Hostage of Hate

by Littlefish

littlefish59@hotmail.com

A/N--Ok, everyone, new story here.  This is a sequel to Dark Horizons, although I believe you will be able to read it whether or not you have ever read my other story before.   I will, of course, be using some characters that were introduced in Dark Horizons, but the plot line is COMPLETELY different, and I believe it will be rather easy to figure out who everyone is.  And yes, Malek is dead, so don’t worry about him coming back into the story! (thank goodness)  The only reason this is a sequel is because I wanted to use some of the original characters in Dark Horizons.  So, keep an eye out for Shandarell, Kenson, Dar, and maybe a couple of other new characters!  And for those of you who haven’t read my other stories, I will place a cast of unknown characters at the beginning of any chapter they make an appearance.  Hope that makes things easier.  Enjoy

Summary: A man full of hatred and bent on revenge is after Aragorn, and will stop at nothing to see the king of Gondor completely destroyed.  Features Legolas, Gimli, and of course, Aragorn.  Takes place six years after Dark Horizons, approximately seven years after ROTK.

Disclaimer:  All of Middle Earth and the characters therein belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, and I am using them only for my own warped sense of amusement. 

Chapter 1      Messages in the night

Night lay deep and heavy over the jagged peaks of the Ephel Duath, and the mountains seemed to absorb the darkness, cloaked mysteriously in the black shadows that gave them their name.  Even the moon’s bright glow seemed unable to cut through the foreboding blanket surrounding them, and an unnatural silence hung heavy in the air.

The long chain of the Ephal Duath ran for many miles, skirting the boundaries between Mordor and Gondor, before turning a nearly ninety degree angle and running almost directly east, their shadows now lying heavily across lands that were less inhabited and much less hospitable. 

A narrow and winding trail cut through this land, running east parallel to the mountains, its dusty path nearly overgrown in many areas.  It was obvious that this trail was not heavily used by man or beast, and in several places it threatened to completely disappear, with no creatures to mourn or even notice its loss.  None looking at its desolate ruins would believe that it had once been a great road leading from the country of Gondor to that of Khand.  Yet all of its glory had faded centuries before, and now it stood only as a quickly vanishing reminder of times long past.

However, this dark night the road was finding use once again as a heavily cloaked figure on a tall horse moved down the dusty trail.  The muted fall of horse’s hooves on the overgrown path echoed in a steady rhythm that, instead of subtracting from the eerie silence of the night, seemed only to magnify it.  The horse’s gait was steady, but slow, the creature’s proud neck hanging low with weariness.  Likewise, the rider sat hunched and bent over the horse’s withers, his stooped shoulders portraying his weariness, and the dust staining his cloak telling of several long days of travel.

In truth, Fenton Orb had been traveling for several long weeks, not merely days, and he was more than anxious to reach his destination.  He had left the borders of Gondor many days back, and expected to reach the Khand city of Norvil this very night.  He was drawing close, and this knowledge combined with the importance of his mission urged him on when other travelers would have opted--for safety reasons--to pull over and camp the night through.  The wild lands around Norvil were anything but safe, and a lone traveler at night was open prey to brigands or any number of the wild, predatory animals that marked this region.  Still, he pressed onward, his eyes straining forward to catch the first glimpse of lights in the distance that would mark the city and the end to his long road.

His horse suddenly snorted, tossing his head and laying back his ears, his wide nostrils flaring. Fenton unconsciously tensed, his right hand closing tightly around the hilt of his sword.  A long and mournful howl suddenly sounded somewhere to the right of the road, the sound rising into the night and echoing eerily from the surrounding hills.  He let out a low and nervous chuckle, releasing his grip on his sword hilt and scanning the brush on either side of the road.

“Just a lone wolf out on a hunt,” he whispered softly to himself.

As if in answer, another howl split through the night, this time coming from his left and followed quickly by two more somewhere behind him on the path.  His horse let out a shrill whinny, shying to the side and tossing his head in fear.

Glancing all around him nervously, he quickly kicked his horse into a trot.  The frightened animal complied easily enough and would have gone faster, despite his weariness, if Fenton hadn’t kept a firm check on the reigns.   Many times before had he come across half devoured carcasses of horse and rider brought down by a pack of hungry wolves, and he had no bow with which to fight the beasts if they should attack.

They sped around a slight bend in the road, breaking free of the dense copse of trees, and suddenly the bright lights of Norvil shone before them atop a small rise.  He released a deep sigh of relief and allowed his horse to slow its pace, listening as the howls of the wolves slowly dropped away behind them. 

Lather covered his horses neck and sides, and the animal’s flanks heaved with the force of his breaths, but at least they were alive.  And Norvil was only a few hundred yards before them.

The city lay sprawled lazily over the crest of the small rise, its motley collection of houses and haphazard streets giving it the appearance of any other normal city of its size. Yet Norvil was not normal by any definition of the word.  It presence within the shadows of the Ephal Duath lent it a dark and somewhat ominous atmosphere.  It was a city of rogues, a home for the homeless, and a place where thieves and cutthroats found themselves in positions of power.   During the day, the city lay quiet and subdued, appearing even peaceful.  Yet come night, everything changed, for it was the activities that went on in the dark hours that truly shaped and defined Norvil.  During the night, the city was a writhing pit of corruption and depravity.  It was when the streets truly came alive, ringing with the noise of many taverns, the shouts of drunken men, the cheers coming from the pit fights, and the occasional scream as a dagger in the dark found its mark.  It was a time when laws were made for the sole purpose of breaking them, and the only rule was to not get caught. 

Strangely enough, Fenton felt himself relaxing as he entered the narrow streets of the city.  Norvil was his home, and he had actually missed the place quite fiercely during his several months away.  He knew each street, each tavern, and every dark alley within the city, as well as the places to avoid at all cost.  He had survived within this city for over a decade, and there was no other place in all of Middle Earth that he preferred. 

He made his way down the narrow streets, his cloak pulled close and his eyes carefully observing all his surroundings.  He thought the streets strangely deserted, yet quickly understood the reason when loud shouts and yells echoed up to him from further within the city. 

‘There must be a pit fight tonight,’  He thought idly, tilting his head to one side and listening carefully.  ‘I wonder what new champions have arisen in Norvil since my departure?’

He was half tempted to turn his horse from his present course and go and find out, but he quickly reminded himself of his task and the reason behind his long absence from Norvil.  He had a job to complete, and already he was running late.  His employer was not a patient man, and he had no desire to keep him waiting any longer than necessary.

A sudden movement to his left caught the corner of his eye, and he turned quickly in the saddle just as a small group of young boys wandered out of a nearby alley.  They gathered at the entrance, watching him with narrowed eyes, and whispering back and forth amongst themselves.  Fenton let his right hand stray to the hilt of his sword, while his left moved up to pull the iron-head pendant identifying him as a prominent member of the second thieves guild free from his tunic.  The pendant was stolen, taken from the body of a young and cocky brat who had dared to challenge him several months earlier, but he knew that it offered him even more protection than the sword currently strapped to his hip.

The group of boys continued to watch him as he rode by, but they made no move toward him, and he could see the slight glimmer of respect on their faces.  He smiled slightly and slipped the pendant back under his tunic.  Normally, upon first entering the city, he would have left his horse hidden somewhere and made his way through Norvil on foot, using the back streets and alleys to mask his passage and thus avoid any unwanted attention.  However, that would take time, and time was not something he had in abundance.  He was anxious to get this task over and done with.  Already it had occupied far too much of his time. 

Moving quickly and silently through the narrow maze of streets, it did not take him long to reach his destination; a small alley cutting between two high buildings.  He slipped from his horse, pulling his gear from the animals’ back before loosely looping the reigns around a nearby post, then made his cautious way forward into the dark and narrow passageway.  He had little doubt that the horse would be gone when he returned, yet it mattered little to him.  With the payment he was about to receive, he could buy ten new horses to replace the beast.

He moved forward swiftly, yet cautiously, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light and carefully studying each shadow he passed.  He could feel eyes on him as he moved forward, yet he strode onward with the confidence of one who knew he was in safe territory.  At the end of the alley, the dark shadow of a squat building loomed before him, the windows boarded and no light escaping from within.  This building looked like any other of the numerous abandoned buildings throughout the city, but he never paused nor wavered in his course as he approached the large structure.  Two beggars lay sprawled out on either side of the heavy iron door, piles of trash and refuse littered around them.  They glanced casually toward him, then looked away, paying him no more heed.  For his part, Fenton ignored them just as much, striding between them and up to the large door.  He raised his fist and then tapped out the signal, three light taps, followed by two heavy, pause, then five more light taps.  The metal door swung inward soundlessly, and he quickly and quietly slipped inside.

He found himself standing at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor, many doors branching off on either side of him and a single stairway leading up at the far end of the hall.  Moving forward with the confidence of one who was familiar with his surroundings, he strode down the corridor and up the stairs, following their winding flight until he came to a single, unadorned door.  There, he stopped and sucked in a deep breath, preparing himself for the meeting ahead.  Slowly, he raised his fist and knocked gently.

“Come,” a deep voice commanded from within, and with a final steadying breath, he pushed the door open and entered the room.

He had to blink his eyes several times to adjust them to the sudden bright light within the room, but when his vision at last returned to him, his gaze immediately went to the large, ornate desk situated at the far end of the room, or more particularly, to the large man sitting behind the desk.  Unconsciously, he found himself straightening and furtively brushing at the travel stains that had accumulated on his cloak and tunic.

“You are late.”

The man spoke in a calm voice, but with a cold edge to it that caused Fenton to shift nervously where he stood.

“It could not be helped, master Servius,” he replied quickly, trying to keep his voice steady and confident.  He hated these meetings with his employer, hated even more the week and helpless feeling he got whenever he was in the man’s presence.  Servius was not even a true Variag, a native of Khand, originating instead from some place far to the west, in Gondor.   Yet none would dispute the power the man had gained within Norvil.  “I am late, and yet I carry with me the information you desire.”

Servius leaned forward, a sudden gleam entering his eyes, and Fenton could not stop himself from taking a wary step back.  It was a common rumor within Norvil that Servius was mad, and he suddenly found himself willing to believe that assessment.  There was something definitely insane in the look Servius was now leveling at him, and he felt a slow chill crawling up and down his spine.  He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be finished with his business and be gone from this place.

“Tell me what you know,” Servius commanded, the mad light still brightening his eyes.  “Tell me the information that I desire.  Tell me all that you have learned of King Elessar.”

He was more than willing to comply.  He had spent two months within the city of Minas Tirith, capitol of Gondor, and in his time there, he had gained much information.  He told of all he had learned, leaving nothing out, and when he had finally finished, his voice was hoarse.

Servius leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.  Many minutes of silence passed, and Fenton began to shift nervously.  At last, Servius spoke, still not looking at him and still wearing the ghost of a smile.

“You have done well, my friend, and you shall be amply rewarded.  Garish at the door has your money and will pay you on the way out.  Perhaps I will use you in the future for any other missions I might have.”

Fenton nodded wordlessly, having no intentions of ever working for this mad man again.  He turned and moved toward the door, pausing for a brief moment to glance over his shoulder at the man behind the desk.  He shuddered at what he saw.  Servius was laughing, silent chuckles of mirth that sent his skin crawling. 

He turned and fled from the room.

******

“Sire?”

Servius swung around in his chair, still chuckling quietly to himself as his two advisors stepped from the shadows of a hidden doorway behind his desk.  The two men were eying him expectantly, their faces hopeful, and Servius found himself laughing even harder.  A strange glee had taken over him, an excitement stemming from the arrival of a moment long awaited.

“What have you learned, sire?” one of the men asked, his voice anxious.

Servius leaned back in his chair, stilling his mirth for the time being and turning his mind back to the meeting he had just had with his messenger.  “Our time of waiting is over,” he replied quietly, his eyes distant.  “Tonight I have learned many things concerning King Elessar.  Many things,” He repeated before pausing and glancing up to the catch the gaze of the two men standing before him.  With an evil grin, he finished his statement.  “Many things that can be used to destroy him!”

“What do you want us to do, sire?” the second man asked, his voice filled with eager anticipation.

Servius pursed his lips and thought on the question, then leaned forward in his chair.  “Find me the assassin,” he ordered calmly, “and bring him to me.  I want him here before morning!”

The two men exchanged worried glances, and Servius could quite easily read their expressions.  Finding the assassin would be no easy task.  Impossible, in fact, if the assassin did not wish to be found.

The first man opened his mouth to speak, but Servius did not give him the chance.  “Go!” he ordered, pointing his finger at the door, his tone of voice warning against any argument.  The two men bowed, then quickly left to complete their task.

Servius sighed, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.  It had been a long and exciting night for him, and yet he knew that it was far from over.  There was still much to be done if the plan he had been forming for years was to actually work.

“Soon, King Elessar,” he muttered softly to himself.  “Soon you will be mine, and you shall pay dearly for all you have done to me.”  Lost within dreams of the future, Servius soon found himself drifting toward sleep.  He roused himself with a jerk, then rose and began pacing around the small room, determined to stay awake until his men returned with the assassin.

The desk and chair were the only pieces of furniture within the room, giving the place a bare and hollow feeling, and Servius shook his head in disgust as he scanned his surroundings.  There had been a time, long ago, when everything around him had been rich and vibrant, and grand to an almost absurd scale.  He had had servants at his beck and call, money to buy what he wanted, and power to steal whatever he might need.

With a firm shake of his head, Servius dispelled that image.  That time was long gone, just as the person he had once been was no more.  Several years of struggling for survival had changed him, transformed him into something completely different from what he used to be, opening doors within his mind that he had not even been aware were there.  The hate and rage within had twisted and formed him into the man he now had become, and looking back at his old self, he felt the change only an improvement.  Just as everything he had once owned was gone, torn from him, everything he had once been was also gone.  He had even changed his name when he had found this small city within Khand, the perfect place for his new self to make a new start.  The transformation was all but complete, and only one thing stood in the way of him actually settling down and enjoying this new life.  Only one more task that he had to complete, for until he did, he would never be free to revel in his newfound glory.  His name, Servius, in the tongue of Khand, meant prisoner, and truly he was his own prisoner.  Of hate.  Yet finally, the key to his release was near at hand.

Servius allowed his mind to wander back over the discussion he had had with the messenger, memorizing each piece of information he had learned and categorizing it within his mind.

‘The elf and dwarf visit him on a regular basis, and it is a rumor within the castle that they are expected at the end of next month…’

“Perfect,” Servius whispered out loud, grinning in anticipation.  It seemed as if everything was playing to his favor.  “Let’s see how faithful your friends truly are, and then perhaps learn how much of a man you are without them!”

He chuckled softly, returning to the chair and sinking back down with a sigh, allowing his eyes to drift shut once more, and his mind to wander through all the wonderful things he had planned for his hated enemy.

“Why do you send your men out looking for me?” 

The simple question, spoken in a soft yet deadly voice, jerked Servius from his thoughts, and he bolted upright in his chair so violently that he almost toppled over.  His eyes bulged in surprise, and his heart beat a frantic tempo within his chest as he stared at the black clad figure leaning casually against the door in front of him.

“Tervanis,” he gasped, unable to hide his shock and sudden fear.  “How did you…”  He began, then stopped, realizing that he would receive no answer even if he should finish the question.  It should have been impossible for anyone to reach this room without his prior knowledge, for the number of guards posted should have prevented it.  Yet Servius realized that there were few things that were impossible for Tervanis, black shadow and assassin of Norvil, to accomplish.

Quickly attempting to gain his composure, Servius rose from his chair and inclined his head slightly toward the assassin.  “Welcome Tervanis,” he greeted softly.

The assassin made no response, merely continued to study Servius with narrowed eyes.

Servius felt a sudden flash of irritation.  This was not how he had hoped to start out his meeting with the assassin.   Already the man had gained the upper hand in the conversation, and he was not happy.

“My men search you out because I have an offer to make you,” he finally replied when the silence in the room grew too much to bear.

The assassin arched a cool eyebrow.  “An offer?” he asked, his voice slightly mocking as he ran a critical eye over the barren room.  His eyes flickered back to Servius, and the man suddenly had the urge to run and hide, so cold was the assassin’s gaze.  “My services are not cheap,” he stated quietly.  “Nor do I like my time wasted.”

“I assure you that your time shall not be wasted, Tervanis,” Servius answered, attempting to sound calm and in control.  “In fact, I believe you shall find what I have to offer quite interesting.”

“How can anything you have to offer interest me?” Tervanis asked, his voice incredulous and mocking as he once more ran his gaze around the room.

Servius gritted his teeth and for the second time ignored the assassin’s obvious insult.  “Because you are the best,” he answered simply, sinking back down into his chair and peering at Tervanis over his steepled fingers.  “And your skills and talents are vastly underused within Norvil.  I have a task that will actually challenge those skills and talents.”  Servius smiled and then shrugged.  “Who knows, you may even fail.”

Tervanis shifted his position, his eyes hardening, and Servius wondered if perhaps he had been wise in flinging in that last insult.  Still, he had managed to get the assassin’s attention.

“I do not fail,” Tervanis whispered softly into the following silence.  “Ever.”

“That is what I have heard,” Servius answered quietly.  “Yet the job I have for you will be much more difficult than a quick knife in a dark alley, or the simple assassination of a guild master.  Of course, I have also heard that Tervanis, shadow of death, is not one to back away from a challenge.”

“My services are not cheep,” Tervanis repeated, yet Servius noted that a hint of interest had entered the assassin’s tone.

Servius calmly reached into the top drawer of the desk and pulled free a large pouch, which he casually tossed to the center of the desk.  Gold coins and bright gems spilt from the pouch’s open mouth, scattering across the desk to lie glittering in the lamplight.

The assassin slowly straightened, then walked across the room, his movements graceful and smooth, and completely controlled.  He stopped before the desk, then glanced down, running his eyes over the pouch.

“And another one of those once the mission is completed,” Servius said calmly, watching the assassin with a grin, confident that he had won the man over.

Tervanis glanced up at him, his eyes narrowed and suspicious, but then he suddenly let out a low laugh.  “Who do you want me to kill,” he asked with a chuckle, “a king?”

Servius also laughed, watching the assassin closely.  “Surely you have heard of King Elessar?” he questioned.  “Ruler of Gondor?”

Tervanis stopped laughing, his eyes widening slightly as he studied Servius closely.  “Of course I have heard of him,” he at last answered, his eyes narrowed and suspicious once more.  “All know of him after his defeat of the Dark Lord’s armies.”

Servius merely nodded and said nothing, his gaze locked with that of the assassin’s. 

After several minutes of uncomfortable silence had passed, Tervanis at last shook his head, a small smile once again gracing his features.  “So,” he whispered softly, “you wish me to kill this king Elessar?  You were not joking when you claimed you had a challenge for me.”

“No!” Servius snapped, causing the assassin to glance at him and raise a questioning eyebrow.  “Your task is not to kill the king, for that privilege is mine and mine alone!”

Tervanis shrugged his shoulders casually.  “Then why did you bring him up?” he asked simply.

Servius smiled grimly in response.  “Let us just say that King Elessar has much pain and suffering due to him before I at last allow him to die.  It is in this that I will need your assistance.”

Tervanis cocked his head to one side, an answering smile flittering across his features.  “What do you want me to do?” he asked simply.

*******

Thee hours later, exhausted and defeated, Servius’ two advisors stumbled back to the squat building at the end of the alley, their hearts filled with fear of what their master would say about their failure.  To their surprise, they found that he had already retired and left the message for them to both get some rest of their own.

Outside of Norvil, along the dusty and forgotten road, Tervanis and a small band of thugs thundered east toward Gondor, and Minas Tirith, and their mission beyond.

TBC

Ok, time for a few explanations.  First, Khand is a realm southeast of Mordor, and the home of the Variags, a race of man.  Because if its location, Khand was always strongly influenced by Sauron, and during the War of the Rings, its men were allied with him and served in his army.  As far as I know, there is not a lot of information concerning Khand or its people, but if there are any Tolkien scholars out there that can give me more information, I would greatly appreciate it!  Just send what you can to my hotmail account!  Thanks, and I hope that might help clear up any questions you may have.

*This story is complete, but I will only be posting it a chapter at a time*  Please review.

A/N—Ok, I promised to write out a character guide for new characters when they appeared in the chapter, so look below for that.  Also, I would just like to give a big thank you right off to Ithilien, the greatest beta reader there is!

 Kenson Brantz—A merchant captain who aided the fellowship in their fight against an evil creature and his army of orcs.  Aragorn gave him the position of mayor over the city of Calembel, after the former mayor abandoned his people and fled the city.

Dar—Kenson Brantz’s only son.  He was nine years old when introduced in Dark Horizons.  Always dreamed of being a soldier.

Shandarell—Legolas’ horse. Originated from Rohan.  Given to Legolas by Aragorn after Legolas saved the king’s life.

Chapter 2      The Announcement

Bright morning sunlight streamed through the slightly open flaps of the tent and onto the sleeping face of Kenson Brantz, causing him to moan slightly and roll over, his arm flinging up to cover his eyes, and his mind rebelling at the thought of waking.  Cheerful birdsong drifted in with the sun’s warm rays, welcoming the new day and bidding all to rise and enjoy it, but Kenson only moaned a second time and shifted his arms slightly to cover his ears as well as his eyes.  He had just gotten to sleep, and there was no way he was going to get up now!  Or, at least, that was what he kept telling himself.  However, his body seemed to disagree, and with a final groan of defeat, he managed to push himself into a sitting position, wincing as his sore muscles screamed in protest.

He had had an awful night!  A raging thunderstorm, combined with the fact that every root, stone, and bump in all of Middle Earth had decided to spend the night in his tent, had kept him from getting any real sleep.  His body ached, his head ached, and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton.  Altogether, he was feeling somewhat miserable and disgruntled at the moment. 

There had once been a time when he had spent weeks sleeping out under the sun and braving all types of weather without it affecting him in the least.  Now, it seemed as if his years as mayor of Calembel had softened him more than he cared to admit.  He preferred a soft bed and the cover of a solid roof, not the hard ground and the canvas of a leaky tent.  He had to keep forcing himself to remember that he was here by his own choice, and that he had no one to blame for his discomfort but himself.  Still, that didn’t help him feel any better.

He sighed loudly, rubbing a weary hand across his red eyes before forcing himself to rise and dress.  The others would be waiting to depart, and he suspected that if he didn’t hurry his pace, his son Dar would appear to hurry it for him. 

Kenson tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he thought of his only son, the lad who had been so much a part of his life for sixteen years.  It seemed as if Dar occupied his thoughts constantly of late, and though he continually tried to think of other, less painful things, his mind kept returning to one, unavoidable fact - the fact that he would soon be saying goodbye to the one person who meant more than anything to him, his son.  Dar was grown now, no longer the little boy who had followed his father around asking pointless questions, but a strong and determined young man who was ready to find his own way in the world. 

Dar had decided that he wanted to leave Calembel and travel to Minas Tirith to become a warrior of Gondor, and despite the pride Kenson felt at his son’s choice, he knew that the final parting would be difficult.  More so for him, than for Dar.  That was one of the reasons that he had chosen to escort his son personally to Minas Tirith; to put off the final goodbyes for as long as possible. 

‘And now, on our last day of travel, he will be anxious to be moving on.’    With this thought in mind, he quickly pulled on his boots and ducked through the flaps of the tent, squinting hard against the glare of the morning. 

The air outside had a clean, fresh scent, which only came after a heavy rain, and the grass shone with a hundred droplets of water that had yet to evaporate under the warm sun.  Around him, the campsite was busy with the activities of the dozen soldiers who had accompanied him and his son, and he winced when he realized that his was the last tent standing and that already the morning preparations for departure were more than halfway finished.  Even as he stood glancing around him, two soldiers scurried by, bowing briefly to him before moving on to dissemble his tent and pack it behind one of the horses.  He wondered why none of the soldiers, or more particularly, his son, had not wakened him earlier.

“Good morning father,” a cheerful voice spoke from behind him.

‘Thinking of my son…’  Kenson turned and glanced toward Dar, unable to keep the scowl from his face as he looked his son up and down.  While he stood slouched, wrinkled, and bleary eyed, Dar stood tall and proud, his tunic straight, his hair combed neatly, and his eyes bright and alert, without a hint of weariness.  “Is it?” he muttered, turning away disgusted.

Dar’s handsome face broke into a wide grin, and he let out a small laugh that caused Kenson to scowl even harder.

“Don’t be sour, father,” Dar ordered with a grin and a wink.  “We only have one more day of riding before us, and if we hurry, we shall reach Minas Tirith by mid-afternoon.”

‘All the more reason to be sour,’ Kenson thought glumly, ‘for it is another day closer to when we must part.’  Yet he did not speak his thoughts aloud, and he did his best to wipe away his surliness.  He was determined not to put a damper on his son’s excitement.  Instead, he only grunted and shook his head. 

“I am surprised to find you still here,” he growled, eying his son shrewdly.  “The way you have been pushing us the last few days, I would have thought that you would run away in the middle of the night and leave the rest of us to catch up when we could.”

Dar shrugged.  “I considered it,” he replied smoothly.  “Yet the storm last night was too great a risk and I decided that for safety sake I must remain here.”

Kenson stared at his son in shock.  He had only been jesting with Dar, yet his son had sounded as if he were actually serious.

Dar caught his father’s stunned expression and suddenly burst out laughing, stepping forward to throw his arm around Kenson’s shoulder.  “Do you truly believe I would have left without you, father?” he laughed.

Kenson shook his head, allowing his own smile to lighten his features.  “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked, finding it strange, even after several years, that he didn’t have to look down to look straight into his son’s eyes.

Dar dropped his arm and shrugged again, still grinning.  “I thought you might need some extra rest,” he replied, “and we are not in that big of a hurry.  Besides,” he added, his tone taking on the mischievous note that Kenson knew only too well, “I know how much of a bear you can be if you are awakened before you are ready.”

Kenson chuckled.  “You should know,” he replied with mock seriousness.  “Many a time when you were a boy, you would wake me before the rising of the sun if you thought there was something needing to be done.  Never one for patience, you were.”  He chuckled again at the memories.  “Still, I know how anxious you are to reach the city, and you should have roused me.”

Dar shook his head, still smiling mischievously.  “Actually, I asked captain Rivul if it might be possible to tie some rope to the edges of your tent and drag you along behind us.  That way, I wouldn’t have to wake you, but we could still be on our way.  Unfortunately, he said it would not work.”

Kenson snorted and sent a punch at his son’s arm, which Dar easily dodged, laughing.  “Come on,” he called, “we’re wasting daylight here.”

“Let me find my mount and saddle him, and then we can be on our way,”  Kenson responded, shaking his head at the antics of his son.

“He is already saddled,” Dar replied.

Kenson turned and arched an eyebrow at his son, receiving only a guilty smile in response.

“He was one of the horses I was going to use to drag you.”

******

They reached the Pelennor fields shortly after the sun reached its zenith, the White City sparkling like a jewel before them.  A single horse rode from the gates of the city, making its swift way towards them, and a second later, Dar, riding at the front of the group with his father, recognized the fiery red horse and its two riders.  He let out an excited shout and urged his horse into a fast canter, racing forward and leaving his father and the rest of the soldiers to catch up.

“Legolas, Gimli!” he cried out, rushing the grinning elf and dwarf and pulling his horse up short just in time to avoid crashing into them.

Legolas’ mount, Shandarell, stamped his foot and let out a snort of air to show his disapproval, laying his ears back as Dar neared them.  Legolas whispered soothingly to him, and Shandarell at last calmed, lowering his head and whickering softly. 

“Greetings, young Dar,” Gimli called out while Legolas was busy with Shandarell.  “It appears as if you have finally gotten some meat on your bones.”

Legolas laughed, transferring his attention from the fiery Shandarell to the young man before him.  He reached out and gripped Dar’s forearm in a warm handshake.  “Truly you have grown,” he said softly, his gray eyes showing approval at the strength in the young man’s grip.  “It does not seem long ago that you were as short as Gimli here.”

“Watch yourself, master Elf,” Gimli retorted, though he also wore a large grin as he took his turn gripping Dar’s arm in welcome.

Kenson and the rest of the soldiers arrived then, their horses crowding forward and stirring up a small cloud of dust, causing Shandarell to toss his head and dance to the side, which in turn caused Gimli to begin muttering under his breath and Legolas to begin laughing.

“Well met, friends,” Kenson called, moving forward next to his son so that he could also greet elf and dwarf.  “It has been too long.  I must admit that I am somewhat surprised to see you here, especially now that you are both lords of your own land.”

Gimli grunted in response, running a critical eye over Dar.  “You don’t think we would be missing seeing your boy initiated into the army of Gondor, do you?  He has grown into a fine young man, Kenson.  You should be proud.”

Kenson smiled as he watched his son flush deeply and straighten in the saddle at Gimli’s compliment.  “I am proud,” he murmured, his voice so low that only Legolas heard the whispered comment.  The elf merely smiled.  “Surely you have not traveled all the way from your homelands just to see my son become a soldier,” Kenson asked aloud, eying the two friends.

“Perhaps not,” Legolas replied, sending Dar a quick smile and a wink.  “In truth, I came here with Lord Faramir and the Lady Eowyn after we received a message from Aragorn asking us to visit.  Gimli also received a message.  It seems the king has an announcement to make, and he wishes us all present when he does.”

“An announcement?” Both Dar and Kenson asked simultaneously, their faces showing their curiosity. 

“What is this announcement about?” Kenson asked.

Gimli shook his head.  “We do not know. He hasn’t announced it yet,” he replied, sending a dark glare at the back of his friend’s head.  “However, Legolas here has some suspicions which he refuses to share.

Legolas glanced over his shoulder and down at the dwarf, his gray eyes sparkling with laughter.  “It is not my right to share,” he replied firmly, ignoring Gimli’s grimace.  “Besides,” he added, “It is much more fun watching you trying to guess at it.”

Gimli muttered something that sounded much like a dwarven curse beneath his breath, and Legolas could no longer contain his laughter.

“Anyway,” Gimli said loudly, pointedly ignoring his elven friend and focusing his attention once more on Kenson and Dar, “We have ridden out here to escort you into the city.  Aragorn wanted to come, but unfortunately, matters of court detained both him and Faramir.  However, he sends his greetings and his request that you both join us for the evening meal, at which time I believe he intends on making this secret announcement of his.”

“Who am I to refuse a request from my king?” Kenson commented with a sly smile.  “We will be there, rest assured.”

“Good,” Gimli stated, then turned a glare on the still chuckling Legolas.  “Now if you are able, master Elf, I suggest that you turn this fiery beast you call a horse around, and allow us to return to the city where we might go indoors and escape the heat of the afternoon.  Of course, with your skill as a horseman and the temperament of this creature, we very well might end up…”

Gimli never finished his sentence, for Legolas had leaned forward and whispered something to Shandarell, causing the horse to rear up suddenly on his hind legs.  Gimli let out a shout of alarm and threw his arms around Legolas’ waist in order to keep from sliding off the back of the horse as Shandarell smoothly pivoted, landing graceful facing the city.

Throwing a smug look back at the dwarf who still had a death grip around his waist, Legolas gently squeezed his legs against Shandarell’s side, causing the horse to leap forward into a graceful canter.

Containing their own smiles, Kenson, Dar, and the rest of the soldiers quickly urged their mounts after Legolas and Gimli.  They moved forward toward the city, laughing and joking amongst themselves as they passed through the massive gates and into the city proper.  Legolas slowed the pace to a walk then, and they slowly made their way up the cobbled streets toward the palace.

Behind them, a black-cloaked figure moved, unnoticed, from the shadows of the wall and swiftly followed.

******

‘What is Aragorn hiding from us?’

Gimli was fairly certain that this single question, which had been repeating itself over and over again within his mind, was about to drive him mad.  There were few things he hated more than not knowing something he thought he ought to know, and he had never been accused of having anything even remotely resembling patience.  When he had first received Aragorn’s message requesting a visit and hinting at a certain ‘announcement’ the king wished to make, Gimli had dropped everything he was doing and traveled as quickly as he could to Minas Tirith.  Now, however, he had been within the city for three days and had yet to hear the announcement or even come up with a reasonable guess as to what it might pertain. 

Legolas claimed to have a guess, yet Gimli had been unable to get anything from him, much to his frustration and the elf’s amusement.  Now, only an hour away from the evening meal in which Aragorn had promised to reveal his message, Gimli found the tension even harder to bear.  He began to seriously consider the idea of sneaking to Legolas’ room and torturing the information out of his friend.  At least then, he would have something to do to occupy his mind.

Muttering a dark curse beneath his breath, Gimli began tearing through his belongings in search of a fresh tunic to change into before dinner.  He hated formal affairs, and could only hope that the evening meal would be casual, without hundreds of Aragorn’s advisors and generals crowding around discussing politics, or arguing about the best way to transfer goods from one city to another.  The last time that had happened, he had somehow allowed himself to drift to sleep, with rather embarrassing results, and he had no wish to repeat the incident.

Sighing heavily, he at last picked out an outfit of dark gray colors, which seemed to fit his present mood, and donned it quickly.  Then he left the room in search of Legolas.

He was not surprised when he at last found Legolas in the gardens; even less surprised that his friend was presently perched within the branches of a high tree.  Legolas sat with one leg pulled to his chest, the other dangling limply from the branch, his eyes closed and his head leaning back against the trunk of the tree.  The limb he was presently perched upon stretched out over one of the many fountains in the garden, and the magical play of water filled the air.

Gimli watched his friend from a distance for several long minutes, then slowly and quietly he approached, his eyes locked on Legolas’ face.  The elf’s features were relaxed and distant, a sign that Gimli had come to realize meant that Legolas’ thoughts were far away.  His grin was purely evil as he silently climbed the rim of the fountain, moving forward with as much stealth as he had ever been able to muster.  Legolas’ left leg, the one he had left dangling, was now directly in front of Gimli, and with a silent chuckle of mirth, he reached out and grasped the booted foot, yanking downward with all of his might.

A muted shout of alarm sounded above, and Gimli leapt backward, off the rim of the fountain, just in time to avoid the tumbling form of his friend.  Somehow, Legolas managed to recover himself enough to land feet first with a great splash in the middle of the fountain, the surprise on his face causing Gimli to double over in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.  Legolas sent a deadly glare in his direction, and Gimli considered the wisdom in fleeing, yet he was laughing too hard to move.

“Very funny, Gimli,” Legolas ground out between gritted teeth as he sprang gracefully from the fountain.  “Funny, yet was it wise?” the elf added as he lifted his hand to wipe away some stray droplets of water that had landed on his face.

Gimli tried to respond, but found himself unable to stop laughing.  Every time he looked at Legolas he found himself fighting off another round of wild chuckles.

Legolas stood over him with his arms crossed over his chest and a look of forced patience on his face as he waited for Gimli to get control of himself.

“I…I apologize, master elf,” Gimli finally managed to gasp.  “I’m afraid I mistook your foot for a dead branch.  I was merely attempting to help the palace gardeners.”

“Come now, Gimli,” Legolas said coolly, “Surely you can come up with something better than that.”

Gimli bit his lip hard to hold back another burst of laughter, and attempted to put on his most innocent expression.  “Never did I think to sneak up on you, Legolas.  Truly your thoughts must have been far from here.  Tell me, what were you thinking of that so distracted you.”

Legolas merely shrugged and looked away, but Gimli was not about to let the elf elude his question so easily.

“Come now, Legolas,” he urged.  “Is there a pretty elven maiden who occupies your thoughts?”

“Nay,” Legolas responded with a wry laugh.  He glanced back at Gimli then, and shrugged once more before saying quietly, “The sea. I was thinking of the sea.”

All mirth fled from Gimli as quickly as it had come as he fully came to understand why he had been able to sneak up on Legolas.  He flinched unconsciously, as he always did when discussing this topic with his best friend.  The sea longing was something that Gimli did not completely understand, yet he knew that it tormented his friend, some days more than others.

“Come Gimli,” Legolas said lightly, a forced cheerfulness entering his voice.  “You got me fair and square, and now I will be forced to think of a suitable revenge.  But for now, I think I need to go and change clothes.”

Gimli nodded, unable to think of anything else to do or say at the moment.  He followed Legolas to the elf’s quarters, then waited outside for his friend.  Several minutes later, Legolas reappeared, looking especially noble in a dark green tunic with silver leaf scrolling around the cuffs.  The two made their way quickly toward the large dinning hall, neither speaking, but instead walking in the light silence of friends.

A young servant girl was waiting for them when they reached the large ornate doors leading into the banquet hall.  She bowed low, then led them through the huge, dimly lit room, to a smaller room located to the side, where the lamps shone brighter and a long table was already set up for the evening meal. 

Gimli let out a relieved sigh when he realized that this was indeed going to be a relaxed meal between friends, instead of a formal affair.  Aragorn stood at the head of the long table, talking with Faramir, Kenson, and Dar. Arwen and Eowyn stood a few paces off speaking quietly to one another.

“Ahh,” Aragorn called out when he noticed their arrival, “I was beginning to wonder if you two intended to show up.”

“My apologies, Aragorn,” Legolas said softly, bowing slightly to the king before glancing over at Gimli.  “I am afraid that I had a slight accident which delayed us.”

Gimli chuckled, relieved when he noticed the slight smile mirrored on Legolas’ face.

“I see,” Aragorn said slowly, looking the two friends up and down before shaking his head.  “No matter.  Come, let us eat.”

Gimli wasn’t about to argue with this command, and he quickly found his seat, eying the different dishes displayed before him with great interest.  Legolas sat down beside him, throwing Gimli a wicked look.

“It is a good thing this is not a formal meal,” the elf stated quietly, “For I would hate to have to fish your head from a bowl of soup like the last time, lest you drown.”

Gimli let out a low growl, but he wasn’t given a chance to respond, for the others had seated themselves and the meal was about to begin.  “Come now, Aragorn,” Gimli called out, catching the king’s attention.  “Did you not have an announcement to make ere we begin to eat?”

Aragorn laughed and shook his head.  “Patience, good dwarf,” he replied, “there will be plenty of time for that after we eat.”

Gimli wasn’t so sure that he agreed, yet the tantalizing smells drifting from the food was more than a little distracting, and at last he gave in.

The meal was a relaxed and enjoyable time, where the old friends shared tales and laughter, and the warmth from the many candles, combined with full stomachs left everyone feeling contented and slightly drowsy.

While they ate, Aragorn asked Kenson to share how things were going in Calembel, and they all listened with interest as the mayor related the different activities occurring in the city as well as the new progress that had been made in the merchant businesses there.

When Kenson had finished speaking, Aragorn turned to Legolas and Faramir and asked them to tell of the progress made within Ithilien. 

Gimli only half listened to their responses, having already heard much of this from Legolas.  He found himself quickly growing impatient, eager for the idle talk to end and the more important matters to be addressed. 

“And what of you, Gimli?  How goes your work within the Glittering Caves?”

Gimli gave a slight start when Aragorn addressed him, then cleared his throat and met the king’s gaze.

“All goes well,” he replied gruffly.  “Each day we make new discoveries.  In fact, we have just uncovered a thick vein of mithril, the discovery being made on the very same day that I received your message.”

Gimli hoped that Aragorn would detect his subtle hint, and it appeared as if he was in luck, for the king laughed softly, then stood, drawing the attention of everyone in the room to himself.

“I have an announcement to make,” Aragorn stated boldly, and Gimli had to forcefully choke back a scathing retort to this statement of the obvious. 

“The reason I have called you here,” Aragorn continued, “is because I would like you all to share in my joy.”  The king paused, then reached down and clasped Arwen’s hand, drawing his wife to a standing position beside him.  Both of them beamed at each other before turning to face their now rapt audience.

“Arwen and I are going to have a baby,” Aragorn said proudly, his arm wrapped lovingly around his wife’s slim waist.  “I am soon going to be a father!”

The pronouncement was met with stunned silence, which was quickly shattered with shouts of joy and congratulation.  Eowyn leapt from her seat and raced to embrace Arwen, while Faramir and Kenson moved to shake hands with Aragorn.

As for Gimli, he found himself not quite sure how to react.  He was happy for his friends, yet at the same time, somewhat shocked that his days of wondering and worrying had been for nothing more than this.  He turned in his chair and found Legolas watching him, a wide smile spread across the elf’s fair features.

“You knew!” Gimli said accusingly, glaring at his elven friend.  “You knew, and still you let me wonder.”

Legolas shrugged, his grin broadening.  “It was not my secret to tell,” he replied steadily, though his eyes sparkled with laughter.

Gimli muttered something less than complimentary under his breath, then turned his back on the elven prince.  Rising from his chair, he moved forward to congratulate Aragorn and Arwen.

Aragorn’s face was alight with pride and joy, and Arwen seemed almost as if she were glowing.  Watching his friend’s excitement, Gimli could not help but be affected, and the grin he offered king and queen was genuine.

The group of friends remained together well into the night, and when they at last parted company, all left with smiles and thoughts focused on what appeared to be a bright and happy future.

*******

Tervanis sat quietly within the shabby room of the rundown inn he had chosen on his first night within the city, his eyes distant and his hands distractedly stroking the hilt of his long knife.  Two weeks had passed since he and his men had arrived within the city.  Two weeks of sitting and waiting and learning what they could.  Yet now, he knew that the time of action was close.

Without a hint of warning, he sprang into motion, his hand smoothly and soundlessly drawing his blade from its sheath and flinging it forward to land with a soft thud in the hard wood of the room’s door.  The tingle of excitement that always took him before a job rushed through his veins, and with a crooked smile, he rose from the bed and moved to his saddlebags.  Flipping open the first flap, he reached inside and drew out a thin, sealed parchment and tucked it safely behind his belt.  Then, he rose and retrieved his knife before opening the door and striding confidently from the room.

TBC 

Chapter 3        Complications

Mornings in Minas Tirith were Aragorn’s favorite time of day.  Very often the first hints of dawn would find the King of Gondor relaxing against the railings of the veranda outside his room, contentedly watching the birth of the new day.  Morning was his time, a few precious hours during his normally full and busy day in which he could relax and forget about the concerns and duties that came with being King.   It was in these hours of peaceful solitude that Aragorn abandoned his mantle as King and allowed his mind to drift back to simpler times.  Sometimes his thoughts were focused on the future, yet more often it was the past--when he had been free to wander the land as a ranger--that occupied his mind.

On this particular morning, however, Aragorn’s thoughts were on neither his past nor his future.  Truthfully, he wasn’t thinking on much of anything, instead allowing his mind to drift lazily like one of the high clouds flying overhead.  He sat casually on the thick wooden railing, one knee pulled up comfortably to his chest while the other dangled loosely, his face the picture of contentment as he watched the first rays of the sun light up the low hanging clouds in bright gold and orange colors. 

Below him, the city was awakening, and a myriad of sounds drifted up to him on the cool morning breeze.  He could not help but smile slightly when a baby’s loud wail suddenly cut through the morning stillness, the cry demanding immediate attention.  He could picture the tiny infant in his mind, arms and legs flailing and face screwed up in a picture of discontent.  The high wails ceased just as abruptly as they had started, as the child was undoubtedly lifted into the comfort of its mother’s embrace.

Aragorn sighed softly and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wooden post at his back and reveling in the sun’s warm rays.  He knew he would have to leave his perch soon and begin to tend to his daily duties, but for now, he simply relaxed and enjoyed the moment. 

“You look quite content, Melethin,” a quiet voice spoke gently from somewhere to Aragorn’s right.

Aragorn smiled, and without opening his eyes, reached his arm out to the side in a gesture that Arwen should join him on the veranda.  With a soft laugh, Arwen complied, and Aragorn let out a sigh of pleasure as she moved into his embrace, her side pressed to his and her head coming to rest against his shoulder. 

They stayed like this for several long minutes before Aragorn at last forced his eyes open and looked down at his wife.  Arwen’s eyes had drifted closed, and a small smile brightened her already beautiful features, yet as she felt Aragorn’s gaze on her, she also opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“It is a beautiful day,” she commented lightly, and Aragorn nodded his agreement.

“You should have seen the sunrise this morning,” he replied.  “The clouds were each a different color, and the horizon looked as if it was lined with gold.”

“Perhaps I shall rise with you tomorrow so that I might also see this wonder,” Arwen said seriously, gazing out toward the Pelennor fields.

“Do you know what I like the most about the sunrises, Arwen?” Aragorn asked softly, his own gaze distant.  “They are all different, none the same as the one before.  I know that each morning I shall see this wonder in a new and vastly different way, and thus, I never grow tired of watching them.”

Aragorn sighed heavily. ‘Would that my own life could be as varied,’  he thought soberly.  Once it had been, yet now he was forced to endure the same thing day after day; long hours of court followed by countless meetings with advisors and generals.   Lately, he had found himself wishing that something, anything, would happen to disrupt the endless monotony that was his life.

Arwen moved slightly against him, and when he glanced down at her, her gaze was sympathetic, as if she had somehow read his dark thoughts.

With a final glance around him, Aragorn jumped down from the railing and pulled Arwen more fully into his embrace.  “Let’s go on a ride this afternoon,” he suggested without warning, his gaze turning toward the distant fields past the city walls.

“Do you not hold court this day?” Arwen asked in surprise, pulling back far enough in his arms to look up into his face.

Aragorn’s face soured, and he nodded.  “Aye, I hold court today,” he responded, “just as I held court yesterday and shall be forced to hold court tomorrow.  It never ends, Arwen.”  He clenched his fist in frustration, his face taking on a determined cast.  “However, I have decided that I want to take you on a ride this afternoon, and so we shall go on a ride!  I am sure the court won’t disappear the few hours that I am absent.”

Arwen gazed up at him seriously for a few seconds, her eyes showing concern, but then she smiled softly.  “A ride sounds wonderful, Estel,” she commented.  “It will be nice to escape from the palace for a while.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Aragorn answered, gracing Arwen with his most charming smile.  “Now that that is settled, shall we go and find some breakfast?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Arwen echoed with a laugh, turning and hooking her arm through Aragorn’s elbow as he escorted her from the balcony.  “I’m starved.”

It was Aragorn’s turn to laugh.  “Well you should be,” he responded lightly, his hand drifting down to rest on Arwen’s abdomen, “You are eating for two now.”

Arwen placed her own hand over Aragorn’s, her eyes glowing with the joy that always seemed to surface when she thought of her baby.  Though she was only a few months along in her pregnancy, she had already fallen deeply in love with the child she carried in her womb, and Aragorn knew that she would make a wonderful mother.  He only hoped that he would make just as wonderful a father.

When they reached the dining hall, they found Faramir and Eowyn already there, Faramir’s plate piled high with what looked like a mixture of eggs and sausages, while Eowyn’s plate held a single slice of bread.

“I think I shall follow Eowyn’s lead,” Arwen whispered to Aragorn, causing him to glance at her in surprise.

“I thought you were hungry?” he commented lightly, noticing Arwen’s slightly pale features and the way she carefully avoided looking in Faramir’s direction.

“Not anymore,” Arwen replied simply, moving away toward the far table laden with a variety of breakfast dishes.

Aragorn watched her go, then moved forward to greet Faramir and Eowyn, slipping into the nearest seat and relaxing back with a small sigh.  “Where is Gimli and Legolas?” he asked, glancing around for the two friends.  “I had expected them to already be here.”

Faramir was about to answer, despite the fact that his mouth was full of eggs, but Eowyn elbowed him hard in the side, then answered for him.  “Legolas and Gimli left the palace early this morning, my lord.  It seems that Gimli somehow managed to convince Legolas to accompany him to the forges down by the wall.  I expect they will be back later this morning if you have need of them.”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I have no need of them, my lady,” he laughed.  “I was just wondering, for those two very rarely miss a meal while visiting here.”

“Rarely?” Arwen scoffed, returning to the table with two plates, one heaping, and the other with only a small slice of bread. “Never, I think would be a better word.”

Aragorn rose quickly and reached out to help Arwen with her burden.  “Thank you, my love,” he said, as he took the heaping plate from her.  “Though I could have served myself.  I was merely greeting our guests first.”

Arwen merely smiled in response and handed Aragorn an extra fork before gracefully sitting down. 

Aragorn sat also, then returned his attention to Faramir and Eowyn.  “What about Kenson and Dar? he asked.  “I invited both of them to dine with us this morning.”

As if in answer to his question, the door to the dining hall opened, and the mayor of Calembel strode in, followed closely by a bleary eyed Dar.

“Good morning, Kenson, Dar,” Aragorn called out, rising from his chair to greet his guests. 

“Good morning,” Kenson replied cheerfully. “I hope we are not late…”

“Nonsense,” Arwen interrupted, leveling both Kenson and Dar with a radiant smile.  “Aragorn and I have just arrived ourselves.  Please, help yourselves.”

Kenson bowed low to her, then turned and made his way with his son toward the table laden with the breakfast dishes. 

“You look weary, Dar,” Arwen called after them.  “If your sleeping quarters were unsatisfactory…,” she began, but Dar quickly shook his head.

“Oh no, my lady,” he said hurriedly, accepting a plate from his father.  “The rooms were wonderful, thank you.”

Arwen nodded her head, then smiled gently.  “You meet with your captain today, don’t you?” she asked.  “You must be nervous.”

Dar didn’t answer, but Aragorn could clearly see the lad’s features pale at Arwen’s words, and the hand that held his plate trembled slightly.  He guessed then what had kept the young man from sleeping peacefully; Dar was extremely nervous!

“I am sure you will do wonderfully today, Dar,” Aragorn said firmly, hoping to encourage the lad, yet Dar only seemed to grow even paler at his words.  He returned to the table with only a half filled plate, and immediately began to push the food around with his fork, never actually lifting anything to his mouth.

“I trust at least you slept well?” Aragorn asked Kenson, as the man took his seat next to his son.

“Wonderfully,” Kenson responded with a sigh.  “I must admit that I am not looking at all forward to the return trip to Calembel and another week of sleeping on the hard ground!”

“When do you leave?” Faramir asked, leaning back in his chair and contentedly tapping his full stomach. 

Kenson frowned and shrugged, sending a worried glance toward the pale face of his son.  Dar didn’t even seem to notice. 

“I am not sure,” Kenson said slowly, his eyes never leaving Dar.  “I will probably stay for a few more days, but I must return to Calembel soon.  I left the city in capable hands, yet I do not like being absent from there for too long.”

“You are welcome to stay in Minas Tirith for as long as you wish,” Arwen told him.  “And have no fear for Dar, for we shall take good care of him,” she added with a sympathetic glance toward the nervous young man.

Dar at last glanced up and managed to smile weakly at Arwen. 

For the second time that day, Aragorn found himself thinking what a great mother Arwen would make.  He leaned back in his chair and listened as Arwen expertly drew Dar into a conversation, her soft voice and gentle manner somehow seeming to have a calming effect on the lad.

A loud knock on the heavy wooden doors brought Aragorn from his thoughts, and he casually called out the command to enter.  A young soldier entered the room hesitantly, then quickly made his way to Aragorn, bowing low before handing the king a simple white parchment.

“Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” the soldier apologized, “yet a young boy just brought this to us at the gate, claiming that it was of utmost importance and should be delivered to you immediately.  We attempted to question him further, but he fled from us.”

Aragorn nodded, flipping the parchment over in his hands and examining the seal.  The mark was that of a simple hand pressed into deep crimson wax, and Aragorn frowned as he tried to place the seal in his mind.

“Thank you,” he said to the soldier, dismissing the man to return to his post.  He realized that the others were all watching him curiously, so with a shrug, he broke the seal and flipped the parchment over, his eyes scanning the message quickly.

You mocked and scorned me,

Destroyed and abandoned me.

Yet sometimes a simple nuisance,

cast aside and forgotten,

can turn into a dangerous enemy.

Be warned, King of Gondor!

My war with you begins today

Aragorn read the message again, then a third time, hardly able to believe what he was seeing, his heart pounding wildly within his chest. 

“Estel?”

Aragorn tore his gaze away from the parchment at Arwen’s concerned call, his eyes turning to meet his wife’s.

“What is it, Estel?” Arwen asked softly, immediately aware that something was wrong.

Aragorn merely shook his head and handed her the parchment, aware that the eyes of the rest of the table were upon them.

Arwen read the letter swiftly, her eyes widening slightly, before she glanced back up at Aragorn.

 “A threat?” she stated as much as asked, her voice calm, but her expression showing deep concern.

“What?”  Faramir demanded, rising swiftly from his chair and moving around the table to read the message over Arwen’s shoulder.  He swore softly when he had finished, causing Eowyn to throw him a disapproving look, but he hardly seemed to notice.  He turned his attention instead to Aragorn.  “Know you who sent this?” he asked.

Aragorn shook his head, his mind still flipping through a long list of possibilities ever since he had first read the message.  “No,” he answered out loud.  “Yet there are many possibilities.  I have made many allies since becoming King, yet I have also made a fair number of enemies as well.  It could be anyone, from a disgruntled farmer who disliked my ruling in court, to an old ally of Sauron who seeks revenge for the overthrow of the dark lord.  Truly I know not.”

“Yet why does it come now?” Arwen asked, passing the message over the table so a very curious Kenson, Dar, and Eowyn could read the words.

Once more, Aragorn could only shake his head.  “I know not,” he repeated softly, his mind still humming with a thousand possibilities.

“Well, I intend to find out!” Faramir stated angrily.  “I shall question the guards at the gate, then find this young boy who delivered the message.  If I have my way, we shall know of the guilty party before nightfall!”

Aragorn nodded slowly, rising from his chair.  “The guards are a good place to start,” he said calmly, though he was truly beginning to doubt that this would be settled as easily as Faramir seemed to hope.  A cold feeling of dread was washing over him, and try as he might, Aragorn could not shake the feeling that whoever had sent him this message had been planning this moment for quite some time.  Nor could he shake the feeling that he should know the author.  Despite his words to the others, Aragorn had sensed something personal in the message, and he guessed that at one time or another, he had met, or at least seen this person face to face.  Now if only he could remember.

Aragorn let out a small sigh and rubbed a hand across his eyes.  Hadn’t it been only an hour ago that he had been wishing for something to happen?  Now, it seemed as if he was going to get his wish, and not in the way he had expected.

My war with you begins today.

With these ominous words ringing through his head, Aragorn rose and followed Faramir from the room.

