has happened?"

"A great many things, and few of them good. Still, I had best leave that to Aragorn himself to explain. Please, enter." He stood aside and bowed a little as they passed him, relinquishing his hold on the doors to Beregond and Duurben — the latter having been standing personally on watch.

Legolas had only just guided them into a receiving room when the king himself appeared in the doorway. His long, burgundy robes were, Legolas realized, very elvish in appearance. For the first time it occurred to the elf to wonder what the Gondorians made of their ruler's preferences in this matter, or if they even knew what he wore in private.

"Lord Faramir, Lady Eowyn," Aragorn greeted them both, and they bowed in response. "I thank you for coming with such speed. I am afraid I cannot linger here with you long. Lady Eowyn, I greatly covet your help for the coming months. My wife is not merely ill, as I said in my message, but has been the victim of an attempted assassination."

Faramir's gray eyes sharpened and Eowyn gasped.

"Will the queen be well?" Faramir asked.

"Yes," Aragorn said firmly. "The snake which was placed in our room was poisonous and she is very weak, but there is a cure which will be procured shortly. In the meanwhile her handmaid, Arien, who usually watches over the children for us, is much occupied with caring for her. There are other maids we could call upon, and I beg you forgive me for summoning you so far for that reason, but at the same time the culprit behind the attack has not yet been found." He looked her in the eye. "Until Captain Duurben has succeeded in finding the man or woman responsible, I am anxious for the safety of my young ones. The attack was aimed at them as well. You are a valiant woman, Lady Eowyn, and I deem your skill in arms has not lessened in spite of your absence from war."

She nodded slowly. "It has not. Faramir and I still work at swordplay when we are alone. I would be most honored, my lord, to take charge of your children. I only hope I may fulfill your trust."

"Thank you. They are good children, though I say it myself, and I believe they will cause you little trouble. Excepting perhaps Eldarion… and maybe Gilraen. Elenwen will cause you little trouble," he amended. It was his first touch of humor.

He turned now to Faramir and seemed to be watching the other particularly close. In his eyes Legolas could read his thoughts. It was on this man's shoulders that any crisis would fall, should Aragorn become delayed in his journey.

However, though the Prince of Ithilien could not have known the reason for the scrutiny, he met his king's gaze squarely. The valor and wisdom that had grown, unnoticed by his own father, was even greater now than it had been when Legolas had first met him after the battle of Pelenor. Had a king not appeared for Faramir to serve, he would have been a worthy steward.

Aragorn seemed reassured. "Lord Faramir, I would imagine you do not intend to return to Ithilien immediately."

"Unless my king so orders me," Faramir nodded, though there was something in the glance he briefly cast his wife that made Legolas wonder.

"I do not. It will ease my mind to have you here. I will be much engaged over the coming weeks and I would ask you to aid me in what matters might normally demand my full attention. I have striven to set what I could in order, but one cannot plan for all."

"I understand, sire, and I willingly offer what services I may lend."

"My thanks," Aragorn said, and for a moment reached to clasp Faramir's shoulder. It represented a falling away of formality — a show of gratitude between friends — and it prompted a few minutes of conversation. Mostly this took the form of concern for Arwen's current state and a little talk relating to the children. Finally Aragorn summoned Pippin to escort them to the guest quarters and they wished him a fair night.

There was a silence after the room had emptied of all but Legolas and Aragorn.

"Well, mellon nin," Aragorn murmured.

"Well?"

"We leave tonight."

Legolas' eyebrows arched in surprise. "So soon?"

"Time, Legolas. We have already spent four days in waiting. All is as firmly prepared as I can arrange. What few instructions remain for Faramir and my advisors I have written out as well as might be contrived. There is rain on the air — I can smell it. If we leave under cover of darkness, the elements should conceal our trail long enough to prevent Duurben from sending any cumbersome aid after us. I have left him a letter as well; I hope he will not see this as a second failure. I need him in the palace, glaring at anyone who shows signs of duplicity."

"It is well planned, Aragorn. You seem to have done a good deal of writing." He smiled a little.

"Yes… It has suddenly come to my attention how very fortunate I am to be surrounded by so many in whom I trust. I can only pray Ilúvatar I am doing the right thing in leaving them all in this fashion." Aragorn's eyes were distant, a hint in them of the old uncertainty Legolas recalled so vividly from the days when he was unsure of his path as king. Now he was king, and again unsure. But the feeling did not seem to last long, or else it had never taken a firm hold. Aragorn turned to face his friend fully. "It seems the wilds of Middle Earth are calling to us again, my friend. Let us hope that our chances of returning to Minas Tirith uninjured are better than they were in Rivendell."

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Legolas had left on silent feet to prepare the horses and Aragorn had ascended the stairs again, through halls now dark blue with night, to the room the two girls shared. Inside only Gilraen was asleep. Elenwen and Eldarion were sitting together on a low couch off to one side, talking quietly. They looked up when he came in.

"Hello, Ada," Eldarion said softly.

"Hello, my son," Aragorn returned, summoning a smile for their sakes. He sat beside them and Elenwen immediately slipped into his lap, her arm curling up around his neck as she leaned against his chest.

"Uncle Legolas took us out yesterday," Eldarion volunteered. "The trees Naneth planted in the city are beginning to turn green, even though it's still cold at night. You don't think anything will happen to them, do you?"

"No, Eldarion. Naneth's trees are a hearty breed, and she planted some of herself with them. They would survive even a blizzard." Aragorn smiled down into Elenwen's face as she leaned back to look into his. She looked so much like her mother, he thought lovingly.

"Ada," she whispered, "will Naneth be well soon?" It was a desperate question — filled with uncertainties that Aragorn had hoped his children would never need to face.

"Yes."

"Promise?"

He saw that Eldarion was watching him closely, ready to believe implicitly anything he might say. "I promise."

"Good."

Aragorn remained a while longer, saying nothing, only holding his daughter close and allowing his son to lean against his shoulder. At last he said, "I have to go away for a little while. There is medicine I must get for Naneth. Eldarion, can I trust you to look after your sisters for me?"

Eldarion nodded solemnly, his dark hair brushing his shoulders. "Yes, Ada."

"Lady Eowyn is here to watch over you so that Arien can stay with your mother. Uncle Legolas is coming with me. We will be back as soon we can, don't worry." He kissed Elenwen on the forehead. "I love you both with all my heart."

"I love you too, Ada," Elenwen whispered.

Eldarion gave his father a tight embrace and silently slipped out and down the hall to his own room. Aragorn pulled aside the blankets next to Gilraen and slid Elenwen under them, tucking them close about her. "Sleep, daughter," he said, and her blue eyes obediently closed. Gently he caressed the side of her face. Then he turned, checked the seashell nightlight to make sure it had plenty of wick still to burn, and closed the door quietly behind him.

His pause was longer before his and Arwen's room. At last he pressed the door open and walked inside, his eyes adjusting to the orange light of the candles still lit on the bedside table. Arien looked up from her vigil over her lady and bowed her head respectfully, her brown eyes black in the dark.

"I'll stay with her," Aragorn whispered.

"Yes, my liege," the lady-in-waiting whispered back and left the room.

Ignoring the chair close at hand, Aragorn chose instead to sit on the edge of the bed and watch his wife's fitful slumber. Her skin was pale as wax and her hands clammy. Around the wound on her arm there were still leaking out faint traces of gray — the poison held at bay, but not actively pressed back. Aragorn gently cupped her head between his hands, leaning down to kiss her damp forehead, his fingers caressing, while not quite touching, the delicate points and curves of her ears.

Rising, he slipped across the room and opened a carved chest sitting in the corner. Removing his robes, he laid them aside and took from the chest an ordinary tunic and leggings, his old leather vest and bracers, the worn boots and belt that had once served him so well. His quiver and bow were there, the knife Celeborn had given him, and his Lorien cloak and brooch which he rolled up to bring along. The familiar feel and smell of the things was reassuring.

He finished dressing, fastened his belt, and removed the binding from his hair, letting it fall loose about his face. Last of all he lifted his overcoat, the leather worn soft and supple with years of wear, the surface marred by the familiar places where he had repaired it. He held it at arm's length for a moment before sliding into it, and was somehow surprised to find that it still fit in exactly the same way.

"My Dúnadan," came a soft whisper.

Aragorn was back at Arwen's side instantly. "I am here."

Her eyes were glassy as she looked at him, her voice breathy and weak. "Not for… long. You are off somewhere. Where?"

"To find a cure for you. Legolas knows of one; but only I can help him to get it. Believe me, meleth nin, if there were any other way—"

"Shh," she hushed him. "You are not abandoning me."

"I feel as though I am."

"You are wrong."

He could not help but smile at her teasing tone. Her eyelids were beginning to tremble, a sign she was not yet strong enough for more speech, and Aragorn leaned forward and kissed her gently. Her lips were still like velvet against his, her love still clear in their curve. "I shall be back, Arwen. I promise."

"And I shall be here when you return. I promise." The last word faded as she fell softly back to sleep.

"May the Valar protect you while I cannot," Aragorn whispered. Rising, he slipped from the room. As he walked down the hall, he reached up and touched the Evenstar. Then he slipped it inside his tunic so that it rested, cool, against his heart.

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Tantur's ears were young and sharp. Perhaps not sharp enough to catch the utter silence of a Dúnadan's tread, but sharp enough to catch the faint creak that the side door made as it was pulled gently closed. The king was leaving! And without telling anyone… Probably he did not intend to go alone — Tantur was willing to guess that Prince Legolas would be meeting up with him somewhere — but he certainly wasn't taking any of the city guards. For a few minutes the young man debated his course of action, considering the legends of Elessar's skills as a woodsman that his Uncle Duurben had passed down with such admiration. Tantur wasn't even half that skilled, he knew, but if he left immediately, without even returning to his room, he stood a fair chance of keeping the king in following distance. If anything happened, he ought to be able to see it and catch up quickly.

For a moment he thought he heard a noise, as of someone else walking nearby, but it faded and he let out a soft sigh; it was just his imagination. Pulling his dark cloak close to cover the reflective white of the tree emblazoned on his chest, Tantur waited another few seconds and then quietly slipped out the door.

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Legolas looked up as his friend came silently down the alleyway toward him and he stared for a moment, the sight taking him unawares. It was Aragorn, but Aragorn as the elf had not seen him in a long time. Even when he dressed informally he seldom donned the old clothing he had worn as a ranger. Now he stood in readiness, his hair brushing his cheeks. The familiar old coat hid all traces of Elessar, King of Gondor, from the unobservant world.

"Legolas, did you take my sword?" Aragorn asked calmly.

"I had it sharpened," the elf nodded, handing him the sword and passing his friend the pack he had loaded for him. "Here, I have packed our provisions." He did not ask if Aragorn had already bidden his family farewell; he knew the answer. "Are we ready, Strider?"

"We are."

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Authors' Note: We regret to say that we won't be able to post the next chapter until Monday because both of us are going to visit friends for the weekend. Thank you for your patience!

Chapter 9

Once Familiar Roads

April 16

Northern Harad

Queen Mavranor was in close conversation with one of her generals when the gray hawk reappeared in the aviary. Halda brought the message in himself. The queen's advisor was bone-achingly weary — he had slept but little over the previous week, and admitted to a certain anxiety about what news the message would contain. If the queen's euphoria was burst the consequences would not be pleasant.

"Dispatch that, then," Mavranor was saying, her keen black eyes flicking over the orders she had just written down. "I am pleased, General Ingem. Proceed as you have begun and your rewards shall be great. We attack as soon as may be."

Ingem bowed. He was ancient, but seemingly incapable of succumbing to death, and he was Mavranor's tool of choice in all military matters. He had fought and won many wars on the sands of Harad under her banner. Halda wondered what his skill might be in the green hills and fertile valleys of Gondor.

"Bring me the message, Halda," Mavranor called.

Her advisor bowed and approached, handing her the sealed parchment. "It arrived just a few minutes ago, carried by the gray hawk, my lady."

She nodded and slit the message open, perusing the contents quickly. A slow, cruel smile of delight curled across her lips. "Good," she breathed, as one inhaling perfume might. "He fulfills my trust again. The battle will go forward." A slow laugh seemed to be bubbling up in her veined throat, echoing from her mouth and filling the room with her high, exultant mirth. "Invincible," she shrieked, almost hysterical in her ecstasy, "undefeatable, they called him! A king unrivaled in the world of men! 'Turn back, do not risk!' — what 'risk' is there for Mavranor, mightiest of all rulers?"

Halda waited, squashing impatience. When it seemed the queen had forgotten him, he ventured, "What news, your magnificence?"

Eyes glittering like live coals, Mavranor laid the message aside and gazed at him with burning satisfaction. "They are dead. All of them. Their so-called Numenorean king, his alien wife, and every last one of their brood. To whom now shall the Gondorians turn when my men come marching upon their borders? Around whom shall they rally?" And again she leaned back and shook with the sheer delight of it all.

Halda bowed, understanding fully the triumph of the moment. There had grown in Harad the sense that somehow the Gondorian king was immortal; it had disheartened those who had fought and attributed much to their failure. Now it seemed that safe image had been stripped away.

To whom, indeed, would the Gondorians be able to turn…?

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April 16

North of Minas Tirith, Gondor

"That was the largest mud slide I've ever seen."

The off-handed comment sent the filthy human's elven companion into a stream of laughter that became impossible to stem. Aragorn himself was strangely cheerful considering his less than kingly appearance at that moment.

The rain that had come to this stretch of land a few days ago had left the hillsides in sodden ruins. Unaware of the treacherousness of the land on which they walked, Aragorn and Legolas had both received a shock when a section of the hillside fell away beneath Aragorn's feet. The ranger had been granted no time to react before he had landed abruptly in the swale, coated from head to foot in a thick orange-colored mud. Legolas had been more fortunate. His elven agility, coupled with a firmer ground beneath his feet, caused him to slide only a little ways down while still standing.

Right now Aragorn was walking with the express purpose of catching as much of the sprinkling rain that still fell as he could. He felt very uncomfortable under the layer of clay-like mud, but he could not help but view the ordeal with a certain amount of humor and Legolas' reaction only egged him on.

"Strider," the elf finally managed, "I still hold that this is the look that has always suited you best. Not that you don't look every inch Gondorian royalty when in Minas Tirith, but here, on an open road that paves the path between one civilization and the next, it is good to see you once again the ranger."

Aragorn smiled and plucked at his sodden shirt with distracted irritation. "My father told me once to put aside the ranger; I should have known I couldn't do that for good."

"Not when it runs so thickly in your blood," Legolas laughed, reaching over to pull a soiled leaf from his friend's tousled hair. "And not as long as you are so unwaveringly attracted to dirt."

To that Aragorn laughed and shook his head so that three more fell, and muddied rain water whipped his hair into thick strands around his face. Legolas marveled that Aragorn could still look so young under this Dúnadan guise. It was something of a mystery that surrounded the man, quite elven in a way; Aragorn seemed forever young at times, despite his years. Legolas had never called attention to it in so many words, but he enjoyed his friend's ease without the immediate cares of a country under his rule.

"We can't afford to lose time," Aragorn said at last, some of the levity of a moment ago ebbing away.

"Let's try to find some drier ground," Legolas suggested, not wishing to give Aragorn enough time to feel worry. "Though…I don't suppose a stream would go awry would it?"

Aragorn couldn't help the sardonic smile on his face, hardly visible through the grime. "Thank you Legolas."

It was beside the stream that they decided to stop for a rest. Night had fallen moments before and both were well worn by the journey. Their path had followed the Anduin closely and it was not hard to find it once more, for which Aragorn was grateful.

"The night air and your drenched clothes won't do, though," Legolas commented with a smile as his friend returned to their small camp. Legolas had drawn together some dry grass and pieces of wood which were burning a little patch of warmth against the night.

Aragorn agreed with a nod, his lips pressed tightly together against the cold. He started towards the forest near the river.

"No, you stay here," Legolas ordered firmly, gesturing to the blaze. Aragorn obeyed without parting his trembling mouth to protest. Legolas chuckled and received in return a patient glare. "I am sorry, Strider, but it occurs to me I would win my way far more often if you were this cold all the time." In good spirits Legolas made his way to forest singing softly under his breath and gathering pieces of wood to sustain the fire.

When he returned he found Aragorn was not shivering so much anymore; the human's attention seemed to be distracted by the sky above. Legolas followed his gaze and inhaled sharply. The rain clouds had dissipated and the stars were startlingly visible against the black night, shimmering and blinking brightly through the crisp air.

For a moment the elf marveled at their beauty, caught as only one of the First Born could be, but only for a moment. His attention was drawn again to Aragorn who had dropped his face suddenly into his hands, his shoulders shaking with broken sobs.

Legolas dropped the wood limply to the ground and hastened to his friend's side, gently pulling his friend against him, ignoring the water that seeped bitingly through his own tunic as he did so.

They stayed a long time thus, Aragorn unable to speak between his tears and Legolas at a loss to find true words of comfort to give. He knew the man had been holding up these emotions for a long time. Through the long night that he sat by Arwen's bedside, but she had needed him then, and his men had needed him. Through the days that he prepared for them to leave, but his children had needed him and there were things that must be done. In all the chaos of what had happened there had simply been no time for Aragorn's own grief — though he had felt it more deeply than any other.

Now beneath the evening stars, alone with only his thoughts and painful memories, he had broken inside at last.

After a time Aragorn pulled slightly away from Legolas who released him but still rested his hand on the other's shoulder, searching the his friend's eyes compassionately.

Aragorn let out a long trembling sigh and smiled weakly. "I am sorry Legolas."

"Nay, you have naught for which you should apologize," Legolas countered immediately. The elf waited to see if his friend wanted to speak and at last Aragorn dropped his gaze and shut his eyes tightly.

"She did nothing to deserve this, Legolas. I should have done far more to protect that which I hold most dear. It was my own folly and lack of care that allowed such evil to enter."

"That is not so." Legolas shook his head firmly. "You have done all that can been done to protect your family, Strider. You were betrayed, and nothing known to us could have shown us such a danger ahead of time; this is not your blame to take."

"It never would have happened…" Aragorn trailed, the words seeming to pain him deeply. "If she…were not mortal. I am to blame if she should die because of that alone."

Legolas touched his friend's chin, redirecting the man's gaze back to his eyes, and smiled sadly. "Elessar, do you believe that anything could have truly kept the Lady Undomiel from your side? It was a choice she willingly made, and one that you could not have made for her. Considering that you tried and she would not allow it, you should know this to be the truth." Aragorn smiled slightly at the memory but his eyes held pain and Legolas wished with all his heart that he could drive it away for good. "She chose to stay with you, and you love one another with a bond stronger than any other. We will find the thing that will cure her, she will be saved and the rest of your years will be lived out in happiness."

There was something so true, so real in Legolas' words as his blue eyes reflected the starlight that Aragorn nodded, then smiled and nodded more firmly.

Legolas smiled in return and rose to his feet, moving to where the wood had fallen. "Then we will begin again tomorrow after we have properly rested, and in your case, properly dried."

Aragorn chuckled a little at that and, wanting something to take his mind off his troubled thoughts, he got up to help.

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April 16

Somewhere in Northern Gondor

Talas closed the smithy in the late evening as usual. Again he had spent the day shoeing Gondorian horses, patching Gondorian farm implements, and speaking the foul Gondorian tongue. Someday soon, he thought harshly, the tongue of the Corsairs and the Southrons will be spoken in these streets.

Still, these thoughts did not occupy him as heavily as usual. His leader, 'the Shadow', Vardnauth, was due to return from his journey to the spies in the river town at any moment, and Talas did not have good news to give him.

When the sound of hooves came distantly through the trees, Talas left the cottage doorway and stood in the small yard, his weathered face impassive. Only four horses entered the clearing, Vardnauth and three others of the disguised Corsairs who had gone with him. He dismounted without a sound, adding impetus to his reputation for not being a flesh-and-blood human, but rather a sort of strange ghost. Talas could feel his leader's dark blue eyes raking him, guessing or smelling the air of trepidation about him.

"What news, Talas?" Vardnauth rasped.

"The worst sort, my captain. I have certain people in Minas Tirith with whom I communicate — some of them well-placed, and better spies than ever the traitor was. It was only after you had already long since left that I received news from them."

"And?"

Talas braced himself. "The Hablak lied to us. The king was not slain; the queen was bitten, but lives as well; and their offspring too still survive. I cannot make out that the second course of attack was ever attempted by the traitor. For whatever reason, he chose to lie and depart."

Vardnauth stood straight as a pillar and did not lift his gloved hand, but his eyes flashed and Talas felt the blow anyway. He knew he was fortunate that it had not been worse for bringing such news.

"So the queen is still in Minas Tirith," he growled. "And her half-breed spawn as well."

"Aye, sir, but not the king. The rumor goes that he has departed several days ago in search of some cure."

"Do your informants say where?"

"Not directly. But the elf realms have been suggested, particularly Lorien because it is closest. It has been said that the king departed with an elf guide."

"Then he is temporarily no threat to us. If he departed several days ago, then he will have no news of any attacks in the south and will not return until this cure is found. Your fellow corsairs in Rohan will make such a journey difficult for them. I have arranged to return and check their progress by the eighth of the coming month. While there, we may search for the wandering corpse that bears the name 'Elessar'.

"In the meanwhile, we have other work to do. I do not intend to have my message to Queen Mavranor proven false. We shall leave for Minas Tirith tonight."

Chapter 10

Friends Unexpected

April 17

Near the northern border of Gondor

The morning dawned thick with fog and mist and Aragorn was under the definite impression that he had not dried out at all over night. However, the day of travel ahead of him brought a sense of alert purpose and he was in far better spirits as he and Legolas wended their way down along the Anduin.

It was shortly before midday that Legolas asked the question, though he had actually been pondering it for quite some time.

"Are we going to let him catch up?"

Aragorn laughed slightly at that and gazed up through the fog at the veiled sun above. "I don't know why we should."

"He can't be far behind us now, if indeed he was ever very far behind," Legolas pointed out, his expression mirroring that of the ranger's.

It was uncanny the way the two friends had both observed and ignored their tracker. Legolas was not sure how long they had been followed, but he assumed that their tracker must be a dedicated subject of Aragorn's due to his careful distance yet undeniable proximity.

As if reading the other's thoughts Aragorn let out a sigh. "It's probably one of Duurben's new recruits. I have little doubt that if one of them saw us leave they would follow as an act of duty."

"Not report to Duurben?" Legolas questioned with a frown.

"If they thought they had time, yes." Aragorn nodded, shaking moisture from his now dripping hair. "But if they thought this would be the best way to aid us, I would not put it past the younger soldiers to simply trail after us; all of Duurben's loyalty, none of his practicality or good sense."

Legolas gave a nod and fell silent for a moment. "So, are we going to let him catch up?" he repeated.

Aragorn didn't answer at once; the truth was he didn't really want any of his men with him right now. He and Legolas had an important task ahead of them and the questions the soldier would doubtless pose would only hinder them. "No," he said at last with a shake of the head that sent droplets of water spattering his face. "No, not right now. If he catches up to us or presents himself to us we will not send him away, but I see no reason to halt our progress for the time being."

This decision was greeted by a further silence between the two; the weight of the elements around them seemed to demand quiet and so they gave it.

It was not for another few miles that the fog finally came to an end. By then it was raining lightly again and Aragorn let out a forbearing sigh. "I don't believe I have been this wet through since Helm's Deep." His tone was the only dry thing for miles.

Legolas couldn't help but laugh. "Those were the most miserable fighting conditions I have ever been in."

"It didn't seem to bother Gimli very much."

"Blast the dwarf, you're right. In fact I think he rather liked it. It has been a while since I have seen Gimli, how is he?"

"Actually, I think you would know better than I," Aragorn replied, smiling at the thought of their companion. "I have not seen him often myself. He and other dwarvish craftsmen were coming to do work on the gates, but I don't know when he planned to arrive; he may be in Minas Tirith even now."

"Excellent," Legolas proclaimed, chuckling. "What a lecture he will have for us when we return."

"Of that I have no doubt. Beginning 'laddie' and ending either 'bless you' or 'I'm going to kill you now'."

The elf, who had looked at the path ahead, suddenly frowned. "Strider, what is that town there?"

Aragorn followed his gaze. He could not make out the town ahead nearly as well as Legolas could, however he could make out its outline right against the river. "It is likely Kopairin, one of the harbor towns. They make a good business of shipping supplies into Gondor and Rohan."

"Would it be safe to stop there for a time and gather supplies?"

"I believe so." Aragorn nodded. "It is an interesting place if I remember it aright. I have only visited once, but I know that we provide military protection for it as does Eomer. It is one of the few places where you will find an equal mix of Gondorians and Rohirrim in easy company."

"More so since the War of the Ring, I'd wager," Legolas mused as he study the town growing ever clearer as they approached it.

With a set goal to reach Legolas and Aragorn's pace quickened and they reached the town of Kopairin before the sun had set, Legolas chose to wear his hood up but didn't consider a further disguise necessary.

The town was much larger than Legolas would have guessed and, at the moment, very busy. People moved in scattered groups gathering up supplies to load onto several ships docked on the Anduin just off shore.

Aragorn immediately picked out the Gondorian soldiers. They seemed a rather surly lot, likely bored with such a dull position. Normally there would be little or no trouble in such a town, but considering the ways of the Corsairs, Aragorn and Eomer had been very careful with the guardianship of the important supplies loaded here.

The populace, on the other hand, was quite contented. Like Aragorn had said there were both Gondorian and Rohirrim men, woman and children, moving amongst each other with easy friendliness. It was pleasing to the king to see such harmony between the two races of men.

"We could use more food," Legolas was calling over the noise of townspeople, "and you mentioned a need for a blanket I believe." Aragorn gave a distracted nod, his eyes scanning the shops and buildings for one that could easily serve them.

A startled voice came suddenly across the way and Aragorn jumped badly when he heard it.

"Strider? Legolas?!"

Both friends turned sharply at the sound of the voice and found a Rohirrim man leading a horse through the bustling crowd towards them. Aragorn did not recognize the man at first, however something seemed oddly familiar about his lined and weathered face.

"It can't be…" Legolas breathed with a slight laugh, and then, suddenly, Aragorn recognized the bright green eyes.

"Nethtalt?"

The man reached them, smiling broadly and steadying the horse at his side.

"Greetings," Nethtalt replied, for it was indeed the man they had known since his childhood. "I must admit…I am rather surprised to see you both here." Nethtalt frowned slightly as he looked from Legolas to Aragorn. The uncertainty in his eyes was plain as he looked on the King of Gondor and his feet shifted slightly, imitating a movement retained from his youth and thus making him all the more familiar.

"Do not concern yourself with formal address, Nethtalt," Aragorn assured quickly, smiling in spite of himself. "We would prefer my identity go unnoticed."

"Of that I can be sure," Nethtalt nodded, his frown fading at last as he turned back to Legolas. "I can only believe you must be on a mission of great importance."

"We are," Legolas confirmed with a quick nod. "And for your own safety it would be best to leave it at that."

Nethtalt accepted the words and inclined his head before smiling as well. "Is there anything I may do to aid you? I am in town now trading off some horses. We've been years training this lot." He smiled proudly at animal beside him.

"And how is your family?" Aragorn asked, suddenly very eager to hear from his old friend.

"They are all well. Findel is doing wonderfully, and in the absence of children she has gone back to mothering homely beasts."

Aragorn laughed at that. He could remember Findel's first prized horse who been about the ugliest creature he had ever seen.

"What about the children, have they all left you both now?" Legolas asked.

"Oh, long since! I'm beginning to feel quite old. A few stay and help Findel and myself, but most of them have families of their own now. Still, we see a lot of them. Not as much of Thorongil, our youngest, perhaps — he has been serving under King Eomer for some time now and we haven't seen him for at least six years. But we're very proud of him."

Aragorn smiled at the news of his namesake and he was aware of Legolas' similar expression.

"So," Nethtalt said. "Is there anything I can do to aid you on your journey? I would gladly give help if I can."

"I thank you Nethtalt. We will be well if only we can find the best place to restock our supplies."

Nethtalt chuckled as he looked around at the chaotic crowds of people and nodded. "I can show you the very place, if you'll follow me."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Nethtalt led them through the teeming streets to a roughly thatched building that seemed to have been wedged onto the street of respectable shops as an afterthought. Aragorn knew he would never have chosen such a place above the other shops and he wondered slightly at the wisdom of choosing it now.

As if reading the other's thoughts, Nethtalt spoke in a slight undertone as he tethered the horse he was leading outside the small shop, "Don't say it too loudly but this is probably the best place to find quality merchandise without the constant haggling. Besides, I know Makar personally and I know he'll give you good service."

Aragorn and Legolas followed Nethtalt into the small shop and were surprised to find how spacious it was on the inside. The construction was such that it went further back even though it was very narrow.

A short, dark haired man with a stubbly beard and scar across his chin smiled amiably when he caught sight of them.

"Nethtalt, how are things?"

"Very well, Makar." Nethtalt traded greetings with the man and turned to gesture back at Aragorn and Legolas. "My friends here are looking for supplies and in need of your services."

"Whatever I can get you," Makar invited, leaning over to shake Aragorn's hand. His grip was impressive and Aragorn had to try hard not to wince as his fingers were crushed together. Makar was clearly stronger than he looked.

The door opened behind them and Aragorn moved aside as a young man with sandy blonde hair came through, looking agitated. Aragorn guessed him to be in his very early thirties and noted the finer garb the other was clothed in.

"Ah Makar," the man's voice didn't fit him at all and Aragorn was surprised by its resonant quality. "I don't suppose you've seen Sorni today have you?"

Makar shook his head, mirroring concern. "No, Val I haven't. I saw Pilin earlier."

The young man looked more worried than ever, but when he saw Nethtalt he brightened again. "Nethtalt! Greetings, my friend, I did not know you were in town. I don't suppose you have seen Sorni?"

"I am afraid not Valihondo; has she been missing long?"

Valihondo let out a sigh and looked guilty. "I was watching her but she wandered off while I was talking to one of the Gondorian sentries. I wouldn't be too worried except she doesn't seem to be in any of the usual places."

"Well, that happens to the best of us. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for her," Nethtalt assured the other man with a sympathetic smile.

"Many thanks, I appreciate it…" Valihondo trailed off, his eyes turning to Aragorn and Legolas. "Who are your friends?"

"Oh!" Nethtalt turned to the others and gestured to them. "May I introduce my very good friends Strider and Legolas. They're here to gather supplies before continuing their journey and happened to run into me."

"Welcome to Kopairin." Valihondo brought his hand to his forehead in the Gondorian greeting. "I hope you have a pleasant stay, if only a short one."

"Valihondo is mayor of Kopairin," Nethtalt explained with a barely contained smile, "and enjoys meeting new people."

Aragorn tried to hide his surprise as he abruptly recalled he had met this man before. The useful placement of the town had made the selection of its authorities important and before appointing Valihondo both he and Eomer had spoken with him. However, Valihondo either did not recognize Aragorn in return or, at least, had discounted any familiarity of features as coincidental. Certainly the idea of the King of Gondor in Makar's shop was ludicrous.

"I am pleased to meet you both," Valihondo turned back toward the door, "but I fear I must go and see if I can find my daughter, Sorni… Saravesse is not going to be pleased with me." With that the man disappeared and the door shut once more.

True to Nethtalt's word the two friends had no difficulty finding what they needed and were soon leaving the store themselves, bidding Makar a final farewell. Shortly thereafter they parted with Nethtalt as well.

"I hope we may meet again some time Nethtalt," Legolas smiled, recalling briefly the human's much, much younger days, and marveling at how the years had somehow passed him and Aragorn almost untouched and turned Nethtalt into a grandfather.

"I hope that we may. You are welcome at any time." Nethtalt gave a formal salute to Aragorn before the other pulled the man into an embrace and bade him farewell.

When Nethtalt had gone, leading his horse with him, Aragorn turned back to Legolas and let out a sigh that mirrored the elf's thoughts. "It never ceases to amaze me how the time passes. I can still remember when Kelegalen took him after his father died; just a young, frightened child in Mount Gundabad." Aragorn shook his head. "So much has happened and changed since then."

"Ah, but so much for the better my friend," Legolas replied encouragingly, glancing up at the sky as he did so. "It has grown too dark to travel, we may as well tarry here until dawn and get a fresh start tomorrow."

Aragorn immediately agreed and both went to find an inn where they could stay the night.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\

It turned out that Kopairin only had a few inns and only one sounded promising when they asked a passerby and so they entered the Unbridled Stallion. True to first impressions they found it to be owned by a family of Rohirrim who had decorated the interior with hangings and tiles and paintings of horses.

They were heartily greeted by the father of the family who gave them a room without question, happy to have the business.

"There haven't been many people staying around here lately." The man's accent lilted pleasantly as he spoke and he laughed as Aragorn glanced skeptically towards the open door where many people were visible milling around the town. "I apologize sir for not being more specific! We have plenty of visitors during the day, but none stay the night around here."

"Why not?" Aragorn was suddenly curious.

"Well," the man deliberated whilst detaching one of his little children from where she was clinging to his leg and bouncing on his foot, clearly wanting her father to carry her around the room. "I think some of them take the Gondorian soldiers as a bad sign, for one."

"Why should they take protection as a bad sign?" Legolas questioned, frowning slightly.

"Oh it's not the protection, no," the man shook his head and stared out the door, "no, it's only that so many of them have been around of late. The mayor said that was because some of the shipments we get through might be more important than others; to be honest I think that may be what the Gondorian captain told him." The innkeeper shrugged idly and shook his head again. "It could be nothing but it seems to be scaring off the visiting folk like there's war brewing."

Aragorn exchanged a glance with his companion and Legolas quickly saw the concern in the others face, it was strange to see how this load of responsibility for a whole nation weighed on his friend. He knew Aragorn must be thinking that if something did go wrong, he would be miles away from his post of duty, and they were moving further away all the time.

"Come, Strider," Legolas put a hand on the king's shoulder, "let's catch the last of the sun before turning in for tonight." Aragorn nodded with a sigh and followed the elf outside the inn.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Outside people still moved busily, but Aragorn noted that the crowds dwindled rapidly as dusk fell. Soon the sound of ships creaking in the wind was distinguishable to his keen ears and the sound of water came through clearly.

For a moment he shut his eyes and listened to the distant sounds. They reminded him of his time in Gondor and Rohan long ago, when he was only Captain Thorongil… so long ago.

As the wind changed subtly another sound was caught by his ears and when his eyes opened he saw that Legolas was looking in the direction from whence it had come.

It sounded to Aragorn as though someone was shouting and with silent mutual agreement both friends moved towards a darkened walkway between two lines of shops. Standing at the head of this alley they could easily make out the commotion at the other end.

Two Gondorian sentries, tall and broad with hands upon their swords, were speaking harshly to a young boy about thirteen years in age. The boy was trying manfully not to let his distress show, but his voice trembled as he spoke.

"S-sir I didn't mean to be disrespectful," he stammered awkwardly, and as he held up his hands imploringly Aragorn moved quickly towards the scene, Legolas close behind. "I-I just can't find my sister and I've l-looked everywhere—"

"Silence!" one of the guards barked, shoving the lad backwards. The other chuckled harshly as the boy regained his feet.

"We don't have time to be chasing after little girls, and your father should have taught you to be respectful to your betters!" With these words the Gondorian gave the boy another push, sending him straight for the ground — but he never landed. His fall was halted by a strong pair of hands which righted him gently.

"Is it in the nature of Gondorian sentries to treat children thus?" Aragorn's voice was hard as he kept his hands firmly on the boy's trembling shoulders.

The bigger of the two snorted derisively, but didn't seem to want to cross anyone so close to their own height. "What business is it of yours?"

Aragorn felt Legolas tense behind him but knew that the elf would not do anything rash — however much he may have wanted to.

"You had better watch your step," the second sentry continued, with more brash self-assuredness. "We are under the orders of the King of Gondor and you know the King would not be pleased to find that the common folk of this town interfere with his business. It might be enough to wipe this pathetic town from existence. It isn't worth our time as it is."

Aragorn's eyes turned steely but his voice was deceptively calm. "Be assured, I know the King Elessar's thoughts on matters such as these and I assure you he would immediately remove any man who proudly flaunted such behavior as yours. You disgrace the emblem you wear."

To this the man offered no reply and his companion jerked him back a step.

"We have other business," the Gondorian said gruffly and the two moved away, leaving the friends alone with the boy.

Aragorn watched them until they were out of sight, but then turned his attention to the youngster who seemed to want very much to get away from both of them.

"Are you all right?" Aragorn asked gently, getting down to the boy's level and keeping only a loose hold on his arms so he did not feel trapped.

The lad rubbed his face across his shoulder, smearing the tears hastily and leaving his whole cheek glistening in the fading light.

"I'm alright," he murmured. "Thank you…"

"It is no trouble, what is your name?"

"Pilin," the boy replied with a broken sigh. "I-I was looking for my sister…Sorni."

Aragorn recognized the name.

"Is Valihondo your father, Pilin?" Aragorn asked kindly, releasing the boy and letting him properly dry his eyes. Pilin nodded and looked from Aragorn to Legolas uncertainly.

"Have you seen Sorni?" he asked slowly.

"No, I am afraid we haven't." Aragorn shook his head and seeing the lad's distress he added. "Maybe you should return home for the night, it grows dark and your parents will be worried if you do not come home."

Pilin nodded again wearily and Aragorn could easily read the reluctance in his eyes.

"We'll see you safely home," Aragorn offered, rising to his feet and following Pilin out of the alleyway.

As they walked Legolas turned to Aragorn and spoke softly so that Pilin would not overhear.

"I could tell you would have liked to flay them alive; you kept your temper well."

Aragorn let out a long breath and scowled. "It was discouraging. In the days of the Dúnedain I knew all my men, and I hate that such knowledge is now beyond me — that such behavior as what we just saw can be perpetuated in my name... In Gondor and in Rohan we place such a high value on the innocent; it is not only wrong, it seems uncharacteristic that they should be acting like they did."

"It may be discontentment with their assignment."

"Perhaps." Aragorn stared up at the sky. The sun had sunk below the horizon line and now the people were disappearing from the streets altogether, hurrying off to their homes. Aragorn watched a large ship moving into the harbor from up the Anduin and sighed. "I feel an unease that I cannot describe, my friend. Something stirs here, and those sentries…something is wrong," he said at last, turning to his companion and looking the elf in the eye.

"I have sensed it as well," Legolas nodded, moving a little faster to catch up with Pilin who seemed suddenly eager to get home as it grew ever darker. "But I cannot place what it is."

Aragorn jumped slightly as several torches flared up to light the streets. Pilin moved faster until he broke into a run, calling over his shoulder. "My home is just ahead!"

The elf and ranger followed him until they reached a stately looking house that had been placed between an apothecary and what appeared to be a stable.

Pilin opened the door and lamp light flooded the street where Legolas and Aragorn stood ready to turn back towards the Unbridled Stallion for the night.

"Wait!" Pilin called as he ran inside and both friends looked at each other before deciding to obey.

In a moment Valihondo had appeared at the door. He presented a rather odd picture as he carried what appeared to be two of the exact same boy held like sacks under each of his arms. Both children were screaming to be let down in the most unconvincing manner; they were laughing too hard to get many of the words out.

"Hello," Valihondo greeted with a smile, putting both boys down (much to their displeasure) before opening the door wider. "Please come in. Pilin told me how he met up with you and I want to thank you."

Aragorn and Legolas entered politely as Valihondo closed the door behind them.

"Please allow me to unbury a chair or two." The mayor moved further into the room and proved what he meant. The cozy living area was full to the bursting with furniture covered in bedding and toys. "I apologize for the state of the room," Valihondo laughed as he pulled several blankets and pillows from two armchairs. "Every so often the children decide they prefer this room to their own and take up sleeping residence here; especially the twins, Tuilin and Dulin." He gestured towards the two identical boys who were now chasing each other's wooden horses over the sill of a window with somewhat more vigor than was probably advisable for the figures' fragile legs.

"It is quite alright, I have witnessed that strange desire before." Aragorn smiled and sat down in a chair next to Legolas.

"Have you?" Valihondo sat down opposite them and smiled. "Do you have children then?"

"Three." Legolas saw Aragorn's expression change slightly and his friend looked away to the fire at the end of the room. "Two daughters and a son."

"I have six," Valihondo said with a laugh, having not noticed the change in the others eyes. "Three daughters and three sons."

"Six?" Having been an only child Legolas couldn't quite imagine having five brothers and sisters.

"Six with the promise of seven," a new voice spoke from the left as a woman entered the room. She was young, about the same age as Valihondo, and held a small girl of about a year on her hip. This seemed to be difficult as she had a bulge to her stomach that explained her meaning better than words.

"Sara, my love." Valihondo jumped up from his seat as though he had waited for a painful amount of time for her to come into the room. She smiled as he took the little girl from her and put his free arm around her shoulders. "Gentlemen, this is my wife Saravesse and this is my youngest daughter, Fioni." The small girl waved shyly at the two men before turning her face into her father's shoulder. "Sara, these are two visitors to Kopairin, Strider and Legolas."

"Westu hal. I am pleased to meet you," she said with a smile, brushing reddish blonde hair from her eyes.

"Likewise, madam," Aragorn replied with a slight bow. He recognized Saravesse as a lady of Rohan and having already known Valihondo to be Gondorian the sight of the couple reminded him very much of Faramir and Eowyn.

The moment the introductions had ended Saravesse turned back to her husband. "Have you found Sorni?"

"Not as yet," Valihondo suddenly looked worried as he jostled the little girl in his arms. "I've searched everywhere I can think of and asked around but no one has seen her. I had assumed she had gone off to visit her market day friends without permission again, but that hope is fading."

Saravesse's eyes grew more worried than they had been. "What about Pilin?"

"Pilin is back," Valihondo assured her. "He was just out looking for Sorni. Strider and Legolas brought him back after a bit of a run-in with the sentries."

To this Saravesse's eyes suddenly grew fiery and her face furious. Valihondo seemed to know the expression well and he put a placating hand on her shoulder.

"He's fine, dearest; you may go see to him if you wish to be sure, but he was not hurt — thanks to these men."

"I thank you, gentlemen." Saravesse turned a smile on Aragorn and Legolas before taking her leave, presumably to look for Pilin.

Valihondo let out a sigh before releasing a now squirming Fioni to run around with her two brothers and sitting back down across from Aragorn and Legolas.

"She is not pleased with the presence of the Gondorian guards, I see," Aragorn filled the silence after a moment.

"I swear if she was not bound here by the child she bears she would walk all the way to Minas Tirith and ask the King to remove them personally," Valihondo replied with a wry grin.

"Are there many confrontations like we saw tonight?" Aragorn's voice was concerned and Legolas cast him a quick glance of sympathy.

"They seem to detest being here, that much is obvious." Valihondo shook his head before leaning forward to rest his chin on his fist. "When they first arrived here we had little trouble at all, they seemed to be pleased with their position and it seemed they were happy to have so little expected of them, but in the past fortnight or so they have become irritable and edgy. Their captain told me it was because of the large shipment that should be coming into harbor very soon now. They must look to it and he told me I am not permitted to see what it contains. I meant to oversee it myself but they claim their orders to be from King Eomer and I don't want to initiate trouble without proof that I'm needed. Just the same, I've been concerned about how they seem to be handling things."

Valihondo inhaled deeply, brushing his fingers through his hair absently as he shook his head. "Things have been chaos as it is, what with the people concerned that we have trouble on the horizon because the sentries are so anxious, and the Captain of the Guard telling me I have to leave everything to him and the Gondorians, which of course angers the Rohirric guards. It worries me, and I'll be glad when this shipment has passed through."

Aragorn nodded, his mind going over what Valihondo had said. The mayor's concerns seemed to echo the king's own.

"Now my daughter has disappeared, which I'm sure is unrelated, but I'm afraid she wasn't the only one to go off alone today; I heard from several parents in town —"

Valihondo's words were drowned out in a shock of sound as a massive explosion rocked the air.

Chapter 11

What a Ranger-King Does

April 17

Kopairin, Gondor

The entire house shook from the blast and Fioni let out a scream which several of her siblings echoed. Aragorn, Legolas and Valihondo were on their feet in an instant.

Saravesse came running with Pilin at her heels as Valihondo threw open the door and looked out. Standing beside him Aragorn and Legolas could easily make out the rising pillar of smoke against the moon and stars and fires blazing. People were screaming in the streets and torches were being lit at random all over the town.

Turning back into the house, Valihondo crossed the room and pulled down two swords from above the mantel. Pressing the small one into Saravesse's hands and taking the other himself he ran for the door again.

"Sara, keep the children in the house and if the danger grows take Swiftfoot and Mellthala and go!"

Saravesse nodded, a light burning in her dark eyes as she called each of her children to her by name.

Aragorn and Legolas followed Valihondo out into the street. The screams and commotion had reached a fevered pitch and as the three ran down towards the docks they heard another explosion somewhere nearby.

"It must be the shipment that came through!" Valihondo called as he dodged people running in the street, his sword tucked close by his side. Catching sight of someone he knew Valihondo hailed the other. "Captain Himadan! What is happening?!"

"Valihondo, we're losing the Duinlunta!" the Rohirrim called as he moved towards them, a sword in his hand as well. "It's the Gondorians."

"What?" It was Aragorn who spoke this time and as Legolas scanned the crowds of people he realized that none of the guards who had been sullenly stalking the streets moments before were anywhere to be seen.

"The Gondorians!" Himadan repeated, raising his voice over the echo of another explosion. "The moment the Duinlunta came into port they leapt up from hiding and boarded her; we had barely time to follow them, and no time to repulse them before they had control. All the ship's own sentries were killed immediately."

"Where are the rest of your men, Captain?" Valihondo's mind was working fast as he took in the grave news.

"They're on the Duinlunta and the docks trying to subdue the attack; I imagine the Gondorians didn't anticipate us and weren't prepared for an all out battle. I came to find you!"

"It doesn't make sense," Valihondo murmured as a group of people ran blindly past, leading their horses away from the Kopairin. "Gondorians wouldn't kill their own sentries and steal their own supplies."

"These men are not of Gondor," Aragorn said firmly, in some relief. "But we waste time, we must help."

"There's another problem, sir!" Himadan shouted as they made a run towards the docks. "It seems they've taken the Brebenk, and if it comes to a hasty retreat there's no way we'll catch that ship without a plan."

"Set up what's left of your reserve against the shores; we may have to resort to grappling hooks and chains if this gets any worse!" Himadan ran further on to obey Valihondo's order. The mayor's face darkened grimly as they pulled up in sight of the docks.

All was complete chaos.

The men of Gondorian uniform could be seen engaged in a fierce battle with Himadan's regiment and though the Rohirrim were putting up a good fight, it was clear they were coming off worse.

Aragorn could easily make out the strategy from where he stood; the seasoned mind of a captain could see it without difficulty. They were not interested in the shipment for themselves, though they were smuggling prized objects off onto a smaller ship that he assumed to be the Brebenk. Instead of keeping the rest, they were burning what they could and systematically destroying everything in sight.

Valihondo swore under his breath, drawing Aragorn's attention back to the others.

"We need to get them away from the ship," Legolas spoke up, moving forward and pulling out his bow.

"Yes," Aragorn nodded firmly. "Mayor, if we can get them running this way can you call up reserves to head off their escape?"

"Of course, but won't you need help?"

"The Rohirrim are still there," Aragorn called following after Legolas. "Together we should manage."

Valihondo barely had time to acquiesce before they had gone. Mirroring their haste, he hurried to organize what men remained.

Legolas and Aragorn leapt up onto the ship at the same moment, balancing easily on the rocking deck and moving to intercept the first band of Gondorian clad men.

Aragorn caught sight of the burly man who had been cruel to Pilin earlier and decided it was a place to start. The Rohirric sentry the man had been fighting looked up in shock as his opponent fell the deck without so much as a cry.

"Are there any of these men below?" Aragorn asked the startled man as he fended off another.

"We've been keeping them out of the main hold, but the smaller storage holds have been totally ransacked," the man reported grimly, running another of the enemy through with two hard strokes. "I don't know how much longer we can forestall them; we think there's a fire somewhere on board and we need to keep them from running back into Kopairin."

"No, that's exactly what we must do." Aragorn shook his head as he scanned the ship's deck for Legolas. The elf was locked in a close combat with two of the humans and his hood had fallen back, revealing his ears. Aragorn realized that it couldn't have been long before their secret was discovered, but right now that was the least of their worries. "We need to drive them back towards the town! Valihondo is waiting there to head them off. If we can catch them between us we should have them routed."

The man nodded at the change of orders and moved on to get the word passed to the other men.

Aragorn moved on down the docks, doing his part to push back swarm of enemies. He came up against one particularly fierce fighter who, if his Gondorian armor was anything to go by, was a captain himself.

As their blades clashed Aragorn became aware of the opponent's moves… the strange arching swing of the sword, the constant dodging backwards, the heavy reliance on his knife as a secondary weapon. Aragorn recognized them; he had met such skills before, but he could not tell where. His mind was racing to recall the correct counterattacks, but spared one heartbeat for relief: the brutish tactics were not Gondor's style at all.

He was surprised when the man he had been fighting lurched back suddenly, a slim arrow protruding from his throat as he collapsed with a strangled cry. Aragorn turned in time to see Legolas running towards him, an urgent look in his eyes.

"Aragorn," the elf breathed reaching his friend, "the Rohirrim may send these men out into the town but there is something we must attend to at once before the chance has passed us."

"What is it?" Aragorn asked, watching distractedly as the Rohirrim began to steadily push the enemy towards the edge of the Duinlunta.

"Across the way on the smaller ship I saw that they have loaded prisoners in with the spoils of this ship. If they are allowed a chance to escape, even if only a few of them, those prisoners will be lost."

The wood elf was correct, and his friend wasted no more time. Together they set off at a run towards the stem of the Duinlunta. The Brebenk was docked just in front of it and Aragorn could make out what Legolas had seen: a guard stood watch over the hold and occasionally turned to leer and call taunts down at the grate that covered it.

"He does not mean to keep it a secret, I see."

"I can sight him from here and cover you," Legolas said, drawing an arrow in one motion, "but you must be ready, my friend, for if the alarm is given we will not have much of an advantage; there may be more on the ship besides him."

"Right. Better not miss, then."

Legolas did not deign to reply but turned his aim towards the guard below. Aragorn waited for his friend to move first. The moment the arrow flew Aragorn leapt from his perch at the edge of the Duinlunta, hitting the deck almost at the same moment as the arrow struck the guard square in heart.

Running to the grate Aragorn saw that it had been left unlocked, for the purpose of loading more prisoners no doubt. Pulling it open he peered down into the darkness cautiously before jumping down below.

He was only slightly surprised to see that all of the prisoners taken were children, ranging from five to twelve years of age if he could guess it. There were not many, but he could see at once that they had been taken from Kopairin. Though this was a grave sight it echoed the thought that was now nagging at the back of his mind about the nature of these men.

The children were chained to the interior of the hull and were looking at him with mixed expressions of horror, surprise and delight. Aragorn immediately moved to a child whose name he attempted to guess by her sandy-blonde hair.

"Are you Sorni?" When she nodded warily Aragorn smiled. "Well your father, Valihondo, is outside and I'm here to take you to him."

Her eyes grew wider and she nodded eagerly. The other children began to clamor about their parents and several of the smaller ones began to cry — or rather, continued to cry.

As a father himself, Aragorn took great pleasure in releasing the children from the heavy chains. A search of the dead guard's body turned up keys which he used to remove the cuffs on the captives wrists as fast he could. He was aware of two more shots from Legolas above them and knew that someone must have become suspicious.

It was proving to be much more difficult than he could have anticipated to keep the children under control. Every one of the younger children were trying to find an older one to hang on to, the older children were all asking Aragorn questions at once, and the entire group were determined to get out of the stuffy hold as soon as possible.

At last Aragorn managed to herald their attention and motioned sharply for silence.

"We must be cautious," he said, addressing the older ones who nodded. "Everyone keep track of someone younger and when we get out into the open we will need to keep down and out of sight as much as possible, understood?" All the children nodded this time and followed him to the bottom of the stairs.

Aragorn went up first and jumped badly when he came face to face with Legolas. He jerked his sword away in mid-swing, exhaling with relief.

"Intending to decapitate me, were you? How brotherly."

"Mellon-nin, my senses are far too alert for that right now."

Legolas stifled a smile. "My apologies. You need not fear, though; I have taken down the guards that came too close. I supposed you would need help, so I came over. I have rigged up the gang plank as a bridge and it just reaches the shore, if you think we have time to get the prisoners across. We cannot risk putting too much weight on it, it's not a very sturdy crossing."

"Weight shouldn't be a problem," Aragorn replied wryly as he reached down to boost the prisoners up out of the hold. Legolas stared.

"Are they all children?" he questioned.

"Every one. We'll speak of this with Valihondo later."

Moving with as much stealth as was possible for such a large group of young ones, Aragorn and Legolas reached the edge of the Brebenk where the gang plank was propped.

The elf crossed nimbly over and awaited the children on the other side.

Pointing to Legolas' passage as example, Aragorn selected the eldest of the lads and watched with some trepidation as he carried a much smaller boy to the opposite shore. Legolas steadied them both on the bank and nodded to Aragorn.

Slowly, in groups of ones and twos, Aragorn sent them across. "Walk carefully, keep your eyes straight ahead, walk to my friend over there, and don't look down at the water," he advised them gently.

Aragorn was beginning to think the whole escape was proving too easy and he kept glancing over at the battle on the Duinlunta where it seemed many of the Gondorian clad men had been forced back on to land — there to face the Rohirrim and townspeople.