******

Tervanis leaned back casually against a wooden cart, his eyes watching as the young boy approached the palace guards and delivered the message just as he had been paid to do.  The lad turned and raced away down the stone streets just as soon as he had finished his task, ignoring the shouts of the guards calling for him to stop.  Tervanis smiled and nodded, satisfied that the letter would reach its proper destination.  He continued to watch as the guard with the letter disappeared through the palace gates, then he straightened and turned away.  He was not sure what the parchment contained, for it had already been sealed when Servius had given it to him.  Yet from the little he knew of his present employer, he was sure that it would create quite a stir within the palace. 

‘Of course, not as much of a stir as what I am about to do.’

With this rather amusing thought in mind, Tervanis disappeared silently into the streets.

******

Fire surrounded him like a burning blanket, its heat nearly unbearable.  An insistent hissing sound filled the air, and a thousand hammers pounded away at his skull.  A strong tangy smell assaulted his nostrils, and he was finding breathing a more and more difficult task.

Legolas let out a low moan and raised a hand to his throbbing head.  ‘So this is the price of revenge,’ he thought dully, trying desperately to block the overload on his senses.  He grimaced and glanced around him urgently, looking for any avenue of escape from this torture. 

“Isn’t it wonderful, Legolas?”

Legolas glanced to his side and fought to keep his features calm and unreadable, determined not to give Gimli the satisfaction of seeing him so flustered.  He realized that to flee now would only invite more torment later, so he steeled himself and put on his most convincing smile, all the while marveling at how Gimli could look both innocent and evil at the same time.

He stood with his friend in the section of the city referred to as ‘Fire Lane,’ a name that originated from the glow coming from more than a dozen forges lining the stone streets.  All of the forges had open fronts leading out onto the streets, and the noise, heat, and smell of the place combined to overwhelm the senses.

When Gimli had first suggested that they visit this place, Legolas had been fairly certain that the dwarf was seeking revenge for the fact that he had not told him earlier of Aragorn’s announcement.  He had chosen to play along with his friend, certain that if he refused, Gimli would just come up with something worse.  Now, however, after following Gimli around ‘Fire Lane’ for over an hour, he was coming to the rather grim conclusion that nothing could be worse than what he was now enduring.

 It hadn’t been so bad at first, but Gimli had found ways to make the visit as uncomfortable to his elven friend as possible.  Like right now, when he had insisted on stopping directly in the middle of the largest of the forges, where the heat made the air stuffy and nearly unbearable, and the noise made it hurt to think. Through it all, Legolas merely gritted his teeth and kept his mind distracted with thoughts of his own revenge.

“Can you hear it?”  Gimli shouted up at him, a look of rapt attention on his stout face.

Legolas grimaced and sent a quick glare at his friend.  “Aye, I can hear it,” he responded tightly.  “I think I would be able to hear it even if I were deaf, which I surely will be if we do not leave soon.  Now if you have finished, Gimli, perhaps we can….”

“Not that!” Gimli interrupted.  “I mean the music.  Can you hear the music?”

Legolas looked down at Gimli, seriously wondering if all the noise had driven his companion insane.  ‘Music,’ he mouthed silently, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

Gimli noticed his reaction and let out a small grunt of disapproval.  “There is music in all of this, if you know how to listen for it.  It is actually quite fascinating.”

Legolas made a noncommittal sound and turned away, certain that Gimli was once again merely trying to torment him as much as he could.  The continuous pounding of the smithy hammers was beginning to make his ears ring, and the thick air made breathing a difficult task.  He could not imagine how the men working here actually managed to do their jobs with the air so thick and hot. 

He turned back to Gimli, surprised when he found his friend with his eyes closed, his head tilted to one side, and a look of wonder on his face.  Watching him, Legolas began to wonder if perhaps Gimli really did think he heard music in all the noise surrounding them. 

He looked around again, suddenly listening more intently to the thrum of the forges, the hiss of water on hot metal, and the steady pounding of the heavy hammers.  He still could not detect anything even resembling music, yet there was definitely a rhythm in all the noise…

“Do you hear it now?”

Legolas turned back to Gimli and shrugged his shoulders carelessly, shaking his head.

Gimli frowned, then sighed sadly.  “You would never make a good dwarf!”

Legolas let out a short laugh.  “For which I shall be eternally grateful,” he retorted.  “Might we be going now, Gimli, or do you intend on standing here until you grow so old that I must carry you from this place?”

Gimli snorted loudly, then turned and stomped toward the open street.

Legolas smiled to himself, then quickly followed, anxious to escape to an area where the air was actually breathable.  He caught up to Gimli out on the stone street, letting out a deep sigh of relief,  pointedly ignoring Gimli’s smug look. 

He turned and strode purposefully toward the inn several hundred yards up the street where he had left Shandarell.  He had decided to return to the palace, and if Gimli chose to argue, Legolas would merely leave without him.

He was half way to his destination when he suddenly felt a chill run up and down his spine.  He halted in his tracks—grimacing slightly when Gimli ran into him from behind—and quickly glanced around him.

“What is it?” Gimli demanded, his voice sounding slightly annoyed. “What is wrong?”

Legolas slowly shook his head, his eyes still searching the busy street as he turned to face his friend.  “I am not sure,” he admitted quietly.  “I just got the sudden feeling that we are being watched, and the eyes are not friendly.”

Gimli frowned at this, then also began glancing around, the expression on his face causing a young woman across the street to let out a slight squeak and grab her small child to her breast.

“Legolas, there are lots of people watching us,” Gimli finally stated, turning back to Legolas and scowling in annoyance.  “Can you blame them?  An elf and a dwarf are not exactly common sights within the city, and certainly not two traveling together.”

Legolas shook his head.  “No,” he said firmly, “It is not their stares that I sense.  I have become accustomed to the looks of the curious, but this is something different.  The gaze that watches us now seems more…focused.” He shrugged his shoulder apologetically, unsure how better to explain his feelings.  “It is not the first time I have gotten this feeling since arriving in the city.  Somebody has been watching us, Gimli, and I know not why.”

Gimli nodded his head slowly, then scanned the busy streets one more time before motioning Legolas to continue on toward the inn.  “Do you still sense it?” he asked after of few moments of silence, his voice tuned low as if he were afraid that their unseen watcher might also be listening.

“Yes,” Legolas answered shortly, his movements casual, yet his eyes constantly wandering as he sought to pinpoint the direction from which his unease originated.  His gaze continually drifted toward his right, yet he saw nothing there to indicate that this was where the watcher might be hiding.  Whoever this person was, he certainly knew how to remain hidden.

“And you say you have felt this before?” Gimli asked from beside him.  “Why haven’t you mentioned it until now?”

Legolas shrugged.  “The feelings were not as strong before,” he explained simply.  “I did not think them worth mentioning.”

They had reached the inn now, and Legolas let out a soft sigh of relief as they left the busy street and moved behind the building toward the stables in back.  The feeling of unseen eyes left him as quickly as it had come, leaving him relieved, yet also somewhat disconcerted.

“Perhaps we should tell Aragorn of this?” Gimli suggested as they moved into the stables, the musty scent of hay and old leather greeting them.

“Perhaps,” Legolas responded distractedly, a small smile forming as Shandarell poked his head out of one of the stalls and whinnied a loud greeting. 

“Tell me again, Legolas, why we rode him down here instead of using our own two feet?” Gimli griped sulkily, moving far to one side so as to not be trampled as Legolas opened the stall door and allowed Shandarell to move forward into the hall.

“Shandarell needs the exercise,” Legolas answered firmly, patting the horse’s smooth neck affectionately.  “Besides, he gets insulted whenever I leave somewhere without him.”

“So you are willing to sacrifice the comfort of your best friend for the comfort of a horse,” Gimli sighed sadly. 

“Of course,” Legolas responded with a laugh.  “My horse does not have as sharp a tongue as you, my friend.  Nor does he drag me to places I do not wish to go!”

“Such as into a fountain!” Gimli shot back, the sparkle in his eyes showing that he was more than willing to enter into a verbal sparring match.

Legolas only sighed and shook his head, motioning Gimli to move forward so he could boost him onto Shandarell’s back.  Normally, he would have been delighted to meet Gimli’s challenge, but for now, his mind was too distracted.  He found himself wondering if the unseen watcher would still be waiting for them out in the streets.  What had started as a niggling feeling of unease, was slowly growing into a sense that something was not right.  After centuries of relying totally on his senses, Legolas found this feeling very hard to ignore.

With a small sigh, he swung up in front of Gimli and moved Shandarell forward, suddenly anxious to return to the palace and speak with Aragorn.

******

Tervanis watched silently as the dwarf and elf disappeared from his view behind the inn.  He was fairly certain that their strange behavior further up the street was indicative that his presence had been sensed, undoubtedly by the elf.  There had been a few tense moments when he thought himself discovered, and even now, he was not completely sure that he had not been.  He would have to proceed with caution from now on.  He could allow nothing to go wrong this early in the game.

With a small shake of his head, he moved swiftly up the street, walking as quickly as he could without actually running.  He did not want to draw attention to himself, yet he needed to move far enough ahead of the elf and dwarf that he would have time to make sure his plan was in complete readiness. 

He kept his face blank of emotions, hiding the chills of excitement that were beginning to tingle throughout his body.  Following the main thoroughfare, he slipped from shadow to shadow, never meeting anyone’s eyes and giving no reason for anyone to recognize him from the throng of other commoners milling around.

He reached his destination quickly, two shops located side by side with only a narrow alleyway separating them.  A large man with heavily corded muscles and a wide, scarred face stood at the entrance to the alley, his arms crossed loosely across his chest, and his bulky frame neatly blocking the entrance to the narrow passageway. 

The man looked up quickly when Tervanis neared him, then casually moved to one side, opening a narrow path into the shadows behind him.

“The alleyway is clear,” the man whispered softly, his lips barely moving and his eyes focused in the opposite direction from Tervanis.

“Make sure it stays that way,” Tervanis hissed in response, slipping past the man and jogging swiftly down the narrow passage.  He moved to the very end of the alley, then turned to the wall of the shop on his left, his eyes scanning the stone for the small niches that would serve as finger and toe holds.  Quickly locating them, he silently began to climb upward, his movements graceful and smooth.

When he at last reached the top, he rolled cautiously over the waist high railing and onto the roof, his soft boots not making a single sound to alert anyone beneath him of his presence.  Crouching low and using the railing to hide him from the eyes of the people below him on the street, Tervanis began to navigate toward the far side of the roof, where his bow and quiver of arrows lay waiting for him.

He could not hold back a slight grimace of disgust as he finally reached the weapon and pulled it into his grasp.  Although he was talented in the use of almost any weapon imaginable, a bow was not usually his first choice.  Instead, he preferred the hard steel of knife or sword, and the excitement of facing his victims face to face so that he might see the terror of death reflected in their eyes in the last moments of their life. 

Still, Servius wanted it done this way, and he was paying Tervanis enough money that the assassin wasn’t about to argue.  Besides, he had learned much about both elf and dwarf during his time in the city, and knew them both to be formidable warriors.  To attack one, was to attack both, and though Tervanis loved challenges, he knew the danger was too great to risk confronting them openly.  Not to mention that Minas Tirith was nothing like Norvil, where knife fights in the middle of the streets were common place, and people normally turned a blind eye to it all.  No, truly this was the best way.

Despite these thoughts, he could not stop his mind from imagining a battle between himself and either the dwarf or the elf.  Truly such a fight would challenge him greatly, and he felt a pang of disappointment that he would be forced to miss such an opportunity.

Shrugging away these regrets, the assassin quickly strung his bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver.  Moving forward, he peered over the rim of the railing and down to the street below, his eyes focused back the way he had just come.

Many minutes passed, and he was beginning to worry that perhaps the elf and dwarf had chosen a different route for their return to the palace, when at last they appeared around a slight curve in the road.  They moved at a rapid pace, and Tervanis knew that he would have to move swiftly.

His movements were smooth and graceful as he fitted the arrow to the bow, and the complete calmness that always swept over him before a kill kept him steady and patient.  This was his job, what he lived for, and there were very few men alive who could do it better than him.

He slipped down until he was completely concealed by the high railing, then let his eyes drift shut and his ears direct him.  The steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves pounded loudly in his mind, and he counted down slowly as they drew nearer and nearer to the shop on which he hid.

‘Just a little closer.  A little bit more…’

And then they were passing directly below him. 

Gripping the bow tightly, he rose from his crouch and swiftly sighted along the polished shaft of the arrow, his hands completely steady despite the excitement coursing through his veins.  He found his target, and released the arrow.

TBC

Melethin—Beloved

Chapter 4      No Room for Mistakes

Someone had been watching them.

Gimli was not quite sure what to make of this information.  All he knew was that he had been having an enjoyable morning up until Legolas had made the observation that they were being watched.  Now every nerve in his body was in alert mode, and he couldn’t seem to stop glancing around nervously as they made their way up the stone streets of the city toward the palace. 

After leaving the inn’s stables, Legolas had seemed to relax, stating that he no longer sensed the presence of their unseen watcher.  Gimli, on the other hand, had only grown tenser as the minutes passed.  Some unknown sense deep within him was setting off a silent alarm, and Gimli was finding it harder and harder to ignore.  Legolas might no longer sense eyes watching them, but it was obvious that the elf was still troubled, which in turn caused Gimli to be troubled.

A long stream of questions kept filing through his mind.  Who was watching them?  Why?  Did this unseen watcher hold any ill intentions, or was it just the gaze of someone overly curious?  Was the watcher’s purpose directed toward Legolas, or himself?  Or maybe both? 

He couldn’t seem to come up with any answers, and he found himself more and more anxious to speak with Aragorn.  He was not sure the ex-ranger would know any more than himself, but at least he would feel better once Aragorn was aware of the situation. 

Gimli leaned forward slightly, intending to ask Legolas to pick up the already fast pace. 

He never got a chance, however, for Legolas suddenly stiffened, his body going from relaxed calm, to stiff and tense in the moment of a heartbeat.  Beneath them, Shandarell shifted and tossed his head, picking up on his rider’s nervousness.

“Legolas, what…?”  Gimli began to ask, but for the second time, he was interrupted as something slammed into him with enough force to drive him forward against Legolas’s back.  A surprised grunt was all that managed to escape as the air was forcefully driven from his lungs.

For a second, his mind was too confused and surprised to figure out what had happened.  Then a wave of intense pain struck him, the force of it causing his vision to blur before him.  He thought he heard shouting and screams, but he could not be sure through the roaring in his ears.  The whole world seemed to be rocking wildly, and he had the odd sensation that he was falling.

He was almost relieved when a blanket of darkness fell over him and the world went black.

*****

Legolas knew immediately that the watcher was back.  The gaze he had sensed earlier returned, this time with alarming intensity.  His body went taut, every nerve screaming in warning.  The abruptness and force of his reaction confused him, causing him to hesitate.  Beneath him, Shandarell danced nervously, tossing his head in aggravation.

Behind him, he heard Gimli begin to speak, then cut off with a startled grunt.  He felt the dwarf’s weight crash into his back, knocking him forward and momentarily off balance.  He quickly tightened his legs around Shandarell to keep his seat, the horse automatically responding to the pressure by dancing sideways.

He was still trying to regain his senses and figure out what had happened when he noticed that the people on the streets had all stopped and were staring at him, several of them pointing while others started shouting.  A sudden sense of dread overrode even his confusion, and this feeling only intensified as he felt Gimli slowly slipping sideways off of Shandarell.

Legolas reacted without thinking, twisting around and making a grab at Gimli’s arm to steady him.  The weight of his tumbling friend pulled Legolas from his seat, and he did not try to stop his fall.  Instead, he twisted again, attempting to work his way beneath Gimli so as to take the force of the impact with the ground. 

He hit the solid stone hard, his left shoulder striking first as he wasn’t quite able to twist completely around to his back.  His head connected with the stone street with a dull thud, and a thousand stars exploded across his vision.  A fraction of a second later, Gimli landed atop him, his weight driving all the air from Legolas’ lungs.

****

Tervanis swore silently, his hold on his bow tightening into a white fisted grip.  A surge of anger swelled through him, and for a split second he considered drawing another arrow and finishing the job.

Shaking his head firmly, he dropped back down into a protective crouch and began to hurry toward the far wall where he had first made his ascent.  He swore again as his cloak tore on the rough stone in his hurry to drop back down to the alley.

His shot had not been clean.

Tervanis hated it when things did not work out according to plan, and he hated it even worse when his actions were anything less than perfect.  His aim had been true, his hands steady, but at the last minute the horse had shifted, shying to the side and throwing off the killing shot by only a few inches.

Tervanis clenched his jaw in anger as he landed with a soft thud on the hard ground of the alley.  He knew his shot might very well still turn out to be lethal, but he would have preferred it to have done its job immediately.  There was no room for mistakes in his line of work.

“I will have to do better next time,” Tervanis muttered to himself, jogging quickly to the end of the alley.  The large, scar faced man still stood blocking the entrance, his head turned toward the commotion a few yards further down the street.  He jumped slightly when Tervanis tapped him impatiently on the shoulder, than quickly moved aside and allowed the assassin to slip from the alley.

Tervanis glanced down the street and found that a large crowd of people blocked his view of what was going on.  With a disgusted shake of his head, he turned and casually strode in the opposite direction, his face once more hidden of any emotion that might draw attention to him.  He heard the scar faced man shuffling along a few feet behind him, but he ignored him, his thoughts already contemplating the next part of Servius’ plan.

*****

Legolas wasn’t quite sure what had happened.  His head and shoulder throbbed painfully, and the heavy weight resting across his chest was making it difficult to breathe.  For a few long minutes, he couldn’t seem to collect his scattered thoughts, and the dancing lights across his vision made it difficult to focus.

“What happened?!”   A lady’s shrill cry echoed from what seemed a very long ways away.

“We’re not sure,” a man’s voice answered, sounding closer, but still muted and distant.

“It looks like they need help,” another voice spoke up, sounding young and frightened.

“I can’t get to them,” the first man spoke again.  “The horse won’t let me near them.” 

This statement was punctuated by an angry snort and the sound of hooves clattering against stone, followed by a shout of warning.

Legolas fought against his disorientation, blinking his eyes rapidly to bring his sight back into focus.  The first thing he saw was Gimli, lying motionless across his chest with an arrow protruding from his back.

His thoughts slammed painfully back into focus, and he let out a soft cry of alarm. Ignoring his own discomfort in his fear for his friend, he reached forward and gently shifted Gimli off of him.  Pushing himself up to his knees, he knelt over his friend’s prone form, a raging sea of emotion tearing through him.  Icy cold fear mixed oddly with a burning rage.

The arrow had buried itself deep about half way down Gimli’s back, close to his left side.  A crimson stain already ran down the dwarf’s tunic, and more blood seeped out from around the buried shaft, shimmering grotesquely in the morning sun.  Gimli’s breathing was ragged, his face pale and his eyes closed.

Legolas automatically reached for the arrow shaft, then drew back with a slight shake of his head.  The position of the arrow made it possible that the head could be caught in Gimli’s ribs.  Attempting to pull it out now, without a healer, could actually do more damage to his friend.

Legolas glanced up and immediately took in the large crowd of people surrounding him, their distance being kept by a very protective Shandarell.  He scanned over them quickly, then raised his eyes to the surrounding rooftops, his archer’s mind already having calculated the basic direction and height from which the arrow had to have come.

The rooftops were empty of any sign of movement, and Legolas swore softly, already knowing that the archer was long gone. 

A low moan caused his eyes to snap back down to Gimli, his face a mask of tension and worry as he watched the dwarf’s eyes flutter slightly.

“Hold on, Gimli,” Legolas whispered softly, reaching down and gently tracing his fingertips across his friend’s pale cheek.  “Hold on.  I am going to get you to help.”

Gimli did not respond, except to go completely limp once more.

With a surprisingly steady hand, Legolas reached forward and snapped off the shaft of the arrow, leaving only about two inches protruding from the dwarf’s back.  Gimli moaned again, and Legolas winced at the sound of his friend’s pain.  Quickly tearing a strip of cloth from his cloak, he wound it around the remaining shaft and pressed down as firmly as he could, hoping to quell the bleeding.

His actions were based completely on instinct now.  He knew that the full impact of what had happened would strike him later, along with all the pain, but for now, his entire focus was on saving Gimli.  Nothing else mattered, and he knew that if he was going to succeed, he had to block out all his emotions.  They would only get in the way right now.

Raising his head, he whistled Shandarell to him, already trying to figure out how he was going to get both he and Gimli onto the horses’ back.

“Let me help,” a kind voice spoke from the crowd, and Legolas turned as an older man stepped cautiously forward, he eyes watching Shandarell distrustfully.

Legolas recognized the voice as belonging to the man who had tried to reach him and Gimli before, but had been blocked by Shandarell.

“You can get on the horse, and I will pass the dwarf up to you,” the man suggested, taking another cautious step forward.

Legolas made a split second decision.  He nodded shortly, then turned and quickly swung up onto Shandarell’s back, turning back to watch the older man closely.

“Torin, come and help me,” the old man ordered, and a second later, a younger man stepped from the crowd and moved forward.  Together, they lifted Gimli as gently as possible into Legolas’ waiting arms.

“Thank you,” Legolas said softly, making sure that Gimli was held securely within his grasp.  The older man nodded, his face showing genuine concern.

Legolas turned Shandarell and urged him into an immediate gallop, charging forward through the streets toward the House of Healing.

TBC 

A/N—Hey everyone!  Ok, before we get started, there have been some questions  asked regarding Tervanis and Servius that I would like to address before I go on.  There has been some confusion regarding these characters, and I would like to clear it up.

First, Tervanis is not the one seeking revenge against Aragorn.  He is merely a tool that Servius is using to accomplish his goals.  He does not know the fellowship other than what he has observed since arriving in Minas Tirith, and his actions are following a plan laid out for him by Servius, not his own ideas.  In short, for the most part, he is doing what he was told to do.

As for Servius, we do not know much about his character yet.  We do not know who he is (except for a few rather observant readers)), or what his beef with Aragorn is.  We also don’t know how well he knows the fellowship, what his ultimate plan is, or what his final goals are.  I guess we will just have to wait and find out!!!

Another thing—I had some people asking why Tervanis managed to miss Gimli when he obviously is supposed to be so good at his job.  Shouldn’t he have been able to hit his target despite Shandarell?  Well, as I mentioned in a previous chapter, Tervanis is skilled in almost any weapon, but the bow is probably his least favorite.  He prefers to confront his prey in one on one battle.  If he were to make a mistake, the bow would be the weapon most likely for this, as he does not use it very often. 

Finally, briefly mentioned in this chapter is Malek—Evil creature in ‘Dark Horizons,’ who basically gave the Fellowship (especially Legolas) a REALLY bad time! 

Chapter 5        An act of War

Legolas was scared.

Many times in his long life he could remember instances of fear: hunting his first warg when still only an elfling, getting lost within the deep caverns of his father’s palace, witnessing the slow corruption of his beloved home by spiders and other evil creatures, hearing of the return of the One Ring, facing the dreaded Balrog within the depths of Moria, and lying helpless before the corruption of the creature Malek.  These were only a few of his memories of his encounters with fear, yet they all dimmed when compared to the horror of the present.

Gimli was dying.  His best friend was slipping away from him, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.  He could see it on his friend’s pale features, hear it in the labored breathing, and feel it in the warm blood that soaked his hands as he tried desperately to stem the flow of lifeblood from Gimli’s body.   And all the while the fear pressed down on him like some living, malevolent creature intent upon destruction.

“Valar, help me!” Legolas whispered brokenly, his voice lost beneath the heavy pounding of Shandarell’s hooves. 

Their mad dash up the city streets to the House of Healing took only a few minutes, but to Legolas, it seemed an eternity.  He did not even wait until Shandarell had come to a complete stop before flinging himself from the horse’s back and racing toward the building’s front doors, Gimli cradled protectively in his arms. 

He was calling for help even before he crashed through the doors, his eyes immediately searching for the nearest healer.  An elderly man with thick gray hair and bushy eyebrows that reminded Legolas somewhat of Gandalf started toward him, his apparel and stature indicating that he was one of the healers.

“My friend needs help,” Legolas stated, surprised at how strong and steady his voice was despite his fear.  “He has an arrow in his back and is fading quickly.”

“Follow me,” the healer responded simply, turning and hurrying a short way down the hall before pushing a door open.  “In here,” the man ordered, holding the door open as Legolas stepped passed him and carried Gimli to the bed.

He laid his friend down gently, then remained leaning over him, pressing down on the cloth around the arrow as the healer began shouting orders down the hallway.  A few seconds later, another healer appeared, followed by two women, one carrying an armload of bandages, the other a basin of steaming water.

The first woman moved up beside him and gently nudged his hands away from the wound, taking the blood soaked cloth and replacing it with a new one.  She looked up at him and smiled encouragingly, but Legolas barely noticed, too intent on Gimli.

“How long ago did this happen?”  The second healer was much younger than the first, with intent blue eyes, which he now leveled at Legolas.

“Only a few minutes ago,” Legolas responded, once again startled by the calmness in his voice.  He didn’t feel calm at all.

The healer nodded, then turned and motioned to the second woman, who promptly lowered the basin to a small stand and headed toward Legolas.  Before he even realized what was happening, she grasped his arm and propelled him gently but firmly toward the door.  “This may take the healers a while,” she explained quickly.  “I suggest that you wait outside while we care for your friend.”  With these words, Legolas felt himself half pushed out into the hallway.  He turned with a frown, opening his mouth to protest, but was met with only the solid wood of the door as it clicked firmly shut behind him.

He had just been kicked out.

Legolas wasn’t quite sure how to react to this fact.  He could not recall a single time in his long life when he had been so efficiently banished from a room, like a small child dismissed from his parent’s chambers so they could speak in private. He wasn’t sure what upset him more; the fact that they had just thrown him out, or the fact that they had done it so easily.  It was a testimony to how upset he truly was that he had not seen it coming and reacted earlier.

Legolas took a step toward the door, intending to force his way back in, but at the last moment he stopped. 

However much he would like to be with Giml right now, he would only be in the way.  He had done what he could for his friend, and now, as much as it hurt, he had to trust Gimli to the care of the healers.  He knew this, and yet it did not make it any easier as he stepped back from the doors. 

He glanced down at the blood staining his hands and was unable to repress a shudder.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to get back some of the calm detachment he had felt earlier.  When he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed.  The blood still stained his hands and tunic, the door still remained firmly shut, and Gimli still continued to fight for his life on the other side of those doors.

Legolas sighed and shook his head.  He knew he could not remain here, waiting idly in the hall while the healers worked on Gimli.  It would drive him mad if he tried.  Yet at the same time, the thought of leaving and having something possibly go wrong while he was away was almost too terrifying to consider.  Yet what should he do?

Aragorn. 

He should go to Aragorn.  His friend needed to be informed of what had happened.

With a last long look toward the door, Legolas turned and slowly made his way down the hall, each step tearing at him painfully.  He hoped that he could find Aragorn quickly and return here, just as he hoped that the king might have some desperately needed answers for him.

****

Aragorn was having a miserable day.  It was only a little past midmorning, and he was already desperately wishing that the day were over.  Every minute seemed to drag by incredibly slowly, and he was finding it hard to keep his attention on the seemingly endless number of petitions and petty arguments brought before him.  His normally abundant supply of patience was running dangerously low, and he wondered how many more hours it would take before he went mad. 

His concentration should have been on the needs of his people, yet he continually found his thoughts drifting back to the anonymous letter he had received at breakfast.  It was not the first threat he had received since becoming king, and he doubted it would be the last, but for some reason, this particular note troubled him.  He was not able to explain why, but something about the words and tone of the letter had immediately grabbed his attention and refused to let it go. 

Faramir was presently out scouring the city in search of any information on the possible author of the letter, and Aragorn wished that he could accompany his friend.  Instead, he was sitting alone within the large audience hall, waiting to hear the argument between two farmers over a piece of land that neither of them used, or needed.

“Bring them in,” he finally ordered the attendant who stood patiently next to the large doors leading out into the waiting hall.   The man bowed, then slipped quickly from the room to retrieve the two farmers.

Aragorn sighed and shifted in the large chair, forcing his mind to the matter at hand.  He already knew the basic details behind the two men’s argument, and knew the next few minutes were not likely to be pretty.  The farmers had been arguing for years, and Aragorn guessed that he would most likely be refereeing a shouting match between the two before this was all over.  He grimaced slightly.  It was these types of court audiences that he hated the most.

The large doors swung open, and Aragorn quickly wiped all emotion from his face, straightening in his chair and preparing to greet the farmers.  He was surprised when, instead of the two men, Faramir strode through the doors, the expression on his face immediately alerting Aragorn that something was wrong.

He frowned and rose from his chair, walking forward to meet Faramir.  It felt good to stand up and move.

“You have returned early,” he remarked casually.  “Have you found something?” 

“I have found many ‘somethings,’ all of which have turned out to be nothing.” Faramir replied grimly.  “Whoever sent you the message this morning did an admirable job hiding his trail.”

Aragorn nodded, then waited patiently for Faramir to continue, knowing that his friend must have some news that would explain his early return and interruption.

“Have Legolas and Gimli returned to the palace yet?”

The question took Aragorn somewhat by surprise, and he frowned at the trace of worry he detected in Faramir’s voice.

“I know not,” he replied slowly, eying Faramir for some clue as to why he had asked.  “I have been holding court since leaving you early this morning, and if they have returned, I have not been informed of it.  Why do you ask?”

Faramir shook his head.  “There are rumors on the street that they were attacked this morning.  The rumors are vague and sketchy at best, but I thought it best to return and find out for myself.”

“Have you asked the guards at the gate if they were seen returning?” Aragorn asked sharply, feeling a sense of alarm creeping over him at Faramir’s report.

“Aye,” Faramir answered.  “They had not seen them, but then they had just changed guards, and it is possible they slipped in before hand.  I could have searched for them myself, but I felt it best to inform you first.”

“I am glad that you did,” Aragorn answered.  “We shall search for them together.”  He turned and faced the attendant who had slipped in silently after Faramir.  “Tell those waiting outside that they will have to return some other time.  Something has come up that requires my immediate attention.”

The attendant bowed, then once more slipped soundlessly from the room.

“Do you think this has anything to do with the letter this morning?” Faramir asked quietly as they strode toward a small door to the side of the audience hall.

“We cannot dismiss the possibility,” Aragorn answered gravely.  “I think it is too much of a coincidence that this has happened now.  The note said, ‘my war with you begins today.’”  Aragorn shuddered slightly.

“Should we try and find Arwen and Eowyn to help with the search?” Faramir asked.

Aragorn thought about it, then shook his head.  Arwen and Eowyn had decided to spend the day together, doing whatever it was that females did when they had a free minute.  He did not want to ruin the day for either of them until he had more information.

“If they have returned to the castle, it should be easy enough to find out,” he replied.   “Let us go and talk to the guards at the gate once more and find out who held the watch before them.”

Faramir nodded his agreement, and the two walked in silence for a short while, each lost in his own thoughts.  They reached the courtyard quickly, and were halfway across when they spotted Legolas striding through the gates.

Aragorn felt a flood of relief that lasted only long enough for him to get a good look at Legolas’ features.  The elf princes’ expression was a mask of tightly controlled rage, mixed with something else.  Fear.  His posture was strictly erect, and his fists were clenched into tightly curled balls at his side.  When he saw Faramir and Aragorn, he began walking quickly in their direction, his gray eyes showing a grim intenseness that sent a chill through Aragorn.  Then, he saw the blood.

Aragorn began to run toward Legolas, his eyes searching for the source of the dark stains marring his friend’s tunic.  Legolas was not acting as if he was injured, but the amount of blood…

“I am unharmed, Aragorn,” Legolas said stiffly as Aragorn raced up to him, Faramir only a step behind.

“What happened?” Aragorn demanded, continuing to look Legolas up and down in spite of the elf’s statement.

“Someone shot Gimli,” Legolas stated flatly, causing Aragorn to jerk his gaze up to meet the elf’s.  Legolas’ eyes were smoldering pools of anger.

“Who?” Faramir gasped, as Aragorn tried to digest what he had been told.  Legolas’ simple statement had struck him like a hard blow to the stomach.

Legolas’ jaw clenched as he shook his head.  “I know not, Faramir.  Whoever it was, they struck from afar and I did not get a chance to see who it was.”

“Is Gimli…?” Aragorn started to ask, but Legolas cut him off with a quick shake of his head.

“I took him to the House of Healing.  They are working on removing the arrow now, but it does not look good, Aragorn.”  For a brief second, Legolas’ angry mask faded to be replaced by one of hurt and confusion, and Aragorn felt his heart wrench in pain for his friend.

“I guess we no longer have to wonder if this has something to do with the letter,” Faramir commented to Aragorn, his face grim.

“What letter?” Legolas demanded, his face hardening once more to hide the true emotions Aragorn knew must be ripping through him at the moment.

“Tell me all that happened,” Aragorn commanded, grabbing Legolas’ arm and turning him back the direction he had come.  “I must know everything.”

“What letter, Aragorn?” Legolas demanded a second time, ignoring Aragorn’s command.  “If you know something of who did this…”

“We do not know who did this, Legolas,” Faramir answered quickly.  “But we shall find out, I promise you that.”

Legolas glanced from Faramir back to Aragorn, his face a determined mask. 

Aragorn sighed.  He knew that he would not get anything from Legolas until the elf got his answer.  He reached into his tunic pocket and brought out the folded note, handing it to his friend.

Legolas scanned over it quickly, his fair features twisting into a scowl.  He looked up at Aragorn.  “So, whoever this is, attacked Gimli in order to get to you?”

“It appears that way,” Aragorn answered wearily, rubbing a tired hand across his eyes.  “I am sorry, Legolas.  I should have sent out a warning to you the minute I received this.”  He reached out and retrieved the letter from Legolas.

Legolas shook his head, his features softening slightly.  “You could not have known that Gimli would be a target.  I do not hold you responsible, Aragorn.  If anything, I am to blame.”

Aragorn frowned.  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because I sensed that we were being watched and yet I took no precautions.  If I had, perhaps all this could have been averted.”

Aragorn shook his head.  “As you told me, you could not have known.  As it is, now is not the time for ‘what if’s’ and self-recriminations.  Take me to Gimli, and I will see what I can do to help him.  You can tell me what happened as we walk.”

******

“Well, Son, how was your first day as a soldier of Gondor?”

Dar smiled wearily at his father as he sunk down in one of the large chairs in Kenson’s room.  He let out a loud sigh and closed his eyes, arching his back as if to ease aching muscles.

“Busy,” he finally mumbled.  “Very, very, busy.”

Kenson grinned at his son before sitting down in a chair facing Dar.  “Are you going to tell me about it?” he asked, eyeing his son carefully.  Dar looked tired, but content, and Kenson was pleased.

“Well,” Dar said slowly, “my captain is really nice.  I pretty much followed him around all day so I could get an idea of what will be expected of me in the days to come.  Nothing much exciting, but it sure wore me out!”

Kenson chuckled in understanding, remembering his own first days as a new merchant guard.  That time seemed ages ago now, but he still had plenty of memories.  “You’ll get used to it,” he assured his son with a wink.

“I hope so,” Dar mumbled, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes again.

Kenson watched his son for several seconds, his smile slowly fading.  He treasured these quiet moments spent with Dar, and the knowledge that he would soon be leaving his son cut through him like a knife.

“I have decided to return home tomorrow.”  Kenson at last broke the silence, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.

Dar shifted in his chair, opening his eyes to look at his father.  “So soon?” he asked simply.  “I was expecting you to stay at least a few days longer.”

Kenson shook his head.  “I need to return home.  The longer I am away from Calembel, the more work piles up for me to do upon my return.” ‘And the longer I am here with you, the less I will want to go home,’ he added silently, glancing away from his son so Dar would not read the sadness in his expression.  He was shocked when he glanced back and saw bright tears glistening in Dar’s eyes.

Dar reached up and wiped the moisture away impatiently, dropping his eyes down to his lap.  “I will miss you, father,” he whispered.

“And I’ll miss you,” Kenson answered quietly, finding it hard to speak past the heavy lump in his throat.  For a second, he saw his son as a little boy again, relying totally upon his father’s love.  He had to forcefully remind himself that Dar was now a man, and it was time that Kenson let him loose to find his own way.  Still, he felt a strong urge to reach over and pull Dar into a tight embrace and never let go.

Dar looked up and met his gaze again.  “Let’s not talk about this tonight, Father,” he begged.  “Tomorrow will come soon enough, and we can face it then, but tonight, let’s just relax and enjoy each other’s company.”

“Good idea,” Kenson replied, forcing a smile onto his face.

“So,” Dar straightened in his chair, “anything interesting happen while I was out learning to be a soldier?”

Kenson’s smile slipped, and he quickly glanced away from his son.  “You have not heard?” he asked.

Dar frowned.  “Heard what?”

Kenson rose from his chair and began to slowly pace around the room.  Dar watched him with a worried frown.  At last, Kenson turned back to face his son.

“Someone shot Gimli this afternoon.”

“What?” Dar gasped, jerking upright in his chair.  “Is he alright?”

Kenson shrugged.  “He is at the House of Healing right now.  Aragorn, Arwen, and Legolas are with him.  I guess the healers were able to remove the arrow with relative ease, but he lost a lot of blood.”

“Do you think this has anything to do with the letter this morning?” Dar asked worriedly, rising also and taking over his father’s pacing.

“Aragorn thinks so,” Kenson replied simply.

“And you are still planning to leave tomorrow?” Dar’s voice was slightly accusing as he turned to face his father.

“Upon Aragorn’s insistence,” Kenson replied calmly.

“He wants you to leave?” Dar asked, obviously confused.

“Not quite in the way you make it sound,” Kenson replied dryly.  “He just does not want me to stay because of what happened.  Faramir, Legolas, and Aragorn are so angry that whoever did this does not stand a chance.  They don’t need me hanging around, and the last thing Aragorn is going to need to worry about these next couple of days is a houseguest.  It will be easier for him if I were gone.”

Dar slowly nodded, then returned to sink back into his chair.  He looked toward the door, his hands idly twisting the edges of his tunic.  “Why does evil always go after the good people?” he asked softly, his voice heavy with sadness.

“Perhaps because the good people are the only ones who stand up against such evil,”  Kenson replied softly, knowing his answer was simplistic, yet unable to come up with anything better to offer Dar.

Several minutes of silence passed, then, without looking at Kenson, Dar whispered, “I want to be one of the good people some day.”

Kenson smiled softly.  “Despite all the trouble it brings?” he asked dryly.

Dar turned and gave him a half smile.  “You seem to have handled it alright.”

Kenson was unsure what to say in the face of his son’s compliment, so he only smiled and reached forward to grip Dar’s shoulder tightly.

“You grew up on me, son,” he said softly, his voice filled with admiration.  “Come on, let’s find us a nice tavern in the city, and forget for tonight that we are one of the ‘good people.’

Dar returned his father’s smile, then rose from his chair.  “That sounds great!”

****

Tervanis sat casually against the far wall of the tavern, his attention apparently focused on the mug of ale held in his hands.  He kept his eyes downcast except for the occasional glance to sweep the room with his gaze.  He had discovered long ago that a tavern was perhaps the best place to find information, and after over two hours of sitting patiently, he had learned all that he needed to.

The dwarf was alive.  At least, in most of the rumors—the ones he believed—he was.  Tervanis had already reconciled himself to the fact that he had made a mistake, and was now trying to decide how he would best make up for it.  He had considered sneaking into the House of Healing and finishing the job, but he knew the risks were too great. Finally, he had decided to wait it out.  Perhaps another opportunity would come to him, but if not, he would just continue on with the plan as if nothing had happened.

With this decision made, Tervanis relaxed his thoughts and began to truly enjoy the evening.  If he was to follow Servius’ plan, it may be quite a while before an opportunity presented itself to strike again.  He had to wait and watch and be constantly ready to act when such an opportunity presented itself.  He would not make a mistake a second time.

TBC

Chapter 6        Confessions

“Here, Gimli, try to drink some of this.”  Legolas lifted the silver goblet with one hand while he gently maneuvered Gimli into a semi-upright position with the other.

Gimli gritted his teeth and attempted to fight through the waves of pain radiating from his back.  Despite Legolas’ careful assistance, trying to raise himself up even the few inches required to take the drink left him feeling exhausted and weak.  Black dots danced across his vision, and he had to take several steadying breaths before he could sip carefully from the goblet held in Legolas’ hand. 

The water was cool, with a slightly bitter taste from the herbs Aragorn had put in it to help him sleep.  At first, Gimli only drank a few swallows, but upon Legolas’ quiet insistence, he managed to down about half of the liquid.  He was barely aware as Legolas carefully lowered him back to the bed and rearranged the blankets around him.

After several minutes of fighting through the pain and weariness, he managed to force his eyes open and meet Legolas’ concerned gaze.  “Don’t you ever sleep,” he mumbled softly, attempting to level Legolas with a firm gaze, but unable to put much strength behind the look.  The last several days were nothing but a blur as he had drifted in and out of consciousness, yet during his few moments of coherency, the elf had always been beside him, offering strength through his simple presence.  Gimli was grateful beyond words for his friend’s support, yet he grew worried that Legolas would wear himself out trying to care for him.

As if reading his mind, Legolas gave him a small smile and a short shake of his head.  “Do not worry for me, Gimli,” he admonished softly.  “I sleep.”

Gimli eyed him suspiciously for a moment, before giving a brief nod of his head.  He let his eyes drift shut then, unable to force them to remain open any longer.  He wondered if there would ever be a time again when he did not feel the great force of weariness weighing him down.  His mind began to slowly drift toward the blackness of unconsciousness, and he welcomed the journey, knowing that he would find at least some relief from the incessant, throbbing, pain in his back.

  “I am so sorry, Gimli.”

Gimli almost did not hear the softly whispered words as he drifted between the conscious world and the world of sleep.  However, as soon as his mind computed what had been said, he immediately began to fight against the exhaustion dragging him down.  The demands of his injured body and of whatever drug he had been given made it difficult, but he at last managed to drag himself enough out of his semi-conscious state to force his eyes open.  He turned a fierce glare on Legolas and attempted to clear his mind of the relentless cobwebs of sleep enough so he could speak.

“We have been over this before, elf,” he at last managed to growl, though his voice was so low and weak it came out more as a whisper.  “None of this was your fault, and I thought you had agreed not to blame yourself!”

“I apologize, Gimli,” Legolas replied sheepishly. “I had thought you asleep.”

“I almost was,” Gimli mumbled, attempting to shift into a more comfortable position without upsetting his back.  “I think I am building up some kind of resistance to whatever drug Aragorn has been giving me.”

Legolas frowned.  “I shall have to inform him of this.  Perhaps he can increase the dosage…”

Gimli stiffened and sent Legolas a look that caused the elf to slowly trail off.  “You will not tell him anything,” he growled.  “I am going to eventually want to wake up!  And do not try to change the subject, elf! 

Legolas smiled slightly at Gimli’s affronted tone, then shrugged helplessly.  “I am sorry, Gimli, yet I cannot help but feel that I should have done something to stop this from happening.”

“And what would you have done?” Gimli demanded, wincing slightly as he once again attempted to find a more comfortable position.

“Don’t move around so much,” Legolas ordered, noticing Gimli’s slight grimace and gasp of pain.

“Don’t change the subject!” Gimli retorted, sending his friend a disapproving glare.  “We are going to get to the bottom of this one way or another, Legolas.  I shall not sleep until you admit that this was not your fault.  What would you have done?”

Legolas sighed in frustration, sinking back in his chair and glancing away from Gimli’s piercing gaze.  “I am not sure,” he whispered so softly that Gimli had to strain to hear him.  “I guess I should have taken us both off of Shandarell the moment I sensed the watcher’s ill intent.  Perhaps then, his shot would have missed.”

Gimli stared at Legolas in consternation, not sure he had heard his friend correctly.  “Are you saying that you should have knocked us both off the horse?” he asked slowly, his voice filled with disbelief.  “And what if this watcher had chosen not to make his move?  A fine pair of fools we would have appeared.  You would not have had to worry about this watcher, for I would have killed you!”

Legolas grinned weakly.  “I suppose you would have,” he murmured softly.

“Then are we agreed that there was nothing you could have done, that it was not your fault?”

Legolas glanced at Gimli and gave a non-committal shrug, then laughed lightly as Gimli’s look hardened.  “Yes, Gimli,” he finally muttered.  “We are agreed.”

“Good!” Gimli stated.  “Now that this has been settled, I intend to go back to sleep, and I don’t want to hear another word spoken on the matter.  Between you and Aragorn…”

He cut off abruptly as a sharp flare of pain shot up his back.  He closed his eyes tightly, his hands clenching in the blankets.

“Gimli!”

Legolas sounded alarmed, and when Gimli opened his eyes, he found the elf hovering worriedly above him.

“I am fine,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly.  “I just need to sleep now.”

“Would you like another sip of water before you do?” Legolas asked, reaching for the goblet.

“No,” Gimli replied, shaking his head slightly.  He did not think he had the strength to push himself upright in order to take the offered drink.  His mind was demanding that he sleep, and Gimli did not think he could ignore it any longer.

Legolas reluctantly released the goblet and helped him move into a more comfortable position. 

“If you need anything, I will be here,” Legolas whispered gently.

Gimli nodded and let his eyes drift shut.  “I know,” he replied simply.  He was tempted to urge Legolas to go and see to his own rest, but he knew it would be a waste of his breath to try.  Legolas would stay beside him, just as Gimli would have stayed beside the elf if their positions were reversed. 

He opened his mouth to speak again, but sleep had been denied for too long, and with a final sigh he allowed consciousness to flee and be replaced by a comforting oblivion.

******

Legolas watched Gimli silently for several long minutes, ensuring that his friend truly slept before he moved back to his chair and sank down wearily.  He dropped his head into his hands and slowly rubbed away the dull ache that had been growing behind his eyes.

The last three days had been pure torture for him.  He had barely left Gimli’s side at all since the healers had removed the arrow, and though he had dozed fitfully during his vigil, he still felt exhausted and frustrated.

Gimli was recovering, for which he was more than grateful, yet the dwarf seemed to be healing extremely slowly compared to what Legolas was used to.  It was hard for him to see his best friend in such pain, and he found himself wishing that he could take that pain upon himself in order to spare Gimli.  Despite what he had told his friend, he still felt at least partially responsible for what had happened, and he was determined to make it up to Gimli, even if it was only by finding the guilty party and bringing them to justice.

Yet even this had proven a difficult task.  He had gone with Faramir and Aragorn to examine the scene where the attack had taken place, but they had discovered little that would help them locate the one responsible.  They had found the rooftop where the archer had positioned himself, as well as his bow and quiver of arrows still lying where he had left them, but so far, this information had led nowhere.  Faramir had turned the city inside out looking for anyone who might have seen anything, yet the Steward had been unsuccessful in pulling in any clues as to who their new opponent might be.  Aragorn had also been unsuccessful in his attempts to think of who could be the author of the mysterious note.  Legolas was growing frustrated, and he knew that his friends must be as well.

The door to the little room opened, and Legolas turned as Aragorn entered with a basin of steaming water and fresh bandages.

“How is he?” Aragorn asked, motioning with his chin toward the bed.  “I thought I heard voices?”

“He woke a few minutes ago,” Legolas confirmed, watching as Aragorn moved to the far side of the bed and leaned over Gimli’s still form.  “He still seems extremely weak,” he added doubtfully, unable to conceal the worry in his voice.

“As he will be for some time to come,” Aragorn answered softly, raising his head to fix Legolas with his piercing eyes.  “You must be patient, Legolas.  I am afraid that dwarves do not heal as swiftly as elves.”

Legolas sighed and nodded, then watched as Aragorn gently shifted Gimli onto his side so he could inspect the arrow wound.  Legolas flinched slightly as Gimli groaned, but the dwarf did not wake as Aragorn carefully worked to clean and re-bandage the injury.

Legolas watched him work, grateful that Aragorn was supervising Gimli’s care.  It was not that he did not trust the healers; they had done a wonderful job removing the arrow.  He just felt better knowing that Aragorn, who had trained under perhaps the finest healer in all of Middle Earth, was seeing to his friend’s recovery.

“I believe that Gimli is building up some kind of resistance to your sleeping draught,” Legolas finally stated, breaking the silence.

Aragorn briefly lifted his eyes from his work, then shrugged.  “It is possible,” he said simply.  “We have been giving it to him every time he wakes, and after time, his body will automatically begin resisting.  I will increase the dosage for a time so that he might rest and recover.”

“I think that would be wise,” Legolas responded, then smiled tiredly.  “Just don’t let him know.  I don’t think he would be too happy with me.”

Aragorn returned the smile, and opened his mouth to reply, but the door suddenly opened and Arwen and Faramir entered the room, the Steward’s face alight with excitement.

“You have found something?” Legolas stated more than asked as he rose quickly from his chair.

Faramir nodded, his eyes shifting from Legolas to Aragorn.  “I have just been informed that the young child who delivered the message to the palace has been found.  He is being held at his home, and I intend to go and question him.”

“I will accompany you,” Aragorn stated, quickly tying off the fresh bandage and then moving to wash his hands in the basin of water.  “There are many questions I would ask this young man, and with luck, perhaps we can learn more of who it is that we are dealing with.”

Legolas felt a thrill of hope run through him.  Perhaps the boy would be able to lead them to whoever had shot Gimli.  If so, Legolas wanted to be part of tracking the guilty man down.

“Legolas, will you accompany us?” Aragorn asked as he moved around the bed and toward the door.

Legolas felt torn.  He had told Gimli that he would remain here, yet he desperately wanted to be a part of this search.

“You should go, Legolas,” Arwen stated softly, speaking up for the first time.  “It will do you some good to get out, and I promise you that Gimli will not be left alone.  I will be here with him if he has need of anything.”

Legolas nodded slowly, still reluctant to leave his friend’s side.

“I doubt he will wake again before you return,” Aragorn pointed out, moving over and giving Legolas a slight nudge toward the door.  “Besides, I would appreciate your presence when we question the boy.  Your senses are sharper than either Faramir or mine, and you might be able to notice something that we would miss.”

“I doubt very much that you would miss anything,” Legolas replied, giving Aragorn a sharp glance. “But I will accompany you all the same.  I want to catch whoever did this to Gimli and see that they are properly repaid!”

“Good enough,” Aragorn laughed, releasing Legolas’ shoulder and moving to follow Faramir through the door.  “Let us pray that this boy has some answers for us.”

Legolas nodded grimly, glanced a final time to the figure on the bed, then turned and followed his friends out of the room.

*****

The boy was scared.

It was the first thing that Aragorn noticed as he ducked into the small house located on the second level of the city.  The child was seated on a high stool, two of Aragorn’s soldiers standing on either side of him.  The lad’s cheeks were streaked with tears, and he looked as if he was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

Behind the stool, a distraught looking woman, whom Aragorn could only assume was the boy’s mother, stood anxiously ringing her hands.  When she spotted Aragorn moving into the room, closely followed by Faramir and Legolas, her face drained of all color, and she swayed unsteadily on her feet, her eyes wide with horror.

Aragorn motioned to the soldier standing to the boy’s right.  “Find the lady a chair before she falls on the floor,” he ordered calmly, before turning his attention once more to the young man before him.

The boy looked to be around ten or eleven years old, and he was presently eyeing the now open path to the back door with longing.  Yet before he could make any move, Faramir casually moved to block the way, his arms folded across his chest, and his features firm.  The lad’s shoulders slumped, and he dropped his head down, his fingers idly fiddling with the hem of his tunic.

Aragorn moved forward and knelt before the boy, ignoring the gasp of horror from the now seated mother.  He reached out and gently but firmly lifted the lad’s chin, forcing the boy to look directly at him.

“What is your name, son?” he asked calmly, carefully keeping his voice relaxed so as not to frighten the boy any further.

“Se…Serjal,” the boy gulped.

“Well, Serjal, do you know why we are here?” Aragorn asked, his voice low and serious.

Serjal violently shook his head, his eyes darting around wildly as if in search of an escape.

“Do you know the consequences if you are caught lying to me?” Aragorn allowed his voice to harden slightly, and Serjal’s gaze snapped back to his as if drawn by some unnatural force.

“Tell them the truth, Serjal,” the boy’s mother commanded shrilly from her seat across the room.  “Answer whatever they ask you.”

The boy nodded slowly, and Aragorn repeated his question.  “Do you know why we are here?”

This time, after a slight hesitation, Serjal nodded.

“Then tell me why.” Aragorn ordered, sitting back on his heels but keeping his gaze firmly on the boy.

“Is it because I ran away from the palace guards?” Serjal asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Aragorn glanced up at Faramir and arched an eyebrow.  He received only a shrug in reply.

Aragorn returned his attention to the boy.  “It is more than that, Serjal,” he commented lightly.  “I would say the problem lies more with the contents of the note that you delivered that day.”

Serjal’s eyes widened, and he began shaking his head so violently that Aragorn half expected to hear his neck snap.  “The letter wasn’t mine,” the boy gasped out, his eyes seeming to grow wider and wider with each passing second.  “I swear it wasn’t mine.  I don’t even know what it says.  I can’t even read.  Please don’t throw me in the dungeons!”

“If the letter wasn’t yours, then who’s was it?  Who gave it to you, Serjal?” Aragorn asked, deciding for the moment to ignore the boy’s last statement.  Did the lad truly think he was going to be thrown into the dungeons?  Perhaps his fear would work in their favor.  At least he was answering Aragorn’s questions without hesitating anymore.

“I don’t know,” Serjal wailed, fresh tears filling his eyes and flowing down his cheeks.  “I’ve never owned any gold pieces before, and he offered me two if I delivered the message for him.  I had never seen him before in my life.  I swear it is true.”

“What did this man look like?” Legolas spoke up for the first time from where he stood behind Aragorn.  His voice was rough and hard, and his normally soft gray eyes appeared stormy with anger.  Aragorn knew that his friend’s rage was not directed toward Serjal, but towards the man who was responsible for shooting Gimli.  Unfortunately, Serjal did not know this, and the boy’s face went as white as a sheet at Legolas’ question.