Due to very ill fortune, it was the last two children that finally brought the proceedings to a halt. The boy and girl were around the same age and Aragorn had allowed them to go together since they seemed to be siblings. About halfway along the plank, however, the younger child stopped and stared down at the rushing Anduin beneath them.

Her brother was pulling on her arm, but the child refused to move, shaking her head vigorously and crying for someone Aragorn couldn't make out.

Whether it was the noise that attracted the attention or whether their luck had simple run out, Aragorn had no way of knowing, but at once there was a crack of flint embedding in wood, an arrow shaft vibrated in the deck beside Aragorn's foot, and there was the sound of many more arrows hissing in from the Duinlunta.

Meanwhile the small girl, ignoring her brother's pleadings, had tried to sit on the plank, causing it to bow ominously. The plank was quite as unstable as Legolas had predicted and the concentrated weight of both children in the center was only making it worse.

"Legolas!" Aragorn called, sending another arrow towards the archers on the Duinlunta. "You must get them away from here!"

Legolas glanced from his friend to the two children on the plank and then to the group of frightened children standing beside him.

The elf was torn. "Come!" he shouted at last to the boy on the plank. "Come on, we must go!" The boy shook his head and refused to come, still urging his sister to get up again. Legolas stepped onto the end of the plank, but jumped back as two arrows hit beside his feet. Several of the children screamed and one of them started crying again.

Legolas's decision was made: he had to get the children somewhere safe before coming back for the others. Turning to the captives he quickly moved them back towards Kopairin, away from the fight, glancing back over his shoulder in time to see Aragorn roll away from a close scattering of arrows. Turning back to the children Legolas picked up the crying girl as he herded the others ahead of him.

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Aragorn was quickly running out of ideas. It seemed that the more he ducked and dodged the attack, the more arrows were fired at him. There were now at least three archers sighting him from above and he could only hope that the Rohirrim would notice before long. Then there were the two children still stranded in the middle of the plank and judging by the creaking of the wood they would soon be in the water if they did not move. To make matters worse the fight on shore, turning in the townspeople's favor, had precipitated a retreat and there were, even now, Gondorian clad men moving steadily towards the Brebenk for an escape.

As much as he didn't want the men to escape, Aragorn knew only too well that there was little he could do against their numbers.

The only piece of fortune left to him was that the archers were completely ignoring the two escapees. Whether that was because he was the more immediate threat or because their fire could not easily reach the plank wasn't clear; however the observation drove Aragorn to a conclusion which only the ranger in him did not pass up as foolhardy. The time had come to leave the ship, and quickly. Aragorn ducked under another arrow, wincing as it caught him across the forearm, and came up just beside the plank.

He caught the eyes of the boy who was looking up at him, completely at a loss.

"Can you swim?" Aragorn yelled out and the boy nodded. Aragorn returned the nod in a single jerk of his head before scrambling up onto the edge of the Brebenk and leaping straight for the middle of the plank.

Predictably, the moment he struck it there was a loud crack as the wood snapped cleanly in two, dumping Aragorn, the crying girl, and her brother into the tossing waters of the Anduin. The moment he hit the surface, Aragorn flung his arm out and caught hold of the girl. The lass was now fairly shrieking with terror, but her brother seemed to have caught on and was struggling for the far shore, fighting against the current which was attempting to carry him down stream.

With the added burden of a small child Aragorn was pulled a ways down the river before he managed to fight his way to shore. The girl was thrashing and his chest burned as he heaved her up out of the water. Her weight was taken up and as he peered up through his streaming hair, he saw that her brother had caught hold of her and was holding her close, the water dripping off the pair of them in streams.

A passing eddy lifted him up and pulled him away again. Scrambling for purchase on the bank he felt his fingers pass through the liquid mud before he was caught by the current, drawing him further downstream were the banks rose straight up. Aragorn's hands scrambled to find a hold on something, anything, and to his great surprise caught hold of a hand. His grip tightened automatically and he was jerked suddenly upwards and then dragged forward onto the firm ground.

"Now Strider," the familiar voice scolded as Aragorn cleared muddied hair from his face, "you were not intending to travel down the Anduin and leave me alone with the children and the irate townspeople, were you?"

Aragorn spat out water. "If such a thought had crossed my mind, your highness, I certainly would not divulge such intentions to you."

Legolas grinned at that and gripped Aragorn shoulder as the man regained his breath. "Are you alright, my friend?" Aragorn nodded slightly and tried to wave the elf off. "I would take your word on the matter, but for your ill-temper," Legolas continued with a barely concealed chuckle.

"There was nothing wrong with my temper before you came," Aragorn jested, and pushed the elf away gently. "I see you found a place for the children."

"Yes," Legolas nodded, helping Aragorn to his feet. "It was a simple matter of finding one of their homes, which, with so many children to choose frome, did not prove very difficult. I returned in time to see your impressive leap."

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And so it must have been, for you have not only saved the last two captives but come out of it in one piece yourself. Mostly." Legolas' attention had been drawn to Aragorn's bleeding forearm.

"It's nothing."

"It never is."

Aragorn was about to retort when a creaking sound of released rigging caught his ears. He turned back in time to see the Brebenk pulling away, accompanied by the angered shouts of the Rohirrim who were sending volleys of arrows at the departing ship. Several Rohirrim still stood battling on the deck of the vessel.

Aragorn cursed silently under his breath. "I had feared that would be their next move," he admitted as he stepped away from the bank.

Legolas caught sight of the last of the Rohirrim falling beneath their enemies aboard the ship and shut his eyes against the image. When he opened them again he was in time to see Aragorn moving towards Valihondo, followed closely by the two children he had rescued. The mayor met them halfway.

"It could have been worse," he said, by way of greeting. Blood dripped from his left temple and he had a nasty bruise forming across his throat, but otherwise seemed without injury. He did, however, look thoroughly worn and watched in barely veiled disgust as the Berbenk was taken down stream. "A lot worse," he added after a moment. "We could not have done so well without your aid." Valihondo turned to the two friends at last, his gaze coming down to the two children. "I heard that you were especially busy relieving them of their captives."

The boy was holding onto his sister's hand and seemed to be searching for a face he knew. Aragorn gently drew them closer, shielding them from cold breeze. "Yes, you will find your daughter among them, Valihondo. Legolas took most of them to one of the houses in town."

Valihondo's face lost some of its strain and he let out a sigh of relief. "I thank you. For that you have my eternal gratitude and I place myself in your debt."

Aragorn smiled at that. "No debt need be paid. You do your duty well here and in so doing you pay Gondor and Rohan a great service daily."

Valihondo smiled a little at the words, but he suddenly seemed to be peering at Aragorn with unusual attention. As if something in the other's appearance had seemed familiar, but he was having trouble deciding why.

Eventually he turned and looked back at where the men were beginning to gather the wounded.

"It is difficult," he said softly. "We've now lost half Kopairin's protection, though I suppose they were no real protection from the beginning. Certainly Sara will be happy to see them go…" Valihondo trailed off, his hand wandering idly up the side of his face. "Oh, dear." The words came in a sigh and Legolas and Aragorn watched him curiously as he glanced back at them, a rueful expression now decorating his bloody and bruised face. "She made me promise not to injure myself."

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As it turned out that Sara was too happy to see them alive and Sorni back home to do much real scolding. She did have a few choice words about all the blood, then startled Aragorn and Legolas by including them in the motherly reproaches.

She ordered Aragorn to have Valihondo bandage his forearm and wouldn't leave Legolas alone until he finally let her clean out a nasty welt on his cheek.

Valihondo took all of this in stride and Aragorn accepted the treatment with immense good grace, but Legolas, having never before suffered a wife's abounding concern, was not sure what to make of the ordeal and couldn't understand why he could not simply brush her worries aside like he so often did Aragorn's.

At last, with injuries seen to and children in bed, Valihondo told the entire tale to Saravesse from beginning to end. She listened intently, inhaling sharply at a few points, and at the end let out a relieved breath and said, "Well, I will be glad to see those men gone. I never approved of their behavior, but it is distressing to hear that the Gondorian military had so many traitors among them."

"I do not think they were Gondorians at all, my dear," Valihondo demurred and glanced at Aragorn.

"I agree with you. I believe there is something else beneath this; in fact, I wanted to tell you my—" Aragorn was cut off as there came a hard rap on the door.

Rising to his feet, Valihondo opened it, admitting Captain Himadan who looked quite a sight worse than Valihondo had.

"Mayor, there's something we need you to see to," Himadan said in one breath. "We've captured one of the enemy."

Authors' note: I (Sarah) wish to announce a slight change in scheduling; but first, an explanation! When posting our previous stories Hannah and I have traded off posting days — there's a fair bit of prep that goes into replying to all you wonderful people and formatting a new chapter for posting, and that system allowed each of us to get a break every other chapter. We love doing every bit of this, and want to continue to be prompt in our updates, but here's the rub: Hannah's new job takes her out of the house a lot, whereas my job is home-based currently. Since she's not home more than half the week, I have been posting the updates by myself — but since I still do have work, and I have no every-other-chapter-break-periods, I can't seem to keep up… So! With many apologies for how many times I've done this without meaning to (including just now with this chapter), I am now changing our updates from once every other day to once every third day. We hope this doesn't bum you out too much! We are frightfully fond of all of you. - Sarah on behalf of the herself and Hannah

Chapter 12

Within the Mayor's Head and Walls

April 17

Kopairin, Gondor

The prison was surprisingly close to Valihondo's house, but the walk was long enough for Aragorn to see some of the damage done by the recent attack. He frowned at the sight of several shops that had apparently taken direct hits from the weapons fired at them, some kind of burning rock that again trembled on the edge of Aragorn's memory…something he'd encountered before.

When they reached the prison Valihondo greeted the jailer wearily by name; Aragorn found it a little strange that the mayor should be on such familiar terms with the man. Mayors were not usually so deeply involved with the after-effects of local crime.

"In the past several weeks," Valihondo explained in answer to Aragorn's confusion, "several of the Gondorians made a habit of arresting people without due cause. I can't tell you how many irate townspeople, tradesmen and farmers I had to release." Valihondo sighed and shook his head as the prison door swung open to admit its visitors. "And to think my consolation was that they were just being overly cautious."

Aragorn and Legolas followed the mayor inside and they, in turn, were followed by Himadan and the jailer.

It was musty and it took a moment for Aragorn's eyes to adjust to the dark. Legolas had wisely dampened his glow to bare existence, though he was still the easiest figure to see.

The jailer gestured ahead to where torch light flickered against the wall and they followed him to a bend in the hall. Upon turning the corner they discovered it was far lighter on this side with torches lighting up a cell. Two men stood before the door, their hands on their weapons, looking a little too innocent, Aragorn thought.

Behind them a man wearing the crest of the white tree hung somewhat limply from cuffs set high in the wall. The firelight cast shadows on his face but Aragorn recognized the features anyway.

"Tantur," Aragorn breathed with dismay. Valihondo glanced at him, but immediately turned back to the prisoner. The Gondorian man's head had lolled slightly, revealing an ugly bruise across the side of his face and long gash marring his forehead.

"Edwain, Norgan," Valihondo spoke the men's names slowly and they dropped their gazes guiltily, confirming Valihondo's suspicion. "Do we not have laws set against abusing prisoners?"

"With respect, sir," Edwain responded, his Rohirric accent thickening with anger. "He had it coming to him."

"I've been worried to death about my little son and daughter," Norgan continued, his face contorting with barely masked rage. "And he is the one! He and his friends are to blame for all this. You would keep him from justice—?"

"Enough." Valihondo's eyes sparked and though Aragorn could feel his sympathy towards the two men, he held firm. "That was not my question, nor is it relevant. Your children have been recovered, they will return to you, but your grief does not give you the right to ignore the laws set down by the Kings of Gondor and Rohan."

Norgan dropped his gaze once more, his dark hair and eyes distinguishing him as Gondorian. His breath came harshly in the silence and his voice was quiet. "We have failed grievously in our duties. I beg that you will forgive us, sir; it will not happen again."

Valihondo nodded. "Nay it will not. Seek out Maridain and Eomen and inform them they will be relieving you for the time being." Both nodded and began to leave before Valihondo's voice stopped them. "Norgan."

"Sir?"

"I believe you will find Denilnir and Gildana at Theogal's home."

"Thank you, sir," Norgan whispered and bowed before following after Edwain.

Valihondo sighed and turned to Aragorn with a penetrating stare.

"You know this man." It was not a question.

"Yes." Aragorn nodded. "He is Gondorian."

"How can we be sure that he is not with them?" Himadan questioned warily.

"I know him, as I said." Aragorn moved closer to the cell, aware of Legolas at his elbow. "And I believe I may know who attacked you, Mayor."

"Indeed?" Valihondo looked intrigued. Aragorn saw Tantur glance at him before dropping his gaze. Aragorn's brow smoothed in understanding: it had been Tantur who had followed himself and Legolas up till now, and the poor man had had the ill fortune to be discovered by several confused and angry townspeople.

"It has been a possibility building in my mind for some time now," Aragorn admitted, turning back to face the mayor. "The ships, their choice of prisoners, their fighting technique, the burning rock that exploded on Kopairin — even their appearance is familiar to me." Aragorn caught Legolas' nod. Yes, his friend would know this enemy well. "They are corsairs out of Umbar. I have little doubt."

"Corsairs," Himadan said the word as though he wished to get it out of his mouth before it burned him. "But that is impossible!"

"Perhaps not so impossible." Valihondo was still watching Aragorn. "It would be easy for the message to be intercepted by the Corsairs, for them to decide to pose as Gondorians so they could steal a shipment."

"Not just a shipment," Legolas spoke up. "One that would be a crippling loss to Gondor and Rohan."

"It could be an act of sabotage," Aragorn agreed, "and such may well be happening elsewhere."

"Why would the Corsairs want to wage any kind of war on Gondor and Rohan?" Himadan demanded. "Such an act would be utter madness with their diminished numbers."

"I do not think they are acting alone." The more Aragorn considered it, the more he felt concern at what might be landing at his kingdom's doorstep at that moment… for whatever came would land straight in Faramir's hands to mend.

"Who would ally themselves with Corsairs?" Valihondo mused softly. "No such thing has been done since the forces of Mordor were all amassed."

"That remains to be seen," Aragorn replied, though he had an idea... "Nevertheless, Tantur is not allied with them. I know him to be true Gondorian and he is, in fact, the nephew of a good friend of mine."

Valihondo looked long and hard at Aragorn, but instead of distrust Aragorn saw something like recognition lurking in his deep eyes. "Very well," Valinondo said at last. "If you say that he is Gondorian and not allied with the enemy, I will trust you, Strider."

Aragorn nodded thanks and moved to the door as the jailer opened it. As Aragorn entered, Legolas followed him and relieved the jailer of his keys in passing.

Aragorn let his friend unlock the bonds and steadied Tantur as he slumped to the floor. The man was badly shaken and in some pain, but nothing fatal or immediately dangerous.

"Are you alright, young man?" Aragorn asked the question anyway.

"Yes your…S-Strider," Tantur changed tack immediately, using the name he had heard Valihondo use a moment before.

"We should see to your injuries," Legolas advised. He handed the keys back to the jailer who was glaring openly at him; apparently no one had ever possessed the nerve to take the man's keys away.

"I am alright, really!" Tantur objected as Aragorn refused to release his elbow until he was certain the Gondorian could walk on his own.

"Of course you are," Legolas said in a mock placating tone that Aragorn recognized all too well.

"Yes, of course," Aragorn concurred, "but you'll understand if we don't take you at your word."

Legolas laughed.

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Himadan was in a rather bad temper on the way back to Valihondo's home, but Valihondo assured Aragorn that that was just his way.

"He lost the Brebenk, you see. In his opinion he lost the battle and didn't come away with any real prisoners to show for it."

Aragorn nodded sympathetically. "And now you have no official protection from Elessar."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that," Valihondo responded idly. Aragorn missed a step at these words; did Valihondo know? "There are many Gondorians here that are loyal to Kopairin and not all of them are as impulsive as Norgan. They may not be officially from King Elessar, but they are certainly devoted and they will lend their hands to whatever task needs doing," Valihondo continued, almost without pause.

Aragorn still watched him carefully.

"So, Strider," the mayor began after a moment, "you said that the Corsairs were familiar to you — that you recognized their fighting technique."

"Indeed," Aragorn nodded with ease, glad that they seemed to have changed the subject. "I fought the Corsairs alongside the Gondorians for several years."

"Did you ever serve under the legendary Captain Thorongil?" Valihondo asked with interest.

Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn saw Legolas bury a smile, but he maintained an impassive expression. "In a way," he replied after a moment, and when Valihondo frowned he continued, "I seemed to follow the same paths of war as he."

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Sara insisted they stay the rest of the night and leave early the next morning. This suited Aragorn as he wished to speak to Tantur and see to the young guardsman's wounds.

Valihondo was called away briefly by one of the townspeople and Aragorn offered to watch the children so that Saravesse could go next door to check on a neighbor.

The children were getting back into their night clothes after the evening's excitement and returning to their beds. Sara had told them all to sleep upstairs, so the twins' bedding had been brought up from the living area and was now strewn about the bedrooms.

Aragorn sat down next to the Tantur with the ointments and bandages Valihondo had given him and for a while they both watched the entertaining spectacle that played out before them.

"No, I truly prefer the floor," Legolas countered for the third time.

"But my bed is really comfortable!" little Feinalpha argued in her sweetest voice.

"It is thoughtful of you to offer, young one, but I wouldn't consider depriving you of your bed."

Either there were too many big words for the eight-year-old to understand or she simply wasn't listening.

"But my pillow is really squishy and there are lots of dolls and my favorite leaf and the bird feather I found and there aren't many lumps in it!"

Legolas didn't bother to ask, 'lumps in what?' but quickly broke in on the girl's list. "It is very kind of you," he repeated, "but I don't wish for you to have to sleep on the floor either."

"He doesn't want to sleep on your bed, Fein," Pilin put in from where he was pulling his sleep tunic over his head.

"Yes he does!" his sister countered loudly.

"No, it's too short. My bed is longer, isn't it?" Pilin turned to Legolas expectantly.

The elf was afraid of where this was going but before he could reply Pilin spoke again.

"He wants to sleep in my bed!"

"Now wait—" Legolas began.

"No he doesn't!" Feinalpha shot back, getting upset.

"Yes he does! Mine has the nicer pillow!" Pilin retorted.

"Can I sleep in your bed?" either Tuilin or Dulin chimed in.

"No, he wants to sleep in my bed!" Pilin's voice was over-powered by Feinalpha's but it sounded as though they had said the same thing.

"Calm down, you two, he can sleep in my bed and I'll asked mother if I may sleep downstairs—" Sorni's offer was drowned in a wave of protest from the other three children. The twins, who had given up trying to join in the conversation, were now singing some sort of sea shanty very loudly.

Fioni watched the whole scene from her crib, her two middle fingers planted in her mouth.

Legolas gave a few more tries to get a word in edgewise before turning to Aragorn for help.

The man smiled innocently at Legolas and received a glare in return. As amusing as the scene was Aragorn had promised to watch the children while Sara was out.

Rising from his seat the ranger king stepped into the middle of the arguing children.

"I suggest a solution." The children quieted slowly — all except the twins who kept singing. Having their attention Aragorn sat down on Sorni's bed and studied the little ones. "You all have very nice beds, but we could never choose between them, so instead why don't each of you choose something from your bed and we will sleep downstairs with those things. That way we may enjoy the comfort of each of your beds."

The idea apparently made sense to the children who quickly ran to their beds to choose something. In the end a pile of dolls, toys, and something that looked to be a fuzzy insect in a box were in the middle of the floor and the children were fast asleep.

Aragorn checked on each before picking up the items and carrying them down the stairs. Legolas and Tantur followed and when they reached the living room Legolas broke the silence.

"I don't understand how you come up with such solutions."

"Well, to be honest, I've met similar impasses before." Aragorn smiled as he laid the toys on a table and looked up at his friend. "Recently, as a matter of fact. All three of the children wanted me to sleep in their rooms and Gilraen wanted to sleep in ours. It is fortunate for we poor fathers of the world that diplomacy among children can be simple once one knows the trick."

"It would almost make my having a family worth it for just that purpose," Legolas muttered, glancing up the stairs once more.

"Believe me, mellon-nin, Arwen still tries on occasion; the Prince of Mirkwood unwed seems to be a calamity not to be borne by any right-minded female. But now that all elven kind are leaving these shores and all that remains are us mortals, it makes it difficult. I believe you are safe." Aragorn smiled faintly at the mention of his loved one, but then sighed and turned to Tantur.

The man had already bandaged his own hand and was dressing a cut on his arm — a task that proved difficult with only one available hand.

"Forgive me, Tantur, I did not mean to leave that to you." Aragorn moved quickly to the man's side and took over dressing the wound.

"It is nothing, your highness…" Tantur trailed off awkwardly and looked up at his king.

"I am 'Strider' on this venture, Tantur," Aragorn smiled. "Legolas and I have a mission that I am afraid is connected inescapably to myself; he cannot do it alone."

"I understand, your—Strider." Tantur winced as Aragorn applied ointment to a bruise on his shoulder.

"I am sorry that you were treated this way." Aragorn took the bandage Legolas handed him and began to bind the man's temple.

"It's my own fault." Tantur answer through his teeth. "Foolish of me to think I could do aught but get in the way— I just didn't want you to go alone."

"I had Legolas." Aragorn sobered when he saw the look on the man's face. "But I am not angry with you Tantur; you did your duty as seemed appropriate at the time." He paused. "Though, if I'd had nothing to lose from your choice, I might have said that informing Duurben would have been a swifter course of action and might have better suited your goal."

Tantur snorted at that. "Are you sure it is wise to tell me such things? For the sake of next time this occurs, I mean."

Aragorn frowned good-naturedly. "What next time? If Duurben ever lets me leave his sight again for the rest of my life I shall assume he is either dead, captured, or held down by chain, stone, or a mûmak sitting on his chest. My only worry is that he will blame himself personally for this."

Tantur chuckled softly. "Yes, he often takes responsibility for mistakes which not his own. There are few so protective in Middle Earth as my uncle. I can't imagine him without someone to watch over."

"But why does it have to be me?" Aragorn questioned with a sigh.

"My friend," Legolas answered instead, "you attract such people."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

April 18

Kopairin, Gondor

Valihondo's whole family was awake at dawn to see the travelers off. Aragorn said an individual farewell to each of the children and both he and Legolas found themselves the recipients of some very unique gifts.

Not quite as unique, but doubly helpful in their need for haste across Rohan, the three travelers were also given horses as a gesture of gratitude from the town itself. As he mounted, Aragorn thought he recognized Nethtalt's brand on the beasts' flanks. Good Rohirric breeding would be a great advantage on this trip.

Saravesse, who was wrapped in a long shawl to stave off the morning chill, had replenished their healing supplies, asked them four times if they had enough food, and finally bade them farewell.

Valihondo was last and after saluting Tantur and Legolas he turned to Aragorn. "May these horses bear you swift and safe to your destination, my friend. And home again, where your family and all those who depend on you wait."

Aragorn found the departing words odd but not as odd as the strange, knowing smile that faintly touched the corner of the mayor's mouth. Or else was he was only imagining it.

As the three companions rode away from the town, Legolas looked back in time to see Valihondo wrap an arm around Sara's shoulders and lead his family back inside. The morning light had revealed a town in great need of repair, but the elf was not concerned. His friend had left Kopairin in able hands.

Chapter 13

The Unmasking of a Traitor

Dearest Diamond,

Are the flowers in Tuckborough blooming yet? Minas Tirith is a glorious city at all times, but I miss the Shire in the spring. Even the queen's skill in gardening doesn't seem to make much of an improvement. It would help if the city itself had less holes in it; old wars don't heal quickly. But listen to me! Talking about wars. We've done with wars, Diamond my love, and the only thing left to fear is Prince Eldarion. I think his father expected Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn to be a better influence on him… He's gone back to stalking poor Captain Duurben in the corridors. Lord Faramir finds it amusing, though he tries not to laugh in the captain's face. A most wonderfully kind man is Lord Faramir.

Alas, my dearest wife, you read the words of a most miserable hobbit! If only I could have persuaded your father to let you come… but perhaps it is best for you to stay in the Shire. I find myself longing for two homes, and unable to bear the fact that they are so far apart. Don't worry: in the summer I shall come for you and when I return to Gondor, I'll bring you back with me even if I have to kidnap you. I could prop up a ladder beneath your window and you could open it and smile down at me. Remember how we used to run through the meadows in the moonlight? Until your cousin snitched on us, that is, and your father went out with his lantern to find us. I don't think I've ever met anything so frightening as your father when he's watching over you… It made me feel a robber, or worse, to be enjoying your company. I wonder what he would think of me if I lured his youngest daughter off to the far side of Middle Earth? What would you think of me?

The weather is wet.

How are the doings in Long Cleave and Hobbiton? How is our dear Mayor Sam? I always knew that was the job for him — he has the build for it, and the manners. I should be too impatient and too lazy by turns. How are Rosie, Elanor, little Frodo, Rose, and little Merry? Didn't you think it was awfully unfair of Sam to choose Merry and not me to name his son after? He will have to name the next one for me. Let us just hope it is not a girl. (Speaking of Merry, please tell me you are having success in rooting out a lass for him! As the sensible one, he really ought to have caught that bouquet and been married first. Perhaps it is just my Tookish good luck that I found such a gem as you to be my own! And the pun was intentional, so don't you go correcting me.)

I am trying to picture your dark curls right now. I have the lock you gave me to help, and as I finger its softness, I can see you in your veil and apple blossoms. Was there ever a lady, elf, or angel with such a face as yours? No, I think that would be quite impossible. Besides, I also have absolutely wondrous pictures of you in the kitchen, flour on your nose, and your cheeks pink. Elven ladies simply do not cook — or if they do, I have never seen it. They certainly could have nothing on your pies. Between desires for your arms around my neck, and wishes for your cakes with my supper, I am practically wasting away.

Did I ever tell you that the stars in your eyes sleep in the sky at night? I can see them watching me from my window. I don't suppose you have heard me whispering you good-night in the evenings… Perhaps I should try yelling from the High Courtyard.

Things are in a bit of a tizzy here at the palace just now. Someone with too great a nasty temper and too little respect for what King Aragorn can do when properly nettled set a poisonous snake in the queen's bedroom. I promise you, this has never happened before. The queen was bitten and looked unlikely to recover, except that Aragorn and his elf friend, Legolas, have gone to get medicine for her. Such a to-do! Aragorn has a bad habit of avoiding his own guards, but I think this wins the prize. When we awoke the next morning to find that they'd gone off and left the city entirely, Captain Duurben's heart nearly failed, and Lord Faramir looked — well, to be quite honest, I'm not sure how he looked. There are few men I respect so highly as Lord Faramir, but he can be awfully funny at times; I could have almost sworn he had expected it. He went to Aragorn's study and found a good many letters explaining why he had gone, though not exactly 'where'. They hinted at Lothlorien, but I got the impression he and Legolas didn't want to be followed. They shouldn't have worried; with all the rain, you'd be better off trying to track a fish in a river. Not that Captain Duurben hasn't tried… I've only just now gotten off duty long enough to write this letter. There is a courier going west to try and intercept Aragorn and I intend to send this with him.

Arien, the queen's lady-in-waiting, seemed relieved that something was being done. She's always been kind to me — I think you both would get on nicely. She used to live in the northlands and she loves to hear about the Shire! Lady Eowyn is here with the prince and princesses; I think she might be amused by the whole thing. Or as amused as anyone can be with Queen Arwen still so ill. I tell you, Diamond, I should like to find the brute who did this and wring his neck! The queen is practically the sun and moon here in the city, and the people are now miserable. We are all stuck waiting for Aragorn's return.

I wish I could write you a poem. In the Shire we seem to have too many for eating and not enough for wooing, and most of the ones I find here are written in elvish. I hope you know how much I adore you. I don't have enough parchment to tell it, and I must go and report to the captain now anyway.

I miss you. I love you. With all my heart,

Peregrin

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

April 19

Minas Tirith, Gondor

"There you are," Duurben said as Pippin entered the guardroom, his face bright. "Though how you can manage to look so cheerful is beyond the skill of man to tell."

"I've just finished a letter to Diamond and it's gone off with the courier."

Technically it was not allowed for private messages to be piggy-backed on official couriers, but Duurben, for some reason he had honestly never been able to explain to himself, had turned a blind eye to it. At least in Pippin's case.

"The fourth watch has been sent out; I've removed you from it temporarily," Duurben explained. "I have need of you."

"Certainly. What are we doing?"

"Attempting to discover what has become of Lieutenant Tantur."

"Oh dear, you've misplaced him? That's a common problem with nephews. Or so my uncles have always told me…"

Duurben's mouth twisted into an odd shape as he tried to hide a smile. "I believe the unrest a few nights ago may have given him a relapse. He was looking steadily more ill and when he requested to be let off his night watch the evening before last, I allowed it. He was supposed to be back on duty yesterday and there is no sign of him. I had meant to ask him if he saw anything of the king's departure that night."

"I doubt it," Pippin shook his head, long practice allowing him to scuttle along at a pace which matched Duurben's long stride. "Have you ever seen Aragorn when he isn't being king?"

"Yes."

Pippin blinked a little in surprise. His captain really never talked about his past. "When was that?"

"When he served in Gondor under Steward Ecthelion. He was disguised as Thorongil at the time."

"More names. One could make a hobby of collecting his names."

"Perhaps."

Pippin eyed him, wondering how much information he might be able to glean before his superior clammed up again. "So I take it you served under him? And then after he left, what did you do?"

"Continued in my duties as a soldier of Gondor and guard of the Citadel. I had become a lieutenant under Captain Thorongil during the battles against the Corsairs, and afterwards I was promoted to Captain. After the death of Steward Ecthelion and the succession of Steward Denethor I was given a small contingent of soldiers and sent to guard the various towns south of Osgiliath."

Though not more familiar with military politics than he could help, Pippin snorted with understanding. "Doesn't sound as if Lord Denethor was fond of you."

"Perhaps," Duurben admitted. "I fear, in Steward Denethor's eyes, my loyalties may have been considered questionable. But it granted me a chance to meet Captain Boromir and Captain Faramir when they first began to defend the city there. As the elder, Captain Boromir was frequently at more pressing points along the battle line, but I fought beside Captain Faramir many times. My company was ordered with his into a short skirmish run in Ithilien. He fought most bravely; I often felt he had a good deal in common with Captain Thorongil."

"With Aragorn?"

"Aye."

Pippin nodded in agreement, then asked abruptly, "Did you ever love a woman?"

Halfway up the barrack steps Duurben nearly tripped. He caught himself and looked sharply at the hobbit. There was only open curiosity to be found; no ulterior motives. His eyes fell in acknowledgement. "One. Just one."

"Where is she?"

"Dead. Twenty-six years."

Pippin looked sorrowful, his curly head tilted and his accent more pronounced as he whispered, "I'm sorry. Will there ever be another?"

"No," Duurben murmured softly, starting to climb the steps again. "Some hearts are only able to love once, Master Pippin. Utterly, completely, and with all their being. But they cannot unlearn the past enough to move on. I fear Thorongil's heart is such a one."

This time it was Pippin who halted, startled, on the steps. It was the closest he had ever heard the captain come to calling his friend by his first name. When they reached the top of the stairs, the conversation ended as suddenly as it had started. Somehow it was understood that such topics belonged to the dim staircase.

Duurben strode to the end of the row and pounded at the door on the end. Most of the soldiers shared rooms, but the lieutenants and the captains were granted quarters of their own. There was no answer from inside this one.

"Lieutenant Tantur?" Duurben called. Again, no response. The door had been locked and Duurben glanced about for a key but could not find one. Slipping under his arms, Pippin peered through the keyhole.

"Key's not in the lock. Have you any wire handy?"

The captain blinked, then reached into his pouch and unwound a short length of thick wire from his whetstone. Expertly the hobbit eyed it, twisted it back and forth until it broke into two pieces, then bent the pieces into odd patterns and began to jiggle them in the lock.

"I fear that will not work," Duurben sighed, "the locks are of dwarf manufacture. Steward Denethor had them—"

The door swung open.

"Nothing against dwarves, but…" Pippin trailed off delicately, rubbing his short nose.

Anxious to avoid any possible explanations for his subordinate's suspicious talents, Duurben inclined his head and entered the room. It was a disaster. What had not been removed entirely from the chest in the corner had been cast about the room.

"Maybe his grandmother was sick and he left in a hurry," the hobbit volunteered. Then, catching his captain's pained expression he amended, "Oh, I suppose he would have told you, wouldn't he? What's that smell, by the way? Did Tantur smoke a pipe?"

There was a faint dusty green odor to the air that suggested dried plants. Taking a long step across the narrow room, Duurben lifted the edge of the pallet — and froze.

Pippin blinked. Under the pallet on the slats of the bed frame were smashed dozens of herb strands, such as could be found in the Houses of Healing. The pressure of the bed had crushed them, sending out their smell. Lhandlas. Duurben let the cot fall as though it had burned him.

"Perhaps the healers gave them to Tantur?" Pippin asked, trying to deny the suspicion that was growing in him.

"Lhandlas is only used for snakebite." Duurben was now rifling through the debris on the floor. There were rags with dots of blood on them — always two dots, close together, like fangs. He brought out a round basket with its lid removed and put his nose to the opening, inhaling the dry, reptilian scent that clung to the weaving. A crumpled sheet of parchment lay discarded in the corner and he dropped the basket and reached for it, smoothing it and scanning the script there. It was a carefully taken down copy of the guard schedule on the night of the assassination attempt. And it was written in Tantur's hand.

His own mind putting pieces together faster than was comfortable, Pippin was alarmed to see Duurben's hand shaking. For a moment he wondered if the man was going to be ill.

"Tantur," the man mouthed, no sound behind the word, and Pippin's heart ached. Tantur. Duurben's nephew. His flesh and blood. A murderer and a traitor.

Pippin wished that Aragorn could be there, certain that he would know the words to say since the hobbit had none. All he knew was that to Duurben, whose loyalty was as incorruptible as the sun, this must seem like the end of all things.

"Ilúvatar…" Duurben pleaded softly, letting the paper fall and closing his eyes for a moment, as if to block out the world. And then his lids flew open again. "Oh no."

"What?"

"He was bitten."

Pippin frowned; the words had not sounded concerned, but apprehensive.

"He was on guard duty near the Hall of Kings. If he caught word of where the King and Legolas were going for the cure—" Breaking off he turned and left the room in two strides. Pippin could hear his footsteps echoing back down the stairs.

On his own way out the door, the hobbit paused and looked back over his shoulder. He wondered if he ought to have guessed — he had seen Tantur at the healers, with a wound he could have easily given himself as excuse to get at their stores — he had seen him already breathless when they were called out to search for the 'intruder'. But the man had been a friend and thus, to his hobbit mind, above suspicion. Uncomprehendingly, he wondered how a man could come to such a pass. Fear? Perceived wrongs? Gold?

Either way, it was simply another trouble to add to an already overflowing kettle.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Faramir listened in silence as Duurben spoke and when the captain of the guard finished he still did not say anything for several minutes. It was unsettling, but this whole situation was unsettling.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, Duurben," Faramir said. "I fear if Tantur set out to take the antidote for himself, there is little we can do. Lord Aragorn and Prince Legolas are too clever a pair of woodsmen to allow themselves to be found and warned by us. I think the best we can hope is that Tantur will also be unable to find them."

"Yes, my lord, but if he does manage to find them, they have no knowledge of his… his treachery."

"Aragorn is a shrewd man with much insight into the hearts of others, and Legolas is an elf," Faramir reminded him. "They should not be caught completely unawares."

There was a silence and Faramir gazed sadly at the man across from him, who was now looking so very old. Duurben had already been a seasoned fighter when Faramir had first known him, but for all his vigor he was no Dúnadan. This had to have been a severe blow to him.

Rising, Faramir came around the desk and gripped the captain's shoulder. "This was no doing of yours."

"Yes, my lord," Duurben nodded with difficulty.

Faramir's clear gray eyes met the other's troubled green ones. "I am sorry, Duurben."

"As am I. It is well my sister has already passed from this earth." The words were clipped.

"Perhaps it is. Shall I call on Lieutenant Thenin to oversee the day's watch?"

"No, my lord, if it please you. I shall attend to that myself." He bowed and left the room.

"He is a proud man," Beregond murmured from his usual post at the back of the room.

"And a good one. I am grieved that such a thing should have befallen him. Looking over Aragorn's account of the evening the possibility of a traitor seemed unhappily probable. I could not imagine Duurben choosing anyone whose loyalties were questionable, but this is beyond any fault of his. Kinship is a common blindfold." His face was grave as he looked down at the elven carving in the desk, his fingers brushing the delicate tracery. "Now there stands only the question of whether I, as ruling Steward in the absence of my king, am officially required to find my king and bring him back, or whether that is in fact a waywardness of duty. Furthermore, what steps must be taken to apprehend Tantur before he increases this disaster?"

"Perhaps, my lord Faramir—" Beregond began, but was not permitted to finish. Outside in the Hall of Kings itself the entrance doors had been flung open and there came the sounds of a quarrel between two of Duurben's younger guards and a third man.

As Faramir stepped swiftly from the room, alert for trouble, the argument ended abruptly — the third party having simplified matters by shouldering his way inside.

"Halt, there," Beregond cried sternly, coming up just behind Faramir, his hand ready on his sword hilt.

But then the man passed the first shaft of window light and they saw that he was limping and bloody. "Greetings to you as well, Beregond," the intruder acknowledged gruffly.

"Bartho?"

"So it seems." The general came to a halt before them. The insignia that would have denoted his rank was missing, and the fabric and leather of his clothing was slashed and stained reddish-brown from wounds that had been bandaged without the inconvenience of undressing. There was a strip of cloth from his cloak around his sword hand, blood matting his hair and beard, and his boots were caked with mud. "I must speak with the king."

"King Elessar is not here," Faramir said. "In his absence I have been left as temporary Steward. There has been an attack on the borders?"

"Yes, Lord Faramir. I had been expecting such a thing for some time, but not so suddenly or with so little warning. There are Southrons attacking our lines. I was patrolling and had left Captain Erynbenn in charge behind me. My company only barely escaped with their lives; most of them have been sent on to the Houses of Healing."

Faramir nodded, noting that Bartho ought to have followed them there, but refraining from saying so. "How many strong are they?"

"I know not. It was only a few hundred that found us, but my company was only thirty men strong — it was not intended to be a fighting force. Erynbenn had the larger company with him, but like as not: still futile. I doubt he will be able to hold off the second attack when it comes. We will need more men."

"Of course," Faramir nodded. "I shall bring them myself." He turned towards the study, ignoring Beregond's apprehensive look — and then quickly turned back again as Bartho suddenly buckled where he stood. "Beregond!" the Steward cried reflexively. "Catch him!"

But it was Faramir who caught Bartho and lowered him to the polished marble of the hall.

"Go, get a healer," Faramir ordered his guard, and Beregond left on swift feet. His fingers working systematically Faramir undid the taller man's belt and pushed aside his vest and tunic. A deep wound in the abdomen had soaked through its bandage and was trickling blood over his fingers. Pulling off his own vest, Faramir pressed firmly against the flow, his stained fingers checking Bartho's pulse. He was relieved to find it was still strong. In another moment, the general's eyes flickered open. "You should not have ridden so far untended," Faramir told him. "These dressings needed to be replaced hours ago."

Bartho frowned. "Waste of bandages."

"Waste of commanders. No, hold still."

In a few minutes more a healer arrived with several men and a litter to take Bartho to the houses.

"Are you well, my lord?" Beregond asked anxiously. The sight of Faramir in only his shirtsleeves and covered in blood worried him.

"Quite. And you see now why it is imperative I go myself to the battle. Bartho will be here at least a few weeks." His wheat-colored hair brushed his shoulders as he shook his head once. "I shall leave this evening and collect more men from the garrisons along the way."

Slowly, Beregond nodded in agreement.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Eowyn moved around the guest chambers silently, packing her husband's saddlebags while he changed from his bloodstained shirt. She had just buckled the leather flap down when a gentle hand rested on her shoulder, its familiar weight causing her to pause and smile. Her fingers reached up to touch Faramir's.

"Eowyn?" he asked softly.

She turned to look at him, her face bare inches from his. "My lord?"

"Something is troubling you… Can you tell me?" There was concern in his sensitive gray eyes.

Eowyn's mind sped to the small life growing within her and wondered — but no. Faramir's duty was plain; she could not divide his heart in such a way. Her news would have to wait still longer.

"I shall miss you," she whispered instead.

Faramir smiled a little and bent to rest his forehead against hers. "And I you. I am leaving you my heart. Watch over it for me?"

"I promise. If in return you watch over the rest of you."

"That's Beregond's job."

Eowyn laughed briefly, cupping her hands about his face, "Make it your own as well, or I shall refuse you permission to leave!"

"Very well. I promise." Kissing her gently on the mouth, he took up his sword and sheathed it.

Turning he opened the door and strode out at an even pace towards the courtyard.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

And so it was into the middle of chaos — of wounded men being guided towards the Houses of Healing, of guardsmen preparing to leave with Lord Faramir, of tidings of war, of anxiety for the queen, of dust and clamor and confusion — that Gimli son of Gloin entered the uppermost circle of Minas Tirith.

The dwarf stood at the head of the steps for a long moment, his arms crossed, his stocky legs spread, and his beady eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun on white stone. His wild red beard was twisting in the breeze and a full compliment of axes hung about his belt and across his back.

"I suppose peace and quiet would be too much to expect," Gimli grunted. He was so occupied with his observation of the general activity that he failed to notice the more subtle creepings behind him.

Simultaneously a small voice shrieked, "Look out!" and a weight crashed into his back.

"Blast your eyes!" Gimli roared as he fell, and landed full length on the grass. His mouth filled with grass and his helmet slid off.

"Uncle Gimli!" Eldarion cried in delight, rolling off him and offering him a hand.

The dwarf grunted and shifted back onto his feet, his helmet remaining on the turf. "You, young prince, have too much of your father in you for comfort!" Then he wrapped a sturdy arm around the boy's neck and tousled his hair roughly, turning him loose with an affectionate scowl.

"Why Gimli, this is a surprise," a clear voice laughed, and the dwarf looked up with an almost sheepishly happy glance at the Lady Eowyn.

"Didn't know you'd be here either, if it comes to that."

"There is much to tell," she said seriously. "You have come to repair the gate, have you not?"

"Amongst other things. I've left my craftsmen at the quarries to begin work. This city is like a giant cheese; how you survive the leaks I can't understand. Men just aren't capable of proper stone-work."

"I fear you are right. But come, I must stay near Gilraen before she decides to join the others in battle. She pays no attention to who might run into her."

Gimli followed her and together they guided the children away from the noise and towards the other end of the high courtyard. Keeping her voice low, Eowyn related the incidents of the previous few days.

"Now, with battle already begun, Faramir is leaving to lead the men. They shall all be gone by morning."

"And Aragorn and the elf?"

"As I said, they suggested they were traveling towards Lorien, but we could find no trace of them. The rain was against us, as was the stealth of rangers and elves."

"But this traitor is following them?"

Eowyn gave a graceful shrug, her sharp eyes clouding as she reached up to push some of her hair from where it had blown across her face. "Faramir fears it is so, and I must say I agree. In which case we worry that he might choose to simply steal whatever they planned to bring back for the queen, rather than gather his own supply. Or perhaps he might finish his work. Lord Aragorn was intended to be slain, and in that Tantur failed."

The dwarf sat for a while, mulling her words over in his head as he watched the children chasing each other about on the grass. He was fond of them as he'd seldom been fond of anyone else. When had he first started caring so much? With the Fellowship — Aragorn and Legolas in particular.

"Well," he grunted. "I thank you, my lady, for your time. Give my regards to your husband and the hobbit, if you have a chance. And watch the lad — he'll give you more trouble than a dragon in a jeweler's forge."

"But Gimli," Eowyn protested suspiciously, "where are you intending to go?"

The dwarf and risen to his feet, unintimidated by the tall, slender form of the green-clad lady behind him. "After them, of course."

"Are you serious? Gimli, they left four days ago! You can never catch them."

"Fortunately, I don't need to catch them. Just get to Lorien before they manage to find that cure."

"And how will you get there?"

"I brought a pony," he grunted, pausing at the top of the stairs to watch her, "and if he won't take me the whole way, I'll run the rest. I'm a better hand at running than I look."

"Well, then—" Eowyn started, then stopped with a sigh. "May the Valar lend your feet wings, Gimli son of Gloin."

"Farewell, lady," he nodded and stumped at a quick pace down the stairs. Drat the both of them, he thought grimly, Laddies, if either of you is any less than walking and breathing when I find you, I'll kill you.

Authors' note: Our apologies for lateness even beyond our new schedule change! A bothersome problem arose with a new modem, some cross-wiring in the network, and Sarah's computer's inability to get a proper IP address assigned by the router. Confused? So are we; but it's fixed now, so who cares? Thank you for your patience!

Chapter 14

Fortunate Meetings

April 21

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Bartho was as weary of the Houses of Healing as it was possible to be. Several days rest, together with the Numenorean blood in him, had sped his healing; but unfortunately it was determined that he should be held prisoner the prescribed number of weeks, regardless. And the keeper of the Houses would brook no argument. Only in the matter of bed rest was Bartho able to bend the restrictions; there were too many men still in need of care for the healer to prevent him leaving his room.

Scowling darkly, the tall man stalked out into the open air of the gardens. His mind, in a naturally negative inclination, was grimly turning over the possibilities of survival for Faramir, Erynbenn, and the rest of the troops. His conclusions, matching his mood, were not good. The report he had received of the recent assassination attempt there at the palace and the following chaos brought on an expression even grimmer than usual.

In the back of his mind he methodically considered the risks involved in stealing his weapons back from the healers and slipping out of the city under cover of darkness… It sounded like something his king and Legolas would do; or rather, had done.

A side door opened behind him and a familiar looking woman hurried out into the gardens. Stacked precariously in her arms were several tightly packed linen bundles (perhaps of herbs), a few glass bottles of ointments, and a dozen other oddments. She was trying to fit them into a basket on her arm as she walked, but the basket was too small and her pace was such that her foot caught on the paving stones of the pathway and she stumbled, dropping almost everything.

The woman recovered her balance and pushed her long hair aside, her face contracting into an odd expression of distress, as if the accident were merely the latest in a litany of troubles. Seeing this, Bartho moved towards her, stooping to help her collect her load.

"Here," he said, handing her the bottles, "they've fallen on the grass. I don't think any are broken."

"Oh," she exhaled, her brown eyes softening with relief, "many thanks, sir."

He nodded briefly, handing her the last bundle of herbs, "You are welcome, Lady Arien."

The lady paused, searching his face. "Why… 'tis Sir Rabbit," she said, then stopped short, perhaps at having spoken aloud when she had meant to keep the odd thought to herself.

"Aye," he agreed gravely. "At your service, Lady Mule. I see you're carrying too much again."

Arien laughed a little, as if surprised to find in him a sense of humor — if only a dry one. She returned to stowing everything in her basket. "You have a knack for rescuing me from such accidents. But this is not heavy, only bulky. I would not have you trouble yourself."

"I would." Unsure of what was possessing him, Bartho firmly took the basket and bundles from her and rose to his feet. She did not object, and they left the gardens and turned towards the palace together. "You attend the queen?" he asked.

Arien gave a nod that was sluggish with weariness.

Though he was not the sort to notice women in general — they all appeared patently alike to him — Bartho thought she looked a good deal more worn than when he had seen her last. He fancied the energetic woman who had found him lost outside the kitchen would not have allowed him to carry her burdens without any polite objection as this paler version had done.

"I am sole Lady-in-Waiting to her highness, yes," she answered his question. "And you? I am afraid to say I know little about you; the other maidens had never seen you before."

"You asked?"

"You've never had anyone ask about you? You think yourself so unmemorable?"

"Perhaps not unmemorable, but more of the sort people wish to forget."

"Nonsense," she said. "Come now, sir, why so dismal?"

Bartho held a heavy door wide for her and frowned as she passed him, "I don't understand."

The woman paused, turning to look at him as he stood in the doorway. Her eyes were examining him closely. "I am sorry for that," she said at last.

Though he was not entirely sure, he thought perhaps he could divine her meaning. "It's no fault of yours. Erynbenn would say it is my nature. Your nature, I'd imagine, is a brighter and friendlier sort."

"That I don't know. Captain Erynbenn is a friend of yours, then? He is a brave and kind man, and speaks often of his friends; maybe I have heard of you after all. And that is gratifying, for I guessed you were the sort to have more friends than you let on."

"With the exception of the king, Erynbenn is the man who has tolerated me the longest. You are good at guessing the histories of strangers."

"It was not a guess. Kind-hearted people cannot help but have friends."

"Kind heart? A leap in logic if I ever heard one," he grunted, beginning to wonder a little desperately how he had become embroiled in such a conversation.

"It was personal experience," Arien retorted easily. "Your heart must be kind, or else you would not so readily offer your help to overburdened women. It's only logical, my lord."

"I don't think I'm your lord. You're a daughter of the Northern Dúnedain, aren't you?" He was pleased to find her expression one of astonished agreement.

"My father and mother were of that kindred and thus am I, though I had little chance to know them, for they had many duties and died when I turned sixteen. But if you were also of the Dúnedain — and I guess it was so from your face — then that makes you doubly my lord, not less." She turned to glance at him and stumbled a little on the stone steps.

Catching her elbow, Bartho nodded, "I was. But I must now contradict you. Shared kindred makes us equal. I don't like obeisance."

Arien did not speak for a while, though he thought he felt her gaze from time to time. At last she said in a low voice, "I have several times misjudged you, sir. Even now the opinion I hold of you may be wrong. Would it be rude to ask you what— who are you really? You have kindly allowed me to see you without armor." She gestured briefly to the navy tunic and dark trousers and boots he was wearing. "Might you introduce yourself fully?"

She had cornered him.

Bartho had sworn to himself years and years previous that he would never again sell his trust cheaply. Only Halbarad, Aragorn and Erynbenn had been allowed far into his mind and heart after his vow. No women had even dared to converse with him since then.

Through hard, nearly fatal experience, he had learned the hazards of placing his heart in the hands of vapid and careless females. Even to touch the memories was as painful as drawing blood.

Except that the eyes watching him were not the empty blue shade of those old eyes that had betrayed him. And Arien had already guessed so much about him in only a few minutes conversation…

No. He would not do it. Not again.

"Only a rabbit," he said quietly.

"I see." If there was disappointment in her face, it was hidden by the dark shadows already under her eyes.

Searching for a impersonal topic, he asked her, "What took you so far from your queen? Is there no extra help to be had?"

"Lady Eowyn watches the young ones, and I sent a maid to the Houses first, but she misunderstood my instructions and brought me the wrong materials. I had then to go myself." Her shoulders were sagging now; Bartho wondered how much she had slept recently.

"Ah. You should find a maid from the Houses who might help you; she would understand such orders. You already have enough to do." It was a flat statement. "How fares Queen Arwen?"

Beside him, Arien's face went a shade paler. "She fights hard, but she is fading slowly. It is like watching a stone on the beach fighting the pull of the tide. The sands shift, soon the water will rise…" her voice choked. They were in a narrow hall and Arien stopped, turning to look at him in a desperate way. "I fear for her. To serve her is to love her, for she is light and kindness itself. What will we do if the king returns too late? How shall I tell him, should all efforts prove vain in his absence? What of her children? There is too much fear for even a Maiar to bear for long…"

To Bartho's utter horror, she began suddenly to weep; not gentle tears, but wrenching sobs. It was the breaking down of emotions too long held in check, and there was no stopping the flood now it had begun.

For a moment Bartho stood, utterly helpless, all his ability to reason suddenly deserting him. What in Aule's name did one do with a crying woman?! To his torment and rescue came again the golden haired Lindamar, stepping ghost-like from an age of hopeless love long gone. What would he have done for her? It had to be the same principle for all women.

Setting aside the basket of herbs, he stepped forward and awkwardly pulled her to him, stroking her hair and letting her soak his tunic with her tears. He could think of no comfort to offer, so he did not speak. For once in his life, as she leaned against him, he was glad he was not wearing chain mail or weapons; it would have made him too painful a cushion.

When at last the flood abated, she leaned back away from him and began to wipe her eyes on her cranberry colored sleeve; her dark hair was now tumbled wildly about her flushed face. "I… am so sorry," she whispered, horror-struck.

"Don't," he said, his voice suddenly more gentle than he would have believed of it. "Come. There's nothing else anyone will let me do; I'll fetch someone to sit with the queen and have her medicines mixed, and you will rest before you collapse."

"You have already done so much," she said doubtfully, her own natural habit of taking on the duties of others rising against his proffered aid.

"No," he shook his head, lifting the basket and guiding her up the last flight of steps. "I forgot to tell you that I'm not only cheerless, I am also stubborn."

She said no more.

Bartho unpacked the basket while Arien checked to see that Arwen was sleeping, and then he gestured her towards the bed she had set up for herself on the floor nearby. Before her eyelids had fully closed, he turned suddenly towards her. He could not break his own resolve and he did not understand his reasons, but he sensed a debt due to this woman. "My name is Bartho."

For a moment a full smile crossed her face, and then she drifted off to sleep.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Pippin flapped his hands against his sides, trying to warm them as he ascended the stairs at the center of the upper courtyard. The days were getting warmer, but the last of winter's chill still clung to the nighttime and this high up in the citadel the winds blew ice through the clothing of anyone still awake at midnight. The white tree rose before him, its slender branches seeming to glow faintly.