“He was big,” the boy at last managed to gasp out past his fear.  “Very big, and he had scars all over his face.  I was afraid of him at first, but he told me that he was your friend,” his eyes flickered to Aragorn.  “He said he wanted to surprise you, and that is why he wanted me to deliver the message instead of doing it himself.”

“And why did you run from the guards when they tried to question you?” Faramir asked, his voice firm and disapproving. 

Serjal slumped back on the stool, his head drooping once more.  “He told me to,” he explained in a small voice.  “He said the King would question me and find out it was him, which would ruin the surprise.  He told me to just run away.  He promised I wouldn’t get in trouble.”  Serjal sniffled pitifully and raised his sleeve to wipe at his runny nose.

“I believe you, Serjal,” Aragorn said assuringly, attempting to ease the boy’s fears slightly.  “Yet I need you to describe this man to me as best you can.  Tell me everything you can remember about him.”

Serjal looked troubled, and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly.  “It was still early in the morning when I ran into him,” he explained.  “I was taking a short cut through an alleyway, and there were a lot of shadows.  I don’t really remember a lot about him except for the scars on his face, and how big he was.”

Aragorn reached out and pulled Serjal to his feet, rising with him until he stood over the boy.  “How big was he compared to me?” he asked, hoping to get a better idea of how large a man they were looking for than just the word ‘big’.

Serjal looked up at him, then shrugged.  “He was about as tall as you, but much wider.  He had arms the size of tree trunks, and his legs were as big as both of mine put together!”

“And what about his scars?” Aragorn asked.  “Can you describe his face a little better?”

Serjal thought for a moment, his brow crinkled in concentration.  “His face was really ugly, just like the drunk who lives down the street.  He looked like he had been in tons of fights, and probably won them too.  His biggest scar was right above his left eye, but he had lots of other scars also.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?” Aragorn asked hopefully, but after Serjal thought about it, he only shook his head.

Aragorn sighed, then exchanged glances with Faramir and Legolas.  He sensed that the boy was telling the truth, just as he sensed that they had gotten all the information they could out of him.  He glanced back down at Serjal, his features firm and serious.

“I think that is all for now, Serjal.  If I have any more questions, I will send some soldiers  to ask you.  If so, I want you to tell them the truth just as if you were talking to me.  Do you understand?”

Serjal quickly nodded, his eyes wide with relief.  “You mean you are not going to throw me in the dungeons?” he exclaimed excitedly.

“Not this time,” Aragorn answered with a slight smile.  “But I hope that in the future you will think twice before agreeing to run errands for strangers.”

“Thank you, my lords,” Serjal’s mother gasped, jumping from her seat and moving to embrace her son.

Aragorn nodded, then turned and motioned Faramir and Legolas to follow him outside.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked as soon as they reached the street out in front of the house.

“I think that it is a good start,” Faramir replied, his gaze drifting back and forth between Legolas and Aragorn.  “Did the lad’s description bring forth any memories for you two?”

Both Aragorn and Legolas shook their heads, their faces showing their frustration.

“Then we might have a problem,” Faramir sighed.  “Step into any tavern in this city and you will probably see at least one man matching the lad’s description.  Big and scar faced doesn’t really give us much information.”

“It might give us more information than you think,” Legolas stated softly, causing both Aragorn and Faramir to look at him questioningly.  Legolas merely shrugged in response, his eyes distant.

“What are you thinking, Legolas?” Aragorn finally asked, eying his friend sharply.

Legolas paused before answering, his eyes shifting to meet Aragorn’s.  “At the baker’s shop, where we found the bow and quiver of arrows,” he finally began, “where did the archer climb onto the roof?”

Aragorn frowned.  “You already know where,” he answered slowly, unsure of where Legolas was headed with this question.  “In the back of the alley, where he was less likely to be spotted from the street, and where the bricks of the building were slightly misplaced, allowing for footholds and handholds.  We even found a few scuff marks to indicate his passing.”

Legolas nodded, his eyes still locked on Aragorn’s.  “We found a few scuff marks, Aragorn,” he stressed.  “On a steep wall that rose for perhaps eighteen feet.”

Aragorn stared at Legolas for a few seconds, and then his frown slowly disappeared as understanding began to dawn.

Faramir glanced between them both before letting out a small sigh.  “Well, it seems that Aragorn, at least, has come to understand you.  Yet I am afraid, Legolas, that I have been completely unable to follow your reasoning.  Perhaps you would care to explain to me in more detail?”

“Of course.” Legolas replied, giving Faramir a sympathetic smile.  “I was merely pointing out that if Scar Face is really as big as the boy describes, he would have had a hard time scaling that wall.  He could possibly do it, but not without leaving much more evidence of his passing than what we found.  As it is, I believe someone much smaller and agile scaled that wall and shot Gimli.”

 Faramir nodded slowly, then scowled.  “Do you think the boy was lying, then?”

“No, he was not lying,” Aragorn broke in, shaking his head.  “I am sure of that.”

“Then we are dealing with two men, not just one,” Faramir mused quietly.

“At least two,” Legolas agreed.  “Whoever shot Gimli would want someone to guard the entrance to the ally for him.  He would not want to chance someone wandering into the alley and discovering him.  My guess would be that this was Scar Face’s job.”

“It makes sense,” Aragorn commented.  “And I believe that the fact that he showed himself, even to the boy, indicates that he is not the mastermind behind it all.  Simply a hired hand, perhaps?”

Both Faramir and Legolas nodded in agreement.

“So what do we do now?” Faramir asked.

Aragorn glanced at the horizon where the sun was just beginning to set like a giant orange ball.  “I suggest that we return to the area where Gimli was attacked and question the store owners again.  Perhaps now that we have a description to give them, someone will be able to tell us if scar face was there or not.  We have already learned much today.  Perhaps there are even more answers awaiting us ere the night ends.”

TBC 

Chapter 7        Veiled skies

A cool wind blew through the streets of Minas Tirith, bringing with it a sharp, crisp scent that foretold of coming rain.  High clouds had begun to gather overhead near dusk, and now, several hours after nightfall, the stars were completely masked by a heavy blanket of clouds.  An occasional distant rumble drifted through the city from across the Pelannor fields, and far to the west, an occasional flash of lightening brightened the sky. 

Arwen leaned against the frame of the open window in the small room in the House of Healing, her hands idly clasped in front of her as she allowed the brisk night wind to sweep through her loosely bound hair, setting the dark brown tresses to dancing.  Her face was calm and relaxed as she breathed deeply of the cool night, marveling at the different scents that mixed together and were carried on the high winds to places far distant.  There was the refreshing smell of rain, mixed with the varied scents of the city, and the much more conspicuous aromas that drifted in from the nearby gardens.  At the moment, she was attempting to pick out the individual scents of the myriad of flowers she new were in full bloom only a few yards away from the open window.  The flowers’ sweet aromas, carried on the wind, blended to form a wonderful mix that Arwen was thoroughly enjoying attempting to unravel.  She could not think of a better way to pass the time, as, for the first time in days, she fully allowed her body to relax.

At one time, she would have been able to pick apart the different scents and properly label them to their correct source without ever truly having to think about it.  Yet with the passing of her immortality, those days had gone.   Though she still contained senses far sharper than the average mortal, she no longer had the deep connection with Arda that she had once known.  If it were not for Aragorn, the deep pain of that loss might have been too much for her to bear.  As it was, her husband filled the void and brought such joy to her that sorrow did not stand a chance against it.  She was content with the choice that she had made, and never had she, nor ever would she, regret it.

Still, there were times when she grew frustrated with the boundaries imposed upon her by her now mortal body.  There were things that she had once done, that now she was unable to do, and even after several years she still found herself chaffing under these new restrictions.  She was constantly testing her boundaries, and often times Aragorn was forced to intercede before she unknowingly did herself physical harm. 

Even now, she realized that she was walking along the fine line of what she was once capable of, and what she was now able to do.  The last few days had been hard for her, and she was nearing exhaustion, something that was very new to her.  She knew part of the reason for her weariness came from her constant activity as she helped care for Gimli, and part came from the physical changes of her body and the child she carried within her.  Normally, Aragorn would have noticed her fatigue by now and ordered her to rest.  Yet the king had been greatly preoccupied lately, and Arwen knew she was reaching her limits.  She would have to find time soon to rest and recover from all this.  If not for herself, then for the baby that she carried.

She sighed heavily, shifting in her position and giving up on her game for the time being to glance down the dark street toward the center of the city.  It was late, and Aragorn, Faramir, and Legolas had yet to return.  Arwen was not a worrier by nature—her early years of courtship with Aragorn had quickly cured her of that—but she was disturbed that it was taking them so long to return from their task.  ‘How long does it take to question a boy?’ she thought somewhat irritably, shifting once more to glance behind her where Gimli lay sleeping soundly.  She was running out of things to keep her occupied, and as her boredom increased, so did her apprehension.

She shook her head slightly, another long sigh slipping from her. Boredom.  Yet another gift of mortality.  She could never remember ever having to deal with boredom while she had lived in Rivendell, or before that, in Lothlorien.  Then, there had always been the quiet songs of nature to fill any gap in activity or conversation.  She had once sat outside her room in Rivendell for six hours just listening to the whisperings of the trees and the laughter of the river.  She had never been bored, then.

With a final deep breath, Arwen straightened and carefully closed and latched the window.  The night air was growing cooler, and she did not want to risk the chance of Gimli catching a chill.  She moved away from the window and gracefully sank into the chair next to the bed.  A soft snore from Gimli caused her to smile slightly. 

Watching the dwarf sleep only seemed to heighten her awareness of her own weariness, and she allowed her head to fall back against the support of the chair.  Aragorn would return when he returned, and any worry on her part would do nothing to speed him.  She would just have to exercise patience for a while longer.  Forcing her mind clear of her anxious thoughts, she relaxed back into the chair, sighing as she felt tight muscles at last beginning to loosen.  Her thoughts drifted back to her life in Rivendell, and a slight smile graced her fair features.

Arwen had not meant to fall asleep, yet somewhere in the middle of a fond memory of Elrohir throwing Elladan into the river, she had drifted off, her hands folded lightly in her lap and her head slightly fallen to one side. She had only been asleep for a few minutes when a light hand on her shoulder caused her to jerk awake.

She jumped from the chair, shaking the sleep from her and flushing in embarrassment at having been caught in such a position.  She turned, expecting to find either Aragorn or Legolas, but instead, Eowyn stood regarding her, a slightly startled expression on her face.

“I am sorry, Arwen, I did not mean to startle you,” Eowyn apologized softly, her keen gaze sweeping the elf up and down.  “Were you asleep?”

“I thought you were Aragorn,” Arwen replied, intentionally ignoring Eowyn’s question.  “He has been gone for some time now.”

Eowyn nodded.  “Yes, and you should probably not expect him back too soon.  I just spoke with a guard who informed me that he, Faramir, and Legolas are down at the baker’s shop.”

“They must have learned something from the boy,” Arwen commented lightly, hiding her relief that nothing bad had happened to them by moving over to check on Gimli.  The dwarf still slept soundly.

“I would suspect so,” Eowyn answered, following her over to the bedside.  Her manner with Arwen was relaxed, for the two had long since become close friends and given up the use of titles and formalities when in private.  “It may be some time before they return.”

Arwen forcefully repressed a sigh, merely nodding in response.

“You look weary, Arwen,” Eowyn commented casually, smoothing the blanket over Gimli and not meeting the elf’s eyes.  “I have come to bring you back to the palace with me so you may get some proper rest.  You have not been getting near enough sleep lately, and if you keep it up, you will only cause yourself harm.”

Arwen blinked, somewhat startled at the slight hint of reprimand in Eowyn’s tone.  It appeared as if her friend had decided to take on Aragorn’s normal role of reminding her of her limits, and Arwen could not stop from smiling slightly at her friend’s protectiveness of her, even as she shook her head at Eowyn’s words.

“I cannot leave,” she declared softly.  “I promised Legolas that I would stay with Gimli in case he wakes up.  Besides, I wish to wait for my husband’s return.”

“If Aragorn were here, he would also insist that you rest.  You look awful Arwen.”  Eowyn answered firmly, looking Arwen up and down critically. 

Arwen frowned, turning slightly to glance at herself in the mirror hanging on the wall.  She did not think she looked awful.  A little tired maybe, but hardly awful.

As if reading her thoughts, Eowyn moved closer and gently clasped her shoulders.  “I do not think I have ever recalled seeing you so weary,” she said gently.  “You have pressed yourself too much these last few days.  It is time that you rest.  Think of the baby, Arwen.”

Arwen’s hand unconsciously moved down to her stomach, gently cradling the area where her child grew.  The last thing she wanted was for her actions to somehow harm her baby, yet she had still given Legolas her promise.

“I told Legolas I would remain here,” she protested, looking up and meeting Eowyn’s gaze.  “He was worried for Gimli.”

“Gimli is sound asleep,” Eowyn replied, her tone still firm.  “Yet I suppose that if you promised Legolas that Gimli would not be left alone, then we cannot leave him alone.  Your escort is waiting outside for you.  I will remain here until Legolas returns.”

Arwen opened her mouth to protest, but Eowyn gently reached forward and laid her fingers across her mouth.  “Go,” she ordered, “I will tell Aragorn where you have gone.”

Arwen hesitated once more, then at last gave in with a slight shake of her head and a short laugh.  “I believe that only my Father and Aragorn have ever dared to order me to bed.  Elrohir tried once, but I merely spiked his drink with a potent sleeping draught and sent him to bed instead.”

Eowyn quirked a grin.  “I shall have to be careful of what I drink, in that case.”

Arwen laughed again.  “Very well, you have won.  I shall retire to bed properly as ordered.”

Eowyn’s smile was victorious.  “Sleep well, Arwen.”

Arwen shook her head.  “I do not thing I have to worry about that.  You are right, I am exhausted.”  She moved to the door, then turned and sent her friend a warm smile.  “Thank you, Eowyn,” she said softly.

Eowyn only smiled in response as Arwen opened the door and walked from the room.

******

Legolas crouched easily at the back of the alley, his sharp eyes examining the slight scuffmarks on the side of the wall with only the aid of a small lantern.  The night air was crisp and cool around him, though the alley provided him cover from the rising wind.  High clouds blanketed the light from the heavens, and the distant rolls of thunder were drawing nearer.  Within the next hour, the city would be caught in a downpour.  Legolas wanted to make sure that all the evidence was firmly captured within his mind before the torrent washed it away.

His scrutiny of the wall and the surrounding alley was slow and thorough, his eyes searching carefully for anything that might have been missed the first time.  He had already searched the rooftop, and he was nearly finished with the wall and alleyway, and still he had found nothing new to help them in their search.  Not that he was surprised.  He hadn’t truly expected to find anything, yet that had not stopped him from hoping.

The soft sound of footfalls alerted him of another’s presence, and he rose gracefully from his crouch.  “I hope that you have discovered more than I, Aragorn,” he commented without turning, reaching forward to run his hand casually along the stone wall.  “Whoever did this left very few clues.”

“Yet we shall still find them,” came the soft reply from behind him, and Legolas nodded.

“What have you and Faramir learned?” Legolas asked, at last turning to face his friend.  Aragorn was wrapped firmly in a heavy cloak to protect him from the biting wind, yet Legolas still thought he saw the man’s hand clenched firmly around the hilt of his sword.

“We have six confirmed sightings of Scar Face, four of which place him at the entrance to this alley near the time of the attack.  I believe we will have more once we talk to the shop owners that had already left this evening before we arrived here.  Faramir is going to return tomorrow morning and talk to those that we missed.”

Legolas nodded.  “Did any of them see Scar Face with another man?” 

Aragorn shook his head, his frustration evident.  “No,” he replied.  “Yet we will continue to search.  I believe you are correct, and there is another behind all this.  Someone must have seen him, and we will find that someone.”

A loud boom of thunder punctuated his words, and Legolas could not quite keep back a small smile at the thought that Aragorn’s rage was echoed even by the heavens. 

“Come, let us find Faramir and return to the House of Healing before this storm decides to drench us.” Legolas suggested, reaching out and grasping Aragorn’s shoulder.  “It is as you said.  We will find who is behind all this.  The fact that he has not struck again since his attack on Gimli may be very informing.  Perhaps he has already left the city.”

“I hope not,” Aragorn growled.  “I want to find him, and the quicker the better.”

Legolas silently agreed, but he said nothing as he followed Aragorn from the narrow confines of the alley.  As soon as he found the one responsible for shooting Gimli, he was going to make the man regret the day he was born.

*******

Arwen grimaced in distaste as she stood outside the House of Healing, her frown directed toward the small covered wagon attached to a single horse standing patiently directly before her.  Despite the coolness of the night, she would have much preferred walking back to the palace rather than riding in this small wagon and having her wits jounced out of her.  Still, Aragorn had been firm in insisting that she use the wagon when moving around outside the palace walls.  The thick canvas covering provided her with protection against unwanted eyes, and the simple appearance of the wagon allowed her to avoid drawing attention. 

“My lady?”

Arwen turned and regarded the soldier who stood patiently beside her, waiting to assist her in climbing into the wagon.  Another soldier sat mounted on a tall bay horse a few feet away, preparing to ride beside the wagon as an unobtrusive escort.  A heavy roll of thunder echoed over head, and the wind picked up in intensity.

Arwen sighed, then reached out her arm and allowed the soldier to lift her into the back of the wagon.  She settled on the hard bench, getting as comfortable as the small confines allowed as the soldier moved to the front of the wagon and swung up on the front bench.  He slapped his reigns lightly against the horses back, calling out softly, and with a lurch, the wagon began rolling up the stone streets.

Arwen leaned back against the heavy canvas and prayed that the journey would be over swiftly.  She was anxious to reach the palace and be free of the wagon’s small, bumpy confines.  She most definitely preferred either riding, or using her own two feet, yet safety precautions allowed for neither of these options.  She was glad that the palace lay only a few hundred yards from the House of Healing.

They had not gone far when the soldier suddenly called out sharply to the horse, pulling back on the reigns and bringing the wagon to a lurching halt.  Arwen straightened and frowned, peering forward toward the dim outline of the soldiers back.

“What is wrong,” she called, attempting to keep her voice clear of her nervousness.

“Sorry, my lady,”  The soldier half turned in his seat to address her.  “It appears as if a drunk has passed out in the middle of the street.  Do not worry, Denvar is seeing to him, and we will have him out of the way in a moment.”

Arwen nodded, but was unable to repress a sudden shudder that ran up and down her spine.  She moved forward far enough that she could peer out over the soldiers shoulder, watching as the second soldier, Denvar, dismounted from his horse and moved to lean over a body that lay sprawled across the stone street.  A flash of lightening revealed a broken bottle near the unconscious man’s sprawled arm, and even from her distant position, Arwen could see that the man was dressed in ragged and torn clothing. She felt a flash of pity.

Denvar reached down and carefully rolled the man onto his back.  He grunted in disgust, then moved to grasp the drunk man by his legs and pull him to the side of the street.  He was just beginning to bend over, when the man suddenly began moving, jerking upright so quickly that it knocked the soldier off balance, causing him to stumble back a few steps in his surprise.  There was another flash of lightening, and suddenly, the man had a knife in his hand.  Arwen gasped in horror a second before the man smoothly and swiftly buried the blade in Denvar’s throat.

The soldier in front of her let out a startled cry and reached for his sword.  Suddenly, the wagon began to shake, and Arwen whirled around just in time to see two shapes climbing inside.  She let out a cry of fear and automatically kicked out, feeling the satisfactory crunch as her heavy boot made contact.  She heard a grunt of pain, and then a heavy hand closed around her ankle and gave a firm yank, pulling her forward.  Arwen fought with every ounce of strength, kicking and jerking in an attempt to free herself, but another hand closed around her knee, and then her waist, and she felt herself being forcefully dragged from the wagon.  She glanced desperately over her shoulder, searching for the second soldier, but he lay slumped in his seat, another flash of lightening revealing a steady stream of blood flowing from his severed neck.

Arwen began to panic.  She gasped in pain as she was yanked from the wagon, the rough wood scraping her back through her light tunic.  She found herself suddenly surrounded by dark figures, and she began to desperately struggle against the hands holding her as she was dragged towards a nearby alley.  She opened her mouth to scream, but a heavy blow to her stomach knocked all the air from her lungs.  Her eyes filled with tears as the blow was repeated, and then she felt herself flung to the ground.

Her shoulder hit the stones hard, and a flaring pain shot through her arm.  She tried to cry out, but rough arms forced her onto her back, and a heavy cloth was forced into her mouth, almost gagging her.  She attempted to blink through her tears and try to catch a glimpse of her captors, but a fierce slap knocked her head to one side.  Someone kicked her roughly in the side, and she tried to move away from the pain, only to have another boot strike her other side, and suddenly the blows were falling from all around her.  She tried to curl into a protective ball, choking on her screams as tears streamed down her face, but her captors would not relent.

The pain was excruciating, and Arwen felt herself quickly grow lightheaded, blackness swirling around her vision.  ‘Aragorn!  Aragorn help me!” her mind screamed, yet the only sound that escaped past the gag was a small whimper. She tried to move her arms down to protect her abdomen, her baby, yet they were roughly pulled away and cruelly twisted above her, leaving her body open to the torments of her captors.  A boot or fist, Arwen was not sure which, connected firmly with her stomach, and the pain was blinding. 

‘They are going to kill me, and the baby will die also.  I am so sorry, Aragorn,’  this was Arwen’s last thought as a heavy boot slammed into the side of her head and sent her spinning into oblivion. 

TBC

Chapter 8        At the edge of the storm

Lightning cracked and thunder rumbled overhead as Dar quickly made his way down the stone streets of Minas Tirith toward the House of Healing.  It was the end of what had been a long and hard day for him, and after sitting idly within the barracks for over an hour, loneliness was driving him to seek out the company of his friends.  He missed his father more than he had ever thought possible, and the events of the last couple of days had him confused and somewhat frightened.  All the soldiers within the city were tense and alert, and as a new recruit, he was feeling the pressure acutely.  He hoped that talking with Legolas, and perhaps Gimli if he were awake, would help settle his nerves.  He wanted to find out what progress had been made in finding the one responsible for shooting Gimli, but even more, he just wanted this whole thing to be over and done with so life might return to normal.

A loud boom of thunder directly overhead made him start and pick up his speed.  The first drops of moisture were beginning to fall from the sky, and he didn’t want to arrive at his destination soaking wet.  Arwen would most likely fuss over him if he did.  He smiled just thinking about her motherly concern over him.

He turned a corner in the street and suddenly stopped in his tracks, frowning slightly.  A small wagon, still attached to a single horse, stood motionless several yards in front of him.  The horse was stamping his feet anxiously and shifting around in the harness, obviously impatient to be moving out of the growing storm, but Dar saw no sign of the driver.  Nor was the horse secured in anyway, which immediately drew his curiosity. 

His frown deepened and he slowly began moving forward, squinting into the darkness as he tried to decipher where the driver might have gone.  The rain was beginning to fall harder now, and he brushed the moisture from his eyes impatiently, blinking to keep them clear of water. 

He was so intent on his search for the driver of the wagon that he paid little attention to where his feet landed until his boot struck something soft, causing him to stumble forward.  He glanced down for the first time to see what had tripped him, just as another bolt of lightening lit up the sky.  His heart skipped a beat as his breath caught in horror at the sight that the light revealed

A man lay spread-eagled across the street, his sightless eyes staring vacantly upward into the falling rain, a bloody hole where his throat should have been. 

Dar’s hand automatically flew to the hilt of his sword.  The dead man was wearing the uniform of a palace soldier.  He jerked upright, his eyes warily searching the surrounding shadows.  The street appeared deserted, but he could not stop the slow chill that crept up his back.

Carefully stepping over the dead soldier, he slowly approached the wagon once more.  As he drew closer, he at last managed to make out the slumped form of the dead driver.  This man also had on the uniform of a soldier, but this knowledge barely registered as Dar at last got his first close glimpse of the wagon and he found he recognized it.  Several times in the last few days he had seen either Arwen or Eowyn boarding this very same wagon for a trip outside of the protection of the palace walls.  A cold feeling of dread washed over him, even as he yanked his sword free of its scabbard and ran around to the back of the wagon, peering desperately inside.  It was empty.

Dar whirled, his eyes quickly scanning the dark and deserted streets, his breath coming out in heavy, panicked gasps.  Had either Eowyn or Arwen been present when the wagon was attacked, and if so, where were they?  He prayed desperately that they were both safe and unharmed at the House of Healing, but his gut instincts told him differently, and his father had taught him long ago to always trust his instincts.  The thought that either of them might be lying dead, murdered like the soldiers, was almost too much for him to bear, and he had to forcefully choke down a sob.

Movement to his left, several yards down the street at the entrance to a dark alley, suddenly caught his attention, and he turned in that direction, frustrated at the rain that impaired his vision.  Another bolt of lightening lit up the sky for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Dar to see clearly what had drawn his attention.  His heart froze and his blood ran cold, and he stood motionless for the barest of seconds.  Then, he began to run.

******

Kiesco Janavary leaned back calmly against the alley wall, watching as his men continued to ruthlessly kick at their helpless victim.  Tervanis would be pleased over their success this night, and as his top general, Kiesco would get most of the credit.  Four nights of silently waiting and closely watching the House of Healing, had at last produced results, just as the assassin had promised it would.  He had urged his men, who had all become frustrated and restless from the long stay in a country so different from their own, that patience was the key to success, and he had been right.  The queen had walked right into their trap.

A brief smile pulled at the heavy scars on Kiesco’s face, each mark a testament to his years as champion in the fighting pits in Norvil.  In those dark holes, fighting for the pleasure of the bloodthirsty crowds, he had longs since lost any semblance of a conscience, a fact that made him the perfect person to work with Tervanis.  Beating a woman, even a woman reported to be with child, did not bother him in the slightest.

Kiesco glanced down at the bloodied figure at his feet, then raised his hand, signaling for his men to back off.  They did so reluctantly, moving back further into the alley behind him, as he moved forward to kneel down next to the unconscious elf.  He reached out and roughly rolled her onto her back.  Even bruised and bleeding, her face was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he smiled cruelly as he briefly caressed her cheek.

“Such a beautiful face,” her murmured softly.  “A pity I must ruin it!”

He reached down and smoothly yanked a long and cruelly curved dagger from its sheath on his belt, placing its tip lightly against the elf’s cheek. 

A shout from behind him was the only warning he got as something hurtled from the darkness and slammed into him with enough force to send him sprawling back in the alley, his knife flying from his startled grasp.  He instinctively rolled, barely managing to miss the blade that crashed into the stones where he had just been.  He sprang to his feet, flinging his hands out to either side of him to stop his men from rushing past him.

Calmly, he assessed his new opponent, a young soldier who stood firmly before his fallen queen, his feet squared and his sword raised, a look of pure determination and rage on his youthful face.  The young man did not advance toward Kiesco down the alley, but instead remained firmly planted where he stood, effectively blocking him and his men from reaching their victim.

Kiesco smiled coldly.  “He’s mine,” he grated out harshly to his men, reaching down and pulling his own sword from its sheath.  Slowly, he began his advance.

******

Dar’s heart pounded so wildly within his chest that he was surprised the entire city did not hear it and come running.  The man advancing on him was huge, with thickly corded muscles and a face that showed the scars from many such encounters.  He was smiling, a cruel lightless smile that spoke of evil anticipation, and Dar could not stop the shudders than ran up and down his spine.  Still, his grip on his sword remained firm, the blade unwavering as rage and desperation brought him strength and courage.  This man was not going to touch Arwen again, even if he had to die to prevent it!  He shifted his stance on the wet stones and prepared for the battle that was coming.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, boy,” the advancing man taunted, his scars making his grin appear more like a grimace.  “I am sure your mommy is worried about you.  Run along home, now, and maybe I will forget your little interruption.”

Dar’s jaw tightened, but he gave no response.  This man had no way of knowing that he had grown up without a mother, that in truth, Arwen was the closest thing to a mother that he had ever known.  Through the last several days, she had always been there for him, always encouraging, and offering him company whenever he felt the loneliness and homesickness become too much.  Despite her own problems, she had not forgotten him, and Dar would never know how to repay her kindness.

“I can see you are scared, boy,” the scar faced man continued.  “Well, you should be.  I am going to tear you to pieces.”

Dar ignored the taunts, his mind remembering in clarity everything his father had ever taught him.  He firmed his stance, forcing his breath to calm, and his body to relax.  He might not survive this night, but he most definitely wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

Scar Face suddenly leapt forward, feinting to the left before sweeping his blade back sharply to the right, obviously attempting to end the fight quickly.  Dar responded easily, smoothly shifting his weight onto his right leg and sweeping his blade up in a graceful arc.  The two swords met with a loud clash.   The ringing had not even faded from Dar’s ears before the man was attacking again, this time sweeping in low, his blade angled for Dar’s side.  His movements were lightning quick, a fact that somewhat startled Dar considering the man’s size.  He barely had time to twist out of the way of the blade and settle his stance before the man was on him again.

The heavy clash of their blades sang out into the night a second time, and then a third as Dar continued to meet and counter each of his opponent’s attacks.  The close walls of the alley kept the battle somewhat confined, but Dar still knew that he was facing a very talented and much more experienced man than he was.  It was only a matter of time before one of his opponent’s attacks slipped through his defense.

Dar decided to change tactics.  His father had long ago taught him that in a battle where the odds were stacked against you, sometimes the only way to win was to do the unexpected.  His father had also taught him that his sword was not the only weapon available to him.  Catching a thrust toward his stomach on his blade, he swept both weapons out wide, then smoothly stepped into the gap, closing the distance between him and his opponent.  He saw the man’s eyes widen slightly at the bold move a second before he slammed his fist into the large man’s face.

It was like hitting a rock wall.  Pain flared through his fist, but the large man barely seemed to register the blow, only taking a slight step back and blinking once before resuming his attack.  Blood poured from his nose, but he didn’t even seem to notice it.  Dar gasped in shock and leapt back, knowing he had to move quickly to regain his defensive stance before his opponent’s sword found him.  The quick move turned out to be a mistake, though, for the ground was wet, making footing slippery and treacherous.  He stumbled, sliding on the rough stones as he tried to find his balance.  He flung his sword out desperately, just managing to block a killing thrust, but the tip of the blade still dug deeply into his left shoulder, tearing a long gash.

Dar gasped in pain, and only his fierce discipline allowed him to regain his balance in time to face the next attack.  Despair tugged at him, and he had to force himself to remember that he was the only thing standing between Arwen and this killer.  Remembering his brief glance at her bruised face, Dar felt the anger return and with it, his determination.  He met the next attack with renewed strength.

The two opponents broke apart briefly, both breathing heavily as they eyed each other warily.  Both had scored hits on the other, and though Dar guessed that his own was the more serious, he could not help but feel a flash of pride at the wary respect he saw on his rivals face.  The moment lasted only a second and then the large man was approaching once more.  Dar tensed and waited for him.

Suddenly, the street behind him erupted with the sounds of shouts and the ring of blades being drawn from their sheaths.  Dar didn’t dare turn around to see what was happening, but he could guess well enough.  Someone else had stumbled across the wagon and the dead soldiers.  Hope flared through him, and he began to shout as loudly as he could, not caring about the words, only hoping to gain some attention.

His opponent hesitated, his eyes flickering past Dar to the street beyond, his face darkening with frustration.  Dar continued to shout, but now scar faces’ own men joined with him, calling to their companion in a strange language, obviously urging him to flee.  The large man’s eyes met with Dar’s, filled with a cold hate, and then he turned and fled back up the alley, his men racing before him.

Dar stopped shouting, turning as he heard the heavy slap of running feet echo behind him on the street.  Five soldiers were racing toward him, their weapons drawn.  

“They went down the alley,” Dar called to them, pointing in the direction the men had fled.  Four of the soldiers raced past him with barely a glance, but the last one stopped, eying Dar suspiciously.

“What happened here, soldier,” The man demanded, the patch on his uniform identifying him as a captain.

Dar never got a chance to answer, for just then, the captain’s eyes fell on the unconscious Arwen.  He let out a cry, dropping to his knees beside the queen, his eyes filled with horror.  Dar also knelt, fighting back tears as he once more viewed Arwen’s tattered form.  The captain looked up, his gaze sweeping over Dar, noting the drawn blade and the bloody shoulder.

“Can you get her to the House of Healing?” The captain suddenly asked, his eyes locking firmly on Dar’s.

Dar nodded silently.

“Then go!” the man ordered, rising to his feet and starting down the alley after his men.  “Hurry!”

Dar nodded even though the captain was already racing away.  Shakily re-sheathing his sword, he reached out and carefully slipped his arms beneath Arwen.  His left shoulder flared painfully as he lifted her limp form, but he ignored it.  Rising awkwardly under his burden, Dar began to stumble down the street, the falling rain mingling with his tears.

*****

Aragorn stepped into the House of Healing and violently shook his head, sending water droplets from his hair flying in all directions.  He ran a hand over his wet face, then unclasped the leaf shaped brooch—a gift from Lothlorien—that held on his cloak, and shed the sodden material.  Legolas and Faramir entered behind him, also shaking the water from their hair and shrugging out of their wet cloaks.

Wordlessly, the two men and the elf walked down the long hall toward Gimli’s room, their faces showing their silent contemplation over the information they had received this night.  As Aragorn neared the room, he heard the soft murmur of voices drifting from behind the closed door. 

Legolas obviously had also heard the voices, for his face broke into a slight smile.  “Gimli is awake,” he stated softly as Aragorn reached forward and pushed the door open.

A blast of warm air greeted them as they stepped into the room, and Aragorn noticed that someone had built up a fire in the room’s small hearth.  He turned toward the bed, expecting to see Arwen, and was startled to find Eowyn rising to greet them instead.

“Good evening, my lords,” She said calmly, straightening from her chair and moving around the bed to join them.

Behind her, Gimli lay back against a mound of pillows, his face showing more color than it had in many days, his hands curled around a goblet he held in his lap.

Aragorn was aware of Legolas as the elf brushed past him and moved to the bed, quietly asking Gimli something and receiving a simple smile in response.

“Where is Arwen?” Aragorn asked Eowyn.

“She has returned to the palace, my lord,” Eowyn replied quietly.  “She was so weary she was about to fall over, so I insisted she go to bed.”

Aragorn blinked at the slight tone of reprove in Eowyn’s tone, and behind him, he heard Faramir chuckle lightly.  He shook his head, realizing that he probably should have returned earlier, or at least sent word that he would be late.

“Thank you, Eowyn,” he replied sincerely, receiving a warm smile in response.

He glanced past her toward the bed.  “I see that you are awake, Gimli.  How do you feel?” he asked.

“Better,” Gimli replied shortly, his voice weak, but cheerful.

“Good,” Aragorn replied.  “Now I think…”

He never got a chance to finish what he was going to say, for suddenly, out in the hall, a door slammed, followed by desperate calls for help. 

Aragorn shared a frown with Faramir, then turned and opened the door, peering out into the hall in an attempt to discover what all the commotion was about. 

A young soldier stood just inside the main door, his voice filled with desperation as he continued to call for assistance.  Aragorn gave a start when he realized the soldier was Dar, and he took a step out into the hall.  Then, he saw who Dar was holding in his arms, and his entire body froze in shock.

A knife passing through Aragorn’s heart could not have caused him more agony then the pain of seeing Arwen’s bloody and battered body held protectively in Dar’s arms.  All the breath seemed to rush out of him, and the world seemed to freeze in that one, horrible instant.  Then, with a cry, Aragorn broke free and stumbled forward, his arms outstretched toward the body of his wife.

*****

Tervanis leaned casually against the single window in his room in the rundown inn, his eyes idly scanning the deserted street below him.  Behind him, Kiesco was just finishing his report of the evening’s events, his voice low and hesitant as Tervanis continued to listen without interruption, his face revealing nothing of his reaction to the tale. 

At last, Kiesco fell silent, and Tervanis turned to face him fully for the first time, his eyes studying the large man without expression until Kiesco began to shift nervously, his face paling with fear.  Finally, Tervanis turned away, moving toward his pack lying on the bed.

“You have done well,” he stated softly, almost smiling at the surprise that flittered across the man’s face.  He rummaged through the pack silently until he found what he was looking for, pulling free a long, jeweled dagger.  From the corner of his eye he saw Kiesco jerk slightly, his feet shifting toward the door.  Tervanis ignored him and continued to rummage through the bag until he found his whetstone.  Without a single glance toward the big man, he moved back over to the window and slowly began sharpening the dagger, the soft swishing sound of metal across the whetstone the only sound filling the small room for several long minutes.

“I am sorry about the soldier,” Kiesco finally dared break the silence.  “He came from nowhere, and…”

“Forget it,” Tervanis interrupted without looking up from his task.  “As I said before, you did well.”  He at last glanced up, an evil smile playing across his features.  “Besides, I think we got our point across, wouldn’t you say?”

Kiesco returned the smile nervously.  “Yes, sir.”

Tervanis turned back to his knife, holding it up and expecting its sharp edges.  He ran a finger lightly across its edge, smiling when the blade easily cut him.

“Sir, the soldier clearly saw me, and I was unable to silence him,” Kiesco dared to interrupt once more, his voice filled with anger and frustration.  “What are we going to do about him?”

Tervanis glanced back at Kiesco and arched a smooth eyebrow.  “This soldier is not the first to have seen you.  What about the boy who delivered the message to the palace?  He too saw your face.”

Kiesco scowled, obviously only just now realizing the obvious.  Tervanis sighed.  Kiesco had been fighting in the pits in Norvil since he was fifteen years old, and it was obvious that whatever small amount of brains he had been born with had long since been knocked from him.  Of course, Tervanis had hired him for his strength, not his wisdom.

“Should I silence the boy?”  Kiesco asked, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of the blade at his hip.

“It is a little late for that,” Tervanis replied dryly, moving to sit at the end of the bed.  “The boy has already talked, and they now have a description of you.  Not a very good or detailed description at the moment, but I am sure that will change once they have spoken with the soldier.”

Kiesco shifted nervously.  “How do you know this?” he asked, his voice doubtful.

Tervanis regarded him coldly.  “I have not exactly been sitting here idle all night.  There is much to learn on the streets of a city if one only has the sense to listen.”

“What are we going to do?” Kiesco asked, frowning worriedly.

“We, are going to do nothing,” Tervanis replied calmly.  “It is more what you are going to do.”

Kiesco looked at him questioningly, and Tervanis explained.

“You will remain here, at the inn, for the rest of our stay here.  You will not venture out for any reason, or allow yourself to be seen by anyone but myself and whoever chooses to bring you your meals.”

Kiesco opened his mouth to protest, but Tervanis silenced him with a cold glare.  “We have only one more task to complete before we may return home, and I will risk nothing getting in the way of successfully carrying it out.  You have only two choices: obey my orders, or…”  Tervanis held up the dagger, its jewels sparkling in the lamp light, his message clear.

Kiesco gulped and nodded. 

Tervanis lowered the knife and smiled mockingly.  “Have no fear, my friend, your role in all of this is far from over.  I still have my uses for you.”

“What is this final task you speak of?” Kiesco asked, wisely changing the subject.  “Are we to go after the king next?”

“You, are not going after anyone, remember?” Tervanis taunted.  “Yet the answer to your question is no.  Servius made it quite clear that the pleasure of killing the king was his and his alone.”

Kiesco frowned.  “How does Servius intend to kill the king if he is in Norvil and the king is here?”

Tervanis smiled slightly.  “Ahh, therein lies our final task.  We must somehow convince the king that it is in his best interest to pay a little visit to Norvil.”

“And how do we do that?” Kiesco asked, genuinely curious.

Tervanis sat back and grinned mockingly at the large man.  “You shall soon see,” he promised.  “Soon.”

TBC

Chapter 9        Calm before the storm

Dar was in shock. 

Legolas could see it plainly in the young man’s eyes as Dar stared unblinkingly down the hall in the direction that Aragorn had just disappeared with Arwen.  The lad stood stiffly just inside the main door to the House of Healing, his chest heaving, as if he had just run a long distance.  He was soaking wet, but did not even seem to notice his sodden tunic, nor the growing puddle of water accumulating at his boots.  His hands hung limply at his side, not even rising to brush away the wet strands of hair plastered to his face. He looked lost and confused. 

Of course, Dar was not the only one who appeared to be in shock.  A few steps away from Legolas, Faramir and Eowyn stood side by side, their faces frozen in a mask of disbelief and horror. 

‘And what about me?’ Legolas thought numbly.  Shocked seemed an appropriate word to describe his own feelings at the moment.  When he had heard Aragorn’s cry of alarm, he had immediately feared the worst.  Yet nothing had prepared him for the sight that had greeted him as he had stepped from Gimli’s room.  If he had not seen for himself the slight rise and fall of Arwen’s chest as Aragorn had rushed past him, he would not have believed her still alive.  The sight of her battered face would haunt him for a long time to come.  The grief he felt was almost painful, and he could only imagine the torment Aragorn must be in.

Only a few minutes had passed since Aragorn had disappeared into a room with a group of healers, yet to Legolas, it seemed much longer.  Everyone seemed frozen in place, captured by the dark shadow that lay heavily within the hall, unable to break free from its black spell.  None wanted to believe what they had just seen, their minds refusing to accept the full horror of the situation.

A crack of thunder sounded outside, nearly drowning out the sound of Eowyn’s choked sob.  The soft sound of distress seemed to at last break through the shock.  Dar blinked, Legolas shifted, and Faramir took a step closer to his wife, pulling her into the comforting circle of his arms as more silent sobs shook her slim frame.

Legolas winced and quickly turned away from the scene of grief.  His eyes fell on Dar, the lad’s gaze still fixed down the hallway.

“Dar?” he called softly, slowly approaching the young man.

He had to repeat the call twice and actually reach out to touch the lad’s shoulder before Dar responded, slowly blinking several times, his gaze shifting to lock onto Legolas.

“I am so sorry, Legolas,” he choked out, his voice rough and uneven as he obviously fought for control over his emotions.  “If only I had gotten there earlier…” he trailed off, swallowing hard as bright tears filled his eyes.

Legolas reached up and gently smoothed away the wet strands of hair from Dar’s face.  “You must tell us what happened,” he said softly, “But first, we need to get you someplace warm where you can begin to dry.”  Dar was beginning to shake, and though Legolas guessed it was as much the shock wearing off as his wet clothes, he knew the lad would be better prepared to answer their questions once he was dry and warm.

Dar nodded numbly, and Legolas forced himself to smile at him reassuringly.  The smile faded, however, when he noticed the slowly growing red stain spreading down Dar’s left tunic sleeve. 

“You are hurt.”  It was not a question, but a statement, as Legolas stepped closer to examine the injury. 

Dar blinked in surprise, then glanced down at his shoulder, as if just remembering the wound.  “It is not too bad,” he replied with a slight grimace.

Legolas frowned, but did not respond, carefully separating the torn edges of Dar’s tunic so he could better inspect the cut.  Dar was right, the wound was not deep, but it was long and bleeding heavily. 

Legolas glanced over his shoulder and met Faramir’s gaze.  Eowyn was still cradled protectively in his embrace, but the sobs no longer shook her frame.  Faramir’s gaze was unreadable, but he nodded slightly to Legolas, then motioned with his head toward the door to Gimli’s room. 

Legolas nodded, understanding the unspoken message.  There was a fire in Gimli’s room, and they would be able to have quiet and privacy while questioning Dar about what had happened.  Placing his hand softly on Dar’s back, Legolas gently led him forward down the hall.

The first thing he noticed as he entered the small room, was Gimli.  The dwarf was struggling to rise from his bed, his face deathly pale, yet his expression one of intense determination.  He had managed to push himself to the edge of the bed, and was in the process of attempting to get to his feet. 

“Gimli!” Legolas said sharply, leaving Dar to rush over to the bedside.  “What are you doing?”

Gimli shot Legolas one of his fiercest glares.  “What does it look like I am doing?” he snapped back, though he had given up on his attempts to rise and actually looked somewhat relieved at Legolas’ arrival.

Legolas returned Gimli’s glare with a fierce one of his own, even as he tried to maneuver the uncooperative dwarf back fully onto the bed.

Gimli impatiently batted his hands away, his scowl deepening.  “First, Aragorn lets out a shout to chill an orc’s blood, and then everyone goes running out into the hall, leaving me sitting here wondering what is wrong!  Quit pushing at me, elf!  I will lay back down just as soon as you tell me what has happened, and not a moment before!”

Legolas took a small step back and let out a frustrated sigh.  Once Gimli made up his mind about something, he could be as hard headed as the rock his people mined.  He was acutely aware of Dar, Faramir, and Eowyn standing behind him, watching, and the last thing he wanted to do was make an even bigger scene.  The best thing would be to give the dwarf what he wanted.

“Arwen was attacked,” he said simply, watching as what little color left in Gimli’s face drained away.  “We do not know how, or by whom, but we hope that Dar will have some answers for us.  Aragorn and the healers are seeing to her now.  That is all I know at the moment, friend.  Now will you please lie back down?”

Gimli’s eyes flickered past Legolas to Dar, still standing where Legolas had left him.  He nodded slowly, then began inching carefully back into the bed.  Legolas stepped forward to assist him, and this time, Gimli accepted his help and did not try to push him away.

“I should not have insisted that she return to the palace,” Eowyn whispered brokenly into the silence as Legolas adjusted the tangled blankets around Gimli.

“Do not blame yourself, love,” Faramir responded quietly,  “For none are to blame but the animals who have done this, and they shall pay for their crime, be assured of that.”

“Yet if I had not insisted she return, this would not have happened,” Eowyn argued, her voice filled with guilt.

Legolas turned from the bed, shaking his head slightly.  “I am not so certain of that, my lady.  Whoever has done this seems intent upon hurting Aragorn.  If Arwen had not been attacked tonight, they merely would have found another opportunity later on.  This is no fault of yours.”

Faramir nodded, tipping his wife’s chin up so that she was looking at him.  “Legolas is right,” he said softly.  “Let it go.”

Eowyn nodded slowly, though her face was still troubled.

Legolas moved the chair from beside the bed and positioned it directly before the fire, then motioned for Dar to sit down.  The lad hesitated, then obeyed slowly, sinking into the chair with a weary sigh.  Legolas used some strips of cloth to tightly bind Dar’s shoulder until it could be looked at more closely by a healer.

Faramir moved from beside Eowyn and knelt down in front of the chair, one hand resting on Dar’s knee.  “Tell us what happened,” he ordered kindly, his gaze locked on Dar’s.  “Start from the beginning, and leave nothing out.”

******

The fire was burning low, casting eerie shadows along the wall, the low crackle of the flames blending in with the sound of the steady rain pounding against the windowpane.  Brief flashes of lightening still occasionally lit up the room, but the sound of thunder was muted and growing distant.

Gimli lay back in bed, his gaze locked on the glowing embers in the hearth, his hands idly twisting through his beard. He was weary, yet sleep refused to come as his mind mulled over all the events of the day.  He had rejected the sleeping draught Legolas had offered him, and surprisingly, his friend had not insisted.  Now, he was alone with his thoughts but for Dar, sprawled sound asleep in the large chair in front of the fire.

Faramir had left shortly after Dar had finished his story, wanting to inspect the scene of attack for himself as well as take care of the two dead soldiers.  Eowyn had left with him, hoping to find an empty room nearby where she could find some sleep.  Legolas had remained with Dar and Gimli until a healer had arrived to care for Dar’s injured shoulder, then he had quietly slipped from the room.  He had yet to return, and Gimli was growing impatient.

He hated being confined to bed.  He hated feeling weak.  Especially with the current events.  He was a dwarf of action, and accepting the limits imposed by his injured body was not easy.  He wanted to help with the investigation.  He wanted to aide Aragorn through the tough battle ahead of the King. But mostly, he wanted to find the ones responsible for hurting Arwen and pound them into indistinguishable piles of dust!

Gimli sighed, frustrated.  Brooding over his current position helped nothing, so he attempted to force his thoughts to a different matter.

His gaze drifted to the sleeping figure of Dar, and his face softened.  The lad looked extremely young, relaxed in sleep, his hair curling slightly around his face as it dried.  Fast asleep in the chair, with his mouth hanging slightly open, he hardly looked like the brave young soldier who had just rescued his queen.  Gimli doubted Dar even truly realized what it was that he had accomplished.  Kenson would be extremely proud of his son when he found out.

Gimli was aware of the close relationship between father and son.  He had watched the two interact, and was continually amazed at how well Kenson had raised his son, especially considering that he had no wife to assist him.  Gimli had learned from Kenson that Dar’s mother had died from an illness when Dar was still a baby.  Kenson had not only raised and protected Dar through his childhood, he had also been a solid and reliable friend for the growing boy, and the friendship between them had only grown stronger as the years passed.

Gimli thought about his own father.  When he had been young, he had practically worshipped Gloin, following the elder dwarf around wherever he went.  He had admired and respected his father, and though that had not completely faded, something in their relationship had changed over the years.  Now, he always felt tense and somewhat strained when in Gloin’s presence.  He knew almost exactly when the change had begun, just as he knew what had most likely triggered that change. Legolas.

His father distrusted and disliked the elves with a passion, and Gimli’s newfound relationship with the Prince of Mirkwood had been an extremely unwelcome shock to him.  He and his father had both endured numerous discussions—which usually ended as shouting matches—on the topic of elves in general, and Legolas in particular.  Both had attempted to change the other’s way of thinking, and when neither of them had succeeded, they had at last fallen into a stony silence concerning the subject.  His father had refused to concede that his prejudices concerning all elves might be even the least bit erroneous, and Gimli had refused to give up his friendship with Legolas, which had merely grown stronger as his relationship with his father deteriorated.

Gimli sighed as his thoughts turned toward his friend.  He was worried about Legolas, just as he was worried about Faramir, Eowyn, and even Dar.  Whoever was striking out at Aragorn, they were using those closest to the King to make their point.  It was only a matter of time before another attack came, and Gimli feared the possibility that he might lose one of his friends.  It was becoming desperately important that they find the one responsible.

‘Who hates Aragorn so fiercely  that they are willing to risk so much in order to hurt him?’

It was a question he had been mulling over all evening.  The facts they had were few, and they all led to inconclusive answers.  They only real evidence they had was the description of the scar faced man given by both the boy who had delivered the letter, and now, by Dar.  He was their only true link, and Gimli had little doubt that Aragorn and Faramir would turn the city inside out in the search for him if necessary. 

Yet finding Scar Face would most likely end up being only the first step.  The man had not acted alone in either his attack on Gimli, or his attack on Arwen.  There were others involved, a group of men with a distinct leader directing their actions.  Scar Face was possibly that leader, yet both Legolas and Faramir seemed doubtful of that, and Gimli found that he had to agree.  Someone else was masterminding all this.  But who? Why? and what would be his next course of action?

Gimli shifted impatiently, hardly noticing the nagging pain in his back.  He could feel a storm brewing, and not the kind that presently raged outside his window.  This was a different storm, and Gimli found himself dreading the moment it would break.  Everything was happening for a reason, building up to something yet unseen, and Gimli felt himself dreading what that ‘something’ might be.

Gimli let out a frustrated sigh and sank back further against the pillows supporting his back.  He glanced to the washstand next to his bed, where Legolas had left the goblet containing the sleeping draught.  His was getting nowhere with his present thoughts, yet his troubled mind refused to let him sleep.  Yet sleep was exactly what he needed the most if he wished to recover quickly so that he might be of aide to his friends during the coming storm.  Gimli reached for the goblet.

He downed the bitter liquid in three swallows, then sank back down into the bed, gritting his teeth against the fire in his back.  Slowly, he closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax.  Perhaps his dreams would yield some desperately needed answers.  Gimli could only hope so, for he somehow feared that they were all quickly running out of time.

*******

The halls of the House of Healing lay quiet and subdued, the dim lights giving the long corridors a gloomy appearance.  The only sounds that could be heard were the distant rumbles of thunder and the occasional muted sound of voices coming from behind the closed doors.  Every now and then, a Healer would appear and move about from room to room, checking on patients, yet besides them, the halls remained empty.

Legolas leaned against the wall outside the room where Aragorn had taken Arwen, his relaxed posture hiding the tenseness he was presently feeling.  He could hear the healers moving about in the room, could make out the sound of hushed voices, though even his sharp ears could not pick out what was being said. 

He remained motionless as the door finally opened and three healers stepped out, their faces grim and tired.  They glanced toward him, curious, but Legolas ignored them, his eyes locked on the door as it silently swung shut behind them   The healers moved past him, walking slowly down the hall with a couple backward glances.  Legolas continued to ignore them, his attention focused on the room in front of him.  It was silent now, and Legolas guessed that Aragorn was finally alone with Arwen.

He remained leaning against the wall for a couple more minutes, preparing himself.  Finally, he pushed forward, moving toward the door and tapping lightly.  There was no response, yet he had not really expected one.  He quietly pushed open the door and entered the room.

He had expected to find Aragorn sitting in the chair beside the bed, yet instead he found the man standing motionless before the room’s only window, his back turned to Legolas, his gaze locked out in the night.  He did not turn at Legolas’ entrance, did not even acknowledged his presence. 

The room was dark, the only light coming from a small fire flickering in the stone hearth.  The dim light cast the room in heavy shadows, yet even had it been brightly lit, Legolas would have still felt the darkness.  He suppressed a heavy shudder.

A few feet to his left, Arwen lay motionless in the room’s only bed, a heavy blanket pulled up beneath her chin, the thick material hiding all but the bruises on her face.   Legolas felt his heart wrench painfully at the sight of her pale features.  He glanced again toward Aragorn, but his friend still had not turned from the window. 

Sighing heavily, Legolas moved over to the bed and placed a light hand on Arwen’s brow, whispering soft words of comfort in his own tongue.  He smoothed away the stray strands of hair on her forehead, being careful of the heavy bruises.  Looking down at her still form, he had to fight off a tidal wave of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.  When he finally glanced up, he found Aragorn watching him.

Legolas had not known what to expect from Aragorn when he had entered the room.  He had been half fearful that he would find his friend overcome with grief and despair.  Aragorn’s original actions when Legolas had first entered the room had certainly hinted toward this type of reaction.  Legolas had not known how to proceed, wanting to help his friend, yet unsure how.  Yet despite all this, he had been determined to try.   Now, however, Legolas realized that he had misjudged his friend.  There was no sign of despair on Aragorn’s face, only a hot, burning rage, so fierce in its intensity that Legolas found himself taking a small step back before he even realized it.