"Here I am, up at all hours for no reason other than to stand outside and stare at the scenery — which even Legolas couldn't see on a night like this, stars or no stars," the short soldier mumbled. "A strange sort of hobbit I've become, certain as trolls and bacon."

A soft sound caught his keen ears and he paused, his hand going automatically to the hilt of his sword. His expression transformed from disgruntlement to watchfulness in an instant. "Who's there?" he whispered. No answer came, only a soft, haunting sound like drops of water falling into a shallow basin. Someone nearby was singing. Though he could not make out the words, the wind bore to his keen ears the ghostly remnants of an elvish tune. The high notes matched the cool air and held him temporarily rooted to the spot until he recalled his duty as Guard of the Citadel and went to investigate.

It was actually a good deal further away than he had thought. Walking slowly down the stone pathway, the palace at his back, he followed the song to the small observation alcove at the very tip of the high courtyard. In the daytime one could look over the short wall and see all of Minas Tirith laid out below, and Mordor off in the east. But just now all that was to be seen was the outline of a small figure, his arms folded atop the wall which came to chest-height on him. His chin was resting on his hands and in his clear voice he was singing into the wind a tune that was vaguely familiar to Pippin, now that he could discern the words.

"As Beren looked into her eyes

Within the shadows of her hair,

The trembling starlight of the skies

He saw there mirrored shimmering.

Tinúviel the elven-fair,

Immortal maiden elven-wise,

About him cast her shadowy hair

And arms like silver glimmering.

"Long was the way that fate them bore,

O'er stony mountains cold and gray,

Through halls of iron and darkling door,

And woods of nightshade morrowless.

The Sundering Seas between them lay,

And yet at last they met once more,

And long ago they passed away..."* The boy's voice broke at last, the syllables crumbling into tears and behind him the hobbit padded down the short flight of steps to join him in the alcove.

"Eldarion?" Pippin said softly, reaching across and resting a comforting hand on the lad's shoulder.

The prince started, not having heard the silent tread of the hobbit's feet. His head came up and as he looked over his shoulder the moon came from behind the clouds and it caused the damp trails on his cheeks and the tears in his silver-blue eyes to glisten. "Sir Pippin?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Oh."

For a while they stood in silence, contrasting in all but their heights. Eldarion again rested his head on his arms, as though weary, the points on his ears poking softly through his wavy dark hair as it lay on his shoulders. Pippin could not help remembering a time, not so very long ago, when he too had leaned against a similar balcony in this city, looking out in the darkness upon the wide lands beyond, his mind tossing fitfully with worries for the lives of two who were dear to him.

He wished he had Gandalf's way of comforting — even if the old wizard had seemed gruff at times. Yes, he wished he were a wizard. Surely a wizard could fix this. Silently he sighed, disliking the feeling of being so small. And then realized that, at least there, he fully and completely understood what the boy was feeling.

At his side Eldarion wiped his eyes on his sleeve and Pippin fished in his pouch for a handkerchief. Handing over the dark blue square of cloth he patted the boy's back as Eldarion blew his nose.

"Don't worry. It's going to be alright."

"How do you know?" Eldarion asked, his slender fingers twisting the cuff of his pale night tunic.

Pippin grinned slyly and pretended to look indignant. "Eldarion Elessarion!" he scolded, mimicking Arwen's tone when she grew aggravated with her first born. "Your father is the great and terrible Strider of the North, King of Gondor, Lord of Arnor, and the most powerful ruler of men in all of Middle Earth. He led the Nine Companions of the Ring out of Moria, fought at Helm's Deep, rallied the Dead to his banner, and battled before the Black Gate itself. With only Legolas to help him he has slaughtered spiders, come face to face with the Black Riders, visited Harad, defeated fell beasts in the northlands, and hunted more orcs than you could count if you had a whole day to do it. Now then. What do you think?"

A tiny smile grew at the corner of Eldarion's mouth, the absolute trust shining from the depths of his eyes. As Pippin well knew, there was no one in Middle Earth who held as much of the lad's heart as did his father.

"Come on," the hobbit said gently, removing his cloak and wrapping it about the boy's shoulders. "If I let you stand out here singing in your nightclothes and catching pneumonia, Lady Arwen will have my head when she recovers."

"It's Ada's song," Eldarion explained candidly.

"I knew I'd heard it somewhere before. Perhaps I'll teach you a Shire song to add to your collection."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Duurben, after waiting with uncharacteristic concern for Pippin to report in from his stand at guard finally went out into the courtyard to see if the hobbit had actually ever returned to the palace. It was with a great deal of astonishment that he was met with the boisterous sound of two familiar voices, one the pleasantly accented and warbling tone of Peregrin Took in high spirits, the other the clear treble notes of Prince Eldarion.

"Hey ho! To the bottle I go

To heal my heart and drown my woe.

Rain may fall and wind may blow,

And there'll still be-e-e many miles to go

Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,

And the stream that falls from hill to plain,

But better than rain or rippling brook,

Is a mug of beer and save this Took!"**

The song started over from the beginning and Duurben shook his head. "If it were not Pippin I would say he had gone against orders and been at the bottle already during his watch," he muttered. But after another minute a smile crossed his face and he turned back inside, adding under his breath as he went, "The queen will have his head when she recovers."

* Taken from 'The Lay of Luthien' from The Fellowship of the Ring, chapter 11

** Taken from the film version of The Fellowship of the Ring

Chapter 15

Dwarves For All Needs

April 22

Somewhere in the woods of Gondor

A squirrel sat on a branch, its tail curled, its body erect. The only movement from the creature was a slow turning of its head as its beady black eyes followed the inexplicable passing of… a dwarf. Alone. On foot. Running headlong through the woods. Soaking wet. And cursing.

"Blasted tree!"

Gimli staggered a little, trying to favor his right leg until the pain in his stubbed toe subsided. "And to think that after Aragorn's granite-for-brains plan to run across Rohan in less than a week I swore to myself that I'd never do this again." His breath was beginning to wheeze audibly over the wet clanking of his gear. "At least not without a sturdy pony beneath me… But no! Shies at water, does it? Foul beast. Even the elf would agree. Whoever named that four-legged fiend 'Braveheart' obviously never tried to stay atop the animal when a river came in sight." He indulged in several long sentences of swearing in his native language, a diatribe that sounded like a lot of fist-sized stones being chewed up by a dragon.

One of his faithful axes slipped and he made a grab for it, catching it easily, but his body angled sideways and the back of his right hand impacted with an oak as he passed it. Even with chain mail and gloves on, his knuckles felt the crack.

"Blasted tree!" he roared again. "What does the elf SEE in them?? 'Stone is cold and lifeless,' he says. Well it's a good sight better than 'alive and trying to kill you'! What's the good of a whole lot of them standing so close together like this anyway… blocking the trail… whose rotten idea was that??" His heavy shoes punched holes in the turf as he ran in silence for a few moments.

"Ah, lads," he muttered huskily. "I should have known you couldn't keep out of trouble. As if Aragorn becoming king was supposed to help; made it a pretty sight worse — Mahal take it all. You'd better be watching each other's backs even closer than usual. There's the glint in the eyes, Legolas. You're the fool who tried to teach me how to read human faces — don't be letting the honor of the traitorous rat's uncle cloud your vision!"

The dwarf's head had slowly lowered until he was plowing between the trees head first, fast like a charging bull. "You've got good hearts, lads; I knew it all along." He scowled suddenly, running even faster, heedless now of his surroundings, "And what happens when the pair of you get it into your head to save Middle Earth? Gimli the dwarf winds up running his legs off through every Valar-forsaken patch of forest on the face of Arda! Have they got salt for brains?!"

WHAM!

With a spine jarring impact, Gimli head-butted the wide trunk of sturdy pine he had been too preoccupied to notice. The blow smacked him backwards so that he sat down hard, his legs splayed in front of him. His helmet was ringing… or was that his head?

"BLASTED TREE!"

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

 April 22

Between Gondor and Rohan

Legolas' feet moved lightly over the stones, crossing the small creek that wound past them. It was as much habit as a desire to keep his soft shoes out of the cold water. Landing on the grass on the other side the elf let out a long sigh. The air today was perfect, clear and fresh — even if a little chilled from the rain that had only just passed. It was a fine day for traveling.

Sloshing noises behind him caused the elf to turn and discover Aragorn walking through the creek, seemingly heedless of the water washing over his boots. Bemusedly Legolas waited as his friend came to stand beside him.

"It's cold out here," Aragorn commented somewhat grumpily.

Legolas chuckled out loud as the man contradicted his previous admiration of the weather. "But my dear human, this is a fine day for travel and the cool air will surely keep us alert."

Aragorn did not look impressed. He was again drenched from head to foot from the rain that had woken them that morning and he couldn't help wincing as a chill wind blew past them. "My dear elf, if this were fine whether (and I might add that I think that is assuming a lot) I would not expect it to stay that way given our recent luck."

Legolas shook his head. "Strider, you sound like Bartho! What's wrong? You are surprisingly bad-tempered this morning."

"Being awakened by rain, a swarm of screeching birds, and peels of thunder does that to humans. Besides that, I don't know how I slept on my left arm but it feels like five frozen fingers and a broken elbow just now."

Legolas grinned impishly. "You have been out of the wilds too long, my friend."

"Not so," Aragorn corrected with a half smile. "Ask any of the Dúnedain you please, I have never liked traveling in April; there is nothing that makes a human more despondent than excessive rain, especially when it's falling on you."

"At least we avoided the mud slides this time." The elf quickly ducked a playful swing from the ranger and turned in time to see Tantur coming up beside them, leading the horses.

Legolas grinned at the man. "And what of you, Gondorian? Do you find this morning's conditions so unbearable?"

Tantur didn't get a chance to respond before the elf's expression suddenly changed and he whirled around.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked automatically in the grey tongue.

"I hear something." Legolas was frowning in a peculiar way that brought Aragorn closer as he tried to hear what the elf was hearing. "Strider…" Legolas turned to his friend in confusion. "Do you hear…singing?"

Aragorn listened harder and in a moment he caught it. He couldn't make out words but some group of beings was definitely singing somewhere in a grove of trees ahead.

Without conference, both friends slid into the trees, aware of Tantur tying up the horses to a tree and following cautiously after them.

As the trees began to thin towards the center, the words became more clear.

"We chance the dread of dark below

We carve and hew the rock and stone

We keep the trove of land and sea

We find the door, hold fast the key."

Here the song trailed into some other language that Legolas recognized and Aragorn seemed to understand immediately.

"Dwarves," Aragorn mouthed to his friend, though there was hardly a need. As he spoke a group of dwarves appeared ahead of them, cutting through a clearing in the forest. Trailing noisily behind was pony drawing a cart of building tools, a load that seemed too ungainly for the small beast.

Then, amidst the tramping of sturdy legs and the bristling beards of all shades of black, brown, and auburn, a familiar face shone through. Leaving his startled friend's side Aragorn stepped into the clearing, and in a moment Legolas followed.

"Nowin?" Aragorn called.

The song cut off immediately as several dwarves pulled out their axes to face the newcomer. The dark-haired dwarf at the front looked up the most sharply and Aragorn smiled down at him as recognition glowed.

"Strider? Legolas! I don't believe it!" Nowin roared happily at the two friends and Legolas smiled back, finally recalling the dwarf from their time in Gundabad and the battle for Mt. Gilthad many years before.

"Hello, Nowin."

"Did someone say Strider and Legolas?" another voice chimed in, and with the words came a stouter dwarf with red hair and beard.

"Rorin?" Aragorn was even more surprised to see him.

"I knew he wouldn't forget," Rorin joked to the dwarf behind him.

"Not for want of trying," Legolas said wryly. "But were you not in Moria?"

At this Rorin's face fell and he let out a sigh. "Yes, I was in Moria, but shortly before… Well, Balin had sent me up to Gilthad. I was to bring back valuable supplies for Moria, but as you already know if half the rumors be true, none were left there alive on my return."

"I am sorry Rorin." Aragorn remembered the cold feeling when they had entered Moria and found Balin dead with the remains of former dwarves strewn throughout Khazad-dûm. He had assumed Rorin Coppercryer had been among them.

"I went back to Gilthad after that—" Rorin's words were interrupted by a shout and a loud crack.

Everyone turned to see what had caused the noise but there was no one in sight.

"Pay him no mind," Nowin grunted. "He's been clubbing rabbits ever since we left Gilthad."

Legolas glanced at Aragorn; they had no idea who the 'he' was that Nowin referred to, but decided not to ask.

"Why are you so far away from Gilthad, Nowin?" Legolas asked.

"We received word that King Elessar was in need of dwarves," Nowin explained. "So we are on our way to Gondor. Mayhap we'll see you there sometime?"

"I am sure you will," Aragorn said with a smile. "King Elessar will value your extra help, not to mention Gimli son of Gloin. Legolas, Tantur, and I are on a errand now, but we intend to return to Gondor afterward."

"Off on some crazy adventure again are we?" Rorin asked with a grin.

"You could say that," the elf acknowledged, but Nowin was frowning.

"Did you say you and Legolas were on an errand?"

Aragorn nodded. "Yes, and Tantur."

"Who is Tantur?" Nowin asked, glancing around. Only then did Aragorn realize that the man was no where in sight; it could not have taken that long to tie up the horses.

"Is he the human I just knocked over the head?" a voice spoke up from behind Nowin.

"Kori!" Nowin rounded on the dwarf.

"Well I didn't know it was a human." Kori looked irritated. He was a very young dwarf and had the shortest beard Aragorn had ever seen on one of his kind.

"Where is he, Kori?" Aragorn asked anxiously, realizing that must have been the sound they had heard.

"On the ground I think." Kori scuffed his foot in the dirt, vaguely gesturing to the trees. "I didn't hit him as hard as all that."

"I apologize, Strider," Nowin said quickly. "Kori is Lord Dorm's son and I'm stuck with him." Kori glowered at Nowin in response to that comment.

"It's alright, we will see to him, and you should be on your way; Gondor needs you."

Nowin nodded and saluted them both with his axe. "I hope our paths may cross again."

"As do I." Aragorn watched the dwarves go for a moment before turning to Legolas.

"I suppose we should see to Tantur," the elf said and started towards the trees. He stopped when he felt a hand on his arm and turned back to see Aragorn frowning at the trees.

"A moment Legolas, I wished to speak to you about Tantur."

"Yes?"

"I… well, I am concerned." Aragorn shook his head still frowning.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know." Aragorn's frown deepened. "He seems very determined to follow us and I find myself…wary when around him. I cannot easily doubt his character — I trust Duurben's influence — yet I wonder if they might not have had some sort of falling out. Is he following along to aid us, or merely to evade something else?" The man shook his head. "As I say, it is only an impression and I cannot know for certain. I just wonder."

"You see the hearts of men in ways most elves cannot, my friend." Legolas had been watching his friend closely and now he looked towards the trees. "I confess that I have felt some disquiet as well. But I have no better theories than yours."

The words broke off then as Tantur himself came through the trees, holding his head.

"Tantur, are you well?" Aragorn called, moving over to the Gondorian man.

"What hit me?" Tantur asked. His bandaged hand came away with blood from a cut on his head.

"A dwarf. I think he thought you were a rabbit." Legolas concealed a smile.

"I'll bandage it," Aragorn said, seating the man on a nearby rock and digging through his pack.

"Dwarves?" Tantur was still disoriented and confused.

"Yes, they were moving towards Gondor to help rebuild our gates," Aragorn explained, bandaging the man's temple as he spoke. "Legolas and I recognized two of them from our treks north, long ago."

"Indeed?" Tantur seemed suddenly interested.

"Yes, but they still only knew him as Strider," Legolas assured the man.

Tantur glanced between the two. "There is not a chance they will pass our names onto others?"

"Nay, I would not worry about that." Aragorn shook his head, slitting the ends of the bandage and tying them firmly.

Tantur nodded and then winced. With a look of sympathy Aragorn repacked his bag.

Suddenly Tantur stood up, looking around him wildly. "My pack? Where is it?"

"Your pack?" Legolas frowned, also looking around him.

"I had it a moment before…it must still be in the trees." With that the man went running back into the trees.

"Are all humans as attached to their travel packs as that?" Legolas asked good-humouredly.

Aragorn didn't reply as Tantur returned to them, his pack safely in hand.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

April 23

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Torin son of Thuren gave a disgruntled sigh, tugged at his dusty black beard, and kicked moodily at the gate. It was in need of repair, surely, but he couldn't wait to scrap the whole thing and start again. As it was the sentries had begun to supply constant reminders to 'treat the gate with care' until his crew could build a new one. Torin understood the wisdom in that, but it was rather late to be making such demands since the gate was already mostly in pieces.

Truth be told he was getting tired of the whole ordeal.

"How goes your progress, master dwarf?" The voice did not startle Torin so much as it might have. He had had plenty of people interrupting him all day and was only glad that they were leaving most of his men alone to work.

"T'would be going smooth as a sanded stone if you troublesome louts would stop interrupting a dwarf's work," Torin grumbled, in such a mood that he didn't care if he was heard.

"I am sorry to hear that, Torin, Thurin's son," came the reply with unconcealed amusement. "Though I had come hoping for better news, I shall trouble you no more and be satisfied with the reports of my men."

Torin jumped, finally recognizing the voice, and turned round. "Apologies, Captain Duurben," he amended hastily. "I thought—"

"I can only imagine; but I'm sure you need not trouble yourself to explain. I understand the sentries have been giving you trouble. Is that why the work goes so slowly?"

"That's only being the half of it, I'm afraid," Torin grunted. "It's this fool wood cutter's door, meaning no slight to Gondorian craftsmanship, of course, but I've seen better gates down a collapsed mine and we don't fix those — we start mining anew elsewhere, understand."

Duurben nodded. "Yes, I do Master Dwarf, but, until there is a new gate, mending this one will have to do… if that is at all possible."

"Oh, it's possible." Torin looked over to where several other dwarves were mending the gate's frame. "But to be honest, we need Gimli. He'd know what to do without hardly glancing. I'd hate to be the one to admit it, but I think all that time around elves have given him double-eyes when it comes to stone craft. As it is, with everything apart like this, we can't likely put it up again until sundown tomorrow. Even then it would have to be temporary just until we can make the new one."

"No sooner?" Perhaps it was his new paranoia about his guard duties, but Duurben found that the idea of no firm barrier against intruders in the inner circle greatly concerning to him. He was already displeased with the dwarves for dismantling what was left of the gate in the first place; he had the definite impression that, in the absence of their usual foreman, the dwarves may have taken on more than they could handle at once.

"Afraid it's the best I can do," Torin shrugged, eyeing the ground with a sudden glare. "Course, it would be helpful if our tools wouldn't keep disappearing."

"Disappearing?" Duurben looked at the ground where Torin was standing.

"Aye, that's the third hammer to disappear and my iron bolts have been vanishing by the handful."

"Who has been around this area lately?"

"You mean 'who hasn't'?" Torin snorted, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Everyone wants to see the dwarves work! I've had more curious traders through here than I'd rather see in a lifetime."

Duurben let out a breath. Something was nagging at him, tripping the sensitive warning bell in the back of his sharp mind. The curiosity of his youth had hardened into the keen intuition of a soldier, but not all warnings came with specifics, and though all this seemed to be adding up to trouble he couldn't point the finger at just what it was. It was best to be prepared.

"Well, see what you can do with it Torin, and…keep your eyes open."

Torin caught the meaning of the words but didn't make much of them. "Whatever you say, Cap'n."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\

"Well of course I'd be willing, Captain Duurben," Pippin replied amiably. He drained the last of his ale and moved towards his commanding officer.

"Thank you, Peregrin." Duurben's grateful smile did not quite hide his burgeoning concern. "I know that you are not on duty right now, but I would feel better if it were you."

"It's no trouble at all, sir, and you'll be pleased to hear that my awareness is only a pint worse off."

Duurben glanced at the empty ale tankard and smiled again. "Well I am glad to hear it. You may need to be especially watchful this night… something is wrong, but I don't yet know what."

"Don't be concerned," Pippin reassured him easily, walking alongside the captain. "You know I will defend the King's family with my life… and they'd never get past the Lady Eowyn at any rate."

Duurben nodded, his attention once again distracted by an ever present sense of danger. "Thank you Pippin, I know you will do your duty. Now I must speak with Anárion. With the gate gone his job will be all the more difficult tonight."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Bartho changed direction last minute and started for the inner circle. A moment later he turned on his heel again and started back towards the garrison; they might be in need of his assistance. But… perhaps just for a moment.

He turned towards the inner circle once more, this time with confidence. Surely it was his duty to check on her; she might be— they might be in need of help, and at the moment he had nothing better to do.

He made sure to avoid taking the route that would lead him past the Houses of Healing. He had evaded them for two days and was just certain that one of his caretakers there would be sure to hail him in to confirm that he had not aggravated his wounds.

Bartho was not entirely sure what his next move should be. He wanted above all to join Lord Faramir, but before he left he desired to see…

Bartho's thoughts trailed off and his footsteps followed suit, bringing him to a slow halt in the shadows of a shop just outside the dismantled inner gate. He leaned against the building beside him and watched Anárion and his men set up a perimeter around the gateway for the night watch.

Perhaps he should leave now. He wasn't sure he was ready to see her again. Likely it would turn out badly and be a mistake.

His grim thoughts tail-chased themselves for a few minutes, but something else stirred him. Something he hadn't felt in a long time… in fact he was not sure he had ever felt anything quite like this. Bartho leaned harder against the shop, determined to take as long as possible about making up his mind.

It was in that moment that he felt something brush past him, and with the touch came an odd feeling of foreboding. Bartho stiffened in the shadows and the sensation bristled against his skin again.

A cry of alarm was on his lips, his suspicion flaming to full certainty — when chaos erupted.

A group of men, like black ghosts, rose up to sudden visibility beneath the rising moon and in one motion they fell upon Anárion and his men.

Anárion gave a shout and Bartho was quick to the task. The attackers' intent was clear. They were trying to get inside.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Duurben heard the call moments after he sighted the men at the gate. He called down to the sentries he had held in reserve and dispatched them to help Anárion. It was imperative that these strangers did not breach the walls.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Anárion's blade cut through one of the attackers but he couldn't tell whether the wound was fatal or not; it was impossible to tell any detail for, though the moon shown brightly, it was not nearly adequate with the constant passing of clouds above.

He had realized, however, that his call had been heard and help was coming. He also found to his surprise the Bartho was fighting close beside him. Somehow the presence of the seasoned Dúnadan was comforting.

"Anárion!" Bartho called as he parried a blow that flashed at him from the dark. "Where is Duurben?"

"He is coming!" Anárion managed before being forced to concentrate more fully on his opponent. "He held down a level in case of ambush!"

At that moment Duurben reached them, doubling the defenses and hammering down on their enemies. Unfortunately now it was nearly impossible to tell friend from foe as they were once again cast into complete darkness. Bartho could make out the shapes of men fighting and could only hope that some of the Gondorians had held at the gate.

However, though before he had been certain that they were trying to push through the entrance, he realized now that they were far more intent on fighting the Gondorian sentries. Something was wrong with all this.

Pulling away from the fight Bartho cast a glance into the shadows along the wall of the inner circle. During the battle at Peleanor the enemy catapults had torn great gashes in the stonework at this level — openings that had been patched — but a possibility was now forming in Bartho's mind.

Then he saw them, barely visible in the darkness. Four figures moving quickly towards a half destroyed line of houses built into the wall.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Vardnauth watched as his three companions moved into the broken down building. It was by pure chance that they had discovered where the collapse of the stonework had given them a way through the wall; now it was a vital part of his plan.

In his dark heart he knew he had failed in sending that ignorant traitor to do his work. He would hardly make the same mistake twice.

Vardnauth glanced over his shoulder at the chaos that reined near the gateway and smirked slightly. The Gondorians had no idea how much more he had in store for them. No idea at all.

Turning back he followed his men through the hole in the wall which led them straight to the inner circle.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Pippin glanced down the hall; he was sure he had heard something a moment ago, it had sounded like…well, humming actually, but that seemed unlikely. He knew the sentries here in the inner circle fairly well and they were not taken to humming, especially while on guard. Nevertheless, he followed the sound doggedly, hoping to find its source.

It was proving unnaturally difficult; for some reason, the torches in this hall had been put out. He would have to speak to the sentries about that; it was not good to have complete darkness in these halls in case of ambush.

Pippin felt his way across the corridor, becoming ever more certain that he had heard someone humming. Suddenly his foot caught on something on the floor and he was pitched forward.

He got back up grumbling — if that had been the toe of one of the sentries…well they had just better not say it was his fault.

"Hadrian, if that was you—" Pippin broke off suddenly. As he felt his bruised knee, it came away sticky with…something. Was he bleeding? No. Not hobbit blood.

Suddenly frantic Pippin moved back to the place where he had tripped and tensed as he felt a body lying across his path… a still body.

Pippin choked back a cry as he got quickly to his feet. Hadrian had not been the only sentry here. A moment's groping on the floor found the other sentry. Still, but to his relief Pippin found that he was still alive, if barely.

Getting quickly to his feet Pippin started back the way he had come, but he stopped when he reached the door. His eyes widened at the sight that met them: the palace doors had been firmly bolted and barricaded. There was no way Duurben's men could get back into the palace. They were trapped in here. Trapped, with whatever else lurked in the darkness.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Arien touched the Queen's face with a barely contained sigh. The elven lady had not woken in some time from her poison induced sleep and Arien felt her prayers rising in her heart once more. She prayed for the Queen, she prayed for the King. Arien could not bear to think what would become of King Elessar if his lady should fade from this world. It would break his heart and shatter his spirit, of that she was certain.

The handmaid shuddered slightly as a cool breeze played over her bare shoulders and she rose to pull a thin shawl over her sleeveless gown. That was when she saw the window standing open, letting the cool air inside.

Arien moved to it with a frown; she was sure that she had closed the window, and was surprised to see it open again. She reached the frame and looked warily out into the night. From the distance sounds of commotion were carried on the wind and her unease increased. What would disturb a night like this? She shivered again, this time from a chill within.

Her hand stretched up to close the window, but just as her fingers brushed the latch she heard the rustle of something behind her.

Time slowed as she turned, a dark figure loomed up at the foot of the queen's bed, and she let out an involuntary cry. Without giving her actions a thought, she rushed to the bed, her feet carrying her faster than she had ever run, and she threw herself on top of Arwen's prone form, wrapping her arms around the queen's head in desperate protection.

A dark chuckle sounded above her and the handmaid looked up through the darkness at the invader. She let out a gasp — the being could not be what she thought.

"Brave girl." The voice was raspy and coarse; for some reason it scared Arien more than anything she could remember. "There is no need for you to die… at least not by the death I could give you… not if you step away."

Arien did not reply, except to tighten her grip on her elven queen.

The figure seemed pleased with the choice. "Very well then, let us see how strong you are."

Arien was not sure what he meant, but then, like the whisper of ashes, she felt his hand slide across her left temple and tensed as a strange feeling pressed her mind.

All of a sudden, pain like she couldn't have imagined coursed through her and she felt memories well up in her like echoes and tattered pictures. With a soundless rush the good memories seemed to pass her by, offering no comfort… but she remembered her brother. She saw him fall, his face shocked, his screams, arrows in his chest, calling out… she remembered him dying. She remembered the orcs, convulsing with laughter. Her home was burning, great gouts of flame and ash in her mouth as she hid, trembling. She remembered her eyes running red with tears, her own cries choked behind her hands lest the monsters heard her. She remembered—

Distantly Arien heard herself screaming, agony piercing her as the memories replayed, more vividly each time, sucking her down into the dark and tormenting her past all bearing. Then through the pounding, as if he whispered close to her ear, she could hear the strange being speaking.

"Poor, poor Arien. Do you see him dying? Do you smell the blood? Can you hear him, Arien? He's screaming your name. Why didn't you go to him, hm?"

Arien whimpered brokenly as she clutched Arwen tighter, and she saw her brother dying again, falling, striking the earth and crying out to her… wouldn't someone come find her? Couldn't anyone hear her screaming?

Chapter 16

Palace, Invaded

April 23

Minas Tirith

"Where is that girl?" Eowyn sighed heavily as she moved back up the hall. Gilraen had gone off sleepwalking again and disappeared. Eowyn couldn't imagine how the little one managed to be as much trouble asleep as awake! With that thought she touched her stomach, nowhere near showing the life growing in her womb, but she couldn't help thinking of having one of these treasures of her own… Perhaps she would hope for child with less energy than young Gilraen.

Eowyn turned back to Eldarion's room and came in to find Elenwen sitting at the end of her brother's bed. Eldarion himself was fingering the sheathed dagger his father had left with him. It had become something of a comfort to the boy. Both were talking in hushed tones but broke off when Eowyn entered.

"What is it?" she asked with a tired smile. Both looked a little guilty, but Eldarion confessed softly.

"We were just wondering if Ada was going to come home soon."

Eowyn's smile faded slightly as she came to sit with them. Elenwen looked increasingly forlorn these days and Eldarion had not been himself either; even Gilraen seemed subdued while her father was away.

"He will be home as soon as he can," she replied, taking Elenwen half into her lap and gently brushing her hair back from her forehead. "You father loves you dearly and he would not be away from you a moment longer than he had to."

"But what about orcs?" Elenwen asked with wide eyes.

"There are not many orcs around any more, sweet one." Eowyn shook her head.

"What about the evil men from the south and river men and spiders and…snakes."

Eowyn touched the girl's face compassionately but could not come up with an answer that would soothe the child's fears.

"Don't worry, Elen," Eldarion answered instead, smiling at his sister. "Uncle Legolas will look after Ada."

Eowyn nodded. "That he will, Eldarion." Elenwen moved over as Eowyn stood once more. "Now I must go find your wayward sister, she had gone walking in her sleep again and I cannot seem—"

Eowyn broke off suddenly, turning on her heels and facing the door. Outside all was dark. The torches had gone out and the only illumination was the night light Eldarion had inherited from his father.

"Children," Eowyn barely whispered, "get behind the bed."

Eldarion and Elenwen hurriedly obeyed the order and slid behind Eldarion's bed while Eowyn ran quickly to her room which was attached by a door to the bedchamber. Usually Arien slept there, but she had given it up so that she could stay with her Queen.

Eowyn returned silently with a naked sword gleaming in her hands. A strange glint had sparked in her eyes and her heartbeat quickened with resolve. Whatever was lurking outside that door in the pitch black… she would be ready for it.

Something stirred and the door creaked ominously. All was silent for several long moments. The children's breathing was loud in Eowyn's ears, and she almost fancied she felt the movement of her own child. Her knuckles whitened as she heard a soft sound of cloth scuffing stone… Suddenly a figure burst forward as though he had come straight from the darkness, a sword in hand.

Eowyn let out a cry, swinging her blade to catch the man's in a loud clang of steel. The stranger gave a howl of surprise and spun to get past her, but Eowyn moved to block him, parrying him away from the bed where the two children hid.

Elenwen had burrowed into her brother's arms and he covered her head protectively as he tried to glimpse Eowyn and the man she was fighting.

Eowyn's skirts swirled about her in the darkness, and the blades clashed again, glinting in the glow from the small nightlight. A rapid hammer of blows from Eowyn pushed him back a step; he was clearly a fierce fighter, but just as clearly he had not expected any such opposition.

Out of the corner of her eye Eowyn caught sight of another shadow moving her way and moved only just fast enough to avoid a second blade. Laying out a swift kick at her first attacker's stomach, she shifted her attention to this new opponent and slashed wildly at the shadow. His blade caught hers with tremendous force and she felt the jarring impact move up to her shoulders.

Then the first attacker loomed back up beside her. Recovering her balance from the heavy blow, she tried to turn towards him— but she was half-way there when he viciously backhanded her across the face, sending her spinning sideways into the wall. There was a crack as her forehead struck the masonry.

Elenwen let out a cry without thinking and though Eldarion clamped a hand over her mouth he knew it was too late. He watched in dismay as Eowyn slid dazedly to the floor and as he fumbled around for something to help him he heard the two men moving towards the bed.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Arien fell limply against Arwen, her strength giving out. Like shadows and smoke the image of her mother weeping wavered in her mind, the horror and the pain a living scar upon her heart.

She was crying softly, the low keening of a wounded animal, but there was no pity in her tormenter. He was grinding the memories into her… somehow he was making her relive them, and whether she knew it or not, they were breaking her down. Ever so slowly, they were killing her.

"Am I being too gentle?" the coarse voice echoed to her ears. "Scream, Arien… you screamed when he died, when your home burned!" Arien did scream harder and louder than any time before. Her body shuddered; she was blinded by pain, physical and emotional, and she felt as though both were fit to break her in two.

Suddenly another cry broke through like black glass shattering… a furious cry… in a familiar voice.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Vardnauth was so consumed with his destruction of the handmaid that he did not detect the presence of another until Bartho slammed full into him, knocking him clear across the room. He was on his feet in a moment, hissing curses, and as he rose his hood fell, revealing what Arien had already discovered.

Bartho had not known what to expect when he knocked the attacker off of Arien and the queen, but as the figure faced him he knew he had not expected what he found.

An elf.

Twisted eyes gazed at him, a strange unearthly glint of steel flashing with hatred, but the fair features and delicately pointed ears gave his race away.

Shocked as he was, however, Bartho did not give Vardnauth a chance to recover first.

Swinging his sword out with the strength that would have felled a sapling in a single blow, he tried to cut cleanly towards the elf's middle. Vardnauth barely sidestepped, still gaining his wits, but he managed to pull out his dagger nonetheless and quickly leapt back towards Arwen, ignoring Bartho for the moment.

Bartho followed after him, swinging at his back and clipping the elf sharply across the shoulders. Vardnauth lunged the remaining distance forward, bringing his dagger down towards Arwen's heart with both hands on the hilt. Arien moved then, flipping onto her back and pushing her hands up to catch his as they came down.

She was no where near as strong as he, but her defense was just strong enough to give Bartho time to reach the elf.

Vardnauth growled angrily as he was forced to turn his attention to the threat at hand. Swinging off the bed he pulled back far enough to put a safe distance between himself and Bartho.

Stepping to the middle of the room, Bartho held his sword at the ready and did not once move his eyes from the elf.

Vardnauth made the first move. Pushing towards Bartho he tried to slip under the Dúnadan's guard and cut him at the legs.

Bartho jumped back and dropped his sword to catch the dagger, leaving his face unprotected. Vardnauth lashed out with one fist catching the man in the jaw and causing Bartho to jerk back. Then the ranger managed to get his elbow into Vardnauth's face and they were forced apart.

The elf brought his blade up again and tried to cut Bartho's throat, but there was a clank as the man swept his sword in between and knocked the blade aside. They battled for some minutes, neither getting close enough to draw much blood, and Bartho remaining on the defensive as he tried to draw Vardnauth away from his intended target.

The Dúnadan could not help recalling that the elf had not been alone, and he shuddered to think how the others in the palace were faring.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Duurben felt his frustration mount with each blow he dealt the attackers. How had they come upon the gates like this? How had they managed to slip past Gondor's defenses? He supposed the answer to that was obvious enough; Gondor was open to the farmers and traders that came through, Torin himself had reported countless such people around the gate that day.

In all this, though, it was not the enemy his men were battling that concerned him as much as it was the lack of strategy. What enemy of Gondor would launch such a fruitless attack? As frustrated as Duurben was, he knew there was no real threat here, he held many men in reserve and this attack on the gate seemed almost a…distraction.

Duurben's gaze turned automatically to the palace doors just inside the inner circle's beleaguered gate. What was he leaving unprotected as he focused on this skirmish?

"Anárion!"

The gatekeeper turned quickly at his name and broke away from the fighting. "Sir, we have nearly overcome their forces. It was a weak attack, it would have been almost harmless if not for the element of surprise and the empty gateway."

"Anárion," Duurben repeated urgently, "I fear that something is amiss at the palace. Send ten of your men to assure that the royal family are safe while we bring down the last of the enemy."

"Sir." Anárion nodded and obeyed.

It was not long before the men returned and Duurben read in Anárion's face that all was as he had feared. He stepped away from the fight, meeting him half-way.

"Captain," the gatekeeper spoke quickly, "the doors have been sealed against us. We don't know how, but the enemy slipped past us."

Duurben felt his face pale. This could not be — not again. He had sworn on his very life to protect the royal family. Now they were trapped within their own home, and he was powerless to defend them.

Visibly, he shook himself. This was hardly the time — if there would ever be one — to fall into despair. "Anárion, my men must finish here, but they can do so without my help. Your sentries will aid me in breaking down the doors."

"Yes, sir."

"And Anárion."

"Sir?"

Duurben let out a breath, eyeing the palace speculatively. "We may have need of the dwarves."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Eldarion felt his whole body had frozen… he couldn't think, he couldn't move… couldn't breathe.

Don't be ridiculous! he berated himself. You have to do something!

What would his father do?

His father.

With an unexpected jolt, Eldarion felt something thawing his body from the inside out and with a strange resolve he reached out and grabbed the dagger that had fallen to the floor. He knew what his father would do.

The shadowed figures were almost upon them now. Elenwen was trembling and though she tried hard to be still Eldarion could easily read the terror in her brown eyes. He tried to give her reassurance, but there was no time. Crouching down he waited until the figures had leaned over the bed.

In a sudden motion, Eldarion stood up, stabbing his father's dagger straight into one figure's shoulder. The man cried out angrily and lashed out with his whole arm, catching Eldarion across the face. The boy let go of the dagger and rolled with the blow, falling on the floor. He rolled back onto all fours and pushed Elenwen firmly, managing to jolt her out of her terrified stupor. She half crawled, half ran across the floor towards Eowyn, Eldarion hard on her heels. Elenwen reached their fallen caretaker, but her brother was caught by the wounded man's companion.

Grabbing the boy firmly around waist, the man jerked him backwards and pulled him tight against his chest. Eldarion struggled wildly, fighting with fists and heels and anything else he could think of.

His captor seemed to find that amusing, until Eldarion's stone tree statue that Legolas had given him cracked hard against the dark man's kneecap.

Eldarion heard the angered snarl as the man turned his cold glare on Elenwen, whose hands had thrown the statue. The prince used the distraction to his advantage, digging his nails as hard as he could into the man's hands he managed to wiggle free and run the rest of the way towards Eowyn.

The man with the dagger in his shoulder had recovered by this point and jerked the dagger from his wound, throwing it across the room past Eowyn to land in the corner of the bedroom.

Eldarion fell back, trying to move away, and he felt Elenwen cower behind him.

There had to be something…Eowyn's sword!

Eldarion groped for the weapon and found it. Grabbing it in shaky hands he gathered himself to face the two men. The boy had, of course, been trained in the use of the sword, Aragorn and Arwen had been sure of it, but this weapon was quite a bit heavier than he was used to and he was really no match for two men twice his size.

Fortunately for him he had quite enough of his father in him to not consider that fact too seriously. Thus Eldarion brought the blade up in time to catch the first swing at his head. Getting to his feet to gain at least some height advantage, Eldarion managed to catch the next as well.

The wounded man hung back, watching his fellow fight the young boy as he moved casually around to get the girl who was sitting on the floor trying to rouse the lady.

Eldarion saw the man's direction and quickly moved to intervene. Swinging the sword he managed to catch the man in the knees with a crack, bringing the assailant to ground. Unfortunately he had lost his focus on the other man and only realize his mistake when the man grabbed him by the collar and threw him forcibly across the room.

The boy didn't even remember the impact and he barely made out the sound of his sister screaming his name as he slid to the floor. He wondered vaguely what death would feel like and whether his father would have been proud of him… the nightlight was the last part of his vision to fade.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Pippin ran through the hall blindly. He had found to his frustration that all the windows had been bolted like the doors and he had found two more dead sentries. These men had a lot to answer for.

Pippin had had yet to find them, but he feared where they might be and decided that he must go make sure that the Lady Eowyn and the prince and princesses were well. While he ran he tried to formulate a plan.

If Duurben discovered that the doors and windows were bolted up soon, then there was a chance he could break in before the intruders had time to do damage.

But when Pippin reached Eldarion's room in time to hear Elenwen scream he feared that it might be too late.

"Fool of a Took!" Pippin cried in dismay, running to the door and throwing it open. The scene that met his eyes was one to haunt him for the rest of his life. Two men darkly clad and one bleeding were standing and kneeling in the middle of the room.

The one standing held a sword and was advancing on Elenwen and the Lady Eowyn, who was collapsed by the girl's side. Eldarion lay limp across the room and from his place by the door Pippin could not tell if he lived. There was blood trickling from a corner of the lad's mouth…

Giving a cry, Pippin lunged into the room, his sword already out, and plunged the blade into the man's stomach. The man fell back in surprise but turned to swing at Pippin who ducked easily and stabbed again, higher this time. The man coughed as he slumped down against Eldarion's bed. Placing a hand over his wound he looked down at it in surprise before sliding sideways to the floor.

Pippin let out a ragged breath before running to Eldarion. Hastily he checked the boy's vitals and found him to be alive, but stunned. Eldarion's eyes opened and he seemed to be trying to say something, but the hobbit couldn't make it out.

Then Elenwen's voice alerted him to the danger. Whirling around, Pippin saw the other man crawling towards him, his sword still in hand. Pippin moved in front of Eldarion, but there was no need. A second later the man dropped to the floor, Aragorn's dagger sticking from his back.

Eowyn, the side of her face badly bruised, slumped back to the floor breathing heavily.

Pippin helped Eldarion to the other side of the room. "Are you alright your highness?" Pippin asked worriedly.

"I'm fi-fine," Eldarion nodded shakily, trying not to look at the two dead men in his room.

Elenwen whimpered softly before dropping into her brother's arms and Eldarion patted her on the back vaguely, still trying to get his wits about him.

"Are you alright, Lady Eowyn?" Pippin looked her over concernedly, but she seemed to be alright.

"I am well, Pippin." Eowyn nodded slightly, touching her stomach subconsciously and leaning against the wall. Suddenly remembering something Eowyn's eyes widened. "Gilraen! She's still out in the halls somewhere!" Eowyn attempts to rise were stilled by Pippin who quickly got to his feet.

"I'll find her, my Lady, you stay here. More may come and Eldarion and Elenwen need someone to watch them. I'll find Gilraen."

Eowyn nodded shakily. "Thank you Pippin, be careful."

"I will." Pippin nodded quickly with a half smile before running to the door. He could be wrong, but he had an idea where to start look for Elessar's youngest daughter.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Bartho ducked the blow and felt the air hiss above his head. Vardnauth had given up fighting the Dúnadan with only one dagger and now had two long wicked blades in hand.

Bartho had seen Prince Legolas' daggers before, but they were nothing like these. These were not white silver, these had a coppery tinge, almost as though they had killed so many times that they could not be cleansed of the hint of blood. Red blood.

The human and elf continued to battle across the floor, neither managing to get the edge and both barely managing to hold their own. Vardnauth was clearly a brilliant fighter, but his lack of practice was obvious and this was the only reason Bartho was still alive.

The man was aware of Arien's distressed presence somewhere in the dark and he hoped she was alright; it had been her screams that had summoned him with such haste. After following the dark figures through the hole in the wall he had seen them close the doors and heard the sounds of their attempts to block them, the ranger had fully intended to return and tell Duurben — and then he'd heard Arien's cries from a window nearby. He admitted fully that hearing her had blinded his logic and now he was not sure how long it would take Duurben to realize that the attack on the gate was to distract him from the real threat.

Vardnauth slashed wildly at Bartho, backing him nearly to the window. The cool stone of the wall brushed his back and he tensed, feeling the unpleasant sensation of being cornered. Dropping his next blow, Vardnuath grazed Bartho's sword hand. It was not a serious wound, but it surprised the ranger enough to make him drop his blade.

The twisted elf pounced on the opportunity and kicked the sword away. Giving a hoarse cry he swung one blade across to come down on Bartho's head and the other swung up to gut him.

Bartho, given only a moment to react, quickly moved his both his hands to intercept the two blades and to his surprise managed to catch both the elf's wrists, staying the death blows.

Vardnauth's sneer dropped to a disgusted snarl and he pushed roughly against Bartho's resistance, but the man held and tightened his hold on the elf's slim wrists.

Then Vardnauth relaxed his grip and the higher knife dropped to the floor. Bartho was not ready to loosen his guard, but it was almost an automatic response as both of the wrists in his grip went limp.

Suddenly the elf moved; twisting and jerking at the same time, he loosed his left hand from Bartho's and before the ranger could react he felt the cold fingers press against the sides of his head and heard the elf speak.

"What horrors wait for me here?"

Bartho tensed as a strange, unpleasant feeling spread through his mind.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Gilraen was unaware of where she was, she had been walking on a cloud talking to Luthien Tinuviel and she remembered humming her favorite tune as they walked, but now the tune had faded, the cloud was gone, Tinuiviel was nowhere in sight, and only a tall bookshelf stood in front of her.

Gilraen was scared for a moment, had she wandered into a nightmare by mistake? Why was everything so dark? She couldn't be home, Ada always left torches lit at home.

The little girl was aware of someone else in the room and in her half-awake stupor she thought she heard her father's footsteps.

"Ada?" Her tiny voice broke the ominous silence as she stretched out into the dark.

His wrist was caught in the hand of a darkened figure and she felt her fingers go numb as her wrist was squeezed tightly.

"Hello, little one." A totally unfamiliar voice met Gilaraen's ears and she tried to pull away.

"No! Go away! Ada!"

"Your Ada isn't here, little one, you're all alone." The small child squirmed at the voice and tried to twist away again, but the man pulled her forward, drawing something from his cloak. "Maybe he'll see you again… but you'll be going first."

Gilraen was confused by the words. "Where are we going?" And then she saw what the man held in his hand.

Chapter 17

Desperate Struggles

April 23

Minas Tirith

"Hit it again!" Duurben called loudly into the night. His words were met by the a splintering as the dwarves struck the door again with their mason's hammers.

"It's going sir!" Torin called back with confidence. This door wouldn't hold against them much longer.

Another crack and pieces of wood began to collect at the base of the door. At least now the dwarf knew where all his tools and bolts had gone. Well, he would make sure that no mortal or immortal being was able to use his own property against him ever again.

"Keep it up lads!" Torin shouted to his dwarves as another splintering crack rent the air. "They'll not hold against us!"

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Bartho didn't know what was happening to him, but suddenly his mind was filled with old memories. Events that had long held beneath the surface of his consciousness now rose up out of the water and filled his mind and heart at once. He saw faces of men he had lost, he heard shouts and screams of terror and pain, the shadows of faceless and fearful things he had fought alone, the burnings, the old wounds… he lost track of how many deaths, how many failures…

He barely heard the elf, the one who was orchestrating this pain; the hoarse voice held a hint of pleasure as though here at last he had found a trove of old hurts and forgotten misery worthy of his devilry.

But there was yet an obstacle. Bartho was strong, and stubborn, and because of his constant acceptance of failure and hardship, Vardnauth was finding it exceedingly difficult to reach the ranger in the way he wanted. He pressed harder still, and Bartho suddenly feared where these old memories would lead. There were some things buried he had avoided and hoped to forget.

"Lindamar." Vardnauth's voice rasped to Bartho's ears just as the picture of a pretty golden-haired girl swam into view. The elf smiled as he at last felt a change in the other's demeanor. "Treachery Bartho…pain…hurt…" Bartho didn't know whether the words were spoken by the elf or whether his own heart supplied them.

He saw Lindamar turn and leave the room, he saw the men coming to arrest him. He saw Lindamar, outside the bars, a sort of bewildered expression in her pretty eyes, but when he tried to meet her gaze, she turned away. Again she turned her back. Again his heart broke.

"Love is never as strong as the longing to bring pain."

"No," Bartho barely whispered. No, he knew it wasn't true… and yet he saw her… he saw her leave him. It was her who had told her father who he was. He had trusted her.

Bartho stifled a cry as the pain pounded hard as barbs into flesh, dissolving his heart… shattering his soul. He couldn't fight it, not this, not when it was so well armed… when its attack was so unexpected. "Stop." Bartho couldn't manage the word — his lips molded the plea out of silence. He felt the cold finger press against his temple, he heard a laugh somewhere beyond his blinding pain.

Then he heard something crack and shatter.

Was it his mind finally succumbing to the relentless pounding? No, the pain was fading now — he could no longer feel the fingers, nor see Lindamar. He only felt the wall behind him, and his legs barely supporting his weight.

Bartho opened his eyes and was surprised to see Arien. Her hands were shaking as she dropped what was left of an old Numenorian vase. She looked like she would follow it to the ground at any moment. Vardnauth had crumpled to the floor at Bartho's feet and was lying still amidst the shards of glass.

Arien turned her eyes up to Bartho's and she unexpectedly began to cry.

Bartho moved over to her automatically, surprised that he had enough strength to move, and he closed her in his arms and touched the back of her head. He felt her face burrowing into his chest as she continued to cry. She trembled beneath his touch and he felt the need to calm her, but he wasn't calm yet himself. He stroked her hair somewhat automatically and waited until her tears had subsided before pushing her back to look at her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice hoarse and softer than usual.

"Am I alright? Yes, of course… Bartho, are you alright?"

Bartho nodded, not sure how much to trust his voice at this point, he took her hands in his and realized her palms were bleeding where the glass had cut them.

"Thank you." His gruff voice eventually broke the silence as he touched the torn skin gently and quickly ripped two strips from his soft under tunic.

"You saved me first," Arien murmured, glancing past him at the fallen elf. "I don't know what he was doing to me."

Bartho shook his head. "I myself do not know all of what elves can do…but I have never heard of any elf doing such a thing as this."

Arien bit her lip as he wrapped the wounds in cloth. "We must see to the children," she said quickly.

"Yes, he did not come alone," Bartho agreed. "I am certain there are others in the house — here to finish what was started the night the queen was attacked."

Arien nodded numbly. She looked back up, "Perhaps you should—" Her eyes caught something beyond his shoulder. "Bartho!"

Her scream alerted him not a moment to soon. Unsure what she had seen, but moving on instinct alone Bartho felt the cold blade sink into his forearm instead of his chest as he dropped suddenly to the floor.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Pippin's feet made hardly a sound on the floor as he raced through the darkness. It didn't take long to locate the front entrance, and the constant pounding on the other side told him that Duurben was working hard on breaking the door down.

The humming could no longer be heard, but Pippin blundered on in the direction he had heard it come before.

It wasn't long before another sound reached his ears.

"Ada!"

Gilraen. There was no doubt. Pippin drew his sword as he ran, hoping he would not be too late.

The library was just ahead and Pippin could now easily make out the sounds of a struggle. Behind him down the hall he heard a crack on the door again. Duurben would be through any moment, he just had to make sure that Aragorn's family was safe and keep them that way until the Captain of the Guard could reach them.

The hobbit skidded to a halt just inside the library door, and he froze in horror. A dark clad man held Gilraen up against a bookshelf, her feet dangling freely as he pressed a dagger against her throat.

Without many options besides the crazy one Pippin dove at the man and plunged his sword straight into the back of the man's knee. The assassin reeled backwards, dropping Gilraen by accident and turning to the more real threat. Pippin stumbled to his feet and, before the man could recover from shock, he wrenched his blade from the man's knee and plunged it into his belly.

Gilraen screamed as the man let out a strangled cry, clutching at Pippin's blade before stumbling to the floor. The hobbit knew the man wasn't dead, but he wanted to keep it that way. Pulling a curtain draw from the wall and cutting it down Pippin quickly bound the man's hands and feet, ignoring the groans of displeasure his actions elicited.

After finishing with the man Pippin turned to find Gilraen had not moved from the bookshelf.

"Come on, it's alright." Pippin held out a hand to her and after a moment Gilraen moved slowly over to him. Pippin had the warning of a trembling lip before Gilraen was crying wildly.

"I w-want Ada!" She wailed so loudly that Pippin could only hope that no other intruders would overhear.

"Shh…all safe now," Pippin comforted. "You know your father will be home soon."

He must not have sounded like he meant it because Gilraen cried even louder and Pippin had to resist the urge to cover his ears. The little one was tired, worn out, and terrified — not to mention half asleep.

"I have an idea," Pippin said brightly. "Let's go find Eowyn shall we?"

Gilraen stopped crying almost immediately and nodded, her hiccups turning into a yawn. Pippin stood up, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder at the man bound behind him. "Good, follow me." Trying to be as cheerful as possible, Pippin led the little girl from the room. Inside he almost wanted to faint with relief; he didn't want to think what Aragorn would have done if his little girl had been killed. He could only hope that they would suffer no more losses this night.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Duurben watched the door splintering under the hammers and felt relief rise with dread. He wasn't sure what they would find on the other side of the door, and he was in mortal terror of the answer.

"One more time!" Torin called as the hammers were heaved back and slammed into the door, shattering a wide hole in its frame.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Bartho let out a gasp as the blade was wrenched from his shoulder. Vardnauth would try to hit him fatally this time and Bartho knew it. Making a quick decision, Bartho dropped and rolled towards the wall. Knocking into Vardnauth's feet and forcing the elf to move back he stretched out his fingers and felt his sword hilt. Drawing the weapon with his good arm he swung a cut upwards towards the elf.

Vardnauth met the blow and punched his fist into Bartho's face at the same moment. Bartho felt his head crack back against the floor and for a moment his focus blurred.

He heard Arien moving back towards the queen and had a feeling where Vardnauth was going.