“Tell me what happened,” Aragorn ordered softly, his voice hard as steel.

Legolas studied him for a second before answering. “It was Scar Face again.  He was waiting outside the House of Healing for her along with at least five other men.  They have undoubtedly been watching this place for the last several days, waiting for an opportunity to act.”  Legolas continued on to tell Aragorn everything that he had learned from Dar.  When he reached the part where Dar had stepped in to save Arwen, Aragorn’s features softened slightly, the first hint of emotions slipping through his mask of anger.  When Legolas finally finished, Aragorn merely nodded, then turned once more to face the window.

“Faramir is out there now, looking for clues that might help us,” Legolas stated quietly, once again receiving only a slight nod as an answer.

Legolas shifted slightly, suddenly uncomfortable with the silence.  He glanced down at Arwen again, then back at Aragorn, his jaw clenching slightly.  Despite the iron mask Aragorn had placed over his emotions, Legolas knew that his friend was hurting badly.  He had been friends with Aragorn long enough that he could see the pain buried deep in the King’s eyes.

“Aragorn…” Legolas began hesitantly, dreading the question he was about to ask, but needing to know the answer.  “What about the baby?”

Aragorn’s entire body stiffened, and he did not answer right away.  When he at last turned, the anger was gone from his expression, replaced by a pain so sharp that Legolas had to look away.  It was all the answer he needed.

“Arwen does not know,” Aragorn whispered, his voice rough with pain.  “It will kill her when she finds out.”

Legolas did not know what to say.  He wanted to comfort Aragorn, yet knew any words he chose to speak now would only sound hollow to the grieving man.  Instead, he moved across the room and placed a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, squeezing tightly.  He met Aragorn’s eyes with his own, his expression speaking more than any words he could ever say. 

Aragorn swallowed hard, then closed his eyes, relaxing slightly beneath Legolas’ hand, excepting the comfort that was being offered.

“I am glad that you are here, Legolas,” Aragorn finally said softly, his eyes still closed, his head bowed.  “I know that it is crazy, especially since everyone close to me seems to be a target.”

Legolas shook his head, even though Aragorn was not looking at him.  “No, it is not crazy,” he answered quietly.  “I am your friend, Aragorn, and I will remain beside you until this is over.  We will get through this.”

Aragorn at last lifted his head, opening his eyes and meeting Legolas’ gaze.  He straightened, his posture once more becoming erect and proud.  “Yes we will,” he answered firmly.

Legolas smiled, despite the heaviness that had settled over him.  He gave Aragorn’s shoulder one last squeeze before he dropped his hand to his side.  The two stood quietly then, neither speaking but no words needed as they both rested in the comfortable silence of close friends.

TBC

Chapter 10      Traps!

“How long do you intend for us to sit here idle?”  Kiesco’s voice rang out in the small room, filled with frustration and anger. “The search for us draws ever nearer, and yet we do nothing!”

Tervanis glanced up from cleaning the blade of his knife and casually arched an eyebrow at his enraged captain.  “Are you questioning my actions, dear Kiesco?” he asked calmly.  “You know that we shall act when I deem the correct time has come.”  

Kiesco scowled deeply at this answer and began to pace back and forth across the room, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.  “Four days,” he spat angrily.  “Four days we have sat and done nothing while our foes draw ever nearer to finding us!  You claim to have a plan, yet little good it will do us if we act too late!  They will find us!  Find me!  We must act now, before it is too late!”

“I do not like repeating myself,” Tervanis replied coldly.  “We will act when I say to act, and not a moment before.”

“But we must do something!  Perhaps we can…”  Kiesco cut short as Tervanis slammed his blade into its sheath and rose menacingly from his seat by the window.

“I grow tired of your arguing,” Tervanis hissed, his eyes blazing with anger.  “I suggest that you curb your tongue, or I shall have it removed.”  The glare that he sent Kiesco, and the tight grip on his danger made it very clear that this was not an idle threat.

Kiesco realized that he had gone too far with the assassin, and immediately dropped his head in submission.  “I do not mean to question your actions, sir,” he mumbled quietly, his voice submissive, but still carrying a slight edge of frustration.  “I have seen the great Oliphaunts of Tarad Don, and have watched them follow their master’s every command with meekness and gentleness.  Yet I have also seen one of these creatures tear a man in two when angered.  This situation reminds me much of that time, for I fear that we have provoked a great power.  With each passing day, our danger grows greater.  If we are discovered, I do not believe there will be mercy.”

Tervanis snorted, his lips twitching up into a scornful smile.  “Are you afraid then,” he asked mockingly.

Kiesco’s eyes briefly flashed with anger, but his face remained emotionless.  “Worried,” he corrected shortly. 

“Then perhaps I can ease some of your worry,” Tervanis replied dryly.  “They will continue to search, yet they shall never find us.  I require only a little more patience, Kiesco, for the time to act draws near.”

“Then perhaps we can speak of this plan of yours,” Kiesco suggested.  “You have told me that only one more task awaits us before we may return to Norvil.  You have yet to tell me what this task is, though you promised I would be a part of it.”

Tervanis’ grin was purely evil.  “Indeed, I did,” he replied, “And I believe you shall enjoy the part I have planned for you.”

Kiesco leaned forward, his frustration forgotten in his eagerness.  “And what part is that,” he asked?

“I am sure that you remember the young soldier who defeated you?” Tervanis asked maliciously.

Kiesco’s scowl returned.  “He did not defeat me,” he protested.  “If we had not been interrupted…”

Tervanis cut him off with a wave of his hand.  “Do you wish to know the plan or not?” he asked curtly.

Kiesco continued to scowl, but he quickly nodded.

“Then listen carefully.”

*******

“Easy, Gimli.  Do not overtax yourself.  I have no wish to carry you back to bed.”

Gimli glanced over his shoulder to where Legolas sat perched on the edge of the bed.  The elf was watching him like a hawk, his posture making it obvious that he was prepared to leap forward and catch Gimli if he showed even the slightest hint of faltering.  Gimli scowled at him, then turned his attention back to the task of forcing one foot in front of the other. 

After over a week of lying confined to bed, Gimli found that he had to work to get his legs to obey his commands.  It took a concerted effort to keep them from quivering and buckling beneath him, and the burning pain in his back did not help matters at all.  However, he refused to give up.  It had taken him too long to convince Legolas to allow him this opportunity to test his strength, and the simple joy of being able to move around under his own power was great enough for him to grit his teeth and bear with the pain.

Gimli focused his eyes on the far wall, and continued forward resolutely, his jaw clenched in determination.  He reached the end of the room, then slowly turned and headed back toward the bed, his breath coming out in a determined rasp.  He was beginning to feel lightheaded, and his legs were starting to shake, causing him to wobble slightly, but with his eyes firmly fixed on Legolas, he moved steadily forward.

An eternity later, he reached the bed and let out a long sigh of relief.  Legolas was grinning broadly at him, his gray eyes shining with a pride that made all the pain and weariness seem well worth it.  Gimli returned the grin, feeling a flash of triumph.  It had been a small victory, yet to Gimli, the achievement was just enough to bolster his spirits. 

He allowed Legolas to help him back into bed, then sank back against the pillows with a grateful sigh.  His entire body ached, every breath sending a streak of pain up his back, and suddenly he found it difficult to keep his eyes open as a great weariness settled over him. 

Legolas finished arranging the blankets over him, then moved to sit on the chair next to the bed.  “You did well today, Gimli,” he commented softly, smiling at Gimli happily.

Gimli grunted and nodded slightly, accepting his friend’s praise with an outward detachment while inwardly his spirits were dancing in delight.  He had done well, and despite the pain and exhaustion he could hardly wait to try again.  Next time, he would go even farther!  His weariness pressed him toward sleep, but Gimli was not yet ready to give in.

Shifting around until he found a comfortable position that didn’t strain his back, Gimli glanced over at Legolas.  “How is Arwen?” he asked simply.

Legolas’ expression grew distant and sad, and his voice when he answered was so low the Gimli had to strain to hear him.  “She is recovering, though she still grieves terribly.  The pain is hard to see, yet it is for Aragorn that I fear the most.”

“Why?” Gimli asked, though he already suspected what the answer would be.

Legolas looked at him and shook his head.  “The last few days have been hard on all, but it is Aragorn who bears the most weight.  He needs time to grieve, to let the pain heal, yet instead he is constantly kept busy, with little time to eat, or even sleep.  He rarely leaves Arwen’s side, but when he does he is either seeing to his duties as King, or helping Faramir and I in our search for the ones responsible.  He is doing too much, all the while bearing the heavy burden of a guilt that does not belong to him, and worry over who will be the next target.”

Gimli nodded, understanding exactly how much pressure Aragorn was under, and feeling frustrated in the knowledge that his friend would attempt to carry his burdens alone.  “We must find the ones responsible,” he mumbled, “And soon.  That is the only way this will end.”

Legolas nodded, then let out a sigh filled with frustration.  “We are trying Gimli, but searching a city the size of Minas Tirith for one man is no easy task.  We will find him, but it will take time.”

Gimli gave Legolas a sympathetic look, understanding his friend’s frustration.  Four days had passed with no results, yet Faramir and Legolas continued to search with the same determination as when they had first begun.  It was a necessary task, yet it was also a wearying one.

 “Do you intend to aid in the search today?” he asked, already surprised that the morning had come and gone without Legolas’ departure.

“Faramir had a matter that needed his attention this morning,” Legolas explained.  “He is to meet me here as soon as he finishes and we will continue our search then.”

Gimli nodded, catching Legolas’ gaze and then whispering the same two words that he had repeated to his friend every morning for the last four days, his gruff voice covering the underlying worry, “Be careful.”

Legolas smiled slightly and merely nodded in response. 

Gimli clenched his jaw, then turned his gaze away, sinking back into the softness of the bed and closing his eyes.  The fear for both Faramir and Legolas was intense, and growing even more so as the days passed.  The sense that something was about to happen had been growing steadily within him, causing a near panic at times as he realized that he was powerless to do anything about it.  He desperately wanted to help his friends, and yet he couldn’t, and it was slowly driving him crazy.  Being able to get out of bed and walk around had helped immensely in dealing with the frustration, yet the fear still grew.

He opened his eyes as he heard Legolas rise from the chair and move across the room to the hearth.  His friend knelt and carefully added several large faggots of wood to the dwindling fire, and Gimli smiled in appreciation.  The air today was crisp and cold, heralding the approach of winter, and a brisk wind was presently prowling around the edges of the windowsill, howling mournfully when it was denied entrance. 

The sound of a slamming door drifted in from the hallway, and a few seconds later a soft but urgent knock sounded at the door.  Legolas glanced up from his work at the fire, then quickly rose, sending a slight frown toward Gimli.  Faramir would not have knocked.

“Enter,” Legolas called out, and the door opened to admit a tall, gruff looking man dressed in the uniform of a soldier.  The man was flushed and breathing hard, and his bow to Legolas was somewhat jerky. 

“My lords,” he gasped, his gaze flickering between Legolas and Gimli. “I apologize for disturbing you, but I was unable to find Lord Faramir, and I have urgent news.

Gimli felt his entire body stiffen in sudden alarm.  He could not explain the reaction, but a feeling of dread was beginning to grow in the pit of his stomach. 

“What do you have to report, Lanithan?” Legolas asked, his voice calm, but his expression showing a sudden worry.

Gimli understood that worry as the name Legolas had used to address the soldier registered.  Lanithan was the name of the soldier that Aragorn had assigned to keep an eye out for Dar.

Gimli felt a sudden flash of fear.  Something had happened…

*******

Aragorn could not remember the words to the song.  He quietly hummed the melody, his eyes closed as he struggled to capture the memory that lurked just out of reach.  It was an elven song, that much he knew, yet the words and the origins evaded him, whispers of his distant past that kept slipping from his grasp.  All he knew was that the tune was familiar and oddly comforting, its soft notes calming and soothing.  He continued to hum it over and over again, clinging desperately to the sense of peace it offered.  Time seemed to stand still, and for the first time in what seemed like ages his body relaxed, his mind drifting along lazily in the avenues of another world.

The slight brush of fingers against his hand startled Aragorn, and he stopped humming, his eyes snapping open and flying to the face of his beloved.  Arwen’s eyes were open, her gaze fixed on him, silent tears glistening on her bruised face.  Aragorn immediately caught up her hand in his own, squeezing lightly as he leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead.

“Don’t stop,” Arwen pleaded softly, her voice a bare whisper. 

Aragorn sat back and looked at her, feeling the emotions boil up within him, causing an aching lump to form at the back of his throat.  He nodded slowly, then continued to hum the song, his hand gripping hers tightly.  He began to search his mind even harder for a memory of the words, hoping that perhaps they would hold some power to soothe her. 

An image suddenly flashed: the bright crackle of a large fire, the feel of soft cloth beneath his cheek, the soft sensation of rocking as he was held in arms that at once reflected strength and gentleness.  He could hear the words of the song now, sung clearly in a strong tenor, the words seeming to mesh with the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the arms that surrounded him. 

The force of the vision was enough to rob Aragorn of his breath.  So many years had passed since that time.  He had been a boy then, a baby really, lost within a place of grief and fear, and surrounded by a world that had seemed so foreign to him.  Elrond had made up the song for him, a sweet lullaby that had always reminded Aragorn of his mother, even before he had been able to understand the words.  

Tears stung Aragorn’s eyes as the long buried memory came alive once more.  The lullaby was a simple one, yet forged out of a compassion and love too complex to even begin to explain.  Many a night Elrond had lured him to sleep with its sweet melody, and perhaps, someday, Aragorn would sing it to his own children.

“Aragorn?” 

Arwen’s worried murmur drew Aragorn from his thoughts.  He looked down at her and squeezed her hand reassuringly.  “How do you feel, Mellonin?” he asked softly, smoothing the hair from her brow.

“My body is healing,” Arwen replied quietly, her voice breaking on a soft sob.  “Yet my soul aches with a pain and emptiness I fear shall never fade.”

Aragorn moved forward and gently wrapped Arwen in a hug, careful not to bump against any of her injuries.  “I know, my love,” he whispered brokenly, choking down his own grief so that he could comfort Arwen.  “Yet it will fade, and the palace of Minas Tirith will yet ring with the laughter and joy of many children.”

He felt Arwen relax within his arms, and he closed his eyes and rested his chin against the top of her head, whispering soft words of comfort as much for himself as for her.

A soft knock at the door intruded on their solitude, and Aragorn released Arwen and straightened as the door opened and Legolas slipped into the room.

“Aragorn,” Legolas called softly.  “You must come quickly!”

Aragorn frowned, straightening even further and taking a step toward the door.  “What has happened?” he demanded, a spike of fear flashing through him at Legolas’ urgent tone.

“Lanithan has just arrived and…”

“Dar!” Aragorn gasped, immediately assuming the worst upon mention of the soldier’s name.  On the bed, Arwen gasped and struggled to sit up.

Legolas quickly shook his head.  “Dar is fine,” he stated abruptly, “At least he was when Lanithan left him, but we must hurry.”

Aragorn shook his head, confused.  “I do not understand…” he began, but Legolas cut him off.

“He has found them,” the elf stated excitedly.  “He sent Lanithan to fetch us!”

Aragorn blinked, and then Legolas’ words settled in.  “He found them?” he repeated, stunned.  “He found Scar Face?”

“Yes,” Legolas replied urgently.  “Now we must go, Aragorn.”

Aragorn nodded, then quickly turned and knelt by the bed.  Leaning forward he kissed Arwen gently, squeezing her hand tightly. 

“Go,” Arwen urged softly.  “It is time that this ended.”

Aragorn nodded, then rose to his feet and quickly followed Legolas out the door.  They met Faramir hurrying down the hall toward them, Lanithan following close behind the Steward.  It was obvious from the expression on Faramir’s face that the soldier had already told him what was going on.  He quickly handed Legolas and Aragorn their cloaks, and without a word passing between them, the three men followed the soldier from the House of Healing down the street, their cloaks pulled tight with the hoods drawn up to shield them from curious eyes.

It took them a quarter of an hour to reach the spot where Lanithan had left Dar.  It took Aragorn a few minutes to spot the young soldier amidst the press of people filling the street.  Dar was leaning against the stone wall of a shop, his eyes locked across the street to the entrance of what appeared to be a weapons shop.  He looked up when Aragorn and the others approached, his relief evident.

“What happened?” Aragorn demanded immediately, reaching out to grasp Dar’s shoulder.

“He is in there,” Dar answered immediately, pointing across the street.  “I was sent by my captain to pick up some supplies when I spotted him going into the weapons shop.”

“The scar faced man?” Aragorn clarified, receiving a simple nod in answer.

“He had three other men with him, and they were all wearing cloaks with the hoods pulled up.”

“Are you sure it was him?” Faramir asked from behind Aragorn.

Dar nodded emphatically.  “I will not soon forget that face, my lord.  He looked directly up the street in my direction and I felt my insides go cold.  I also recognized at least one of the other men with him, but could not get a good look at the other two.  They kept their heads down, and their cloaks hid them from me.”

Aragorn nodded.  “You have done well,” he assured Dar, then turned to Legolas who had been silently studying the front of the shop ever since Dar had pointed it out to them.

“Do you think they are still in there?” he asked quietly, squinting across the street and trying to see through the glare the sun cast on the shop’s front window.  “If they suspected that they had been found out, they may have slipped out a back entrance.”  Aragorn hoped with every fiber of his being that this was not the case.

Legolas shook his head.  “I see four figures cast in cloaks,” he answered quietly, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration.  “They have not yet left.”

“Do we go in and take them now?” Faramir asked, his hand already closed tightly around the hilt of his sword.

“If we wait and follow them, mayhap they will lead us to the others in their party,” Legolas pointed out softly, turning his gaze from the shop to study Aragorn.  “Perhaps even to their leader.”

Aragorn clenched his jaw, faced with a difficult choice.  He wanted to go in, wanted to face the ones responsible for hurting Arwen and killing his child.  The desire was so strong within him that he could feel his muscles quivering in anticipation, even as his hand clenched the hilt of his sword in a white knuckled grip.  Yet even as his heart screamed for action, his head weighed the consequences of that choice.  He knew that Legolas’ words held wisdom.  If they did move in now, they would face a battle where innocent people could possibly be injured.  He seriously doubted that any of the men would surrender willingly.  And the battle would not end here.  There were still more of them out there that would need to be found and brought to justice.  Aragorn wanted this ended, and he was willing to hold his anger in check for a while longer if that was what was needed.

He turned to face Faramir and Legolas, still wrestling with his choice.  “We wait,” he said at last, slowly.  “If we can follow them back to wherever it is that they have been holed up, mayhap we can end this all once and for all.” 

Faramir and Legolas nodded, the elf reaching out and gripping Aragorn’s shoulder tightly, his face sympathetic, but his gray eyes shining with an excitement that was all too familiar to Aragorn.  The same excitement coursed through his own veins, tempered by his rage, yet still there. 

“They are coming out,” Dar hissed, and Aragorn turned slightly, watching from the corner of his eye as the four men excited from the shop and began making their way down the street in the opposite direction from them.

Aragorn quickly turned to Lanithan.  “Go back to the palace,” he ordered hurriedly.  “Find your captain and have him prepare a force of soldiers to march out at my summons.”

Lanithan nodded, then turned and sprinted up the street.  Aragorn turned to Dar, but before he could say anything, the young man spoke.

“Please let me come with you?  I will not get in the way, and perhaps I can be of aid if something happens.”

“We have not the time for this,” Faramir pointed out hurriedly.  Legolas had already begun to move down the street after the four men.

Aragorn grimaced, then made a split second decision.  He nodded, clapping Dar on the shoulder then turned and followed Legolas and Faramir.  “Stay close,” he ordered simply, smiling slightly at the grateful expression on Dar’s face.

They moved quickly through the streets, staying far enough behind the four men so as to not attract notice, but remaining close enough that they where within view at all times.  Their course remained straight, the men before them never veering from the main thoroughfare as they headed down through the city toward the outer walls. 

Aragorn felt the tension within him growing with every passing moment, and it took a great effort of will to force his hands to remain at his sides instead of gripping the hilt of his sword.  He noticed the look of determination on his companions’ faces, and though no words passed between them, Aragorn felt tremendous relief at their presence.

“They are splitting!”  The whispered observation came from Legolas, and Aragorn swore lightly as he realized that the elf was right.  Before them, one of the men had split from the group and was heading toward a side street.  The other three continued on down the main road.

“What do we do?” Faramir asked quietly, his voice filled with frustration.

“Is the one who split from the group Scar Face?” Aragorn asked Dar shortly, his mind thinking quickly through all their options.

Dar shook his head.  “No, he is not tall enough.” 

Aragorn scowled in frustration, not willing to let anyone who had participated in the beating of Arwen escape.

Faramir grabbed his arm to get his attention.  “You three go on, and I will follow this one,” he suggested quickly, for they were nearing the street where the man had broken off from the others.

Aragorn did not like that idea, but he didn’t have time to think of any other option.  He nodded reluctantly.  “Follow him only,” he cautioned.  “Learn what you can, then meet us back at the palace in two hours.  Hopefully one of us will have learned something by then.”

Faramir nodded, then lifted one hand in farewell and quickly broke away from them.  Aragorn watched him worriedly, but soon had to turn his attention back to his own task of following the three remaining men.

“It looks as if they are heading toward the gate,” Legolas observed several minutes later.  They had reached the last level of the city, the walls drawing ever nearer, and still the men they followed had not turned from the main road.

Aragorn nodded, frowning slightly.  If the men left the city, it would be harder to track them without being noticed.  He glanced up at the late afternoon sun and swore softly.  They did not have much time.

The outer wall appeared before them, looming tall and casting a long shadow over the street.  This portion of the city was much less populated, and the number of people moving about on the street slowly began to dwindle.  Aragorn was fairly certain now that the men intended to leave the city, yet to his surprise and relief, they turned at the very last street before reaching the gate and disappeared from view.

Aragorn glanced over at Legolas and received only a slight shrug and a nod.  Aragorn reached down and gripped the hilt of his sword, his steps slowing slightly as his mind cautioned him against any hasty actions.

He turned the corner from the main road, then stopped, his eyes taking in the path before them.  This street was narrow and looked to be completely deserted, the high wall of the city casting it into deep shadows.  About fifty yard down, the street ended abruptly at a tall wooden gate surrounding a squat building nestled back against the main wall.  The building was surrounded by a smaller wall of its own, and Aragorn immediately recognized it as one of the many storage buildings located randomly along the main outer wall.  The building was never occupied, but used by soldiers to store gear and repair equipment. 

Aragorn watched as the gate swung open and the three men they had been following disappeared inside.

“I think we have just found where they are hiding,” Legolas stated, his voice filled with satisfaction.

“It would appear so,” Aragorn agreed quietly.

“Not a bad choice,” Legolas added.  “The wall offers them protection from unwanted eyes, and they are not likely to be disturbed here.”

Aragorn nodded.  “I want to get a closer look,” he stated slowly, “See if they have placed any guards, or whether they are trusting to secrecy.”

Legolas nodded, unsheathing one of his knives in a smooth motion.  “We can split and come at the wall from two separate sides,” he suggested lightly.  “We can mount the wall easy enough, and a quick look around should provide us with enough information to best lead the soldiers when we return.”

Aragorn nodded, bending over and drawing one of his own knives from his boot.  “Dar, you will remain here and keep a watch out.  If you see anyone coming from the gate, whistle.”

Dar opened his mouth to argue, but Aragorn fixed him with a stern look, and after a moment, Dar nodded in reluctant acquiescence.

“We should not be long,” Aragorn assured him, then looked to Legolas.  “You take the south side, and I shall take the north.  Be careful,” he cautioned his friend softly.  “We do not want to tip them off that we are on to them.  Learn what you can without taking any risks, then we will return with the soldiers.”

Legolas nodded, then silently disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the street.

Aragorn gave Dar one final glance, then quickly followed after the elf, moving to the far left of the street and approaching the wall with all the stealth his many years in Rivendell had taught him.  He carefully scanned the top of the wall to make sure that no guards were posted, then moved forward cautiously. 

The wall was not high, only a few feet taller than he, and after re-sheathing his knife, Aragorn had no problem jumping up and catching the rim.  He carefully pulled himself up enough to peer over the top, his eyes scanning the courtyard within for any sign of movement.  After several minutes of silently watching, he felt certain that the courtyard was empty.  Pulling himself up the rest of the way, he noiselessly dropped down, landing with a soft thud on the dirt beneath the wall.

His senses immediately screamed out a warning, and Aragorn instinctively grabbed at the hilt of his sword even as he dived to the side.  A shadow flickered in his vision, following his dive with a quickness that surprised him.  He didn’t even have time to wonder where his assailant had appeared from before something slammed into the side of his head.  The world exploded in light, and then, just as quickly, faded into blackness.

******

Something was wrong.

Legolas knew it the minute he dropped down into the courtyard.  His knife was in his hand in the flash of an eye, and he remained in a crouch, his eyes scanning every shadow in the courtyard before him.  His senses were screaming out warnings, and a strong feeling of impending danger settled upon his shoulders like a heavy weight.  He was extremely frustrated that the squat form of the storage building blocked his view of the far side of the courtyard.  He knew he would feel better if only he could see Aragorn and keep the King within his sights.

The soft sound of stone scraping against stone caused Legolas to whirl, his knife coming up before him.  His eyes widened as he watched sections of the wall slide away, shifting to the side to reveal small storage cubbies that blended in completely with the wall.  The storage cubbies were not empty, however, and Legolas took a small step back as at least a dozen men stepped from the small compartments, their weapons drawn and their eyes fixed on him.

“Aragorn, it is a trap!”  Legolas shouted, hoping to warn his friend.  Perhaps Aragorn had not yet entered the courtyard.

One of the men leaped at him, but Legolas easily sidestepped the charge, his leg sweeping out to send the man flying past to land heavily in the dirt.  Another man charged forward, his sword sweeping in toward Legolas’ legs.  Legolas twisted away, his movements a mere blur as he brought his foot up and kicked the man roughly in the face, sending him flying back.  He danced back lightly, his knife coming up before him as he watched for the next attack. 

“Easy lads, this one is a fighter.”

Legolas’ gaze snapped to the owner of the voice, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the large, heavily scarred man.

“Surround him and take him down,” the man ordered his men, all the while leering at Legolas evilly.

Legolas stared back coldly, a deep rage building in him.  He was staring at the man who had taken part in beating Arwen, who had been present the day Gimli had been shot!  All caution forgotten, Legolas sprang forward directly toward the scarred man, his knife sweeping out before him.

The man stumbled back, obviously surprised at the bold move, his sword coming up quickly to block Legolas’ thrust.  Legolas sprang back, then leapt forward again, his knife sweeping around in an arc even as he lifted his foot and slammed it into the man’s midriff, sending him careening backward, his sword flying from his hand.

Legolas leapt forward, intending to finish the fight, but suddenly he found himself  being attacked from all sides.  His knife was a mere blur as he struggled to fend of his attackers, but they pressed in with an intensity that could not be denied.  They had circled him in, and were now pressing on him, using the sheer force of their numbers to overwhelm him.  Legolas did his best to keep them back, using both his weapon and his body to discourage them from coming too close, but there were simply too many of them.

A sharp blow to his back caused Legolas to stumble, and immediately they were upon him, blows raining down on him from every side.  Legolas tensed, expecting at any second to feel the sharp sting of a blade sliding home.  Yet despite the many openings, his attackers seemed more intent upon bringing him down and disarming him than killing him.  His defense was crashing down around him, and though he continued to fight fiercely, he knew there was no way to win this fight on his own.

The weight of his attackers at last brought him down, but Legolas continued to struggle and kick, the sheer force of his determination keeping his enemies from getting a good hold on him.  A heavy boot slammed down on his wrist, causing him to loose hold of his knife, and the harsh rain of blows to his head and chest were beginning to cause his vision to blur.

“Enough of this!”

The command echoed around the courtyard, and suddenly Legolas felt his attackers moving away.  He gasped for breath, and rolled to his knees, attempting to shake away the haze that had settled upon him while desperately glancing around for his knife.

“Give up the fight, elf, or we shall kill the boy.”

The words caused Legolas to freeze, and he looked up slowly, his eyes meeting the enraged gaze of the scar-faced man.  Directly behind him, being held tightly between two men, was Dar.  The left side of the lad’s face shone brightly with blood, but what caught Legolas’ immediate attention was the knife pressed harshly against the boy’s throat.

Legolas felt his shoulder slump at the sight, all the energy draining from him.  He glanced around the courtyard, his gaze sweeping past the tight circle of men that surrounded him, his eyes searching desperately for any sign of Aragorn.

“Get up,” Scar Face ordered harshly.

When Legolas did not immediately respond, the man holding Dar pressed the knife even tighter against the young soldiers throat, causing Dar to gasp in pain.

With a defeated sigh, Legolas rose to his feet.  He was immediately grabbed from behind, his hands forced cruelly behind his back and bound tightly by a rough rope.  One of the men binding him cursed and struck out, landing a harsh blow to Legolas’ stomach.  Legolas gasped and attempted to double over as the blow was repeated, but the men holding him held him upright.

“Bring them,” Scar Face commanded, and the men holding Legolas and Dar pushed them forward across the courtyard.

They circled around the storage building, moving to the far side of the courtyard, and Legolas could not hold back a cry of alarm at the sight before him.

Aragorn lay face down on the ground, unmoving, a man with a dagger kneeling casually over him.

******

“Well done, Kiesco,” Tervanis commented lightly, rising from his position over the unconscious King and running a cool eye over his prisoners.  “Very well, done.”

“It was your plan,” Kiesco replied coolly, though he could not completely hide his pleasure over the assassin’s compliment.

Tervanis nodded.  It had been his plan, and in truth, he had not known whether or not it would work.  He had taken an extreme gamble, first by sending Kiesco as bait, for they could have merely arrested him without bothering to follow him, and second by using this storage building to lay his trap. Yet despite the risks, everything had turned out exactly as planned.

“What have you done to Aragorn,” Legolas demanded angrily, struggling slightly between the two men that held him.

Tervanis turned his full attention on the elf, scanning him up and down before grinning mockingly.  “I was hoping that it would be you that fell into my little trap,” he murmured softly, his smile growing at Legolas’ glare, “though I admit I was more expecting the man.”

“What about the boy, sir,” Kiesco broke in, motioning toward the young soldier.  “We have no use for him.  I would find great pleasure in slitting his throat.”

“I am sure you would,” Tervanis commented dryly.  “Truly he is an added bonus to my plan.  It would be no great loss if you did slit his throat…”  Tervanis trailed off tantalizingly, and Kiesco grinned widely, pulling his blade free from his belt and taking an eager step toward Dar.

“On second thought,” Tervanis said slowly, causing Kiesco to stop in his tracks and frown, “we may yet find a use for him.”  Tervanis flickered his gaze to Legolas, smiling slightly at the tenseness he sensed in the elf.

“But…” Kiesco began, but Tervanis cut him off.

“We will bring the boy along,” he stated, his tone discouraging any argument from his captain.  “However, if the elf decides to give us any trouble, you have my permission to kill him.” 

Kiesco continued to scowl, but he obediently took a step back from Dar and re-sheathed his knife.

On the ground, Aragorn stirred and let out a low moan.  Tervanis glanced down at him, cocking his head to one side as he regarded the rousing man.  It filled him with a sense of power, having a King as great as the ruler of Gondor lying helplessly at his feet.  He knew it would be so easy to take the King, and yet that was not his task.  He was playing this game by Servius’ rules, and his commands concerning Aragorn had been made clear.

Shrugging away his disappointment, Tervanis cruelly drew back his boot and kicked the downed man heavily in the side of the head, sending him back into the unconscious world with one vicious strike.

Legolas cried out in anger, attempting to push free from his captors, but Kiesco, still angry over not being able to kill the boy, was quick to still his struggles with a single fierce punch to the side of the head.

Tervanis smiled at his captain and shook his head. 

“Time to go home, my friend.”

TBC

I would like to once again lavish praise upon my beta reader, Ithilien.  She has done so much for this story!  Thank You!!!  And for those of you who might not have already read it, I STRONGLY recommend her fic “The Hunting Trip.”  Prepare yourself for an incredible read!

Chapter 11      Unanswered Questions

Dusk was descending upon Minas Tirith, casting the city in long shadows that foretold of the coming of night.  The night watch already moved throughout the city, lighting the tall lanterns that lined the streets in preparation for the approaching darkness.  The streets were slowly clearing of people as the citizens of the city hurried home or to the nearest tavern, their cloaks pulled tight about them to ward off the biting wind.  Merchant and shop owners moved slowly about their stores, seeing to the nightly duties of cleaning up and preparing for the next day’s activities.  Music and loud laughter drifted from the lighted doorways of numerous taverns, and somewhere in the city a mother called out loudly for her children to come in and wash up for supper.

It was another typical evening in the city of Minas Tirith.  Or at least, this is what the guards at the city gate believed as they watched a lone farmer drive his wagon laden with goods up the street towards them. 

“Good eve, sir,” one of the guards called out kindly as the wagon rolled to a stop before the closed gates of the city.  “Have you need of assistance?”

“I wish to leave the city,” the man replied brusquely, straightening slightly on his perch on the wagon’s bench.  “I came to purchase supplies for my farm, and now I desire to begin the journey home.”

“Fine, fine,” the guard answered, stepping forward to peer up curiously at the farmer.  “You may leave if you wish, but you might be better served to find yourself a nice warm inn for the night and return home on the morrow.  It shall be dark soon, and the night promises to be chill.”

“My family is expecting my return,” the farmer answered briskly, his eyes glinting with impatience.  “As you have said, it shall be dark soon and I wish to be on my way.”

The guard shrugged in surrender, then turned and motioned for one of his companions to begin opening the gate.  “You have a strange accent, friend,” he remarked casually as he moved around to glance into the back of the wagon.  “You are not from around here?”

“Up north,” the farmer answer shortly, his eyes watching the guard closely as he moved around the wagon.  “I moved here several months ago.”

The guard nodded, then reached out and traced a hand over several flat bales of straw in the back of the wagon.  If he had been paying a little more attention, he would have seen the farmer stiffen at the action, his hand nervously shifting beneath the fabric of his cloak. 

The gates swung soundlessly open and the guard finally stepped back, his gaze moving back up to meet that of the farmers.  “You are free to go,” he announced, motioning forward with his arm.  “May you arrive at your destination safely.”

The farmer nodded briefly in response, then slapped the reins against his horse’s back.  Without a backward glance, the wagon rolled out through the gates and down the rode, bearing a cargo much more precious than the city guards could ever have imagined.

*****

Tervanis stood cloaked within the heavy shadows of the wall, watching silently as the city gates swung closed behind the receding form of the “farmer” and his wagon.  He loosened his tight grip on the hilt of his dagger and allowed himself to breathe a slight sigh of relief, a small smile crossing his features. 

That had gone well, despite the brief but tense moment when the guard had reached out to touch the straw.  The final pieces of his plan were falling smoothly into place, and Tervanis felt the sure thrill of victory near at hand.  Already all of his men had safely exited the city, moving out one by one to avoid attracting notice.  Mastano and the wagon had been the last to leave, and now that Tervanis had seen them safely on their way it was time for him to leave as well.  He intended to be out of the city, reunited with his men, and well on his way to Norvil before dawns first light.  He had only one more matter here that needed his attention.

Tervanis turned from his study of the gate and glanced at the small, wiry, cloaked form beside him.  “Five days,” he whispered softly, causing the man to glance up at him.  “Do not forget.”

“I know my duty,” the man answered just as softly.  “There will be no mistakes.”

“That is good,” Tervanis replied coolly, “For I do not accept mistakes.  In the meantime, keep yourself out of sight.  I suspect the city guards shall soon be alerted that something is amiss.  The search will begin shortly after, and the city will be in an uproar for a time.”

“Aye, sir, but you shall be far from here before that time, and even farther before they think to search outside of the city.”

“That is my hope,” Tervanis answered dryly.

“You have been lucky,” the little man added.  “The guards at the gate do not yet know of what has happened or Mastano would not have left so easily.”

“I do not believe in luck,” Tervanis replied absently. 

“Do you believe in fate, then?”

Tervanis turned to regard his companion, the intensity of his gaze causing the man to shift nervously.  “I believe in myself,” he hissed softly. 

The little man swallowed hard, then nodded, unable to meet the intense gaze of the assassin.

“I must go,” Tervanis said abruptly.  “My men will be expecting me shortly.  See that you do your job correctly, and there will be a handsome reward for you upon your return to Norvil.”

The small man nodded once more, then opened his mouth to ask a question, yet Tervanis was already gone, slipping soundlessly down the wall toward the position he had marked out earlier.  The shadows reached out and embraced him, and he melted into them until he became all but invisible.  In less than five minutes, he had scaled the wall and was moving at a fast clip away from the city, leaving not even a trace of his passing behind him.

A quarter of an hour later he caught up with Mastano and the wagon just as the last faint rays of light completely melted away into the darkness of night.  Tervanis waved the man to a stop, then used some flint and steel to light the lantern hanging at the side of the wagon.

“You may come out now, Kiesco,” he called out softly, watching as one of the bales of straw shifted, then moved to the side, revealing a hidden base to the wagon and the scowling face of his captain.

“About time,” the man grumbled loudly, pulling himself from the wagon and then moving to rearrange the bales of straw to hide the little niche. 

Tervanis smiled humorlessly at the man, realizing that Kiesco was still upset at having to be smuggled from the city in the uncomfortable confines of the back of the wagon.  Tervanis really couldn’t have cared less about his captain’s comfort, or in this case discomfort.  He could not have risked the possibility of Kiesco being recognized and apprehended as he tried to leave the city.  This had been the only other option, and Kiesco had been forced to accept that.

“How fair our prisoners?” he asked calmly, glancing at the two other bales of straw hiding similar niches in the wagon.

“They are secure,” Kiesco replied shortly.  “However, I do not doubt that they will begin to rouse soon.”

Tervanis nodded.  “That is well,” he replied.  “In another hour, we will meet up with the rest of the men and the horses.  We will abandon the wagon then, and if the prisoners are awake and able to ride, it will save us the trouble of binding them to the horses.”

******

Faramir was running out of time, and this fact served to frustrate him no end.  He was currently seated in a rough chair at a dirty table in a smelly tavern, watching as the man he had followed for close to an hour downed his third tankard of ale and sang a bawdy song at the top of his lungs, much to the amusement of all those sitting near him.

Faramir was not amused.  In fact, he was growing more and more angry with each passing moment.  He knew that Aragorn had commanded him to merely follow and watch, but as the seconds slipped away, he was finding it more difficult to sit idle.  He was not sure what part the man before him had played in the events of the last several days, but it was quickly becoming apparent to Faramir that unless he took some action he was going to learn nothing of use except the increasingly crude words to the extremely rowdy tavern songs.

Faramir hoped that Aragorn and Legolas had managed to discover more than he had.  He was indecisive as to what his next move should be.  Should he merely continue to sit and watch as commanded by Aragorn, or should he try to find out some information?  He didn’t have much time before he would need to leave to meet with Aragorn and Legolas, and he desperately wanted to have some information to bring with him.

After several more minutes of indecision had slipped past, Faramir finally rose and moved over to the tavern’s main counter, careful to keep his hood pulled close.  He waved his hand to get the attention of the barkeeper, a fat man with an ever-present smile and a deep laugh that seemed to always hint at a slight state of intoxication.

The man noticed his motions and quickly moved over, a big smile splayed across his wide features.  “What can I do for you, sir,” the man boomed, causing Faramir to wince slightly as several eyes in the tavern turned toward him.  “Finally decided you wanted a drink a bit stronger than that wine you been sipping on the last hour?”   The fat man stepped across from Faramir, his eyes for the first time piercing the shadows cast by the heavy cowl of his cloak.  The man’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

“I have no wish to draw attention to myself,” Faramir ordered quickly before the man could declare his identity to the entire tavern.  “I merely have a question I wish to ask you,” he added softly, leaning forward so those nearby would not overhear him.

The barkeeper took the point and also leaned forward, though his eyes remained wide with surprise.  “What may I do for you, my lord,” he asked in a loud whisper, obviously suddenly nervous at Faramir’s presence.  “I apologize if the wine was not up to your usual taste…”

“The wine was fine,” Faramir assured him hurriedly.  “I merely wish to ask if you happen to know the man seated at that table over there?” he motioned with a brief jerk of his head, his eyes never leaving the fat barkeeper.  “The one who is currently drinking his fourth tankard of ale and who is singing loudly enough to wake the dead?”

The barkeepers eyes flashed briefly in the direction Faramir had indicated, then turned back to the Steward, a slightly confused look in his eyes.

“Sure I know him,” he answered hesitantly.  “Jervice is my nephew.”

It was Faramir’s turn to show surprise at this news.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?” the barkeeper asked nervously.  “He’s normally a good chap, but sometimes he does some foolish things when he gets liquored up.”

Faramir decided to answer the question with one of his own.  “Would you know of any reason why your nephew would be visiting a weapons shop with three other men this afternoon?”  He asked slowly, watching the barkeeper’s face carefully for his reaction.

The barkeeper looked startled, but he immediately answered.  “I know nothing about the three other men, but I was the one who sent Jervice to the weapon’s shop.  One of my cork knives went dull on me, and I asked him to pick me up a new one.”

Faramir frowned at this answer, sitting back in his chair and attempting to collect his thoughts.  Was it possible that mere chance had Jervice entering and leaving the weapon’s shop at the same time as Scar face and his buddies?  It seemed somewhat unlikely, and yet Faramir was beginning to get a slow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

He glanced again toward the intoxicated man, deciding that he was the only one who could provide a clear answer.  Aragorn might get angry at him for acting on his own, yet if this was indeed a false lead, Faramir wanted to know about it sooner, rather than later.

Pushing himself from the bar, Faramir carefully made his way across the tavern toward the drunk man, keeping his head lowered and his identity carefully hidden.  The last thing he wanted to do was attract unwanted attention.

He reached the table where Jervice was seated and reached out a hand to grip the man’s shoulder.  “Mind if I have a seat?” he asked calmly.

Jervice head lulled back as he attempted to focus his bleary gaze on Faramir.  “Sshure,” he answered, his voice slurred and his hand nearly tipping over his tankard of ale as he gestured across the table to the empty chair.  “Have a sheat, and we can shing together.”

Faramir frowned at the wave of sour breath that hit him, then quickly took the offered seat if for no other reason than to distance himself as much as possible from the drunken man.  He suddenly had doubts as to how much information he would be able to obtain from Jervice.

“I understand that you went to the weapon’s shop today,” he began hurriedly before Jervice could suggest a song to sing.  “Did you go alone, or with friends?”

Jervice grinned foolishly and nodded. 

“You went alone?” Faramir asked.

Jervice continued to nod, his head bobbing unsteadily.

“Was anyone in the shop with you?”  Faramir questioned.

The head continued to bob up and down.

Faramir frowned, then asked his next question purely on impulse.  “Did you go to pick up a chicken or a cow for your uncle?”

Jervice grinned even wider, as he continued to nod his head stupidly.

Faramir sighed and closed his eyes briefly.  It was no use talking to Jervice in this state.  He rose wearily from his seat and reached out to grasp the man’s arm and pull him up also.  “Come on, Jervice.  You and I need to take a little walk.”

“Wheress we going?”  Jervice asked unsteadily, weaving dangerously on his feet.

Faramir sighed, then reluctantly moved forward and slung the man’s arm over his shoulder, taking the brunt of the drunken man’s weight.  “Somewhere where you can sleep off this ale and then answer some questions,” he replied shortly, slowly moving the man toward the door.

“I’m not done with my drink,” the man protested shakily, hiccupping loudly and sending another blast of sour breath directly into Faramir’s face.

“Oh yes you are,” Faramir answered curtly, attempting to take short, quick breaths through his mouth to keep from being sick.

He had almost reached the door when the barkeeper hurriedly intercepted him.  “Please, my lord,” the man gasped out, his hands anxiously wringing his cloth apron.  “What has he done?  Where are you taking him?”

“Have no fear,” Faramir assured him gently.  “I am merely taking your nephew somewhere where I might ask him a few question in private as soon as he has recovered enough from the ale.”

The barkeeper nodded reluctantly and Faramir moved past him and out on to the street, staggering slightly under the drunk man’s weight.  Dusk was fading swiftly into night, and Faramir swore slightly when he realized that he would most likely be late for his meeting with Aragorn and Legolas.  The king would not be pleased.  Even worse, he would be worried.  

With a resigned sigh, Faramir began to struggle up the street.  Beside him, Jervice began to sing loudly, and Faramir winced as he made out the words to the song.  He closed his eyes and prayed that the journey to the palace would not be a long one.  This night was not going very well for him!

As much as Faramir was convinced that the night could not get any worse, he was proved wrong when he arrived at the palace courtyard at least a full hour late for his meeting with Aragorn and Legolas, only to find out that his friends had not yet arrived!

Faramir quickly handed off his burden to the nearest guards, leaving them with strict instructions to guard the drunk man carefully.  He had become increasingly convinced that Jervice was innocent of any knowledgeable wrongdoing, but he was not going to take any chances either.  Jervice would be questioned thoroughly just as soon as he was sober enough, and then, if he was determined to be innocent, he would be released.   Yet all that was a problem for another time.  At the moment, Faramir had much more pressing concerns.

“You are sure they did not come back here, Lanithan?” Faramir asked the soldier, though he already knew what the answer would be.

“I returned to my captain just as I was commanded,” Lanithan replied.  “We formed up a company of guards and have been waiting here for the King’s summons ever since.  Yet he has not been here, nor has he sent word for us.”

Faramir frowned.  He had been afraid that Aragorn and Legolas would be worried about him.  Yet now that he had learned of their absence, ‘worry’ seemed too tame of a word.  He fearedsomething ill had happened to his friends to delay them, and the fear inside of him was so intense he almost felt sick.

“Take the company of guards and spread out through the city,” he ordered brusquely.  “Notify all the guards you come in contact with to keep an eye out for the King.  If anyone finds him, I want word sent to me immediately.”

Lanithan nodded, then quickly moved away to do as he was ordered.  Faramir closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer up to the Valar to take care of his friends.  If anything had happened to them…

Leaving the thought unfinished, Faramir hurried after Lanithan. Perhaps Aragorn and Legolas had merely been delayed much as he had.  Perhaps, his fear was unfounded.  Yet deep in his heart, Faramir knew the truth, and that truth had him terrified.

*****

Pain and cold.

These were the first two sensations that marked Aragorn’s slow journey to the conscious world. The pain radiated from his head, a fierce throbbing at his temples that marked each heartbeat with a fiery persistence, and the cold seemed to have invaded his entire body, sinking into his flesh until he was shaking uncontrollably.  Yet there was another sensation besides these two, hovering nearby like a hungry predator waiting for a chance to pounce.  Fear.   

Aragorn groaned and fought against the foggy layers of darkness clouding his mind, struggling to defeat the heavy shadows that fought to keep him firmly ensnared.  His eyes felt like heavy weights rested atop them, and his thoughts drifted brokenly across the black void of his mind. 

An eternity passed during his struggle before he at last managed to slowly push his eyes open, blinking several times to fight off the dazzling explosion of lights across his vision. He groaned again as the pounding in his head intensified tenfold, and he was almost tempted to close his eyes and allow the blackness to pull him back into sweet oblivion. However, the niggling fear would not be ignored, and the demands of both mind and body slowly forced him more firmly into the conscious realm.

He discovered that he was lying flat on his back, staring up into the starry expanse of night sky directly above him, the sensations of rough, cold stone beneath him.  His body felt numb, and he was finding it difficult to collect his scattered thoughts in order to figure out exactly where he was, and what had brought him here.  His memory was shattered into a thousand pieces, and collecting those pieces and reassembling them seemed an impossible task.

With a small sigh, he attempted to push himself into a sitting position, hoping to get a better look at his surroundings and find a clue as to his present location.  He quickly realized, however, that the sudden movement was a mistake.  His head exploded into several fiery shards of pain, his vision disintegrating into a bright blur of dancing dots, and he immediately felt as if he was about to be suddenly, and violently, sick.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to fight off the nausea by holding perfectly still and taking deep and even breaths.  His hands were shaking violently, and several long minutes passed before the world stopped spinning and he dared open his eyes once again.

‘Here is my first clue,’ he told himself wryly. ‘Wherever I am, I am not in very good condition.’

The thought was not an encouraging one.  From the pain, and his violent reaction to movement, he could easily enough guess at the nature of his wound.  He most likely had some kind of head injury, and a rather severe one from the feel of it.  He didn’t seem to have the strength to lift his hands to his head to find out if he was right, but it didn’t really matter.  He already knew.

‘Well, unless I wish to remain lying here on the cold ground, I had better try again.’

Aragorn took a deep breath to prepare himself, then slowly began pushing himself upright, his eyes firmly screwed shut against the pain.  By moving slowly, he at last managed to make it to a sitting position, and he let out a soft sigh of relief before opening his eyes to look around him.

The darkness of night made it difficult for him to see, but the light from the heavens gave off just enough illumination for him to realize that he was sitting facing the rough hewn wall of a courtyard, the dark shadow of a squat building looming up to his side.  He turned his head slowly so he could study the building, then gasped as the pieces of his memory suddenly flew together with an abruptness that completely robbed him of his breath.

He had been attacked!  His foe had appeared out of nowhere from behind him, and he had been struck down before he had even realized who his attacker was!

This memory returned a split second before he recalled exactly why he had been in the courtyard in the first place, and more importantly, who had been with him.

“Legolas!”  Aragorn gasped, struggling to his feet despite the waves of dizziness that threatened to bring him to his knees.  His friend was in danger, and he was desperate to warn the elf before it was too late and Legolas was brought down just like he had been.

He stumbled forward, his eyes frantically searching through the darkness for any sign of his friend.  And then the truth hit him.

The sun had not yet set when he had entered the courtyard, and yet now, judging from the position of the stars, it was well into the night.  That meant that he had lain unconscious for quite some time, a fact that caused a myriad of questions to flood his mind.  Where was Legolas?  Where was the man who had attacked him?  Why had he been attacked, and then left lying like some unimportant baggage?  Where was Dar?  Had the lad grown worried when Legolas and Aragorn had not returned and gone for help?

All of these questions plagued Aragorn’s still hazy mind, and he found himself fighting off yet another wave of dizzying nausea as he leaned against the wall for support.  He needed to find Legolas.  That was the most important thing at the moment.  He felt a wave of sick fear at the thought that anything might have happened to the elf.

Stumbling forward and using the wall as a constant support, Aragorn made his way around the courtyard, his eyes carefully searching the darkness.  He knew that it was possible that his enemies might still be present, close by and waiting, and yet he could not bring himself to care.  If this was some elaborate trap, then there was little he could do about it.  Right now, he merely wanted to find Legolas and assure himself that his friend was well.  Together, they could face whatever was coming.

But Aragorn did not find Legolas.  Instead, he found the elf’s knife, lying discarded near the wall on the far side of the courtyard, the sharp elven blade reflecting the light from the stars and glowing a soft silver.

Aragorn carefully bent and retrieved the knife, a hard knot of fear and dread building within him.  His own pain was forgotten as the cold truth hit home with painful clarity.

Legolas had been taken.

Aragorn stood silently within the courtyard, confused, angry, scared, and ultimately alone.  He could sense it clearly now; the lack of any other living presence nearby.  The courtyard was completely empty save for himself.  They had taken Legolas and left him here alone.

“But why?” Aragorn whispered softly.  “They are supposed to be after me!  Why would they take him, and leave me behind?”

The questions tore at Aragorn, and he could find no answers.  All he knew was that if anything happened to Legolas, he would never forgive himself.

TBC 

Chapter 12      Fate held in the hands of another

Legolas and Dar were gone, taken within the blink of an eye. 

Aragorn leaned against the side of the building where he and Legolas had left Dar, his eyes fixed on the young soldier’s sword lying abandoned in the street before him, the edge of the sharp blade stained a dark crimson.  He had been hoping that Dar had escaped, had gone to get help, but the discarded sword told him otherwise.  Dar had been taken just like Legolas.  The truth was hard to accept, and it left in its wake a burning pain that made the throbbing in his head seem trivial. 

He squeezed his eyes shut against the waves of anger, despair, worry, and most of all, guilt.  He had been such a fool!  He had allowed his rage and emotions to take control, something that he had learned long ago to avoid.  In his eagerness to bring to justice those who had hurt the ones he loved, he had charged in blindly, throwing caution to the wind when caution was most important.  He should have sent for the soldiers the minute he and Legolas had spotted the men entering the storage compound.  Yet he had allowed his impatience to rule his actions, and it would be Dar and Legolas who would pay for his foolishness.

‘And what about Faramir?’  A small voice in the back of his mind questioned. Had the Steward been drawn away from them merely to fall into a similar trap?  Had he been taken as well, and Aragorn simply did not know it yet?

Aragorn prayed that it was not so.  He needed Faramir.  Especially if he was to have any hope of finding Legolas and Dar again before it was too late.  Gimli would want to help, but the dwarf was still too weak to be of much aid.  It would be extremely difficult for Aragorn to attempt to locate his friends on his own while still caring for Arwen and seeing to his duties as King.  He would do it if he must, but he hoped desperately that it would not come to that. 

Opening his eyes, Aragorn slowly pushed himself upright, keeping one hand pressed against the wall to steady him.  The fate of Faramir was only one in a whole slew of questions, and Aragorn knew he would find no answers while he remained here.  He would first go back to the House of Healing and assure himself that Arwen and Gimli were safe, and then he would set about to locating Faramir.  After that, he could decide how best to go about finding and rescuing his missing companions.

Bending over and picking up the discarded sword, Aragorn set off down the street, his steps not quite steady.  The bright lanterns that lit up the street flickered and wavered in the cold night wind, and Aragorn carefully kept his cloak wrapped tightly about him, the hood pulled up to hide his face despite the fact that the streets were mostly deserted.  Each step he took aggravated the throbbing in his head, and his vision occasionally blurred, causing him to stumble. 