The Dúnadan tried to rise as quickly as he could without the benefit of complete focus. He stumbled in the direction of Arien and the room began to still. Running towards the Queen's bed he made a wild swing at the elf who stepped in his path. The sharp clash of metal that followed jolted Bartho fully back to his senses. He could see Vardnauth through the darkness, his eyes fiery and dangerous.

Then they heard it: the sounds of voices, shouts, orders. Duurben was inside.

"Find the Lady Eowyn, see to the queen!"

Bartho's eyes flicked to Vardnauth's face. The ranger read something there, something almost like annoyance and disgust. And bitter loathing. Making up his mind suddenly, the elf shoved Bartho backwards, but instead of pushing any kind of advantage he raced for the open window.

Bartho gave chase without any real hope of catching the elf. When he saw Vardnauth hit the ground running far below, he knew he couldn't follow.

Instead the drained warrior turned in time to see Duurben burst into the room with several others carrying torches and swords.

Duurben took in the scene before him and signaled the men to lower their weapons. "Bartho, what happened?"

The captain stepped forward in time to grab the ranger's elbow and guide him to a chair.

"An elf was here," Bartho explained, suddenly breathless. "He was after the queen, he was trying to kill Arien when I arrived. We fought… when he heard you coming he left through the window."

Duurben nodded at the words before rising. "Thenin, take two others and check the palace to be sure the elf is gone, then search the surrounding area. He will be difficult to track, but we must try our utmost. I want him caught; if that is too dangerous, shoot him on sight. I will not let this happen again."

The guardsman addressed nodded quickly and ran to obey the order.

"Are you alright, Bartho?" Duurben questioned with concern.

"I'm fine." Bartho nodded heavily, glancing over at Arien, who was letting someone see to the wounds in her hands. "But I cannot speak for the rest of the house."

"We will soon know," Duurben nodded, heading towards the door. "We were met at the door by Pippin and Gilraen, but I do not know how the others fair."

"Sir," Anárion entered with a salute. "We went to check the man Master Took captured."

"And?"

"He was already dead, Captain. His bonds were cut and he was stabbed through the heart. It seems he killed himself."

Duurben let out a breath. "What of Lady Eowyn and the two children?"

"They are fine as far as we can tell." Anárion dropped his head. "Eldarion was badly bruised and the Lady Eowyn took a blow to the head, but she will recover well."

Bartho glanced up at Duurben. "I suppose I should be careful what I reveal to Lord Faramir when I join him two days from now."

"Two days?" Duurben turned to the man in surprised. "Bartho please, you must go to the Houses of Healing to reco—"

"Duurben," Bartho's tone was heavy with warning and forestalled further argument. "You will not make me return to that place. I am traveling even tonight to tell Lord Faramir of the attack and join in the fight. I will not be held back an hour longer."

Duurben went through the motions of protest before he finally sighed and raised his hands in defeat. "If it be your wish, Bartho, you seem to know I cannot stop you. So I will bless you on your way and hope fair weather follows your path."

"I wouldn't depend on it," Bartho replied, moving to the window. "There was an ill wind rising in the evening and I know it follows the path I will take."

Duurben smiled. "Even so, the Valar's blessing be on you."

Bartho nodded and started to climb out the window, already mapping the quickest route to the stables when a voice stopped him.

"My lord!" Bartho looked up to see Arien running towards him pulling, her thin shawl from her shoulders. "If you do intend to leave without seeing the Houses of Healing, you must at least accept something for the wound in your shoulder."

Duurben grimaced in memory; he had almost forgotten the need in his haste. He nodded his thanks as he took the cloth from her hands before dropping from the window.

Arien watched him go until the clouds cast the moon into shadow. Even then she squinted into the dark, fancying she could still see him running towards the stables, but when the moon was allowed to shed its light again, he was gone from view as though he had never been there.

Chapter 18

Enlightening Conversations

April 26

Southern Gondor

'Uncanny and disturbing.'

Bartho had said that in Minas Tirith only a week ago when he described the attack on his scouting party, and the words had become lodged in Faramir's mind, echoing almost constantly now. He looked about the charred skeleton that had once been a Gondorian town. It would have been kinder had the whole place been utterly razed, but it had not. He could still easily pick out which building had been the smithy, or the shop of a cooper, or a family dwelling. The call for aid had only come two hours ago, and he had answered it at once, leaving Bartho in command of the bulk of the men in his absence.

Perhaps normally he would have remained behind himself and delegated this to one of his captains, but he'd felt the desperate need to prevent at least a little of what the Southron queen was trying to do here. Except that she'd managed it again. He couldn't guess who had sent out the distress call he'd received, but whoever it was had likely been slain only minutes later. The charred beams were already cooling. The destruction had been completed almost before he had set out to stop it.

For a moment he wondered furiously, not for the first time, how the Southrons had penetrated the town's defenses so easily. This close to Harad such towns were well versed in the methods of protecting themselves, and the heavy stone and wood palisade around the town ought to have repulsed the invaders for a few hours at least. Mixed in with this puzzle was the matter of the traitor, Tantur. Could he, or another more highly placed traitor, be the reason for Mavranor's seeming omnipotence? Traitors were ugly things, as dangerous and difficult to see as shards of glass buried in sand. Had someone unlocked this town's gate from within?

"Lord Faramir!" Beregond's tone was insistent.

Faramir looked up from the scorched bridle bit he was absently handling. "What?"

"I called three times; you didn't answer. I was worried."

"Worry not over me."

"Someone has to," Beregond muttered, scowling his own frustration across the defeated landscape.

"I have failed again, Beregond."

The guardsman put a hand lightly on his shoulder. It was the gesture of an old friend, and in his subordinate position he seldom indulged in such things unless he and Faramir were alone. "I will not have you taking blame for this; it was not your fault!"

"It can be no 'fault' of mine and still be a failure," Faramir sighed. "I know the sensation well. These people were citizens of Gondor. Men who have fought in our wars, women who have taught our children. As such, they are under the king's protection, and thus under mine. I would that they were alive to rebuke me, but the silence shall serve that turn equally well."

Beregond shook his head in quick denial. "It will not do any good for you to agonize over it. As you go, so follow the men, and if that be to despair then who shall be here to fight for the citizens yet alive?"

"I know, my friend." Faramir turned to face him fully, his gray eyes carrying a familiar but controlled ache. "Fear not, I am not giving up hope. But I love my people, and the love that will not let me cease to fight for them will not let me pass their graves without sadness either. Come, whoever did this cannot have traveled far, and they will hardly return home after only one strike."

"Do such creatures have 'homes'?"

"Yes." Faramir's answer was firm. "They are men, Beregond. As we are."

It was a cryptic enough reply, and the next minute the steward had strode away back towards the men. It was a wonder even to Beregond, who had respected his captain from the day he had first met him, that one man could hold at the same time a head for war and a heart for such compassion. It had not been until Beregond had received his judgment from the new king — not until, faced with death, he had been granted trust and responsibility — that he had finally understood. The qualities of Faramir hailed from the days of Elessar's ancestors, when the kings of men were wise and mighty indeed, and their influence based upon more than the strength of their swords.

And if anyone could bring Gondor out of the devastations of war and return her to prosperity, it was King Aragorn and Lord Faramir.

With this thought to comfort him and with his hand resting as usual upon the pommel of his sword, Beregond followed quickly after his lord. In his current mood, Faramir probably wouldn't notice if an entire herd of mûmakil sprang from the bushes to trample him, let alone an errant assassin.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\

April 28

Kopairin

Gimli let out a sigh. He had finally found a town that stood a chance having a decent inn where he could get a warm drink. The past three villages had been too small to support more than basic supplies — most of them having to do with horses.

However this town, a sprawling settlement right along the river, seemed to have more than its share of inns and supply stores. He frowned a bit; it looked as though the place had recently suffered some kind of attack. There were the remains of a few burnt buildings, and men were clearing away the rubble, while a great many Rohirric guardsmen patrolled the streets. For some reason the picture had an uncanny resemblance to the kind of trouble which followed Aragorn and Legolas so faithfully, though he couldn't say for sure why…

The dwarf chose an inn at random; it looked busy and full and he favored that sort: it meant late delivery, but it also meant the invaluable position of being forgotten the moment he left. Reaching the door of the Unbridled Stallion he pushed it open to reveal a fire-lit room full of patrons, busy conversation, and the smell of roast meat.

"Look, another one. Were they all kicked out of the mines at once?"

Gimli caught the words of a man sitting nearby and for the first time really concentrated on the primary source of noise. A group that sat near the center of the room were having a heated discussion and Gimli at once recognized many of his own kind seated and standing by a table.

Most noticeable was a young dwarf with a short beard who was giving the youngish looking human before him a very impertinent look. The one who appeared to be the bartender stood behind the man and at least two other dwarves were on their feet. One with red hair was positively seething. And that was when the words reached Gimli's ears.

"I have a right to say what I like!" The young dwarf pouted absurdly.

"I'll be the judge of that," the young man replied firmly, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair.

"Tell the man what happened, Kori — it will go better for you if you do," a dwarf standing at the young one's elbow spoke up.

"They don't have any right, Nowin! You tell them! You tell them who my father is!"

The one called Nowin sighed and turned towards the man. "I apologize, Mayor, he's not usually like this."

The red haired dwarf snorted at that.

"Kori, you have a right to tell your side of the story, but you will lose it if you do not speak soon," said the young mayor, obviously tired of the whole ordeal.

"He said I'd already had too much to drink! He doesn't understand I could drink my weight in ale and walk in a straight line same as you!"

"Kori!" The red-haired one was clearly on the edge.

"Finish it — tell him the whole thing," Nowin broke in, placing a hand on the red-haired dwarf's arm.

So Kori told him.

Gimli winced.

"I see," the mayor said after a pause. "I hope you understand that was not the peaceable response, Kori, neither was standing on his table and punching him in the jaw." Kori frowned at the bartender hovering at the mayor's elbow. "However, Master Merdane does not seem inclined to press the point to the length of your being thrown into the gaol. If you apologize to Master Merdane, pay your bill, and leave, I will call that the end of it."

Gimli glanced at the young dwarf. He didn't think apologizing was very high on that one's list of preferences, but when Kori looked to Nowin for support the dwarf simply stared back at him.

Ducking his head sulkily, Kori mumbled an apology into his beard.

"Will that suffice, Merdane?" The mayor turned to the bartender who shrugged.

"I suppose, Valihondo, but I stand by what I said before: the dwarf's had too much to drink."

"Aye," Nowin and the red-haired dwarf accidentally concurred at once.

"And we'll be out at once, Mayor," Nowin finished quickly.

"If you can control your friend, you may finish your drinks first." Valihondo nodded at the others, seemingly pleased that the incident had been resolved so easily. The dwarves began to reseat themselves and the general noises of a crowded inn resumed.

Gimli caught the red-haired dwarf speaking gruffly to Nowin under his breath, "Please just let me kill him."

"Now, Rorin, how would we explain that to Lord Dorm?"

"Tell him he ate a bad piece of meat. Happens all the time," Rorin growled, drinking moodily from his mug.

Valihondo began to move away from the dwarves and suddenly Gimli's thoughts were moving quickly as he recalled his odd thought about the state of the harbor town. It was a stab in the dark, but perhaps worth a try.

"Mayor!" Gimli called, walking up before Valihondo had gotten three steps away from the seated dwarves.

"Yes, Master Dwarf?" Valihondo smiled courteously down at Gimli, slightly bemused at the sudden inrush of dwarves to Kopairin.

"I am Gimli, Gloin's son. I am passing through, and I was wondering what happened here? Your town is in pretty poor condition."

"Oh, I see," Valihondo nodded. "We were attacked recently; some foreigners tried to destroy the harbor and steal a shipment that came through. We fought and won, but they escaped. The damage was a great deal less than it could have been, though."

"That is good." Gimli nodded, then hazarded his question, "I was wondering if an elf and a… er… a ranger were here by any chance?"

Valihondo smiled in understanding. "Ah yes, Legolas and Strider were here."

"They were?!" Gimli was suddenly very glad that he had trusted his instincts, Legolas would be unbearable if he ever found out. "How long ago?"

"I would say about ten days ago, if my reckoning is correct."

Gimli's face fell at this. Ten days? How would he ever catch up to them?

"You know them, I suppose?" Valihondo questioned.

"Yes, and it is imperative that I find them." Gimli frowned. "Tell me, was anyone…with them?"

"Actually yes, they were reunited with a friend of theirs here. A Gondorian man… Tantur, I believe his name was."

Gimli cursed under his breathe.

"Do you know him?"

"Let's just say he means trouble for Strider."

Valihondo's expression was suddenly very grim. "You are going to warn them." It was not a question.

"As fast as possible."

"Pardon, dwarf, but did you just say 'Strider'?"

Gimli glanced past Valihondo at Rorin who had spoken up from the table.

"Yes, what of it?" Gimli nodded, puzzled.

"We met with him just a few days ago," Nowin put in from beside Rorin. "Him and an elf, Legolas; do you know them?"

"I do." Gimli was immediately very eager to be back on the road. "Was a man named Tantur with them?"

"Yes…" Nowin answered slowly.

"Kori here clubbed him with a stick. Thought he was a rabbit." Rorin glowered at the small dwarf still sulking beside him.

"Good for Kori," Gimli muttered. "I must find them at once. Where exactly did you meet them?"

"On a road west and north of here, through the forest there," Kori answered quickly. He was sitting up straight now; he could have sworn that dwarf had just said 'good for Kori'.

"I don't know where they were going." Nowin looked apologetic. "They just said they were on an errand."

"No it's alright, I know where they are going." Gimli started for the door. "And I must follow them." Forgetting all about the drink he was ready to enjoy, Gimli left the inn and began to walk back towards the edge of town.

Valihondo followed him out and pulled him to the side, out of the way of listening ears.

"Master Gimli," his voice was hushed and he glanced warily over his shoulder, "you mean to warn your friends about this man, is that correct?"

"It is, and with all the haste I can manage."

"They are mounted now and you'll never reach them with ten days between you. Allow me to at least provide you with a beast to ride the way."

"I appreciate your help." Gimli nodded in gratitude. "My last pony misplaced me in a river. But I have to wonder, mayor, why you want me to reach them so much…?"

"Strider and Legolas aided us in the battle and rescued my daughter, among other innocent prisoners…" Valihondo let out a breath before finishing, "and I am loyal to my king. Whatever his mission, I wish to aid him."

It took Gimli a moment to realize what the young man had just said. "Did Strider—?"

"The hour is late, Gimli, Gloin's son," Valihondo broke in smoothly, leaving the dark alley and moving out into the streets. Gimli followed at his heels.

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April 28

Just outside Runda Garrison, Southern Gondor

It was an interesting study in geography, Erynbenn supposed, that the further south of Gondor one went, the flatter the land became, and the further north one went, the more mountainous the land became. The result had been a middle ground which consisted of all the above, with miles of wide, canyon-like rifts thrown in for good measure. Understanding the lay of the land on Gondor's southern borders was only a stone's throw from sheer impossibility.

"Fine place to set up your major defenses," Bartho muttered at his side, and Erynbenn nodded, sighing neither for the first nor the last time over the Runda Garrison. It had been placed on a narrow shelf of land which dropped completely away into a gorge in the front, rose straight up into a bluff at the back, and was only accessible by two hillocks abutting it on the narrower ends of the plateau. They were walking at the moment to spare the horses who were ambling along behind their Dúnadan masters like faithful hounds.

"In all fairness, this stretch doesn't need as much defending as the others do. The maze of gorges through here would deter Sauron himself. The difficult places are going to be the flatlands farther east — you can rest assured that the Southrons will bring as many mûmakil as can survive the trip."

"True," came the grunted agreement. Bartho hadn't said much since he had come back from Minas Tirith the evening before. Not that that was necessarily unusual for Bartho, but there were qualities of silence, and Erynbenn had developed a knack for gauging his friend's mood.

Then, as the younger man's eyes examined his companion sidelong, looking for explanations… he found one. It was subtle, and so outrageous he almost dismissed the possibility, but Melima had worked hard to educate him in the realm of women's fabrics, and the bandage around Bartho's shoulder…

"Silk for a bandage, Bartho? It is a wonder to me you sought so hard to be freed from the healers; they do not seem to have mistreated you." A maiden at the Houses? Was such a thing even possible??

Bartho flinched, an odd reaction, and his opposite hand almost moved reflexively to cover the cloth. "It did not come from the healers."

"Oh?" Worlds of question lurked in the one word. Melima would have been proud.

"Yes. It was given me by — by a friend."

Erynbenn almost stopped dead in his tracks. It was possible! And skeptics claimed Ilúvatar no longer worked miracles. The only question was, after pressing for this for so long, how should he handle it?

"A good friend, it would seem," he tried, putting some warmth in his voice. Maybe he could draw Bartho out…

"Aye."

A long pause. No dice. Oh well, nobody could say he hadn't tried subtlety.

"And if he looked good in pale blue silk, I'm imagining he was probably an elf… or a she."

"Erynbenn," Bartho growled, to which the man thus named raised his eyebrows innocently. "Please."

The tone caused Erynbenn to sober almost at once. "Is it really so bad as all that?"

Bartho didn't seem able to answer.

"Does she love you?"

The Dúnadan winced — an actual expression of pain. It was a question no one, not even himself, had dared to ask. But now Erynbenn was looking at him expectantly… and what could he say?

"I don't know…" he tried.

"Yes you do. That is what scares you." Erynbenn lengthened his steps to give his friend a few more feet of space. Being more familiar with the palace and who lived there he tried to sort out who might have finally caught Bartho's notice. None of the healers, and certainly she didn't have blonde hair, whoever she was. The maids probably wouldn't wear silk; there really weren't any courtiers to speak of currently in residence… Then it hit him hard. It was so obvious, he wondered why he hadn't tried to orchestrate it!

"Is it the Lady Arien?"

Bartho sighed. "Aye."

"She is one of the most charming women I have ever met, my friend! Bested by Melima, of course, but everything you could possibly hope for in a life companion. She is intelligent, she is not flighty, she is skilled, loyal, humorous, graceful and beautiful. Tell me again, what is amiss?"

"I—" the older man's cheeks paled to the color of ash. "I cannot speak to her, Erynbenn…"

Erynbenn turned and braced his hands against Bartho's shoulders, bringing the man to a halt and looking him square in his tortured, brooding eyes. "You're afraid."

"No."

"Yes you are. You're frightened out of your wits. Did Lindamar take so much from you? Aye, she betrayed you. No small matter. She received your love and she distrusted it. She took the very best you could give her and left in in the mud. But you have to understand that she is no more a rule of women than Gollum was of hobbits!" He paused.

"I must beg your forgiveness, Bartho. I did not realize how long you had brooded over this. I thought you long since over it and merely happiest when on your own, or else disinclined to be pushed into love by me. I should have said this to you a long time ago, and I can only hope you will not let it be to late. Stop listening to that pessimistic head of yours! It is too tainted to give you a fair report anymore. And it has never been the better part of you, my friend. Never." For a moment he rested his right hand on Bartho's chest, feeling the thudding of the man's heart beneath his fingers. The heart that had extended to take an upstart young ranger lad, teach him, and eventually accept him as a friend. "Do you understand me?"

For a long time Bartho stared at him, the protective shell around his soul splintering at the edges. When he blinked, it was with defeat — but a little of what Erynbenn had said was lodged inside his mind. Along with the last images of a certain dark haired woman in a blue sleeveless dress… or balancing a large stack of trays and laughing… standing on the stairs, looking down at him from the shadows… clutching the last pieces of a shattered vase in her hands… watching him leave with tears still on her lashes.

"I don't know… I'm sorry." He genuinely was. He could feel his own long-reviewed misgivings weighing him down like fetters.

Erynbenn sighed and released him. Together they started walking again.

"Will you at least admit that you want to love her back?" the younger man asked half-heartedly.

The answer was instinctive and decisive, startling both men as Bartho voiced it.

"Aye."

As Erynbenn was shocked to a complete halt and Bartho passed him, the older man could feel his friend's wide, exultant grin warming the back of his head.

"Then there's hope!" Erynbenn cried triumphantly. "Even for you!"

True to form, Bartho only replied, "Maybe."

The garrison was completely full, with tents set up on ever square foot of extra ground outside the walls. Most of the men were not there to stay but simply passing through and resting for the night, or else they were injured. What healers could be assembled from the army itself or the nearby villages were already all too busy. The Southron troops had been wounding them like a spear, plunging in just long enough to leave them bleeding badly, and then withdrawing before a real counterattack could be launched. It was the sort of attack that most of the Gondorian military commanders did not understand — especially not from the Haradrim, whose tactics were not generally so subtle. It suggested the aged Queen Mavranor's brain had not followed the frailty of her body.

With Faramir now present things were beginning to improve. He had a better understanding of such fighting, having engaged in it constantly while warring in Ithilien, and thus understood better how to thwart such attacks before they cost too many lives. Things had now reached a precarious stalemate while both sides spread out and prepared themselves for the true battle.

They had ridden the last hundred yards up the hill and as Erynbenn dismounted and guided his mare between the tents to the horse pickets, he could see the tension in the eyes around him. They were waiting for the first blow and wondering who would strike it.

"Fidgety, maybe?" Bartho muttered.

"Understatement, perhaps? Watch your feet."

Bartho sidestepped a tent peg just in time.

Erynbenn grinned wickedly, still warm in the victory of Bartho's admission. "Wouldn't do for the senior general to arrive with a face full of turf. And imagine what Arien would say…"

He received a pained but forbearing look for his trouble. Bartho was too familiar with his jesting.

The other captains were located, but there was no telling how long any of them would stay. It took an hour for Erynbenn to finally track down the orders he and Bartho had come to retrieve. Bartho read through them with his heavy brows knit tight together.

"What is it?" Erynbenn asked, guiding both the horses so that his friend could have his hands free.

"In brief?"

"Please."

"Lord Faramir has realized that, with the Southrons' current tactics, these gullies aren't a strength, they're a weakness. For now he's mustering and organizing troops further west of us, trying to keep the villages there safe, but he'll return soon. When that happens you, he, and I will split up most of the garrison here and cover the surrounding area. He doesn't want the enemy slipping in unnoticed."

Erynbenn nodded, looking thoughtfully out across the lush green zigzag of rifts. "I see his point about the ravines. It'll be no easy task, though. It's one thing to lead five or six Dúnedain through thick undergrowth; its quite another to five or six hundred foot soldiers through the same."

"It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Looping his horse's rope to the picket and removing its saddle, Erynbenn shrugged. "Of course it is. Hand me the— thank you." He took the proffered tool and lifted his mare's right foreleg, scraping the dirt from her hoof and searching for other debris. A moment later he found a stone and removed it, lowering her leg and patting her scruffy neck. "I thought as much."

Bartho nodded. "Come. We'd best eat."

"If we can find any food," the younger man retorted, only half joking. Whatever devilry Mavranor was exercising to keep one town ahead of Faramir's troops, she was further using to disrupt the army's food shipments. Rations were becoming slimmer by the day, and the most available foods had been so well dried for long marches as to be completely tasteless.

"There're always mushrooms."

Erynbenn snorted loudly. "Don't remind me! To this day I cannot understand what hobbits see in them. Rubbery brown fungus. As I recall you didn't like them either, my friend. Though that could be because Maggot's dogs had just finished—"

"Watch your feet."

Automatically Erynbenn changed his footing, but the two tents he was passing between had been so closely set up that their lines crossed in a dozen places and his altered course didn't help him. With a 'twang!' his boot caught on a second rope and he was sent falling forward, only just managing to push himself into a flying somersault and avoid landing on the web of ropes waiting to entangle him. Rolling back onto his feet in the same motion, Erynbenn smiled sheepishly. "Let me guess: I had it coming?"

"You should teach that flying hedgehog maneuver to the men. It might aid the gorge scouting trip," Bartho deadpanned.

Nodding good-humouredly, Erynbenn brushed off his cloak. "You could be right. Do you not wish that you could perform such a trick?"

"No."

"Alas! You have spoiled my opportunity to crow over you like the young upstart that I am."

"You're not so young as all that."

"You refuse me the last word as well?"

"Aye."

And the two men headed towards the crowded mess hall.

Authors' Note: We would like to take a quick moment to apologize for our lateness (again), and to wish our sister Chloe a very happy 17^th birthday! She is a fine fanfic writer herself, a graphics queen, a lover of fairies and animals, and a cool sister all round! *breaks out the root beer and lembas* Cheers, Cleo!

Chapter 19

Entering Rohan Means Trouble

April 30

Southern Rohan

"You realize that every time we enter the plains of Rohan, it leads to trouble," Legolas commented.

"You realize that every time we do anything, be it enter Rohan or visit an inn or stroke a hobbit's pony, it leads to trouble. The conclusion is that we do not lead trouble — it already knows where we are going to be and it meets us there."

"It sounds better than my father's reasoning, I'll give it that. Better than Gimli's reasoning as well."

"Thank you."

Aragorn could tell from the way his scalp was prickling that someone was staring at him. Poor Tantur; it was to be hoped that this trip would not be too disillusioning for him. Aragorn supposed that he probably ought to be restraining himself more, but in spite of the delay at Kopairin and the all too literal 'run-in' with the dwarves, they were making good time and his spirits had begun to lift. The horses had helped a great deal. If things kept on like this, he would be home well within the time that the healer had given him. Arwen would be well.

"Strider?"

The king blinked away his thoughts and smiled at his friend, "What is it?"

"Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems history desires to repeat itself. Only," he added with a chuckle, "Tantur will have to fill Gimli's role. Whatever you do," this was directed at the guard, "do not threaten them, glare at them, or demand their names in a rude manner."

"What? Who?" Tantur asked, a little wildly. He came a little closer, one hand nervously touching the bandage on his other hand as he was wont to do, and Aragorn noticed that he was quite pale.

"An Eorred of Rohirrim approaches from the north," he explained. "We will let them sight us. Identities should be kept as secret as may be, but I don't wish to sneak through Eomer's lands like a bandit either. This is just as well."

"Yes, my liege," Tantur muttered nervously.

"'Strider', Tantur," Legolas corrected with a smile, drawing up his hood. "You are your uncle's nephew with a vengeance."

The man's weak grimace was hard to read and he ducked his head. It was one of the things that was making Legolas worry about him. Still, with all his time in Ithilien Legolas had gained a greater understanding of what stories ignorant men had told to their children concerning elves. Such unease as this was something he had become used to as an elf. It was perhaps a little more odd than usual, since Duurben had actually known Legolas personally… Perhaps Tantur's mother had told him strange tales. It didn't necessarily mean that Tantur was fleeing from his uncle.

As the Rohirrim drew closer, Aragorn frowned a little. Naturally borders needed to be well protected, but this particular border was shared with Gondor and he was surprised at just how many armed men were in the approaching company. It looked as though they had spotted him and his two companions, and they were definitely on the alert for trouble.

With a strong feeling of déjà vu Aragorn stepped to the fore and called, "Riders of Rohan, what news from the Mark?"

A thunder of hooves like an avalanche vibrated the ground beneath them as the riders charged up and surrounded the travelers and their three horses. They did not draw their spears, for which Aragorn was grateful — the horses were already nervous — but the baleful look their leader gave him from under his plumed helmet would have melted a lesser man.

"Your names, strangers, and speedily. An untruth I will see a mile off, and then I shall know you for what you truly are."

/And what might we truly be?/ Aragorn wondered. Aloud he said, "I am Strider, a Dúnadan, formerly of the North, now of the South. This is Legolas; he comes from near Dale and the Lonely Mountain. With us travels Tantur, a guardsman of Gondor from Minas Tirith. We seek only to travel across Rohan in our journey to Lorien."

"And what seek you there?" the leader demanded, his voice not softening. "No one dwells there now; one might suspect you of a clumsy lie concocted in too much haste."

"One might also suspect me of private business that I do not desire to share with a stranger, even one of apparent rank."

"Apparent?!" the man thundered, eyes flashing.

"Yes, for I have seen false faces inside trustworthy uniforms before now," Aragorn said calmly. "If soldiers of Gondor can bear beneath their masks the faces of corsairs and traitors, what is to say that such fiends might not procure the dress of the Rohirrim? Your pardon, my lord, but I have traveled in Rohan often. Marshal Elfwild owns these lands and frequently patrols them himself; and I do not recognize your face."

Watching closely Aragorn was able to see the change that crossed the man's features as he spoke. Something had apparently struck a chord with him, for he removed his helm. As Aragorn had guessed, the man was young; unusually so for a commander.

"If I was unduly harsh, you will forgive me. We have suffered from just such deceptions as you describe. I am Captain Theodran. I command these, the first two companies of the house of Elfwild, fourth Marshal of the Riddermark. My duty in patrolling here is to seek out our enemies, hidden or no, and slay them."

"A harsh task," Legolas murmured.

"Aye, but necessary," Theodran countered. "We are still recovering from the layers of deception that were placed upon us. Had the king not somehow known that our quarrels were orchestrated from the outside by the corsairs, we might even now be coming to blows amongst ourselves."

"You have a wise king," Aragorn said.

"This we do not need to be told," the young man said proudly. "And though I have advised you of all this in proof that I do not now think you to be corsairs, you have yet to give me a satisfactory reason for this passage of yours, Ranger. What can possibly draw three men to Lorien?"

"I know not," Legolas said, speaking before Aragorn could. "As I am not one." Reaching up, he pushed back his hood, revealing the fair face, sharp eyes, and delicately pointed ears that were so easily recognizable.

Had the men been on foot, they would have taken an involuntary step back. Theodran didn't even blink, bringing Aragorn's estimation of him up a good deal.

"Lorien once housed my father's kin." Legolas arched one eyebrow in an imitation of Thranduil at his most intimidating.

"I understand, Master Elf," Theodran said slowly. The title gave Aragorn an inexplicable urge to snort. "I think that will serve as reason enough, so long as you hold to our laws during your passage through. And I shall give you warning. The corsairs did not at first realize that they were unmasked, but even once we began to trace them and drive them out, they devised new ways of staying hidden and less subtle means of attack. Someone wishes to weaken us from within — perhaps to hinder our patrols here — and if Eomer King did not rule, I would not doubt their success."

"I thank you for the caution," Legolas replied. "Tell us, who would desire such weakening? Mordor is defeated."

"There is a rumor that Queen Mavranor of Harad is the root of our trouble, but I could not guess why. I am but a soldier."

Only a few more words were exchanged before Theodran assembled his men and moved on, his young eyes alert for signs of trouble. Aragorn's mount whinnied at the passing thunder of the hoofs of its kin.

There was a pause as they started riding again. Not a very long pause.

"'Master Elf'?"

"Aragorn," Legolas said warningly.

"Imagine what convulsions would have ensued if you had told them you were a prince."

"Aragorn!"

"No insult intended, my friend!" Aragorn grinned, pulling the reigns to sidestep a jab aimed at his shoulder. "I was pleased to see that the dramatic 'revealing of the ears' strategy still works. Gimli would be proud of you."

Legolas snorted loudly. "Oh yes, quite proud! I can just imagine. While we are supposing, think further how much more quickly we could have been extricated if your identity had been revealed."

"You know that never works. Kings attract even more side-missions than healers. Happily, your heritage was quite sufficient to save us from the delays of an enthusiastic young captain bent on discovering too much. I do not like this news he brought of Queen Mavranor, though…"

Tantur, who had been silent throughout the entire exchange, cast a nervous glance back over his shoulder. Aragorn wondered if he was still anxious about the Rohirrim's brief interrogation.

"What I do not understand is how Eomer would know," Legolas frowned.

"Eomer allows himself to think farther afield than Theoden and Thengel did. It is his way to learn such things — sometimes before my own spies have come to me. No, if Eomer believes that Mavranor is responsible, I would trust his judgment."

"What of Gondor?" Legolas asked quietly. It was a question that he knew would have long since occurred to Gondor's king.

"I worry for it," Aragorn said, strain coloring his voice, "but Faramir is there, our borders are strong, and Kopairin is neither destroyed nor taken. Food and supplies will continue to flow. There is also the possibility she is aiming solely for Rohan. Her husband was slain in this land. And her brother. Revenge is a powerful motivator." His forehead creased as he spoke. He remembered all too well the last time he had met the half-maddened queen. The hatred in her black eyes as she fingered the knife that had killed her brother. His knife. He wondered if, perhaps, the assassination attempt was more easily explained than he had thought. Could Mavranor have discovered who he was?

He shook his head. "Arwen first," he said. He urged his horse's pace to quicken.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Tantur lagged a little, trying to plan. He had not expected this strange new side of Elessar to be revealed. It was disconcerting.

Elessar the statesman he knew. Also Elessar the judge, and even Elessar the tactician. But Elessar the warrior he had never before encountered, and the king's easy manner out here, away from Minas Tirith, did nothing to hide the danger. There was an aura of awareness and lethal capability about this 'Strider' persona that was too focused and too deadly for his liking. Combined with the elf, who he recognized as a seasoned warrior hundreds of years beyond his own skills, he knew it would not be easy to wrest from them the medicine they intended to bring back.

He would just have to see if a lucky opportunity presented itself. When it did, surely the obvious close friendship between the two could be worked to his advantage. He hunched his shoulders, feeling the dull ache from the poison he hadn't managed to clear from his body. The herb stash in his bag was already running low. And the only real advantage he had was simply this: that they didn't yet see the viper in the wheat field.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

The horses made good time on the flat ground of Rohan; much better than they had through the wooded hills and mountains that had crowed their first stretch of travel from Kopairin. They avoided towns. As dusk began to fall, they were forced to slow their pace, and in spite of his private assurances that he would reach his destination in plenty of time, Aragorn began to look anxious. Dark clouds covered the moon, leaving the golden plains black and desolate looking. It looked as though rain would be likely on the morrow — even though the waving barley about their horses' feet was currently dry.

Though he had ridden in worse conditions, rain, darkness, and unfamiliar ground was not usually a wise choice of traveling conditions.

But he could not stop now.

Behind him Legolas was looking about warily. The nighttime noises made it difficult to tell, but he thought he had heard a strange rustling. His keen eyes swept the dark ocean of grain. Unfortunately, everything seemed to be rustling. A light wind rippled past them, the horses' hooves thudded against the ground at a steady walk, insects chirped amongst the barley, and, though he was again lagging far behind the elf, Legolas could hear Tantur's teeth chattering.

Then, like a silent comet at the far end of the field, a flame suddenly soared into the air and fell back to earth, igniting the grain. The horses gave soft whinnies of surprise, Aragorn's hand went immediately to his sword hilt, but as if the first fireball had been a signal, nearly thirty more flaming arrows lit the night from all sides of the field around them.

"Corsairs!" Aragorn snapped, putting the pieces together.

Legolas heard a whinny and looked quickly over his shoulder in time to see that Tantur had gotten the right idea. The Gondorian had been far enough back towards the edge of the field that he'd already ridden clear of the flames and was disappearing into the darkness beyond at a full gallop. From the edges of the field voices shouted in strange languages and another circle of arrows was lit and drawn back.

"Come," Legolas called to Aragorn as he turned his own horse. "They are after the crops — not us!"

Almost before the words were fully spoken, one of the fresh arrows came buzzing like a crazed demon and struck the elf in the leg. Legolas cried out in pain. Fuel spattered from the impact, spreading the fire across his clothing and sending droplets of flame into the horse's brown coat like molten metal.

With a shriek the horse reared and Legolas leaned forward to compensate, feeling agony like a branding iron against his leg. The fuel had caught and held and the horse's blanket was alight, scaring the already frightened beast completely out of its wits. With desperate instinct, the horse let its legs buckle and tumbled towards the ground to try and stifle the flames.

"Get off!" Aragorn shouted, his own horse bucking underneath him in terror.

The warning came almost too late. Trusting his friend without hesitation, Legolas arched his body in a movement that defied gravity, twisting clear before his leg could become pinned under the horse's side, but he hit the ground hard, driving the arrow even deeper into his leg.

A cry that was almost a scream tore from his chest. He knew he needed to roll, to smother the flames as his horse was doing, but each movement sent indescribably agony straight through him. He could feel the unnatural fire burning inside the wound itself, carried in by the arrow tip.

Aragorn was off his horse in an instant, barely noticing when the animal bolted. Yanking his overcoat off, he dropped beside his friend, firmly patting out the flames. He did not flinch when his ministrations made Legolas cry out afresh — the sooner he finished, the less damage would ultimately be done. The last sparks were dying when he realized that the arrow in the wound was smoking and smoldering.

"Legolas," he said quickly, "this will hurt."

The elf didn't speak — only nodded once and set his jaw, believing that whatever was about to happen would be necessary.

Taking hold of the shaft, Aragorn braced his other arm against his friend's leg and pulled sharply. Risking a quick look at it in the glow of the growing fire around them, he tried to see if he had been fast enough in his removal. If there were still charred pieces of the arrow in the wound, infection would be guaranteed, even in an elf.

The orange light showed the shaft clearly and he blinked the smoke out of his eyes as relief brushed his heart.

"Behind you!" Legolas cried suddenly, his slender hands trying to reach the knives pinned under him.

Spinning around on his heels, Aragorn was just in time to catch the crash of a club across the front of his head rather than the back.

Chapter 20

The Exhale Begins

May 4

Runda Garrison, Southern Gondor

Faramir looked down from the garrison into the deep green of the gorge below him. The sides sloped down rapidly, ending in a flat bottom wide enough for ten men to walk abreast. It was simultaneously a great deterrent for any foes and a great asset to them. With the upper ground held by the Gondorians an attack from below would be suicidal, but should Queen Mavranor choose anything more subtle than a direct attack it would be simple enough to use the thick cover of the trees to slip up on the garrison unawares. He had no intention of falling prey to such a simple stealth trick.

Not after all they had already lost.

"Lord Faramir?" Erynbenn asked, pulling him from his reverie. "My men are in place."

"Mine as well," Bartho added briefly.

Faramir nodded. "Good. Return to your positions and give the orders: we leave immediately."

The two Dúnedain bowed and obeyed. A few minutes later the fort was nearly emptied as the three contingents of soldiers made their careful way forward. Faramir took the center line, Bartho the left, and Erynbenn the right. Bartho's group was the first to disappear from view as their path led them down and out of sight into the gorge. A little later Erynbenn's followed suit, and then Faramir's path led him downward as well.

The feeling might have been claustrophobic if not for the day's beauty and Faramir's knowledge of traveling through wooded areas. Their march was not seriously impeded and every once in a while a scout would be sent forward and would return with reassuringly mundane warnings of an occasional rockslide that ought to be avoided, or of a river up ahead that they would need to cross.

At the river their ravine joined with the one that Erynbenn had followed and the two companies of men paused to exchange observations.

"Nothing unusual, then?" Faramir asked.

"An Ent could list our findings in less than three sentences," Erynbenn said lightly, rubbing his forehead. "It shouldn't be too difficult to station outposts in this area, so long as we don't build down here at the bottom."

Faramir looked upward along the ravine's edges high above him, his keen eyes picking out the firm stone and guessing at how much of this maze such an outpost would be able to watch. "True enough. But there is something that makes me uneasy."

Over Faramir's left shoulder Beregond stirred, his hand gripping his sword hilt. There was an odd glint in Faramir's eyes that he recognized all too well. It suggested trouble.

"What?" Erynbenn asked calmly. His long friendship with Bartho had rendered all talk of disaster commonplace.

"My research of history did not restrict itself solely to Gondor, but to all the lands I could find documented in my father's library. And Queen Mavranor has time and again proven herself cleverer than this… Ready the men; we must move on, but be cautious."

Erynbenn nodded, and then drew his sword as a scream split the air.

"What—?!" Beregond barked, stepping up close behind Faramir, his eyes searching wildly for the cause of the sound.

"It came from over the ridge," Faramir snapped, looking upwards. "Captain Bartho's men."

For a few moments they stood, their sharp ears now picking out clearly the sounds of weapons and the further yells of injured soldiers.

The sea-gray in Faramir's gaze transformed to molten steel. "Hold! Beregond, take half my company back twenty yards to the lowest drop in the gorge wall — send one man back to tell me how many men strong the attackers are, and if Bartho needs aid then see to it."

If Beregond hesitated, it was only for a second and only out of concern for his first duty of protecting Faramir. Then he had turned to collect his men.

Faramir turned back to Erynbenn, "Split your company, send half back up your divergence to make sure we are not surrounded, take the second half back the way I came and confirm the same. If you meet no resistance, take your whole company and return to aid Bartho. Have scouts ahead of you — if there is more than one company in here to engage us they must not have the first blow again."

Erynbenn's men were already moving, not as silent as rangers, but capably. Faramir took the remainder of his own company on down the gorge, always searching diligently ahead. Whatever else was lurking in these verdant tunnels, Faramir felt in his bones that the enemy had not only come to attack through one ravine. Not when there were several to choose from.

They had traveled on for only a short while before the sound of running footsteps came from behind and the messenger that Beregond had dutifully sent came panting up to Faramir.

"My lord," he said, still walking to match the pace of Faramir's company, "it is difficult to tell through the undergrowth, but it seems there are five or six hundred men at least! They were hidden up the sides of the gorge and came down on General Bartho in an ambush. He's been surrounded — half his men appear to have been scattered or killed."

"Has Beregond gone?"

"Yes, sir, but he fears there is little he can do—"

"He's right," Faramir nodded, experience lending speed to his decisions. "Go back and instruct Beregond to pull back up to the top of the gorge wall and hold it. Under such losses Bartho will begin a retreat and we must keep the enemy contained."

"Yes, my lord." The messenger turned to go back the way he had come.

With a sudden buzz of vibrating air and a triple thud of impact, the two scouts up ahead fell to the ground and an arrow caught the messenger in the back of his neck. He fell to the ground, dead instantly.

"Cover!" shouted someone farther up the line, and in front of them a veritable wall of Southrons rose from the undergrowth and began firing in earnest. Black-feathered arrows streaked the air, taking down half a dozen men with injuries in the first rush for shelter and then taking down a dozen more when no real shelter could be found.

Faramir's eyes swept the enemy line, running a swift count. More than five hundred, and his company had only half its usual compliment — the rest were with Beregond. For a moment he prepared his mind to hold the gully, and then the idea faded as he caught distant glimpses of campfire smoke and concealed shelters. They were too late.

"Fall back!" he cried. "Bring the wounded! Fall back!"

The men responded instantly, catching their comrades under the arms and hauling them back the way they had come. The best of the Gondorian archers remained unencumbered, covering the retreat with a hail of green feathered arrows. Faramir pulled his own bow free and felled several Southrons farther up the ravine wall. Moving in as orderly a line as they could manage in the brush, the Gondorians retreated.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Beregond did not usually operate in the capacity of an army captain, even though he formally held the title, but in circumstances where Faramir needed someone to trust in battle, he was frequently given temporary authority. Knowing his standing with their lord, the men followed obediently.

The chaos in the next gorge was total. Unaware of the danger, Bartho had traveled a good ways into the Southrons' trap and was now surrounded — his men all but scattered as the combatants became completely mixed together. It was difficult to tell where the Gondorians ended and their enemies began.

Sending the messenger back, as ordered, Beregond steeled himself and gave the command to descend. "Aim for the center of General Bartho's company. We must help them press their way back up the gorge." Moving as quickly as they could, the men followed him over the low place in the ravine wall and left it behind, rushing towards the center.

It was only once they reached the bottom and had plunged into the mêlée that Beregond realized just how serious the situation was. His men were still about him, he supposed, but he was mostly hemmed in by the Haradrim. His sword, moving independent of his mind for the first few minutes, blocked a number of cuts from a massive scimitar before stabbing the Southron holding it in the chest.

Behind him he was suddenly aware that Southrons were forging up the same way that he had come down, spilling over into the next gorge, trying to cut off Faramir's way back.

Over the noise came a shout, rumbling like a horn call. It was Bartho calling for the retreat.

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When the second half of his company did not rejoin him, Erynbenn guessed trouble was coming. When he turned back towards the direction Faramir had gone and discovered a river of Southrons pouring over the ravine wall, he realized trouble was already at his feet.

I wonder what Melima is doing right now…? Drawing his sword, Erynbenn yelled a battle cry. His men echoed it.

With the footing and speed only Dúnedain possessed, Erynbenn led the attack. Southrons here meant Southrons farther on down the gorge, and somehow he had to clear the way for Faramir's charge.

The first Southron he slammed into bodily, bracing his feet so that his larger enemy went tumbling over his bent back. His sword swung forward in a slash at waist height, catching two more Southrons in their sides and sending them to the ground. From the side one of his lieutenants let out a scream and fell silent, but Erynbenn blocked it out, silencing the world and whipping his knife from his belt in time to save his second lieutenant from a similar fate.

Wielding his blade with two hands he met each blow as it came, ducking out of the way of the ones too heavy to block. Dropping almost to the ground he swung out a leg to trip his current attacker and dispatched the Southron with a straight upward thrust. A premonition made him drop flat to his back as a scimitar sliced above him at neck height. Arching his back, he got back to his feet and swung in a flat arc at the Southron's chest. A clang sounded as his sword was blocked and a shudder ran up his arm.

And the more he fought, the more he realized it would not be Faramir's charge that would be coming through. It would be Faramir's retreat.

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Bartho hoped some of his men had heard his order to fall back. He couldn't actually see them, but that was the fault of the Southrons and their obsession with the distracting color red. It seemed even camouflage was not a good enough reason to change their wardrobe… Granted, they'd snuck up on him masterfully, regardless of their garish turbans.

Two men came towards him from the front, long-handled scimitars scything towards his head. Leaning to the side to avoid the left-most blow, Bartho brought up his sword in time to block the second blade. Pressing a moment's advantage, he took a quick step forward, parrying rapidly enough to throw sparks off the opposite two weapons. When both Southrons suddenly dropped their blades, he tried to take advantage of the coincidence and lunged into a swing intended to kill both of them — but their maneuver hadn't been a mistake. Just inside his peripheral vision he saw the two scimitars lock and come slicing towards his legs. With his momentum going forward he couldn't sidestep, and with the two Southrons moving outward in tandem he couldn't now hit either of them.

An instant before the blades cut him off at the knees, Bartho ducked his head and drew up his legs, sailing over the scimitars and tumbling, hedgehog-like, to the ground beyond them. Rolling back up to one knee, he swung his heavy sword in a back cut that caught one of the Southrons on the arm. When he staggered into his companion, Bartho used the moment of lost balance to slam his hilt down on each of their heads, felling them instantly.

That little portion of his brain that was freed for frivolous and optimistic thought mused wryly, I wonder what Erynbenn will say when I tell him his trick was well-used… He'll laugh, I don't doubt. Ah, well, likely I won't live to tell him anyway.

It was a familiar conclusion. What was unfamiliar was the rush of relief — that he wasn't actually dead yet — and the hope his life would not end here. So far from Minas Tirith.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Faramir wiped impatiently at his face, wishing for a moment to bandage the gash across his scalp. He was too concentrated on other things to notice the pain, but the constant stream of blood was getting in his eyes.

As he passed the fork in the ravine that the other half of Erynbenn's men had traveled down he could only see Southrons and he hoped at least some of the men had made it back to the garrison.

Everywhere he turned it seemed Mavranor's troops were creeping from hidden cracks and forging down upon them. He killed three more with his bow, trying to keep the retreat from turning into a rout, and at the same time fearing it had already become one. In the back of his mind he worried if this ravine might not already be held against them farther on — with the messenger dead, doubtless Beregond had already left the gap open to the enemy and gone to help Bartho.

Reaching back for a fourth arrow, Faramir discovered his quiver was empty. Taking out his knife instead he caught an advancing Southron between the eyes. His sword moved too quickly to truly be seen, the lightness of his steel weaving delicate attacks around the heavier scimitars. Locked into a world in which he and his men were the only important things, he moved with years of instinct. His blocks and attacks had a rhythm matched by his footwork, his dodges, and his steady retreat backwards. Upper cut, lower cut, sidestep to the right, slash across the back, dead. Slip under the blade, stab to the shoulder, block at the waist, stab to the heart, dead. Later he would regret, afresh, the necessity of this. Later he would wipe his blade clean and would curse Mavranor for her greed. Later.

Feeling a touch on his back, Faramir whirled, his blade already aimed for the heart of whoever was behind him. Only just in time he stopped himself, recognizing underneath the smears of blood and dirt the face of Erynbenn.

"I sent a scout over the ridge — Bartho's fallen back almost to the garrison," Erynbenn said briefly, not waiting for the question.

"What of our way back?"

"Clear. For now. I don't know what's become of Beregond and his group, or the rest of my men."

Faramir nodded, refusing to feel premature grief and hoping it was premature. "We must fall back. Everyone. There's nothing we can do here except die."

And in his mind Faramir knew that the long wait was over. This was the beginning of a war — one he was not sure they could win.

After waiting with dread and baited breath, the long exhale had begun.

Chapter 21

Capture

May 3

Runda Garrison, Southern Gondor

The climb up out of the gorges was difficult, but with Runda Garrison on the high ground Faramir, Erynbenn, and Bartho were able to pull their surviving troops back to safety. When it became clear to the Southrons that they could not storm the summit, they vanished back into the shelter of the ravines.

Bartho was busily securing a tourniquet around Beregond's elbow when Faramir found them. Clapping his captain of the guard on the uninjured shoulder to signify his pleasure at seeing him alive, Faramir continued on at a brisk walk. Orders were speedily given to place the garrison on alert, to send messengers north and south to warn them of Mavranor's victory, and to get aid to the wounded. The other half of Erynbenn's men surfaced, most of them barely walking, but all alive at least. Any bowman still capable of standing were given sentry duty at the perimeters of Runda's promontory to discourage a rush from below.

It wasn't until Faramir had seen to getting the horses moved to a more secure location and had arranged for a foraging party to find extra rations for the injured that he began to feel dizzy. Putting a hand to his forehead, he dimly though it was odd when his glove came away red.

"Come, Faramir," Erynbenn said firmly, and smiled a little when the Steward looked surprised to see him there. "I've been following you since the stables, waiting for you to fall over. You've got to get that stitched up before you lose more blood than you can afford."

"Yes, of course," Faramir sighed, realizing where the lightheadedness was coming from. Obediently he followed Erynbenn back to the Dúnadan's tent and sat while the blood was cleaned from his hair.

To distract him while doing his stitching, Erynbenn asked soberly, "How much use can Mavranor make of the ravines, do you think?"

"Too much," Faramir said with a pained grimace. "She has a safe passage straight to our doors now. These rifts stretch for miles both north and south. And we can't flush her out of there with the amount of men we have; not with all the supplies she's somehow keeping from us, at any rate. I have learned a lesson in thinking further afield — we must beat her tactics, since we cannot beat her men."

"Would scouting out the ravines earlier have prevented this?"

"No. I saw a good ways beyond their attack point. They had done exactly what I'd hoped to do — it appeared their camps and defenses had been in place for several months at least. She has planned this for some time, I deem."

"We can be grateful that at least we now know about it. She cannot surprise us at our doors, even if she can reach them."

"True."

"We can also be grateful," said a deep voice just outside the tent door, "that Erynbenn almost tripped over a tent peg four days ago." Bartho entered, a grim sort of half smile on his face. "Otherwise I might have come back a considerably shorter hedgehog."

When Erynbenn burst into warm laughter, Faramir had to admit to a certain confusion, but that could just have been the blood loss.

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May 5

Northern Rohan

When Aragorn slowly awoke, a new day was just dawning — yet he knew by the ache in his limbs and his own inner sense of time that he had slept too long. The thought of sleeping away precious time that was, to Arwen, a lifeline woke him still further. He needed to rouse Legolas and Tantur, and at the same time he wondered why Legolas had not already wakened him. Had something happened during the night?

In the midst of his puzzling over the previous night's events, he lifted his head from the ground. And all thought was wipe from his mind in a shock of blinding pain from the back of his skull. He moaned softly.

In response he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

"Strider? Come, melon-nin, wake up."

Using every ounce of effort Aragorn tried to sit himself up, but it proved a far more difficult task than it ought to have been. He could not feel his hands except so far as to realize he was bound tightly at the wrists behind his back. His legs were similarly tied, and with every movement pain was redefined for him, taking his breath away. He nearly retched, but his stomach was already empty.

In the end, with a few soft, encouraging sentences from the voice, all he managed was to roll onto his back, thus easing his shoulders and head onto a flat stone beside which he'd been lying. It was a reclining position that allowed him to roughly face the direction of the voice without giving the rampaging mûmakil any more chances to thrust their tusks into his skull.

Once he had lain motionless in a single position for several minutes, the nausea subsided and he slowly opened his eyes. Legolas was sitting across from him and in the few seconds before Aragorn's eyes adjusted, the pale dawn light reflecting off his gold hair and white face nearly blinded the ranger. When the elf's features came into view Aragorn could recognize a familiar pattern of scrapes and bruises across his cheekbones. The small braids over his ears were tangled — oddly so after just one night — but while his legs, unlike Aragorn's, were unbound, the elf looked even less likely to make a break for freedom. A long wound surrounded by shiny burned patches showed through the elf's leggings, and his wrists were not just bound behind him. There was a stake driven through the ropes into the dirt to keep him in that position.

Noting the look of intense anxiety on the wood elf's features, Aragorn swallowed to moisten his throat and muttered, "I was hoping we could avoid this particular stop on memory lane."

The elf laughed harshly, almost choking on the sound, and his head dropped to his chest for a moment as he exhaled raggedly. It was as if he'd held one breath during all the time Aragorn had been unconscious.

"Thank the Valar, Estel," he said softly in elvish. "I feared that Miksa might have at last struck you too hard."

"At last?" Aragorn asked, puzzled.

Legolas frowned at him. "Don't you remember?"

With his head better cleared, Aragorn groped backward, trying to fill the gap in memory between the fire in the field and this unfamiliar ravine he only now realized was their resting place. To Legolas' relief, not to mention Aragorn's, it came almost at once.

"How is Hwan's knee?"

"You shattered it. He'll be lucky if he walks again; keep in mind, Miksa has all the tender care of a ill-tempered warg — not the healing sort. More the sort to have pulled wings off of butterflies in his youth." Safe in the knowledge that none of their captors could understand his language, Legolas didn't bother to hide his scorn.

"I'd give Hwan my apologies if, well…"

"If you were sorry?" Legolas finished, cracking a small smile. "Your honesty is refreshing. It was sheer bad luck, that was all. In a logical world you would have had your knots undone in plenty of time to bludgeon him with his cooking pot. Considering all you had free was your feet, you made quite an impression."

"Thank you," Aragorn said, a little dully. Along with several vivid memories of Miksa clubbing him into unconsciousness it was also dawning on him how many days had truly elapsed since their capture. His count could be off, but he felt sure there had been at least three full days lost to this nightmarish detour.

"Has it really been three days, Legolas?"

"Five."

"Five?"

"Yes. After our third escape attempt, Miksa threw his mallet at the back of your head. You've been unconscious for most of the past two days — I was…" The elf trailed off before nerving himself to finish the sentence. "I was frightened."

Aragorn felt a pain in his heart, overriding for the moment the cloying fear of his own at the continued delays. "I am so sorry, my friend. Please, you needn't have worried on my account…"

The elf snorted, "On whose account, then, should I be worried? Gimli's? Think not that I have so many friends I can afford to lose one; even a filthy, no-account ranger like yourself."

"You always were unsocial. I say again, though, do not worry. I'm fine — or will be. Our concern must be Arwen. Every hour we spend is another hour her chances dwindle." His eyes closed briefly. "Where are we, do you know?"

Legolas looked about doubtfully — at the ravine walls rising on either side of them, at the pale-haired corsairs lounging about their breakfast fire a short way away. "I fear I do not know; I am not familiar with this country, and you were unconscious for most of the route, so I could not ask you."

"Why are we here, then? I should think a swift death and discarding of our bodies would better suit these barbarians. Why drag us so far?"

"Especially with you making yourself such a walking nuisance the whole way, which was more that I could manage." Legolas leaned forward, lowering his voice a little more. "Their leader, a man they call 'the Shadow' and seem to greatly fear, made arrangements to meet them here in two days time. Miksa's group is the third to arrive, and I think he may have captured us as a sign of his cunning to impress either the leader or the other corsairs." The elf's eyes dropped as he added, "Also he seems to feel the captain would take a great interest in… me. Something to do with speaking the same language."

"Could this leader have once been a Dúnadan?" Aragorn wondered aloud, not liking the idea of his friend becoming such a center of unwanted attention. "Usually it is only the Dúnedain who trouble themselves with the elven tongue."

"Perhaps." But now Legolas' voice dropped to a whisper, "But Aragorn, I have heard enough tales of this one to make my blood run cold. We must not be here when he comes."

Aragorn did not question the elf's judgment. He nodded — winced when the nod proved painful — and then exhaled a silent groan when wincing sent needles across his scratched face. "Can you walk?"

In answer the elf moved his legs, folding them up against his chest. "Well enough. Earuile slung me over the pack horse when I started slowing down, and Miksa put another handful of his powder on the wound. I suspect the stuff of being concocted solely to keep his men from feigning illness, but at least it stopped the bleeding."

It was a calm reply, but Aragorn ached for his friend afresh. Miksa's powder had been applied to a gash he'd received on the forearm and it had continued to burn and sting for more than an hour afterward. He couldn't actually imagine what a large dose in a wound that size would feel like.

"Any thoughts?" Legolas asked, maybe guessing why the human looked so somber.

Aragorn tried to muster up a smile. "Some things to avoid: no more depending on Hwan's stupidity, no attempts at cliff scaling with tied hands, and give the horses a wide berth."

"But we cannot leave the poor beasts behind," the elf protested sardonically, "I think Miksa's stallion likes you."

"Elrohir likes panflas with honey in much the same way. My brother would have eaten Celboril out of house and kitchens, if not for the competition."

"From Elladan?"

"From my father."

The attempt succeeded in drawing a smile from the elf. "What would I do without you, mellon-nin?"

"Live a long, quiet and uneventful life, untroubled by filthy rangers and desperate quests alike," Aragorn replied firmly.

"Horrors."

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By the time the pounding in Aragorn's head had subsided enough for him to sit the rest of the way up, it was late afternoon and the two friends had come no further in deciding upon a likely escape.

It was growing cool at the bottom of the ravine for the sun had moved beyond the narrow opening above them and shadows had long since begun to cover them. Though the sun was unlikely to set for several more hours, already it began to feel like evening.

Legolas sat up a little straighter, his keen eyes narrowing and his nose wrinkling just slightly.

"Smell something?" Aragorn asked softly. "And don't you dare say, 'You, Strider'."

A fleeting smile touched the elf's mouth, but his eyes held firm. "Trouble, my friend."

Through the undergrowth there now came filtered noise of approaching feet, treading heavily. There was no respect for either caution or the plants underfoot in that sound. Another group of the corsairs, likely, and with an even more brash captain than Miksa, if that were possible.

The first sight of the man at the front of the group confirmed that guess. He was certainly a corsair, though with that strangely pale brown hair all these disguised corsairs seemed to have. More telling were the way his beard was woven into a mesh of small braids, and the strange roll to his walk that suggested a life on a ship. His clothing was handsomely Rohirric in design, clashing with the sneer on his lips.

"Miksa," he called, a veneer of friendship over his scornful greeting.

Miksa rose from beside the campfire. It was easy to see this new group of men was larger and more formidable than his own group, but what Miksa lacked in muscle he more than made up for in cruelty and sharp words. "Ringa. So at last you arrive. You have, perhaps, some pitiful excuse for all your noise? Perhaps you think the Shadow will favor you if you reveal the hiding place he chose for us. Perhaps the great Ringa has many prizes to show the Shadow to prove his greatness. Or perhaps it is your fat belly weighting you to the ground that makes your ordinary gait sound like the steps of a mûmak."

"Tactful," Aragorn grunted sarcastically, his body tense. As Miksa's prisoners, he and Legolas couldn't afford for the corsair to get himself lynched by Ringa.

Fortunately, Ringa laughed, though he looked furious. "And what of you, Miksa? Do you bring great prizes for the Shadow? As if he could be swayed by your paltry offerings."

Now Miksa's face began to turn red, his usual reaction to a challenge — as Aragorn had cause to know. "Blind fool! Don't you see them here?" The corsair stalked over towards his 'prizes'. "Prisoners for him to question. And this one!" He caught Legolas' hair and wrenched the elf's head to the side, showing off Legolas' leaf-shaped ears.

Aragorn stiffened, but was not given an opportunity to do much. Ringa had descended upon him, dragging him forward by his leather vest to take a closer look at his face. The corsair looked blackly from one to the other, snorting derisively. "A fine catch, Miksa," he said sarcastically. "This one can barely keep his eyes uncrossed. Worthless!" All the same he continued to look Aragorn over, shoving him from side to side as if performing an inspection. The ranger's world was flashing with painful light at each movement.

"But this one," Miksa persisted, releasing the elf and jabbing a finger towards him for emphasis.

"Oh, aye, that one you might keep." Ringa's large hands paused at Aragorn's neck, puzzled by the narrow glint of a silver chain. "You'd have been better off feeding this one to the wargs."

Aragorn didn't realize what was happening until it was too late, and Legolas only realized the danger half a moment before. With a snap like an icicle breaking, the chain around Aragorn's neck unclasped and the greedy corsair pulled Arwen's Evenstar into the open.

The sight of it was enough to make everyone speechless. The white gems glittered and shone like pale fire, the silver caught the fading light… one could almost imagine a crystalline note of music vibrating the air as the pendant swung back and forth gently.

"NO!" Aragorn shouted, lunging forward. "No! Arwen, NO!" They could not take her away from him that way! He wouldn't let them!

Ringa's hand slashed back reflexively, catching the bound human across the throat and knocking him back into the stone wall behind him. Pain erupted throughout Aragorn's skull, driving the breath from him with a choked gasp. Darkness was trying to take him and he fought it desperately, indistinctly realizing that Miksa's voice had taken up his protest.

"Hand it over, Ringa! You've no claim to it!" Miksa's men moved to back him up, every one of them entranced by the necklace.

Ringa barked a laugh. "Surely you couldn't have been such a fool, Miksa! You did not even search them? And I thought your stupidity knew some bounds. No matter, I will say nothing of your carelessness to the Shadow when I present him with my prize here."

"NO!" Miksa shrieked. In a wild move, he lunged for his large rival, trying to grab the treasure back, but the other corsair's knife was faster than his leap. His fingers were still whole inches away from his goal when he was stabbed in the belly, his rush halted. Miksa fell over, howling in pain, and the tension of long days of hiding and of the disputed necklace drove his men into action. With yells and curses in their own language, the corsairs charged each other.

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It looked for a moment as though Aragorn and Legolas might get trampled beneath the mob's feet, but then Miksa's men drew a little way back to get burning branches from the fire. With the some of the dry brush igniting and the sounds of screams mixing in the air with the smoke, it was easily clear to Legolas that now was the best hope he and Aragorn had to make their escape.

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Legolas ignored the stinging pain as his burns were stretched by his movement and he braced his legs against the ground. Though they had appeared to do little more than sit, both he and Aragorn had been doggedly working to free themselves once again. Using his fingers Legolas had been scraping at the dirt around the stake to which his hands were bound. Now, hoping he had done the job well enough, the elf pushed against the ground with his feet, straining forward as the muscles in his arms stretched painfully taut. For a moment he felt sure his shoulders would dislocate themselves, and then there came a crumbling, sliding sound and the stake pulled free of the ground.

Legolas fell over from the released tension, but he rolled nimbly enough back into a crouch. "Strider," he whispered.

Aragorn was still sitting exactly where Ringa's blow had left him, except that he was leaning forward now and his eyes were more dazed than the knock would have warranted.

The elf cursed silently, recognizing what had happened. Of all the things for their captors to take, and at such a time… In another moment Aragorn would see — his ever-dependable mind would adjust and realize it was only a necklace — but the same could happen to the corsairs by then, at which point this chance would be lost.

Sliding himself around so that his bound fingers could find his friend's, Legolas sought the ropes and discovered that Aragorn had already scraped them half way through against a ridge of flint rock in the ravine wall behind them. The knots themselves were complicated, but with the rope so badly scored it did not take long for Legolas to undo them.

"Aragorn," he hissed, risking the human's real name, "your hands are free! I need you to untie mine."

For one eternal minute, Aragorn's hands lay limp and unresponsive against his own. He could feel the human's quickened breath and through a long understanding of his friend's heart he could almost sense the consuming tide of despair trying to dash down Aragorn's walls. The Corsairs had taken his beloved away from him… what would they do to her? The elf waited, praying that the wall would yet hold — that their opportunity would not fade now — that somehow the hope for which Aragorn had been named would survive yet again.

Then Aragorn moved. Without speaking, his freed hands drew apart from each other and Legolas could feel him turning around so that he could see what he was doing. Quick fingers, calloused from horse reigns and swordplay, undid the elf's ropes and then he in turn moved to face Aragorn. It was with incredible relief that he saw he had almost misjudged his friend.

Aragorn met his eyes squarely, "Arwen's in Minas Tirith. And she's alive."

Legolas nodded once.

The flames in the bushes were glowing ever taller, bringing back eerie memories of the capture and spurring the two companions on to swifter action. Aragorn's legs were easily freed, with four hands working at them.

With all the shouts and curses and clashes of knives against knives and burning clubs against skulls, an oliphaunt could have walked down the ravine and gone unnoticed. However, had the night been as still as a garden pond in the Shire, the disappearing tread of the two prisoners would yet have been as soundless as ghosts.

As the reached the top of the trail out of the ravine, Legolas buckled the quiver he had rescued to his back again, but kept one of his knives in hand. Aragorn's sword and knife might have been harder to retrieve, since Miksa had claimed them for his own, but Miksa was now too dead to care if they went back to their owner.

The king paused only once to look back, and one could imagine a flash of pure white light shone for a moment out of the redness and smoke below. Legolas rested his hand briefly on Aragorn's shoulder.

Together they turned their backs on the ravine and set off into the ever-thickening darkness.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Shortly after the glow of the flames had been left completely behind, there had come sounds of pursuit, but the Corsairs were not well equipped to go tracking an elf and a ranger in the dark. Especially not when the elf's own light was more than enough to guide the two friends amidst the rocks and trees, and furthermore not when the ranger could tell by the mere sound of the earth how far away they were and how many were in their company.

When Aragorn found them shelter in a depression in the earth under a fallen oak, the two friends gratefully fell into it and lay silent for a long time. Naturally, Legolas would not admit that his leg was paining him greatly, and Aragorn would say nothing of the dizziness that still plagued his vision. On the other hand, they both knew perfectly well when the other was feigning wellness, so such admissions were unnecessary anyway.

"Aragorn?" Legolas whispered gently.

"I will be well, gwador-nin."

"Good."

Authors' Note: Sarah here! Not only late (which is becoming typical of me), but really late! I'm sorry for that, and sorry too that I wasn't able to respond individually to all your fantastic feedback for the previous chapter! My excuse, unfortunately, involves a smashed up car (mine) and a strained neck (also mine) which have both been doing their best to distract me. Once the Advil kicks in and the insurance agent calls back, I should be able to go right back to our regular schedule (such as it is) and chat more with you all. Hannah and I thank you for your patience; you're a marvelous bunch of readers!  Enjoy!

Chapter 22

Strained Reception of The Unforgiven

May 7

Northern Rohan

Aragorn and Legolas had traveled on foot for two days when the elf turned to his friend with a queer smile on his face.

"Strider? Should we let him catch up?"

The king allowed himself an answering smile. Without replying in so many words, he sat down against the bole of a large tree and rested his wrists on his knees. "I needed a break anyway, and likely you need it every bit as much."

Legolas ignored the comment, but could not quite hide his relief as he too sat down. "Where do you suppose he's been all this time?"

"Tantur's a lot like his uncle. Dogged and loyal. I'd imagine he's been tracking us ever since our capture, possibly even thinking to rescue us, and then saw us escape. It is a good thing he did not get a chance to try anything foolish."

"True, but it sounds like he lost the horse as well."

Aragorn flicked a piece of twig at his friend, chuckling as it caught in Legolas' hair and the elf glared at him. "Are you going to tell me you don't miss running across Rohan on foot? But then, I suppose you are getting on in years…"

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

When Tantur finally crested the rise, out of breath and exhausted from sleepless nights, residual poison, and long tracking, he saw below him a strange sight…

Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor, and Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood and Lord of Ithilien, were sitting beneath the trees — and pelting each other with twigs.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

May 9

Southern Rohan

The air was unnaturally cold. The wind cut down through the ravine in an ominous fashion, carrying dust and ashes across the mounds of earth that covered the dead Corsairs of a few nights ago — all of them slain by the blades of their comrades. However, these dead were the lucky ones…only no one knew it yet.

The figure was carried in upon a shadow and the sentry posted by the camp entrance was not expecting the elf's sudden appearance at his side.

"I'm come to see your leader." The voice rasped like steal against coarse leather.

"Ringa is over by the fire sh-sharpening his blades." The man cursed his lips for stuttering, but he could not help it with the cool presence that stood like a vapor beside him.

"Miksa?" Vardnauth questioned, drawing a step closer to the man.

"Killed in a brawl, just a few nights ago…w-when the prisoners escaped." The man felt his heart clench in horror, had he spoken that aloud? To the Shadow?

"Prisoners?" Vardnauth's tone was suddenly low, Miksa's fate utterly forgotten.

"Yes sir…" The guard did not wish to continue, but did not have a choice. "Miksa caught them, but then they escaped the camp during the brawl…" The sentry trailed off, afraid to say more.

"I see." Vardnauth nodded. "Thank you for your kind assistance. I shall speak to… Ringa about this."

The air before the sentry fogged with his relieved sigh as the elf finally passed him and entered the camp; he could not believe he had escaped the encounter alive, and he felt certain that Ringa would not be so fortunate.

Ringa was carefully sharpening his favorite sword. It had a bite and a gleam he hoped would one day become legendary. There was only one person Ringa himself had ever feared, and all others who knew any of the stories of this fierce Corsair knew well to fear him.

A shadow fell across the human, blocking his light, and he was about to run whoever it was through — but when he looked up into the cold eyes of his visitor, such thoughts left his mind immediately before the elf could see them there.

Ringa stood, dropping his sword to his side and trying to recover from his inattention. There was only one person Ringa had ever feared and he recalled all over again the reasons the Shadow had given him to fear.

"Ringa, what is this that I hear about Miksa's prisoners escaping your…care?"

Ringa did not trust the way the elf's gravelly voice rose and fell in almost polite tones, it unnerved him.

"Miksa took two prisoners he found somewhere in Southern Rohan, I believe. He brought them here for you, but they escaped four nights ago."

Vardnauth carefully inspected his left hand, twisting it at the wrist until he was staring at his palm, before flicking his deadly gaze up to Ringa. "I understand from your sentry that it was during the distraction of a brawl that the two prisoners escaped."

Ringa swallowed hard. It was time for some careful lying if he was ever to live through this night. "One of the prisoners had a pendent with him, an expensive one by the look of it. Miksa tried to keep it for himself and when I said it must be brought to you, he lunged to take it and I was forced to kill him. That was when the brawl broke out between my men and his."

Vardnauth's eyes, far from releasing Ringa from their lethal hold, narrowed to hard slits at the man's words. "Where is this pendant?"

The man's hand moved quickly to his pocket, pulling out the pendent on its woven chain, and handing it over to the elf. Vardnauth looked down at the sparkling white gem as it glowed beneath the moonlight, recognizing it instantly.

"Ringa…" Vardnauth's voice was suddenly harsh and calculating, all pretence of casual interest gone. "Were these two prisoners a man in Dúnadan garb and an elf with golden hair… by any chance?" The last phrase was spoken slow and deliberate, telling Ringa that the elf already knew the answer.

"They were, my lord." Ringa felt his voice jerking as his mind scrambled wildly for a suitable lie. "But that's just it, the elf had powers that we couldn't fight."

"Powers?" Vardnauth's voice was hard and scornful and an ugly sneer marred his face as he stepped closer to Ringa. "You do not know the real meaning of power, Ringa. Not yet, that is."

Ringa must have seen his end coming. Before the elf could move, the Corsair jumped back, raising his sword and striking out at Vardnauth. The elf sidestepped the clumsy blow and continued to move forward. Ringa retreated, sword shaking, and swung the weapon again, but Vardnauth's knife was faster, slicing across the wrist of his sword hand so that he dropped his blade with a scream. He stumbled, his ankle struck a log and he fell backwards, and he continued to squirm away, struggling on his elbows through the grass in the fruitless attempt to escape.

"You have greatly displeased me, Ringa. Had you been a more trusting fool I might have let you live, but since you so wish to see powers, I am given full leave to sate my thirst for vengeance on your pitiful head!"

Ringa was not prepared when the elf suddenly leapt forward, cold fingers wrapping themselves around the human's head. There was a sharp burst of pain and Ringa screamed. Vardnauth could have drawn it out, could have made it long and slow, but he had no time for play and he wanted it to be painful.

"Pain, suffering, hurt, illusive sleepless nights, nights filled with dreams, dreams of torment and lost hope because you know where you are going, Ringa! You know where you are bound this very night." Ringa tried desperately to pull away as he was assaulted by horrific images — memories of a hideous life that crushed his dark spirit like an avalanche. "Death Ringa, look at all the DEATH!" With one final scream, Ringa slid to the ground — writhing like one deprived of sanity, and at last he choked out his final breath.

Vardnauth placed the glittering pendant into his pocket and turned to face the camp. Several Corsairs watched him in horror, a few had fled into the night away from the hideous sounds Ringa had made in his last moments.

Despite his billowing rage at how his Corsairs had failed him, Vardnauth smiled. Let them run; none of them would escape his wrath, and not all would live to see the morning.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

May 11

Rivendell

Light and leaves cascaded down through the trees of Imladris. Bereft of Lord Elrond and Vilya alike for several years now, it still clung tenaciously to the beauty it had once possessed. At the same time, anyone who had visited it before could easily see it was slowly falling prey to the wild world around it, and it was only a matter of time before it was swallowed into its surroundings, simply a beautiful illusion covered by ivy and thorn.

For now, however, the weary traveler who rode through the trees felt that the fading beauty was the fairest sight he had seen in days and he was comforted by the echoes of elven voices that whispered from the trees around him. He was not an elf by any means, but elves had lived in these woods so long they had left an imprint that he felt sure would never leave it no matter how long it aged.

Eression reined in his horse until it had nearly come to a complete stop. He was being watched closely; he had expected it.

"Peace, guardians, I mean no harm to the realm of elder days and seek only the council of the wise." The words were delivered with assurance and grace, but the soft laugh that followed them did well to break the mystery.

"We've no wise ones here, my good traveler, but if you wish to speak to the lords of rocks and dust and ill-appearance there are plenty to be found in these woods."

Eression smiled in spite of himself. "I seem to recall, good lord, that when the words for unhindered passage were instituted, the law was for those hiding among the trees to hear the words and silently allow a traveler safe conduct."

"Ah, yes," the voice returned unconcernedly. "It was as you say in the days when elves lived and tended this realm, but we've run nearly all of them off now and it is our, particularly my, desire to speak with those who pass through, for otherwise there is naught but the birds with whom to converse and they speak in the most difficult dialect."

"Malvegil, it is good to see that our king commissions such great tasks for his loyal subjects," Eression replied, at last admitting his amusement with a slight smile.

"Nonsense." Malvegil, for it was indeed the ranger, dropped down from a tree beside Eression, landing neatly on the ground. "He had simply been looking for a way to be rid of me for years."

Eression laughed then slid from his horse, ending the humorous exchange as he embraced his fellow Dúnadan.

"It is good to see you, my friend." Eression smiled at the other and was pleased to see that the man had not changed. He still wore his hair in the style favored by the elves, and his face bore an expression that gave nothing to passing acquaintances, but spoke volumes to a dear friend.

"As it is to see you; I feared the king would never send you our way. And there is more work to be done here than you may think! Here I had hoped that one day I would slay my last orc, and then we reached the Moorwaith pass only to find…" Malvegil trailed off as he caught Eression's suddenly serious expression. "What is the reason for this unexpected visit, Eression?"

The man smiled slightly, but there was no longer humor in it. "I'm afraid my business is of a grave nature, Malvegil, I—I must speak with Lord Elrond's sons at once."

"Of course," Malvegil nodded before taking the reins of Eression's horse and leading them both further into the forest. "Have you come all the way from Minas Tirith?"

"As fast as my beast's legs would carry me; I fear I may have run him dry. But even as I have come in a timely manner I'm afraid my news may reach them too late."

"Can you not speak to me of these tidings?" Malvegil looked concerned now and Eression recognized his expression: the man was trying to read the answer in his face.

"It concerns their sister, Queen Arwen." Eression sighed, the burden of what he would have to tell the twins weighing heavily upon him all at once. "She is ill and dying and the king requested her brothers' presence at once."

"By the Valar…" Malvegil breathed. "Can nothing be done?"

"I do not know, I was not told many details — only to make all haste to Rivendell and bring its lords back with me."

Malvegil nodded quickly and his pace quickened.

For a while they walked in silence, taking a path that led smoothly into the heart of Imladris. Eression followed a step behind his friend; he had not been to this place in a long time his feet did not remember the way.

The same thoughts seemed to be on Malvegil's mind as, after a moment, he spoke into the silence, "Eression, why have you not been to see me? Surely you have not been that busy upon the king's business."

"I am sorry, Malvegil." Eression feared where this conversation could go. "I only wished to…to stay away for a while…it has nothing to do with you."

"And everything to do with Elladan and Elrohir." Malvegil's blunt statement, accompanied by the sounds of those names spoken aloud, made Eression flinch in spite of himself.

Well, there was no use denying it now.

"Malvegil, you of above all know that the lives we live, though for a common goal, are best kept apart."

"You cannot think that they still resent you so deeply," Malvegil protested gently.

"Out of guilt I have kept my distance, out of respect I have obeyed their unspoken wishes." Eression's words were barely a whisper now and he let out a sigh before continuing. "I wronged them deeply, Malvegil — perhaps you can never understand how deeply. It is better that when they see me, I am no more than a… a ghost of the past, a part of a painful memory."

Malvegil watched his friend closely before responding. "Please do not do me the grief of saying that you avoid them because your pride does not want forgiveness."

Eression came to a full stop at this and shook his head shortly. "No, Malvegil, my pride could never be so again. I wish for their forgiveness above all things… but I would not deliver them distress by begging it and opening this wound once more. My chance to redeem myself in their eyes is long past…and I do not deserve it anyway."

Eression started walking again, quickly, and Malvegil took a moment to catch up to him.

"If only you would speak—"

"They do not wish me here, Malvegil. I am present at the king's bidding and I will accompany them to Minas Tirith once more to receive further orders."

Malvegil knew that tone well. Eression would speak no more on the subject; not another word.

It did not take them long to reach the doors of Rivendell itself and though Eression was glad that he would at last be able to deliver his message, he felt a sense of dread fill him that he could not fully suppress. This feeling only grew at the sight of the two elves walking down the steps, though their appearance did not seem one that would inspire distress. They were speaking to each other in laughing tones, obviously at some joke that had just passed between them.

Eression felt his stomach twinge unpleasantly, but fortunately regained himself enough to approach them calmly.

"My lords?" His words halted the conversation and the twins finally focused their attention on the two men.

"Eression!" Elrohir's voice was startled, but did not portray any undue emotion. "What are you doing in Imladris?" There was the uncertainty Eression had expected. Elladan did not speak at all, he simply stared.

Eression bowed to the two brothers and then made himself relate the news he was loathed to tell. "My lords, I fear I bring ill tidings from the king. Your sister, Queen Arwen, has been bitten by a poisonous viper that we believe was placed in the royal chambers for the purpose of killing her. There appears to be no antidote and she has fallen deathly ill. The king requests you come to her at once."

A long silence followed Eression's message, but both of the elves had gone very pale.

Again Elrohir spoke first. "Are the children well?"

"Yes, my lord," Eression replied quickly, happy to relate at least some good news. "The king thinks that the snake was meant to kill them all, but he slew it before it could do any more harm."

"Any more harm?" Elladan's voice was hard and his icy gaze barely concealed the deep grief he felt. "Wasn't my sister enough?"

Eression bowed his head slightly, uncertain how to handle the hurt he knew the two elves must be feeling.

"If Estel says we should come, then it must be indeed serious," Elrohir spoke up, his voice soft and almost impossible to make out. "We will leave at once."

Elladan nodded quickly and immediately set off at a run for the stables nearby. Elrohir followed behind, leaving the two rangers in the clearing.

Eression realized he was breathing hard as though he had just run the whole way from Minas Tirith. He was weary, but it was more than that.

"Are you alright?" Malvegil's voice was strained with concern and Eression wished that there was some easy way to put the man at ease.

"I am well, only…only weary."

"You shouldn't lie, Eression," Malvegil chided gently. "It's not one of your talents."

"Nay, it is not my inability to lie." Eression touched his forehead, suddenly feeling very tired indeed. "It is simply your ability to understand me too well; I am not an open book, but it doesn't seem to matter when you can read me right through the cover."

Malvegil did not respond. It was true, he had always been able to read the younger man's emotions: in every slight gesture or expression. And the turmoil that the encounter with the twins had stirred up in him was clear to see. Perhaps, Malvegil pondered, it had indeed been better for all of them that Eression had always stayed away.

Elladan and Elrohir reappeared at that moment, leading their horses out of the stables as they came.

Elladan glanced at Eression, his gaze still hard but more preoccupied with the news he had just received. "Come, Captain. You bring us ill news and make us wait on your time."

Eression's eyes closed briefly. Elladan had always called him 'captain', and the title never ceased to recall old, painful memories. Still, he moved towards the stables himself at the elf's words, his horse following after him.

He was stopped by Malvegil's hand on his arm. Eression turned, but the other ranger was not looking at him but at Elladan.

"For the sake of the Valar, Elladan, wait!" Malvegil's voice was stern and the rebuke in his tone was obvious. "Eression has ridden a thirty-day journey to bring you this message, he is weary from travel as you must well see, and he needs rest before you set out again."

Elladan did not respond, but turned his gaze away. It was hard to read whether it from guilt or resentment, but in either case he was not willing to argue with Malvegil.

Malvegil turned back to Eression, but the man was shaking his head. "No, it is alright Malvegil — I know they are anxious to be with the queen and I would not be the one to deny them haste."

"Eression," Malvegil laid both his hands on the other man's shoulders, "please do not do this from guilt—"

"The king ordered me to return with them and that is what I intend to do. I owe him my life. I would never deny him anything he requested or ordered."

Malvegil sighed. "You know that is a debt long ago forgotten, Eression."

"To him the debt is repaid," Eression replied softly. "To me it can never be. I will go." His voice rose then so that Elladan and Elrohir could overhear. "But allow me to take a new horse from the stables. Mine is worn and he needs rest."

Then Eression passed his friend and led the horse away. Malvegil watched him with a sigh and could barely keep the words 'so do you' away from his tongue.

Elrohir left to retrieve provisions for the journey. Following his initial words, the younger twin had become very silent and Malvegil could only imagine what the elf must be thinking.

The ranger watched Elladan, still standing by the horses, as he checked over the weapons in a steadily more agitated fashion. Malvegil moved up beside the elder twin and, taking the quiver from his hands and carefully adjusting the twisted strap, he spoke without lifting his eyes.

"One who carries the weight of hatred carries a heavy burden indeed." Elladan did not reply and when Malvegil looked up at him, the elf was looking away. "Elladan…" Malvegil waited until his friend was looking at him before placing the quiver back in his hands. "You have many burdens upon you now… what harm would be done by letting this one go?"

Elladan took the quiver and slung it over his shoulder, his eyes falling to the buckle he was fastening.

"You of all people know, Malvegil, that you cannot build hope and trust out of torment and death. And I will not be the fool to trust him when he is so undeserving."

"He fell far, Elladan, but he rose up — he atoned for his past. Why can you not trust him as I do…or the king?"

Elladan stopped and looked into Malvegil's eyes again. "If you or my brother wish to put your trust in this man, then so be it, but you did not see what he did, or what orders he was willing to follow, and I will not suffer myself or especially Elrohir such pain again."

Malvegil shook his head. "Harboring distrust can hurt you worse in the end."

"Perhaps." Elladan replied softly, slinging a pack across his horse's back. "But that is a chance I am far more willing to take."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Malvegil was not the only one to see them off when the three travelers prepared to leave; several other Dúnedain had gathered in the time it had taken to collect provisions for the journey. As the others bade their farewells to the twins, Malvegil made his way over to Eression who was standing apart from the others, ready to mount up.

"I don't suppose I can talk you out of this?" Malvegil asked with a sad smile.

"I am afraid not." Eression shook his head, stroking the neck of the black horse he had taken from the stables. "But I appreciate your concern."

"It is strange how 'appreciating it' does not make me feel as though it did any good." Malvegil touched the horse's muzzle, glancing over his shoulder at the twins who were now mounted and waiting on Eression.

"I must go," Eression said unnecessarily.

"Be careful. I am no elf, but I feel the path you follow is full of dangers; tread it carefully."

Eression mounted his horse and turned it to face Malvegil who was again watching him carefully. He smiled, knowing he would never be able to express to Malvegil how much he treasured their friendship. He had never — and somehow could not — form such a bond with anyone else. Malvegil had always been the one who simply wouldn't allow him to live out his life in solitude, not even at the beginning when his black past still dogged his footsteps so closely, and few were willing to accept him. Malvegil's friendship meant so much to him — he could not leave his friend worrying for him.

"Do not be concerned, Malvelgil. I know the path I tread and I promise you I face it without fear. You will see me again in the days ahead, if not in this world as you see me now, then somewhere beyond. I feel certain."

Malvegil nodded and at last seemed satisfied with Eression's words.

"Besides," Eression continued, a mischievous expression that only Malvegil had ever seen, coming across his face. "I am not the one mortally afraid of dragonflies."

"Eression! You swore you would never—" Malvegil broke off as Eression's laugh filled the wood. "You really must go now, or I may be forced to beat that impish humor right out of you."

"In that case I shall not tarry." Eression smiled one last time at his friend before moving his horse into a run in order to catch up with the two riders who had just started into the forest.

"Farewell, my friend." Malvegil said softly as he stood alone, watching the figures disappear between the trees. "I pray we will meet again."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

May 12

Lothlorien

The old worn trees whispered gently in their last days. Only the elves and quiet creatures could make out a word, but even a mortal man could tell what they would say. 'Good night', or perhaps 'good-bye', and always a sad mourning song for the beings who had once loved them and lived between their boughs.

The elves had long ago left Lorien and since then nothing as fair had passed the once carefully guarded Nimrodel into the trees of the lush woods of mellryn trees.

*Splash*

Aragorn reached out a hand to steady himself as his feet touched the opposite bank. He felt the worn bark of an old mellorn meet his fingers and gripped the wood in order to maintain his balance.

They were finally here.

Against all detours, battles and obstacles they had at last reached the woods of Lorien. Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief as he looked into the darkening world that had once housed many wise and beautiful members of the elven race. It now lay silent but for the occasional hiss through the leaves as though they were whispering in tones he could not hear.

Aragorn felt Legolas at his elbow and spoke without turning.

"It fades in the absence of its lady."

"Aye, and well it should, for she and the her ring held it tied together, and Lord Celborn kept the foul beasts from tainting its ground." Legolas could not help the strange feelings that whispered in his thoughts. Lorien reminded him now of his own home, unprotected from the wicked stains of the world outside its borders which vied relentlessly to consume it. Still, there was a mystery and a protection Legolas could not quite place that seemed to hover around the trees. Perhaps left by Galadriel in an attempt to keep out the enemies as long as possible. Still, for the sake of their mission, it was a welcome sight regardless of the changes.

"I hope you know exactly where this tree is, my friend." Aragorn laughed slightly, suddenly breathless with relief. For the first time in weeks it seemed as though all would be well.

Tantur moved up beside Legolas and stared into the trees, obviously missing how the forest had changed and grown.

"Of course, Strider, I'd hardly forget it." Legolas smiled. "It's a bit hard to miss."

The three companions moved into the forest, the elf and ranger walking at a slightly faster pace while Tantur hung back a step or two.

It took them a short time to reach the heart of Lorien. Aragorn seemed to have wings on his feet and Legolas was no less eager to reach the tree at last.

"If we cut through by the glade we will reach it sooner." Legolas motioned the other two past an indent in the ground. Aragorn looked down and saw a sight that was both surreal and jarring…

In the center of the glade a stone basin sat, perched upon its pedestal. The sound of flowing water reached his ears and he marveled at the sight of Galadriel's mirror, left forgotten where it stood. A mirror to possible futures, and echoes of the past, images and echoes she no longer needed in the West.

Aragorn shook his head and followed after Legolas who was now full out running towards a clearing ahead.

The two friends pulled up sharply at the outskirts of the clearing, staring into the center.

"Well, you did not exaggerate, mellon-nin. It would be difficult indeed to miss this tree's presence," Aragorn spoke softly as he surveyed the tree for the first time. It was tall, but more than that, it was broad: stretching towards the sky, towards the trees around it, dipping in places towards the ground. The wind shook loose several gold-green leaves that scratched softly against the twisted trunk which rose like braided rope from the ground.

Legolas closed his eyes as the wind blew over him. The smell reminded him of home, of his father, of the Lord Celeborn even for the very few times he had met him. "It has been sleeping long," the elf whispered, opening his eyes and reaching inside his tunic. "We should rouse it."

Drawing a silver and glass vile from his pocket Legolas moved towards the tree, Aragorn just beside him.

A shout of warning split the air: "Behind you, lads!"

Chapter 23

The Dwarf, the Thief, and the Cure

May 12

Lothlorien

The shout came almost too late. Without even recognizing the voice, Legolas whirled around, reaching for an arrow over his shoulder, and found himself face to face with Tantur.

Treachery!

It was a face so altered he scarcely recognized it. The hesitant smile had changed to a leer, and his pleasant eyes and slim face were already twisting into a mask of fury as he aimed his bow toward the sound of whomever had called out and fired. There was a dull thunk of the arrow meeting flesh and a groan before Legolas released his own arrow. Thrown off by confusion, he missed the fatal mark and Tantur screamed as it imbedded itself in his shoulder.

Aragorn had barely moved more than to turn around and the sudden metamorphosis caught him off guard as Tantur suddenly flew into him, knocking him to the ground. Legolas was already moving again, drawing his dagger and rushing for Tantur's exposed back, but Tantur rolled over just then, carrying Aragorn with him and leaving the king's chest as Legolas' target. The elf pulled up short as he saw the dagger lying across his friend's throat.

"Let's just be careful with that, Legolas," the traitor wheezed, surprisingly drained by the struggle. The arrow had snapped off from its head and now a piece of the shaft stuck out of his shoulder like a standard. "Now get back!" Tantur yelled suddenly, dragging Aragorn to his feet as he stood. The ranger was truly shocked, but more irritated with himself at the moment. He should have moved faster and why hadn't he recognized Tantur's treachery long before now?

Legolas complied with the order, raising his hands, one still holding the dagger, as he backed away. "You don't want to do this."

"Shut your mouth!" Tantur hissed, pulling his knife tighter against Aragorn's throat.

Again Legolas complied. His mind was scrambling to orient itself around this revelation; try as he might, he couldn't yet think of a way out of their current predicament.

"You! In the trees! Get out here where I can see you!"

There was a long pause before the order was obeyed. A short, muscular figure came limping from the trees, adding another layer of astonishment to an already surreal scene.

"Gimli?!" The elf watched as the dwarf staggered out to a point just beside the tree's base. His right leg was bleeding from Tantur's arrow in his thigh.

"That's right, laddie," Gimli grunted dryly. "I was hardly going to let the two of you have all the adventures to yourselves."

"What are you doing here?" Tantur's clearly didn't like the dwarf's sudden appearance, for there was no telling whether or not he was alone, but the man was in too deep to back out now.

"I came to tell Aragorn and Legolas about you, as a matter of fact." Gimli grunted as he leaned against the tree for support. Legolas wanted to help his friend, but he didn't dare move with Aragorn's life in the balance.

"Tell them what about me?" Tantur's eyes flicked from the dwarf to the trees around them.

"That you're a dirty no-good traitor, basically," Gimli replied, his dark eyes steely. "It seems Duurben discovered your dealings with the other side and I arrived in Minas Tirith just in time to be told the news," he shifted his words back to Legolas, "so I set out to find you and warn you. Obviously I was a bit late."

Aragorn's mind was groping like a hand in the dark, discovering new obstacles of unknown size with each flailing reach. He could not absorb all this information so quickly, and he still had no idea what Tantur planned to do.

"You were betraying us all along," he whispered around the blade at his throat, and it was not a question.

"Of course I was," Tantur spat in the king's ear. "I set the snake in your room that night. You were too dense to think of it; indeed, I was worried someone would. How foolish of me."

"You were the one!" Aragorn's voice suddenly rose with unsuppressed emotion. He had set out on a quest for healing and justice, only to find out that this man, nephew of his good friend, had been the architect of his burden from the first. When they had saved him in Koparin, when they had found the dwarves, when they had entered Lorien only this morning — all the time they had been looking outward for their enemy, only to find he had been lurking invisibly at their side. Aragorn was suddenly at a loss for words.

"But why follow us?" Legolas stalled for time.

"That was my blunder," Tantur growled. "I was bitten by the viper when I set it loose, and though I had stolen all of the lhandlas and so was able to keep the poison from overcoming me too quickly, I was not recovering. Then I overheard you speak of this tree and knew you would be heading for it. I took a chance to save my life, it is simple as that. And now we will see if your elven magic is really all the stories say it is…"

Legolas could not understand for a moment…and then he did. "Tantur, you speak of what you do not understand—"

"I understand! I understand that if I don't have whatever sap that tree holds I won't last another fortnight. I understand that if you don't give me what I want your friend will have his throat slit before you have a chance to plead for mercy! I haven't lived my life this long to be killed by a foolish blunder!"

"This will be just as foolish if you don't listen," Legolas said, low and urgently. "Aragorn must help me retrieve the sap or it could have deadly consequences."

Not surprisingly Tantur laughed at that. "Certainly, Legolas, a worthy try — but you won't blame me if I don't believe a word of your pitiful lies."

"He speaks the truth," Aragorn shifted experimentally, but Tantur held fast. "It is a part of the—"

"Be silent!" Tantur was getting steadily more aggravated. He had been feeling the poison more potently for the past few days, and the wound in his shoulder was only adding to his discomfort and weakness, but in a burst of vicious adrenaline he moved the arm he held around Aragorn's waste to grip the man's hair and jerked him around, slamming him against a tree. Legolas came a whole step closer before Tantur tipped Aragorn's head back and pressed the blade hard against the king's jugular vein, and the elf was forced to stop again. The traitor's eyes cleared a little, and it was instead a cold look of distaste that he turned on Legolas. "You get it for me, 'your highness', and stop making excuses. I am not in a mood to be patient."

Legolas was reaching the end of his plotting, and had thus far come up dry. The thought of what he might have been forced to witness, had he not stopped, was distressing him terribly. There was only one possible hope now, and he stooped to retrieve the vial they had brought.

Gimli had slumped to a seat against a large stone. He was furious with himself for not running just a little faster over the last mile to Lorien, and now he felt utterly useless for coming all this way.

"I'm sorry lad," he whispered gruffly, pressing hard against his thigh to stem the bleeding.

"This is not your fault Gimli," Legolas turned earnest eyes toward his friend. "We're not dead yet. I am glad you came when you did. Just be still and wait; this man is about to bring his own doom upon himself."

The dwarf watched in confusion, but nodded microscopically.

"How could you do this to Duurben?" Aragorn murmured.

"Oh…Duurben." There was a sneer in Tantur's tone that was unmistakable. "My honorable uncle. Family are such useful tools; so trusting and so gullible, and they very often have all the right connections. I never could have gotten to where I was without him. Does it give you comfort that I admit it fully?" Tantur laughed at that and Aragorn could only shut his eyes. Oh, Duurben, he grieved silently for his friend, this is a treachery far worse than I could have imagined.

Legolas stood before the tree now, his hand outstretched, almost touching the bark. It was like a sleeping animal which Legolas was unsure how to wake. At last he pressed his hand against the bark…waiting… he felt the sap moving unnaturally fast beneath the layer of bark, drinking life from more than just the air and ground. For a moment he stood there, almost as though he were lost, then he felt it. Something was whispering to him, or was it singing; singing in his heart and his mind, but not his ears.

Here I am…here. Here I am. But where is other? The friend, closest to my heart? What has become of him? Where?

Legolas had the strange feeling that these were almost his own thoughts, but they couldn't be. But in a way, he realized, they were. He was Legolas Thranduilion, his father had fostered this tree alongside his friend, his dear friend. Always together they had retrieved the sap. Now where was his friend?

Legolas glanced to where Tantur was holding Aragorn against the tree and realized this was the only way to save him. The only possible way.

Reaching up with his knife, Legolas pressed the blade into the bark and slit a small cut, burrowing deep beneath the surface to where the sap flowed. Almost immediately a dull amber liquid began to drip from the cut. It was tinged black and as he caught the sap in the vial he almost felt the whisper telling him stop, warning him away from the ill-taken liquid.

Slowly corking the vial, Legolas moved towards Tantur, careful to keep his hands away from his sides. He walked until he was mere feet away from the traitor and the king.

"Tantur—"

"Give it to me!" Tantur demanded harshly.

"Let Aragorn go," Legolas replied slowly, still holding the vial in a closed fist.

"First give me that bottle," Tantur let his blade drop at last and stuck it in its sheeth, keeping his other hand tangled in Aragorn's hair, before reaching for the vial in Legolas' hand.

There was a silent moment as Aragorn and Legolas looked at the swirling liquid, and then at each other, knowing the potency contained in that meager glass. But Tantur would not heed; he had refused the proffered mercy, and now his crimes were about to claim him.

"Give it to me," Tantur said, in a low and ominous voice, and his eyes were dark with desire.

Legolas at last handed it over, his eyes saddened. Greedily snatching the vial away, Tantur pulled out the stopper with his teeth and pressed the bottle to his lips, drinking the entire draught before tossing it aside. His eyes flashed with the sudden rush that coursed through his system, but he did not recognize it for what it was.

"Release him," the elf commanded.

Tantur laughed. "You truly are a fool, Prince Legolas. You didn't think I would actually release your friend did you? I have a job to do, a mission to complete; maybe if I kill the king as I was instructed to do, I will even get into Vardnauth's good graces once more." Tantur already had the knife back in his hands and just as Legolas lunged forward, the man brought the blade back up to Aragorn's throat.

There was an endless moment in which Aragorn's face was composed, his entire body still and waiting. Legolas shouted his name, lunging for Tantur's knife hand. Gimli cursed unintelligibly, hoisting himself halfway up— and then everything stopped.

The knife dropped and struck the hard ground with a muffled clink, and Tantur's face became a mask of terrible agony.

Sinking to the ground and dragging Aragorn down with him, Tantur jerked like a man struck again and again by lightening. He wretched, his back arching, and coughing in great wrenching sounds until blood began to coat his mouth and spatter the ground. His face had turned pale, his lips blackened by the poison rushing through him, his eyes bulging. Twisting and jerking fit to break his own bones, Tantur could not even scream out the pain he felt as the thick substance he had willingly drunk coursed through his body and burned at his stomach. He clawed at the ground and clung convulsively to Aragorn's hair. Gasping in hideous croaking sounds as he continued to jerk and spasm grotesquely on the cold forest floor. Then suddenly there was a hiss and a thunk and the traitor fell limply against the ground, his body unmoving and an arrow sticking from the back of his skull.

For a long time the entire clearing was still and quiet. Legolas stared down at the man he had killed and let out a slow breath. Mercy, after all, for he knew that a quick death was better than whatever else the poison might have done to him.

Aragorn was shifting around, trying to stand up. Dropping quickly to his side, Legolas pried open Tantur's dead fingers and pulled Aragorn's dark hair free of their grip. Without that hindrance, Aragorn rose to his feet and stepped back, staring down at the contorted body before him.

"Are you alright?" Legolas asked quietly. "Aragorn? Aragorn look at me." The human turned and looked at him, his gaze unfathomable. "Are you alright?" Legolas asked again.

"I? Yes." Aragorn nodded slowly, feeling old and very tired. The man's gaze strayed back to Tantur, focusing oddly on the crooked way the man's wrist had bent itself. "Legolas," Aragorn's voice was low and desperate, "what if it doesn't work? How do we know it won't—"

"Arwen will not die," Legolas replied firmly. "Not like that, not from this. But we must move quickly, my friend, or other forces may do their work before we can intervene. Come."

Aragorn nodded once, twice. "Yes. We have no more time to waste."

The two started back to the tree, and Aragorn pulled out the other vial he had brought. They had intended to get two samples of the sap to bring back, but there was no way they could use the one Tantur had drunk from, so one would have to do. He handed it to Legolas.

He saw Gimli, sitting again, with a relieved look on his wrinkled face. Aragorn smiled, and said, "Always arriving right when we need you, eh Gimli?"

Gimli laughed gruffly at that. "Oh, but always late as well. You two will have a good laugh hearing what I've been through."

Legolas laughed merrily at the dwarfs' blessedly cheering words. "Ah, so you can best our tales of battling in a besieged Kopairin, meeting a veritable tide of dwarves on the road, being captured by Corsairs, and traveling all the while with a masked enemy, can you?"

Gimli glared good naturedly. "I knew you two were behind all that rubble and mess at that harbor town."

"And you weren't late," Aragorn added seriously. "Another moment and might well have killed us both."

Then, walking in pace with each other, the two friends' paths split. Legolas stopped on the far side of the tree, feeling like he was meant to be there, while Aragorn was meant to be standing opposite him, the tree in between. The assurances he had given Aragorn before were now completely justified and even if Aragorn could not feel the same comfort, Legolas knew all would be well.

"What do I do?" Aragorn asked with a wry smile. "This is elf magic of a particularly strange sort."

"Just touch the tree," Legolas smiled back, and both touched the bark of the twisted tree.

The reaction was immediate. All of a sudden the sap that had been flowing quickly beneath the bark was fairly humming through the cycles of the tree. A light seemed to catch on the branches and light up the leaves, warming the branches with a touch akin to sunlight. There was a dazzling display of flickering reflections like firelight and a tuneless song whistled through the wind in the twigs and leaves above. Legolas and Aragorn's eyes met from either side of the trunk, friends defined by every sense of the word. Loyal, protective, trusting, sacrificing, loving, understanding, something in it echoed true and right with this strange tree of the elder days, and all at once the cut Legolas had made in the tree dripped a golden sap, pure and clean and almost glowing from within.

Quickly gathering the liquid from the flow, Legolas removed his hand in order to cap the vial, and all at once it stopped. Aragorn dropped his hand as well as the light faded, the sap slowed, and the warmth dissipated into the chilled air.

Aragorn glanced over at Legolas, who was carefully wrapping the vial of warm liquid in cloth and stowing it, and smiled.

"You were right my friend, I felt something then; it felt strange at first, but familiar."

Legolas nodded. "Yes, it was familiar. You and I have seen its kind many times in our lives."

"Such joy, and life… and yet," Aragorn looked at Tantur where he lay upon the broken forest floor and let out a breath, "such hard repayment."

"You saw it in his eyes; the transformation was an old one. We did all that we could, mellon-nin — Duurben to raise him, his friends to guide him, and at the end you and I to warn him from death. But he made his own decisions, and reaped their reward."

"Indeed." Aragorn nodded. His head tilted with a frown. "I wonder who this 'Vardnauth' he spoke of was; the name chills my heart in a way I cannot describe."

"I do not recognize the name. Come, Aragorn, we will bury Tantur here, in the place where he fell. Then we must be moving on."

"And now," Gimli spoke up loudly from where he sat, "you have someone to make sure you don't kill yourselves again!"

Aragorn laughed. "Gimli, what would we do without you?" Legolas opened his mouth and Aragorn held up a hand. "As you say, my friend, we must be moving on as soon as may be. We still have a long journey back to Minas Tirith."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

As the three friends traveled back out through Lorien, they came upon a collection of buildings on the ground. They were built into the trees and appeared to Aragorn to be living quarters; sitting inside they could see abandoned possessions: elven furniture, garments, books, and trinkets that spoke of the civilization gone from this ancient place. It sat silent and untouched in eerie safety from intruders, but vines were growing in through the windows, and a coil of ivy was twining around the legs of a writing desk.

Drained as he was by the entire ordeal in Lorien, it occurred to the man that this place held no real peace anymore. After the passing of the elves it was like an empty shell, overcome by the things the forest's people had tried so long and hard to keep from it.

Aragorn was just about to speak these thoughts aloud when Legolas came up short, motioning for the other two to stop.

The moment the rustling of footsteps through leaves had ceased, Aragorn could hear what the elf had heard moments before: the sounds of quiet conversation.

Legolas gave his friend a confused look before turning and heading in the direction of the noise.

Passing a few more of the dwellings in the trees and through a row of closely grown bushes, the three friends came upon a truly odd sight. Three elves were to be seen, loading up a cart with crates of papers, rolls of parchment, and stacks of leather books; it looked very much as if an entire library was being moved.

Two male elves seemed to be carrying most of the heavy items. Both looked very similar with long blonde hair common among Lorien elves. The elven lady, however, was different, for her hair was long and dark and almost curled at the very bottom. She wore an emerald green cloak that fell all the way to forest floor and had on a burgundy gown which rustled through the leaves as she moved. Her face was pale and her eyes dark; it was the eyes that suddenly looked up and, though the friends had thought themselves well concealed, spotted them immediately.

"Do not linger among the bushes Lord of Mirkwood and King of Gondor. It is not fitting to do so when we would enjoy your company."

Aragorn and Legolas could not have been more startled, and as the two blonde elves turned to look in their direction as well, all three companions stepped into full view.

"Welcome, my lords," the lady bowed her head and smiled. "I am afraid we cannot offer you much hospitality here, but feel free to make yourselves at home."

Aragorn frowned faintly. "How do you know us…?"

"When we do not know you," Legolas finished the thought.

"I recognize the Lord Thranduil in his son," the lady answered, binding three rich colored books together with a long braid of leather. "And I have seen King Ellessar on his visits to the Lady Arwen when she dwelled here with her kin." She set the books down and walked a few steps closer to the companions. "As for myself, I am Tindu, and these are my nephews, Rúmil and Orophin." She gestured towards the two male elves who bowed in turn. Aragorn knew Rúmil and his brother Orophin fairly well, and he had known their brother Haldir especially well, but had never had a chance to meet their aunt. Tindu suddenly dropped her gaze to look at Gimli.

"This is Gimli, son of Gloin," Aragorn supplied the answer to the unspoken question. The three companions, confident now there was no danger, moved over to the cart. "He is our traveling companion and trusted friend."

"Is a pleasure to meet you, Gimli son of Gloin," Tindu replied with another small bow.

Gimli returned the courtesy before sitting to rest his wounded leg.

"Tell us, my lords," Rúmil questioned as he helped his brother lash a crate to the cart. "What brings you to this vacant place?"