Anyone observing him now would probably assume that he was headed home after one too many drinks at a tavern.  They could not see the sword he clutched beneath his cloak, or the dried blood that caked one side of his head.

Aragorn had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when he noticed a large group of soldiers heading down the street towards him.  It was obvious from the soldiers’ actions that they were searching for something; constantly pausing to peer down dark alleyways, or sending several of their numbers into the lighted doors of taverns.  The men were all heavily armed, and their faces were grim as they slowly and methodically moved down the street in his direction.

Aragorn felt a flare of hope ignite within him.  The soldiers were most likely searching for him, and if that was the case, it meant that someone had noticed his absence and ordered a search.   Faramir was the most likely one to have done this.  He would have grown worried when Legolas and Aragorn failed to meet with him, and beginning a search would have been one of his first actions. 

The first ranks of the soldiers had already come abreast of him.  Aragorn quickly reached up and pushed back the hood of his cloak, calling out softly to the captain who led the large group.  The man had already passed him by with no more than a glance, but upon Aragorn’s soft call, he swung around swiftly enough that the soldiers behind him had to stumble out of his way.  His face registered confusion for the split-second it took to recognize Aragorn, and then intense relief took its place.  Hurrying forward, he bowed low to Aragorn.

“My lord,” he gasped, “We have been searching the entire city for you, and feared something ill had befallen you!”  The man’s gaze carefully swept Aragorn up and down, a worried frown appearing as he spotted the dried blood on the side of the King’s face.

“I am well,” Aragorn quickly assured him, noting the way the captain’s hand immediately went to his sword, his eyes searching up and down the street as if to find the ones who had dared harm his king.  “Tell me, who sent you on your search?”

The captain looked slightly confused at the question.  “Lord Faramir was the one who sent us,” he answered.

It was Aragorn’s turn to feel relief.  He had been right, Faramir was still free.  Returning his attention to the Captain, he quickly gave the order for an immediate search for Dar and Legolas to begin, starting with the storage compound and sweeping out through the surrounding area.  He doubted his friends could have been taken very far.  The quicker the search began, the more hope there was of finding them. 

“My Lord, the men will begin the search as you have commanded, but first, please allow me to provide you with an escort back to the palace.”

Aragorn nodded briefly to the captain.  “An escort will be fine, but I am not going to the palace.  Send one of your soldiers with a message to Lord Faramir to meet me at the House of Healing.”

The captain nodded, then turned and hurriedly gave the command to one of the soldiers.  The man bowed to Aragorn, and then turned and raced up the street toward the palace.  Aragorn watched him go, and then motioned for the remaining soldiers to move forward.  They fanned out around him, flanking him on all sides as they made their way up to the House of Healing.

The trip took much longer than Aragorn would have liked, for his steps were still somewhat unsteady, and it was impossible to walk with any amount of speed while surrounded by a group of anxious soldiers.  He used the extra time to try and sort through his thoughts and come up with at least some answers to all the questions haunting him.  However, he had made little progress by the time they finally reached their destination.

Aragorn was extremely relieved to find Faramir already waiting for him outside the building.  The Steward looked both relieved and worried as he came forward to meet Aragorn, but he remained silent as Aragorn thanked the captain and dismissed his escort back to their search.

“Aragorn, what happened?” Faramir asked quietly as the last of the soldiers bowed and departed.

Aragorn slowly shook his head, then simply motioned toward the door.  Faramir nodded reluctantly, and the two quickly entered the warm building, escaping from the cold night wind.

“Gimli’s room,” Aragorn ordered softly, motioning toward the dwarf’s closed door.  He didn’t know whether Arwen would be awake or not, but he did not want her to see him in this condition.  He would get cleaned up first, and then go and see her.  The news he carried was bad enough without worrying her further about his own health.

Faramir moved forward and opened the door, standing to the side and allowing Aragorn to enter the room first.  Gimli was lying partially upright in the bed, a large tome resting in his lap, his brow furrowed in concentration as he read the book.  He didn’t look as if he was particularly enjoying himself, but Aragorn knew the dwarf needed something to do now that he was not sleeping all the time, and one of the healers had suggested reading.

Gimli glanced up as Aragorn entered, a look of relief flashing across his rough features.  “It’s about time,” he mumbled , closing the book with a thud.  “I was beginning to wonder when you would…” The dwarf trailed off as he looked at Aragorn for the first time and noted the blood on the side of his face.  His frown disintegrated into a full-blown scowl when Faramir entered and silently closed the door behind him, his face grim.

“Where is Legolas?” Gimli questioned, struggling to push himself further upright within the bed.

Aragorn moved forward and sank down into the chair next to the bed with a grateful sigh, his eyes drifting closed in his weariness.

“I will go and fetch a healer to look at your head,” Faramir suggested softly, the worry in his voice evident.

Aragorn nodded without opening his eyes, listening as the door opened and closed behind the Steward.

“Aragorn, where is Legolas?!”  Gimli demanded again, a note of what might well have been described as panic entering his voice.

Aragorn reluctantly opened his eyes and looked at the dwarf, the heavy weight of fear and guilt settling heavily down on his chest.  “I do not know,” he answered simply, wishing he had better news for the dwarf.

“What do you mean you don’t know?  Wasn’t he with you when you left?  So what happened?”  Gimli’s voice was slightly shaky, but his tone still demanded an answer.

Aragorn was saved giving that answer when the door opened and Faramir reentered with a healer close behind him.  Aragorn glanced toward Gimli, his expression begging the dwarf to be patient.  Gimli stiffened slightly, but to his credit he remained silent as the healer worried over the gash on the side of Aragorn’s head.  Faramir remained near the door, also silent as he watched the healer clean and bandage Aragorn’s wound.

“How is Arwen?” Aragorn asked the healer when the man finally finished his task and began gathering up his supplies.

“She is well, my lord,” the healer responded quietly.  “She is sleeping now.”

Aragorn nodded, then dismissed the man with a quiet thanks.  The door had barely shut behind him when Gimli ran out of his patience.

“Aragorn, what has happened?” the dwarf asked firmly, the earlier desperation in his voice now replaced with a cold calm.

Faramir took a step forward, his gaze fixed on Aragorn.

Aragorn glanced between them, and then let out a slow sigh.  “Legolas has been taken,” he reported softly, his voice filled with weariness.  “Dar as well, for we charged foolishly straight into the enemies trap.”

Gimli and Faramir both looked dismayed at this news, but it was Faramir who recovered first.  “Tell us,” he pleaded.

Aragorn nodded slowly, then quickly began to relate in detail the event of the evening, starting before Faramir had split from them for the benefit of Gimli.  The two listened without interruptions, and when he had finally finished, silence stretched for several long minutes.

It was Gimli who once again broke the silence.  “It does not make sense,” the dwarf mumbled slowly, his brow furrowed in a way that reminded Aragorn of Gandalf when the wizard was puzzling over a particularly difficult question.  “I thought they were after you, Aragorn?  So why did they take Legolas and Dar and leave you behind?”

“Isn’t it obvious,” Faramir answered shortly, his voice tight.  “They are playing with us, with Aragorn.  They want revenge for some wrong they have perceived he has done, but they want to make him suffer first.  They know the best way to do this is to hurt the ones he cares for the most.  Thus, the attack on you and Arwen, and now the capture of Legolas and Dar.”

Aragorn nodded, for he had come to this same conclusion.  “Yet there is more,” he added softly.  “If they truly only wish to torment me, I believe I would have woken to find both Legolas and Dar dead.  Instead they took them.  There is something more planned here, though I cannot figure what it might be.”

“Perhaps they wish to use them as bait to lure you to them?” Faramir suggested.

“That does not make sense,” Gimli broke in.  “Why would they need to lure Aragorn to them when they already had him in their grasp?  It is more likely that they would have killed both Legolas and Dar, and then taken Aragorn.  I cannot understand their actions, but I fear their purpose is dark.”  

Aragorn clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists.  He knew there was something that he was missing, but no matter how hard he tried he could not figure out what it might be.

“What of you, Faramir,” he finally asked.  “What did you learn this night.”

Faramir shook his head in disgust.  “It was a dead end, Aragorn,” he admitted.  “The man I followed was at the weapons shop picking up a cork knife for his uncle!”

Aragorn sighed and ran a tired hand along his forehead.  “At least you are safe,” he whispered quietly.

“Have you come up with any idea of who might be behind all this?” Gimli asked hopefully.

“No,” Aragorn answered shortly, all his frustration and worry escaping in the single word.  “Yet I sense whoever we are dealing with has had this planned for a very long time.  We must be prepared for anything!  From now on, I want guards posted on both Gimli and Arwen’s doors.  And Faramir, you shall go nowhere without an armed escort.”

Both Faramir and Gimli frowned at this announcement, but Aragorn leveled them with a stern look that forbade any argument.

“The search for Legolas and Dar has already begun.  Yet if nothing is found tonight, tomorrow every inn, tavern, boarding house, or abandoned building must be thoroughly searched.  It cannot be easy for them to hide an elf, and I know Legolas will attempt to make things as difficult for them as he is able.”

“Do you believe there is a chance they could have left the city?” Faramir asked.

“It is possible,” Aragorn answered slowly, “However, I still believe they are after me, and as long as I remain in the city it is likely they will remain as well.”

“Unless that is why Legolas and Dar were taken,” Gimli spoke up.  “To lure you away from the city.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, mulling over that possibility.  “We will question the gate watch and see if they noticed anything suspicious.  We can extend the search to outside the city as well, and perhaps we will discover something.”

Both Faramir and Gimli nodded in agreement, and Aragorn rose.  “We will find them,” he promised his friends gravely.

“I will not stop searching until we do,” Gimli agreed softly.

Aragorn smiled grimly, then turned to Faramir and gave the order he had been dreading all night.  “Faramir, we need to send a messenger to Calembel.  Kenson must be informed of what has happened immediately.”

 ****

“Legolas, where are they taking us?”  Dar fought to keep his voice steady and calm, free of the fear that was coiled tightly in the pit of his stomach.  He had woken only a few minutes before to find himself tightly bound to the base of a large tree next to Legolas, his head pounding, and his wrists aching from where they had been tied.  He had no idea where they were, or how they had gotten there. 

Legolas glanced over at him, his expression sympathetic.  “I do not know,” he answered truthfully, shaking his head slightly.  “Yet from the amount of supplies they are loading onto the horses, I doubt the journey shall be a short one.”

Dar frowned, turning his attention to the dozen or so men milling around them saddling horses and loading up supplies in preparation for what appeared to be imminent departure.  He had not noticed the amount of baggage being loaded onto the horses until Legolas had pointed it out, but as he watched he found himself agreeing with Legolas’ observation and the queasy knot of fear in his stomach lurched. 

“What do they want with us?” he asked softly, trying to search through the crowd of men to find Kiesco.  He didn’t like not knowing where that man was.

When several moments passed without a reply, Dar glanced back over at Legolas, surprised to find his friend with his head bowed and his eyes closed.  One of the elf’s braids had slipped from behind his ear and now dangled loosely down his face, contrasting sharply with the deep bruise left on his cheek by Kiesco.   For a moment, Dar thought that Legolas had fallen back into unconscious, but then the elf raised his head and opened his eyes once more, his gaze sweeping across the preparation going on before them.

“I know not,” Legolas finally responded, obviously not happy with this answer.  “I had believed them to be after Aragorn, but now…”  he trailed off slowly, his brow wrinkled slightly in thought.  At last, he shrugged, then turned and met Dar’s worried gaze.  “I still believe that to be correct, but I know not the purpose behind their actions, or what intent they have concerning us.  I merely hope they did no further harm to Aragorn.”

Dar sighed and leaned his head back against the tree.  Legolas appeared to be more worried over Aragorn than their present situation.  Dar wished he could have that kind of courage, but instead, the fear continued to grow steadily within him, making him feel slightly sick.  He knew that Kiesco wanted to kill him, and that he had been spared only as a means to control Legolas.  How long would that last though?  How long before they decided he was too much of a burden?

“Dar?” 

Legolas’ quiet voice pulled Dar from his dark thoughts.  He turned to Legolas, meeting the elf’s concerned gaze with a soft shrug.  “I do not like being a prisoner, Legolas,” he admitted shakily.

Legolas chuckled softly, though his eyes remained serious.  “Nor do I,” he answered simply.  “I have lived for thousands of years, young Dar, and yet I can count the number of times where my fate was held in the hands of another on the fingers of one hand.   None of those experiences are ones I would wish to repeat.”

Dar grunted, understanding exactly what the elf was saying.  He had been a small boy at the time when Legolas had been captured by a group of orcs led by the evil creature Malek.   He knew little of the tortures Legolas had been forced to endure then, yet he did know that it had taken the elf a long time to recover from that event.

Legolas’ thoughts must have also traveled back to that time, for a shadow flickered briefly across his expression, and his jaw tightened.

“Kiesco, prepare the prisoners to ride out,” a voice suddenly called out from across the camp.  “I wish to be well away from here before dawn.”

Dar’s gaze flew to the owner of the voice, a slight shiver running down his backbone.  He was not sure who the man was, but it was quite obvious that he was the one in charge.  He gave off an air of tightly controlled violence, and even the temperamental Kiesco was quick to obey his commands.  The man moved with a smoothness and gracefulness that reminded Dar of Legolas in a somewhat sickening way.  Yet there was nothing pure about this man, and he radiated the smell of danger.

Legolas was also studying the man, his eyes narrowed and his expression one of disgust.  “There is much blood staining the hands of this one,” he murmured softly.

Dar was not given an opportunity to respond, for Kiesco and three other men were approaching, weapons in hand and faces warning against resistance.  Dar sensed Legolas tensing beside him, but a second later the sharp sting of a blade pressed against his throat stole back his attention.

“Try anything, elf, and I will gladly slit the boy’s throat,” Kiesco growled threateningly, motioning for his companions to cut the rope binding them to the tree.

Dar was careful not to make any sudden movements as the blade pressed uncomfortably close.  The ropes fell away from around him, and he was jerked to his feet and pressed back against the uncomfortable girth of Kiesco as the other three men pulled Legolas up.  It wasn’t until the elf’s hands were rebound behind his back and a blade was placed threateningly between his shoulder blades that Dar was released and the procedure was repeated with him.

The prisoners were pushed forward to where two saddled horses stood waiting patiently.  Dar was bodily lifted from the ground, and practically tossed into the saddle, almost slipping off the other side as he fought to gain his balance with his hands bound behind him.  A second rope was tied tightly around his left ankle, then passed beneath the horse to connect with his right, securing him tightly to the horse.  Then, a long leash was attached to his bound hands and passed to a rider directly behind him.

Dar glanced over to see the same process being done with Legolas.  The elf was frowning down at the saddle beneath him, his expression one of disgust.  He glanced over and caught Dar’s eye, then shrugged his shoulders.

Dar sighed and turned his attention back to his own mount.  The horse’s reins had been passed to another mounted rider who gave Dar an evil smile. 

“Ready to go, boy?” the man asked in mock friendliness.

Dar wasn’t given a chance to answer, for the man turned and kicked his horse into a fast walk, jerking Dar’s mount along after him. 

****

Midmorning found the group of riders many miles east of Minas Tirith, moving at a steady pace toward the high peaks of the Ephel Duath.  A cold wind blew down from the mountains, smelling of snow and hinting at an approaching storm.  The wind howled and danced around the riders gleefully, nipping and catching at their cloaks and whipping the horses’ manes.  Altogether, it was a miserable morning that promised only to get worse.

Legolas, however, barely noticed the foul weather.  He leaned forward slightly in the uncomfortable saddle, his head cocked slightly to one side as he fought to hear the conversation going on several yards before him.  Kiesco and Tervanis were talking, their quiet voices too low for any man more than a couple paces behind them to overhear.  However, Legolas was not a man, and his sharp elven hearing was picking up the conversation clearly.

“I still do not understand why we brought the boy, Tervanis,” Kiesco whispered harshly, his gaze flickering back along the line of horsemen to Dar. 

“I do not require that you understand,” the man named Tervanis answered shortly, his voice so low that Legolas had to strain to hear him.  “It is enough that I know the reason’s behind my actions.”

“He will slow us down,” Kiesco argued softly.

“On the contrary,” Tervanis replied coolly.  “It is the elf that I fear will slow us down.  We know too little about his kind.  With the boy, we have a tool with which to control him.”

Legolas frowned at this pronouncement, but it was the man’s next words that caught his attention the most and sent a shiver down his spine.

“Have no fear, dear Kiesco.  As soon as we reach Norvil and I deliver the elf safely to Servius, you may do whatever you wish with the boy.  He will be yours to toy with until you decide to kill him.”

This promise seemed to please Kiesco, for he laughed cruelly.  “I will look forward to that.”

The two men fell silent then, and Legolas relaxed back in the saddle, his mind mulling over the information he had just learned.  Tervanis had just told him where they were going, and who they would be meeting.  Legolas had to admit the information meant very little to him at the moment, for he had never heard of either Norvil or Servius.  However, anything he learned now could be used once they escaped and reunited with Aragorn.  And they had to escape.  Dar’s life depended upon it. 

Legolas’ thoughts were interrupted as one of the scouts Tervanis had sent out earlier came galloping up, his mount lathered in sweat.

“Sir!” the man called out, pulling his horse to a halt before Tervanis.  “There is a large group of riders heading in our direction from the east.  They appear to be heading toward the city, but they will arrive within sight of this field in only a few minutes.”

Legolas straightened, swinging his gaze to the east in the hopes of spotting the horsemen, yet the rolling hills obstructed his view in that direction.

Kiesco swore loudly, his face taking on a somewhat panicked expression.  “They will see us with the elf and boy!” he exclaimed worriedly.  “This could ruin everything!”

Tervanis’ face remained calm, and Legolas could almost see the man slowly and methodically thinking through all his options.  “How many men do they have?” he asked the scout evenly, throwing Kiesco an annoyed scowl.

“About three dozen!” the scout replied immediately.

“Too many to fight,” Tervanis said calmly, his gaze sweeping around in all directions.  “So we must hide, then,” he added, pointing toward a large copse of trees several hundred yards to their right.  “Ride hard!”

The group immediately turned their horses, kicking them into a fast gallop toward the haven of the trees.  Legolas twisted in the saddle to glance behind, desperately urging the unknown group of riders to greater haste.  He could now make out the dust rising from their horses, yet as the cover of the trees drew ever nearer, he knew they would not make it in time.  He began calling out loudly, doubting his cries could be heard over the thunder of hooves, yet desperate to try something.

The man behind him yanked hard on the rope connected to his hands just as the one holding his horse’ reins jerked forward, causing his horse to stumble slightly.  Legolas fought to regain his balance, his knees tightening reflexively on the sides of his mount.  The man behind him gave another yank, and this proved to be Legolas’ undoing.  As he jerked forward to regain his balance, he felt the saddle suddenly slip beneath him, shifting to the side.  Legolas cried out in alarm as he suddenly found himself slipping slowly but steadily to the side of the horse, his bound hands making it impossible to stop the saddle’s slide.

His horse automatically attempted to slow its pace as it felt him slipping from its back, but the rider in front was dragging the animal forward.  Legolas closed his eyes tightly, realizing that the rope binding his legs together would make it impossible for him to fall free.  He would be dragged beneath the horse and trampled to death!

He heard Dar’s cry of alarm from behind him, and then the ground was rushing up to meet him.

TBC

Chapter 13      Defiance

Tervanis let out a silent sigh of relief as his horse plunged beneath the protective cover of the large copse of trees.  The animal immediately tried to slow as his once clear path suddenly became choked with dense brush and thick trunks.  However, Tervanis urged him on, hearing the heavy pound of hooves behind him as his men struggled to keep up.   He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the unknown group of riders.  He was yet too close to Minas Tirith to risk anyone catching even the slightest glimpse of his prisoners and reporting back to the King.  If that were to happen, all of his carefully laid plans would be for naught.

A sudden cry of alarm erupted from behind him, followed by muted shouts and curses from his men.  Tervanis slowed his horse enough that he could risk glancing behind him to see what all the commotion was about.  If any of his men foolishly gave them away…

Tervanis’ gaze instinctively went to the prisoners first, sensing that this was where the trouble would lie.  His eyes narrowed as he immediately took in the situation.  The elf was no longer in his saddle!

Swearing softly, Tervanis reined in his horse so abruptly that the animal reared up on its hind legs, snorting loudly in protest.  Tervanis expertly tightened his legs to keep his seat, then spun the animal around on his haunches, ignoring the horses directly behind him that were forced to swerve violently to the side to avoid crashing into him.

Now facing the right direction, Tervanis was able to better observe exactly what was happening, and he had to revise his earlier conclusion.  The elf was still in his saddle.  The saddle was merely no longer on the horse’s back, but was steadily slipping to the side, threatening to deposit its occupant directly beneath the thundering hooves of the horse.

Tervanis swore again, then dug his heels into the side of his mount, causing the animal to leap forward.  Reaching down, he tore the small dagger from its sheath on his belt.  There was no way he was going to lose his prisoner now.

*****

Dar’s entire body stiffened in shock and horror as Legolas slammed into the ground with a sickening crash.   The elf’s horse stumbled, shying to the side and tossing his head in alarm, caught between the instinct to stop and the persistent tugging on his reins urging him forward.  Several of the riders nearby observed Legolas’ fall and slowed, while others continued their mad dash forward, caring only about the danger behind them.

Dar realized with dismay that the ropes binding Legolas’ ankles were causing the elf to be dragged dangerously close to the pounding hooves of his mount.  He wanted to cry out for someone to help his friend, but fear had his throat constricted so tightly it was difficult to even breath.  He futilely struggled against his bonds, knowing that he was powerless to help Legolas and sincerely believing that he was about to watch his friend be trampled to death.

“Stop!”

The order rang loudly through the copse of trees, and almost automatically the riders began to slow their horses, instinctively heeding the commanding tone of their leader.  Dar watching in amazement as Tervanis expertly cut his horse in next to Legolas’, his movements smooth and controlled as he leaned from his saddle and swiftly cut the rope binding Legolas to the horse, allowing the elf to roll free.

Dar’s body went limp with relief as he struggled to see past the sudden milling press of horses and riders where Legolas had fallen.  However, the elf’s form remained hidden from him, and with a sigh of frustration, Dar was forced to give up his search in order to concentrate on keeping his own seat in the saddle.  Confusion now reined amidst the riders as those who had not seen what happened called out questions to those who had, and horses milled about anxiously, snorting and tossing their heads in the tight press of bodies. 

‘They have forgotten about the group of riders,’ Dar thought excitedly, glancing over his shoulder to the open field where the first of the riders were just appearing.  ‘If they continue to make all this noise, we are sure to be noticed!  They will come to investigate, and Legolas and I will be rescued!’

Yet even as new hope flared to life within Dar, Tervanis was quick to destroy it.

“Silence!” the man commanded forcefully, his voice barely above a whisper yet still clearly heard over the babble of voices and horse, his icy tone demanding immediate obedience. 

Instant silence fell over the copse of trees, and it seemed to Dar that even the birds stopped singing for fear of angering Tervanis.  The only sound was that of the heavy breathing of the horses and the distant rumble of hooves as the unknown group of riders galloped swiftly across the field.  Dar watched them closely, willing just one of the riders to glance in their direction and discover them.  His hands clenched into tight fists beneath his bonds, and he began to seriously consider calling out in order to get the riders attention.  Yet just as he was opening his mouth to do just that, a fierce whisper in his ear caused him to pause.

“Make one noise, boy, and I will slit your throat before you can even blink!”

Dar swallowed hard, then slowly turned to meet the fierce gaze of Kiesco.  The large man held a long dagger menacingly in one hand, the look in his eyes telling Dar that Kiesco was searching for any excuse that would allow him the chance to use it.  Meeting the man’s hate filled gaze, Dar slowly shook his head, indicating that he wanted no trouble.  Kiesco sneered at him mockingly, but did not put away his knife.

Dar forced his attention away from the man and back to the field just as the last of the large group of riders rode from sight around a slight rise, the echo of their horses’ hooves slowly fading.  A collective sigh of relief echoed around him from the men, but Dar felt only a sick feeling of hopelessness.

“Too bad you are such a coward, boy,” Kiesco taunted mockingly.  “I doubt Tervanis would have allowed me to kill you, but perhaps he would have at least allowed me to cut the tongue from your mouth!”  Laughing evilly, the man turned his horse and rode away, re-sheathing his knife as he went.

Dar glared at the retreating form of Kiesco, but a low moan to his left quickly arrested his attention.  Twisting in his saddle, he watched as two men pulled Legolas to his feet, holding the swaying elf steady between them.  Dar frowned in worry, relieved to see Legolas conscious, yet slightly alarmed by the dazed look in the elf’s gray eyes. 

“What happened?” Tervanis demanded, turning an angry glare on the two men who had been responsible for Legolas.

“The saddle just slipped, sir,” one of the men answered nervously, glancing at his companion.  “There was nothing we could do.”

Dar felt a flash of anger flare within him.  He had seen the man yanking on the rope attached to Legolas’ bound hands.  He was half tempted to report this to Tervanis, but the sure knowledge that it would gain him nothing but a new enemy kept him silent.

Tervanis’ eyes narrowed dangerously as he studied the two men before him.  “See that it doesn’t happen again,” he warned coldly, “or it will be you who are dragged the rest of the way to Norvil.  Now fix the saddle, and make sure it will not slip again.”

The two men quickly nodded and hurried to obey the order as Tervanis turned and regarded Legolas. 

“Can he ride?” he asked the two men holding the elf upright.

“I am not sure, sir,” one of the men replied, giving Legolas a doubtful glance.

Dar was also feeling doubtful.  Legolas’ face was extremely pale, and the dazed look had yet to leave his expression.  Dar could not see any obvious signs of injury, yet it was evident that Legolas was in no small amount of pain.

“If he cannot sit the saddle on his own, then tie him to it,” Tervanis ordered calmly.  “We have far yet to go if we are to reach the camping site I had planned for us.”

The two men nodded, then began dragging Legolas toward his now properly saddled horse.  As they moved past him, Dar received his first view of his friend’s back, and his breath caught in his throat.  The back of Legolas’ tunic was stained and torn, the ripped cloth showing clearly the effects of the elf’s impact with the ground.  Legolas’ skin beneath the tears appeared heavily scratched and bruised, and high up on his back, between his shoulder blades, a dark stain was beginning to soak through the light cloth of his  tunic.

Tervanis also seemed to notice Legolas’ back for the first time, and he scowled deeply.  For a moment, Dar held hope that the man would override his last order and first see to Legolas’ injuries before proceeding on.  Yet Tervanis remained silent as Legolas was lifted back into the saddle and then bound securely upright.  Once he was sure the job was completely properly, Tervanis booted his horse forward, motioning for his men to fall into place behind him.

With a sigh, Dar glanced one final time behind him to where the last faint traces of dust were slowly disappearing into the sky above the field, fading just as surely as the last of his hope. 

*****

Dusk was fading swiftly into darkness when Tervanis and his men at last stopped for the evening within the deep shadows of Emyn Arnen.  The day had been a wet one, with a steady drizzle beginning early in the afternoon and stretching on well into the evening, yet the company had still managed to make good time, putting quite a distance between themselves and the capital of Gondor. 

For Legolas, memories of the ride were somewhat hazy, for he had drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness for the majority of the journey.  All of which he was truly aware, as he was cut free from the saddle and pulled to the ground, was his entire body ached horribly and both of his legs had decided to fall asleep on him.  He was dragged unceremoniously to one side of the camp and deposited roughly on the ground, his entire body protesting violently to the harsh treatment.  He rolled onto his stomach and closed his eyes, willing away the burning pain that consumed his back and shoulders. 

“Legolas?”

Legolas choked back a moan and slowly opened his eyes, turning his head in the direction of the soft call.  Dar lay beside him, the young man’s eyes shining brightly with worry.

“How do you feel?” Dar asked anxiously, his voice a low whisper.

“I have certainly felt better.” Legolas replied dryly, closing his eyes briefly before attempting to roll into a sitting position.  His back screamed in protest, but he merely set his jaw against the pain and ignored it.  His hands were still secured tightly behind his back, and he soon realized that at some point, his ankles had also been bound firmly together.

“I was worried about you,” Dar continued, wincing slightly as he glanced at Legolas’ back.  “That was a pretty nasty fall.”

Had it been Gimli making the comment, Legolas would have had any number of sharp retorts for his friend.  Yet since it was Dar, he carefully kept his tone light.  “I shall be fine.  Elves heal quickly, and in a day or so it will be all but forgotten.”

Dar gave him a look that clearly stated the young soldier did not believe a word he was saying, and Legolas could not help but smile.  The look was identical to several he had had leveled on him by Gimli in the past.  It appeared as if Dar was no easier to fool than the dwarf.

“I have seen your back,” Dar pointed out quietly.  “It doesn’t look very good.”

It didn’t feel very good either.  Being dragged several yards by a galloping horse had left his back badly scraped and bruised. Legolas grimaced slightly, flexing his hands as best he could within their bindings.  He had been lucky not to have broken the bones in his hand by his fall, and could only credit this to the fact that his shoulders and upper back had taken the brunt of his impact with the ground.  He was also lucky that the heavy hooves of his horse had not trampled him.  As it was, he had only been struck once, directly between the shoulder blades.

“Trust me, Dar.  I will be fine.  Already I feel better”

It was true.  Now that he was finally free from the constant motion of the horse, the pain in his back was beginning to fade slightly.  It was still there, a constant ache, but it was at least bearable.

Dar nodded reluctantly, and Legolas turned his attention to the preparations being made in the camp around them.  Several men were seeing to the horses, while others moved about in search of some dry wood for the campfire.  Kiesco stood on the far side of the camp, loudly directing the unpacking of supplies.  There was no sign of Tervanis.

“Do you suppose Lord Aragorn has begun the search for us yet?”

Legolas glanced down at Dar, noting the way the young man sat hunched and dejected, his face pale behind the hanging strands of damp hair.

“I am sure he has,” he answered reassuringly, giving Dar a small smile.

“My father will be sick with worry,” Dar whispered suddenly, his face twisting with grief.  “I hate making him worry.  He gets angry when he gets scared.”

Legolas smiled slightly in response to this statement.  “Sounds much like my own father,” he responded lightly.

“How will your father react when he learns you are gone?” Dar asked softly.

Legolas shrugged, then immediately winced as the action caused fiery fingers of pain to run up and down his back.  “I know not,” he answered through gritted teeth, sincerely hoping that his father would never have cause to learn of this event.  “At the moment, I am more worried about Gimli’s reaction.  He is already injured, and I fear he will cause himself further harm if he insists on being part of the search for us.”

Dar glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Legolas carefully.  “I am sure Lord Aragorn will look after him,” he finally said softly.

Legolas blinked, startled at the sudden switch in roles.  A moment ago, he had been attempting to reassure Dar that everything would be fine, and now the boy was the one assuring him.

He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden voice behind him caused him to freeze.

“I trust you are resting comfortably?”

Tervanis stepped from the shadows and moved around until he was facing Dar and Legolas directly, his soft boots making hardly a sound as he moved.  Legolas’ eyes narrowed, for he knew very few men who could move so silently and stealthily as to approach him without his knowledge.  The fact that Tervanis had completely surprised him did not sit well with him.

“I have come to inspect your back,” Tervanis continued, his voice sounding almost conversational.  “Turn around and lie on your stomach.”

Legolas stiffened, his expression hardening.  If Tervanis believed that he was going to meekly obey his every command, he was about to learn differently.  Legolas stared up at the man standing over him, his expression one of cold defiance.

Tervanis’ eyes narrowed, a spark of anger twisting his features as he met Legolas’ determined gaze.  “It will go easier for you, elf, if you learn to obey me.  I shall receive my way anyway, and it will be much less painful for you.”

Legolas’ expression did not waver, and a moment later, Tervanis was forced to look away from the intense gaze of his prisoner.

“Kiesco,” he called, motioning to the large man across the camp.  “I will need your assistance.”

Immediately all work in the camp ceased as the men abandoned their various tasks in favor of watching the upcoming proceedings. 

“Legolas,” Dar whispered nervously, but Legolas silenced him with a sharp look that warned against interference.

Kiesco moved to Tervanis’ side, a wide grin on his flat face.  “Let me handle him, sir,” he boasted loudly, leering down at Legolas.  “He’ll give you no trouble when I am through with him.”  With this statement, Kiesco lunged forward, his large hands reaching for Legolas’ throat. 

His approach was stopped abruptly, however, as Legolas smoothly rolled onto his back, his bound feet snapping up and out quicker than the eye could follow, connecting first with the man’s groin, and then as Kiesco doubled over in pain, his jaw, sending the man flying backwards to land heavily at Tervanis’ feet.  Just as quickly, Legolas rolled back upright, his jaw clenched tightly against the pain.

Tervanis sighed, then motioned for two more of his men to come forward and take the unconscious Kiesco’s place.  They did so reluctantly.

Legolas watched their approach warily, his entire body tensed and expectant.

“You are merely making things more difficult on yourself, elf,” Tervanis observed calmly, watching his men closely.

Legolas was not given the opportunity to respond, for the two men suddenly leapt at him at the same time, one going for his legs while the other sought to push him to the ground.  Legolas twisted and struggled in their grasp, refusing to give in easily despite the overwhelming odds against him.  In the end, Tervanis was forced to call two more of his men to help before Legolas was at last flipped over onto his stomach.  A heavy knee came to rest between his shoulder blades, ending his struggle in a blast of agony.

“I warned you,” Tervanis hissed angrily in his ear, grinding his knee harshly into Legolas’ back.

Legolas could not hold back his cry of pain as blackness swirled around the edges of his vision.  He heard Dar shouting nearby, but the world was beginning to swirl out of focus as consciousness fled him.

Then, just as suddenly as it had all begun, it ended.  The knee lifted from his back, and Legolas was able to gasp in air, his entire body shuddering uncontrollably as the muscles in his back began to spasm.

“Next time, perhaps you will refrain from such foolishness.” Tervanis’ voice drifted down from above him.  “If not, I can assure you that the punishment will be much more severe.”

Legolas squeezed his eyes tightly closed, attempting to regain at least some of his control. He was held firmly down as his tunic was roughly pushed up around his neck and a burning cream was rubbed onto his back.

“Janar, bring a single flagon of water for each of the prisoners.  They will be offered no food in punishment for the elf’s foolish behavior.”  Tervanis stooped down next to Legolas, his hand gently running up and down his burning back.  “I suggest you attempt to get some rest.  You have a long journey ahead of you.” 

With this last statement, Tervanis rose and silently moved away, leaving Legolas alone in his pain.

 TBC 

Chapter 14      A Gift From the Valar

Arwen had never been so grateful for the comfort of her own bed.  In a time when darkness seemed to rest so heavily upon her, the simple comfort of familiar surroundings was a blessing beyond belief.  She had been well cared for at the House of Healing, but her heart had still yearned for the solitude and reassurance of sleeping in her own quarters with her husband close by her side.  Aragorn must have somehow sensed her silent wish, for yesterday morning he had ordered both Gimli and her to be moved back to the castle where they could rest and recover under the watchful eye of the palace servants.

Arwen sighed and snuggled down deeper into the soft blankets, ignoring the twinge of pain along her ribs.  She was healing quickly and was looking forward anxiously to the time when Aragorn would allow her to be up and about once more.  She disliked being stuck in bed with only her thoughts to keep her occupied.  Especially since her thoughts had become increasingly dark the last several days.  She still mourned terribly the loss of her unborn child, and yet a new fear had taken over her, momentarily distracting her from the pain.  Her child was gone, and there was nothing she could do to change that.  It was concern for Legolas and Dar that now consumed her thoughts, along with worry over her husband. 

She had known Legolas for a very long time and her heart ached at the thought of any harm befalling him.  As for Dar, when he had arrived at Minas Tirith she had personally taken him under her care in the hopes of protecting him.  Yet it had been he that had protected her, risking his own life to save her.  Arwen regretted now that she had never gotten the opportunity to properly thank him for it.

Four days had passed since Legolas and Dar’s disappearance, and in that time Arwen had watched Aragorn become more and more desperate.  After searching the entire city and much of the surrounding countryside without any results, he had slowly begun to despair.  Arwen could see it in his eyes and in the slight stoop of his normally proud shoulders.  He was not ready to give up yet, but each day, each hour, was gradually beginning to wear him down.

If Aragorn was becoming desperate, then it could be said that Gimli was near frantic.  Shortly after being moved back to the palace, the dwarf had requested to join Aragorn and Faramir in their search for Legolas and Dar.  Aragorn had refused, for Gimli was still much too weak, and the ensuing argument had been heated and fierce.  Located several doors down from Gimli’s room, Arwen had nonetheless clearly overheard the quarrel, and had begun to wonder if all of Minas Tirith might not be able to hear it as well.  Aragorn had at last won out simply by refusing to give in until Gimli’s shouts had worn away what little energy the dwarf possessed. 

Arwen sympathized with Gimli, understanding all too clearly the helplessness and frustration the dwarf must now be feeling.  He had lost his best friend, and the fear that the separation would be a permanent one was slowly eating away at him.

Arwen was feeling no small amount of frustration and helplessness herself.  She knew she needed to give her body time to rest and recover, and yet she yearned to be beside her husband, helping him through this hard time no matter what the outcome.  Aragorn needed her, and it tore at her that she could not be there for him.  Instead, she had to trust to both Faramir and Eowyn to help him through it.

A small smile lit her face at the thought of her friends.  Faramir and Eowyn had both been irreplaceable the last several days.  Arwen was unsure what Aragorn would have done without Faramir’s aid, and she herself had rested heavily upon Eowyn.  Her friend had been there for her, visiting her often when the loneliness and pain became too much to bear.

A soft rap at the door drew Arwen from her thoughts, and she carefully straightened in bed, pulling the covers close about her.  “Enter,” she called out softly, expecting one of the servants or perhaps Eowyn.  She was surprised, however, when the door slowly swung open and Gimli stepped tentatively within the room.

“Master Gimli,” she murmured quietly, unable to hide her surprise, “It is a pleasure to see you up and about.”

“Thank you, m’lady,” Gimli mumbled in response, looking somewhat embarrassed and awkward as he stood just within the open door.

“Please, come inside,” Arwen urged, motioning him toward the chair sitting beside the bed.  “I would welcome your company.”

Gimli hesitated, but at last moved forward toward the chair.  Arwen watched his movements carefully, noting how his steps seemed a bit shaky.  When he at last reached the chair, he sank down with a small sigh of relief, his face tense and pale.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” he at last muttered, his eyes rising to meet hers, “I merely came to see how you were feeling?”

Arwen smiled softly, trying to put the dwarf at ease.  Gimli had always seemed somewhat uncomfortable in her presence, a fact that both she and Legolas had worked to change.  “Please do not apologize, Gimli,” she whispered quietly, “As I said before, I welcome your company.  As for how I fare, I am doing much better this evening, thank you.”

“Good, good,” Gimli responded lightly, his eyes roving about the room distractedly.

Arwen watched him, feeling her heart wrench in sympathy.  More than just a concern for her health had driven Gimli here.  The dwarf was most likely feeling lonely and overwhelmed by his own thoughts, just as Arwen was.  He needed someone to talk to, and it seemed she was the only one available at the moment.  She could see that he was beginning to doubt his coming here, and so decided that it would be her task to bring up the subject that most troubled him before he decided to leave.

“You worry for Legolas,” It was a simple statement, but one that would hopefully open the doors and allow Gimli to speak freely of his fears to her.  It would do him good, even if Arwen could offer him no help but soft words of assurance.

Gimli seemed startled that she had spoken, and his eyes flew back to meet her tender gaze.  He did not respond right away, but Arwen did not push, understanding that her role now was one of listening—to the things spoken and unspoken.  Gimli’s face showed a myriad of emotions, all flashing past in a blink of an eye before he managed to compose himself.

“Aye, I worry for the dratted elf!  He seems to have a way of finding trouble wherever he goes.  It’s not so bad when I am there to pull him free from it, but now…” Gimli trailed off, his eyes taking on a distant expression.

“We must trust to Aragorn to find him,” Arwen said softly, afraid that Gimli would draw away when it was so obvious he needed to open up.  If Legolas were here, he would have known exactly what to say and do, but Arwen knew so little of the dwarf, even after seven years.  Legolas had named him elvellon, and that was enough for her, but the ways of dwarves still seemed so foreign and strange to her.

“I believe they are no longer in the city,” Gimli replied quietly after several long minutes had passed.  “They have been taken elsewhere, though I do not know where or why.”

“Aragorn has come to the same conclusion,” Arwen answered slowly, her eyes fixed on the dwarf.  “Yet he does not intend to stop searching until he has found them.”

“Nor do I,” Gimli stated shortly, his voice full of determination, “Even if I must search this world from border to border and it takes me until my dying day.”

This statement took Arwen somewhat aback, mostly because of the frank honestly she detected in the dwarf’s tone.  Gimli had made the oath in all seriousness, and she had no doubt that he would keep to it no matter what the consequences.  The loyalty she sensed from the dwarf was unlike anything she had imagined.  She knew Legolas and Gimli were close, but the bond she sensed now went far beyond that.  Sometime within the last seven years, Legolas and Gimli had gone from being friends to something more akin to brothers.  When it had happened Arwen was unsure, but the question that truly troubled her was how.  When the two had left from Rivendell the fateful day the quest to destroy Sauron’s ring had begun, they had been distrustful and downright hostile toward one another.  Yet a year later, when Arwen had ridden into Minas Tirith, she had found them an inseparable pair.

“How did you and Legolas become friends?” Arwen asked suddenly, unable to suppress her curiosity.  She had asked the same question of Aragorn many years ago, but his answer had not satisfied her.  He had merely shrugged and told her that he did not know, nor did he think Legolas or Gimli knew.  Arwen could not accept that.  Something had to have happened to create the close bond between the two friends.

Gimli was obviously surprised at her question.  He frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it again just as quickly.  His frown deepened in concentration, and his hands came up to idly stroke his heavy beard.  Several times he looked as if he was about to speak, only to shake his head and remain silent.  At last he lifted his eyes to Arwen and shrugged helplessly.  “I do not know,” he said honestly.

It was Arwen’s turn to frown.  “He did not save your life, or you his?” she pressed, certain that there had to have been something that had sparked the beginning of the friendship.

Gimli merely shrugged again.  “Our journey was long and dangerous.  Many times we guarded each others backs, and many times one of us would have fallen if not for the presence of the other.  However, I do not believe that was the reason for our friendship.  In all honesty, I cannot say what was.  It just happened.”

Arwen stared at Gimli hard, hearing the frank honesty and confusion in his voice.  Slowly she began to shake her head, her eyes widening in wonder.  “A true gift you have been given,” she whispered softly, tears springing unexpectedly into her eyes.  “The Valar have surely blessed you Gimli son of Gloin, and they do not give out blessing lightly.”  She lifted herself more firmly upright in the bed.  “Nor do they take those blessing away once given,” she added gently.  “Legolas will be found, and you will be reunited with him once more."  This last was said with firm conviction.

Gimli stared at her, silent for several long minutes, his face unreadable.  At last, a slow smile spread across his rough features, and a soft glow entered his eyes.  “Thank you, Arwen,” he whispered softly.

Arwen beamed at the use of her name, feeling an unexpected lightness settle across her spirits.  “You are most welcome, elvellon,” she replied just as softly, reaching out to grasp Gimli’s hand in her own.

The dwarf squeezed her hand tightly before quickly releasing her and rising from the chair, coughing loudly to cover his embarrassment.  “I should be going now,” he mumbled, head bowed to cover his blush.  “The servants guard me like an eagle guards her eggs.  They won’t be pleased if they find me out of my room.”

Arwen nodded, carefully hiding her smile at the dwarf’s embarrassment.  “Then I wish you pleasant dreams, Gimli,” she called out as he hurried to the door.

Gimli turned and dipped a slight bow.  “And pleasant dreams to you, Arwen,” he answered before turning and disappearing down the hall.

Not bothering to hide her smile now that he was gone, Arwen sank back against the pillows.  Several minutes later she had drifted asleep, for the first time untroubled by dark dreams.

******

The river Poros crashed and churned on its journey west toward the Bay of Belfalas, its turbulent water coiling and snapping forward like an agitated serpent.  The banks of the great river seemed to recoil from the angry, frothing giant, and the constant white caps of hungry waves rushed forward, ready to sweep away anything that dared stand in their path.  A deafening roar lifted from the depths of the rushing river, not unlike the piercing snores of a sleeping dragon, the sound reverberating off the nearby canyon walls, magnifying into a thunderous crescendo. 

Standing over half a mile away from the river, Tervanis could still clearly hear its angry voice, daring him to approach and test his meager strength against its supremacy.  However, Tervanis was no fool.  He knew only too well of the river’s awesome power.  Poros had been here long before the assassin had ever been born, and the river would still be here long after his flesh had turned to dust.  It was an unbeatable entity, and from the thunderous boom of its voice, it appeared that today, at least, Poros intended to show no mercy.

Tervanis stood atop a tall hill, his gaze fixed in the direction of the river, his hand idly toying with the hilt of the knife he wore on his belt as he waited for the return of his scout.  Behind him, at the base of the hill, a few of his men were already hard at work preparing the meager afternoon meal, their mumbled curses drifting clearly up to Tervanis on the brisk wind.  Above him, a pair of eagles circled lazily, their piercing cries rising above the din of the river, their shadows lost in the dark silhouette of the Ephel Duath.  The world seemed to be frozen in a still peacefulness that even the noise of the river could not completely destroy.

A loud oath from behind him, followed by a sharp yelp of pain caused Tervanis to turn and glance down the hill, a slight frown marring his normally emotionless features.  Kiesco was standing over the huddled form of one of his men, his face a mask of rage as he delivered a rather thorough tongue lashing, accompanied by several rough kicks, over what appeared to be a spilled mug.

Tervanis sighed inwardly as he watched the unfortunate man attempt to scramble back out of reach.  Ever since the incident with the elf thee days prior, Kiesco’s temper had become increasingly harder to control.  His pride had been wounded, and he had perceived that the respect that the men had had for him had been shattered.   He was determined to win back that respect, even if it was born entirely from fear. 

Tervanis had worried that Kiesco would seek revenge on the elf, and he had kept a close eye on his captain, ready to intercede should Kiesco decide to do anything foolish.  However, much to Tervanis’ surprise, Kiesco had kept a careful distance between himself and the prisoners, throwing them an occasional glare, but otherwise ignoring both of them.  Whether this action was born from wisdom or fear, Tervanis did not know, though he rather suspected the latter, much to his silent amusement.

Tervanis suddenly became aware of a gaze resting upon him, and his eyes automatically shifted to the far side of the camp, where the prisoners lay bound and carefully guarded.  Several times in the last few days Tervanis had suffered the feeling of being watched only to turn and find the steady gaze of the elf fixed upon him.  Tervanis had managed to shrug it off the first couple of times, but though he was loath to admit it, he was slowly becoming increasingly unnerved by his prisoner’s unblinking stare.  There was something disconcerting about the elf’s gaze, almost as though he were looking right through Tervanis, his eyes piercing deep into the man’s very soul.  Tervanis often found himself unable to meet the elf’s eyes, a matter that caused him no small amount of anger and shame.  Never before had a simple stare so disturbed him in this manner.

Tervanis shook his head at his own foolishness.  The elf was indeed watching him, and it seemed that even the distance between them could not dim the intensity of the gaze.  His frown deepened as he casually turned and resumed his watchful stance, pretending not to feel the eyes boring into his back.  It took a concerted effort of will to avoid shifting his feet nervously, and he suddenly found himself understanding exactly why Kiesco had decided to avoid confronting the elf.

The angry shouts in the camp below at last died away, and a few minutes later, Kiesco stomped up the hill to join Tervanis, his scarred face still contorted into a mask of anger.

“Where is the scout?”  He demanded hotly, his eyes roaming over the rolling hills that led up to the river.  “He should have been back by now.”

Tervanis did not offer a reply, but instead chose to ignore the large man.

Kiesco resorted to mumbling curses beneath his breath until, several minutes later, the scout appeared, riding hard in their direction.

“Well, what have you learned?” Kiesco demanded the minute the man pulled his sweaty mount to a halt in front of them.

Tervanis sent a warning glance at his captain, and Kiesco acknowledged it with a small grunt and a nod.

“I am afraid you were correct, sir,” the scout answered breathlessly, slipping from his horse and facing Tervanis after sending Kiesco a wary glance.  “The crossing is completely flooded, the water much too rough to attempt fording it.  Much of the Harad road has been completely washed away by the flooding.”

Kiesco swore loudly at this news, but Tervanis merely nodded, his face calm.  He had been expecting as much.  The last several days of travel through South Ithilien had been accompanied by torrential rains, and he would have to have been a fool to believe the river would be unaffected by the heavy downpour.

Still, a part of him flinched at the news.  If the Poros crossing was indeed impassible—and he had no reason to doubt it wasn’t—it meant at least a day’s delay, perhaps more, as they waited for the river to subside.  If all had gone according to plan within Minas Tirith, the delay would be inconsequential, a mere minor nuisance.  However, Tervanis had no way of knowing what had transpired within Minas Tirith after he had departed.  The King of Gondor and a whole army of soldiers could be directly behind him, in which case, a delay would be disastrous. 

“What do we do now?” Kiesco asked, his voice no longer angry but now sounding slightly worried.

“We remain here,” Tervanis replied, glancing down at the camp below him.  “Tomorrow morning I will go down to the river myself and see when it might be safe to cross.”

“And what about the supplies?” Kiesco asked.  “We are quickly running low.  We do not have enough to last us to Norvil as it is, and with this delay, we will have even less.  We can send out hunting parties to provide for us, but what about the horses?  If we encounter snow once we are past the mountains, we will need grain with which to feed them.”

Tervanis nodded, for he had already considered this.  Winter was sneaking up on them faster than he had anticipated, and though he had packed a large amount of supplies in preparation, it seemed now that it wasn’t going to be enough. 

“Sir?” the scout broke in hesitantly, swallowing hard when both Kiesco and Tervanis turned to regard him.  “There is a small homestead about three miles west of here where I am sure we can pick up some more supplies if we have need.”

Tervanis frowned at this suggestion even as his mind mulled it over.  He had been careful to avoid any farms or villages up until now, unwilling to leave behind any trail that could be followed.  However, as much as he disliked the idea of showing himself to any curious farmer, he disliked the idea of sending his men out each day to hunt for food even less.  There was danger in that tactic, along with the fact that it would serve to slow their journey considerably, something he was now unwilling to do.

“I can take five men with me and be back before nightfall,” Kiesco offered, obviously liking the idea.

Tervanis shook his head and began walking down the hill toward the camp.  Perhaps paying a visit to the farm was the best idea, however, sending Kiesco, while his temper was so short, was not!  Tervanis wanted to get in, get the supplies they needed, and then get out without leaving any reason for the farmer to remember them the next day.  However, if he refused to allow Kiesco to go, the large man would consider it a personal affront and would be completely unbearable to live with the rest of the way to Norvil.

‘Of course, I could always kill him now and not have to worry about it,’ Tervanis thought dryly, a small smile appearing at the thought as his hand unconsciously went to the hilt of his knife.  Yet as much as the thought appealed to him, Tervanis never truly considered it. Despite how annoying Kiesco could be at times, Tervanis still had use for the man.

“We will take five men and leave immediately,” Tervanis finally replied as they stepped into the camp.

“We?” Kiesco replied, obviously startled.

“I will be accompanying you,” Tervanis replied shortly, turning to face his captain, “To make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

Kiesco shook his head, sending a pointed glance toward where the prisoners lay bound.  “And what about them?” he asked softly.

“You do not believe that seven guards are sufficient?” Tervanis asked with a raised eyebrow.

Kiesco merely shrugged.  “I simply had thought you would not wish to leave them.”

Tervanis turned to regard the prisoners, his eyes narrowed slightly.  The boy looked to be asleep, while the elf was peering off in the direction of the river, his face unreadable.  Tervanis had had no more problems with either of them since that first day, and he was at last finding himself able to relax slightly.

“As long as we have the boy we need not fear the elf,” he replied simply.  “He will behave himself for fear of causing the young man harm.”

“I have seen how well he behaves himself,” Kiesco answered shortly, reaching one hand up to rub along his jaw.

Tervanis shrugged, hiding his smile.  That particular instance had been a test for both he and the elf.  They had been feeling each other out, learning how far they could push without being shoved back.  It was true that Tervanis could have used the boy to force obedience, but he had not wished to do that at the time.  Instead, he had wanted to show his prisoner that his control went beyond a couple of whispered threats.  It had been a lesson for both of them that day.

“Come, we are wasting time,” he replied simply, ending the discussion abruptly as he turned his back and headed toward the horses.  “Tanon, Mirch, Ganth,” he called out, causing each man to jump.  “You will be riding with us!  Ran and Jesil, you two as well.  Prepare your horses so we may be on our way.”

The five men immediately jumped up and set about their tasks without question.  Tervanis turned his attention to Mastano.  “You are in charge of the camp.  Keep a close guard on the prisoners at all time.  If anything should happen to them, or if they should escape, I will personally rip a hole in your stomach and use your entrails to feed the wolves.  Have I made myself clear?”

Mastano swallowed hard and nodded.

“Good.  We shall be back shortly before nightfall.”  Tervanis turned and headed toward his own horse, but abruptly stopped and whirled to face the prisoners.

The boy was now awake and looking curiously about him, but the elf continued to merely stare in the direction of the river, showing no indication that he was even aware of the stir in the camp.

Tervanis frowned, feeling the slight pinprick of apprehension, but he quickly shook it off and moved to his horse.  The elf and boy were well secured.  Nothing was going to happen.

*******

Legolas was running out of time.  The sun was moving swiftly toward the western horizon and still he had not managed to come up with a plan of escape.  Each day of travel brought them nearer to their destination and nearer to the time when Tervanis would no longer have a need for Dar and would turn him over to Kiesco.  Legolas was not about to allow that to happen if there was anything he could do to prevent it.  However, after considering and then discarding well over a dozen desperate plans he was close to despair.  Tervanis and Kiesco would be returning soon, and it was not likely that he would be offered another opportunity.  The time to act was now, he knew that, and yet it seemed such an impossible task.