"The antidote of the Lorien and Mirkwood Lords' tree," Legolas replied, causing the elves to look at him in surprise.

"Did the tree not appreciate your company?" Orophin joked wryly, noting the various injuries the three had sustained.

"Alas, we had a traitor among us." Aragorn shook his head as he related Tantur's treachery, ending by describing his demise.

Latching a small box, Tindu slid it into her saddle bag and then paused as she looked at Aragorn. "Something troubles you, Elessar. Perhaps you have found more from this traitor than you first sought?"

Aragorn frowned a little. "I cannot tell. Tantur made mention of someone before he died… It cannot be another traitor, I did not recognize the name. Likely it is no good to me."

"Say on," said Rúmil, quietly encouraging.

"Indeed, for Tindu knows everything," Orophin teased, stepping aside quickly when she made as if to throw a book at him.

Aragorn smiled dryly. "That must be useful."

"My nephew is incorrigible. I would force a confidence from no man. I am neither wise, nor very learned." She gave him a tired smile. "I am an historian. There is a difference. Such virtues are not required for the occupation."

The human cast a glance at Legolas and Gimli. Legolas raised his eyebrows, indicating the decision was Aragorn's, and Gimli looked sulky, indicating he had caught not a word of the grey-tongued conversation and disliked being left out.

"If you have traveled, you might have heard of him," Aragorn said slowly. "Is the name Vardnauth familiar?"

In truth he had expected an apologetic denial, or at most a vague recollection. He was then surprised to see Orophin drop his load of scrolls, Rúmil's head fly up, and Tindu stop abruptly where she stood. The faces of the brothers were suddenly dark, but the elven woman's expression was utterly unreadable.

"Tindu?" Rúmil said slowly. Orophin's fists were clenched, his knuckles white.

"I know," she brushed them off, still looking at Aragorn. "Are you certain of the name? Yes, of course you are. A strange and evil day to take my leave." Her voice had sunk to a whisper.

"Lady Tindu," Legolas pressed gently, "who is Vardnauth? There is a mystery in your answer greater than the name itself."

Tindu did not seem to hear him; it was Rúmil who answered. "Vardnauth was Tindu's student — her apprentice, as it were."

"My only student."

Orophin turned away with a jerk, catching up the scrolls he had dropped and loading them in silence.

"Rúmil?" Tindu said, straining for steadiness.

He nodded, as if he already knew what she needed.

"Orophin," Rúmil beckoned his brother, "we have to get the last crates from the scriptorium."

When Orophin moved off in acquiescence, Aragorn wondered if he were imagining the strange glitter in the elf's eyes.

"Just what have you uncovered, lads?" Gimli grunted, his dwarvish accent seeming thicker than ever.

"We don't know yet," Legolas replied.

Aragorn held Tindu's gaze for several long seconds. Yet for all her years, it was the elf who dropped her eyes from his. With a movement like a sigh, she sank onto the lid of a carved chest. Her gray-green skirts fell limply around her, flattening like wilted leaves.

"The tale is a long one," she said, her voice not supposing that such an excuse would deter her audience. "But old folly and grief must always be exhumed, I suppose, so that the past may not repeat itself. The folly was mine, so must be the tale…"

Authors' Note:  Those of you who read 'Darkest Night' will recall the brief cameo of a female elf named 'Narandune'. To refresh: each of us girls chose an elvish name when we decided to dress up for Two Towers, and while we were at it we chose a homeland and someone already in the stories to whom we could be related. Hannah chose Narandune of Rivendell, daughter of Glorfindel, and Sarah chose Tindu of Lorien, aunt of Haldir, Rumil, and Orophin. When we decided to write 'Darkest Night', we thought it would be cool to give Hannah a cameo in it! Happily, rather than getting shot down for Mary Sue inclusion, it went over very well. So we decided to include Sarah's alter-ego for this fic. Simple? Well, unexpectedly, Tindu's role grew completely away from 'cameo' ground until she is very much her own character and very little Sarah's elven persona, but we thought you might find the trivia of her origins amusing!

Chapter 24

Skeletons Escape the Closet

Year 2509 of the Third Age

Lothlorien

"Ink on your fingers, a quill in your hair, and a paleness to your cheeks — tell me, sister, have you left the scriptorium at all since I saw you last week?"

Tindu had jumped a little at the voice, having been intent upon a large tome concerning Thingol Greycloak, but now she rose and stretched her hands out to her elder brother. "Tirin! Perhaps I would not hide myself away in here if you were to be found on my doorstep more often."

He kissed her fondly on the cheek, jesting sarcastically, "Perhaps dwarves and elves would dance together upon the banks of the Nimrodel if only I wore daisies braided in my hair."

"It would make you less forbidding."

Tirin laughed. He was one of Celeborn's captains, and being several inches taller than average with dark black-green eyes, he could present — when need arose — the fearsome appearance of a dangerous fighter and unforgiving sentry. His hair was dark gold, different from his sister's brown, and held neatly back in a triple row of braids above each pointed ear. The livery he wore was silver and gray-green, with a bow strapped to his back, two knives at his side, and the handle of a third weapon protruding from his gray boots.

The imposing appearance was belied the moment he smiled. "Aye, perhaps. It comes of raising three sons — one acquires a permanent aura of menace."

"Nonsense," Tindu scolded. "I know for a fact Ilúvatar blessed you with perfect sons."

Surreptitiously Tirin drew his sister away from her books and out the door, casting a wary glance towards the archival room in passing.

"I cannot think how I failed to see it. Especially when we all share the same flet…"

"You are blind to true character, I have always said it," she laughed. She allowed herself to be drawn off among the trees towards the river, pleased to be kidnapped.

"Aye," he agreed, answering her question with more seriousness than the jest seemed to deserve. "Perhaps I am."

Tindu stopped, looking at her brother worriedly. "Something troubles you, Tirin."

"It does indeed," he nodded soberly. He guided her to a seat on a mossy stone, but did not sit down himself. "Unfortunately, I don't know how to tell you what it is…"

"Can't you simply say it?"

His eyes were shadowed. "I do not think you will believe me if I do."

The elven woman's voice was hurt and a little angry, "So you will not give me the chance to prove myself more reasonable than that? You are my brother, Tirin! I have heeded your advice for more than five thousand years — do you think that I will trample on you now? What cause—"

"No, please," he stopped her hastily. "Please, Tindu, do not speak so. I know your strength of mind and character; I beg you not to mistake me. But I know your heart as well as your head, and you do not like to think ill of people…"

Tindu straightened her skirts distractedly. "So who, then — if you will trust me to hear it?"

Her brother's face was distressed; the most it had been, almost, since his beloved wife had passed to the Havens centuries before. Whatever way he said this, he knew it would hurt the sister he loved. "I fear it is your young student," he whispered.

Green eyes went wide as the woman stared at him. "Vardnauth? What of him? What has he done?"

"It is not a hard puzzle to piece if you watch him, as I confess I have done. He has plied you with questions, Tindu. You told me of his unexpected curiosity yourself. As his instructor, you answered him — as well you might — but I'm afraid you told him things he should not have heard." He turned to look into the distance, unable to meet her eyes at the moment. "Sister, the Lady Galadriel speaks more frankly with you than with many people, especially regarding her own powers and how she and Lord Celeborn rule and keep this land. While not told strictly in confidence, I don't think you should have passed on much of what you have told Vardnauth. Such interest in the Lady's powers and in her mirror could be dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Tindu choked out. "I ask you again, what has he done? It could be dangerous, but there is no reason to suspect that it will be dangerous! Vardnauth is a pure-hearted elf, mature and eager to understand our history — what can be wrong with that?"

Tirin sighed, resting his forehead on his hands. "Valar above, I knew you would speak so. And I love you for this generous spirit that smoothes the faults of others, but you know yourself it is not a sound description! He is not merely curious, he has pressed you — aye, and too far. What did you say when you came to me—?"

"I said he would not leave me be," she stammered, "but it was nighttime then, all shadows seemed terrifying—"

"He'd bruised you, Tindu!" Tirin snapped suddenly. "That you cannot deny."

"He struck against me by accident! I know he has his flaws; all beings do. His nature is controlling, but he works until there is no light left to show him the pages. Surely good service must be rewarded by some lenience!"

"Aye, lenience, but not instant absolution. He prowls about when you are asleep, poring over the oldest books and most secret scrolls. He dogs your footsteps with his demands, he slips about and questions others in Lorien, he avoids Lord Celeborn and watches Lady Galadriel. The invisible barriers at our borders, the magic that preserves the trees and rivers here, the Lady's mirror — all have featured in his prying. Ambition you must concede him as well as willingness to work."

"Cannot those two features be equal assets?" Tindu asked. She looked desperate, her fingernails scraping the moss from the stone beneath her in claw marks that showed the damp gray beneath the living green.

Tirin rested his hands on her shoulders. "They can be. But in Vardnauth I see seething the risk of something far worse than mere ambition. There is my loyalty to Lorien and my vow to protect it, no matter who the enemy might be. More even than this, however, is the fear that… that someday you might prove less of a help and more of a hindrance to him."

It seemed Tindu could not even begin to grasp this. "You — you honestly think that he — you — how could you…?! I— I cannot believe it!"

"But I do. I want to — no. No, I need to know, right now, if you can trust my belief enough to make it your own. For my peace of mind, if not your own safety." He met her eyes squarely. "Please, Tindu."

"I will tell him no more," she whispered, "but I will not send him away."

Tirin's shoulders seemed to sag. "It is not the answer I hoped to hear."

"I know. If you discover some proof of this, I will break the apprenticeship immediately. But if he is innocent, I will not be the one to make him suffer where he is guiltless. Besides, such meager skills as mine must be passed on. I will not be here to tend the books forever."

"You are immortal, remember?" Tirin asked, turning away again and failing to soften the harshness in his voice.

"Not all immortals live forever in Middle Earth."

"Yes," he agreed, his hand straying up to rub at his eyes. "I know it well."

Tindu was distressed to have upset him, but she did not take back her decision. Instead, trying to cheer her brother in spite of her thoughtless comment she said, "Wherever we go, we'll meet each other there. Agreed, Tirin?"

"Oh, agreed," he whispered, and turned and left her there. His feet, normally light enough to walk across snow without marking it, left heavy imprints in the soft ground by the river.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

The Lady Galadriel paused. Her pale hair was caught in a warm breeze as the sun began to sink. She smiled a little, her slender hand reaching up as if in salute to the wind. The mind could almost imagine a glitter at her finger, as if the pink rays of light had reflected from a gemstone, but there was no visible ornament on her hand.

She was feeling a little lonely. Her daughter had started on her return to Rivendell the day before. Granted, Celebrian had three children of her own and a husband waiting in Rivendell for her who was even more lonesome than her mother, but Galadriel could not help a passing sigh. Celeborn was busy with several of his warriors, discussing a matter of orcs patrolling outside their usual haunts, but later he would come. They would walk with feet unclad on the grass under the stars, and she would forget her sorrow for at least a while.

In the meantime… She turned quickened steps toward her glade, her pearl white skirts sailing like ripples of sea foam about her feet. Had a human beheld her she would have seemed in the dusk like a beautiful ghost, or an enchantress.

Descending the steps with the fluid ease of familiarity, she stepped towards the shallow silver basin upon its plinth. Her fingertips brushed the edges as she considered for a moment. It would ease her mind, somehow, to see her daughter safely on the road home. Perhaps to hear the echo of her sweet one's gentle laugh, or her bright eyes — eager to return home to her beloved Elrond.

Going to the spring, she took the silver ewer and filled it, her touch running a shivery hum of anticipation through the water. Raising the ewer she poured the water out, the splash tinkling and spreading and folding back on itself in ripples that slowly stilled.

With an inward smile, Galadriel stepped forward and looked into her mirror.

The images came swift and imprecise, leading nowhere until the lady bent the magic to her will, turning the view towards the road and the Misty Mountains. The peaks showed stark against the evening sky, the trees black as pitch in the shadows. The road flashed away swiftly, as if she were a runner fleeing along it. Ahead there came sight of a horse and Galadriel leaned forward eagerly… but the horse was lying slain in the road, a dark pool forming under it, muddying the ground. The body of its rider lay beyond. Orc arrows everywhere. Death.

The mirror sped from under her control, taking her now around the curve of trees faster than she wanted to see — no, she didn't want to see — no, she had to see — no… NO! Orcs pouring from the trees, red blood on their hands… horses rearing in terror… elves fighting… dying… black arrows… blood… Celebrian, spinning with the dagger from her belt, driving it into the orc holding her wrist… clawed hands catching at her skirt, her hair… blue eyes… dawning comprehension… terror… screaming—

"CELEBRIAN!"

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Tirin's instructions to his sons were unusually distracted that evening. His mind was still turning over how he might have better presented his case to Tindu, but he— wait. Haldir was looking at him as though he expected an answer to something.

"I'm sorry, ion-nin," Tirin sighed, "my mind was elsewhere."

"So I surmised," Haldir agreed. His hands finished with his quiver straps and one moved to touch his father's shoulder sympathetically. "Is it about Aunt Tindu and Vardnauth?"

"She didn't listen to you," Orophin said briskly, grinning a little. "Aye, that is Aunt Tindu — trust a dwarf until he takes your purse."

"I think," said Rúmil in his perpetual undertone, "Adar instead fears this to be a case of 'trust a warg until he devours you'."

"You three know me too well," Tirin retorted, affectionate in spite of his worry. "Never mind, we can discuss it later. Haldir, Rúmil, I need you to each take an additional detachment towards the western border. Lord Celeborn does not like the excess orc activity there and I agree with him. On no account are a single one of the creatures to set foot beneath our trees, much less muddy the banks of the Nimrodel. Haldir, take the northern reaches; Rúmil, turn south. You are in sole command of your companies. So say I at the behest of the Lord and Lady of this wood, and such orders are not to be rescinded by any but myself or the Lord Celeborn. Do you accept your charges?"

"We accept, and full willing," the two brothers replied, finishing the formalities. Rúmil took up his weapons and started off on silent feet. Haldir paused only a moment to exchange a few more words with Tirin before he followed.

"She will come around, Adar," Haldir murmured. "Do not worry so much."

"I would say the same for you," Tirin said. "You have other concerns, please do not let this burden you for my sake. I trust you to watch out for your brother."

"Oh, aye," his son snorted, "Rúmil needs such looking after."

Tirin smiled, knowing Haldir well. His son had long since taken up the responsibility.

When they had gone, Orophin turned to his father, unconsciously shifting a bit on the balls of his feet. Tirin had never managed to discover where his youngest stored up such energy…

"What are my orders?"

"I need you here," Tirin told him. "My sentries need to be deployed and I have some specific business I would attend to immediately."

"I will deploy the sentries for you, if you need assistance," Orophin volunteered — brightly, if such a word could apply to any soldier of Lorien.

"Good. I'll see you in a few hours at most. Oh, and Orophin?"

Orophin looked back.

"Be alert. The trees are disquieted, and I would trust their eyes better than my own."

Tirin set off from the meeting with his sons to try and find Celeborn. He still had not made up his mind whether or not to exert his authority, in spite of his sister's feelings, and have Vardnauth removed from his position. Perhaps Celeborn would have some advice… More than mere lord and captain, they had been friends for many years, and Tirin valued Celeborn as a keen judge of character.

It seemed oddly providential that the figure walking a short ways ahead of him was familiar. There was no mistaking the thin back and dark hair.

"Vardnauth?" Tirin called, more sharply than was usual from him.

The other elf, who was only about the age of Orophin, turned. "Yes, Captain Tirin?"

Was it Tirin's own suspicion that colored the reply with scorn?

"You are a long way from the archives. What takes you from your studies?"

Pale lips under limpid gray eyes curled a little. "Why, study, of course."

"Perhaps you would do better to study further away from the Lady's glade."

Suddenly there was no mistaking the glint in the historian's apprentice. "Threats, Captain? Surely not. You could not be so blatant to one who grows daily in favor with Celeborn and his wife."

"Lord Celeborn," Tirin said sternly. "You forget yourself, Vardnauth. And this is no mere threat. Come near this hollow again, or lay hand on my sister, and I—"

"CELEBRIAN!"

The scream seared the twilight, curtailing further speech. Without another thought for the sneering Vardnauth, Tirin caught out his knives and plunged through the ferns and mellyrn and down the steps into Galadriel's glade.

Even stripped of its usual gentle royalty, anguished as a wounded swan, he could recognize his lady's voice.

He found her beside her mirror, which was still swirling in a maelstrom of silver flashes and pale smoke. Her hands were clenched, her face ghost-white and her whole body trembling like a willow in the wind. Lips moved, but no words came. Something terrible had happened.

"My lady?" Tirin ventured, seeing no immediate danger.

Soft, disjointed phrases came then, stumbling over her daughter, the road to Rivendell, death, and something she should have prevented. Tirin could barely make sense of it, but one thing at last became clear. Lady Celebrian had been captured.

"Celeborn," Galadriel said suddenly and clearly. "Celeborn, he does not know! I must — LET GO OF ME!"

Tirin stumbled back in unsteady surprise. He had only touched her shoulder briefly to try and calm her, but now she pressed past him and up the steps, heedless of everything but the need to save her daughter.

With his own heart pounding horribly at the unthinkable occurrence, Tirin raced after her.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Vardnauth had sharp ears. Hidden among the ferns, it did not take him long to construct what had happened. It was almost too perfect to be true… It was most certainly too perfect to ignore.

When Galadriel and the meddlesome captain had passed him by, he slipped like a cat down the steps and walked towards the swirling mirror. For a moment he gazed at it, wondering again at the thing he had never managed to discover from Tindu's information: whence came the magic that fueled the mirror? One thing he did know was that for all his studying, he did not have the skill to bend the mirror to his will.

Or at least… not while its power remained in mirror form…

He took the silver ewer from beside the spring, his ink-stained fingers tarnishing the handle. Approaching the plinth cautiously, he dipped the ewer slowly back into the mirror.

The mirror began to hiss and steam, but the pitcher did not seem affected and Vardnauth grew ever more excited… Drawing the lip of silver to his mouth, he tipped the pitcher like a goblet and drank.

Pain raked his throat, tearing and clawing to his stomach, eating its way throughout his entire body, running like fire through his blood and up his spine and filling the space behind his eyes. The ewer fell to the ground with a clatter like glass, the remaining water steaming where it spattered across the stones and withered the grass.

Vardnauth spread his length on the floor of the glade, his body convulsing, his fingernails clawing at his throat as agony spread in waves all through him.

He had not expected this…

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Tirin had never seen Galadriel weep, and now it was the most heartbreaking thing he could have imagined. Her fingers were tangled in the front of her husband's blue robes as he clutched her to his chest, each trying to keep a tight hold on the one thing in Middle Earth that was still unchanged.

Only they were not unchanged. The mirror had shown her things — horrible images of torment, of screaming, of her twin grandsons coming too late… That Celebrian was dead, or would be long before help could be sent to her, seemed inevitable.

In spite of that Orophin had been dispatched to bring Rúmil and Haldir back and give them Celeborn's new orders to go and search for his child. They could not concede defeat so easily.

Tirin felt like an intruder upon such grief, but he feared to leave lest Celeborn should need him.

The decision was taken out of his hands as Galadriel suddenly stumbled back away from her husband. For a moment she looked at him helplessly, her hands opening and clenching, and then in despair she took flight into the trees, her white skirts following her like the tail of a dying comet. Crying her name, Celeborn pursued her, and within seconds Tirin was alone.

The elven lamps hanging above the flets in the trees glowed silver and gave off a deceptive sense of calm.

With his mind suddenly attentive, Tirin's eyes widened. Vardnauth! It seemed such a secondary concern at a moment like this, but he had left the elf right outside the glade. He would not put it past Vardnauth to try some devilry in such a place and with such distractions to cover him.

Swift feet carried him back the way he had come, his mind growing more anxious as he went. The trees were crying warnings, whispering like so many sentinels alerted. Their message was too jumbled, though — he could not tell what troubled them.

Coming over the lip of the green hollow, he was met by a sight that he could not understand at first. Vardnauth was there, but he was lying still as a corpse on the ground. There was no mark upon him.

His inner warnings still clawing at him, Tirin stepped cautiously down the stairs and looked for a long moment at the fallen elf. Carefully, he crouched and reached to check for a pulse…

He did not feel the silent hand that drew the hidden knife from his own boot.

Just as his hand almost touched the other elf's neck, Vardnauth's eyes flew open like windows into death.

Tirin grunted breathlessly as the knife plunged into his stomach. He was warrior enough to bring up his arms and defend himself, but Vardnauth was already rolling away, and somehow… there came a scorching touch against his mind. For a moment he could not tell whence it came or what it was doing — until there came a flash of memory so overwhelming in its intensity that he cried out! His wife, weak and crying, turning wet eyes on him one last time, leaving him—

"No!" Tirin shouted, closing his eyes to wash away the image. He jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain in his gut and turning to attack where Vardnauth had been. Too late. At the crucial moment his mind had been elsewhere and his knives were now gone. Too late. From behind he heard a rasping like an old door hinge and knew it was laughter. Too late. And then the pain began again, slicing into his back over and over and over again, drowning out all else in a sea of agony and all consuming dimness that was darker than the night.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Orophin could not find his father. He had given Haldir and Rúmil their orders as quickly as his swift legs could carry him. Haldir's reaction of horror had been almost identical to Tirin's — his native sense of accountability making him feel, like his father, that he ought to have prevented this. Rúmil did not say much, but his words had been to the point and included an unexpected amount of dwarvish invective against the thrice-cursed orcs. If Celebrian was in reach, they would retrieve her.

Now Orophin needed orders for himself — he could not just stand about idle; no, not he. When he did not find his father in Celeborn's audience chamber, where he'd left him, he started back towards the Lady's hollow, thinking maybe Galadriel had taken Celeborn and Tirin back there to show them what she had seen.

He almost collided with a figure coming up the steps.

For a spine chilling moment the pair just stared at each other. Orophin, his blue eyes wide with dawning understanding, and Vardnauth, a feral smile curling across his face, his pale hands and clothes red with blood.

Looking beyond Vardnauth, Orophin saw a heap lying curled below, and when the murderer pushed past him he was too numbed to notice. Adar. No, it could not be… not lying in the dirt… not defeated… not ever…

Falling down the steps in his haste, his eyes blinded by tears, Orophin caught his father's still shoulders and turned him over. His sobs grew at the sight of the blood and Tirin's own knives protruding from his back and chest.

And the eyes… his father's eyes were closed…

"Ada?" Orophin wept, his voice broken and child-like. "Ada…?"

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

It was not as Vardnauth had planned. He had never meant anyone to know of his betrayal — and now he was revealed almost before the first step was completed. Ultimate victory might have been his — these woods had been inches beyond his grasp — had only that Morgoth-spawned captain not come spying. His full plan was a subtle masterpiece, built over the years in the dark corners of his mind, but now it was in pieces.

Or was it…?

Somehow the water had not served to let him draw on the future, but he had been able to draw on something else… At the moment when he had most needed a weapon, he had reached as if to turn Tirin's mind away from him, and he had seen things. Those thoughts had not been his own…

Perhaps the gift he had found was even greater than the one he had sought.

And as he crouched against a tree, he saw something a short ways off that seemed to be the final answer. He crept closer, silent, trying to hold his breath so that it would not rasp against his scorched throat. A woman was half lying amid the ferns, her silent anguish all the more pronounced because it was mute. Her face was hidden in her arms and her golden hair glimmered faintly in the starlight, flickering as her shoulders shook. White skirts were spread like dew on the green sward.

Silent as he was, it was as though she sensed his presence. Galadriel's head came up, her silver blue eyes wide as she beheld his crouching form, still red from his treachery.

For a moment he could see that she did not even recognize him. "What?" he whispered, not wholly surprised when his formerly suave voice came cracked and guttural. "All alone, Lady?"

Then he reached, as if with clawed fingers, and felt the blood in his veins boil afresh with renewed power. Her mind, unwary in her grief, was open before him, leading him unerringly to all that was most painful and dark

.…Mandos himself stood upon the shore and his words came dark and terrible… "…shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret…" …in the distance ships were burning, sending up billows of foul smoke… Feanor had betrayed his own kinsman… ice bit and crashed… elves grew blue with cold and perished… Her hands grew blistered and bled as she tried to hold on to a friend's hand… the hand slipped… the ice closed over, cutting off the drowning scream…

Knowing what might be most excruciating, Vardnauth prized his way further, dimly seeing Galadriel as she hunched in agony, her hands at her temples. Untried as he was at this, he could feel his skill growing—

It was when the vision turned to Celebrian, carried away by orcs, that the Lady Galadriel's heart at last awoke. Until that moment her overwhelming grief had carried away her senses, but at this — as if she had been prodded by a lancet — her eyes snapped open.

How dare he?

For a little time she stood as if within a visible wall of illusion, letting the pain travel through her and yet heeding it not. Vardnauth was too intent upon his deception to notice her actions. Slowly her pale hand came up, palm towards her attacker in a gesture of cessation. And with a flash, as if her very soul had ignited with the light of the Silmarils, the Lady of the Wood uncloaked. Fire like ice, lightening in the darkness, violent joy and deadly peril vibrating the very air until the trees leaned back in stark silhouette. Her hair shone like gold in the sun, her dress like steel and diamonds, and all blew about her as if she stood in the center of a whirlwind.

From her upraised hand there came a rolling wave of light and a sound like a thousand panes of shattering glass. Vardnauth's eyes, now opened as he realized what folly he had attempted, grew wide with terror as the blast threw him away from her, casting him back in a flying arc against the bole of a great mallorn.

Then the woods went abruptly dark. The whirlwind inverted and died. Galadriel staggered back, exhausted after such a display, but the armor around her ancient heart had held good and she was still furious.

As Vardnauth staggered to his feet, his entire body alive with pain, he could feel the steel in her blue eyes aiming for his heart, and he fled. Mortal terror in an immortal is a rare thing, but Vardnauth's only thought now was to escape — to get beyond her reach — and to hope he never found such unexpected power in a victim again.

He would grow stronger and more skilled, but never more would he cross paths with Galadriel.

Never.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Not even the comfort of her beloved books seemed able to quiet Tindu that night. Something was amiss in the Golden Wood, but she could not tell what.

Perhaps it was the disagreement between herself and Tirin that was still bothering her. In her heart she truly trusted his judgment, but she also simply did not want to believe him. One way or another, she made up her mind to apologize to him when next they met. If he felt so strongly about Vardnauth… He had never been wrong on such counts before. If he felt that strongly, she would adjust.

The decision did little to make her feel better, for some reason. With a sudden desire that startled her, she wanted Tirin to come through the door. She wanted to know he understood that it was not lack of love for him that had made her demur at first.

A step came outside the scriptorium and with wild relief she turned, the greeting out of her mouth before she really saw who had come. "Oh, Tirin, I—" she broke off.

In the doorway stood her apprentice, but his looks were much altered. Tindu stared in horror. His hair was matted with sweat and blood, his clothes scorched and torn, and his face was twisted in a grotesque mask of insane mirth.

"Not Tirin," he croaked, a laugh shaking him like a cough for a moment. "I think he will be a little while in coming home."

The historian's fingers clenched the table behind her for support. "What have you done?" she whispered.

Jerking his satchel from beside the entrance, Vardnauth sneered, "I? What have I done? Oh, Tindu, you ask the wrong questions. You always ask the wrong questions. Not, 'What have you learned?', but 'What have you studied?'. Had you asked I might have told you, 'I have learned that those who see the future will always manage it to their own ends, and such gifts ought not to be confined the "wise" or the royal.' Perhaps I would have told you, 'I have learned that nine tenths of control is protecting the underlings who keep you in power, and that nine-tenths of protection is prevention, and prevention needs foresight.'" He paused in the middle of stuffing a cask of wine into his satchel, meeting her eyes with scorn. "But you did not ask, did you? You asked, 'What have you studied today, Vardnauth?' and I answered in all truth, 'The Fall of Doriath, and the history you wrote for me of the Lady Galadriel's mirror'. Always the wrong questions."

"You…" she whispered, her green eyes dark and frightened. "You planned…?"

Vardnauth laughed again, like granite rubbing against granite. He took his extra tunic from the other room, medicines from the chest, and food. "Staggering in the dark, Tinduválorien? Perhaps the student has outstripped the teacher? You remember my own questions — you recall I asked the correct ones. Not 'What was Galadriel's friendship with Melian?' but 'What did the Maiar teach her?'. Not 'Who were Celeborn's ancestors?' but 'How did he gain his lordship amongst his fellow elves?' Questions worth asking — answers worth their weight in gold — and you had the answers, despite possessing a mind few insects would claim as their own."

"What are you saying?" she demanded, trembling almost too much to stand.

He stalked toward her, his feet leaving red prints of blood and earth, his ragged breath hot on her face. "At last. A query worth an answer. I say your first question was pointless. It is not what I have done — it is what you have done." Pressing a filthy palm against her white forehead, he leered at her for a moment. "I bid you wither, and may the dust take you." He thrust inward with his mind, for the first and only time pressing his own memories upon another, drawing out each act of naiveté to give her pause, each dark scheme to give her fear, and at last the death of her brother to give her nightmares.

The whole plot was laid bare. Every action and conversation vision-bright in the darkness. To match it came her own memories… her last argument with Tirin… her last teaching session with Vardnauth… the last thing she had told him — concerning the enchanted ewer and the spring in Galadriel's glade.

"Keep it," he hissed over her sobs as she sank to the ground. Her tears fell between her ink stained fingers and spattered the floor. "Study it. Mayhap you'll fade faster than the memories."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Dawn was unfurling, bathing the leaves of a certain tree in golden light. From beside the tree's trunk Celeborn watched it filter through the familiar leaves, but his face bore an expression of mingled grimness, wrath, and grief. In one night the disasters had multiplied themselves into infinity. He could not believe such evil could exist in the world, much less hidden in his own land. More still he could not believe his vigilance had lapsed.

His wife was resting in their chambers still. She had evaded him in the woods and thus met the traitor Vardnauth. Her tale of the meeting had been fragmented, but from weariness and not hysteria. Celeborn would have had no doubts about who would have been the victor in such a combat of wills, had he known of it, but he was relieved all the same to have her safely back with him. Against Vardnauth he held the bitterest hatred any elf could hold for another. That any elf would make so bold as to level an attack at his wife was past all usual expressions of anger known to elf, man, or even Maiar. And an immortal life had been taken — moreover one of his friends.

Celeborn could not honestly tell where anger for Galadriel's sake ended and sorrow for his daughter and for Tirin began. For now it was all too confused. He wished for someone with whom he could keep council, and as his slender hand caressed the warm side of the tree, his thoughts moved to the one who had helped him plant it. But Thranduil was too far away.

Behind him he heard a light footstep and turned to find Haldir coming down the path. To say the other elf looked as awful as Celeborn felt would have been an understatement.

"My lord?" Haldir asked mechanically. "My second patrol found nothing. My brother Rúmil is still searching along the east road, but has found no trace of orcs thus far, nor of Lady Celebrian's entourage. Shall we set out again, or do you have need of me at the border?"

For the moment Celeborn passed over the young captain's question with a question of his own, "What of the search for Vardnauth?"

"No trace." Haldir's brown eyes were flat and emotionless. "In all the confusion over Lady Celebrian's disappearance, it seems he stole a boat and damaged the others to prevent pursuit. Naturally he is being pursued regardless."

"And you do not wish to be among those chasing him?" Celeborn's gray eyes were hooded, but probing all the same.

For a moment Haldir seemed to lose his composure, his hand gesturing sharply towards the woods around them. His voice broke with strain. "Vardnauth murdered my father in cold blood! He betrayed all of us. He attacked those I have sworn most in my life to protect — leaving Tindu so stricken by grief and terror she cannot sleep for fear of nightmares and will not speak to us for guilt. Orophin is so changed, I almost do not know him; he alternately talks of revenge, weeps for Adar, and begs that no one leave him alone. Rúmil is nearly worse, for he will not speak at all anymore… I begin to fear I shall lose them all to Valinor, as we lost Naneth… How can such a night ever be left behind?"

The elven soldier stopped, knowing he had said too much.

"And with all that you still do not want to bring him to justice?"

Haldir's voice was quiet. "Aye. For with all that, what I would mete out to him would be vengeance, not justice. If he stood in front of me at this moment, I would gladly cut him into pieces for the carrion birds— Thus I cannot trust myself on such a hunt." He looked sadly up at his lord. "There are already too many actions in this family that have been wished undone."

"I understand. And I thank you for your candor, Captain Haldir," Celeborn said deliberately.

Haldir did little more than bow his head in half-hearted acknowledgement. It was clear he understood that it was his father's role he was being offered, and it was equally clear his mind was busy warring over whether he wished to continue his parent's legacy, or whether it was arrogance to accept such a position at all.

"Go see to Tindu and your brother," Celeborn told him gently. "We cannot risk adding more losses to this nightmare. Send me word if you need any extra medicines or help."

Haldir bowed. "My thanks. But I think only time will help us now…"

"Perhaps," Celeborn agreed, and his hand strayed to a silver chain about his neck. At the end of it dangled a hollow pendant which housed two locks of golden hair. One matched his wife's tresses, and the other…

"Are you sure —" Haldir started, and hesitated, knowing it was not his place to ask. "Are you sure you need nothing more, sire?"

The Sindarin lord smiled an empty smile. "As you said, Haldir Tirinion — only time."

Chapter 25

Departing A Little Wiser

May 12, Year 7 of the Fourth Age

Lothlorien

For a long while, elves, human and dwarf sat in marked silence. Tindu looked as frail as an autumn leaf, barely clinging to her native tree. Raking up the past had taken its toll.

Feeling an overwhelming swell of pity for the woman, Aragorn nonetheless needed the end of the story. "I imagine he escaped."

"Yes," she said softly. "For a while search parties were sent after him. He was too dangerous to exile — he had to be kept here in Lorien, under lock and key. One pair of trackers managed to catch up with him in Calenardhon, or what is now Rohan, but by that time he had learned how best to use his new powers. Only one of the elves returned from that search, bearing the unmarked body of his companion. It proved Vardnauth's skills were not only fit for torture. Then it became too dangerous to track him further — both because of his powers and because of the orcs and Easterlings which were filling Calenardhon." She took refuge in a faintly lecturing tone, rather like Elrond describing the lineage of Isildur. "When Eorl the Young launched his attack upon them, battles wracked the province. There were many debates about what part the elves ought to play, if any, but we had troubles enough on our own borders. At last Eorl and his horsemen succeeded in driving out the enemy. The original Gondorian population of Calenardhon were all but decimated already, and in gratitude Steward Cirion granted the entire province as a reward to Eorl and his people. The Eorlingas remain there to this day. And when the dust cleared, we could only assume that Vardnauth had perished in the chaos. We searched no longer."

"There was no reason you should have," Legolas pointed out. "You seem to take more blame for this than is your due, Tindu."

She gave the ghost of a smile, "Perhaps. My crimes were those of ignorance and inaction rather than deceit or rashness. And that I did not listen to Tirin." Her eyes grew shadowed. "I rue not what I did so much as what I allowed others to do. The greater crime, mayhap."

Gimli snorted into his beard, his stout arms crossed. "Say it how you please — you didn't try to take over Lorien, and you didn't attack Lady Galadriel," (this particular crime the dwarf took greatly to heart), "and you most certainly didn't stab your brother. No need to grow dark and morbid over it."

Tindu chuckled a little. "You will not remember me, Gimli, for I watched Galadriel give you her gifts from afar, but I thought then as I do now: if only elves had realized the value of dwarvish plain speaking, then our relations with your people would have fared the better. Fear not for me. I am neither dark nor, I hope, morbid. I've lived the past years under the watchful eyes of three nephews who, in spite of their own sorrows, never allowed me to linger in mine." Her eyes grew soft and fond as she spied Rúmil coming back alone from the scriptorium.

Aragorn's own memories of Haldir validated that claim. He did not dare bring it up, for he knew after Tirin's death the loss of Haldir at Helm's Deep must have been a terrible ordeal, but he felt a sudden stirring of understanding. Things about Haldir and his brothers that had never been explained. He was glad to know it.

Then Rúmil joined them and the tale seemed firmly at an end. "Orophin is busy with the last of the crates."

"Is he alright?" Tindu asked.

"Oh, aye. He slammed a few things around, but then one of your big atlases of Arnor came off the top shelf onto his head and he sat down hard. Such accidents demand a joke, as you know, and you can't joke when you're being moody."

"What did he say?" she asked, amused.

"Something to the affect that it was a good thing hobbits were so small, or getting concussed by Arnor would probably hurt a lot more."

"Classic Orophin."

Rúmil snorted. "Sheer nonsense, if you ask me."

"Why do you think he never does ask?"

"Excuse me," Aragorn asked, interrupting, "what sort of atlases do you have?"

Rúmil hastened to explain, "Tindu is a cartographer, after a fashion."

"When we were young and foolish, Tirin and I used to travel Middle Earth — he for the adventure, and I for the geography." She smiled a little, looking with particular mischief at Aragorn and Legolas. "We were as strange a pair of younglings as ever failed to avoid a bar fight in the Breeland."

Legolas snorted.

"'Twas my fault for asking foolish questions of a brigand, and in our defense Tirin paid for the mess he left behind. But we did a fair amount of work before Tirin settled down to be a respectable married captain — elven lifetimes being what they are, we could afford to wander for a few hundred years before accepting adulthood. Much of the modern history in our libraries I wrote down around that time, and I drew up a collection of atlases from our travels for the benefit of the Lord and Lady. When Lorien grew closed to outsiders, Tirin still had friends and sources outside the wood willing to bring me news of changes, so the maps are rather more accurate than most." Tindu flushed. "I'm sorry, that is vanity speaking, but I am insufferably proud of my atlases…"

Rising, Aragorn began to thoughtfully examine the mounds of papers and books of elven writing piled in the cart. "What do you plan to do with all this, now that you are leaving?"

"Take it with us. Though I do not know what good it will bring across the sea."

The king's hand brushed gently over a leather bound volume entitled 'History and Lineage of the Northern Dúnedain'. "I was thinking along those lines. It seems a shame to lose all this." He thought for a little while. "Lady Tindu?"

"Yes?" She was standing now, her head tilted a little as if she were trying to read his mind.

"Might I offer these a home in Gondor?"

The woman inhaled slowly, her eyes suddenly shining. "Would you have a use for them?"

This time it was Gimli who snorted. "He'll bury himself so deep in your scribbles, his wife won't be able to lever him loose of them. The lad's got an affinity for elvish books, though how he comes by it I'll never know."

"His father transferred it to him," Legolas laughed. "And he is rapidly imbuing Eldarion with the same love. Lady Tindu, you could not hope for a better home for all your books."

Tindu's hands were almost trembling with eagerness, "Please… please take them! They are yours and welcome, if you will truly read them." Her eyes met those of her nephew, who seemed to understand her delight, "It will not pain me so much to leave if I know I have not worked in vain."

Shaking his head, Rúmil put his hands on his aunt's shoulders. "As if you could doubt it, melin waani nin," he chided her, and she smiled at the pet name. "Come then. It is many miles to Gondor, and we still need to finish loading. I'll go tell Orophin to stir himself."

The mention of Gondor's distance seemed to stir Aragorn as well. "Yes," he said, "and we must be leaving at once." Legolas rose and Gimli knocked his pipe clear. "When you arrive in Minas Tirith send word to me through the guard and you will be admitted. After that you will be welcome to stay as long as you wish, or receive help on your journey to the Havens. It would be the least I could do in return for this gift. Until then, namárië, Tindúvalorien."

"Namárië, Elessar Telcontar," Tindu replied, bowing. "It has been my great pleasure to meet you, even if I regret the circumstances. Be cautious. You now know who the enemy is, and what few things will stop him."

Aragorn nodded once. As if of one mind, all three companions turned and set off through the trees, sensing the eyes of the historian upon them until they disappeared from her view.

"Perfect," Gimli scowled blackly. "So, we aren't facing your typical bloodthirsty assassin with delusions of ruling the world — ho, no. That'd be too dull for you both! No, you had to find a villainous elf with powers of mind control to butt your heads against."

In spite of the grave truth behind the dwarf's words, the human and the elf laughed.

"Are we frustrating you, Gimli?" Aragorn chuckled.

"No, the crazed villains I'm coming to expect. It's the fact that we're poised to run all the long way back to Minas Tirith, and I've just run from there."

"Do not mistake us, we are incredibly grateful that you did, Gimli," Aragon told him seriously. "There is no doubt things would have gone much worse had you not arrived right at that moment, my friend. And only you would have undertaken such an apparently impossible task for us in the first place."

"Well…" the dwarf grunted in a relenting sort of way.

"Besides, you've always told us you loved to run!" Legolas smiled wickedly. "I, for one, would not so much as dream of depriving you, melin waani nin."

Aragorn almost choked at the reuse of Rúmil's teasing pet name.

"WHAT DID HE CALL ME?!" Gimli thundered, as Legolas sprinted on ahead with a silvery laugh.

"You really ought to consider learning elvish," Aragorn said mildly.

"Oh yes," the dwarf said sarcastically, "The Princeling and I reading elf poetry together for a grammar lesson, with him laughing his yellow head off at every word I say. I can just picture it."

So could the human, and it was all he could do not to start laughing in his friend's face; Gimli had endured enough on his behalf already.

"I'd sooner have my teeth pulled with a pair of fire irons, and I won't be gotten round, laddie. What. Did. He. Call. Me."

"Eh… 'My dear goose'."

And then the human was off, running lightly to catch up with Legolas, with a red faced dwarf hot on his heels. At this rate, they would be home in no time.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\

May 14

Southern Gondor, Battle Line, Southron Side

After nearly eight hours discussion of military maneuvers, and numbers of men, and what exactly the fighting capabilities of mûmakil were in narrow ravines and forest land, most young men would have become stir crazy. Halda, however, was not most young men. In fact it appeared to the others in the tent that he had not so much as blinked ever since taking his stand behind his queen's chair.

Beneath the surface his mind moved rapidly, listening to all that was said and analyzing it for his own benefit. General Ingem was looking as decayed as ever in the torchlight, and he was obviously hiding extreme nervousness. Halda couldn't blame him. He knew Mavranor retained the old warrior solely for his ability to follow detailed orders to the letter and for his lack of personal ambition. He was a puppet, one that she could set in motion from a distance.

Only at the moment they were not the least bit distant. They were in the middle of Ingem's hidden camp in a maze of gorges within the borders of Gondor itself, a place so dangerous at the moment as to reveal the interloper to be either foolhardy or brilliant.

It was well known that every scheme the queen ever attempted was personally planned and, frequently, orchestrated by her. If she could not lead her troops physically into battle, she could at least analyze the terrain on her own and outline every skirmish of the campaign, and the more important or complicated the plan, the closer she needed to be in case adjustments were required. But though Halda had known this — none better — even he had not expected to be roused in the dead of night and whisked away by his queen and her entourage in this way. Granted, it was doubtful her own palace guards, let alone her enemies, knew that she had ever left.

Mavranor's hands were gesturing at points on the map before her, the orange torchlight sending spider shadows waltzing through the ink ravines and out upon long stretches of wooded hills. "This will cause them to fall back. My scouts say there has been erosion here, making their only possible retreat here." She sketched an x above a narrow cove. "When your men arrive, the Gondorians will be surrounded on all sides."

Halda's dark eyes were watchful, recognizing an macabre glint in the queen's eyes.

"They have taken a few prisoners, milady," Ingem croaked, his voice pulled from mothballs for the occasion. "Do you desire a similar capture on our part to trade?"

Her thin lips curled cruelly, "I never trade, Ingem. It is worthless." Her finger came down to caress the ridgeline of her chosen cove. "No. Kill them all. I do not want to see the grass for blood. They will know they are pitted against a foe to be feared."

Ice shivered up Halda's spine. Such hate. He did not care overmuch about the common people of Harad, but he could not help but wonder if it was actually in their best interests for her to be deposed.

Mavranor was speaking about lesser matters now, and Halda's mind took one more look at this new battle scheme. He contemplated, as always, if there was any use he ought to make of it. The queen had placed herself in a vulnerable position, the like of which was unlikely to occur again for some time, and for her to bring about such wanton— He blinked, the equivalent of shaking his head to clear it. There weren't enough people here for camouflage. If he acted now, it would be all too easy to discover him. For a long time his mind worked coldly over the question.

Then Halda looked at the queen — and for the first time since he had been taken into her service, his heart truly failed him. He was terrified. Aye, mortal man he was, and almost sick with it. Was he such as weak-minded fool that having come so far and labored so long he would now fail at the moment where the most might be accomplished? Would purpose be overshadowed by survival?

Yes.

Silently he had stood thus far, in silence he continued, and when the meeting was ended and Halda found himself back in his tent, he lay down and stared at the canvas above him. Silently.

Authors’ Note: I’ll bet you’re getting tired of these, eh? Okay, I was waiting to post until I had a day I could respond to your reviews first, but the day hasn’t come yet, and now I’m about to be leave on an expedition to fetch back my repaired car from the next state over (where I had to leave it when I smashed it)! Yay! Faced with the choice of leaving you with no replies and no new chapter, or leaving you with a rain-check on the replies and something to entertain you while I’m gone, I opted for the latter! Besides which, this might be a good chapter for you to read while I’m safely out of town… *wary grin* On behalf of Hannah and I, thank you for your wonderful patience! You are the best readers we could ask for.

Chapter 26

In Which Erynbenn Fights

May 15

Southern Gondor, Battle Line, Gondorian Side

Bartho had no sooner collapsed in a heap onto his cot when a messenger, bright-eyed with youth and importance, came walking briskly towards him.

"Valar above," he groaned under his breath, and Erynbenn smiled at him.

"It's probably not for you, my friend," the younger man murmured reassuringly. "Faramir knows you were out all of last night."

"It wasn't last night; the new recruits didn't smother me with useless questions until this afternoon."

"Captain Erynbenn?" the messenger inquired respectfully. "I come bearing orders from Lord Faramir."

"Thank you," Erynbenn nodded, taking the roll of papers. However busy Bartho and he may have been that day, Faramir was clearly more so if he could not deliver these orders in person. "You may continue about your duties," he added, when the messenger seemed to expect a formal dismissal.

"Where are you off to?" Bartho asked through a yawn, not bothering to open his eyes.

Erynbenn was perusing the instructions carefully. "I'm to take my whole company southeast, attack the Southrons' battle lines, next to Irin."

This was surprising enough for Bartho to crack one eyelid. "Irin was razed over a week ago."

"Not razed, just emptied, and the attack isn't for the benefit of the town, per se. Our scouts say the Southron line is weak there, and there is no access through to the gorges, where the bulk of the Southron army is hiding. Hopefully we can retake Irin and incorporate it into our own lines. Faramir wants to drive a wedge into their defenses — if we wait for them to move first, it could be disastrous."

Bartho smothered another yawn exhaustedly and readjusted his position so that the dagger hilt on his belt stopped digging into his side. "Well, then."

"Indeed. I'll see you in the morning, my friend. Maybe we'll have an actual conversation over breakfast." His eyes twinkled. Checking that his weapons were buckled on firmly, he picked up his cloak and paused to smile fondly at his companion, who had apparently fallen straight to sleep.

As he left their small corner of the garrison and strode out of earshot, Bartho muttered under his breath, "Be careful, friend."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Since the death of his first lieutenant, Malbeth, Erynbenn had been getting along with only Lieutenant Anto's help. He admitted it was foolish not to grant one of the other men the position, but he missed Malbeth and felt reluctant to replace him. Besides, Anto was an energetic young man and a good fighter. Had Erynbenn known it, Anto strongly reminded Bartho of what Erynbenn had been like in his youth.

The sun was some ways away from setting, but the sky was overcast and it helped to hide them as they neared the Southrons' lines. Erynbenn could not help but wish his company were better trained at keeping low and slipping through, rather than tramping over, the undergrowth. This attack would be difficult enough without the Haradrim hearing them coming a mile off.

"Lieutenant, pass the order to tread silently."

Anto already had, but he passed the order again all the same. "What is the matter, sir? I didn't think this was very dangerous — after all, they only have about a hundred men, compared to our company of twice that number."

"Better odds than that have lost in wars," Erynbenn muttered, noticing how much like Bartho he sounded.

They were rounding a curve of hills, the other side of which was the closest they would come to the bulk of the Southron army. There was a cove there that protruded into the maze of gorges to their right, but though it wasn't actually attached to them, there was a chance scouts may have been placed on the ravine wall between the cove and the gorge behind it. It was a time to be especially cautious.

They had only just passed the cove by and entered a sheltered dry riverbed when Erynbenn's scouts returned with word on the position of the enemy.

"You weren't able to get in amongst them at all?" Erynbenn asked.

"No, sir," the lead scout affirmed. "We only verified their front lines, and I counted approximately a hundred men, as we were told before. They await you just beyond the further stand of trees."

"Good. Lieutenant, separate out a contingent of archers and then pass the word to our right and left flanks. We will widen our stance to stretch the width of their line. The archers will remain in reserve, to finish the attack or cover the retreat. Everyone must keep low; the advance will be upon my lead. We have a clear, straight course, and I'd like for this to be as quiet and unobtrusive as two hundred running soldiers can be, understood?"

Anto couldn't help a small smile as he went to pass the word.

There was no sound for a long while as Erynbenn waited for Anto's return. It reminded him of the woods north of the Shire — the wakeful, watching silence of things crouching in the dark. Erynbenn blinked in surprise at himself, unsure where the thoughts of fell beasts had arisen. It made him uneasy…

"The men are in position," Anto reported softly, taking his stance behind his captain.

Erynbenn nodded once, unsheathed his sword, and left the cover of the underbrush and trees at a silent and deadly run. His dark hair rippled, a darker shade of the overcast day, and he sensed through the vibrations in his feet that all his men were following him.

They crossed the intervening space unchallenged and came to the further stand of trees. Just as he passed under the branches, Erynbenn straightened to full height and swung out his blade with loud battle cry. The rest of his company responded in kind.

The Southrons were there, crouching seemingly unsuspecting in the bushes. Erynbenn slew three before something began to nag at him. A fourth Southron swung his scimitar at Erynbenn's head and the captain ducked under it, bringing his own sword around and sheering through the scimitar's handle. The Southron dropped the useless weapon and made to lunge for Erynbenn's throat, but the Dúnadan's blade came up and his enemy caught it through the chest. Erynbenn backed up, his sword at the ready, and his mind still wondering what was wrong. There were cries — startled shouts — and the exclamations weren't spoken in Haradrim.

With eyes keen from years of hunting under trees, Erynbenn sought the problem, and began to see in the dimness black and scarlet turbans. Not a hundred, but rather hundreds! They filled the spaces between each tree, and everywhere he turned there were at least three to every one of his men. Another Southron rushed him and he stabbed them through the throat, leaping over the body as it fell in time to stab the next warrior in the thigh and send him sprawling. The ambushers had been ambushed in their turn. Now was not the time to press rashly forward, unless he wanted to lose two hundred lives with no gain.

"Fall back! It's a trap!" he yelled, sidestepping the down swipe of a long-handled axe like a scythe. Again he sheared the weapon handle in two, accidentally gouging his hand on the splintering wood. Ducking around a tree in time to miss a black-feathered arrow, he repeated his orders, "Fall back! FALL BACK!"

Erynbenn began his own steady retreat, still cutting down any of the enemy that came close, and never quickening his pace beyond that of his men. Gradually the Gondorian line withdrew, their numbers already fewer, and as the last of them cleared the line of trees Erynbenn called for the archers to give covering fire for their retreat. But no arrows came.

As the soldiers continued to hold an orderly line across the open meadow to their original attack position, Erynbenn called again to the archers to fire, and still there was no response. Couldn't they hear him? Then he saw that the Southrons had not remained mingled in amongst his men as they pulled back, as if they were afraid of being mistaken for a Gondorian target in the growing dusk.

They were being trapped again.

Even as Erynbenn caught sight of the still forms of his archers, lying amongst the trees, and even as he called to his men to change direction, a second line of Southrons sprang out of the trees behind them and opened fire with their own arrows.

Erynbenn's order came only just in time for his men to duck the first hail of arrows and put up their shields. There were screams as a few fell anyway, but Erynbenn grabbed Anto by the shoulder, "We must retreat back to the right! Pass the word to follow me!"

Blood was streaming from Anto's chin where he'd been clipped with a scimitar. He went instantly to obey.

The line of retreat was no longer orderly. The Gondorians fled, several more falling to the rain of arrows as they followed Erynbenn as he skirted the end of the archers' line and led them back into the cover of the dry riverbed. The Southrons pursued them hard, keeping close behind and engaging the Gondorians in the rear. Erynbenn's mind was wholly blank except for the one desire to get his men back to safety. He fought with the speed and agility only a Dúnadan could show in these latter days. His blows were quick, like the striking of a snake, and his hand-to-hand tactics depended mostly on his ability to dodge most of the blows aimed at him.

He had single-handedly dispatched eight Southrons when he turned and almost impaled himself on a scimitar aimed to stab him from behind. Trying to leap out of the way at the last second, he kept the blade from entering his heart only by a narrow margin, and then felt a harsh sensation of agony as the blade entered his side instead. The Southron howled in triumph, dragging his blade to the side so as to tear it free and doubly wound the Gondorian captain. His triumph was short lived. Too far away to stab his assailant, Erynbenn threw his sword in a flat spin sideways towards the Southron's neck and the blade sliced across the Southron's throat, sending him instantly down. Erynbenn gripped the scimitar and pulled it free, feeling the blood start to run thickly down his right leg. He could tell with a cursory look how bad it was, and he shuddered as he leaned painfully over to retrieve his sword and meet the next attack. The last thing he needed right now was a time constraint, but for him that was exactly what this was.

Keeping his left arm wrapped around his stomach and side in an attempt to stem the flow, he parried three successive blows towards his head and began to make his way through his men towards the front of the line. He had a bad feeling about the options he would have once they left the riverbed. Grabbing the arm of a passing soldier who still seemed unmarked, Erynbenn pulled him close and spoke in a clear tone, "I want you to break with the company. There's a branch in the riverbed ahead of us where a stream used to run out. It's too narrow for more than one man. Follow it until it turns south and then abandon it and return to Lord Faramir. Tell him what has happened; ask for more men. We will probably be surrounded by the time you find him."

The soldier nodded, dropping his shield as too cumbersome for his new task and removing his helmet as well, since it could reflect the light of the moon when it rose. Ducking low, the man vanished between the moving bodies and a little while later was running flat out through the narrower streambed.

Erynbenn's suspicions were confirmed as he and his men reached the end of their temporary shelter. The Southrons were already here as well. The arrows began to fall again, thinning their ranks even further, and for a single second Erynbenn was forced to choose. The choice was between sure suicide in a charge against a well entrenched triple line of Southrons, and possible death by backing into the cove they had passed before.

He chose the cove. Though it was nestled so close to the gorges occupied by the Southrons, there was no connecting passage between the two, and if he could only keep his men alive until Faramir came with reinforcements…

Grunting in pain as an arrow flicked past him, leaving his ear stinging and bleeding as it came too close, he began to lead the way into the cove. The men followed, running easily over the flat ground inside, and keeping a barrage of their own fire concentrated towards the rear to keep the Southron's from following them in. With such a narrow opening to the cove, the Gondorians were able to keep their enemies at bay.

Erynbenn glanced up anxiously, shaking a ringing sound from his ears. Sooner or later, the Southrons would place archers up on the ridge to aim down at their trapped prey. He could only hope that they hadn't anticipated *this* retreat as well; perhaps he would have just a few minutes reprieve to try and plan a defense.

Anto appeared at his side and it was a moment before the muffling in his ears parted to let his lieutenant's voice through.

"Captain, what are your orders?"

Erynbenn nodded, thinking fast, "Order one contingent to remain at the entrance and repulse all Southrons trying to enter. Get what archers we still have to find places where they can target the ridge in case of enemy bow-fire from above. Is there any cover to be had?"

His lieutenant squinted in the evening light, "Very little. Some trees, a few outcroppings of stone… Wait!" He pointed eagerly. "There is a large mound of stone back towards the gorge! We could take cover behind that."

Erynbenn whirled, feeling the earth move at twice its normal speed. It was his worst fear, fully realized. A mound of broken stone had no business just sitting there — unless it had been recently dug from somewhere. There, in the darkness beyond the pile, there loomed the open mouth of a tunnel. A tunnel leading straight into the cove from the direction of Mavranor's army.

"Dear Ilúvatar," Erynbenn breathed, and at the same instant the glint of steel and the sounds of Southron war cries began to echo through the tunnel, and on the ridge a crimson line of Southron archers stepped from cover, aimed downward, and opened fire.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Bartho was wakened from a deep sleep by the sounds of men hurriedly collecting weapons in the barracks around him. Shaking his head to clear it, he stood up quickly. Instinctively, his mind went to the first thing that such activity could mean and he ran quickly from the barracks towards Faramir's tent.

Inside Faramir was donning his own mail and rapidly lacing a leather vest over it. Beregond seemed to have been sent on an errand, so without an invitation Bartho entered and helped him buckle on his bracers.

"What is happening?" he asked urgently.

"You're supposed to be asleep," Faramir scolded distractedly. He noticed that Bartho was already fully armed, "So you expected this?"

"No, I always sleep like this; saves time when catastrophes intrude on my sleep. Where is Erynbenn?"

"At best, trapped in a cove east of the gorges. If he follows that old riverbed to its end, that'll be his only retreat point, unless Mavranor is so stupid as to have let him reach the end before her, which would be unlike her. We may yet have a little time if he can hold the Southrons outside the cove until we arrive. At worst…" He trailed off, clasping his dark green cloak at his throat and buckling on his quiver.

Bartho didn't need to be told the worst. When Faramir left his tent and called his select band of reinforcements together, Bartho was at his side, and Faramir didn't even try to send him away.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

The darkness was almost complete, but the overcast day had turned to thunder, and the flashes of lightening showed the Southrons their targets. Fire arrows too were launched at the trees standing in the cove, turning them into brilliant torches and shrinking what little cover there was to be had.

Erynbenn was standing over the body of one of his own archers, ignoring the steady agony from his side and stooping to take arrows from the dead man's quiver to fire across at the Southrons at the cove's entrance, trying to break open a way of escape. When the quiver below him ran out, he found another body and repeated the procedure. His heart was sickened at how easy it was becoming to find such resources.

He watched with senses deadened by pain and sharpened by adrenaline as his men fell by tens and twenties around him. Those who weren't shot down from above were slain in close combat with the Southrons coming through the new tunnel. For a moment he was fighting in a small cluster of five other Gondorians. Then, at his side, one man fell with two arrows in his back. Another stabbed a Southron through the chest, only to be stabbed in turn when the death of the Gondorian who'd been behind him left his back exposed. The fourth killed several Southrons before he was slain in turn, and then the fifth was gone, lost somewhere in the smoke and shadows.

Everywhere his men were faltering, falling, and being trampled under the feet of the Southrons. It was purposeful, wholesale butchery. The dark shapes danced and leered at him in the orange firelight, and thunder shook the whole cove. Erynbenn felt a shock of fresh pain as a Southron sliced his scimitar across the length of his forearm, and the Gondorian bit back a scream. A little way away he saw Anto trying to fight with his sword in his right hand, now that his usual left hand was disabled. The young lieutenant took an arrow high in the left shoulder and went down.

With a yell, Erynbenn parried only two strikes before stabbing the Southron in front of him in the chest. Running with sudden energy across the gap between them, Erynbenn swung his sword viciously at head height, killing the Southron instantly before a further blow could fall on Anto.

For a moment the captain met the eyes of his lieutenant, still lying on the ground. He offered a hand up and Anto accepted, only to let go immediately when Erynbenn nearly fell over with the effort.

"Captain!" Anto cried, staring in dismay at the blood that seemed to coat Erynbenn's entire body.

Erynbenn stood hunched, leaning against the side of one of the few trees that wasn't burning. "I'm alright. We have to break out — get the men away from here… they'll be killed if we stay down here."

Anto looked around wildly, seeing so few emblems of the white tree and so many scimitars. "Sir, let me get you to safety, you can't keep fighting like this!"

Erynbenn couldn't help a chuckle as he pushed himself back upright. "Safety? No, Anto. Not even if it was to be had. Come, perhaps we can break an opening on the ridgeline —"

"No need," hissed a voice suddenly at their side. A Gondorian slipped from the shadows, his unwounded body proclaiming him to be a newcomer. "Lord Faramir has taken the north ridge, Captain. We must collect the survivors and order them up that side before the Southrons realize the arrows from that direction are killing their own men!"

With haste, the captain nodded and acted. When Anto looked towards him, he was already gone, calling loudly, "Gondor, follow! Up the ridge! RETREAT!" He ran. His long legs stumbled among the bodies, but he kept going. His whole body quaked with pain, but he pressed himself straight through the middle of the mêlée, yelling to his men to follow. Amazingly, no arrow found him, and no Southron seemed inclined to stop him. Perhaps they thought their archers on the north ridge would finish the foolish Gondorians.

As the ground sloped upward, he saw men coming after him in ones and twos, but blackness unrelated to the night was narrowing his vision and he knew he could not make it much further. When at last he collapsed, gasping with pain, he had the small satisfaction of seeing Faramir's men hiding invisibly amongst the bushes, laying down accurate fire as the remnants of the Gondorians followed Erynbenn's call.

Smiling a little, as the rain began to fall and a trickle of blood curled from the corner of his mouth, Erynbenn's eyes closed.

Chapter 27

Fatigue

May 16

Runda Garrison, Southern Gondor

It was technically morning, but the sky was still dark and the rain was still pouring down. Faramir had brought back his own men safely, but the fate of Erynbenn's company was heavy on his heart. For a long moment he stood outside the healer's rooms at the back of the barracks. He didn't want to go in.

Pushing aside his own feelings, he entered, going towards the far end of the row of cots to where a large man sat hunched at the side of a battered captain. Bartho's hand was resting on his friend's slowly rising and falling chest. The blood on his hands from where he had lifted Erynbenn's body was dried now, but he had long since forgotten its presence. His dark eyes were even darker than usual.

Faramir gazed sorrowfully down at the captain. Though Erynbenn, being partly Numenorean, was many years his senior, he had always been more lighthearted than Faramir and thus seemed younger. It felt strange to see him there, barely alive, his eyes closed and his body swathed almost completely in bandages. The fact that he was still breathing at all was a testament to his own strength and to Bartho's stubborn refusal to let him go.

For it was most certainly Bartho who had pulled his friend through. When Faramir had felt sure he would have to draw back without discovering what had become of Erynbenn after his last brave rush, Bartho had gone alone down the slope until he found him — just as the Southrons realized how Faramir had tricked them. When the healers were too occupied with other needs to finish their work on Erynbenn, Bartho had stepped in and taken over. He hadn't left since then.

"Bartho?" Faramir whispered. "Is he not awake after all, then?"

To his surprise, Erynbenn's eyes opened. "Define 'awake'," he whispered briefly. He was fighting to remain lucid.

"Impudent, isn't he?" Bartho scowled, causing Erynbenn to smile fondly up at him. It seemed about the only movement he could make while his weakened body struggled to replace the blood he had lost.

"Do you," Erynbenn asked haltingly, "need …my report?"

"Even if I did, I wouldn't ask for it now. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you alive," Faramir said. "Don't worry about it; Anto's told me most of it, and the rest can wait."

"Anto," Erynbenn breathed in relief. "Good. How many more?"

Faramir let out a silent breath. This was what he'd been dreading. He knew how responsible Erynbenn would feel. He had felt such sadness and guilt himself once before, realizing that a single charge had cost every soldier's life but his own. It wouldn't matter that this whole trap had probably been laid by Mavranor personally; wouldn't matter that, under the circumstances, any survivors at all were sheer miracles.

Noticing his expression, Bartho grimly took the task away from him. "Seventeen survived, counting you and Anto."

"Ah," Erynbenn said, his body seeming to deflate a bit. "Seventeen out of two hundred…"

"It would have been less," Bartho said, "if Faramir hadn't used the woods to such advantage. He took the northern ridge before the Southrons even knew he was there. If not for him it would have been no survivors out of two hundred, landing me in a particularly bad situation. Or what was I supposed to tell Melima if you were killed?"

It was a remonstrance, a jest, and a reminder at the same time. The mention of his wife seemed to strengthen the younger man a little. "My thanks, Lord Faramir."

"My pleasure, Captain Erynbenn. You'd best get some more sleep."

The Dúnadan obeyed promptly.

Bartho followed Faramir outside to talk for a few minutes.

"What do you plan to do now?" Bartho asked. "This was about as good a disaster as you could hope to define with the word."

"Though, of course, you won't be telling Erynbenn that," Faramir countered. All he got in response was a single headshake. "I'll agree, we were soundly defeated, but that happens, and always more frequently than I would like. Erynbenn won't be ready to take the field for several months."

"True. He should be up and limping in about a month, though."

Faramir stared. "A month?"

"He's just resilient enough and foolish enough to push himself to it, yes," Bartho grunted. "It doesn't really matter. I'll take on the few of his men who can still fight."

"Thank you. If Mavranor can now get her men out of the ravines in this direction, we'd best draw our line back and regroup. I want a solid position, even if I have to retreat to get it."

"That's wise," Bartho agreed, but he scowled blackly. "I don't like retreats."

"Believe me," Faramir assured him, setting off through the rain towards where Beregond was awaiting him, "no soldier does."

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

May 18

Southern Gondor, Battle Line, Southron Side

It had rained that morning, turning the ground into muck. The sky hung low, dark and heavy with the promise of more rain soon. There was a distant rumble that vibrated the air.

The smell was horrible.

The sight was unutterably worse.

Halda looked about, his face as closed as a shuttered window. The Gondorian lines had been pushed far enough back over the past three days that it was safe for Queen Mavranor to come survey the remains of her clever scheme.

As she picked her way between the corpses, her red dress stood out against the gray mud and dead faces like a sadistic laugh in an empty room. Indeed, she was smiling to herself. She was giddy and almost completely unguarded with delight. It was revolting.

"A masterpiece," Mavranor breathed, and Halda jerked to see her suddenly within speaking distance. "Imagine them cringing in the garrisons from the terror of the Southron Queen. I wonder if in their minds I am as young and deadly as I once was…"

"You are still deadly, milady," Halda said automatically, swallowing the hoarseness that wanted to come. "Such pitiless destruction hardly needs magnification."

He felt the slice of her eyes as she gazed at him. He knew he had been foolish. He had let a shade of his utter loathing for her creep into his voice.

Mustering every ounce of servility he could find, he added, "It was a unparalleled stroke of genius, milady. Such a total annihilation of an entire company like this — it is easy to see that the benefits you will reap in fear will far outstrip even the welcome extermination of these parasites. The skill and secrecy that you applied here are beyond the reach of such feeble minds as any of your humble servants." He bowed, grateful to escape eye-contact.

Mavranor smiled, satisfied. She turned again to survey the grassy floor of the cove and its gruesome carpet of bodies, tangled together in death. A cold wind blew. She lifted a veined hand to shield her eyes from a sun that wasn't shining.

They made a strange pair, standing together. One still youthful, dressed in sober black, his shoulder-length dark hair wound into his turban and his brown eyes veiled. The other old, clothed in painful scarlet, her gray-shocked midnight hair whipping about her. One strong, the other withered. One the mistress, the other the servant. One enraptured, the other sickened. Only their bronze skin matched.

"You are right, Halda, as always." She checked to make sure he was properly flattered by the rare compliment. "Only one aspect of this did not satisfy me. The unexpected arrival of their reinforcements. I wonder how Ingem failed to tell me that such a warrior had been placed at the head of these armies. Elessar is dead; who then is this replacement?"

"Faramir, second son of Denethor, heir to the Stewardship of Gondor until the reinstatement of the king, and now Prince of Ithilien," Halda rattled off. It was his duty to know such things.

"Ah, yes," the old queen whispered like a hiss. Her lips were stretched invisibly thin and Halda was parenthetically reminded that snakes do not have lips. Mavranor turned to look at him. "A lesson in power, Halda. Cut off the head, and the body will die. If Elessar was only a part of Gondor's head, the rest can be summarily removed as well. Perhaps this very night…" With a teasing chuckle, she moved away.

For a long minute Halda was left staring off towards the Gondorian lines, but then his reverie was broken as Mavranor called his name sharply and the company of Southrons and their queen left their brutal work behind.

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May 18

Southern Gondor, Battle Line, Gondorian Side

The oil lamp flickered ominously on Faramir's makeshift desk. There was increasing word of saboteurs loose in Gondor cutting off the army's supplies, including essentials like food and oil. If Kopairin had not somehow avoided such problems, he probably would have been using a candle and not a lamp at all.

Beregond let the tent's flap close with a soft slap as he entered. The sight of Faramir working in the lamplight seemed to be bothering him, but Faramir let him stew for a while before 'noticing' his presence.

"It's just a bridle, Beregond," he murmured humorously.

The guardsman gave a sigh like a moan. "Exactly, my lord."

"You take issue with me mending my own equipment?"

"I wish to point out how many other, more important and less…"

"Dirty?"

Beregond scowled, knowing Faramir was laughing at him behind those gray eyes. "Without disrespect, you know what I mean."

Faramir did laugh then, though quietly. "If it makes you feel better, I have disposed of my written work for the evening." He gestured towards a neat mound of letters, communiqués, books and scrolls sitting on the desk. "This I do for relaxation."

"Fixing bridles?" The disbelief was palpable.

The Steward nodded, his quick fingers still moving surely as he began to oil the leather with a soft cloth, shining the bit and buckles. "It requires little exertion and less thought. It reminds me some small things can be fixed without bloodshed or loss of life. It saves for me a fragment of the sanity common men enjoy."

"'Common' men? Making you 'uncommon'?"

"No," Faramir shook his head once, "but I hold an uncommon position."

Beregond reached over to lift the pile of courier messages he'd come to retrieve, and for a moment Faramir thought he heard him mutter under his breath, "I beg to contradict", but felt he must have misheard. The guardsman straightened again and gave him the Beregond facsimile of what he'd begun to term 'The Eowyn Look'. He'd been so young when his mother had died, and Boromir's care of him had been a brother's and a fellow soldier's care, so it had not been until he had wed Eowyn that he had suddenly discovered the effects of mothering on one's behavior. Gone were the days of skipped meals, late hours, and overwork — or rather not 'gone', but protested loudly by a voice who truly desired his own health and happiness even more than he did.

In this case, he knew what Beregond was about to say.

"I'll finish this and then go to bed."

"Good."

"You'd best do the same."

"I thank you for the advice and concern, my lord, but I'd prefer to take the night watch myself."

Faramir sighed, polishing a little harder. "First of all, I don't think I need a round-the-clock personal sentry in the middle of camp like this, and secondly, you've had less sleep than I have. Do I have to order you to bed?"

"Do you, my lord?" Beregond countered.

For a moment they stared at each other. When it came to Faramir's well-being, Beregond's ability to disobey orders was legendary.

"No," Faramir sighed, giving up. "If you feel you must. But promise me you won't stay awake the whole night."

Grudgingly, Beregond gave in.

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Nulla waited until only the torches of the Gondorian sentries were glowing in the camp before he so much as blinked. Such an important assignment as this would normally have been reserved for the queen's Shadow. But the Shadow was absent. It was Nulla's chance to prove that Southron muscle and cunning were ultimately better than some death wraith of unknown origin, and of all the tests, this was one worthy of him. The Gondorians may have been engaged in a retreat, but it was a carefully calculated and organized retreat, and it seemed whoever was responsible for the sentry line and camp watches was doing his work well. The torches that marked the sentries were spaced at intervals of sixty feet all the way around the perimeter.

On the one hand the amount of killing that would have to occur to even get into the camp, let alone to the Steward's tent, would have demanded more men, but Nulla was an assassin worthy of his knife. Extra men meant extra noise, and killing brought attention of the worst kind.

In one hand he carried a stout seven-foot stake, like a staff, and a three foot stake, both carved to attach to each other. In his other hand he held the end of a length of black cord. Carefully he felt the old tree beside him and found one of the lowest branches was brittle to the touch. Tying the cord to it, he threaded the invisible line behind him as he slipped forward, never rustling a leaf in passing, the stakes held clear from dragging on the ground. Occasionally he would guide the cord around another tree trunk to keep the line taut and untangled. When Nulla settled at last into a light crouch not ten feet off to the right one of the sentries, he smiled grimly to himself. It was time to see just how skilled these Gondorians were in their duties.

He gave the cord a sharp jerk and from the opposite side of the sentry's line of vision, the branch parted from the tree with a loud crack. The sentry, completely startled, swung to face the noise, putting his back completely to the spot where Nulla was sitting. Surging to his feet like a springing taerg, Nulla's hand shot out once, catching the hapless sentry on the side of the neck. The man went soundlessly limp, but was caught under his arms by the Southron before he could fall.

Taking the long stake, Nulla slid one end of it up inside the back of the sentry's mail shirt and inside the back of his helmet, bracing his neck. Sliding the smaller stake in through the short sleeves, he attached it inside the mail, crosspiece-like, to the middle of the first stake and let the man's weight drive the long stake into the ground. Within a single minute, the unconscious sentry was propped like a macabre scarecrow at his post, presenting a convincing enough picture to the other sentries or to anyone who might have observed the line from a distance.

Nulla was already gone, melding with the friendly shadows of night, using sheer stealth to evade the next three sentries within the outer circle. His eyes were alert for clues. No one had been able to say what manner of tent would be used for an important Steward. He had assumed that it would be something ostentatious, but as he looked between the rows of tents, they all appeared exactly the same.

He forced himself to think. Was there nothing to be told between them? The answer came suddenly and simply. Of all the tents, only one had a sentry standing on guard right outside the entrance. The Gondorians' cleverness may have disguised the tent itself, but their ingenuity had ultimately failed.

For several minutes he waited, biding his time, as several soldiers passed on patrol, and then as a dangerous looking, stern-faced general nearly twice Nulla's size strode by, casting suspicious looks about him. For a moment the general paused outside the door of the tent Nulla had identified.

"Beregond?" he rumbled, keeping his voice down. Good. So the Steward must be asleep inside.

"Yes?" the sentry seemed to start awake from a half doze.

"Didn't Faramir say last night he didn't want to be coddled like an infant? 'Hang up your sword and go sleep like a normal mortal' were, I think, his words."

"I don't like it."

"Of course you don't."

With that the general moved on, leaving the sentry still trying to keep awake at his post.

Nulla waited again until the sound of footsteps faded, then he slid his way carefully around towards the rear of the tent. It was not wise to attack even a sleep-deprived sentry from the front, and Nulla was determined to misjudge no one at this stage. The risk was too high.

He circled unnoticed, sliding into place with cold satisfaction. Giving one last look around the corner at the back of the sentry's head, Nulla sprinted forward in a silent and deadly strike.

A knife blade flashed, the sentry turned at the last possible second, and the weapon missed the jugular vein entirely, digging in lower towards the chest instead. For a moment the sentry gasped, his hand reaching reflexively for a weapon, and then Nulla withdrew his knife with a jerk from the wound and struck the man across the throat with the side of his other hand. A second blow, the body went limp, and again Nulla caught his unconscious victim in a strong grip, not wanting the impact of the body falling to give him away. Nothing in the camp stirred.

With a quick move, Nulla slid the sentry into the concealing shadows in the lee of the tent. His bloody knife slit the leather ties that kept the tent flaps closed and he entered, waiting inside for his eyes to adjust to the full darkness.

There was only one occupant in the tent, sleeping on an ordinary light military cot, a single blanket pulled up to his chin. A table and chair stood off to the side holding papers, ink, and an extinguished lamp. There were a couple chests of different sizes, a set of sleep-clothes laid on the lid of one, a bow and quiver and a bridle rested on the lid of another. A sword was laid across the foot of the cot.

For the briefest moment something seemed wrong with the picture Nulla was observing, but once so close to his goal his ambitious thoughts began at last to cloud his view; at this moment hesitation was for weaklings. Walking across the room at a low crouch, he came up beside the sleeping man and whipped his knife around and down in one swift, heavy killing stroke.

A glint of light from the waning moon at the tent's open flap reflected off something just above the edge of the blanket. Even as the knife came down, Nulla realized what had been wrong with the room.

The Steward's weapons had been laid aside for the night, but not his armor.

Nulla's knife struck chain-mail through the blanket and glanced off, and faster than even Nulla could move, the Steward jerked awake and rolled reflexively away, off the opposite side of the cot.

The assassin leapt after his prey, driving the knife into the retreating man's leg twice in quick succession, but knowing the blows had not penetrated far. He would have to work fast to still make the night a success.

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Faramir was a light sleeper, but even he could not instantly pinpoint a single unknown attacker in the dead of night without a second's worth of searching. His reflexes had carried him off the cot the instant he'd felt the blow to his chest, but distracting agony came as a knife cut him twice on his unprotected thigh before he was fully out of reach.

Gray eyes flickered back and forth, trying to cut through the darkness, and then suddenly he closed his eyes completely. Keen senses came fully alert as the distraction of trying to see was removed, and there came clearly to him the sound of quick breathing, the subtle changes in the air as a body moved to avoid the cot, the scuff of a foot in the earth, and then the warmth as his own breath rebounded like an echo off something that was far too close to his face for safety. His eyes flew open and his hand shot out, grabbing the thing most immediately to hand: his cleaned bridle. Swinging it out by the reigns, he heard the iron bit strike the assassin's wrist with a crack, followed by the knife clattering away as the assassin hissed a curse.

But almost immediately a second blade was pulled from the man's dark clothes and Faramir felt another stab of pain as the knife glanced off the back of his skull. Again he side-stepped and this time remembered his own dagger, thrusting it towards the center of where his ear had said a man was standing. There was a low grunt of pain in response. For the first time he saw the dark face of his attacker, but the wound would not be fatal.

Seeing the blade coming towards him again, Faramir dropped bodily out of the way, landing painfully on the far end of the cot and causing it to tip upwards at the other end like a see-saw. With a clattering tumble, Faramir's sword slid from the foot of the cot, down the length of it, and into his lap. For a precious moment he struggled to untangle the sword from its sheath, moving his feet to tip the cot over in the process, tripping his assassin up.

Then a face was flying from the gloom, a blood covered knife was inches from his throat, a feral snarl was filling his ears. Faramir jerked his blade upright in the rapidly closing space, and felt instantly a stab of pain — first as the pommel of his own sword was driven bruisingly into his abdomen by the force of the assassin impaling himself on it, and then as the assassin's knife stabbed into his shoulder in a last reflexive attempt to take his life.

For a moment the assassin stared dumbly at him, his face working horribly. Then he drew back from Faramir, pushing himself off the blade that had mortally wounded him. Staggering already in weakness, the assassin rushed out of the tent.

Chapter 28

Only A Steward

May 18

Southern Gondor, Battle Line, Gondorian Side

Bartho had finished his rounds of the camp — a self-imposed duty he had taken during the Gondorian retreat to make sure that falling back did not mean a loosening of sentry duty. It would be just like Mavranor to use even this aspect of the attack to her advantage. He was backtracking now to his own tent, but just before he entered he knew something was wrong.

He looked back along the row of tents, searching grimly for the problem, and found it instantly. Beregond the Sleepless was not at his post.

The Dúnadan did not pause to rationalize why Beregond's absence might be harmless — few things in life had rational, harmless answers — and that meant… the worst. As he ran down the row he drew his sword and dagger.

He was only a dozen feet away from Faramir's tent when a figure burst through the entrance, and a short glance assured him it was no Gondorian. He did not even blink when their eyes met, nor when the knife he threw caught the stranger in the throat. He did not pause to look at the body as he thrust aside the flaps of Faramir's tent with a loud slap.

It was dark inside, but he went to the lamp on the table and lit it, hearing the ominous sounds of labored breathing over by the cot. The wick flared into orange light, revealing Faramir on the floor. He was pale, bleeding from half a dozen places, and his face was dripping with sweat as his chest heaved with adrenaline. His bloody sword sat across his lap.

"Hello, Bartho," he said tonelessly.

Bartho said nothing, but took Faramir's uninjured elbow and helped him, limping, to the chair. For an anxious moment he busied himself looking for fatal injuries, answering Faramir's attempted protests with a brief, "Hush." Silently he thanked the Valar that the stabs were not that serious, though definitely in need of care. If there was one thing the army could not afford to lose just now — he didn't like to finish the thought. In particular he noticed the place where Faramir's jerkin had been sliced open at the chest, revealing a matching score across the chain mail beneath it.

"His first attempt. It woke me," Faramir answered his unasked question.

"I'd imagine it would." He cast the Steward a measuring glance. "Good thing you were sleeping in your mail."

Faramir's smile was more of a grimace. "A habit I acquired from a hard-headed doomsayer. 'Saves time when catastrophes intrude on my sleep.' I did not expect them to try that."

"Didn't you?" Bartho was binding the stab wounds in Faramir's thigh to prevent further blood loss.

"No, in all honesty. I'm only a Steward, Bartho. Hardly the proudest and strongest of men." Faramir's tone was wry.

"You're only— oh, never mind." Bartho scowled blackly, muttering, "The lie's entrenched; why waste time? And you'll need a healer for these wounds. Assassins too often love to poison their blades."

"Did he escape?" Faramir asked, calmly ignoring the last comment.

"No."

"Where is Beregond?"

"I don't know yet— you sit down," Bartho's tone changed mid-sentence as Faramir tried to rise. "I'll find him." He left the tent, returning a little while later dragging Beregond's still form.

"Beregond!" Faramir exclaimed, rising anyway and kneeling beside the guardsman, performing the same check that Bartho had made on him. Beregond was still alive, though badly hurt and pale as a ghost. "I am so sorry, my friend," Faramir whispered softly.

In the middle of the night, the entire camp found itself in a controlled uproar. Healers were called for Faramir, Beregond, and a sentry who had been propped up, unconscious, at his post at the perimeter. The assassin had been identified as a Southron and a search for other accomplices had stirred everyone from their sleep. The soldiers were to be found in anxious groups, speaking in low and serious tones about the incident, until military discipline seemed entirely forgotten.

Bartho reinforced the sentry line, but left the rest of the men alone. They would sleep after Faramir emerged on his own two feet to reassure them.

As he waited outside the healer's tent for just that, Bartho watched the men lingering nearby. He snorted under his breath, almost with satisfaction, and took a sip from his water flask. "Here's to Lord Denethor: may he be writhing in humiliation over the worst misjudgment of his life. And here's to Queen Mavranor: likewise.

"'Only a Steward'…" And he laughed outright.

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May 20

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Duurben was being followed. Again. The pursuer was as persistent as ever, only more patient than Duurben had come to expect. They'd been walking and stalking, respectively, for almost an hour. The man found himself again in the middle of the old quandary — should he object, or defend himself, or should he play along? He berated himself for the debate. If the prince was able to play chase in the corridors even with his father absent and his mother dying, surely Duurben's duty was to meet him halfway. Surely that was the good and right and honorable thing to do…

"Honorable," he whispered, and felt like he was choking on the word. He was suddenly too tired to play games. Almost too tired to keep walking under the weight on his shoulders. He slowed to a halt and his entire body slumped in defeat. Valar above — such a defeat. What if the traitor (and that was the only way he could let himself think of his nephew anymore) injured or delayed Aragorn? What if some new threat broke through his guard to take the life of the queen? What if…?

"YAHHH!" Eldarion's war-cry sounded and he leapt from concealment, crashing into Duurben's lower back.

So lost in thought, the guardsman was taken completely unaware. Reflexes slowed through too many sleepless nights sent him crashing forward with barely a move made to cushion himself. There was a painful sounding thud as armor collided with stone flooring, and a grunt of pain from Duurben as an old injury in his shoulder protested the jolt that ran all the way up his left arm.

For a moment it seemed almost too much effort to stand back up again. So much easier to just stay on the floor. The stone was cool beneath him.

"Captain Duurben?" a small voice asked. Eldarion's blue eyes, round with shock at his own handiwork, came within inches of Duurben's tired green gaze. "Can't you get up?"

"Yes," Duurben murmured, and the boy backed up as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Pain shot through his shoulder again, so he decided not to press his luck and he remained sitting in the corridor with his back against the wall. How had that happened to him? Was there anything left of worth in his pathetic body?

"I'm sorry."

"What?" Duurben turned, a little bewildered since he'd almost forgotten Eldarion's presence. The prince was crouching in front of him, knees bent, sitting on his heels, with his elven mother's and Dúnadan father's influence clear in the ease with which he balanced in that pose. His dark hair was hanging partly in his eyes and his expression was worried.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Hurt. Oh, Ilúvatar, yes it hurt. "You didn't hurt me, your highness. I — stumbled a little, that's all. I'm quite alright."

The dark head shook in denial, disturbing the dust motes in the air. "You're not alright. You're holding your shoulder all stiff, and there're bruises under your eyes."

"Those aren't bruises," the man replied, hoping to deter the child's interest.

"Oh." Eldarion nodded wisely. "So you can't sleep either?"

"No." So much for deterring him.

"I don't sleep well most of the time. I have nightmares that there's someone in the girl's room who's going to hurt them, but when I go look the only person in there is Lady Eowyn. Then sometimes I think someone's in my room and I'm too scared to get out of bed." His gaze turned shrewd. "Tantur ran away, didn't he?"

Duurben jumped. "How did you know?"

The boy gave a one-shoulder shrug. "He used to keep watch around Naneth and Ada's rooms, but he's not there anymore, and Pippin said," here he borrowed the hobbit's accent, "Tantur was thoughtless slug of a man and left you here alone. Why did he run away?"

Ah, now there was a question. "I don't know, your highness. He didn't tell me."

"He wasn't a good nephew for you, then. Can you ever get a new one?"

"I'm afraid not, my sister's been dead for several years now." Just as well, considering recent events.

"It'll be fine, though."

"Fine?"

Eldarion nodded emphatically, moving so that he could sit cross-legged on the floor. "Yes. You're a soldier — a very brave one — and it'll be fine."

Duurben chuckled mirthlessly. "What if I've let my nephew do horrific things? Is that something a brave soldier is supposed to do?"

The boy's nose scrunched up in distaste, "That's Tantur's problem. He's all grown up now — he's supposed to figure those things out himself. Besides, it's not like you're his ada or anything. You're just his uncle."

"I'm responsible for him."

"That doesn't mean you can make him do things like a puppet. Captain Eression is sometimes responsible for Ada and Ada does just as he pleases."

"This is different," Duurben almost growled.

"Why?" Eldarion countered.

"It merely is, your highness. I'm not only responsible for my… family, I'm also responsible for yours. My duty here is to protect you from people who want to hurt you. In letting Tantur hurt your mother, I — I doubly failed."

The boy stiffened suddenly, and too late Duurben remembered that Eldarion hadn't been told the name of the man responsible for the queen's sickness. He remembered the times Tantur had cheerfully teased and played with the prince and his sisters. Too late.

"T-Tantur… Tantur put the snake in Naneth's room?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small and vulnerable.

The shocked words twisted like a knife in Duurben's already aching heart. "Yes," he said hollowly, and turned his face away from the stricken lad like a coward. "Yes. And I let it happen."

He waited for the condemnation that was sure to follow — he almost willed it to come. It could not possibly equal the guilt clawing scars in his own soul.

Then there came the feel of a slender hand reaching up to rest against his cheek, the pressure turning his face back towards the prince until their eyes met once again.

"I won't let you be sorry for things you didn't do; but I'll forgive you for everything else. Will that help?"

"What?" The word cracked in the middle.

"Will that help? Make you stay, and not worry anymore, I mean. Ada calls you his true friend, and he never lies. You shouldn't wither all up just because Tantur was 'a slug of a man'; that takes something bad and makes it worse. Please?"

Something warm began to fill Duurben and lift the lead weights from his heart. Too full for speech, he nodded once in answer. He could feel his chest tightening as worries, fears, despair and forgiveness jumbled together in his mind. Against his will, his eyes began to blink rapidly.

"It's not bad to cry, you know," Eldarion whispered.

And the walls broke. Awkwardly, his breath hitching painfully in his chest, Duurben's whole body hunched in misery and he began to weep. There were many things worth crying for, but not the least was the loss of his nephew and the relief of forgiveness. If there was anything worth remaining for, it was Aragorn's friendship and Eldarion's love.

He felt an arm looped over his bowed shoulders and a hand patting him gently on the back. "See there," Eldarion murmured. "That's better already."

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Arien woke with a start. She was a light sleeper anyway, but particularly easy to awaken if her name were called, and she had a sixth sense that that was what had happened. She looked around the room, which was turning orange as the sun began to set. There was nobody there, except of course for Arwen lying asleep in her own bed. Or was she asleep…?

Sitting up, Arien's keen ears caught the sound of murmured speech, as if Arwen were conversing with herself. Anxiously the handmaid rose and came forward. So far, even on nights when the queen was particularly ill, she had not succumbed to delirium.

Arwen was actually asleep, and she was weary enough that her eyes were closed, but she was speaking aloud in her dreams, as if her husband was standing next to her. Since she was talking about her children, Arien assumed her name had be said in connection with them.

"Eldarion watches everything you do…" she murmured, a smile crossing her pale lips. "Do you remember when you and Legolas taught him to cross rivers using rope?" She chuckled weakly. "I know it… it wasn't your fault. It never is. You came back so wet… I thought even Legolas would catch pneumonia. You… you had told Eldarion to let you explain it to me, so I wouldn't be frightened, and the minute you walked in he came to me, trailing mud, and said, 'Naneth, I drowned. But not really.' Yes, I know, Estel, it was obvious he hadn't drowned, but you have to understand how mothers think.

Her words were coming almost fluidly, so different from her tired speech when she was awake. "So you say Eldarion reached the middle and became frightened and Legolas went to get him. Only he was used to elven rope and his knots did not hold… he… they felt the rope loosen and Legolas grabbed it just in time, but when the rope went taut again with their weight it snapped you across the chest." She paused, her head turned a little feverishly. "You really do attract injury, dearest, and Legolas…. Only you two… out of a simple lesson in outdoor survival, you got a broken rib, him bruises and a sprained wrist, and Eldarion came out right as rain… other than being drenched on a cold day. And of course, the moment the healers left, Duurben descended, wanting an explanation… you shouldn't keep slipping your guards, Estel… I… I know you're a ranger… I know you need to s-slip off… Estel? Estel, where are you going?"

She began to toss in her sleep, her all-too-thin hands gripping at the coverlet. Her dream was changing. "No… no… come back! Keep it, Estel… you have to keep it… it was mine to give… mine… you can't let them frighten you, Estel… can't fall to it, or… he prevails… you don't have t-to… to take the Ring for him to win… don't have to… give up… can't… Estel! Estel, don't… come back!"

Arien was shaking the sleeping woman hard now, trying desperately to wake her and fighting tears. The battle Arwen was reliving was long in the past, but her current battle seemed no less desperate.

With a startled sound between a moan and a shriek, Arwen's blue eyes flew wide. "Estel?" she gasped, her hand flying to the empty place in the bed, but her husband wasn't there.

"No, my lady," Arien said quietly, "it is me. His highness hasn't returned yet."

For a moment Arwen's eyes closed, but when they opened she appeared more lucid. "I know," she said through labored breathing. "I'd know if… I'll know."

"He'll bring back the cure, my lady," Arien said, dabbing at Arwen's forehead. The Lhandlas was keeping the poison at bay, but only so far, and each dawn robbed the queen of a little more life.

"He may," Arwen agreed. "He may not. He will… he will try. He is Estel… he will always… try. But he will come back to me… no matter what."

"He loves you dearly," Arien said, her eyes bright.

"I know it." Arwen smiled. "It is… a great thing to know you are loved. Make certain you don't let me keep you from… your own… I would hate to hoard you."

"You could never be so selfish, my lady," the handmaid reassured her. "But I'm afraid that, well… he is more afraid than I am."

"Mm. He, you say? You've… been holding out on me. Can you…" Arwen paused for a steadying breath, but seemed alert and interested. "Can you tell me who…?"

Arien hesitated only a moment, then blushed and looked away. "General Bartho."

"Aha, I see. A good choice, though I don't think many maidens would notice… such a one."

"How could they not? He is compassionate and kind and humorous and intelligent and brave… what is there that is so repulsive?"

Arwen's chuckle was musical. "Obviously you're quite taken. Good. I think he is considered too gruff, and his scowl… isn't charming enough … and he will not praise without truth. Estel tells me a woman was unkind to him. Be wise, Arien, for both your sakes. Don't let his hurt become both your hurt."

"Aye," Arien smiled softly, then blushed even harder. "He sent me a letter a few days ago."

"Oh?" Arwen shifted on her pillows. "Private?"

"It purports to be an inquiry after my health, but… well…"

"Read on," the queen smiled, genuinely pleased and interested, so Arien went to her cot and removed an envelope from underneath the pillow.

Sitting again she unfolded the short letter and read aloud, "'Lady Arien, I write to you hoping that you've sufficiently got over the attack that you and our queen recently fell under. Particularly I wanted to make sure you had recovered from the personal injuries you received at the filthy hands of that…'" she paused and grinned a little mischievously, "I'm sorry, my lady, it is dwarvish, and not very complimentary."

"You know what it means?"

"Yes, I'm afraid, but translated it sounds even worse, so I'll just skip that bit." She traced a finger along and found her place again, "'I was pleased to see that even the most horrible and inscrutable of villains is still a prey to the old art of vase-clubbing. My gratitude for your help that night is still fresh in my mind. I am not used to being this pleased at having escaped death… Erynbenn is quite beside himself with nonsense as he tries to encourage the cause of my abnormal good humor.

"But I'm afraid of boring you, and truly the only reason for this letter is that I was forced to leave Minas Tirith so immediately that I was unable to make sure you had survived without ill effects. You said you were quite fine, but I happen to know you are good at mincing the truth when you think there is work you are supposed to be doing. Make sure you don't leave off sleeping now that there is no one to order you around like an arbitrary tyrant. Thank you again, too, for the scarf you gave me; it made a very serviceable bandage and it cleaned up well when I was through with it. I am making sure not to lose it. With my regards to the queen, and my hope that she is improving, I remain your servant, Bartho."

Arien refolded the letter and looked down at it, her slim fingers caressing the edges of the parchment. "If I learned anything from meeting him, I learned that all the things he wants most to say are squeezed between the lines. Such a short letter, and yet…"

"He is saying a great deal." Arwen agreed seriously.

"I'm still trying to decide what I shall write back. I feel like a lass again. Here I am, grown woman, quaking in my skirts lest he turn me away. I assumed no man would ever make me feel this way. I certainly assumed any man who did would be… well… different, I suppose."

"I had the same dilemma. Estel was wearing a tattered, mud-spattered coat and smelled of orc, for one thing, and for another he didn't have the right ears. At least… I believe that's what was troubling Adar at the time. I was having a hard time concentrating on his objections…"

Together the women laughed, the warm health of the handmaid's mirth twining agreeably with the silvery trickling of the elf's laughter, and though Arwen was still smiling after her weak chest would not let her laugh anymore, Arien felt her heart constrict painfully.

Hurry home, Elessar. The Evenstar is waning fast…

Authors’ Note: We’re about to leave on a trip to go visit friends and relatives in Illinois, so we won’t be posting the next chapter for at least a week. We’re sorry to leave you on such a dramatic note, but we felt this was preferable to an out-and-out cliffy. *smile* You are all amazing people, and we thank you for your patience! - Sarah and Hannah

Chapter 29

Orcs Again

May 29

Queen Mavranor's Palace, Harad

As much as Halda had disliked the chill of Gondorian nights, he would have traded the current Haradic heat for any one of them. Especially since Mavranor, suffering from an age she could not fully escape, had chosen the warmest room in her entire palace in which to devise her final battle plans. Unobtrusively as possible, Halda wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried to concentrate past the slight heat buzz in his ears.

Mavranor was becoming short-tempered lately. Her trained assassin, her Shadow, had failed to send her any further reports since the deaths of Elessar and his family. It was inconceivable that he would have forgotten to notify her of his movements — and yet it had planted the distant thought that perhaps he was hiding something from her. She did not like to admit that any of her minions might be stronger or more power-hungry than she. Mavranor prided herself on her ability to read the faces and thoughts of men.

The queen's reaction to this suspicion was to draw her circle of confidence almost closed. The only one of her servants she confided in any longer was Halda, whom she said repeatedly was above reproach. In her reiterations of this, Halda wondered if there was true instability lurking beneath the surface. In either case they were here alone, planning together the last master stroke that would cripple Gondor.

Mavranor laid out a map which she had obtained from General Ingem during her visit to the Southron battle lines. It was of the miles of ravines and gorges she had already used to such great affect. While this operation was even more vital than that one had been, the danger was too great for her to personally attend to it, and she was determined that her instructions would be documented to the letter.

"A maze," she murmured, and had she been speaking of her own twisted mind, she could not have described it better. Her dark eyes flicked back and forth below age-thinned brows, busily seeking hidden coves, points of advantage — her mind turning over facts and tactics faster than Halda could ever attempt. "We lure them… we drive them… but first we plant devices of my own design. Pits to swallow fifty at a time. Ravine walls to crumble onto their heads. Spikes hidden in tall grass to impale their feet. No inch shall be left safe, and we shall close them in from behind like rats. When they reach the other end — if troops with no king and no steward can — they will find only ultimate death…" Taking a quill, she began to make notations, using her own personal cipher to keep the notes from prying eyes. At times she would ask Halda's opinions about the workings of the traps, and where to select the materials, and who he knew that was clever with such machines.

Mechanically, fighting the heat, Halda advised as he always did. He helped to augment the diagrams, pointing out when the terrain was too awkward for some of the devices she wanted to place. He almost relaxed, for her mood was safer than it had been in months, and then he berated himself for losing his focus. This was not the way to keep alive.

Over the course of the entire day they did not even pause to eat, and when the sun began to sink, the entire plan was drawn up and Halda had dutifully copied the map with its notes, still in cipher. The copies were dispatched immediately, with certified orders from the queen to General Ingem. He would be waiting for them. The cipher was one known only to Mavranor, Ingem, and Halda. Not even the Shadow used it.

The warmth in the room was leaving, but still Mavranor stayed on for nearly another hour. She gloated over her cleverness, drank half a bottle of wine in celebration, and then, still perfectly sober, she rose. "Can you smell it, Halda?" she whispered.

He looked up at her. For the first time in his entire service he had neglected to stand when she did and now he was startled at this new perspective of her face. The darkness swallowed her hair and left her pale face floating in the chill candlelight. The whites showed all around her dark pupils. Her chin jutted out. She was fearless.

"Smell what, milady?" he asked.

"Rubble. The death of our enemies. Glory." Her lips parted as her breath quickened. "Ours."

"Ours?" An unexpected inclusion. It unsettled him, somehow.

"Yours and mine, Halda. Together we shall govern a kingdom larger than Middle Earth has ever known. Sauron will be but a weakling in our shadow. I will be the head, and you my faithful hands. There is no one else who knows — no one I can trust now. But you… you are a part of me, aren't you? My very soul in a second body." Black eyes like burning brands struck his face, testing him for worthiness.

Perhaps it was his awe of her in that moment that hid his heart from her and cloaked his secret desires. Perhaps greater powers intervened. His gaze met her unflinching, and she smiled with pure satisfaction. When she gathered up her skirts and departed the room for her bed, he felt his entire body drained of energy. He couldn't move, couldn't think. How had he ever dreamed he could deceive this woman and topple her? Her very presence had sapped him of life. The candles guttered.

Fumblingly he started to roll up the original copies of the maps. Mavranor wished for them to be locked away in her secret archive, a room only known to herself and to Halda. No one would be able to find them. Because of the cipher, nobody would be able to read them even if they were found. Gondor's army would follow the course Mavranor had laid out for it. Minas Tirith would fall.

And Halda would… rule? Untold power? At her side? His head swam and his chest constricted, the world suddenly spinning about him as he gasped for breath. 'My very soul in a second body'… no… no… darkness closing in… strange stars… an extension of an insane soul? He could feel her fingernails in his arms, pulling him with her… He was losing his mind at last… His recent dreams rose into the silence. There were cities burning out of the corners of his waking eyes. A lure before him… a pit beneath his feet… spikes in the long grass… 'I do not want to see the grass for blood.'… Where was he?… Who was he?… Her very soul in a second body… A second body… Nothing but a second body…

"NO!" he yelled, his fists clenching. The roll of parchment crackled in his grip, the only sound in the wake of his denial. "No," he whispered almost inaudibly. "I am… I… am…" his eyes flicked to the window and the stars outside. As he watched, an eagle flew out over the dark sands, free, in search of prey, and he fell silent again.

His mind, so fogged for so long, cleared. His old craftiness rose anew, and he felt he had reached the eye of the storm. It would be a fine thing to triumph and to die right now… with his mind solely his own and victory in reach. Perhaps he could smell something in the air after all.

The candle guttered a second time, reminding him of the lateness of the hour, and he took his seat again.

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June 1

Southwestern Border between Gondor and Rohan

"Easy Briak." Eression's soft voice brought the horse to a stop just behind the two elves ahead of him. They had had a hard two week ride and despite his best efforts to hide it, Eression was not sure how much more his weary body could take.

Elladan and Elrohir, for their part, had moved ahead almost without stopping. Their minds were completely consumed with reaching their sister and, though they thought Eression did not hear, he knew they chafed at the slower pace the human was forcing them to take.

Eression tried his best to keep up but at times he felt as though he was pulled along by little more than Briak carrying him. Still he did not request a rest from their hard ride and blinked away the threat of sleep often.

The Black Numenorean was frankly surprised that they had stopped now and, though he had made it a point not to speak to the twins during the ride back to Minas Tirith, he could not help asking about it.

"Is something amiss my lords?" His voice was raspy and he surreptitiously cleared it, groping automatically for his empty water flask. He had not asked them to stop when he ran out, in truth they were probably out of water as well and simply had not noticed.

"Perhaps," Elladan answered distractedly. His eyes were half closed and he seemed to be listening to the sounds of the forest around them. Ahead, at the edge of the trees, the rolling grasses of Rohan spread out before them. This forest was wedged rather oddly between a pass of high rock walls; it was like being between two words: the mountains standing to their right and then dissolving suddenly into flat plains on their left.

A moment later Eression caught the sound of a rushing water nearby and decided he would have to swallow his respectful silence or risk losing consciousness.

"If we intend to stay our pace for a moment, I am need of water."

Elladan only nodded and dismounted shortly after Elrohir. He was wary, this Eression could see, and for the first time during their journey, it was not because of him.

Eression moved into the trees. Not surprisingly the wood became thicker the further from the path he moved, but as a ranger this hardly concerned him.

He also noted that rock ledges rose up as he walked further towards the edges of the pass. It did not take long to find the stream he had heard and it was the most welcome sight the man had seen in days.

Dropping down beside the flowing water, Eression plunged his flask into the flow…and stopped.

Standing quickly, Eression dropped his hand to his sword instead, the flask falling to the ground as he searched the trees around him. He had heard something… An ominous wind ruffled the dark trees and shrouded him in a cloud of rustling and scraping.

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Elladan motioned to his brother, and the two left the path as one. They moved away from the direction Eression had gone walking silently between the trees, following the ever growing sense of danger they had felt on the path.

Something lurked in this pass, of that they were certain, and if they did not find it first there was no saying when it would find them. Elrohir was tense, listening to the gentle whisper of wind above them turn suddenly harsh, as though it knew the danger which awaited them.

The two elves walked until they came up against a high wall of rock which blocked off the west side of the pass. Elladan moved slowly up to the wall, and placed a hand against the cold stone… something was moving… something—

"Elrohir! Run!"

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Eression strained his ears to catch a sound of what might be stalking him. There was an occasional rustle or a snap of twigs, but any small animal could make such sounds. No, there was something else; something close.

Then he heard it. The distinct steel sound of clashing weapons, echoing through the trees, and the screams of—

Eression was taken off guard when something large slammed into his back and he fell forward, hitting the hard ground and rolling quickly before whatever it was could find a way to pin him. He looked up into the leering face of an orc and knew at last what he had feared had been correct.

His expression suddenly fierce, Eression struck up hard against the creature's face, causing it to fall off his legs. Getting unsteadily to his feet, Eression turned in time to see several more coming from the trees. Quickly stabbing his first attacker, he whirled to fully meet the next bout.

As he slashed through the next two, Eression wondered vaguely how long these monsters had been hiding in this pass, and what or who they had been waiting to attack.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Elrhoir hit the ground hard as two orcs tried to pile on him at once. He heard Elladan scream a warning over the tumult of the creatures slowly surrounding them. Twisting underneath his assailants Elrohir threw a wild punch into the smaller one's face while he drove his sword into the larger. The smaller one recovered quickly, trying to grab onto Elrohir's hair. Twisting sharply, Elrohir got a hold of his short boot dagger and sliced it right through the orc's hand, wriggling at last from between the two beasts.

Upon getting to his feet, Elrohir saw that his brother was being weighed down. Fighting off four of them at once, he had already taken down three, but there were so many.

Elrohir was given no more than a brief glance to his brother before he was overwhelmed by another five, continuing the ongoing battle.

The orcs had come from the rocks at first, dropping down like wildcats, a few of them jumping too far and breaking on the ground below in their eagerness to take the elves down. Next they had materialized from the trees. It all seem too well coordinated — they had surely been waiting for something or someone else, but Elrohir had no idea what or who that could have been.

Quickly stabbing two in rapid thrusts, Elrohir spun on his heel to face the next, then jolted as he heard his brother cry out. Slashing at the third orc as he turned once more, Elrohir paused in confusion as he saw his brother falling beneath the orcs, a severe wound in his side and a dull look in his eyes. Elrohir was only vaguely aware of his own voice screaming Elladan's name.

Then he was running, he was moving with no apparent objective beyond reaching his twin, slashing down every orc who stood in his way. But before he could reach the other elf, he was overwhelmed by orcs from both sides. Taking advantage of his complete distraction, they took hold of his hair, his arms, his waist and hauled him back, laughing as he tried to throw them off.

"Find Morthgahk." The small one-handed one Elrohir had fought earlier was leering evilly at the elf now. "He'll be pleased with this catch; elves are ten times better than pathetic horse lords."

"What of this one, Gorshga?" A larger orc booted Elladan who did not react.

"He's finished. You can smell it on him."

Elrohir trembled from rage or grief, it was hard to tell, but it did him no good. The orcs had too firm a hold on him and quickly dragged him away through the trees.

"Shrakak, you go on to Morthgahk. I'll see to…I'll join you in a moment." Gorshga laughed as his fellow orcs moved away, leaving him in the glade with the dead elf. He realized he was very hungry, and there was no way he'd let the others in on his well earned feast.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Eression let out a enraged cry as he slashed down the final orc, his breath hard and painful against his chest. He had slain at least twenty orcs and surely more. It was fortunate that they seemed to come in smaller groups for he could never have taken so many on his own. He had sustained one cut across the back of the shoulder due to a crafty orc who had jumped him while he was preoccupied with several others. It stung, but Eression did not think it was poisoned.