Legolas sighed inwardly, his hands idly twisting against the tight ropes that bound his wrists behind his back.  Beside him, Dar slept soundly, worn out by the long days of travel, his body curled up into a tight ball to ward off the chill evening air.  He looked extremely young and vulnerable, and Legolas felt fear clench tightly at his heart as he looked down at him.  Dar’s life had just begun, and it tortured Legolas that should he fail to come up with a plan of escape, that life would soon be over.

“But Tervanis ordered us to remain here and watch the prisoners!”

The sudden exclamation of anger from across the camp drew Legolas’ attention.  In his desperation to come up with a plan of escape, he had been completely ignoring the conversation of the men left to guard him.  Now, however, he was quick to give it his full attention, listening carefully without turning his head in the direction of the men. 

 “Wrong, Mastano, Tervanis ordered you to watch the prisoners, not us.”

 “Don’t be a fool, Jorlin,” the man named Mastano shot back, his voice hot with anger.  “Of course he expected all of us to stay and watch them!  If something happens and…”

“Nothing is going to happen!” Jorlin interrupted.  “Neither of the prisoners are going anywhere.  They’re both firmly tied, and not needing seven of us standing guard over them.  Kiesco promised us a chance to hunt up some fresh meat for tonight’s sup, and I don’t see how any of that has to change just because he and Tervanis have gone.

A loud chorus of agreement went up at this statement, and Legolas shifted slightly so he could watch the men from the corner of his eye. 

“You don’t understand,” Mastano shouted, his face turning a deep shade of red.  “Tervanis will be returning soon, and if he finds you gone, there is no telling what he will do.  The prisoners…”

For a second time, Jorlin rudely interrupted Mastano.  “You can remain here and play nurse maid if you wish, but I am not!

“Tervanis will slit your throat when you return,” Mastano warned darkly.

Jorlin only laughed in response, pushing past Mastano to move to his horse.  “More likely he will thank me for providing him with a tasty meal after his long trip.  I know Kiesco will appreciate it, and he is the one I am more fearful of angering.  His temper has been mighty short lately, and perhaps we can get back in his good graces, eh boys?

Another shout of agreement went up from the other five men, but Mastano only shook his head, a look of disgust crossing his face.  “You are twice the fool!”  He spat darkly.  “You fear the garden snake five yards off when there is a viper wrapped around your legs!”

“Then a fool I am,” Jorlin retorted, “but at least I won’t be a hungry fool!”  With this statement, he swung up on his horse, motioning for the other men with him to follow suite.

“You can’t leave me alone with them,” Mastano pleaded, his voice beginning to sound slightly desperate.  “You saw what the elf did to Kiesco.”

“Mor and Kalan will stay with you,” Jorlin stated, causing the two chosen men to fall back away from their mounts with small groans of disappointment.  “Don’t fret so, Mastano.  That leaves three of you to two of them, and they’re both tied.  Besides, I think the elf is sick.  He’s done nothing but stare toward the river all day!”

Legolas sensed the men’s gaze switching to him, and he quickly relaxed in his bonds, slouching down and putting on a distant expression, his eyes staring dully in the direction of the river. 

“I’ve heard that elves get extremely sick whenever they get near water,” one of the men offered loudly.  “I’ve heard they can even die just at the sight of it.”

Legolas wasn’t sure whether to roll his eyes or laugh out loud at the statement, but instead he did neither, keeping his face carefully blank and showing no sign that he had even heard the absurd comment.

“You’ve listened to too many wives tales, Mor,” Jorlin said disgustedly. 

“He does look a mite sick.” Mastano interrupted. “Tervanis won’t like it.”

“You worry too much, Mastano,” Jorlin scoffed.  “Come on boys, let’s get going, there’s supper out there to be caught.  We’ll take the extra horses if you’re still so worried,” he called out to a grumbling Mastano.  “That way, the prisoners will have no where to run even should they somehow break free of their binds and defeat you!”  Jorlin’s words were dripping with sarcasm and condescension.

“Leave us one,” Mastano replied, his voice taking on a note of defeat as he at last realized that he would not be able to convince his companions to stay behind.

“Very well,” Jorlin called out, already moving his horse away.  “We won’t be long.”

Legolas listened to the retreating sound of horse’s hooves, new hope springing alive within him.  Only three men remained behind as guards.  There had to be something he could do to escape, and he would need to act quickly, before Tervanis and Kiesco returned.

The beginnings of a plan began to etch itself in his mind, and Legolas had to force back a small smile of triumph.  The guards believed him sick.  He had only to act upon their fears.  It was a risky plan, but any course of action he chose now would carry risk, and he was out of time.  Dar was out of time.

Legolas glanced over at the young man sleeping beside him.  He briefly considered waking Dar and warning him of what was coming, but quickly discarded the idea, realizing Dar’s role would be much more believable if he truly did not understand what was happening. 

His gaze then moved to the three men left as guards, watching as they argued over a pouch of pipe weed.  They were paying him little heed, but Legolas was about to change that.  With a small ghost of a smile, he set himself to his task.

Shifting his body slightly he brought his knees up to his chest then hunched his shoulders down low, as if trying to ease a pain in his chest.  Taking a quick breath, he let out a low moan, filling the soft sound with as much pain and suffering as he could manage.  The quiet sound was picked up and carried easily by the cool wind, and immediately the argument on the other side of the camp ceased.  Legolas could feel the eyes of the men coming to rest on him, and he allowed several long seconds to pass before releasing another, louder, moan.  Beside him, Dar began to stir, but Legolas ignored him for the moment.

“It looks like Jorlin was right, the elf is sick,” one of the men muttered, his voice tuned low and obviously not meant for Legolas to hear.

Legolas controlled his urge to smile and let out yet another loud groan as if to punctuate the man’s words.  He began to slowly rock back and forth, as if trying to shake of a consuming pain, his head bowed and his hair falling in a curtain around him, hiding his features.

“It’s what I was telling you before, Mastano,” the second man spoke up, “It’s the sound of the water that’s doing it to him.  I’ve heard all about this.”

“Just stay away from him,” Mastano shot back, his voice a mixture of anger and fear, “it could be a trick.”

Legolas groaned a fourth time, and with a start Dar came fully awake beside him.

“Legolas?” the boy called out hesitantly, sliding closer.

Legolas decided it was time to play this to its fullest.  Flinching inwardly at the thought of Gimli ever learning of this, Legolas flopped down to his side and began to writhe pitifully, his moans gaining in pitch and occasionally choked off by heavy, rasping coughs.  He drew his knees up tight beneath his chin, as if troubled by a deep pain in his chest, his hands discreetly slipping down low behind him.

“Legolas, what is wrong?” Dar sounded alarmed, his voice taking on an edge of panic.

“He sounds like he’s dying,” one of the men across the camp commented softly.

Legolas decided to go with it.  Abruptly ending his fitful moans, he collapsed fully onto the ground, his body going completely still in a way that only an elf could achieve, his knees still pulled tightly up to his chest.

“Help him!” Dar cried, sounding completely terrified, “He’s not breathing.  You have to help him!”

Mastano swore violently, and a second later Legolas sensed the man’s hesitant approach.  Tervanis had threatened to kill Mastano if anything should happen to Legolas, and it was obvious that the man had not taken the threat lightly.  He reached out with a booted foot and nudged Legolas’ legs roughly, and then a second time, harder.  Legolas did not move or give any indication he had even felt the man’s kick.  Mastano swore again.

“Mor!  Take the horse and ride toward the homestead.  Find Tervanis and tell him the elf has taken sick!  Hurry!” Mastano’s voice had just raised several octaves in his fear.  “Kalen, get over here and help me!”

Legolas waited until he heard the sound of the horse galloping away at breakneck speed before he acted.  Both Kalen and Mastano were bending over him, and Legolas’ next move took them both completely by surprise.  Without any warning, and faster than the blink of an eye, Legolas brought his bound hands down and around his feet, and then a second later, up, to smash forcefully directly into Mastano’s throat, crushing the man’s windpipe in one brutal blow.

Mastano didn’t even have a chance to cry out as he crashed backward, a horrid gurgling sound rising from his ruined throat.  Kalen stared at his fallen companion in horror, and then attempted to jump to his feet, his hand going to the hilt of his knife.  Legolas swept his legs up and out, knocking the man off balance, but not managing to completely bring him down.  Kalen stumbled backward, but a moment later, pitched forward as Dar’ bound legs connected firmly with his backside.

Legolas rolled to the side to avoid the man’s fall, then just as quickly rolled back, ready to end the fight.  With a muffled curse, Kalen twisted around to his back just in time to have Legolas’ elbow connect firmly with his nose.  With a horrid crack, the bone broke and drove upward, piercing the man’s brain and killing him instantly.

The fight ended just as quickly as it had started.  The only sound left in the camp was the last gurgling gasps of Mastano and the heavy breathing of the two prisoners.  Dar was staring at Legolas, his face showing a mixture of relief and horror.  Legolas met his gaze evenly, despite the sick twisting in his stomach.  He hated killing, and even the knowledge that it had been necessary did not ease the pain of taking another’s life.  However, now was not the time for remorse. 

Legolas broke the gaze and quickly rolled over to Kalen, reaching out and drawing free the dead man’s dagger.  Holding it awkwardly in his bound hands, he reached down and swiftly cut the binding on his legs then looked back up at Dar.

“Turn around,” he ordered softly.

Dar obeyed immediately, and Legolas set to work cutting the boy’s hands free.  “We make for the river,” he directed quietly as he worked.  “How well can you swim?”

“Very well,” Dar replied shakily, and Legolas nodded in approval.  Dar’s city was located directly beside the river Ciril, and it was likely that the boy had learned how to swim shortly after learning how to walk.

“The river is our only chance of escape,” he continued, finishing with Dar’s wrist and then handing the knife over to the boy so he could finish cutting Legolas loose.  “We must move as swiftly as we can, and should we get separated, you must keep going.  Do you understand?”

Dar hesitated briefly, and Legolas let his voice harden.  “These men need me for some purpose of which I do not know.  However, they do not need you.  Do you understand what that means?”

Dar flinched slightly, his face paling, but he nodded.

Legolas’ face softened.  “Once we reach the river…”  He cut off abruptly as the distant sound of horses’ hooves moving swiftly in their direction reached him.

“What’s wrong?” Dar asked as he finished freeing Legolas’ hands.

“Cut your legs free,” was Legolas’ only answer as he leapt to his feet and hurried to where Mastano lay.  Bending down, he relieved the man of his knife, then turned just as Dar cut through the last of the ropes binding his ankles.  The lad moved to hand the knife back, but Legolas shook his head  “Keep it,” he ordered softly.  “You may find need of it before all of this is over. Run for the river.  Do not pause for any reason.  Now go!”

Dar stumbled forward, breaking into an awkward run with Legolas directly behind him, urging him on.  They mounted the crest of the first hill, and then sped down it, picking up speed as they raced ever onward. 

Legolas kept half his attention on the path before them, and half behind, where the steady pounding of hooves was growing ever louder.  He almost cursed in frustration, realizing the river was still over half a mile away.  The men would be upon them well before they reached their destination.  Still they had to try.

“Faster,” Legolas called, pushing Dar to greater speed.  They raced up yet another hill, and before them lay a long, open plain, ending at a large clump of trees, the silver of the river shining brightly just beyond.  Behind them, distant shouts marked the discovery of the camp and the escaped prisoners.  “Make for the trees!  Quickly!”

Dar raced forward, Legolas easily keeping pace but remaining slightly behind.  They reached the plain and began to sprint across it just as several riders mounted the last of the hills behind them, their shouts echoing in the still evening air.

“Keep going,” Legolas called, as Dar attempted to glance behind them.  “Do not look back, just run.”

Dar obeyed, somehow managing to pull more speed from his tired legs.  Legolas let him pull ahead, his eyes locked on the stand of trees on the far side of the meadow.  There was no way they would make it in time.  The men would catch them long before they reached the trees and the river beyond.

Legolas knew he could not allow Dar to be recaptured.  The boy, at least, had to escape.  “Run,” he called out one last time, before allowing his own steps to slow, and then eventually stop.  Dar continued to run ahead, unaware that Legolas was no longer behind him.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Legolas turned to face the riders surging towards him, Mastano’s dagger held tightly in his hand.  He knew the men would concentrate first on him, and then, once he was firmly in hand, they would go after Dar.  He intended to buy the boy as much time as possible.

The five men Kiesco and Tervanis had taken with them to the homestead had now been joined with Jorlin and the other hunters, and all nine of them charged forward, aware that the wrath of their leader would fall heavily upon them should they fail.  Several yards behind them rode Kiesco and Tervanis, the latter drawing his bow from his back and reaching for an arrow.

Legolas glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Dar was out of range before turning back to face the swiftly approaching riders.  He did not fear Tervanis shooting him, for he knew the man wanted him alive. 

The nine men slowed as they drew near, dismounting and drawing their weapons as they moved to form an arc around him.

“Surrender, elf,” one of the men shouted, his sword raised threateningly in his hand.

Legolas merely smiled and raised his own dagger in response.  “Come and take me,” he challenged softly, a second before he leapt forward, knife outstretched before him.

TBC 

Chapter 15    Desperation

Aragorn was weary. 

Sinking down heavily into the large, ornate chair set at the end of the Great Hall, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, a long, deep sigh escaping his lips.  Normally when he sat in this chair, holding audience for the troubles of his people, he would sit upright and attentive, his posture showing proud nobility.  Now, however, he found it difficult not to sit slumped and dejected, his shoulders stooping as if a great weight rested upon them.  The hint of dark shadows appeared beneath eyes that were clouded with pain and exhaustion, and his face was beginning to take on the haggard appearance of a man in desperate need of sleep.

Yet rest was the farthest thing from Aragorn’s mind at the moment.  A slow despair was eating away at him, and it was taking all his remaining strength to fight it off.  Another day of endless searching had passed, leaving in its wake the bitter taste of failure and defeat.  He was now certain that Legolas and Dar were no longer in the city, and this knowledge only served to fill him with a sick hopelessness.  The search would be twice as difficult now, and with the passing of each day the chances of success were becoming more and more slim.

Yet despite this, he had no intentions of giving up on his friends.  He would search for Legolas and Dar until all hope was gone, and even then he would not give in.  No matter how far or how long it might take he would find and rescue his companions. 

At least, this was how his heart told him it would be, how it certainly would be if he were still a ranger.  Yet reality was slowly beginning to set in, bringing with it the horrible truth.  He was King now, and as such he held a responsibility to the people under him.  He was no longer free to come and go in the land as he pleased. 

The time was fast approaching when he would have to choose between the friends he loved and his duty as King.  Elrond had always warned him that with position came responsibility and sacrifice: duty would often call for him to make difficult choices, and honor would require that Aragorn look first to the people and then to himself when making those choices.  Still, he had never before faced a decision that left him feeling so torn and confused. 

“Legolas, where are you?” he whispered softly into the quiet emptiness of the Great Hall, receiving no answer from the cold stones surrounding him. 

‘What if he is dead?’

 Aragorn flinched back from the thought, his breath hissing in sharply.  He could not even bring himself to consider the possibility that Legolas might be forever lost to him, for the idea brought such an unbearable pain.  All the doubts and fears that he had carefully held at bay seemed to crash down on him and it was all he could do to keep from giving in to the soft whispers of despair that sought to drown out all other thought.  He had to believe Legolas was still alive, for if the elf truly was dead…

With a soft oath, he rose from his chair and began pacing around the large room, attempting to shake off the dark thoughts that plagued him.  His fears and doubts were not aiding Legolas, and he had to find some way to break free from them.

‘If you already believe you will fail before you have even begun, Son of Arathorn, then fail you surely will.  Fight your battles one at a time, and when you stand victorious at the end, you will look back and wonder why you ever doubted.’

Legolas’ words, spoken to him so many years ago, caused him to halt his pacing, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.  Unbidden, his mind journeyed back to the time when he had first met the prince of Mirkwood.  He had been young then, even by human standards, and naïve enough to be extremely excited when Elrond had informed him that a party of elves from the eastern realm of Mirkwood would be paying them a visit.

“Have caution, Estel,” Elrond had warned him gently, “The elves of Mirkwood are far different from the elves of Rivendell, or even Lothlorien.  They are led by a King who has very little tolerance or love for any race not his own, and I fear his disdain has spread to his people.  Do not expect them to easily accept you.  The king’s youngest son, Legolas, will be traveling with the company.  I have briefly met him on previous occasions, and though in appearance he is like his mother and is a renowned and honored warrior among his own people, I do not expect he shall be far different from his father.”

It was the only time in Aragorn’s entire life that he had ever found Elrond to be wrong!  Legolas had been the only elf in the Mirkwood party that had not looked at him with disdain and contempt.  Legolas’ eyes had held only curiosity, and that curiosity, combined with an unbroken horse, a foolish young human, and a fierce summer storm, had been the start of what would become a fast developing friendship between the two of them.

Aragorn smiled, the joy of that memory briefly breaking though the darkness that had settled upon him.  He found it hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago he had been mourning the monotony of his life, wishing that things could be different.  He had been such a fool!  He had been so focused on his perceived loss of freedom that he had failed to notice the other countless riches he possessed, the greatest of these the friends at his side, a wife he loved more than anything, and his baby, then still living within Arwen’s womb.  Now, things had finally changed, and he found himself wishing everything could go back to the way it was.  He had lost so much!  Arwen had lost so much!  First the baby and then Legolas.  He could not help but wonder what would come next…

“My lord…?”

The quiet call from the far side of the room had Aragorn whirling, his hand unconsciously flying to the hilt of his sword before he recognized the voice. 

Faramir stood just within the large double doors of the Great Hall, his stance casual, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked Aragorn up and down.  “You look exhausted, Aragorn,” he finally said softly, his tone and the use of Aragorn’s proper name plainly displaying his worry. 

“I am fine,” Aragorn replied shortly, his tone a bit harsher than he intended.  He had not heard Faramir enter and he disliked being caught by surprise.  It was a testament to exactly how weary he really was.

Faramir gave a short bow.  “I apologize if I startled you, my lord,” he said simply.

Aragorn sighed and shook his head.  “It is I that should apologize to you, my friend,” he replied softly.  “I am indeed tired, and my temper is short, yet I should not have taken it out on you.  Your concern for me is appreciated.”

Faramir simply nodded, accepting the apology without words.

“Have you learned anything since we parted this morning?” Aragorn prompted, anxious to learn if Faramir’s day had been any more productive than his own.

“My men and I searched an area of about three miles surrounding the city,” Faramir replied, his voice taking on a weary, defeated tone that dashed any hopes Aragorn might have had.  “We encountered one farmer who claimed he saw a large group of horsemen headed east into Ithilien, but he could not say whether Legolas or Dar were with them or not.  We searched for tracks, but I am afraid the last several days of rain have wiped out anything we might have found.  We re-searched the area where the abandoned wagon was found, but…”

Faramir was cut off from his report as the doors to the Great Hall opened and a soldier hurried inside.

“My lords.”  He bowed low to both Aragorn and Faramir.  “Lord Kenson has arrived from Calembel and desires to speak with you.”

Aragorn exchanged a startled glance with Faramir.  He had not expected Kenson’s arrival for several more days.  He had only sent out the messenger with the news of Dar’s disappearance five nights ago, and Kenson would have had to ride his mount near to death, without stops or rest to have arrived here so soon.

“Send him in,” he at last ordered the guard, mentally preparing himself for the coming meeting.

“Would you like me to leave?” Faramir offered, his voice sounding almost hopeful.

Aragorn shook his head.  “Stay,” he said quietly.  “I will need you to finish your report.”

Faramir snorted softly, but he stayed by Aragorn’s side, just as he had remained beside the King throughout the last several days.  Aragorn was grateful for his presence.  He had just lost his baby, a child unseen and untouched, and the grief was terrible.  How much more would Kenson’s own grief be for his missing child.

The doors to the Great Hall swung open and Kenson strode through, walking swiftly toward where Faramir and Aragorn stood.  Aragorn frowned as he watched the man’s approach, for Kenson did not bear the appearance of someone fraught with grief or worry.  Nor did he appear particularly weary as his journey might have suggested.  His clothes still bore the dust of his travels, but this was the only sign of haste the man carried.

“My lords,” Kenson greeted, bowing.  “I trust both of you are well?”

Aragorn could find no response for this question, and beside him Faramir merely grunted.

Kenson straightened from his bow and frowned slightly.  “I apologize if my presence here comes as a surprise, my lord,” he said slowly, eying Aragorn carefully.  “However, when word reached Calembel of the Lady Arwen’s attack, I feared I had made a mistake by ever leaving your side.  I know that you bid me return home, but now I have returned, and I hope you will allow me to help you in your troubles in whatever way I can, just as you once helped all of Calembel.  I have left the city in good hands and have warned the people that my return may be delayed.  I have ridden swiftly to be by your side, my lord, and I hope you will accept my offer of aid.”

Aragorn listened numbly to his friend’s speech, a slow dread building up within him.  ‘He does not know!’  It was a horrible thought, but one that was becoming more and more clear as Kenson continued to speak.

“I know you already have many friends to aid you, my Lord.  Gimli and Legolas are two formidable allies, speaking nothing of Lord Faramir.  I do not know what I can do, but I am willing to…”

“Kenson,” Aragorn cut the man off, taking a slow step forward.  “I sent a messenger to you five nights ago, did you not receive him?”

Kenson frowned, shaking his head slowly.  “Nay, my Lord.  It is likely that he arrived after my departure.”

“And you did not encounter him on the road?” Faramir asked, obviously puzzled.

“My men and I did not stick to the main road, but cut across country in order to hasten our arrival,” Kenson explained slowly, his voice beginning to sound slightly nervous. 

Aragorn shared a long look with Faramir, attempting to fight down the twisting sensation in his stomach. 

“My Lords?”  Kenson’s voice was uncertain, and hinting at his growing fear.

Aragorn regarded him solemnly for a moment before stepping forward and lightly laying his hand on the man’s shoulder.  “Kenson, I am afraid I have some bad news.”

*******

‘A true gift you have been given!’

Arwen’s words echoed again and again through Gimli’s mind as he slowly walked down the hall from her chambers.  Her simple words had offered him a new hope, and he had been in desperate need of it.  Now, he found the thought of returning to his room and the endless waiting simply unbearable.

‘Legolas will be found, and you will be reunited with him once more.’

Gimli grunted.  When that time came, he would make sure Legolas felt the full force of his displeasure.  The elf had caused him worry one too many times.  The wrath of a dwarf was a fearsome thing, and if that alone could not keep Legolas from trouble, then surely nothing could.

However, if he was to have his desired confrontation, the elf first had to be found.  Two days had passed since Gimli’s argument with Aragorn, and he decided it was high time he confronted his friend once again.  He was feeling much stronger now, his back healing quickly.  True, he was still much weaker than he had been, but dwarves were well accustomed to shoving aside weakness when the situation called for it.  He was determined that this time the argument would go in his favor.  He would not give in until Aragorn agreed to allow him to join the search.  There would be no more days trapped helplessly within his room, sitting idly and allowing his worry to consume him.  No, right now action was the best medicine for his troubled spirit, and if Aragorn did not agree, Gimli would just have to find a way to make him agree.

Feeling fresh strength flow through him from his newfound determination, Gimli stalked down the hall, not even pausing as he passed by the door to his own quarters.  He was suddenly very glad that he had decided to visit with Arwen.  He had felt awkward in her presence at first, just as he always felt awkward when around her, but he was grateful he had put aside his feelings and allowed himself to talk to her.

His companions had never been able to understand his reserve toward the beautiful elven Queen, and Gimli had never cared to explain it to them. Part of this was because he was not sure how to put his feeling into words, and part of it was because he did not fully understand it himself.  The truth of the fact was, Gimli could not look at Arwen without his thoughts turning to her grandmother, Galadriel.  It was not that Arwen’s appearance reminded him of the Lady of Lothlorien, for in truth, Arwen looked nothing like her grandmother.  However, there were other, smaller similarities that caught at Gimli.  Arwen’s smile, her laugh, the bright twinkle in her eyes, all of these things stirred deep memories within him, and he found himself simply unable to completely relax in her presence.  When with Arwen, he inexorably felt a deep longing and sadness rise within him, and try as he might he could not be rid of it.

He supposed Legolas would understand his feelings, for the elf was no stranger to longing, having to deal with the sea longing each day he remained bound to the shores of Arda.  However, Gimli could not seem to make himself speak of it, even to his closest friend.  He was a warrior, strong and proud, and yet many years ago, in the woods of Lothlorien, he had met his greatest weakness, and also his greatest strength.  It was not something he could easily talk of.  He supposed Legolas already suspected some of it, for that was the nature of their friendship, yet Gimli did not care to burden the elf with the full details.

‘How did you and Legolas become friends.’

Gimli smiled slightly to himself as he remembered Arwen’s question.  It was not the first time he had been asked that, nor was it likely to be the last.  He had been honest when he had told her that he did not know, though he suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that it had been a matter of becoming friends, or killing each other.  For the sake of the fellowship and the quest of the ring, they had chosen the first option.  That is how it had begun.  After that, their friendship had merely grown as each had learned to understand and respect the other.

“Lord Gimli!”

Gimli winced and hurried his pace, pretending he had not heard the servants call from behind him.

“Lord Gimli, you should not be out of bed!”  The servant was giving chase, and Gimli cursed when he realized he could not hope to outrun the young woman.

“Please, my Lord!  The King will be most upset if you…”

Gimli suddenly stopped in his tracks and whirled to face the approaching girl, his face darkening.  “I am in search of the King now, and if he becomes upset at me, he can tell me himself!” 

“But my Lord, you must…”

“I am NOT returning to my room,”  Gimli bellowed, releasing all his pent up frustration in one loud cry, causing the young servant to jump back in alarm.

“Gimli.”

The calm voice behind him caused Gimli to turn, his eyebrows raising slightly at the sight of Eowyn standing in the hall behind him, a slight disapproving look marring her beautiful features.

Gimli scowled at her and opened his mouth, but she did not give him a chance to speak.

“I can understand your frustration, master dwarf, but you hardly need take your anger out on the servant sent to care for you.  It is not her fault, and I should think you will later regret your harsh words.”

Gimli’s scowl deepened, but he did turn back to the servant girl and bowed slightly, ignoring the twinge of protest from his back. “My apologies,” he said gruffly, shooting Eowyn a sidelong glance. “However, I shall not be returning to my room, so you need not waste your breath trying to convince me!”

The servant looked past Gimli to Eowyn, her eyes clearly beseeching the Lady for help.  Gimli turned in time to catch Eowyn’s slight shake of her head.  With a sigh of defeat, the servant bowed, then turned and left.

“So, you are in search of Lord Aragorn?” Eowyn asked as soon as the girl had departed.  “Is aught wrong?

Gimli shook his head shortly.  “Nay.  I simply have a matter I wish to discuss with him!”

Eowyn nodded slowly. “In that case, perhaps I can be of aid to you.  The King is presently holding council within the Great Hall.”

“My thanks, Lady,” Gimli replied, once again bowing slightly before starting off in the direction of the Hall.  To his surprise, Eowyn fell into step beside him.

“I hope you will not mind my company,” she said lightly, “but I see a fire in your eyes and do not doubt that you go to do battle. A healer’s touch may be needed after.”

Gimli scowled and shook his head.  “I will be in need of no healing, my Lady, for I do not intend to loose this particular battle.”

Eowyn laughed softly.  “It is not to you I will offer my aid.”

“Aragorn then?” Gimli scoffed.  “I hardly believe he will be in need…”

“My husband currently holds council with Lord Aragorn,” Eowyn interjected.  “If an argument begins between the two of you, I have no doubt but Faramir will attempt to intercede.  It is his hide that I go to save.”

Gimli blinked in surprise at this response, looking up at Eowyn to see if the lady was jesting with him.  Eowyn’s expression was perfectly serious, but a slight twinkle in her eyes belied her merriment.  Gimli snorted, but could not hold back a slight chuckle.

“It pleases me that you seem to be doing much better, Gimli,” Eowyn commented, studying him carefully as they walked.

Gimli grunted, glancing up at her and sharing a brief smile.  He liked the Lady Eowyn, finding her light spirit and sense of humor greatly refreshing.  “I grow stronger by the day and my back is healing nicely,” he answered briefly. ‘Now if only I can manage to convince Aragorn of this, perhaps he will let me help in the search for Legolas and Dar.’

Eowyn nodded, but sensing Gimli’s dark mood she remained silent as they made their way in the direction of the Great Hall.  They reached the large double doors leading into the Hall quickly, but slowed their steps as they approached, watching as the two soldiers guarding the entrance argued with a small, scrawny man.  The argument seemed to be quite heated, and Gimli frowned as he drew nearer.  

“I demand to see the King immediately,”  the small man shouted, seemingly not intimidated by the two armed soldiers towering above him.  The impatient tone of his voice suggested that it was not the first time he had made this demand within the last several minutes, and the guard’s response confirmed this.

“We have already told you!  The King is presently meeting with the Mayor of Calembel and has asked not to be disturbed.  You will have to come back tomorrow!”

“I do not wish to come back tomorrow,” the small man spat back, his voice seething with anger.  “I carry an important message that must be delivered tonight.  He will be most displeased with you when he learns you have turned me aside.”

“And what is this important message?” Gimli demanded, making his presence known as he finally reached the doors.

The two guards and the small man turned to him in surprise, obviously so caught up in their argument that they had not heard his approach.

“He will not tell us, my Lord,” one of the guards spoke up quickly.  “We told him we could not admit him unless he let us know, but he refuses to speak.  He will not even tell us his name.”

Gimli turned to find the small man watching him with an intense gaze that immediately made him feel ill at ease.  “Is this true?” he demanded, allowing his annoyance to slip into his voice.  He did not have the time or the desire to deal with an unreasonable petitioner at the moment.

“My message is for the King and the King alone,” the man replied coolly, his gaze never leaving Gimli, his expression one that prickled the hairs on the back of Gimli’s neck .

“Then I am afraid it is a message that will have to wait for tomorrow,” Gimli answered dismissively, trying to push away his feelings of unease.  He must be sicker than he thought if he allowed the gaze of such a small man to so unnerve him.  Turning away disgustedly, he headed toward the large doors, the two guards quickly moving out of the way and Eowyn only a step behind.

“I know where your friend is.”

The simple statement caused Gimli to pull up short, Eowyn nearly running into him as he whirled around to face the small man, his stomach doing an odd lurch inside him.  “What friend?”  he demanded, already knowing the answer.

The small man’s smile was mocking.  “You know what friend I speak of, and if you turn me away now, you shall never see him again.  Alive that is.”

A sudden horrible rage, accompanied by a deep fear suddenly swept through Gimli, and he took a step toward the small man, suddenly wanting nothing more than to punch the smug look from the human’s face.  His mind had not even completely computed the man’s words, but his body was already instinctively moving, his action one of violence.  Seizing the small man by the front of his tunic Gimli heaved him viciously against the corridor wall, his own body pressing close and pinning the man a full foot off the ground.  His wounded back screamed in protest, but Gimli ignored it in his rage, noting with grim satisfaction the fear that had replaced the haughty look on the man’s face.

“Where is he?!” he shouted, his face pressed close to the man’s.  “Where have you taken him, you stinking son of an orc?!  If he has been harmed…”

“If you kill me now, your friend is dead,” the small man squeaked, obviously finding breathing difficult with Gimli’s death hold on him.  “Release me, or he will pay the price.”

It was the wrong thing to say.  The rage continued to grow in Gimli, and at that moment he might well have done something he would have later regretted if the two guards and Eowyn had not leapt forward and pulled him back.

“No, Gimli!”  Eowyn cried out desperately, struggling to hold him back.  “This is not the way!  We will find Legolas!  He will tell us where he is, but not this way.  Please!”

Gimli at last allowed himself to be dragged back, the rage still boiling hot, but a new fear beginning to take hold of him.

The small man remained leaning against the wall, his face pale and a single hand raised to his throat.

Eowyn turned hard eyes on him, one had still holding tightly to Gimli’s shoulder.

“We will take you in to see the King,” she said stiffly, her voice cold enough to freeze stone.  “Yet if this proves to be some trick, you will greatly regret it.”

The man pushed himself to his feet, his eyes regaining some of their cool confidence, though he kept a careful eye on Gimli.  “I assure you, my lady, it is no trick.  I know who has your friend and where they have taken him.”

Eowyn simply nodded, then motioned for the guards to open the door.

Still seething, Gimli allowed the man to pass him, then fell in step directly behind, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.  It was time they learned the truth.  It was time they found Legolas!

*****

Tervanis felt as if he was trapped in some kind of dream.  He sat frozen atop his horse, watching with fascination as all nine of his men struggled vainly to bring down their single opponent.  The elf danced around amidst them, his movements lightning swift, his fair voice constantly calling out taunts and challenges as he dodged and ducked his attackers’ clumsy blows, his knife always in motion.  Whenever the men believed they had finally managed to trap him, the elf would casually slip past their defenses, then turn and attack their backs.  Next to him, Tervanis’ men appeared nothing more than novices, their movements extremely slow and clumsy, their blades and widely thrown punches never even nearing their target.

It was a spectacular fight.  Tervanis was even loath to describe it such, for ‘fight’ seemed too rough and crude a word for what he was witnessing.  It was more a dance.  A beautiful, fascinating, and deadly dance.  His men truly did not stand a chance against the elf, and watching them slowly fall one by one to his blade, Tervanis felt a sudden odd sensation throughout his chest.  Never before had he watched such deadly grace in action, and he felt a sudden longing to swing down from his horse and face the elf himself!  He was a man who lived for a challenge, and before him he was watching the perfect challenge.  The ultimate challenge.  It seemed to him that this was what he had been waiting his entire life for; he would face the elf alone, and in a fight to the death they would prove who was the best warrior!

Yet despite this sudden desperate desire, Tervanis sat frozen, unable to tear his eyes from the terrible beauty before him.  He knew what the elf was doing: buying time for the boy to escape.  At first he had considered sending men on to re-capture the young man, but now all thoughts of that had fled in the face of the battle before him.  He wanted the elf, and beyond that, nothing else mattered.

“Tervanis?!”  Kiesco’s urgent call from beside him jerked Tervanis from his trance.  Before him, another one of his men fell to the blade of the elf.

Tervanis shook his head, attempting to shake free of whatever had come over him.  His task was not to fight the elf, but to bring him to Norvil and hand him over to Servius.  The man had paid him greatly to accomplish this task, and another fat purse of gold and jewels awaited him upon its completion.  Still, he felt himself hesitate, torn by his newfound desire to prove himself as great a warrior as the one he watched before him.

“Tervanis, we must stop him!”  Kiesco pressed urgently.  Yet despite his insistence, Tervanis noted that his captain seemed in no hurry to ride forward and join the raging battle.

Sighing in soft regret, Tervanis lifted his bow in his hands and reached back for an arrow. ‘Another time.  Perhaps I can convince Servius to hand the elf over to me when he is finished with him.’

With this hopeful thought, Tervanis fluidly strung the arrow, pulled back the string, sighted, and then released. 

Legolas had just danced outside his circle of attackers, his blade flashing out to cut deeply into the nearest man’s arm.  The arrow hit him high on his left leg, sending him stumbling forward with a small cry of surprise and pain.  The men took no time in taking advantage of this, charging forward wildly, shouting with their anger and frustration.   In an instance, the elf was taken down, buried beneath the frenzied rush of his attackers.

“DO NOT KILL HIM!!” Tervanis screamed, booting his horse into a fast gallop toward the pile of men wildly pummeling the fallen elf. 

The men reluctantly backed off as Tervanis and Kiesco reached them, swinging off their horses.  Tervanis saw that the elf had been disarmed and now lay on his back, two men half lying atop him in order to keep him down.  His face was bruised and bloody, but a look of satisfaction lay deep in his gray eyes.

Tervanis glanced around at his men, noting how most of them sported some sort of injury.  Three of the men lay still upon the cold ground, never to rise again, and a fourth lay huddled in a small ball, moaning as he tried to stem the flow of blood from a deep gash across his stomach.  Kiesco was cursing the elf loudly, his face flushed a deep red.

“Bind him,” Tervanis ordered coldly, then turned to face Kiesco.  “Take three men and go after the boy,” he instructed, reaching out to hand Kiesco his bow as he un-slung his quiver of arrows. 

Kiesco nodded as he took the proffered weapon, then turned and quickly swung up on his mount, calling to three of the men to follow him.

“Kiesco,” Tervanis called just as the man was turning away.

Kiesco turned back questioningly.

“Don’t bother bringing him back,” Tervanis said softly, his meaning clear.

Kiesco’s face broke out in a wide grin, and he saluted Tervanis with the bow, his eyes shining.  “Come on boys, let’s go hunting.”  With this cry he booted his horse in the direction of the river.

Tervanis turned back to the elf, looking for a reaction to his latest command.  Instead, he found the prisoner staring back at him calmly, his face revealing none of his emotions.  The men binding him were being none to gentle, but the elf made no sound, even when his injured leg was cruelly bumped.  One of the men reached for the arrow still embedded in the elf’s thigh, but Tervanis stopped him.

“Leave it!” he ordered.  “I will take care of it back at the camp.”  He then turned, his eyes scanning the men until it came to rest on Jorlin.  “What happened?” he demanded coldly, approaching the man slowly.

Jorlin took a fearful step back, his face draining of all color.  “Please, sir,” he mumbled fearfully.  “We did not know.  We thought the elf was sick, we never suspected…”

“What happened?” Tervanis demanded a second time, not interested in listening to the man’s excuses.

Jorlin swallowed hard.  “Me and some of the boys decided to do some hunting,” he whispered hesitantly.  “But Mastano said he could take care of…”  Jorlin cut off with a scream of agony as Tervanis’ blade whipped free from its sheath and slashed forward, neatly severing the man’s ear from his head.  Jorlin fell to the ground, his blood spraying a neat arc across Tervanis’ face

“Did you not hear my command to you upon leaving?” Tervanis asked coldly, ignoring the man’s whimpers of pain and desperate pleas for mercy.  “Consider yourself lucky, Jorlin.  I have already lost too many men this day to end your miserable life.  However, if you ever fail me again, I will gladly kill you.  Slowly!”

Turning away in disgust and wiping the blood from his face, Tervanis faced his prisoner once more.  The elf had been hauled to his feet, two men standing on either side of him to support him and prevent escape.  “Take him back to the camp,” Tervanis instructed.

“He will be more trouble now, without the boy to control him,” one of the men nearby commented softly, his eyes following the elf as he was pushed back in the direction of the camp.  “I can see it in his eyes.”

Tervanis narrowed his own eyes, silently agreeing with the man’s comment.  Still, he did not regret his order to Kiesco.  He would merely have to find another way of controlling the elf. 

An idea slowly began forming at the back of his head.  Walking to his horse, he flipped up the flap to his saddle bag and pulled out a small, green vial.  Opening the top of the vial, he jerked back from the strong smell, his eyes watering.  However, smell was the least of the effects of the strong liquid within the small container.

It was time to teach the elf some respect.

******

It was hard to breathe.  Gasping air into his aching lungs was becoming a difficult chore, and the heavy pounding at the back of his skull was beginning to cause his vision to blur.  His legs ached, and a burning pain in his side had him clutching at his ribs.  Still Dar ran on, Legolas’ urgent cry echoing within his mind.  He had to reach the river.  It was just a little farther!

He did not know when or how, but he had somehow lost Legolas.  The elf no longer ran behind him, and Dar felt a sick feeling flooding the pit of his stomach.  He wanted to stop and search for the elf, but it was as if he no longer had a will of his own.  Fear and desperation kept him running, and he could only pray that he would find the elf waiting for him at the river.

He was racing through a heavy clump of trees, the roar of the river sounding directly ahead of him.  Dar knew enough about rivers to understand what he was likely to encounter when he finally reached the banks of Poros.  From the sound reaching him, the river was probably flooded, and he would find it difficult managing its raging currents.  However, it was his only choice and his only hope.  The river was his chance at escape, and he had to get free.   He had to find a way to get back to Aragorn and inform the King of all that had happened.

The sound of pounding hooves behind him caused Dar’s heart to skip a beat.  He tried to push more speed from his aching legs, fear and desperation building up and choking off his already depleted supply of oxygen. ‘Please, oh please don’t let them catch me now.  Not when I am so close.  Oh Legolas, where are you?  Father please help me!’

Breaking free from the cover of the woods, Dar stumbled forward, then just as suddenly skidded to a halt in horror. He had come to a dead end!  The path he had been following ending in a jagged cliff, the raging waters of the river echoing from far below him.  A cold despair washed through him, and he could only stand, staring before him in horror.  Behind him, the loud sound of hooves drew near, then suddenly halted.

‘It is too late,’ Dar thought numbly, staring down at the river churning far below him.  ‘I have failed.’

Yet he would not go down easily.  He would fight, just as Legolas would fight.  Just as his father would fight if he were in this position!  Determination washed over his despair, and pulling the knife free from his belt where he had placed it earlier, he turned to face his pursuers.

He was too late.  The arrow came from nowhere, slamming into him and bringing with it an icy numbness.  Dar stumbled back, the knife slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers, his mind blank with horror.

“No!” he whispered softly, before his feet slipped from the edge of the cliff and sent him plummeting down into darkness.

TBC 

Thanks Ithilien!

Chapter 16      Torment in Small Doses

“I do not understand.  Why Dar?  Why have they taken my son?”

Aragorn let out a silent sigh, wishing with all his being that he had an answer for the distraught man sitting before him.  This was at least the third time Kenson had asked the question.  The man was obviously in shock, something which Aragorn could understand completely. 

“I do not know, Kenson,” he answered gently, laying his hand down on the man’s shoulder where he sat in the large chair between he and Faramir. “Yet I promise you we are doing everything we can to find out.  Dar and Legolas will be found.”  Aragorn grimaced, wishing he could have made his voice sound a little more confident.

“Whoever has taken them, has taken them for a reason,” Faramir continued, also placing a hand on Kenson’s shoulder.  “That reason will eventually be made known to us.  We need only be prepared and…”  Whatever Faramir was going to say was lost as the doors to the Great Hall suddenly swung open.

Aragorn looked up with a small frown.  Shortly after Kenson had arrived he had informed the guards that he did not wish to be disturbed, and he knew that they would not disobey him without just cause.  His heart told him that trouble was now entering his Hall, and his eyes immediately searched out the source of that trouble.  The two guards, a short, wiry man, Eowyn, and finally Gimli all filed into the Hall.  Aragorn groaned softly when he saw the last of these, for the look on Gimli’s face justified all his fears.  The dwarf looked as if he was about to do battle, and Aragorn had no doubt who his intended target would be.  He had been expecting another confrontation with the dwarf, yet he inwardly flinched at the timing.  An argument with Gimli was all he needed to make a bad day worse. A lot worse. 

“My Lord Aragorn.”

Eowyn’s voice jerked Aragorn from his private musings, and he turned to face her while still watching Gimli from the corner of his eye.  He had to admit that the dwarf did seem to be doing much better, with no sign of falter in his short steps.  Perhaps he would….

“I apologize for disturbing you,” Eowyn continued, giving a small bow, “Yet there is a matter which I believe needs your attention.”

‘Blasted dwarf couldn’t even wait until morning’ Aragorn thought crossly,  returning Eowyn’s bow with a short nod of his head.  “No apologies needed,” he answered softly, “Yet perhaps if the matter is one that can wait until morning…”

“He says he know where Legolas is, Aragorn!”  Gimli erupted, striding further into the room, his hand gripping the air next to his belt where the haft of his axe would normally rest.

Aragorn turned to Gimli with a small start.  He had known the dwarf would interrupt, and yet his tired mind was having a hard time computing exactly what Gimli had just said.

“What?” he asked dumbly.  “Who…?”

“HIM!!”  Gimli exploded, striding across the room to grab the small man standing between the two guards by the elbow.  The man let out a terrified squeak, but Gimli just ignored him.

Aragorn stared at the small man, his heart thrumming wilding within his chest.  Why hadn’t he seen?  He had noticed the wiry man when he had first entered, but now he was mentally kicking himself for not paying closer attention.  It seemed he was far more exhausted than he had thought.  ‘If I do not seek rest soon, I will find myself doing something extremely foolish.  Arwen always said I lose some of my reasoning when tired.  For that matter, Elrond often warned me…’

His mind was wandering again, and with a jerk Aragorn forced his thoughts back to the present.  Everyone was looking at him expectantly, waiting for his next move. 

“You know where Legolas is?” he demanded of the small man, moving forward slowly, his mind coming into sharp focus.

“That is what I just said!” Gimli muttered in exasperation, but Aragorn merely ignored him, intent on the man in the dwarf’s tight grip.

“If this is true, then I suggest you speak now, and speak truthfully,” he warned softly, coming to a halt directly in front of the man.

The small man looked nervous, his gaze flying between Aragorn and Gimli, his expression switching between smugness and terror.  “It is indeed true,” the man whispered in a high pitched voice.  “I am a messenger sent from the man who has taken your companions.”

“And what is your message,” Aragorn demanded coldly, leveling the man with a glare that had him struggling to back away.  However, Gimli and the two guards were quick to prevent that.  “Where is Legolas and Dar.  Speak quickly before I loose all patience with you and allow Gimli to beat the information from your lips.  He would be more than willing, I assure you.”  Gimli grunted and took a step closer, causing all color to drain from the small man’s face.

“Khand!  They have been taken to Khand,” he cried, attempting to twist away from Gimli’s hold on him.

Aragorn took a small step back at this information, turning slightly to look over his shoulder at Faramir.  The Steward merely frowned, shaking his head wordlessly.

“Khand,” Aragorn whispered, more to himself than to anyone in the room.  It was the last place in the world he had been expecting, and the name filled him with a sick feeling.  Khand was hardly in the best of terms with Gondor at the moment.  He turned back to the small man, the intensity in his gaze enough to cause even Gimli to take a reflexive step back.

“Why?” he asked simply.

The little man gave a small shrug. “I do not know why they was taken, only that those were our orders.

“Where?” Aragorn demanded harshly, not caring that the small man looked about ready to collapse.  “Where in Khand are they being taken, and who gave the orders for their capture?”

Despite his terror, the little man managed to straighten, his face taking on a resolute expression.  “I cannot tell you where!” he stated, his voice firm.  “For if I did, I have no doubt I would be dead or clapped in irons within the blink of an eye.  Instead, I will take you there!”

“Take us there?” Aragorn repeated softly, his voice taking on a dangerous edge.

The small man did not back down.  “Yes!  I will lead you to your friends as long as you swear to let me free once I have.”

“It is a trap,” Faramir said softly, speaking up for the first time as he approached the small group.  “This man was sent to lure you into a trap, Aragorn.  We must be wary.”

Aragorn nodded, never taking his eyes off the small man.  “It does indeed sound like a trap,” he said quietly.  “A trap I do not quite understand, yet those are the most dangerous.  What makes you think that we would fall for this ruse,” he asked the little man quietly.  “What makes you think we would follow you into Khand?”

Gimli stirred and appeared about to speak, but a quick look from Aragorn silenced him.

The small man did not answer right away, but when he finally lifted his eyes to meet Aragorn’s, there was an unholy light glittering in their depths.  “Because,” he answered simply, “If you do not, they will both die!”

*****

Blood.  It was everywhere.  Both his own blood, and the blood of the men he had killed.  It splattered the front of his tunic and stained his tightly bound hands, turning them a deep crimson color.  It trickled down the side of his face from a small cut above his left eye, and seeped heavily from around the shaft of the arrow still embedded in his leg.  Its sharp smell permeated the air, tainting the cool evening breeze and filling the nostrils of all those around with its foul odor.  It was the smell of death, and it was making him sick!

Legolas clenched his jaw firmly and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other despite the burning pain racing up and down his injured leg.  He had not realized exactly how far from the camp he and Dar had managed to get, and now found himself wondering if he would be able to make it back.  He was beginning to feel extremely lightheaded, and the ground in front of him was starting to blur and tilt dizzyingly.  He knew that it was due to loss of blood that he was feeling so weak, yet he had no way of stemming the heavy flow down his left leg.  Walking was certainly not helping the injury any, and yet he was hardly being given a choice.  It was either walk, or be dragged.

A hidden root snagged at his boot, causing him to stumble forward and land awkwardly on his knees.  An explosion of pain shot up his injured leg at the sharp impact, and for a horrible moment he thought he might black out.  Dark shadows clouded his vision, and he found himself gasping desperately for air. 

“Keep moving!”  The order came from one of the men walking directly behind him and was accompanied by a sharp blow to the side of his head.

Gritting his teeth in an attempt to fight off the pain, Legolas struggled to regain his feet and keep moving all the while his leg was insisting that he remain precisely where he was.

“Get up, elf!” The gruff voice came again, once more accompanied by a stinging slap.  Legolas had nearly managed to pull himself to a standing position, but the blow almost sent him sprawling once more.

“You are a fool if you believe striking me is going to get me on my feet faster,” Legolas ground out through clenched teeth, attempting to find his balance on ground that simply did not seem to want to remain still.

His comment earned him a third blow, this one directly between his shoulder blades, hitting the still healing bruise from his incident four days earlier.  All hope of finding his balance gone, Legolas toppled forward, unable to stop a small cry of pain as his wounded leg slammed into the ground, the shaft of the arrow snapping cleanly in two, its head burrowing even deeper into his thigh.  Rough hands reached down and grabbed his elbows, and the next thing he knew he was being dragged the rest of the way back to the camp.

‘Wonderful work, Legolas,’ he silently berated himself.  ‘Your pride may now be sated, but your dignity has flown with the wind!’

It was a relief when they finally reached the camp and he was allowed to slump down to the ground once more.  A thousand stars danced in front of his vision, and it felt as if his leg had been set on fire.  The smell of blood was growing stronger with each passing minute, and his lightheadedness had long since progressed into a drowsy weakness that stole over his entire frame, making even the slightest movement a difficult chore.  He barely noticed when the men rebound his feet, then moved off a few paces to warily stand guard.

Legolas let his head slump to the ground, allowing his eyes to slowly drift shut in the hopes of stilling the wild pounding at his temples.  Everything had happened so fast, and his mind was still attempting to catch up with all the recent events.   The mad dash for escape, the fight with Tervanis’ men, his recapture—all were beginning to blur together hazily in his mind.  Only one thought remained clear.  Dar.  Whatever the cost might be to himself, Legolas considered it well worth it if Dar managed to escape. 

Legolas heard the sound of approaching horses and knew that Tervanis had returned to the camp.  He did not bother opening his eyes, yet from the sounds that reached him it was obvious that the men were walking while using the horses to carry the bodies of those he had slain.

“What do you want us to do with Mastano and Kalen?” one of the men asked Tervanis, his voice drifting over from where the two dead men lay.

“Load them onto the horses with the others,” Tervanis replied shortly.  “We will take them down to the river and dispose of them in the morning.”

No sooner had this command been given then Legolas heard the quite steps of someone approaching the spot where he lay.  Forcing his eyes open he rolled awkwardly to his back and watched as Tervanis moved over to him, crouching down a few feet away.  He waited expectantly for the man to say something, but Tervanis merely watched him silently, his expression unreadable.

‘Two can play at this game,’  Legolas thought grimly, meeting the man’s gaze squarely and refusing to show any hint of the weakness he was currently experiencing.

When Tervanis at last spoke, it was not to Legolas but to the two men standing guard behind him.  “Go and fetch me two flasks of water and some clean strips of cloth from my saddle bag,” he ordered quietly. 

The two men nodded and quickly hurried off to do as they had been instructed.  Tervanis turned his attention back to Legolas.  “I am going to remove the arrow now.  Do you intend to fight me?” he asked calmly.

Legolas regarded him for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

“A wise choice,” Tervanis said smoothly, looking up as the two guards returned with the requested items.  “Hold him down,” he ordered the men as he moved forward to kneel next to Legolas.  One man moved to Legolas’ shoulders, while the other took a firm hold of his legs. 

Legolas lay quiet within their grasp, staring up at the darkening sky.  He felt Tervanis take hold of the shaft of the arrow where it protruded just above his left knee, and it was all he could do to force himself to remain perfectly still and relaxed.  Even knowing what was coming, he could not keep his body from jerking violently against the grips of the men holding him as Tervanis swiftly and deftly yanked the arrow free.  A fierce wave of pain shot up his leg, and though Legolas managed to choke back a cry of pain, he could not hold in the deep moan that tore from him.  He was floating somewhere on the brink of unconsciousness as Tervanis swiftly cleaned and bound the deep wound.  A moment later a flask of water was pressed against his lips, and he opened his mouth and drank the liquid greedily.

Several long minutes passed as Legolas fought against the pain, his eyes tightly clenched shut, his hands balled into tight fist where they lay bound behind him.  The world seemed to be spinning crazily, and it wasn’t until he had taken a second long drink from the offered flask that his heart stopped pounding wildly and his vision began to clear.  He opened his eyes to find Tervanis still kneeling beside him, a strange expression on his dark face.

Legolas studied him carefully, a slight feeling of unease beginning to sweep through him.  He had expected Tervanis to be angry with him, furious at his attempted escape.  Indeed, Tervanis had certainly been angry with him before.  Now, however, if Tervanis was angry, he was doing an admirable job hiding it.  Instead, his look was one of…interest, something which caused the skin on the back of Legolas’ neck to crawl.  The only interest Tervanis had ever shown him before was that of a captor making sure his captive was well secured. 

“Do all elves fight as you do?”

Legolas blinked, unable to hide his surprise as he turned to face the assassin.  The question was the last one he would have expected, and it took him completely off guard.  He stared at the man without answering, unsure which it was—his ears or his mind—playing tricks on him.  He finally decided it was his mind, for at the moment he was imagining that Tervanis was looking at him with an expression very much akin to respect on his face. 

Legolas still felt slightly dazed and confused, and the pain from his leg was making it hard for him to focus.   At last he decided to answer Tervanis’ question with a question of his own.  “Where are you taking me and why?” he choked out, hating the weakness he heard in his voice.

Tervanis cocked his head to one side, and Legolas felt sure that he was going to at last see some of the anger he knew must be simmering inside the assassin.  Instead, to his surprise, Tervanis answered him.

“I am taking you to Norvil, in Khand.   The reason?  Because that is what I am being paid to do.  Paid quite handsomely.”