Hardly letting his guard down, the Black Numenorean scanned the trees once more, keeping his blade tight in his hand, watching for more trouble.

But what finally he heard surprised him greatly. It was a group of orcs, but they were talking, laughing and jeering amongst themselves and did not seem to realize any battle had been taking place. They were just beyond him in the next line of trees. Then he heard a sound that made him freeze in his tracks.

A loud crack and a scream of pain that no orc had made.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Elrohir slumped to the ground, gasping for breath. He could not honestly say with what the orcs had struck him, but it ate at him like poison and it sent shocks of pain up his back.

"Ooh…" Shrakak mocked the elf, in a pathetic attempt at a pitying voice. "Does the elf not like my lash?"

Upon the last word, Elrohir felt the fiery pain strike him again. He gasped and gripped the grass beneath his fingers, trying to focus as everything hazed yellow.

The orcs had not bothered to hold him down, but now they were beginning to feel left out, and a few of them gathered around and took hold of the elf, dragging him to his feet just as the lash fell a third time.

Elrohir felt his whole world haze, his heart still crumbling as he fumbled for his brother. He could not focus, he could not see. The darkness swirled around him, and suddenly he was not here in the forest, he was in a dark cold cell… he was lost in his delirium.

The orcs voices only added to the confusion and fear. One touched his hair and he flinched away. The lash fell, he gasped, his hair felt wet, wet and sticky with blood. Where was Elladan?

Elrohir could not find anything in the dark and the painful lash fell again stripping his mind of reason. He screamed but not only in pain, he screamed for his brother.

"Elladan! ELLADAN!"

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

Gorshga crouched beside the still elf. He could not decide where to start — so many choices and it was the first time in his twisted life he had been able to make up his mind instead of fighting with his fellows for whatever he could get.

"Perhaps I will simply rip your heart out. No, or I could eat you more slowly…" Gorshga stroked the elf's hair with his remaining hand, then gripped it tightly in his gnarled fingers, dragging the elf's head up until he was staring into Elladan's fair face.

Gorshga leered into the pale face for a moment then, suddenly, his leer fell away as he was staring into a pair of fierce gray eyes.

Gorshga did not even get the chance to scream before his own blade was lodged in his black heart and he was lying twitching on the ground.

Elladan rose shakily to his feet, stumbling back against the rock wall and gripping his side where it was bleeding profusely. What had happened? He couldn't even remember. And where was Elrohir?

Then he heard it, somewhere through the trees, far away but close enough for his keen ears to pick it out. A name. His name.

"ELLADAN!"

Chapter 30

Arguments, Letters, and Mushrooms

June 1

Southwestern Border between Gondor and Rohan

Shrakak was too busy relishing the screams of his victim and liberally using his barbed lash on the Noldo elf to realize what hit him.

He felt the blade begin to pass through his neck, and then felt no more.

Eression sprang over the fallen orc, moving with fierce intent to the orcs holding Elrohir down. He dispatched all three before any of the others could react, the next thing his blade met was a scimitar, but after a brief fight he had taken down four more.

Two more came at him and Eression ducked under their blades, allowing one to decapitate the other and slashing down the first from his position on the ground. Rising again Eression was already moving to cut down an orc attempting to drive his blade into Elrohir's back.

Eression's blade was now black with orc blood and between the moments it had taken him to dispatch the orcs and the blazing look of fury in his eyes, he easily backed down the last few orcs who fled into the trees, leaving the glade silent in their wake.

Eression stumbled to the fallen elf's side, groping for a pulse. The human had not drunk water in a long time, he was worn and weary and that last battle with the orcs had taken it out of him, he had run up that hill and fought those orcs on pure adrenaline, but that was beginning to wear off now and as he turned Elrohir carefully onto his side, he hardly felt the strength necessary to carry the elf if it came to that.

"Come my lord, you must wake…we must find your brother…my lord?"

There was a long pause before Elrohir's eyes opened at last, his mind still lost in his own world, the sight of Eression swam in and out of his vision and he flinched back.

"No! NO! Please no! Leave us be just leave us! Elladan!" Eression flinched at Elrohir's words, he could not understand the elf's sudden insurmountable fear of him but it made horrible memories of a past he could never seem to forget come to mind.

"No, my lord please. I will not hurt you, you have my word, you are safe." Eression took the elf carefully by the shoulders leaning over him to see his back, the lacerations there made Eression's heart clench.

"No! Leave me! Let me go! Leave us please!" Elrohir was screaming again trying desperately to push Eression away from him.

Eression tried to move back at Elrohir's word, but was suddenly propelled back by a sharp blow to the face. Eression brought his blade up, ready for a fight and realized that it was Elladan crouching over his brother, his eyes blazing with such a deep hatred Eression could hardly stare into it without fear.

"You leave my brother alone!" Elladan shouted, clutching Elrohir's body to him with one hand, he pointed a bloody finger at Eression. "NEVER touch him again!"

Eression felt a cold lump settle in his stomach and though he was loathed to speak he felt he must explain his actions.

"Please my lord, I did not intend your brother any harm. You don't understand, he was set upon by orcs and— "

"I understand!" Elladan's voice had turned hard and steely. "I understand that you bring pain and fear to my brother's heart, and who knows what other craft you devise. I have seen betrayal, Captain, and I know its kind. Seemingly caring and loyal when beneath it lies a dark soul unchanged! You are one of a deceptive heart which is true to nothing but what will bring you gain in the end. The king can trust you if he wills, other men may follow blindly, but not I. I remember those dark days and all you did to prevent them! I remember your words clear as though they happened yesterday, you said that the orcs could do what they willed with us…" Suddenly Elladan's voice broke off, choked with a sudden emotion he had not expected, his voice dropping. "Deadly beasts without pity or remorse, with only reason to cause pain and you said they may do what they willed with us…and they willed to nearly break my brother's spirit and kill me in the end." Elladan's face became firm once more as he tried to contain the emotions which had sprung up so suddenly upon coming through the trees. The distrust which he had hidden for Aragorn’s sake could not withstand the shock of seeing Eression holding Elrohir down as his brother cried and begged to be left alone. "So I tell you again, captain, to leave us be, and stay away from my brother."

Elladan stopped at last. Leaning over his brother, he gently turned him so that he could inspect the other's wounds. Elrohir had lost consciousness and had thus missed all the words that had passed between his brother and the human, but Eression had heard them — every word. And they imprinted a pain so deep on his heart that it took his breath away.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

The air was only beginning to grow warm and the grass was very damp beneath his feet. Eression breathed in the cold air of the morning and felt instantly refreshed. The night had been hard, cursed with his own cold memories as he watched Elladan and Elrohir from a distance bandaging each other and speaking in soft reassuring tones.

Eression had not felt so like a villain in many years, but sitting there, far from the fire, alone in the shadows, so utterly empty in spite of his quenched thirst… He was Furnmorth's captain once more, and no redemption could ever reach him.

Neither twin had woken when he left that morning and for that Eression was grateful. He knew Elladan had intended to stay awake all night, but the wound he had sustained made his body's need for rest win out over his desire to keep a watch over the camp and an eye on Eression. Eression himself had stayed awake all night keeping watch for more orcs.

This was the reason Eression was out on the plains. His mind was fully occupied with the orcs they had encountered, for he had a terrible suspicion they had only met a scouting troop. Elrohir had mentioned to Elladan, loud enough that Eression managed to overhear, that the orcs had said they were taking him to another orc and had also made mention of horse lords. It left Eression with little doubt of why the orcs were stationed here. They meant trouble for Rohan, and someone would need to be sent to inform King Eomer of the impending attack as soon as possible.

So far, however, Eression had not seen anyone to send such a message, though he had walked a fair distance from the forest. He was starting back to the pass, considering the idea of letting the twins travel to Minas Tirith alone while he delivered the message (an idea he did not particularly favor as it was not what the King had wished), when he heard the sound of horses hooves just behind him.

He turned quickly and saw a group of Rohirrim on horses headed his way at a fast pace. They had clearly spotted him some time ago and he had been too distracted to notice.

Eression made up his mind not to move from that spot counting on the fact that he was alone and seemingly lost to preserve him from automatic attack.

When the Rohirrim reached him, they seemed wary, but not unduly concerned about his presence.

The one just in front of him, a younger man with dark blonde hair and a plumed helmet, spoke suddenly, directing his men to move back a pace.

"Who are you, stranger, who wanders in the dawn hours?"

Eression did not answer right away, he was trying to decide the best way to approach the subject, and for all that he was trying to decide whether or not to even trust this man before him.

"I am a Dúnadan, traveling together with two companions. We were traveling through the pass and were beset by orcs. All of us were injured in the fight and one of their kind spoke of attacks on the horse lords; we believe there may be a great many more and I have been searching for someone who might inform the king of these tidings."

Eression's answer was straight forward enough and seemed to throw the man entirely. He had likely not expected such an answer. "This is a time for strangers passing through our land, for only a month ago we saw strangers pass by, an elf and a man as yourself. Not a man gives warning of their passing in these days."

Eression easily caught the irritation in the man's comment. "May I ask to what manner of Rohirrim I am speaking?"

"Captain Theodran, leader of this Eorred. You say that there are orcs in the pass; that is something that must be seen to at once, but only if your words are true."

"My lord," Eression spoke carefully, his mind still on the comment Theodran had made about an elf and a man passing through, “if my words are not truth than I am a liar and a fool who would stand out in the dawn hours awaiting the wrath and rightly given suspicions of King Eomer's men, but if I speak in truth than you have not a moment to waste in suspicion, for what myself and my companions have seen gives rise to a fear that someone wishes Rohan severe harm, and you would do best to ride to your king's halls with all speed."

Theodran looked Eression in the eye for a long moment before he nodded. "Yes, you speak truth in that at least, ranger, and we will indeed speak of this to King Eomer. But first I see that you have something else you would seek from me."

Eression had to credit this Rohirrim with perception for he had indeed a question he very dearly wished to ask.

"This elf and man you speak of — were they alone in their travels?"

"They were not," Theodran responded. "There was another man with them, with the white tree of Gondor under his cloak. The elf was tall with golden hair and the man was dark haired and introduced himself as a Dúnadan such as yourself. They were traveling to Lorien, which, as the elf said, once housed his father's kin."

Eression frowned. It sounded to him as though… but no he must be imagining it. Surely King Elessar and Prince Legolas would not be out with only one Gondorian guard! There was no way in Arda that Duurben would allow such a thing… Unless he didn't know.

"I thank you, Captain Theodran, for your assistance, and if you are bound for your king's halls, I will not detain you a moment longer."

"You have my word we will relate all you have told us." Theodran gave a short nod before turning his Eorred back the way they had come.

Eression watched until they began to fade into the dawning light. He hoped that this would not cost King Eomer too dearly and that word would reach him in time. Then there were these strange tidings of an elf and a man. No, surely it was too impossible to consider.

With a final glance at the Theodran's men before they disappeared, Eression turned back towards the pass. He was certain that the twins would want to start again on their journey and despite how exhausted he felt, Eression was now very eager to return to Minas Tirith and inquire after his King.

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Lady Arien,

I've reread your letter several times and each time I am surprised at you for writing back to me. Not because I doubt you're brave enough to beard the lion in his den, especially when he was so forward as to ask after you... More because you have a sharp wit and I can't picture it choosing such a boulder-minded nay-sayer to join in conversation. Even the most genuine pity for my clumsiness couldn't be this determined. I'm then forced to decide you don't pity me after all, and find myself in a fine marsh of confusion. Women, as a rule, avoid me. I had concluded that whatever might once have appealed to them (and that was a very long time ago) has died out of me. What is left in this fine corpse to tempt you? Not my silver tongue, that is sure.

Where questions of what you seem to see in me leave off, questions of how I am to respond build up. I'm bad at writing letters (why then did I send you one, you ask?). I am bad at understanding people. I am even worse, if possible, at understanding myself. Erynbenn says that if brutal honesty works on everyone else, I ought to try it on my own head and heart. Troublesome young scamp — he grins at me cheekily, as if he knows the answer full well and refuses to tell — and he knows that, laid up as he is, I cannot revenge myself. Why I took up with him, I don't know. But perhaps he is right.

Your scarf is losing your smell, which is odd because I did not remember you having a smell. Perhaps it was a mistake to wash it, but I didn't think you'd like seeing it all bloody. I have a strange hope to give it back to you, and maybe when I do we can talk. Maybe seeing you in front of me will loosen my blasted tongue.

Until then, I want to ask that you keep writing for now, and I will write back when I can. I know I will miss it if you stop — and that is as brutally honest as I can seem to get just now.

Again: keep your strength. You are one of the few life-lines holding the queen to shore. One life in jeopardy is quite enough.

Bartho

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Bartho,

I appreciate honesty. In fact, I prize it above all else. Imagine (if it is not too foul) a pompous Gondorian tradesman telling you that you would be the 'ornament of his household' and he would 'prize you above all his wealth', all while fondling his jewelry and not meeting your eyes. Better someone who looks me in the face and tells me I'm clumsy. Is that enough reason for me to write to you? To say I was delighted to receive your letter would be so far understated as to be almost untrue. Was it presumptuous of me to send your letter along with the military dispatches? It was probably illegal. But needs must where Melkor drives, and I am tired of being the only one that I can speak to. My thoughts are all dark now. The sky droops closer to the horizon everyday and even the dogs and horses are fidgeting.

Shame on you for disparaging yourself in that unnecessary way! I shall be utterly insulted if you use such words to me again. In the matter of conversation: fewer words, if they are forthright, say much more than a thousand useless phrases.

I apologize for my impertinence, but I wonder who this woman was that you loved. I can almost picture her behind your words, but the picture could be a wrong one. I'm afraid I despise her; she did not treat you well.

The Queen is fighting still, perhaps even harder than ever. She has an inner strength that scolds me for my worrying. One thing above all she does not doubt: that her husband is on his way back to her. She will live to see him again, she tells me, and I find it inspiring and heart-breaking that she never assumes he will have the cure with him. 'He will try, and he will not leave me alone,' she says, again and again. Am I foolish and weak to be frightened? I love her. She is many things I wish to be and am not. Unafraid being chief among them. I pray Ilúvatar will see fit to spare her — for none of the rest of us can.

I yelled at a kitchen maid yesterday. She looked quite bewildered, and I hated myself for giving in to my own insecurity. It is fast becoming clear that there are many things I cannot control. This I also hate. At best, my world has been held together by the belief that enough work can solve anything, but there is work ordinary mortal hands were never meant to do. I must forget my pride before I become too irritable to withstand, too anxious to laugh with, and too hard to befriend.

Do you mind my telling you such things?

I did not realize I had a smell either. What is it? Please be kind, Sir Rabbit, and tell me it is not the odor of a mule.

Arien 

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

June 5

Edoras, Rohan

Merry was busy in the kitchen fixing himself a special treat for elevenses. Men didn't eat such meals, but whenever possible, Merry tried to make some just for himself. Today he had a beautiful sack of mushrooms, gathered specially on his last ride out with Eomer's personal guard. They had good-naturedly dismounted and helped him forage for them, even though not one of them wanted to actually try the delicacy he'd described to them. Oh well. More for him.

With brisk and loving fingers, he washed them, removed the stems, and laid them on a clean towel. Humming 'The Old Man In The Moon', he chopped the celery, garlic, and other things, browning them in the skillet and delighting in the sizzling sound and the smell of softening vegetables. Outside Edoras things were beginning to stabilize a little as Eomer worked tirelessly to reveal the deceptions that had divided the noblemen against each other, but all hobbits knew quite well how to take advantage of the calm moments as they came. Perhaps, Merry though, if this batch turned out well, he would be able to convince Eomer to try a few.

Expertly wielding a wooden spoon, he mixed the final ingredients of the stuffing together and began spooning them into the hollow mushrooms. While the miniature masterpieces baked in the large ovens, he cleaned up his utensils, his song changing to Bilbo's Bath Song, influenced by the suds climbing his arms. Noon sun turned the stone walls warm and orange.

He was just removing the pan from the ovens and leaning over to savor the aroma, when the kitchen door opened and Lothíriel appeared.

"Meriadoc?" she called.

"Bullroarer's Beard, fine timing I don't think," Merry muttered in exasperation, but when he turned around there was a ready smile on his face. "Yes, Lady Lothíriel?"

"Eomer needs you upstairs. Some report has just come in and I think he wants your council."

Merry cocked his curly head, bundling his precious mushrooms into a basket lined with a towel to keep them warm. "My council?" he mused. "Of all the councilors in Middle Earth, you'd think someone with better qualifications could be there to help him in these matters — so Frodo decides to leave the Shire and I weasel out his plans — so I cheek Lord Elrond and say I won't let the Fellowship leave without me — but honestly, my grasp of defense amounts to 'stow away on soldier's horse', 'see Nazgul', 'stab Nazgul in knee' — I'm less than useless except for pipe-smoking, feeding people up, and getting in over my head…" Suddenly he realized he was speaking out loud and he whirled around to find Lothíriel watching him with a smile twitching the corner of her mouth.

"Exactly, Master Brandybuck. I'll leave you to it, then."

Still carrying his basket, Merry pressed open the door to Eomer's study and found the king in close conversation with a young eorred captain whom Merry recognized.

"Good day, Captain Theodran," the hobbit greeted him, "I trust your new wife is well."

"Well enough, Sir Meriadoc," Theodran acknowledged, far too formal (in Merry's mind) for someone who wouldn’t even have been of age in the Shire.

Eomer seemed eager to get straight to the point. "Merry, Theodran reports meeting with two elves and a ranger near the gap. We have orcs amassing in the south, and though it may be they intend to attack Gondor, they are a threat to our borders."

Merry's insides twisted. His memories of orcs were vivid and horrible. "Oh dear," he said.

"Oh dear?" Theodran repeated incredulously.

The king ignored him. "The orcs we are prepared to handle, I think. There are still corsair spies and insurgents loose in my lands, but I think the marshals are united enough that this attack can be repulsed. What is of the greater concern is that we can do no more than retain our own lands."

"What more's needed?" Merry frowned.

"Gondor is in jeopardy." Eomer's mouth was a thin line and his brown eyes grim. "My spies report that Queen Mavranor is closing on her goal, and due to takeovers within Harad she has many more men than Gondor can put forth."

"Strider's fought worse odds before," the hobbit pointed out, thinking of Weather Top.

Eomer sat behind his desk and sighed. "Aye, but the communiqués from the lines are coming from Faramir, not Aragorn. Faramir is a worthy man and a very fine general (though perhaps I, his brother-in-law, say it as should not), but in starvation and against such odds and such an enemy, his soldiers need their king." He reached for a thick bundle wrapped in calfskin. "There is also this." The bundle was spattered with mud and discolored with rain, as if it had traveled a long way. "It was actually brought in by our courier line — being too large for the more secretive ways of travel. It's… well, you had best judge for yourself."

Merry's mind, which was a keen one and more analytical than he imagined, centered immediately on the package. Undoing the knots, he unwrapped the thick scrolls of parchment contained in the calfskin and unrolled the topmost of them. Perhaps the scent of mushrooms emanating from the basket had loosened his tongue; unmindful of either the king or the captain, Merry let out a long, low whistle. The pages held only cryptic paragraphs of description, with columns of numbers running alongside, but the hobbit recognized — as had Eomer — their tremendous worth. "Beruthiel's outdone herself this time, hasn't she?"

"Aye, Meriadoc. I can only hope obtaining this hasn't revealed my spies in Harad to Mavranor; but even if it has, it could mean the difference between victory and defeat for Gondor. A worthy gain, especially when the last warning came too late to prevent the assassination attempt. Queen Mavranor is planning to move immediately, and if Gondor gets no aid—"

"Nonsense, Eomer, " the hobbit retorted briskly, slapping the next unrolled parchment on top of the first with a flick of his small wrist. "What Gondor needs are these numbers. There's no cause to worry yourself to death over soldiers who aren't yours when you have plenty already on your plate. No cause mustering before the beacons are lit, you know that full well. But I'd send them along as fast as can be managed — 'late' is very seldom better than 'never' in these cases."

Theodran stared in befuddled horror at the outspoken creature, glancing at his king to see what the reaction would be to having a hobbit summarily ordering him about. To his astonishment, Eomer was merely nodding, as if he'd been craving such advice and was now only double-checking it for flaws.

"You are right. There is no good in dividing my forces; even if I were of some help on Gondor's southern border, it will be of little consequence if their northern border falls to the orcs. Hhelm knows which are the swiftest horses in my stables. There are a few shortcuts my couriers could take, now that the snow is melting, that should deliver these to Gondor in a matter of days. In the meanwhile it would be best for me to personally see to these orcs. I am weary of Enedhwaith forever plaguing us with vermin. Theodran, you will help me in that. If they can be killed swiftly, I may yet have aid left over to send to Gondor. And there is nothing to prevent me from sending them the supplies they are lacking. Kopairin still has open lanes of travel that can be put to good use."

"A good point. You have a wise head on your shoulders, Eomer — when you're not too tired out to use it. Excellent," Merry nodded. "Shortest council session I've ever had to sit through."

Eomer started wrapping up the scrolls again and smiled, "And to think people accuse hobbits of being slow!"

"Slow to change, quick to common sense. Now have a mushroom before they get cold — my lord," he tacked on as an afterthought.

Chapter 31

Vardnauth

June 5

Near Rohan's Southeastern Border

They were drawing near, he knew they were close, and it was time to set his men closer to the perimeter.

The Corsair before him tried to look dangerous while not appearing threatening. Vardnauth ignored both pretenses, his mind was fully consumed with the prizes coming to him.

"I want the elf and the man," Vardnauth said clearly, his hoarse voice clipping the orders out like steel sheers through paper. "And if there is another human still with them, bring him as well. Keep yourself secluded; do not allow them to know of your presence until it's too late for them to turn back."

The Corsair, Brorgahn, nodded curtly, but inside he was wild with anticipation. Ever since the deaths of Miksa and Ringa, Brorgahn had risen to a high position and he had not yet failed Vardnauth. Now was a chance to truly prove himself in the elf's eyes.

"Go and do not fail me, Brorgahn. You were there when Ringa died. Imagine yourself in that place before you presume to change my plan in any way."

Brorgahn nodded quickly before turning and leaving the room. He didn't know how the elf seemed to know the things he did, but if it was time to capture the two prisoners once more, he would hardly argue with the Shadow.

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Legolas dropped down from the tree looking all too pleased with himself. "I told you not to so doubt the ability of elves, didn't I?" Legolas was barely concealing his grin and the only thing that was keeping him from bursting out laughing was that he had yet to look directly at the dwarf.

Had he done so his expression could never have been so contained. Gimli's face was the picture of sullen irritation and his short arms were crossed in the most absurd manner, giving him an almost childish appearance.

"I didn't say I doubted it." Gimli tried to sound off-handed. "I simply said that tree looked a wee bit tall."

"'Oh we should choose another tree, for this one is so tall not even an elf could reach its top!'" Legolas quoted in a mild imitation of his friend.

"I didn't say that in so many words— " Just then Legolas made the mistake of looking at Gimli and the inevitable laughter burst forth, forcing Gimli's next words to be spoken in a shout over the elf's merriment. "If you— IF YOU would only listen when I was speaking to you Master Elf, you'd realize that I was speaking figuratively!"

This sent Legolas into another stream of laughter only stemmed by Aragorn's amused interuption.

"If the two of you are just about finished I would like to have Legolas' report."

The elf chuckled at that and at last turned to the man on his left.

"I am sorry my friend, I shall not be so distracted again."

"That will be the day." Gimli gave no show of hiding his comment. Legolas ignored him.

"You were right Aragorn, we're straying a bit off our original path, but Kopairan is up ahead and we should reach it by nightfall if we move quickly."

Aragorn nodded. He didn't know why, but he felt uneasy here, and the idea of reaching Kopairan by night was an encouraging one; they were close to home.

"Good. Then we'll— " And then he heard it, hidden in stealth, yet clear enough to his trained ears and Legolas' elven ones to catch.

"Gimli!" Legolas alerted the dwarf by name and the dwarf quickly pulled out his axes. Legolas trained his bow along the trees, searching for the source of the footsteps they had heard.

"They hide their passing," Aragorn whispered in the Grey tongue. "I cannot make out their number." Legolas nodded and then as one the two friends turned around and fired their arrows into the trees behind them. Like a stick to a hornets nest this one attack sent the whole forest spiraling into chaos. Suddenly there were Corsairs materializing out of the trees, blocking off the path behind the three companions and cutting off escape through the forest.

Every one of them was armed to the teeth and every moment brought more of them spilling from the forest and pouring onto the path.

Aragorn had battled tremendous odds in his time, but not without the ability to recognize when he was outmatched. No matter what mastermind had drawn this noose around them, it was drawn, and there was no escaping it. Aragorn bit his lip in mounting frustration; he was so close to home, so close to Arwen, how could these Corsairs have come upon them so quickly?

"We cannot win this battle, my friends," Legolas whispered, echoing Aragorn’s own thoughts.

"Lay down your weapons." One of the Corsairs leered at the three, moving slowly towards them. "We'd prefer to take you alive."

Aragorn wrestled with himself for several endless seconds. It rebelled against everything in him to simply lay down his arms, but it wasn't just his life on the line, it was Legolas’ and Gimli‘s and...

"Estel," Legolas switched to the Grey tongue once more. "You stand a chance to escape and reach Arwen and your children if we do not die fighting them now."

Aragorn nodded and at last dropped his bow, following it with his sword which he laid down carefully on the ground. Legolas discarded his bow, quiver and daggers; Gimli was dropping his axes on the ground with forceful thuds meant to intimidate even in surrender; and Aragorn was suddenly reminded of their disarmament outside the Golden Hall years before. The memory was encouraging, for in the end they had not needed their weapons

The moment the Corsairs were satisfied that all the weapons were on the ground, they moved forward in a rush, two each taking hold of the elf, dwarf and man.

It was then Aragorn realized he recognized several of their number. They had been with the Corsairs that had captured them in Rohan, but what could they possibly be doing this close to Minas Tirith? Aragorn did not know and decided it wasn't important; all he knew was that he didn't relish another set of failed escape attempts.

Many of the Corsairs were sent on ahead to wherever their camp was, but the leader, a surly man named Brorgahn, stayed with several of his men to handle the prisoners. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had their hands bound in front of them and were pushed down the path, given shoves whenever their captors decided they weren't moving fast enough. The corsairs were none too subtle in their self-congratulations over the successful capture.

Legolas blocked out their voices and was already forming escape plans when the trouble started. One of the corsairs gave Gimli a very hard shove, knocking the dwarf sprawling heavily among the rocks. Gimli caught himself as best he could on his bound hands, but winced as he tried to lever himself back up again.

The corsair who had pushed him, Greera, grabbed the dwarf by beard and jerked him to his feet. "What's wrong, freak? Can't keep your short legs under you?" Legolas tensed beside Aragorn, but the man shook his head — the last thing they needed was to antagonize their captors. He knew how corsairs could be, they thought of most other living beings as little more than animals, and this one seemed to have a especial dislike for dwarves.

Greera pushed Gimli into another corsair who shoved him back, laughing cruelly at the game. Brorgahn seemed to find the whole thing amusing as well and when Gimli stumbled halfway in his direction the corsair captain struck him across the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.

"You know, he didn't say we had to keep any dwarf alive," Brorgahn leered unpleasantly down at the stunned dwarf.

Gimli was trying to get his wits about him. The whole thing had started so suddenly and he couldn't quite comprehend where he was.

Legolas was struggling hard now, only held back by the two corsairs holding him by the arms and hair. Aragorn was trying to think of someway to change the corsairs' minds, but such a distraction didn‘t seem likely. They would have their sport one way or another.

At Brorgahn's words, several of the Corsairs started beating Gimli. They seemed to especially enjoy dragging him up by his hair or beard and then striking him to the rocky ground again. The dwarf was given little time to resist their abuse.

"Stop it!" Legolas shouted when he couldn't stand it anymore. He had no way of knowing whether they would really kill the dwarf, but he was terrified that they would, if only by accident.

"Shut your mouth!" One of the corsairs cuffed him hard in the face.

Aragorn stepped in then trying hard to keep the situation from becoming deadly. "Please, we surrendered and we are coming quietly, your leader will not be pleased if you kill one of us now."

Brorgahn walked up to Aragorn until he was right in the man's face. "You don't know our leader at all, he'll probably be pleased when he finds out there is one more dwarf dead in this world." Without warning the corsair lashed out striking Aragorn so hard in the stomach that the man doubled over; his guards let him sink to the ground and pinned him there on his knees.

Aragorn was vaguely aware of Legolas cursing at the Corsairs as they continued to beat Gimli. Ignoring both the elf and human, they continued in their sport.

Gimli didn't have much concept of earth or sky anymore, and he didn't know how much more of the blinding flashes of light and edging darkness he could take. He could barely hear Legolas putting up a vicious fight; he wanted to tell the elf not to bother — they would kill him anyway and it wasn't worth the prince getting himself hurt — but he couldn't even begin to find the breath to say anything close to that.

Someone had been kicking him viciously in the ribs, but that left off when several others started throwing rocks. Somewhere along the line he'd gotten a bad gash in the head and the blood was blinding him, but maybe he didn't want to see the end coming anyway.

The whole pointless ordeal went on for a while, but at last Brorgahn called his men off. Regardless of how much pleasure as he was getting out of this, he did not want to be late returning the prisoners to Vardnauth.

"What should we do with him?" Greera asked, booting Gimli hard in the chest again; the dwarf didn't move.

"Leave him, if he's not dead now he will be soon." Brorgahn nodded to the corsairs holding the other two prisoners.

Aragorn was dragged to his feet and at last allowed to look at Gimli. The dwarf was still and bloody, his body crumpled on the its side, and the rocks below him were stained red. Aragorn’s breath caught like a steel barb in his lungs, and in horror he looked over at Legolas. The elf had stopped struggling, standing now as motionless as pale marble, and the line of his jaw showed that his teeth were clenched tight. Fury and tears lay hovering barely contained in his eyes.

They started moving again, but as Aragorn and Legolas were pushed past the place where Gimli lay, Aragorn wrenched himself free. Swift fingers found the dwarf's pulse; it beat uneven, but to his surprise it was still strong beneath his touch. He was only allowed those few moments however before his guards took hold of him again and pulled him up, cuffing him several times in the head before shoving him forward roughly.

When they had caught up to Legolas and the corsairs guarding him, the elf turned a worried glance on his friend.

"It’s alright,” Aragorn replied the unspoken question under his breath in elvish. "I found his pulse Legolas, he's alive. He‘ll be fine."

Legolas nodded fractionally, but still could not speak, and when he tried to look back at the fallen dwarf the corsair holding his hair jerked his face forward again. In silence they continued their trek.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/

It did not take the corsairs very long to reach their camp as there had been no further delays. Aragorn couldn’t guess why he and Legolas specifically should be wanted alive, and he decided it was better not to dwell on it just yet.

Legolas had remained stoically silent ever since they had left Gimli lying in the road, but Aragorn could tell the elf was thinking along the same lines. If he was correct in thinking that these were the same Corsairs who had captured them before, then he didn't understand why they hadn't just killed them on the spot, and how in the name of the Valar had they managed to surround them like that? It was as though they'd known the three travelers were coming…

Another thought he hardly wanted to entertain.

When they stopped at last Aragorn looked around, confused. As far as he could tell there was no camp as he had expected. He was only given a moment to ponder this before the corsairs pushed them forward again towards what appeared to be a slit in the rock. Legolas balked at the sight of it and Aragorn could hardly help his own apprehension at being taken under ground away from any hope of rescue. The chances of escape would be slim to impossible once inside the corsairs hideout.

Legolas was shoved through the opening first, bracing himself, but not bothering to resist. Aragorn was close to follow and found himself in a narrow passageway barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast. Sound echoed down the short passage and soon it opened out into a wide cavern. The cave was almost like a room, though a ragged unfinished room. The jagged walls bore torches which flooded the floor with firelight, there were Corsairs seated around fires eating or sharpening their blades, and the entire place reeked of smoke and blood. There appeared to be more passageways that led further back into the cave, though many of these seemed to be flooded — Aragorn considered that perhaps there was an underground spring responsible, or recent heavy rain. This loss of space seemed to have pushed the corsairs into closer quarters and he could easily see that many of them were not pleased with the accommodations.

Aragorn was jolted out of his observations when Greera pushed a bony hand between his shoulder blades, shoving him forward.

They were manhandled through several passageways where the water was at their ankles, but these finally led them to another narrow opening far back in the cave; Aragorn could not see it at first, it blended well with the rock and there was only one torch to light the back passage.

Here they came to a stop and Brorgahn moved through the opening on his own leaving the two prisoners with their guards outside.

Legolas was now level with Aragorn and the human turned a worried glance on his friend. He knew Legolas disliked closed underground spaces like this, but there was something else in his friend's face that he could not quite read, as though Legolas sensed something beyond that crack in the rock that Aragorn could not.

Just then Brorgahn returned. Looking all too pleased with himself he moved up to Aragorn and, reaching around the back of the man's head, he got a painful grip on his hair and pulled him toward the opening.

"Bring the other one as well," Brorgahn ordered over his shoulder.

Aragorn saw the opening ahead of him and then, for a sudden moment he was plunged into complete darkness, only aware of Brorgahn dragging him down through the pitch black, the cold rock pressing at him from both sides.

Then, just as suddenly, light flooded back in and he found himself standing in a small, almost completely closed off, cavern. The only light came from two torches on the back wall and a slit into the open air above, this break in the rock was also letting in a thin breeze that taunted the two prisoners trapped within the stone.

All was silent for a moment as the corsairs stood in the center of the dark cavern as though waiting for something. And then suddenly a voice spoke, guttural, cool and deadly.

"Put them on the wall."

The words echoed strangely, and Aragorn almost thought that it was spoken to his mind as well as his ears, but he shook off the strange feeling as he was pulled to the far wall, opposite the torches.

He gasped slightly as his back was slammed into the jagged rock wall; he felt his hands being pressed into cold irons and heard the click as they were locked above his head.

Legolas was placed to Aragorn's left, closer to the passageway that led from the closed grotto.

"Well done," the voice said after a moment and Aragorn had the unpleasant feeling that whoever was speaking was surveying him and Legolas from the shadows. "You will be rewarded, Brorgahn. Now leave us, and leave only two guards at the door; they are not to enter no matter what they hear. Is that quite understood?"

Brorgahn nodded immediately. "Yes, my lord." He jerked a nod at his men and they quickly moved out down the passageway. Brorgahn glanced back at the two prisoners against the wall and leered unpleasantly, then he disappeared into the shadows, his footsteps slowly fading to utter silence.

Aragorn's eyes scanned the darkness, looking for some sign of the one who had spoken; to be closed in the darkness with the knowledge that some unknown person was close by but unseen was nothing less than unnerving, but Legolas' glow was also present in the dim light and that gave some comfort to the man.

Even so it seemed like a very long time before the voice spoke again, and when it did it was unguardedly pleased, and pitilessly cold.

"King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor…and Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, keeper of Ithilian. How fortunate that our paths cross at last." At that moment the figure stepped from the shadows, moving until he was only a few feet in front of the captives, standing right in the path of the outside light so that his appearance was clear. Aragorn inhaled sharply. The being before him was most certainly an elf and he knew with a cold certainty the name of their captor.

"Vardnauth." Legolas' voice echoed dully against the cave walls.

The elf turned his gaze to the prince and smiled thinly. "You know me. I shall not ask how — such things are irrelevant and easily obtained without questions."

"What do you want with us?" Aragorn asked, his voice even despite this unpleasant discovery.

Vardnauth moved towards Aragorn, slowly and deliberately until he was just in front of the man. "To bring you pain, your highness…pain like you have never known. I have failed in many ways to bring this end upon you, but now that such a chance is brought to my hands I will do so with great satisfaction. I will succeed where those employed by me have failed and I will return the displeasure you have stirred in me in the most agonizing way possible." Aragorn held the cold blue gaze of the elf with silent disdain. It would be useless to deny how the steely words shook him and yet he would not back down before such a foul being as this, not after the story that Tindu had told and the realization that this elf had been the true instigator of the plot to kill his family.

Vardnauth stared back for a moment before turning to Legolas. "And you, spawn of a heritage I know well. Maybe your agony will be some comfort to repay the long years I spent apart from those I once claimed my kin."

Legolas smiled slightly at that, his vibrant blue eyes denying mirth; it was an expression Aragorn had come to recognize well on his companion. "You have none but yourself to blame for those years, Vardnauth, and the true pain that fills your black heart could never be forced on me. I have not betrayed those who have put trust in me, I have not slain the innocent."

Vardnauth's eyes grew suddenly fiery and without warning he struck Legolas hard across the face, but there was something else behind the blow, something that exploded in Legolas' mind. A picture. A picture of his father turning his face away from him, of friends who would not meet his eyes, of exile awaiting him outside the doors of his own home. Legolas gasped at the painful memory and the vivid feelings which accompanied it.

"Betrayal comes in many forms my young friend," Vardnauth simpered, his rage satisfied by the startled look in the elf's eyes. "And who knows how much pain you harbor." The elf turned his eyes back on Aragorn who had remained silent, wondering uneasily what had caused the change in Legolas' calm demeanor. "But I shall deal with you later, I long to see what secrets young Strider holds."

Legolas tensed at the use of the nickname coming from the evil creature's lips. It was as though Vardnauth had drawn the name right from his mind and spoken it aloud.

Aragorn, however, did not react and instead turned his gaze towards the sliver of sky in the cave's ceiling. He could not know what was coming, but he somehow knew he would need all his strength to withstand it.

Chapter 32

Help En Route

June 5

Near Rohan's Southeastern Border

When his eyes opened he realized that his vision was blurry. He tried blinking quickly to clear the hazy image, to small effect, and along with the following headache he was able to ascertain that he was on his side and that jagged rocks were in his direct line of vision.

Gimli groaned as he slowly remembered how he had gotten to this position. Corsairs, rocks, a hard kick to the ribs which had gouged him with his own chain mail…there was something else. Aragorn and Legolas!

Where were his friends now? Gimli realized to his deep chagrin that he had found them in the woods of Lorien only to lose them again, and now he had no idea which way they had gone. If they had taken this path he wasn't sure how difficult they would be to track, and he couldn’t begin to guess how far they had traveled from here.

The dwarf lay on his side, unable to move just yet and uncertain what he would do once he could stand; he might be able to find which way his friends had been taken, but even if he did find them, how would he take on all those Corsairs single handedly?

"Don't borrow trouble, dwarf," Gimli grumped through a dry throat. "You’re not even positive you can get off the ground yet." Somehow Gimli found this comment amusing and at the same time a challenge. He had just made up his mind to stand, however, when he heard the distinct sound of rocks crunching beneath footfalls. Dropping quickly to the ground again Gimli could not help his mounting fear. He was in no condition to fight and had no weapons to do so anyway — if the corsairs had come back to finish him there was little he could do about it. What a rotten way to die.

As the sounds drew closer he realized that the footfalls were horses' and that surprised him — he hadn't remembered seeing many animals among the corsairs and if these were a few ruffians who decided to stave off boredom by returning to kill the fallen dwarf, he doubted they would have been given horses.

At last he heard a loud crunch as one of the riders dismounted, followed by soft, cautious footsteps approaching him. Cautious?

Gimli tried to roll over, deciding that he'd prefer to face his fate rather than lie defenseless, and, with one final push, he managed to flip onto his back and face his attacker.

It was difficult to say which of the two beings was more surprised, or which made the discovery first as words came at the very same time.

"Gimli!"

"Elladan!"

The elf dropped quickly to the dwarf's side helping him to sit up. Gimli felt his head swim at the movement but was relieved beyond words to be found so unexpectedly by friends.

"What in the name of Ilúvatar are you doing here?" Elladan exclaimed, his eyes taking in the many injuries the dwarf had sustained.

Gimli looked past Elladan to the two other riders who had also dismounted; he recognized Elrohir, as he had expected, and another fellow by the name of Eression whom he did not know very well.

"A long story that can wait," Gimli replied, trying to stand with the aid of Elrohir who had reached his brother and the dwarf. "Right now we must hurry — Aragorn and Legolas have been taken by Corsairs and I've no idea which way they have gone."

"What? When? H-how long Gimli?" Elladan and Elrohir's voices overlapped at the news. To discover that their brother was not only a fair distance from Minas Tirith, but also taken captive, was hard to take in.

"We were surrounded, they are a great number, we weren't even given a chance. Not long ago now, they can't have gotten very far, but I'm still a bit disoriented myself." Gimli replied to each question in turn, shutting his eyes briefly against his pounding headache.

"Yes, of course." Elladan nodded, watching the dwarf carefully. "You are right, we must make haste."

The twins helped Gimli to the horses and Elrohir pulled the dwarf up onto his saddle before turning to look at Eression. The man was already back in his saddle and his eyes were dark with concern. So it had been Aragorn and Legolas who had passed through Rohan. What had they been doing in Rohan? That seemed to be the question on the twins minds as well but they weren't about to press Gimli at the moment.

"They had been taking us straight down this path." Gimli pointed down the road ahead of them. "It is a fair guess that it leads close to their camp, but I'm afraid it's the only lead I have." Elladan nodded and led the others up the path, his speed suddenly twice what it had been.

"What happened Gimli?" Elrohir asked after a moment of silent riding.

"Like I say it is a long story and one Aragorn will probably tell better than I, but suffice it to say that there was need for him and Legolas to travel to Lorien for the sake of the Queen. Never mind for now how I came upon them, but on our way back we were set upon by Corsairs. Their greater numbers forced our surrender, galling though it was to give up our arms, but on the way to their camp they decided they didn't need me any more. When they ended their sport, I think they thought I was dead or would die soon."

Elrohir's eyes flashed at that, he had no love for Corsairs and this level of cruelty pulled at his heart; he feared where his brother and the prince had been taken and why.

The path went on for quite some time. It had been overrun with vines and foliage and it was clear this overgrowth had been trampled very recently; the Corsairs had obviously not tried to hide their passing.

The road was just beginning to thin out when Elladan came to an abrupt halt, causing the other two riders to stop just behind him. The elf quickly dismounted and dropped down behind the foliage that shrouded the edges of the path they had been following.

Eression followed, waiting until Elrohir and Gimli were beside him before moving the horses back from the path.

"They are up ahead," Elladan whispered. "I did not see many but there are sentries posted."

"You saw them?" Elrohir whispered.

"Only for a moment, they are careless," Elladan returned quietly. "I do not believe they saw us, they are taking refuge by that rock wall. I assume the rest of their number are inside the cave." He gestured towards the opening in the rock that only their elven eyes could see at this distance.

"If that is not where they are, we take a great risk of being trapped in there." Gimli could not see the entrance, but he had gotten used to taking elves word for it. "Though if they are down there, we may be trapped anyway — that many Corsairs in a closed space…"

"We'll have to count on the element of surprise,” Eression whispered from where he crouched just behind Gimli. "If you could guess a number, Master Gimli?"

"Perhaps a hundred, at a guess." Gimli shook his head. "Sixty at least, but there were others out of sight amongst the trees, and I am not convinced that was their entire legion anyway. We may have to take them slowly rather than risk an open attack."

Elladan turned on his heel, keeping perfect balance despite his position, and faced Gimli. "Not we, my friend, you should stay here. You are in no condition to fight and we have no axes among us."

Gimli glared at the elf and quickly moved his hand from the tree he had been using as support. "I am just as fit as I'll ever be and I can fight with more than an axe if there is need."

"You may be able to fight with more than an axe," Eression spoke up gently, “But you are hardly fit and we would not wish to explain to Legolas and the King that we let their trusted companion fight to his death so injured."

Elladan nodded, surprised to find himself agreeing with anything Eression said. "I promise you, Gimli, we will find Estel and Legolas and rescue them if we can. Wait here and regain your strength, you will likely need it for the retreat."

Gimli let out a breath and shook his head. "I don't know if you three are at all ready for what lies in there. They are well armed and dangerous and even Legolas admitted that a fight could not be won against them with so few."

"If at all possible we will avoid as much fighting as we can," Elrohir replied. "But we cannot leave them here."

Gimli was silent for a long time before nodding at last. "Then off with you, lads, the last thing I want to do is delay you longer. If you are so intent on going to your doom without aid then I am, as you say, hardly fit to stop you."

Elladan smiled slightly before clapping the dwarf on the shoulder firmly. "It will be well Gimli, just stay out of sight."

Gimli nodded again and watched as the two elves and the human moved from the brush towards the rock outcropping. Once they were out of his sight Gimli leaned against the tree once more. They were right of course. Maybe with a burst of adrenaline he could hold out for a while, but he was more drained than he realized, he'd been running for days, shot in the leg, and badly injured by Corsairs. Yet he couldn't help thinking that even if the three could get into the enemies’ lair, they would hardly have such ease in escaping it.

The dwarf let out a breath, shifting his weight against the tree. Likely they would come dashing out in retreat, and what could he do for them then? He hardly had an army at his back ready to fight off the Corsairs while his friends escaped.

Then suddenly it came to him, and he was furious with himself for not thinking of it before the others had gone: something Legolas had seen from the tree earlier that day. A good possibility since the mayor knew perfectly well who he would be saving and he would act quickly.

Gimli gripped the bark of the tree and hauled himself to his feet, wincing as weight fell on his injured legs, but already starting to move across the path and towards east with a strange, new-found energy. Kopairin was only a short distance away and it was the only place in the middle of nowhere he could ever find an army.

/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\^/\

Aragorn slowly turned his eyes to meet those of his enemy. Vardnauth's face was mostly impassive, but there was an undeniable image of anticipation behind his dark eyes. He wanted to cause Aragorn pain above all else, but there was something stirring in Aragorn that warned him of some other desire, a desire for something more than physical pain. His heart was the target here, his very soul, and Aragorn was not sure he could take that now.

Vardnauth slipped his fingers against Aragorn's temple and pressed his cold hands against the human's head for a moment. His palms were damp and clammy.

"So much feeling dwelling behind those walls, Strider. Are you afraid of what I will find?"

"I do not fear you." Aragorn's voice was soft and deceptively calm.

"That was not what I asked." Vardnauth's smile was the last thing Aragorn saw before his he felt a pain in his head.

The feeling was not unlike being shoved bodily backwards into a wall, except that Aragorn knew he had not physically moved. He suddenly found himself in different, if very familiar, world and someone was speaking.

"Estel, I know this is hard, but you know you will always be my son regardless of what you must become."

With the soft spoken words came a flood of feelings, disbelief, fear, dread, uncertainty and denial.

Aragorn remembered this moment, painful and fresh as though it were yesterday.

"Do you want some time alone?"

Yes.

"No."

The reply sounded as though it had come from his own lips, but Aragorn was sure he had not spoken.

"Ask me anything you want to know Estel — anything about your heritage, about Gondor, about your parents."

Aragorn felt the rush of denial and fear well up inside him, and somehow it was stronger than he remembered it being, somehow it burned at him and cut at his heart.

"Not good enough, Strider." A voice so low and cold that it startled the human suddenly broke into the scene. "Not painful enough."

With another jolt Aragorn felt a blur of pain and realized he was no longer speaking to Elrond but standing in a dark room, the only light a pale beam filtering through the window. Someone else was speaking this time and not only the voice but the words were yet again terribly familiar.

"It seems I have disappointed everyone else, what have I done to you?"

Aragorn felt a new set of emotions flood his heart: pain, worry, guilt, despair and even a sense of betrayal.

"You didn't tell me!"

Aragorn heard the words leave his own lips, familiar, though the sound was echoing all around him.

"You didn't tell me this would happen! You didn't tell me that even if we found the truth, you would still suffer for helping me!"

The cold voice broke in again pressing into the feelings. "Oh how this hurt…poor little Legolas so trusting in his human friend. What a pathetic waste."

Aragorn heard his actual breath hitch and the sound brought him to reality for a moment. He saw that instead of Legolas, Vardnauth was staring at him, grinning cruelly.

"But that didn't hurt as much as this, did it?" Vardnauth's teeth clenched suddenly and Aragorn felt himself thrown back again.

"Because I cannot do what my heart tells me is right... I cannot act as your father Legolas, because you have taken that out of my hands, so I must act as your king."

Aragorn knew the words, and they were hard and blisteringly cold.

"Legolas Greenleaf, you are hereby banished from the realm of Mirkwood... forever."

The pang that touched his heart then was so unbelievably painful, it brought the whole scene into sharper focus. Aragorn could see Legolas, hunched over on the floor, supporting himself under the pretense of his usually stoic nature. He heard Thranduil like a foreign voice pounding in his ears, he wanted it to stop speaking… he wanted to hit something… he wanted to stop this from happening.

"It hurt, didn't Strider? So painful that you could not help him, and what could you do? Don't remember? No pity from anyone and you were the guilty one, everyone knew it."

"Silence human! Have you not done enough?"

Aragorn flinched at the words as they echoed in his mind.

Straining against the image, he tried to look away, but it was as though the image froze with him still in it and he could neither move nor escape.

The king gripped his hands into fists and clenched his teeth against the throbbing pain driving through him like a knife. It was clear to him now how Vardnauth killed his victims. He knew the paths of their mind and learned the paths of their hearts and he slid along them, looking for weak points. With delicate fingers he played upon the pains and fears of the past and magnified them, pressing and pressing until life itself seemed unbearable.

Yet even knowing this Aragorn also knew that Vardnauth was taking his attack slowly, he was not choosing the most painful memories. There were others far worse and it would only be a matter of time before they too were brought to bear on his hurting heart.

Vardnauth pulled away for a moment, leaving Aragorn breathing hard. His vision was blurry but he could see Vardnauth clearly. He glanced at Legolas and saw the elf's concern.

Legolas could not know exactly what Vardnauth was doing to his friend, but he did know that if it was anything like that flash of pain and memory he had been given it would be nothing short of devastating before long. He had realized early on that the memory Aragorn had been made to relieve was the elf's own exile and the prince also knew the far darker secrets that could be found…perhaps Vardnauth already knew they were there.

The dark elf was smiling slightly again, his hoarse voice was increasingly guttural as he brought his strange power back to bear on Aragorn.

"You are strong then, but don't you see how that it only makes me push harder and strike faster? You may well decide not to test the limits of my abilities."

Aragorn turned his blue eyes up to Vardnauth and though there was no mirth in them, the evil elf could sense the mocking in their silver depths.

"Foolish Strider." Vardnauth moved his hands again to Aragorn's temples. "Very foolish."

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The guards never even heard them coming. Rangers lived long and fought both quiet and stealthy, elves barely disturbed the air with their passing, and the distracted Corsairs were far too busy joking about the day's catch to realize their danger before it was too late.

Eression dropped down from the outcropping where he had killed the one sentry who was supposed to cover with fire from above if they were attacked, and even he had been too busy talking to his fellows.

"Their guard was weak," Eression noted.

"Yes and likely their master does not know it." Elrohir nodded as he moved towards the entrance. "What are our tactics, El?"

Elladan looked at Eression, then quickly turned his gaze to Elrohir. With a slight smile he moved up to the other elf. "There are three of us and Valar knows how many of them, gwador-nin; we have no tactics that will aid us here. Whoever finds a chance to break through and find Aragorn and Legolas, do so."

Elrohir nodded then turned to look at Eression, and the man gave one short nod before moving past both brothers into the cave opening.

"I understand. Let us be off, then." The words echoed dully from the passage as the man disappeared into the dark. The twins exchanged a final glance before plunging in after their human companion.

With only a few moments of surprise on their side, the three companions did markedly well. The instant the cave widened out into the lair of corsairs, the three split off in different directions running as far into the cave as they dared before striking the first blows.

At first the corsairs could not believe what they were seeing, but once realization sunk in all hell broke loose.

Weapons were drawn from the shadows themselves and many more than a hundred corsairs rose to meet the attackers, their gathering sloppy and still suffering from surprise, but deadly enough.

Elladan caught sight of Elrohir for a moment before his twin was buried under the press of bodies and clash of weapons once more.

Added to the surprise of their attack the three had one more advantage that worked to their increasing gain: the corsairs seemed to have trouble knowing the enemy. There were so few of the attackers and they had come upon them so suddenly that in the dimness the Rohirrim-clad corsairs began to battle one another, considering everyone a threat.

Eression was thrown from a fight altogether when one corsair fell upon the one he had been fighting. The Dunádan drew up against the wall and took in a shaky breath. He was not fit for battle at all; rangers possessed a considerable measure of the endurance of elves, but he had had little to eat or drink, he had traveled almost forty days straight, and now there was little energy left to fight.

He saw the twins working in deadly circles near the back of the chamber where the cave broke off into flooded passages. Eression himself was pressed against a wall near yet another dark passage-way that angled off the room. He was distracted for a moment as two fighting corsairs drew close to him, and as they assumed each had threatened the other, he took advantage of their confusion and slew both in moments.

He looked up again, this time to witness several concentrated attacks being leveled at the twins whose glow made them stand out more than the Eression among the men. They had been backed further into the cavern and had started to wade through the water. Eression considered going to help them, when abruptly both elves turned as though of one mind and raced as fast as they were able through the water, up onto dry ground, and fled back through the passages. Many of the corsairs gave chase, leaving behind only the dead, the wounded, and the few skirmishes still being fought amongst the corsairs themselves.

Eression realized he had no time to waste considering his options. Turning quickly up the passage behind him, he was forced to turn back briefly as a hand caught onto his ankle. He whirled to see a bloody Corsair trying to lift his weapon. Eression kicked the man back into the fray before running once more up the passage, hoping that he or the twins would find the prisoners soon.