Legolas stared at the assassin, still shocked that the man had bothered answering him.  Tervanis’ tone had been conversational, even friendly.

“Who is it that is paying you, and what does he want of me?”  If Tervanis wanted to chat, Legolas was more than willing to oblige.  He would learn all he could from the man, and then hope to find a way to use the information to his benefit.

Tervanis actually laughed at the questions.  “Ahh, but I just answered two question of yours, and you have yet to answer mine.  That is hardly fair, don’t you think?”

Legolas frowned.  “What interest is it of yours to know of the fighting ability of elves?” he challenged softly.

Tervanis shrugged, lifting his palms up.  “Never before today have I seen anyone fight with such skill as you.  I was merely curious as to whether all elves fight thus, or whether you are special.”  Tervanis voice was innocent and curious.

Legolas decided that this conversation was full of too many surprises for his liking.  Whether intentional or not, Tervanis had just complimented him.  His words explained his new attitude toward Legolas, as well as his brief expression of respect earlier, however, they did nothing to relieve Legolas’ growing feelings of unease. 

“All elven warriors are taught to fight from the time they come of age,” he finally responded cautiously, attempting to make his answer as vague as possible.  “I have had more experience than some, and less than others.”

“And yet you are a prince, are you not?”  Tervanis asked slowly, his eyes distant.  “You are a lord of your own realm?  Much more care would have been given to your training.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes and said nothing, for Tervanis had not been asking a question but merely making a statement.  Several long seconds of silence followed until Tervanis at last seemed to snap back to the present, his eyes returning to Legolas and a small smile lifting his lips.

“I am taking you to a man named Servius, and truthfully, he does not want you at all, but your friend, the King of Gondor.”

This answer only caused even more questions to flood Legolas’ mind, yet before he could open his mouth, Tervanis rose to his feet and spoke first.

“You have cost me six men today, Legolas.  I warned you before not to defy me, and now you will need to be punished.” 

The switch in topic and attitude was so abrupt that Legolas found himself once more taken completely off guard.  ‘I think I liked it better when he was ignoring me,’ he thought glumly.  ‘No surprises.’

Tervanis reached into his robe and pulled out a small green vial, a cold smile contorting his face into a cruel mask.  “This is Svellon, a common drug within Khand.  It contains the juice of the Yavak weed, a plant which grows in the shadows of the Ephel Duath.  In large doses it can be lethal, yet in smaller portions it is merely…” he paused as if searching for the right word, “…unpleasant,” he at last finished, his smile growing even wider.

Legolas instinctively drew back, his jaw unconsciously clenching tightly shut.

“For this first night,” Tervanis continued, his eyes glittering, “I will only give you an extremely small dose.  You have already lost much blood and are very weak.  I would not want to accidentally kill you.  However, we still have at least four more days of travel after crossing the river Poros before we reach Norvil, and I promise you will be well acquainted with the drug before we arrive.”

Legolas jerked wildly as he suddenly felt hands closing down on him, pushing him firmly to the ground and holding him there.  He tried to struggle, but in his weakened state the men easily held him pinned securely on his back.  His leg screamed in protest, and Legolas was tempted to follow suite.  The pain had just been beginning to ease, but now it flared again, hot and angry.

“Do not struggle, Legolas,” Tervanis said softly, kneeling down by Legolas’ head and reaching out to grasp his chin tightly.  “You will only bring more pain down upon yourself.”

Legolas wasn’t listening, for Tervanis had taken the cap off the vial and its strong smell was already beginning to make him sick.  There was no way he was going to let any of that liquid be stuffed down his throat without a fight! 

Tervanis’ fingers dug forcefully into his jaw, attempting to pry his mouth open.  Legolas resolutely clenched his jaw, refusing to give in to the pain, breathing heavily through his nose while still struggling weakly against the men holding him down.

The struggle went on for several minutes with neither side willing to give in.  At last, with an exasperated curse, one of the men reached down and roughly punched Legolas wounded leg, directly over the bandage.

It was too much.  Legolas’ mouth automatically opened in a cry of pain, and before he could close it again the neck of the vial was forced inside, the horrible liquid spilling down onto his tongue.

Legolas’ entire body convulsed, for the contents of the vial tasted even fouler than it smelled.  He automatically swallowed, wanting nothing more than to rid his mouth of the horrid taste.  Yet his throat and stomach accepted the liquid no better, and he began to gag.  A flask of water was pressed to lips, and he accepted without thought, gulping down the liquid in the hopes of destroying the clinging taste within his mouth.

“You should not have struggled, Legolas,” Tervanis said smoothly, rising to tower over the shaking elf.

The fact that the assassin had used his proper name instead of the customary ‘elf,’ was completely lost to Legolas.  The men holding him down released him and rose, but he did not move, lost within his own pain.

“The drug should take affect soon,” Tervanis spoke from above him, his voice sounding distant.

“Sir!  Kiesco has just returned.”  This voice came from behind Tervanis, and Legolas fought for the energy needed to turn his head.  He had not heard the horses approaching, yet he was hardly surprised by this.  His gaze immediately flew to the large man riding at the front of the group, and his heart began to thunder wildly within his chest at the look on Kiesco’s scarred face.

“I take it you found the boy?” Tervanis asked coolly, moving away from Legolas and approaching his captain.

“We found him alright,” Kiesco chortled, the glee in his voice turning Legolas’ stomach more violently than the drug had a moment before.  “He almost reached the river,” the large man continued, obviously taking great pleasure in retelling his story, “But we managed to trap him on a ledge.  He had nowhere to go!  It was just like trapping a coney in a hollow log, eh boys!”

“He is dead then?” Tervanis asked.

“You can’t get any deader!” Kiesco responded with a laugh.  “I figure his body will reach the Bay in about three days!”

Legolas couldn’t have been more stunned if the man had kicked him in the stomach.  He stared at Kiesco with wide eyes, his breath coming in harsh gasps.  His entire body was beginning to shake violently, whether from the drug he had been given or his shock over the man’s words, he was not sure.  Nor did he particularly care.  He had been sure that Dar would escape, had not even considered the possibility that the lad would be caught.

The pain in his leg suddenly seemed small and insignificant compared to the overwhelming grief washing through him.  His shaking grew even more violent, and it suddenly felt as if a torch had been taken to every nerve ending in his body.  His muscles cramped painfully, and he rolled into a tight ball, his eyes squeezing tightly shut in agony.

“No,” he whispered brokenly.  “Oh Valar, please no!  Not Dar!”

The pain was growing in intensity, rocking his body with its force.  He bit his lip, unaware as the warm blood flowed into his mouth.  A small, gasping moan was followed by another, and then a third, each building in volume.  He felt certain that his body was about to explode, and yet even worse than the pain was the despair washing over him. 

‘I am sorry Dar!  So sorry!’

The thought was lost in a haze of pain, a dark shadow descending upon him.  With a final broken sigh, Legolas slipped with agony into the darkness.

Gradually, gratefully, he felt and knew no more.

TBC

Chapter 17    Doubts and Decisions

Night lay deep over Minas Tirith, blanketing the city in a veil of darkness pierced here and there by an occasional, guttering street lamp. Dim lights shone from the windows of a few homes, yet for the most part the city lay in deep slumber, nothing moving through the streets except a few stray dogs sniffing at the refuse left in an alley.  The night was quiet and peaceful, the only sound the distant cry of a night bird from somewhere over the city and the soft moaning of the wind as it wound its way through the streets.

Unfortunately, this peacefulness did not spread through all the city.  Deep within the palace, in the Great Hall of Kings, the scene was anything but peaceful.  Tension flowed through the air here like a palpable force, catching all the occupants in the room up in its tight net.  Doubt and anger invaded minds normally held under tight control, and the feelings of frustration and helplessness were almost suffocating in their intensity.  Of all these emotions, anger was the one most easily released, and it rolled through the room like a wave, fierce and hungry, willing to destroy anything that stood in its way.  A heated argument was currently taking place, and harsh words were tossed back and forth like sharp daggers. 

Gimli, arms crossed and fist clenched, stood at the base of the small dais situated at the end of the Great Hall, his angry gaze focused on Faramir standing above him.  He did not seem in the least bit troubled by his lower position or the fact he was forced to crane his neck almost completely back in order to meet Faramir's eyes.  His scowl was fierce enough to bore a hole through iron, and even Legolas, had the elf been present, would have had cause to pause at the dwarf’s obvious fury.

“So what do you suggest, Lord Faramir?” he spat out, his voice not quite at the volume of a shout, but drawing nearer with every word,  “Should we sit here and do nothing while Legolas and Dar suffer at the hands of those who took them!?”

Faramir met Gimli’s angry glare and furious words with surprising calm, looking down at the irate dwarf with a mixture of frustration and tightly held patience.  His hands as well were clenched, the only outward sigh of his simmering anger. This argument had been going on for at least an hour, ever since Aragorn had ordered the small messenger to be taken and cast in one of the palace cells until the King made his decision on what to do next.  Gimli, of course, was of the opinion that they should head out immediately after Legolas and Dar, while Faramir argued against making any hasty decisions.  There were too many unknowns, too many unanswered questions, and the Steward did not like the idea of stumbling blindly into such an obvious trap.  It was this difference in opinion that had led to what had started out as a calm discussion, but was quickly growing into something heated and out of control.  

“Of course that is not what he is saying, Gimli,” Eowyn admonished sharply, moving around from her position behind Gimli as she leapt to her husband’s defense.  “You have not been listening to what he has said!  Faramir is merely urging caution.”

“We do not have time for caution.”  Kenson broke in, speaking up for the first time since the argument began.  “Gimli is right.  We must act quickly if we are to have any hope of rescuing Dar and Legolas!”  Kenson turned to face Faramir.  “We must rescue them, my Lord.  We cannot abandon them.”

“He is not suggesting…” Ewoyn began, but Faramir gently cut her off.

“I can speak for myself, my love,” he said softly, sending Eowyn a look full of meaning. 

Eowyn blushed slightly, but did not lower her gaze as she simply nodded.

Faramir turned his attention back to Gimli and Kenson.  “You must believe me when I say that I am as anxious to rescue Legolas and Dar as either of you.  However, we cannot merely charge forward without thought.  This messenger claims to know where they are, and yet he refuses to tell us.  Instead, he tells us that, without escort, Aragorn must blindly follow him into Khand where Valar knows what awaits him.  He has no proof that this is where Legolas and Dar have been taken!  We could ride to their rescue only to find that we have been deceived!”

Gimli grunted.  “Perhaps we are being deceived,” he snapped, “yet if we are not, and we allow our doubt to keep us complacent, then Dar and Legolas will suffer for it with their lives!  I WILL NOT allow that to happen.

“Agreed,” Faramir answered shortly.  “We must indeed act, but we cannot do it blindly.  There are questions…”

“One week!” Gimli interrupted sharply.  “That is how long the messenger said we have to reach our destination!  And yet you wish us to waste precious time searching for answers to riddles that have no answers.  We do not have time for this!  It is obvious that that rat of a messenger has told us all he will!  He knows we will have no use for him if he reveals his secrets, and so he holds them tighter to himself the more we push.  There are some questions that will just have to remain unanswered!  I do not care about the dangers, for I am willing to face them to get Legolas back.  If you are too much a coward…”

“Enough!”

The single word was spoken quietly, but with enough power and authority to immediately silence Gimli’s tirade.  All eyes turned to the side of the room where Aragorn stood calmly, his back turned to his companions, his hands loosely clasped behind him.  The King of Gondor had said very little since ordering the messenger away, too caught up in the raging turmoil of his own thoughts to pay much attention to the argument going on around him. 

He turned slowly now, meeting the gaze of each of his companions until one by one they dropped their eyes from his.  Gimli took the longest, but at last he too dropped his head, a long and weary sigh escaping from the depths of his stocky frame.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Aragorn at last spoke, his voice soft and quiet.  “Already we have been here for well over an hour, and yet we are no closer to a decision than before.  I suggest that we each return to our rooms for the evening to find what rest we may…”

“Rest!?” Gimli spluttered, his voice incredulous, as if Aragorn had just suggested they open the gates of Minas Tirith and let all the orcs of Arda into the White City.

“I do not know about you, Son of Gloin,” Aragorn said shortly, “But I am extremely weary!  We will find no answers tonight, and so I suggest we meet again tomorrow morning.  Perhaps then I will have come to a decision and we can then decide our next course of action.”

No one in the room missed Aragorn’s stress on the fact that the decision was, in all aspects, his and his alone to make.  Gimli and Faramir could argue until they turned blue, yet the true weight rested fully upon Aragorn’s shoulders.

Gimli let out yet another long sigh.  “Tomorrow morning, then,” he said at last.

Aragorn nodded his head shortly, glanced around the room a final time, then turned and strode from the Hall, leaving a very quiet, very subdued group behind him.

******

After leaving the Great Hall, Aragorn started out with the true intention of returning to his room--though he doubted greatly he would find much in the way of sleep this night.  However, instead he found his steps wandering aimlessly through the silent palace, at last leading him through a tall arch and out into the quiet confines of a high walled garden.  Wandering without direction he at last found a cold stone bench nestled under the protective boughs of a tall elm and sank down wearily.  Slowly his eyes slid shut, blocking out all sight of the world around him.  He wished he could so easily block out the raging turmoil of his mind.  Doubts plagued him unceasingly, and his tired mind was finding it hard to sort through them.

He knew Faramir was right.  There were too many unanswered questions.  Who had taken Legolas and Dar, and perhaps even more importantly, why?  If they were truly after him as everything suggested—both the earlier anonymous note and now the message from the small man—then why hadn’t they merely taken him when they had had the chance?  Why had he been instructed to follow the messenger into Khand, and what awaited him when he reached there?  Were Legolas and Dar truly there, or was it all a part of an elaborate trap set by an unknown adversary?  The list of questions seemed unending.  Yet Gimli was right as well.  He did not have time to find the answers.  If he allowed doubt and indecision to win, then it was likely he would never see Legolas or Dar again.  There was already a chance that he might not, and yet if he did nothing to help his friends, he knew he would never be able to live with himself.  Their deaths would hang over his head for the rest of his life, and he would never be able to be rid of his grief and guilt.

There was also the matter of Gondor.  Where did his duty to his people end and his loyalty to Legolas begin?  This was not an easy question, and it ate away at him.  How would the people look at a King who was willing to ride away from his responsibilities whenever he so chose.  But then, wasn’t Legolas also one of his responsibilities?  How would the people view him if he abandoned his friend?  It seemed there was no way to win this particular inner debate.

Aragorn opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping across the heavens, his eyes automatically searching out the comforting light of the familiar star Earendil.  It shone brightly this night, and Aragorn could not hold back a soft sigh of relief. 

‘The night is beautiful.  You would have enjoyed it, Legolas.’

Aragorn moaned, realizing with a start that he was already beginning to think of his friend as if he were gone forever.

Feeling suddenly restless, he rose from the bench, leaving the gardens to return to the palace.  Striding through the empty halls quickly, he made his way to his quarters.  When he reached the large doors leading into his rooms, he slowed his steps, opening the door as quietly as possible in the hopes that he would not waken Arwen. 

To his surprise, he found her already awake and waiting for him, seated carefully on the large divan positioned in front of the balcony window.  She lay casually on her side, already dressed in her nightclothes, her hair spilling down around her in dark waves of disarray.  One hand lay casually across her abdomen, a gesture she had taken up recently, as if she were stroking the spot where her child no longer lay.  Her eyes, when she lifted them to his, were glassy with weariness, worry, and the barest hint of pain dimmed, but not forgotten.

Aragorn quickly crossed the room and dropped down next to her, taking her carefully into his arms.  “You should not have waited up for me,” he admonished gently, rocking her softly, his hands smoothing up and down her back.

“I was worried,” she answered quietly.  “I tried to sleep but…”  She trailed off, and Aragorn did not try to push her.  Instead he rose with her in his arms and moved over to the bed, gently laying her down on the soft mattress.  Arwen relaxed back with a soft sigh, and Aragorn quickly stripped off his tunic and climbed into the large bed beside her, reaching to pull her close.

“What has happened, Aragorn?” she asked hesitantly, reaching out to brush his cheek with her fingertips.  “You are troubled, my love.”

Aragorn shrugged, somehow not surprised that Arwen had so easily seen through his attempt to hide his raging turmoil.  “A messenger came to the palace today,” he began, and soon found himself telling her everything, including his own doubts and fears.

Arwen listened quietly, as he had known she would, her expression one of gentle compassion.

“I do not know what to do, Arwen,” Aragorn at last admitted, hating the hint of defeat he detected in his voice.  “I feel as if I am being torn in a thousand different directions.”

Arwen cocked her head to one side, regarding him silently for several long minutes.  At last she reached up and brushed her hand across his lips in a gentle caress.  “Oh, Aragorn,” she whispered softly, her eyes pooling with unshed tears.

Aragorn cursed himself, ashamed that he had burdened her with his troubles when she had so much of her own pain to deal with.  Reaching out he pulled her more tightly against his chest.  “Shhh,” he murmured.  “We will talk of this later.  Sleep now, beloved.”

Arwen shook her head, pulling back from his embrace.  “Your troubles are my own, Aragorn,” she said firmly, as if reading his earlier thoughts.  “I am glad you chose to share them with me, and though I cannot make this decision for you, know that I will support you no matter what you may decide.”

“Arwen,” he began, but she once more cut him off with a soft finger to his lips.

“If you were still a ranger, and did not have the duty of King resting upon you, would you then go to Legolas’ aid?”

Aragorn barely hesitated before answering.  “Yes.”

“Even despite your doubts?  Despite all the unanswered questions?”

Aragorn thought about it for a moment before nodding firmly.  “Yes.”

Arwen smiled softly.  “Understand, Aragorn, that you are still the same man you were before.  Your title my have changed, but this…” she laid a gentle hand on his chest, directly over the strong beat of his heart, “this, has never changed.”

Aragorn regarded her quietly, his own hand coming up to cover hers where it still rested against his chest, his thumb gently smoothing along the pulse in her wrist.  “Are you telling me I should go after Legolas then?” he asked quietly.

“Nay, Aragorn, for only you can make that decision.  I am merely reminding you to trust in yourself, in the instincts that have guided you all your life.  Those instincts are not gone now merely because you are King.  All you truly have to decide is what that title means to you.  Not what it means to me, or to Faramir, or to anyone else, but only what it means to you.  Once you have decided that, you will know what to do.”

Aragorn continued to regard her quietly, lost within the depths of her eyes, her words ringing out continuously within his mind.  At last he reached out and gently closed her eyes with the pads of his fingers.  “Sleep,” he commanded softly, moving so she could rest her head against his shoulder. 

Arwen let out a contented sigh, snuggling closer to him, her body relaxed and comfortable against him.  Within a few minutes, her deep breaths informed him that she had heeded his order and slipped into the world of dreams.

Aragorn continued to hold her tightly, his mind no longer wild with doubts and despair.  He knew he still needed to make a decision, just as he knew that decision would not come easily.  However, Arwen’s words had provided him with a focal point, and he clung to it desperately.

The truth was, if his life were his own, he would have gone after Legolas and Dar without hesitation.  However, he had given his life to the people of Gondor the moment he had become King.  Arwen was right.  All his doubts and worries did not matter.  The only thing that mattered, the only decision he truly had to make, was whether or not the title King outweighed the title of friend.

With a soft sigh, Aragorn settled more firmly into the soft mattress, knowing that this night might very well turn out to be one of the longest in his entire life.

*****

Gimli was in a foul mood.

After Aragorn had left the Great Hall, Gimli had also chosen to depart, hoping to find a place where he could calm his raging emotions.  He had had no intention of returning to his room and attempting to sleep as Aragorn had suggested, thinking the idea ridiculous at best, and absolutely ludicrous at worst.  There was no way he would be able to sleep, nor did he particularly want to.

However, almost without thinking, his traitorous legs had led him directly to his room.  Once there, habit had taken over, causing him to strip from his tunic and slide beneath the heavy covers of his bed.  Before he fully realized it, sleep had overcome him, his still-healing body seizing control despite his desperate attempts to remain awake.

Now, it was almost mid-morning, and Gimli was furious at himself for allowing himself to sleep at all, let alone so late.  He had jumped from bed, quickly dressed, then went in search of his companions, fearful that Aragorn had already met with Faramir and had made his decision without Gimli present.  If this had happened, Gimli swore he would skin Aragorn alive, King of Gondor or no.

He at last found a servant who informed him that Faramir, Eowyn, and Kenson were all currently awake and eating breakfast within the private dining room.  The servant also informed him that no sign of the King had yet been seen this morning.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Gimli set off for the dining room, his rumbling stomach reminding him that he had not eaten since noon the previous day.   Reaching the breakfast hall, he found that the servant had not been lying; Faramir, Eowyn, and Kenson where all seated around the small table, holding a hushed conversation.  They looked up when he came in, and Gimli paused, suddenly and quite unexplainably feeling hesitant.

“Good morning Gimli,” Eowyn called out in welcome, her smile genuine.

Gimli nodded his head in response, mumbling a good morning.  His gaze swept to Faramir, and he felt himself stiffen slightly, memories of the previous evening’s argument flooding his mind. 

Faramir regarded him silently for several long moments, his expression unreadable.  At last he dropped his gaze, but not fast enough for Gimli to miss the sudden look of sad weariness in the man’s blue eyes.  “Good morning Gimli,” he mumbled softly, his tone that of quiet resignation.

Gimli suddenly felt all the anger and resentment drain from him as he watched the weary stoop in Faramir’s normally proudly set shoulders.  It was obvious that Faramir was suffering greatly, and Gimli suddenly felt foolish and petty for his anger.  “Good morning Faramir,” he responded quietly.  He winced slightly when he remembered his harsh words to the Steward the night before, and he tried desperately to find some way to apologize.

“The flat cakes are quite good, Gimli.  You should try one.”

Gimli blinked.  Faramir had lifted his gaze once more, and a small smile twisted his lips, though it did not quite reach his eyes.  “Try one,” he repeated, motioning toward the table heavily laden with food situated off to one side.

Gimli realized with a start that Faramir knew he was going to try and apologize, and the Steward, in his own way, was telling the dwarf that it was not necessary.

A small, return smile came to Gimli’s face, and with a nod he turned to the table of food.

‘Perhaps it is a good thing that Aragorn separated us last night,” he thought grimly, piling three of the flat cakes onto his plate.  ‘If he had not, who knows what words would have been spoken.  I value Faramir’s friendship too much to allow a few words in anger to tear us asunder!’

Returning to the table with a heavily laden plate he chose a seat next to Kenson, pausing to lay a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder.  Unlike himself, Kenson looked as if he had found very little rest the night before.

“Where is Aragorn?” he asked, seating himself and digging into his food with a relish.  The last several day he had had his meals delivered to his room, and it felt good to once again be eating at a table with the firmness of a chair beneath him instead of a bed.

“I have not seen him yet today,” Faramir answered distractedly, picking at his own food.

Gimli grunted, then turned his full attention to his plate.  He was more than halfway finished with it, and just beginning to slow down when Aragorn entered.  Gimli felt his appetite leave him within the blink of an eye, and with a slight grimace he pushed his plate away.  He watched as Aragorn strode over to the table with not so much as a glance at the food off to one side, his expression grim.  It looked as if he had had even less rest then Kenson, and yet there was an air about him that immediately caught and held the attention of everyone in the room.

A tense silence filled the air as Aragorn slowly sat in the seat directly across from Faramir, his eyes sweeping around to meet the gaze of everyone in the room.  “I have made my decision,” he announced quietly, his words eliciting a soft sigh of relief from Eowyn, but only silence from everyone else.

Several long minutes of silence followed, in which Gimli thought for sure that his stomach was tying itself in a knot and that he was about to loose everything he had just eaten.  “Well?” he finally prompted, unable to stand the weighted silence any longer.

Aragorn’s gaze flickered to his, then turned to lock on Faramir.  The silence continued on, and Gimli was seriously considering screaming in frustration.  Not even the fabled Ents could take so long to say something.  He was about to open his mouth to prompt Aragorn again, when the King spoke.

“I have decided to go after Legolas and Dar.”

The simple statement had an immediate effect on Gimli.  The knot in his stomach unfurled, and an overwhelming sense of relief and triumph washed over him, the sensation enough to make him feel almost giddy.

Aragorn continued to watch Faramir, his expression never changing.  For his part, Faramir returned his stare with one of his own, not an ounce of expression on his face.  The silence returned.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.  A look of relief swept across Faramir’s face and was gone.  He bowed his head slightly to Aragorn.  “I respect your decision, my Lord,” he said softly, “And will do anything in my power to aid you in your chosen path.”

Gimli felt like jumping to his feet and clapping in his excitement.  Instead, he merely grunted.

“When do you wish us to depart, my Lord?” Faramir asked, beginning to rise from his seat.  “I can have supplies prepared within the hour, and…”

“Faramir,” Aragorn cut him off softly.  “Sit down my friend.”

Faramir blinked in surprise, then sank back down in his chair, suddenly looking uneasy, though Gimli could not explain why.

“I will need your help in preparing for the journey,” Aragorn said softly, never removing his gaze from the Steward.  “However, I am afraid you will not be accompanying me.”

Faramir stiffened at this and opened his mouth to protest, but Aragorn did not give him the opportunity.

“Many will consider my decision as an act of forsaking my people.  I cannot explain to them all the reasons why I have chosen this path, yet at the same time I must let them know that I have not abandoned them.  I still hold my responsibility to the people of Gondor very highly, and one of these responsibilities is to see that they are not left without leadership.  I may be forced to leave, but you, Faramir, must remain here and take my place.”

“My Lord, there are others who can…” Faramir began, but Aragorn once again cut him off. 

“None other that I trust as you, Faramir,” he said softly, his face full of sympathy, but also firm resolve.  “You are a son of the Stewards.  If I had not returned, you would be King now in my place.  The people recognize your position, and if need arrives I have no doubt that they will follow you as they would me.”

Faramir shook his head but did not speak, obviously overwhelmed by Aragorn’s words.

“I know that I go into a trap,” Aragorn continued.  “You yourself pointed this out many times.  I will do my best to be as careful as possible, and yet I know I cannot promise that I will return.  My heart will feel much lighter knowing that Gondor is in safe hands should aught happen to me.”

Faramir opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it once more, obviously struggling for words.  “What of Arwen?” he finally whispered.

“Arwen and I have already talked long this morning.  She agrees with my decision.”

Faramir closed his eyes, breathing heavily, and Gimli suddenly felt a great wave of pity for the man.  He knew that Faramir desired to ride with Aragorn, to protect his King with his own life if necessary.  It was something that went beyond friendship.

“You said that you would do whatever you could to aid me in my chosen path?” Aragorn reminded the Steward softly.  “This is what I ask of you.”

Faramir opened his eyes, a defeated look marring his handsome face.  “There are still so many unanswered questions,” he whispered softly, obviously giving one last attempt at swaying the King’s decision.

Aragorn nodded.  “I cannot tell you I do not have my doubts.  I am merely determined in my chosen course despite those doubts.  Legolas and Dar need me.  I do not know what kind of King I could be if I allowed them to perish when I might do something to help them.”

“They might already be dead,” Faramir pointed out softly, his voice so low Gimli almost didn’t hear him.”

“They might,” Aragorn agreed.  “But I must find out for myself before I give in.”

Faramir took in a deep, shaking breath before slowly nodding.  “It shall be as you say, my Lord.  I will remain behind, though my heart goes with you!”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said softly, his voice carrying true relief.

He then turned to face Gimli.  “Gimli, I am afraid…”

“Do not even say it Aragorn!” Gimli cut him off firmly.  “I am accompanying you, and that’s final.  King or no, Legolas is my friend and there is no way I am going to stay here while you ride off to find him!  You will have to lock me in the dungeons to keep me from going, and even then I will find some way out and follow you!”

“Gimli, listen to me.”  Aragorn had taken on a tone that Gimli’s father had often used on him when he was still a very young dwarf who didn’t know backwards from frontwards.  “Even if you were not still recovering from a bad injury, I would still ask you to stay.  I will have to ride swiftly in order to reach Khand in the allotted amount of time, and my horse simply cannot go as fast carrying two!”

“I will ride my own horse!” Gimli stated, straightening up in his chair and taking on a look that told everyone in the room that he was not about to back down.

Aragorn shook his head.  “Even if you were to ride your own pony, the beast cannot possibly keep up with my mount.”

“I said I will ride my own horse, not pony.  I will ride Shandarell!

Aragorn’s eyes widened, his look incredulous as he stared at Gimli.  “Shandarell?” he at last gasped, obviously trying to picture Gimli atop the fiery war-horse.

“Yes, Shandarell!” Gimli answered smugly.  “I am sure he can keep up with any mount you choose to ride.  In fact, you may have problems keeping up with me!

Aragorn was shaking his head.  “Gimli, you can barely remain upright atop the smallest of my ponies and yet you think you can ride Shandarell.”

Gimli nodded.  “The elf has been teaching me,” he admitted reluctantly, “Yet if you doubt my ability, let us make a bargain.  If I cannot keep up, I will agree to return to the castle and await your return.  However, if I keep pace, you must allow me to accompany you without trying to leave me behind!”

Aragorn stared at him for a couple of long moments before finally nodding.  “Agreed,” he said softly, his eyes obviously showing his doubt.

“I too wish to accompany you, my Lord,” Kenson suddenly spoke up from across the room.  “You will need someone to watch your back, and I swear my life to you now!”

Aragorn snorted.  “Trust me, Kenson, I am well capable of watching my own back.  I was wandering the wild, hunting creatures of darkness while you were still a beardless boy.”

“All the same, Aragorn,” Faramir broke in, “I think it would be wise for him to go.  You are not allowed an escort, but should a fight arise, even a single companion can come in handy.  With both Gimli and Kenson at you back, it will be harder for them to catch you unaware!”

“I agree,” Gimli huffed.  “It will be good to have another sword along should trouble arise.  Besides, it is his son they have taken.  Surely, Aragorn, you would wish to go if it were your child missing.”

Aragorn winced, and Gimli immediately regretted his words.  However, before he could speak and try to make things right, Aragorn nodded.

“Very well, Kenson. You may accompany us.”  Aragorn rose from the table, and everyone else rose with him.  The ex-ranger’s eyes swept across the room, meeting the gaze of each person.  A slow, grim smile twisted his lips, and his hands swept back to grip the hilt of his sword.

 “Prepare yourselves, my friends,” he whispered softly. “Today we ride to Khand.”

TBC

I would like to extend a special thanks to both Ithilien and Thundera Tiger for all their help and encouragement on both my previous chapter and this chapter! THANK YOU!!!!!!!!  

Chapter 18      Road to Khand

The city of Minas Tirith was glowing, its white walls and streets sparkling and shining beneath the full rays of the afternoon sun.  The high towers of the palace rose gracefully into the sky, its arching fingers of white stone seeming to absorb all the light and then reflect it back out again in a blinding glow that settled gently over the rest of the city.  A brisk wind blew throughout the streets, its chill robbing the heat from the day, but not the light and beauty.  Citizens dashed to and fro on private errands, calling out to neighbors and friends about the approaching winter.  Children, taking advantage of the last of the season’s warm weather, laughed and played, their high-pitched screams and yells meshing in with the hawkers’ and merchants’ loud calls.  Everywhere there was the loud hum of voices and activity.

Within the palace grounds, the scene was not much different.  Word of the King’s imminent departure had spread like wildfire, and now soldiers, stablemen, and servants dressed in gold and red livery scurried to and fro on their private errands.  Horses filled the main courtyard, snorting and rearing at all the commotion going on around them, their handlers fighting to keep them under control.  The scene was one of controlled mayhem, where no one spoke or walked, but everyone shouted and ran.  An overall sense of urgency filled the air, and no one seemed able to shake its spell.

Arwen stood silently on the balcony outside her room, her eyes scanning the wild commotion going on below her, one hand idly running up and down the smooth stone railing directly in front of her.  Behind her, Aragorn muttered and cursed as he impatiently flipped through a high stack of tunics piled on the bed.  Expensive silks and finely cut cotton tunics went flying through the air to land in unceremonious piles on the floor behind the bed.

“Arwen!”  Aragorn straightened from his task with a frustrated sigh.  “I can’t wear any of these!”   He held up a dark green satin tunic with large, gold buttons running down its front and intricate gold braiding on the shoulders and down the sleeves.  The tunic had been specially tailored for formal gatherings and celebration, but Aragorn had never found the courage to actually wear the thing.  Now, with a disgusted grimace he sent it flying to land in the pile of all the other discarded clothing.  “They won’t last a single day of heavy travel.  Where are all my sensible, plain clothes?”

Arwen did not turn from the balcony, but Aragorn plainly heard the hidden amusement in her voice as she replied, “I suppose the servants found them all and hid or destroyed them long ago, beloved.  You must admit, the clothes you wore as a ranger were hardly suitable for the courts of Minas Tirith.”

“Perhaps, but these things,” he waved an impatient hand at the pile of silks and satins, “are hardly suitable for travel, especially if I wish to remain inconspicuous.  If I attempt to ride into Khand wearing these, I might as well hold out a sign proclaiming who I am.  I do not think the good people of Khand will be too delighted to see me!”

“I am more worried about the bad people of Khand, love,” Arwen answered airily, at last turning from the balcony to regard her husband with an amused twinkle in her eye.

“Arwen…” Aragorn began, his voice the closest thing to a whine it would ever be.

“In the trunk beneath the bed,” Arwen cut him off, waving a hand toward the bed before once more turning her back to him.

Aragorn blinked in surprise, then hurried over to the bed and reached beneath it, pulling out a heavy brass trunk.  He glanced up at Arwen before opening the trunk, but his wife still stood with her back to him.  With a slight shrug he flipped the lid of the trunk open, gasping in surprised delight as the contents were revealed to him. 

“My old tunic,” he whispered in excitement as he pulled the black, stained material from the base of the trunk.  “I had thought the servants found this and destroyed it long ago!”

“They tried,” Arwen answered simply without turning.  “Yet I knew it held value for you, and I thought that perhaps there would come a day when you would need it once more.”

Aragorn stared in wonder at the back of his wife’s head, his hands idly smoothing the cotton held in his arms.  Besides a few stubborn stains that refused to come out, the tunic was soft and clean, its many tears and holes carefully patched and mended.  Somehow, Aragorn knew that Arwen had cleaned and mended the tunic herself, and that simple act caused his heart to swell with an overwhelming desire to sweep her up in his arms and never let her go.   “Thank you, Arwen,” he at last said softly, rising from his knees and moving toward her.  “This means a lot to me.”

“I suspected it did,” Arwen said simply, “Especially when you would come home to Rivendell from months in the wild and the guards would be able to smell you several miles away.  I often wondered how you managed to peel the thing off in order to bathe.”

Aragorn grimaced at the picture that was not too far from the truth.  “I got Elrohir and Elladan to help me,” he mumbled good-naturedly, moving up to his wife and sweeping her into his arms.  “However, I was not talking about the tunic.  It is you who mean a lot to me!”

Arwen smiled and snuggled into his embrace, her cheek pressed warmly against his chest.  “I know,” she mumbled softly, one hand caressing up and down his arm.

They stood like this for several long minutes before Aragorn at last reluctantly pulled back.  “Arwen,” he whispered softly.  “I must go, but…”

Arwen lifted a hand and gently placed her fingertips against his mouth.  “I know,” she murmured once more, her eyes filled with an unspoken understanding. 

“I love you,” Aragorn whispered, pulling Arwen close and crushing her against him. 

“And I love you,” Arwen answered against him, holding him tightly.

When Aragorn at last released her, the unshed tears in her eyes caused his heart to throb painfully.  “I will return as swiftly as I am able,” he whispered softly, running a rough hand down her smooth cheek.

Arwen merely nodded, then quickly turned away from him, her hands gripping the balcony railing in a white knuckled grip.

Aragorn watched her silently for a moment before turning back into the room.  Striding over to the bed he roughly shoved the tunic inside the small bag containing other spare pieces of clothing and a few personal belongings.  Grabbing up the bag and swinging it over one shoulder, he reached for his sword belt, the glittering sheath containing Anduril shining softly in the light streaming in from the balcony.

“Good bye, Arwen,” he whispered softly, before quickly striding to the door and throwing it open.  An overwhelming urge for a final look back swept over him, but with a small shake of his head, he stepped out into the hall and firmly shut the door behind him.

Faramir was waiting in the hall for him, casually leaning against the far wall, his features expressionless, giving no indication of how long he had been waiting.  He straightened as Aragorn entered the hall, then quickly sketched a short bow.  “I have just finished meeting with your councilors and advisors, my Lord,” he informed Aragorn, his features twisting in a wry grin for a moment before his expression once more became neutral.

“And what did they have to say about my sudden decision to depart?” Aragorn asked curiously, swinging his sword belt around his waist and securing it with a deft twist and pull.

“A lot, let me assure you,” Faramir answered glumly.  “I had to wait nearly an hour before they calmed down enough that I was even able to speak to them.  Of course, they are used to your strange ways by now, but still…”

“What did you tell them?” Aragorn interrupted impatiently, starting down the hall and motioning Faramir to follow.

“That you are off to visit Legolas’ people in Ithilien, to inform them of their lord’s…disappearance, and to hopefully acquire their help in the search for him.”

“And they accepted this?”

“They seemed to, my Lord,” Faramir answered with a small grunt.  “After all, they have no reason to suspect that we might be lying to them.”  His face twisted with displeasure as he said the word ‘lying.’

“That is good, Faramir.  You have done well,” Aragorn quickly spoke up, feeling slightly guilty that he had dumped such a task on Faramir, but relieved that it was done all the same.  “So they gave you no trouble?”

Faramir merely shrugged.  “They wanted to know why it is that you are going and not me.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Legolas is your friend, and you feel a personal responsibility.  Your past history regarding elves makes you the perfect candidate, while I would likely bumble around and make a fool out of myself.”

Aragorn gave a short bark of a laugh.  “You told them that?”

“Perhaps not in so many words.”  Faramir grinned.  “Basically, I just had to throw out a few suggestions and hints and then let them form their own conclusions.  They are quite good at that.”

Aragorn laughed.  “That they are.  And yet you have handled them superbly my friend.  Thank you!”

Faramir nodded, smiling widely.  He reached into the pocket of his tunic and held out a long, rolled up piece of parchment.  “This is a map of Khand,” he informed Aragorn as the King reached out and took the proffered paper.  “I attempted to find one with details, yet I am afraid they are all woefully inadequate.  Still, it will offer you some knowledge of where it is you travel.”

Aragorn carefully slipped the parchment into his bag, nodding his thanks to the Steward.

“How many men have been chosen to accompany me?”  he asked casually, shifting the bag awkwardly across his shoulders.

“Besides Kenson and Gimli, you will be escorted by thirty men led by Captain Jeralk.”  Faramir answered briskly, his gaze focused straight ahead.

Aragorn grimaced.  He knew Jeralk quite well, and greatly respected the grizzly captain of the White Guard.   However, he disliked the idea of riding around with thirty guards as an escort.  They would inevitably slow his pace, and time was not an ally at the moment.  Still, they were a necessary part of the sketchy plan he and Faramir had worked out earlier at breakfast.  In any case, any argument he made now to lower the number would only result in further delays, and he wanted to be out of the city and well on his way before mid-afternoon.

“All the men are waiting within the courtyard and will be ready to ride upon your command,” Faramir informed him shortly, almost as if he had read Aragorn’s mind and was aware of his anxiousness to depart.

Aragorn nodded briefly, then let out a short, sharp curse as he and Faramir rounded a corner in the hall and found two guards desperately trying to keep a firm grip on the small, wiry messenger from the night before.  The man was struggling wildly, demanding in a high-pitched voice to know exactly where he was being taken and why.  Both of the guards had a steady grip on each of the man’s arms, but his wild twisting was making it difficult for them to keep hold of him.

“I demand to see the King!”  The small man screeched loudly, trying to kick the shin of the guard on his right.  “Unhand me at once!  I demand to see the King!  He cannot do this to me!”

The struggling trio had not yet noticed Aragorn and Faramir’s approach, and when the guards at last became aware of their presence, they snapped to stiff attention, their faces flushing darkly.  The small messenger continued to struggle between them, his back turned to the two newcomers, seemingly unconcerned by his guards sudden stiffness.  He managed to jerk his arms free, and with a triumphant grunt he whirled around, intending to charge away down the hall.  Instead, he collided roughly against Aragorn’s firm chest, yelping in stunned surprise.  Aragorn let out a small grunt at the impact, but otherwise did not move as the small messenger bounced backwards to land rather unceremoniously on his backside.

“Looking for me?” Aragorn asked calmly, looking down with disgust at the small man at his feet. 

“I am sorry, my Lord,” one of the guards gasped out, racing forward to drag the messenger to his feet.  “Captain Jeralk sent us to fetch this one and bring him to the courtyard.  However, he has been giving us some difficulty and…” the soldier trailed off slowly, glancing uncertainly between Aragorn and Faramir.

“I see,” Aragorn said slowly, his eyes boring into the small messenger.  The man was no longer struggling, but was instead eying Aragorn up and down, his sharp gaze taking in the King’s traveling garb and bag thrown over one shoulder.  A slow, mocking grin suddenly appeared on his gaunt face.

“I see my Lord has finally decided to heed my message…” he began haughtily, but a single, sharp glare from Aragorn caused him to abruptly shut his mouth.

“What is your name,” Aragorn demanded coldly, never taking his eyes off the little man.

The messenger seemed to wilt somewhat under Aragorn’s fierce gaze, his tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously.  “Delran” he muttered sulkily.

“Well, Delran, it seems you and I shall be traveling together.” Aragorn’s voice was as frosty as the coldest winter night, and he took a small step forward.  Delran flinched as if expecting Aragorn to strike him.  “You will be allowed to ride free and unbound until you give me a reason, any reason, to change my mind.  And if I so much as suspect any trickery on your part during any of this journey, than you shall feel the sharp sting of my sword at your throat.  Have I made myself clear?”

Delran gulped and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Good!” Aragorn stated, his voice only slightly less cold than before.  His eyes flashed to the two guards standing with their mouths slightly agape.  “Escort him to the courtyard and place him under Captain Jeralk’s supervision,’ he ordered briskly, before returning his gaze to Delran.  “He will give you no more trouble.”

The guards bowed deeply, then quickly reached out to lead Delran away, their hands shooting out to grip his forearms tightly.  They needn’t have bothered, however, for Delran followed them as meekly as a kitten, his gaze never lifting from his study of the floor in front of him.

“He will be trouble,” Faramir warned quietly just as soon as the soldiers and Delran were out of earshot.  The Steward stood frowning after the trio, his hand unconsciously caressing the hilt of the long dagger he wore at his hip.

“I will handle him,” Aragorn answered shortly, also watching as Delran and his guards disappeared around a corner.  “Better yet, I will hand him over to Jeralk and let him handle him.  I have no doubt but that the good Captain will have him sitting proper and behaving in no time!”

Faramir let out a short bark of a laugh.  “That he will!”

Aragorn shook his head then started in the same direction the three men had just gone, Faramir a step behind.  The two talked quietly as they went, discussing last minute details and carefully assuring each other that all would be well.  When they at last reached the main courtyard, they found it bustling with activity, soldiers moving swiftly about as they prepared horses or loaded supplies.   Aragorn immediately spotted Captain Jeralk as the large, grizzled man quickly made his way their direction, his loud voice booming orders to the soldiers around him.  He stopped his boisterous shouts as soon as he reached Aragorn and Faramir, and bowed low to both of them.

“My Lords,” he greeted them gruffly, his rough face screwed up into a deep scowl.  “We are nearly ready to depart.”

“Thank you, Jeralk,” Aragorn responded lightly, not at all put off by the man’s gruff voice.  Jeralk’s voice was always rough, whether yelling at a new recruit or wooing a beautiful woman.  Yet those who knew him well saw past his gruff exterior to the honest and loyal man hidden beneath.  He was a man well liked and well respected by the men beneath him as well as the other officers. 

Aragorn carefully swept the courtyard with his keen gaze, easily picking out Kenson as he earnestly spoke with two other men.  Several yards beyond the Mayor of Calembel, Delran sat sulkily between the two guards who had been escorting him earlier, his expression sour.  There was no sign of Gimli anywhere.

Any brief hope Aragorn might have harbored that Gimli had come to his senses and decided to stay behind was dashed a few seconds later as a gruff voice spoke up from behind him.

“Aragorn, what is all this?”  Gimli strode through a tall arch and into the courtyard, looking quite impressive in full battle armor, his axe strapped securely across his back.  He looked healthy and energetic, if a bit grumpy and dissatisfied.  He was watching all the bustle in the courtyard with a deep scowl, his red beard bristling out from his chest like some agitated cat. 

“We were just preparing to leave, master dwarf,” Aragorn answered calmly.  “We are glad you could make it,” he added wryly, almost as an afterthought.

Gimli grunted in acknowledgment, his scowl never leaving.  “I am talking about all the men, Aragorn.” He waved an armored fist in the direction of the soldiers bustling about in the courtyard. “I thought the messenger told us we were not to have an escort?”

“No, Gimli,” Faramir said lightly, “He merely said you were not to bring any soldiers with you when you ride into Khand.”

Gimli transferred his scowl from the soldiers to the Steward, but Faramir seemed not to notice, his features smoothed into an innocent, expressionless mask.

“It’s the same thing!” Gimli muttered, his fingers drumming impatiently against his thigh.  “An escort is an escort, and if we attempt to ride into Khand with these…”

“They will not be with us when we ride into Khand,” Aragorn interjected sternly, effectively cutting off Gimli’s tirade before it could begin.  “They will merely accompany us to the borders of Khand.  After that, we shall ride on alone, and Captain Jeralk will split his men into small groups and follow us at a distance.  That way we will not be escorted, yet the men will be there in case we need them.”

Gimli contemplated this for a moment, then shrugged and turned away, his features blank, hiding any thoughts he might have on the plan.  Aragorn was not too surprised.  The only thing the dwarf truly cared about at the moment was getting Legolas and Dar back safe and sound.  It was doubtful that he cared how they did it, just so long as they did.  He was completely focused on the task at hand, and nothing could distract him.

Well, almost nothing.

A brief, sharp neigh echoed loudly throughout the courtyard, heralding the approach of Shandarell as he was cautiously led forward by two stablemen.  The fiery red horse did not look to be in the best of moods as he pranced arrogantly into the courtyard, his ears rolled back and his nostrils flaring widely.   At one time, he had been properly trained to accept a halter and lead rope.  However, his years with Legolas had obviously spoiled him, and he looked down at the two men trying to coax and lead him into the courtyard with evident disdain.  For nearly six years, Legolas was the only one who had ever handled the great horse, and the result could clearly be seen in Shandarell’s temperament.  With Legolas, he was gentle and obedient, if still a bit fiery.  Yet with anyone else he was cautious, distrustful, and downright difficult to handle.  Aragorn briefly wondered at how well Shandarell was behaving, especially when one considered his normal disposition. While he appeared indignant and flighty, prancing around and tossing his head nervously, he was still moving forward under the gentle prodding of the stablemen.  This alone was a sight to behold.

Aragorn turned to glance at Gimli expectantly.  He imagined that the dwarf’s face was slightly pale, but it was hard to tell for sure beneath his friend’s bushy beard.  Gimli certainly looked determined, and with a fierce glance at Aragorn he marched forward toward Shandarell, his posture stiff and unrelenting, his hands crossed firmly on his chest.  Aragorn thought he looked very much as if he was marching into battle, and he felt a brief flash of sympathy, for he was not at all certain who was going to win the upcoming confrontation. 

“This is going to be interesting,” Faramir mumbled softly.

Aragorn only nodded, intent on watching the unfolding drama before him.

Shandarell had by now spotted Gimli marching toward him, and the great horse’s ears pricked forward for a moment before shooting back to lie flat against his head.   He snorted loudly, his head dropping low as one front leg began to paw restlessly at the stone beneath him.  His entire body was drawn tight and tense, responding to the challenge approaching him.  The two stablemen quickly backed away from him nervously, still holding tightly to the lead rope, but looking suddenly as if they wished to be anywhere else but where they were.

Gimli slowed his approach, dropping his hands to his sides and taking on a more relaxed, calm posture.  He began to speak quietly, too low for Aragorn to overhear above the loud bustle of the courtyard, yet Shandarell’s response was immediate.  The horse lifted his head and stopped his anxious pawing, his ears flickering forward curiously as he released a loud huff of air.  Gimli came to a stand still directly in front of the large horse, continuing to speak quietly, but otherwise making no other move.  Shandarell’s ears flickered continuously as he listened to the dwarf, and to Aragorn’s surprise the horse seemed to be relaxing slightly.

Curious, Aragorn slowly moved forward, aware of Faramir directly behind him.  He approached Gimli and Shandarell cautiously, pausing several feet away so as to not disturb either of them.  He tilted his head and listened closely, feeling a shock of surprise as he realized that Gimli was talking in Sindarin.  The dwarf’s voice was strangely low and soothing, his tone calm if a bit awkward as he struggled with the foreign tongue.  Still, Aragorn was startled at how well the dwarf seemed to know the elven language.

“What is he saying?”  Faramir asked softly from a few paces behind Aragorn.

Aragorn shrugged, then leaned forward and listened carefully for several long seconds before straightening and turning back to Faramir.  “He is explaining to Shandarell that Legolas is in danger and is asking for his aid in helping us find and rescue him,” he informed the Steward shortly and calmly.

“What?!” Faramir exclaimed in surprise, his face registering stunned disbelief.  He turned back to face Gimli and Shandarell, his head slowly shaking back and forth.

Yet whether it was because of Gimli’s words or calm tone, Shandarell noticeably relaxed, not flinching or shying away at all when Gimli at last lifted a hand to gently stroke his long nose.

One of the stablemen quickly darted away, returning moments later with a small, pony-sized saddle, the stirrups in just the right position for Gimli’s short legs.  He approached Shandarell slowly after Gimli’s brief nod of approval, holding the saddle out in front of him and allowing Shandarell to thoroughly examine it before attempting to place it on the horse’s broad back.  Shandarell’s ears flickered nervously, but to Aragorn’s everlasting surprise he remained perfectly still as the stableman cautiously lowered the saddle onto his back and quickly secured the small piece of leather.  Gimli continued to talk to the horse in Sindarin, his voice dropping so low that Aragorn once more was unable to hear what it was he was saying. 

“I don’t believe it,” Faramir whispered dryly, his head continuing to shake back and forth in disbelief as the stablemen quickly and efficiently bridled Shandarell without so much as a stamped foot in protest. 

“Believe it,” Aragorn responded softly.  “But Gimli still has to mount…”

Gimli’s mounting went a little less smoothly than the actual saddling and bridling had gone, but it was merely because the two stablemen had trouble boosting his heavy frame up far enough that he could swing a leg over Shandarell’s tall back.  The horse stood calmly and patiently throughout their struggles, not so much as twitching a single muscle despite Gimli’s loud complaints and the men’s heavy gasps of effort.  When Gimli at last managed to gain the saddle, Shandarell’s only acknowledgement of his presence was a slight flicker of one ear and the lazy swish of his tail.

“He couldn’t have understood what Gimli said to him, could he?” Faramir asked incredulously.

Aragorn ripped his gaze away from the unbelievable scene in front of him and turned to the Steward.  “If you have some other explanation as to why Shandarell has just calmly allowed himself to be saddled and bridled for the first time in his life, as well as quietly accepting Gimli being tossed onto his back, I would like to hear it.”

“Maybe he just likes Gimli,” Faramir muttered unconvincingly.

“Maybe,” Aragorn answered dryly, not believing it any more than Faramir did.

“I must ask, Aragorn, do we intend to actually go anywhere today, or do you just plan for us to sit around and stare at each other all afternoon,” Gimli called out impatiently, his hands holding the reins in front of him in a white knuckled death grip.

Aragorn glanced at him and gave one last disbelieving shake of his head before turning and heading to where his own mount, a dark bay stallion, stood waiting for him.

It was finally time to go.

******

Someone was groaning, the soft sounds echoing eerily in the darkness.  Stirring slightly, Legolas realized the groans were coming from his own throat, and he mentally groped around until he figured out how to stop them.  His body seemed to be moving in dreamy slow motion, and vaguely, from somewhere far distant, the pain signals began to register.  He groggily decided that when they got closer and more insistent, he was going to wake up, and it was going to hurt.  But until then, he was content to merely drift along, protected for the moment by the black waves that gently washed around him and carried him forward.

A voice, strong and familiar, yet at the same time, strange and terrifying sounded from beside him, briefly breaking through the comforting blackness that surrounded him.

“Welcome to Khand,” the cold voice whispered simply, and Legolas could not hold back a deep shudder.

TBC

Chapter 19    Evil Unveiled

~Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of Gondor knelt silently in the blood stained snow, his head bowed.  His normally proud set shoulders sagged wearily with the untold weight of grief and pain, and at his sides both his hands were clenched into tight fists.  Blood marred his rich tunic in several places, yet he seemed completely oblivious to the dark stains, his gaze fixed on a patch of crimson snow directly before him.

“You killed them,” he whispered softly, the sound of his voice filled with unimaginable anguish.  “Everyone I ever loved…you killed them all.”

 His body swayed then, as if in denial of his words, and a loud moan tore from his lips.  For a moment it seemed he would topple forward into the snow, but it was as if invisible bonds gripped him and held him steady, refusing to allow him to fall.

Servius sneered down at the King kneeling at his feet, his dark eyes burning brightly with malicious triumph.  In his right hand he gripped the hilt of a long, sharp dagger, the weapon’s fine blade stained with blood.  The thick red liquid dripped from the point of the dagger in a slow stream of small droplets that hit the snow with a soft hissing sound.

“Yes I killed them,” he mocked the broken man before him.  “It was a pleasure to kill them.  And they all died the same, begging and pleading to be spared. The elf, the dwarf…your precious little wife!  You could have saved them, you know.”  His voice suddenly lost its mocking tone, switching instead to something low and filled with hate.  “And yet, the great and powerful King of Gondor failed!  Your friends are dead, and it is because of you that they have perished.”

Aragorn shook his head, as if desperately attempting to deny Servius’ words.  “No, no, no,” he whispered continually, as if the constant diatribe would somehow protect him from the truth of the words.

“Yes!” Servius snapped back.  “You were too weak to save them!  Now, I have taken everything from you, just as you once took everything from me.  Now I am at last free to kill you as I have desired for so long.”

Aragorn at last looked up, and the expression on his face was one never before seen on the proud man’s countenance; complete and utter defeat.  “Yes,” he choked out brokenly, before once more dropping his gaze to the stained snow.

Servius laughed, feelings of glee and triumph bursting throughout his body.  Still laughing, he stepped forward, his dagger rising.  He reached out and grasped a handful of dark hair, jerking Aragorn’s head back.  Looking into his hated enemies eyes one last time, he plunged the dagger home…~

Servius jerked awake, his eyes flying open.  He flung upright in his bed, trying desperately to peer into the pitch dark of his room.  Deep, ragged breaths tore from his lungs, a mixture of wild euphoria from his dream and a deep, unexplainable terror. 

Something had woken him.

With hurried, jerky movements, Servius plunged his hand beneath his pillow, finding the familiar comfort of the hilt of his dagger.  Yanking the weapon free, he whirled around, breathing hard, his eyes wide in the darkness.   His blood was pounding in his ears, almost deafening him as he listened intently, trying to pick up whatever noise had woken him.

‘Someone is in my room!’ 

As soon as the panicky thought registered, Servius shook his head and dismissed it, trying to mentally force himself to calm.  The door to his room was heavily locked, with two guards posted outside at all times.  No one would have been able to pass them without Servius being alerted.  His room had no windows, for they were too difficult to guard and offered easy access to assassins and thieves.  Not even the smallest of rats would be able to enter the room without him first knowing it.  No, it was impossible for anyone to be in his room.

‘Yet something pulled me from my dreams.  What was it?’

As if in answer to his silent question there came a soft knock on the door to his room, followed by a somewhat timid call drifting through the heavy oak.

Servius cursed beneath his breath, twisting around in the bed to carefully replace the dagger beneath his pillow.  Pulling his legs from beneath the covers, he hesitated for a moment before swinging them to the cool, wooden floor.

‘What am I afraid of?  That some nameless monster will leap from beneath the bed and attack me?’ He thought sarcastically.

A thin stream of light filtered in from the crack beneath the door, and Servius’ eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness.  Despite his best effort not to, he could not help running his eyes carefully around the room, searching each dark corner for anything out of place.  When he was at last certain that everything was as it should be, and that he was indeed alone, he stalked angrily to the door, throwing the heavy lock and swinging the door open with a loud bang.

“You had best have a good reason from disturbing my rest, Fanchon,” he growled darkly, glaring up into the startled expression of his advisor.

Fanchon had automatically taken a step back at Servius’ abrupt appearance, but now he moved forward, a look of excitement clouding his features.  “They are here, sir!  Tervanis has returned!”

*****

It was snowing, large, wet flakes drifting down heavily from an iron gray sky, swirling and twisting wildly.  The storm, which had started out as only a few little flurries, had quickly intensified into a full blown blizzard, a dazzling sheet of writhing white which hid from view anything more than a few paces away.  The sun had set several hours earlier, barely noticed beneath the heavy blanket of dark clouds.  No hint of stars or moon could be seen, and yet the night was anything but dark.  A strange glow enveloped everything, seeming to both emanate and reflect from the thousands of whirling snowflakes.  It seemed almost as if each flake carried within its cold depths a tiny flicker of light, a miniature candle which served to brighten up the land in its own immeasurable way.  A deep silence settled over everything, a profound stillness that made even the slightest of noises seem eerie and out of place.

Legolas tilted his head back and closed his eyes, reveling in the snows’ soft caress against his face.  For a single moment in time he was able to forget his present troubles; his hands firmly bound behind him, the burning pain in his shoulders and back, the sick feeling of nausea in his stomach, the sharp ache in his left thigh.  All of these things were slowly swallowed up in the quiet peacefulness of the land.  Even the soft thud of the horses’ hooves was muted, muffled by the raging, silent storm.

Legolas jerked upright in the saddle, his eyes flying open and every muscle in his body tensing painfully as the silence was abruptly shattered by a distant, piercing scream.  It was a woman’s scream, filled with terror and pain, and slowly rising in pitch and volume until, suddenly, just as quickly as it had begun, it was sharply cut off.  The silence slammed back down, but the peacefulness was now completely gone, swallowed up in the echoes of that brief, horrible, cry.

A low chuckle sounded to Legolas’ left. “Welcome home, boys,” Kiesco called out cheerfully, his voice drifting out from the heavy folds of the cloak he had wrapped about him to ward off the cold, biting wind.  “We might not be able to see it yet through all this sludge, but we sure can hear it!”

Coarse laughter followed this pronouncement, and Legolas felt himself tensing even further, his jaw clenched tightly in anger.  He, of course, could both hear and see the town of Norvil, it lights flickering eerily from atop the crest of a small rise only a hundred yards away.  The intensity of the storm was so fierce that Legolas doubted the men would be able to see the lights at all until they were practically on top of them.  Still, they seemed to know clearly where they were going, never swerving off course in the slightest, though any path to the town was hidden under several inches of snow.  It seemed almost as if some force drew them on, an unearthly bond between themselves and the sprawling town.

‘The fatal attraction of evil to evil,’ Legolas thought solemnly.  ‘This is not a place I would have ever hoped to visit.’  Still, he found that he had to admit he was at least somewhat relieved that the long journey was at last over. After crossing the Poros river, they had traveled steadily east for three days, riding within the dark shadow of the Ephal Duath.  Those three days were nothing but a nightmare memory for Legolas, and even now his mind shied away from the pain and grief.  The shock of losing Dar, combined with the horrors of the drug Svellon had caused the days to pass in a blur, while the nights seemed never to end.  At the end of each day, as the men prepared camp, Tervanis would force some of the drug down Legolas’ throat, and each night his reaction to it was different.  One night he was burning, his flesh feeling as if at any moment it would shrivel up and turn to ash.  The next night it had been hallucinations of terrible monsters with sharp claws, and though the monsters had not been real, the pain of them tearing into his flesh had been.  And so it had gone on, each night something different, the horror of not knowing what new agony awaited him a torture in and of itself.  Even after the drug wore off, he felt weak and sick, pain a constant companion.

‘Yet that is all over now,’ Legolas told himself firmly, suppressing a deep shudder.  ‘We have reached our destination, and soon Tervanis will be turning me over to Servius, whoever he might be.  Whatever tortures he might have in store for me cannot be much worse that what I have already endured.  I will learn his plans, find out what he wants with me, and more importantly, with Aragorn, and then I shall find a way to stop him!’

Legolas pulled himself from his thoughts as the group of horsemen entered the town, the squat, gray shapes of building drifting slowly past them as they moved down what was obviously the main road.  Legolas looked sharply about him, marking each little detail and memorizing the path they were taking.  The weather seemed to have chased most of the inhabitants of Norvil indoors, yet here and there an occasional group of men could be seen hanging about the entrances to dark alleys or the brightly painted doors of loud taverns.  They were all wrapped in heavy cloaks, with their swords or daggers firmly displayed around their waists, easily within reach.  Legolas noted that none of the men stood alone, but were also within groups of at least three others.  They stared at the riders as they past, their eyes lingering especially on Legolas, who was the only one who rode without a cloak to protect him from the cold.  His long golden hair and sharp elven features must have been somewhat blurred from the men by the steadily falling snow, yet it was still obvious enough that he was a foreigner.

Legolas’ gaze moved forward to where Tervanis rode at the front of the group.  He was firmly swathed in a dark green traveling cloak, yet he kept the hood down, his features open for everyone to see.  And the men on the streets did see, Legolas noted, and many of them backed away, or lowed their heads in a gesture of submission.  ‘It seems the assassin is well known here,’ Legolas thought darkly.  ‘And feared as well.’

Tervanis led them down the road for several minutes before turning onto a smaller, narrower side street.  About halfway down the lane he stopped at the entrance to a dark alley and dismounted.  The rest of the men dismounted as well, and Kiesco moved forward to roughly yank Legolas out of the saddle.

“Kiesco, bring the elf here,” Tervanis called from the mouth of the alley, “The rest of you remain here with the horses.  Kiesco will return with your money shortly.”

Kiesco grabbed Legolas roughly by the back of his tunic and pushed him forward, laughing wickedly when Legolas gasped in pain as his injured leg was jarred painfully.  The arrow wound was healing, but slowly.  Much more slowly than Legolas had expected.  Most likely it had something to do with Svellon, yet Legolas tried hard not to think of what side effects the drug might have that were still, as yet, unknown to him.

Tervanis had already disappeared into the alley, and Kiesco quickly followed, one hand firmly grasping Legolas by the crook of his elbow.  Legolas was beginning to feel slightly nauseated, but he choke back the sick feeling and concentrated on memorizing his surrounding.

The alley was long and narrow, smelling of dirty refuse and unwashed bodies.  Cold eyes stared out at them from the shadows on either side, but no one moved forward to intercept them as they quickly made their way toward a short, squat building nestled at the very end of the narrow passage.  All the visible windows of the building were carefully boarded up, the only entrance appearing to be a wide iron door, with steps that led directly down into the alley.  Two men dressed as beggars huddled forlornly on the front steps of the building, their dark eyes studying the three approaching forms with cold disinterest.

Tervanis completely ignored them, mounting the steps in three short leaps, Kiesco and Legolas directly behind him.  He strode boldly up to the door—which appeared to have no outside latch—and quickly tapped out a cadence of soft knocks, followed by two loud, then another series of soft.  The door swung soundlessly open, and without a single glance back Tervanis strode in, followed warily by Legolas and Kiesco.

A large man, with thick, corded muscles stood directly inside the door, eying the three newcomers with the same disinterest as the two men outside.

“This is Garish, Kiesco,” Tervanis stated coolly.  “He will have your money.”  The assassin reached back and grabbed Legolas’ arm, yanking him forward and out of Kiesco’s startled grasp.  “Where is Servius?” he demanded of the silent guard.

The large man pointed silently down the hall while simultaneously pulling out a large, jangling bag from a pocket in his cloak and shoving it in Kiesco’s direction.

“But…” Kiesco began, but Tervanis was already moving away down the hall in the direction the guard had pointed, dragging Legolas along behind him.

“Take the money and go, Kiesco,” he called over his shoulder, not bothering to slow his quick pace.  “I have no more need of you tonight.”

Legolas wasn’t too happy about being yanked and dragged around like some pet dog, yet there was little he could do to stop it.  He was feeling more weak and sick with each passing moment, and he was sure that any struggle he put up now could be squelched with little to no effort on Tervanis’ part.  So instead he followed along complacently, trying to ignore the twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Tervanis appeared to be heading toward a wide set of stairs leading upward at the far end of the hall.  However, once they reached the stairs, instead of going up them as Legolas had expected, Tervanis moved around them.  A small niche at the back of the stairs revealed a heavy oak door that Tervanis swung open and stalked through without so much as a knock, still dragging Legolas along beside him.

The room they entered appeared to be some kind of dining room, with a single, long plain table set in exactly the center.  Ten chairs were set about the table at regular intervals, and three large candleholders, each holding a thick white candle sat in the middle of the table.  The room contained four small windows, but just like the front of the house, they were each tightly boarded up.  It was extremely dim with only the three candles for light, and the smell of pipe smoke filled the air.  Legolas unconsciously wrinkled his nose and shook his head in distaste.

“Well done, Tervanis,” a voice floated from out of the shadows at the end of the room.  “Very well done!”

Tervanis grunted in reply, then tugged at Legolas’ arm, trying to herd him toward the other end of the room.  Legolas did not notice however.  So great was his shock he did not even feel it.  He was busy staring into the shadows from which the voice had come, his elven features flooded with a sick recognition, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. 

“Welcome to my home, Prince Legolas.”  Servius stepped from the shadows and gave a short, mocking bow.  “So kind of you to come and visit an old friend.  I trust your stay will be an enjoyable one.”

“You know each other?” Tervanis demanded sharply, glancing back and forth between the frozen elf and his employer.

“Of course we know each other,” Servius crooned, cocking his head  to one side to study Legolas with a cold grin.  “In fact, I believe he was there the day I was cast from my home, banished from my own city by his dear friend, King Elessar.  Isn’t that right, my prince?”  Merton paused briefly, as if waiting for Legolas to speak, but when the elf said nothing he went on. “Of course, you knew me by a different name then.  Merton, wasn’t it?  Merton Fallow Candywell III?”

Legolas still said nothing.  In truth he was still suffering from the shock of finding that Servius was really Merton Fallow Candywell III.  Of all the people Legolas might have suspected of being behind all this, Merton would have been at the very bottom of the list.  In fact, he wasn’t sure the ex-mayor of Calembel would have been on the list at all!  The man was soft and weak, not to mention a coward.  He had always struck Legolas as pompous and proud, lacking anything even remotely resembling intelligence.   Yet here he stood before him, definitely the same man, but changed in more than just appearance.  Merton had lost weight, his hands no longer appeared plump and soft, and his eyes now held a cold slyness.  Still, it was hard to imagine him as the person who had orchestrated all that had transpired within the last couple of weeks.

“Sit down,” Merton ordered coldly when it became obvious that Legolas was going to say nothing.

Tervanis firmly jerked Legolas forward, forcing him into one of the hard, high back chairs.

Merton watched calmly from his position at the head of the table, shaking his head in mock dismay.  “My my, Prince Legolas,” he said softly, “It appears as if the journey here has been somewhat hard on you.  You look a little worse for the wear, my friend.  Perhaps we can make you more comfortable.  Tervanis, release his hand.”

The assassin hesitated, and Merton’s eyes flashed with anger.  “Do as I say!” he bellowed in a sudden show of temper.

Tervanis shrugged dismissively, drawing his knife and nonchalantly slicing the rope binding Legolas’ hands.

Legolas gratefully rubbed his raw wrists, feeling the blood flowing back into his hands.  He glanced at Tervanis curiously, wondering why the man had backed down so easily to Merton’s show of rage.  The assassin’s face was completely devoid of expression, and he met Legolas’ gaze without so much as a blink.  Legolas turned back to find Merton studying him in much the same way he had been studying Tervanis.

“I am somewhat surprised that you recognized me so easily, my friend,” Merton commented lightly, all hint of his earlier anger once more replaced by cold calmness.  “I have changed quite a bit since we last met.  But come, tell me about my dear friend King Elessar.  Is he still moving about the countryside, casting out innocent people from their homes and stealing their riches all for his…”

“Aragorn cast you out because you were a simpering coward who abandoned your people when they needed you most,” Legolas cut in sharply, his eyes narrowing in anger.  Now that he was getting over his shock, he was beginning to feel quite angry.  The man before him was the one responsible for ordering the attack on both Gimli and Arwen, as well as his own abduction, however impossible it might seem.  There was no way Legolas was going to sit back idly and allow Merton to insult Aragorn, however pettily.  “And do not call me friend, for I am no friend of yours, nor shall I ever be!”

Merton’s eyes widened slightly in anger, but Legolas got the strangest feeling that the man was more angry at being interrupted than he was at Legolas’ insult.  He raised his hand sharply, whipping it in toward Legolas’ face in an open palmed slap.  The blow never landed, however, for Legolas was faster, his own hand darting upward to catch Merton’s wrist in an iron grip.  Merton’s hand came to an abrupt halt several inches short of its target, and the man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

Legolas sensed Tervanis shift slightly by his side, but to his surprise the assassin made no move to free his employer.

Legolas and Merton stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, Legolas’ gaze hard and unyielding, while Merton seemed caught between rage and panic.  The man’s eyes kept flickering toward Tervanis, but still the assassin made no move to help him.  At last, with a shrill cry of rage, Merton jerked back, ripping his arm free from Legolas’ grasp.

Legolas let him go, releasing the man’s wrist at the exact same moment Merton jerked back.  The man toppled backwards, nearly tripping on a chair and tumbling to the ground.  At the last moment he managed to catch his balance and whirl back around to face Legolas, his face a lurid purple.

“Bind him!” he screamed at Tervanis, a large vein in his forehead throbbing wildly.

Legolas sighed inwardly as he felt the cold brush of steel against his neck.  Tervanis grasped each of his wrist and obediently rebound them, though it seemed to Legolas that the knots where much looser than they had been before.

As soon as Legolas’ hands were bound once more, Merton moved forward and ruthlessly slammed his heavy fist into the helpless elf’s face; once, twice, then a third time.  Legolas accepted the blows stoically, his head rocking violently to the side with each strike.  As soon as Merton realized his slaps were gaining little response, he backed away, his eyes narrowing.  A wild light had entered his eyes, and gazing at him, Legolas felt slightly taken aback.  He was staring at a man whom he remembered as nothing but a simpering coward, pompous and petty.  Now, however, there was a mad gleam in Merton’s eyes, a cold darkness that enfolded him like a black shroud.  Legolas knew it was more than just some mask the man put on, but something that went much deeper.  If Merton had not already admitted his identity, Legolas was not sure he would believe he was looking at the same man who had fled Calembel six years ago under penalty of death, so drastic was the sudden change before him.

As if to punctuate the complete and total transformation of his previous being, Merton stepped forward once more, his eyes fixed on Legolas. “You have made a foolish mistake, my prince!” he rasped out hoarsely.  “You are no longer in Gondor!  Here, it is I that has the power.  You would do well to learn some respect!”

“I offer my respect only to those who have earned it, Candywell,” Legolas responded coldly.

“SERVIUS!!”  Merton bellowed, taking another step forward and raising his hand as if to strike Legolas once more.  “My name is SERVIUS!  Merton Fallow Candywell III no longer exists!  Perhaps you need something to remind you of this.  Tervanis, give me your knife!”

Legolas sensed Tervanis’ reluctance as the assassin slowly drew his knife and handed it to Merton.  He wondered at it, but was not given much time to contemplate the strange behavior.

“I see the marks from my blows are already beginning to fade,” Merton said slyly.  “Perhaps I should mark you in a way that won’t so easily be forgotten.”

Legolas drew back slightly in alarm, but there was nowhere to go.  With two quick, precise flicks of his wrist, Merton drew first one slash, then a second down both of Legolas’ cheeks, the cuts shallow but long.  Legolas grimaced in pain, but made no sound.  The cuts burned fiercely, and he could already feel the slow flow of blood down his face, but he kept his gaze firmly locked on Merton, refusing to back down to the man’s evil.

“Why have you brought me here,” he asked simply, tired of playing the man’s games and intent on learning the purpose behind why he had been taken  “It is obvious that it is Aragorn whom you hate, and yet your men left him and took me.  Why?”

“Why?” Merton sneered, impatiently thrusting the knife back to Tervanis.  “I’ll tell you why!   Because for six long years I have dreamed and planned my revenge on King Elessar.  I wanted him to lose everything, just as I lost everything.  I wanted him to suffer, as I suffered, only greater.  I wanted to be the one to take the things he cared about most from him, and then, in the end, take his very life from him as well!  I have wanted it so badly, for so long, and now, finally, I shall know victory over him.”

“That still does not explain why you have brought me here,” Legolas said softly, somewhat taken aback by the mad light in Merton’s eyes.  It was true that Aragorn had cast Merton from his home, banishing him from the city he had governed for several years.  Still, it seemed to Legolas like such a small thing, barely deserving of the unbridled hate he sensed flowing through Merton like an uncontrollable flood.

 ‘Hate is such a strange thing,’ he thought wryly, ‘Fed and nurtured it can turn into an wild demon, destroying all reason and causing even small, imagined wrongs, to become things of reality.  It appears as if Merton has carried his hate and bitterness toward Aragorn for too long, and now it has taken control of him and driven him mad.  He is a prisoner of it, a hostage to his own hate.’  It occurred to Legolas that he too was a hostage to this same hate, a pawn being used to get revenge on Aragorn.  The thought made him feel somewhat sick.

“I could have had my men capture King Elessar and bring him to me,” Merton admitted lightly, some of his cold calmness returning. “Yet that would have been too easy.  Elessar is King, and when he says come, people come, and when he says go, they go.  Not this time, however.  This time it is I who summons him!  If he wishes to see you alive, he has no choice but to come to me.  You, my dear Legolas, are merely my means for bringing him to me, and then controlling him once he is here.”

“And what do you intend on doing once he arrives?” Legolas asked, “It is obvious you have more in mind than merely capturing and killing him.”

Merton laughed shortly.  “Much more,” he assured dryly.  “I will dance the King upon my strings like a puppet, and he will be able to do nothing for fear of harm to you!  And when the time comes, I will cut my little puppet’s strings, and leave him for the wolves!”

“You might find controlling Aragorn harder than you believe,” Legolas warned Merton softly, though he knew the man would not listen.

Merton’s eyes gleamed.  “Let me tell you a story, Legolas,” he murmured softly.  “It is a story I heard shortly after arriving in Khand, and after hearing it, I knew exactly what it was I was going to do!  It is a story about love, and about hate!  You see, there once lived a very rich man, and his very beautiful daughter.  The two had everything they could ever desire; a big house, find foods, many servants.  They were happy together, and it seemed nothing could spoil their nice little world!  But then one day, the daughter met a young man.  He was not a particularly rich man, nor was he terribly handsome, and yet the girl fell in love with him, and he with her.  He went to the father and asked for the girl’s hand in marriage.  The father, however, afraid of losing his daughter’s love denied him.  Yet the boy was very persistent, and at last the father realized he would not be dissuaded.  He told the boy that should he accomplish three tasks and prove himself, then he would allow him to marry his daughter.  The boy, being young and foolish, and in love, agreed.  The first task was a test of his strength and courage, and he passed it without much difficulty.  The second task tested his knowledge and wit, and he once more passed seemingly with ease.  The father was growing desperate, fearing that the boy would succeed in the third task and take his daughter away from him.  And so, for the final task, he ordered the boy to go out into the wilderness and slay a wild oliphant with no weapon but a small hunting dagger.  The last test was seemingly impossible, and all the boy’s friends pleaded with him not to attempt it.  However, he was in love and could not be dissuaded.  He went into the wilderness, and with an amazing show of strength and bravery, he managed to bring down the oliphant.  However, as the creature was falling, it caught the young man with one of its horns, and tore him asunder.”  Merton ended the story with a dramatic flare, his eyes burning, as if he could picture the gory scene clearly in his mind.  “You see, you dear Legolas, represent the pretty daughter, waiting desperately for your hero to come and rescue you.  King Elessar is the foolish boy, blinded by his love and loyalty to you.  He will come to save you.  Yet here I come into the game, for I am the evil father, here to make sure that he fails!”

“You intend to test him,” Legolas said softly, though he already knew the answer.  “You will give him certain tasks to accomplish in order to free me.”

“Exactly!” Merton shouted excitedly.  “And just as the boy failed in his task, so shall he!  I will make certain he fails! Then I shall be forced to kill you, dear Legolas.  I will cast your body at his feet, along with the certain knowledge that it was his failure that killed you.”  Merton laughed gleefully, clapping his hands together like some excited child offered a new toy.  “Then I will see him bow at my feet! The high and mighty, great and powerful King of Gondor completely destroyed!  Then, and only then will I be free to kill him!”

The crazed light had returned to Merton’s eyes, blazing strongly, his face flushed a dark red.  Watching him, Legolas felt the oddest sense of pity for the man.  “You are wrong,” he said softly, causing Merton’s gaze to snap to his own.  “Even if you should kill me and cast my body at Aragorn’s feet, you will not have destroyed him.  He will be grieved for me, yes, yet he will not meekly kneel at your feet and surrender.  You may very well find that it will be you who is destroyed in the end!”

Merton’s face darkened in anger, and for a moment Legolas thought he would attack him again.  “We shall see!” the man spat.  “Tervanis, take our royal guest to his sleeping quarters!  It appears as if he might need some rest after his long journey.

Legolas had almost forgotten Tervanis’ presence, so quiet had the assassin been.  Now he allowed the man to reach down and pull him to his feet, turning him and leading him toward the door.

“Sleep well, Legolas,” Merton called out mockingly, as the two left the room.

Tervanis firmly led Legolas back down the hall they had come up, stopping at the last door before the one leading out into the street.  “Garish!” he called out sharply, and the large man appeared as if by magic.  He reached out and unlocked the door, revealing a narrow stairwell leading steeply downward.  The stairs were lit by a single lantern, which Tervanis grabbed from its hook to light their way as they moved forward.  The stairs were long and winding, seeming to go on forever before at last ending at a large, iron door.  Garish once more moved forward to unlock the door, and the three of them moved into what appeared to be a large cellar.  Sitting at the far end of the cellar was a small, iron-barred cage, five feet long, three feet wide, and four feet tall.  Legolas immediately drew back, staring at the small cage in horror.

“I thought you had learned not to fight me, Legolas,” Tervanis said calmly, speaking up for the first time since calling Garish.  “You know it just goes harder on you when you do.”

As if to punctuate his words, Garish moved up beside Legolas, moving swiftly for a man of his girth.  One large, meaty hand reached out to grasp Legolas’ neck, squeezing painfully.  Legolas suddenly felt week and dizzy, all strength fleeing from his limbs as dark dots danced in front of his vision.  He felt himself being dragged toward the small cage, and he tried to resist, but the hand on his neck only tightened, sending his senses spinning.  For a horrible moment he thought he was going to black out.  Then suddenly the hand on his neck disappeared and he was roughly shoved into the small cage.  He lay on his side, gasping, his neck burning painfully, as the heavy iron door was slammed shut and locked.  Legolas barely had room to move, and immediately a sense of panic rushed over him.  He did NOT like small, enclosed spaces.

Forcing himself to breath evenly, he watched as Tervanis and Garith marched back across the cellar towards the door, taking the meager light of the lantern with them.

Legolas had the strongest urge to call out to them, to somehow make them stay or at least leave the light.  If there was anything he disliked more than small spaces, it was being trapped in small spaces in pitch-blackness.  Resolutely he clenched his jaw shut, refusing to call out.

At the last minute Tervanis turned, regarding Legolas solemnly. 

Legolas felt a surge of relief, glad the light would be staying, however briefly.

“He did not finish the story, you know,” the assassin said softly.

Legolas blinked, attempting to push away the jumble of thoughts and emotions that kept clouding his mind.  “What?” he asked simply, not sure what Tervanis was speaking of.  The assassin was looking at him with the oddest of expressions.

“The man and his daughter,” Tervanis said simply.  “Servius did not finish the story.  The boy did indeed perish on the third task, and the father thought he had won.  The girl, however, overcome with grief, hung herself from the balcony in her room the very next day.  So even though he won, he also lost.”  Without another word, Tervanis turned and strode from the room, the large iron door swinging shut with a loud bang behind him.

The room was plunged into darkness, and Legolas was left alone, lost deep in thought.

TBC

Chapter 20    Only the Boy

The storm struck with little warning, sweeping down from the high peaks of the Ephal Duath with frightening intensity. The sky, which had been dim and gray all day, suddenly disappeared altogether as thick blankets of swirling snow closed in tightly, driven by a fierce and angry wind.  Distinct shapes such as trees and boulders suddenly became nothing but shadows, ghostly flickers that were visible one second, then lost to the storm the next. The temperature, though it had been nearly freezing all day, suddenly seemed to drop even further, cutting as sharply as a knife as it was driven by the fierce wind.

Aragorn watched the storm cautiously from beneath the heavy hood of his cloak, his eyes narrowed in concentration and worry.  He had woken this morning with the sure knowledge that it would snow sometime during the day, yet he had not been prepared for the brutal intensity of the blizzard now set upon them.  Even standing between the relative shelter of two tall hills it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction.  The indistinct shapes of his men drifted ghost-like behind him as they moved about in an attempt to remain at least somewhat warm.  An occasional mumbled curse or low cough could be heard above the howl of the wind, but otherwise all was silent.

Aragorn felt a sharp nudge against his shoulder and turned to offer a distracted pat to his horse’s muzzle.  The large gelding—who was obviously not too fond of storms—stared at him with large, reproachful brown eyes and offered a long, exaggerated shudder to communicate its displeasure at the current situation. Aragorn only smiled in understanding and gently brushed away the thin layer of snow and ice that had accumulated on the beast’s normally glossy neck.

“I don’t like this any more than you do, Cierno,” he murmured quietly, the wind immediately grabbing his words and whipping them away into the mass of wildly dancing snow. 

Cierno whickered softly in response, then stamped a single, white-socked foot in a gesture of impatience.  His neck arched slightly as he turned his great head to look behind them to where the rest of the men and horses waited quietly.

With a soft sigh, Aragorn turned and led the gelding further back into the shelter of the high hills, making toward the area where he had last seen Gimli and Kenson dismounting.  Soldiers saluted and bowed as he walked past, and Aragorn made sure to return each salute with a quick nod and smile of encouragement.  He knew well how such a storm could serve to dampen spirits and feed fears, and he did not want the men giving in to despair.

“Over here, Aragorn!”

He turned at the call of his name and found Gimli, along with Kenson and Captain Jeralk, all standing in a tight group.  Gimli was impatiently waving him over, and Aragorn could not stop a small smile from forming as he watched the dwarf crowd so close to Shandarell’s sleek side that he appeared almost to be standing beneath the great horse.  While Kenson and Jeralk’s mounts both stood a short distance away, hindquarters squarely facing into the wind and head’s bowed, Shandarell stood at a slight angle to the storm in an attempt to offer Gimli a small area of protection from the blowing snow and biting air.

Aragorn shook his head in silent amusement.  I seemed as if a true affection had developed between horse and dwarf over the last few days—though Gimli would never admit to such a thing and was careful to grumble and complain loudly if anyone should glance his way.  For his part, Shandarell seemed to have taken on the role of nursemaid concerning Gimli, rarely letting the dwarf out of sight and constantly standing guard over him.  His actions now displayed the same protective behavior he had always used toward Legolas—much to the elf’s amused delight. Gimli did not appear amused, and certainly not delighted, yet he did wear a somewhat smug look and made no indication of moving from Shandarell’s offered protection.

‘I wonder what Legolas would think of this?’  Aragorn though wryly as he trudged through the thickening snow toward his companions.  More than likely the elf would understand the situation better than anyone.  After all, no one had expected Legolas and Gimli to be able to overcome the generations of distrust and disdain between their two races and become friends, and yet they had.   Shandarell and Gimli did not seem so strange when compared to that.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” he greeted as soon as he had reached them, his voice raised to be heard over the wind.  “Lovely storm, don’t you agree?”

Kenson smiled dryly at him, but Gimli and Jeralk only exchanged unreadable glances, then simultaneously grunted and jerked their cloaks more firmly about themselves.

“The only lovely thing about it would be if it were to stop!” Gimli grumbled ungraciously, attempting to brush the heavy flakes of snow out of his thick beard.

“I am afraid I must agree,” Aragorn replied, immediately growing serious.  “This storm presents a delay we can ill afford.”

For the last three days the company had made good time, traveling swiftly east to the mountains before turning South, unknowingly following along the exact same path Tervanis and his men had traveled only a few days earlier.  The weather had been clear and mild, if a bit chill, in no way hinting at the storm that was to come.  Now, only a few hours away from the Poros Crossing, and the Harad Road beyond, their first bout of ill luck had fallen upon them with a vengeance.

Aragorn turned to Jeralk, stepping closer to the man so he could speak without having to shout.  “Have all the scouts returned?” he asked.

The captain shook his head, his features twisting in a slight grimace. “All but one, My Lord.  Toral was scouting the forward path and has yet to return.”  The captain’s tone was matter-of-fact, but a hint of worry lingered in his eyes.  He knew each of his men personally, and though he could be a stern and fierce commander, he was also a man who cared deeply for those placed under him.  The men sensed this and responded to it with a fierce loyalty to the grizzled old captain.

“Perhaps he has found shelter and is waiting out the storm,” Kenson suggested.

Perhaps, yet I doubt it,” Jeralk answered shortly.  “Toral has a younger brother also riding as a scout for this company, and he will want to return to make sure Danen made it back safely.”  Jeralk sighed, then shook his head.  “Toral is a smart lad, and he knows the path we were taking.  I suspect he shall ride in shortly.”

“That is good,” Aragorn commented softly, “For we cannot stay here much longer.  We must find better shelter, and soon.”

“Where will we go?” Kenson demanded.  “Should we continue south in the hopes of finding better protection closer to the river?”

Jeralk shook his head.  “That would not be a wise idea my friend,” he informed Kenson gravely, before turning his attention to Aragorn.  “The river in this area loops and turns often, with many steep banks and high canyons.  Only at the Crossing is the land level.  In this storm we could very well walk the entire company off a cliff before ever realizing it was there”

“It seems to me,” Gimli broke in suddenly, “That the wisest course would be to remain precisely where we are.  At least here we have some protection from the storm and are not out wandering blindly through the snow looking for shelter that may, or may not be there.  If we stay here, we can give the scout a chance to return and hopefully let this storm die out a bit.  Surely it cannot keep raging at this intensity for long.”

“I am afraid you are wrong, Master Gimli,” Jeralk answered seriously.  “Storms from the Ephel Duath do not behave as normal storms should.  They can rage on for days and days with no sign of abating or even relenting in the slightest.  They are ruthless and deadly, and I fear even the protection of these hills would not be enough to save us should this blizzard continue for more than a few more hours.”

“Days!” Gimli gasped, his face going slightly pale. 

Aragorn fully understood the dwarf’s reaction.  It was not fear of the storm that caused Gimli’s distress, but fear for Legolas and Dar.  Each hour, indeed each minute of delay brought more and more danger to their kidnapped friends.  According to Delran they only had three more days in which to reach their destination, and time was quickly running short.

“I am afraid he is right, Gimli,” Aragorn said softly, his voice barely audible above the raging storm, “Though I pray with every ounce of being that this time the case will not be so.  Still, to rest our fates upon such a wish would be true folly indeed.  Come morning this valley will be under several feet of snow.  We cannot stay here.”

“Yet Gimli is right as well,” Kenson spoke up.  “If we leave the little shelter we have now, we will be wandering around blindly.  If we fail to find suitable shelter, we will be worse off than we are here!”

“We could always go back,” Jeralk suggested softly.  “The grove of trees we camped in last night would offer adequate protection, and we would be traveling along a path we already know.  It should not be too difficult to make the journey.”

Aragorn frowned, knowing the suggested plan would only cause further delays.  Still, there didn’t seem to be any other options open to them.  Before he had a chance to reply, however, loud shouts sounded from out of the gray swirl of snow behind them.

Jeralk scowled, then quickly turned to Aragorn.  “If you will excuse me, my Lord,” he bowed deeply, “I will go and see what all this commotion is about.”  Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed his horses’ bridle and stalked off into the swirling snow, his squat form quickly disappearing into the chaos of the storm.

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Gimli, then listened as the shouts continued on for several more minutes before abruptly dying away.  Silence descended, or at least as much silence as the raging storm and howling wind would allow.  The quiet was somewhat unnerving after all the previous commotion.  Beside Aragorn, Kenson shivered violently and pulled his cloak closer about him, while Gimli absentmindedly reached up and began stroking Shandarell’s neck, something which he would have never done so publicly if he had been aware of his actions.

“What do you suppose is going on out there?” Kenson finally asked, sounding as if he only spoke in order to break the uncomfortable silence.

Gimli let out a loud snort.  “Knowing our luck, it is likely a pack of wild wolves who have decided they would like to use these hills for their own shelter. Or better yet, perhaps it is a herd of wild Oliphaunts sent by the people of Khand to squash us flat where we stand.  Or maybe the dark lord Sauron has returned to…”  Gimli abruptly cut off whatever he was saying with a loud gasp.

Aragorn, who had been watching the dwarf with dry amusement, swung around abruptly, following Gimli’s gaze and feeling his own gasp of surprise leave his startled lungs. 

Two giant shapes loomed up out of the darkness before them, moving forward with a slow purpose.  In the wild distortion of the storm, Gimli’s tale of Oliphaunts suddenly seemed far less far-fetched than it had moments before, and Aragorn found himself taking a reflexive step back, his hand immediately flying to the hilt of his sword.  He blinked once, and in that moment the two dark shadows seemed to take form, stepping from the inky gray blanket of swirling snow and shrinking down to a more acceptable size—though they still towered over Aragorn and his companions. 

With a startled jerk, Aragorn realized he was looking at two horses, though the creatures were much larger than any he had ever seen before.  Their hair was thick and shaggy, their long mains falling down massive necks corded with muscle.  Aragorn suspected that if he put his arms around one of those necks, his fingertips would not even come close to meeting. Legs appearing as thick and strong as small tree trunks lifted high in the air as the animals moved forward through the snow, leaving behind hoof prints as large as dinner plates.  Streams of vapor shot from their nostrils in a manner which reminded Aragorn much of the tales of dragons he had been told by his foster brothers, Elrohir and Elladan, when he was a child growing up in Imaldris.

The massive horses came to a halt several feet away, and it was only then that Aragorn noticed the two heavily cloaked figures standing in front of the animals and holding on to what appeared to be short, thick lead ropes attached to the horses’ wide halters.

“Sir!” Jeralk’s voice drifted from somewhere behind the two large horses, and a moment later he appeared, skirting a wide birth around the animals to come and stand before Aragorn.  “Toral has returned, and he has brought some…err…guests with him.”

“Guests?” Aragorn questioned numbly, unable to tear his eyes away from the giant creatures before him. 

“This is Edan and Emnar,” Jeralk said by way of introduction, gesturing to the two cloaked figures standing in front of the horses.  To Aragorn’s dismay, the two men immediately dropped their lead ropes and took a step forward, bowing their heads in greeting.  “Their family lives on a large homestead a few miles east of here.  They were out hunting and got caught in the storm same as us.  They ran into Toral as he was trying to find his way back here, and they have offered us all the shelter of their home until the storm blows over.”

Aragorn returned the men’s nod of greeting, keeping a careful eye on the horses behind them.  “There are thirty-three of us,” he informed the men truthfully.  “Are you sure you will be able to handle shelter for us all?”

“Aye, sir,” the figure on the right spoke up, his voice sounding young but strong.  “Our father has built quite a large barn, and though you will not exactly be sleeping in luxury, at least you will be dry and warm.”

Aragorn nodded, unable to keep the relief from his voice.  “Then I offer you my most sincere thanks.  My name is Strider, my companions here are Kenson and Gimli, and at the moment a barn sounds wonderful.  However, the storm has grown quite strong, and your home is several miles distant.  Are you sure we will be able to find the way?”

The second figure let out a low, joyful laugh, and Aragorn found himself smiling, so infectious was the sound.  “This is our home, sir.”  This figures voice was even younger sounding than the other.  “We have lived here all our lives.  Edan and I could find our way home in a storm twice as bad as this.”

“Stop boasting, Emnar, it is impolite,” Edan scolded his brother, before turning to offer Aragorn an apologetic bow.  “My brother is right, however, and I am confident we can find the way home.  Yet even if we couldn’t, Kitten and Dove would show us the way!”

“Kitten and Dove?” Aragorn asked uncertainly.

Both men turned and motioned to the two giant horses standing behind them.  “Kit and Dove get fed every evening at dusk, and they aren’t about to let a little flurry like this keep them from their trough.”  Edan explained matter-of-factly.  “Even if Emnar and I somehow get turned about, they will lead us straight home in no time.”

“Well in that case,” Gimli’s loud voice suddenly sounded from behind Aragorn, “If I am to trust my survival to…to… to two things, then I would very much like to know exactly what they are!”

“They are horses, Gimli,” Kenson said slowly, as if talking to a slow witted child.  “Surely you can see that even with that great red beast standing in front of you.”

Aragorn smiled at Kenson observation.  Ever since the two giant horses had arrived, Shandarell had been doing a sort of prancing dance around Gimli, trying to stay between the dwarf and the two newcomers, his ears laid flat and a series of threatening grunts escaping in steamy plumes from his widely flared nostrils.  Gimli kept slapping at the horse’s sides in a futile and somewhat comical attempt to push him aside, but Shandarell was having none of it. 

“They are called Gemni’s, sir,” Edan spoke up, watching Gimli’s struggles with interest.  “Or Hill Ponies as some people like to call them.”

“Those are no ponies!” Gimli exclaimed, slipping beneath Shandarell and sending a sharp glare in the direction of the two Gemni’s.

“I know they are rather large,” Emnar said, sounding almost apologetic, “Yet they would never hurt a soul unless provoked or if someone tried to hurt Edan or I.  They are really quite gentle, and their size comes in very useful for the type of work we need them for.  If you would like to examine them closer…”  The young man stepped toward the horses, reaching out to pick up the discarded lead rope.

“Perhaps that would not be a good idea,” Aragorn quickly interjected, glancing behind him at Shandarell and Gimli.  He had always viewed Shandarell as a large horse, and yet the two Gemni’s completely dwarfed him, making him seem nothing more than a small pony.  Even so, Shandarell looked ready to attack should either of the horses come a single step nearer, his eyes rolling dangerously.

Emnar looked startled for a moment, but then his eyes followed Aragorn’s gaze, and he quickly dropped the lead rope in understanding.

“Quite an impressive horse you have there yourself, sir,” Edan pointed out, eying Shandarell appreciatively.

“He is not mine,” Gimli huffed, letting out a frustrated curse as Shandarell once more tried to crowd in front of him.  “Stupid beast!” he shouted, “I do not know how that elf stands you!  Confound it, MOVE ASIDE!”  Gimli brought his palm down in a sharp slap on Shandarell’s rump, yet instead of moving away as the dwarf had obviously hoped, Shandarell let out a grunt and moved even closer, one hoof coming down firmly on Gimli’s left foot.  The dwarf let out a howl of surprised pain, falling backward into an undignified heap in the snow.  Shandarell quickly moved away then, followed by a loud stream of very colorful dwarven curses.

“Perhaps we should be moving on now,” Jeralk suggested wryly as Kenson rushed forward to help Gimli to his feet.  “It may take us several hours to reach this homestead, and I wish to be out of the storm as soon as possible.”

Aragorn nodded.  “Gather the men then, and make sure they know to stay close.  It will be easy to become separated in this mess.  And make sure Delran is under close watch at all times.”

“I have my best man guarding him, my Lord,” Jeralk assured him.

Aragorn shook his head sharply and glanced toward Edan and Emnar.  Both men seemed completely absorbed in watching the unfolding drama between Gimli and Shandarell, but Aragorn lowered his voice to a whisper anyway, his voice barely audible over the wind.  “No titles, Jeralk, remember.  Call me Strider, or Sir, if you must.”

Jeralk didn’t look very happy, but he nodded, understanding Aragorn’s need for secrecy. 

“And make sure the men are on alert for anything out of the ordinary,” Aragorn continued, lowering his voice even further and causing the Captain to lean closer in order to hear.  “These men seem friendly, and I do not expect treachery on their part.  Yet we must be cautious.  Especially this close to the border.”

Jeralk nodded again, then quickly hurried away to be about his appointed tasks. 

Aragorn turned to find Edan and Emnar watching him expectantly, their forms seemingly secretive and distant, wrapped as they were in their heavy cloaks, their features hidden by heavy cowls.  It was somewhat unnerving to be placing his trust in someone he had just met and whose faces he had never seen.  Still, Aragorn had long ago learned to trust his instincts concerning others, and the two young men seemed honest and sincere enough in their offer of help. 

“If you would be so kind as to lead our group, then I and my companions will ride with you,” Aragorn suggested brightly.  “That is, if Shandarell approves.”

“I am not riding that horse, Strider,” Gimli fumed, shooting a furious glare in Shandarell’s direction.  “It is likely the fool thing will get it into his head to attack these other beast, and with me on his back!  I will ride with you!”

“You could ride on Kitten with me,” Emnar suggested with something very much akin to childlike excitement.  “He wouldn’t even notice the extra weight and you could get a feel for just how powerful and strong Gemni’s really are.”

Gimli’s eyes grew wide, but Aragorn doubted it was due to surprise at the young man’s generous offer.  The dwarf’s mouth opened, but Aragorn quickly broke in before the expected tirade.  “I think Gimli will ride with me,” he stated firmly, “I have things I need to discuss with him and it will be easier not to have to shout in order to converse.”

Emnar’s shoulders dropped slightly in disappointment.  “Perhaps another time, then,” he offered Gimli.

“Perhaps,” Aragorn said in reply, since Gimli seemed too overcome with relief to form any answer.

“Since we have that settled,” Kenson spoke up, his voice full of amusement, “Shall we be on our way.  It seems everyone is ready but us.”

True enough, Jeralk had gathered and organized the men quickly, and they were now all mounted and forming an expectant circle around Aragorn and his companions.  Emnar and Edan quickly moved over to their own horses and pulled themselves atop the giant animals.  Kenson also mounted quickly, and Aragorn and Gimli headed toward Cierno. 

As soon as Shandarell realized the dwarf’s intention, he bolted forward, sounding a plaintive whinny.  Both Aragorn and Gimli attempted to push him away, but to no avail.  Shandarell refused to allow Gimli anywhere near the brown gelding.

“GREAT AULË!!”  Gimli finally exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air.  “You are as stubborn as your master!  Fine, I shall ride you.  Yet if you so much as twitch an ear in the wrong direction while I’m on your back, you will feel the flat of my axe between your ears!”

Aragorn let out a relieved sigh and hurried to boost Gimli onto a suddenly calm and docile Shandarell.  As soon as the dwarf was safely settled, he turned back to Cierno and swiftly mounted.  “If there are no more delays, let us be on our way,” he commanded with as much dignity as he could muster.

Edan and Emnar quickly turned their two giant horses and began leading the way at a slow walk.  The rest of the company crowded in close behind them, even Shandarell, who suddenly seemed completely unconcerned about the two mammoths walking only a few paces to his right.

The minute they passed from the protection of the two hills, the storm swept over them with a raging vengeance.  A white wall of snow seemed to slam down on them, and the wind grabbed and ripped at their cloaks, howling with wild glee.  It became impossible to see any further than a few feet in front of the horses, and the entire company crowded close for fear of becoming separated.  Aragorn felt his already chilled body go numb with cold, and he wondered idly if they all would have to be pried, frozen, from their saddles when they finally reached their destination.  He was suddenly very thankful for the two brothers and their giant beasts plowing on confidently directly in front of them.

They rode in silence, for the rage of the storm would not allow conversation, and time slipped by unnoticed and unmeasured as each person lost themselves in their own cold world of misery.  Little over an hour had passed—though to the weary company it seemed more like days—before the group at last passed into the relative shelter of a large copse of trees.  The wind had a harder time reaching them through the dense maze of thick trunks and wild brambles, and the snowfall was lessoned somewhat by the mass of stark branches interlocking over the riders’ heads.  Conversation was once more possible, and even the horses seemed to breathe a deep sigh of relief for the brief respite from the violent storm.

“You say that horse does not belong to you,” Edan commented to Gimli, immediately jumping into the conversation as if he and the dwarf had been talking the entire time.  “Does his master now ride in this company?”

Gimli shook his head, large junks of snow falling from his beard at the motion.  “Legolas does not ride with us at the moment,” he answered somewhat stiffly, “Though if all goes well, he will soon.”

“And do you think, perhaps, that he might be interesting in selling the beast,” Edan asked, motioning toward Shandarell.

Gimli looked surprised, but did not hesitate in his answer.  “Nay, Legolas would not part with this horse, nor do I think Shandarell would care to part with him.”

“This Legolas, he is an elf, right?” Emnar spoke up, leaning forward in his saddle to peer past his brother.

Aragorn felt himself stiffen in surprise and suspicion before he remembered that Gimli had mentioned this fact during his tirade against Shandarell.  He relaxed once more.

“Yes, Legolas is an elf,” he answered for Gimli, “And a very dear friend to us all.”

Both Emnar and Edan nodded.  “I have never met an elf before,” Edan said with a hint of wistfulness.  “Nor do I ever expect I shall.  Of course, I never thought I would meet a dwarf either!  We do not get many visitors around here.  At least, we never used to.  Lately, though, it seems as if we have strangers popping up everywhere.”

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked sharply, feeling an unexplainable chill that had nothing to do with the weather run up his spine.  “Have you come across other travelers such as ourselves lately?”

Edan turned slightly in his saddle to look back at Aragorn, and though he could not see the young man’s face, Aragorn got the impression that Edan was startled by his sharp tone.

“It’s more like they came across us,” Emnar answered when his brother made no reply.  “Rode right up to the homestead out of nowhere!  About seven of them, and all looking as mean as wild dogs!  Asked for some supplies, they did, and spooked my folks fiercely.”

“Shut up, Emnar,” Edan snapped.  “You talk as if you were actually there, but you know good and well that you and I were gone down the river that day.”

“What day?” Aragorn demanded, leaning forward excitedly in his saddle.  “How many days ago was this? 

Aragorn sensed both Gimli and Kenson leaning in close in order to hear better, their own forms stiff with excitement.

Edan shrugged.  “About four days ago,” he answered dismissively.

“Was there a large man with scars on his face?” Gimli demanded at almost the exact same moment that Kenson asked, “Did they have a young boy with them?”

Edan and Emnar both appeared slightly confused.  “I am not sure about the man,…or the boy,” Edan finally said slowly.  “As I said, my brother and I were gone down the river that day, and only heard about it later from our sister.  Are you looking for someone?”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn said sternly before either Kenson or Gimli could answer.  “We had a group of riders rob us a few days back, and I was thinking perhaps it is the same group.”  He hated lying, yet at the same time understood the necessity of caution.  He had learned long ago that out in the wild, it was caution that separated the survivors from the fallen fools.

“It more than likely was them,” Emnar chirped up,  “From what I heard, if anyone were to rob you, these fellows would be the most likely.”

“Yet we were not there,” Edan reminded his brother firmly.  “I am afraid if you have any questions you will have to wait and ask my father.”

Aragorn nodded, but before he could speak the company moved from beneath the shelter of the trees, and the howl of the wind once again made any conversation futile.  Aragorn settled back in the saddle resignedly, suddenly feeling a great impatience to reach the homestead and question the two boys’ father.  He felt almost certain that the riders Emnar had mentioned were the ones who had taken Legolas and Dar. Excitement coursed through his veins, making him unaware of the chill of his body, and a glance at Kenson and Gimli riding beside him revealed that his companions were feeling the same excitement.  He was unsure what benefit this discovery might reap, yet merely the thought that something concerning their lost companions might be learned was rather encouraging.

Each minute seemed to drag into long hours, and Aragorn was just beginning to think they would never reach their destination, when a shout from in front of him caused him to jerk upright in the saddle.

“Welcome to our home!” Emnar bellowed joyfully, and a second later Aragorn felt Cierno come to a jerky halt.  He blinked in surprise, and looked around expectantly into the wildly blowing snow.  At first he could see nothing, but eventually his sharp eyes began to pick out the indistinct squat shapes of buildings.  A fuzzy glow seemed to suddenly appear almost directly in front of him, and he realized the horses had come to a halt in front of what appeared to be a the porch of a large, two story building. 

“Edan?  Emnar?  Is that you?” A woman’s voice bellowed from somewhere on the porch.

“Yes, ma,” Both the boys shouted back in unison.  “We’re home, and we’ve brought some visitors.”

The fuzzy glow grew brighter, and Aragorn managed to make out the cloaked frame of a large woman holding a lantern and peering up at them from the top step of the porch.  “Good, good,” the woman cried.  “You’ve come just in time for supper.  Come in, come in, all of you.”

“Ma, there’s thirty three of them!” Edan shouted, still sitting atop his horse.

The woman seemed slightly taken aback, her eyes going round.  “Thirty three,” she bellowed, “Why, they’d never all fit inside.”

“That’s alright ma,” Emnar assured.  “We’ll just take them to the barn and get them settled, then come right in.”

“Yes, yes, good!” the woman hummed, reaching forward to hand the lantern she held to Edan.  “Should I send your father out to help?”

“We’ll be fine,” the boys assured her, and the woman nodded and quickly hurried inside.

Edan turned to Aragorn.  “Why don’t you and your companions stay here,” he waved a hand toward Gimli and Kenson. “Go inside with Emnar while I take the rest of your men out to the barn.  I know you wish to speak with my parents and now would probably be as good a time as any.”

Aragorn hesitated, torn between his desire to speak with Edan’s parents as soon as possible and his need to see his men safely settled.  Jeralk, who had ridden up beside Aragorn, reached out and touched his arm to get his attention, then jerked his head toward the house.  “Go, sir,” he ordered, using the same no-nonsense tone of voice Aragorn had heard him use on his soldiers.  “I’ll see to the men.  We’ll be fine.  You go inside and find out what you can about…well, about this whole mess.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, still feeling somewhat reluctant.  Emnar had already dismounted, handed the reigns of his horse to his brother, and now stood on the porch waiting patiently for them.

“We’ll be out shortly,” Aragorn promised the captain.

“Take your time,” Jeralk said dismissively.  “We won’t be going anywhere!”

Aragorn quickly swung from Cierno’s back, his cold skin tingling as the blood began to flow through his legs once more.  He motioned for Gimli and Kenson to join him, then handed Cierno’s reigns to Jeralk, knowing the captain would take good care of the gelding. 

Shandarell put up a slight fuss when Gimli attempted to hand him over to another soldier, but after a little cajoling and much swearing on the dwarf’s part the horse reluctantly allowed himself to be led away after Edan.  The three friends joined Emnar on the porch then, and the young man quickly led them inside.

Upon entering the house they were met with a blast of warm air that flickered across their numb faces in a comforting caress.  The mouth-watering smell of simmering stew drifted down the hall to them, causing Aragorn’s stomach to growl loudly.  The sound was completely drowned out, however, by the loud rumble that seemed to suddenly explode from Gimli’s own midsection.  Both Aragorn and Kenson turned to look at the dwarf in surprise, but Gimli only shrugged and began working to free himself from the claspings of his heavy cloak.

Aragorn turned to find that Emnar had already shrugged out of his own cloak and was hanging the soggy material on a hook behind the door.  The young man glanced over his shoulder and shot Aragorn a welcoming grin, his face revealed for the first time.  Aragorn gave a slight start to realize their guide was actually much younger than he had originally suspected.  Emnar looked as if he couldn’t be much older than fifteen, with curly blond hair that framed a narrow, friendly face with wide, expressive green eyes.  From the boys voice and actions earlier, Aragorn had believed him to be at least twenty, possibly older.

“I’ll take your cloak, sir, if you don’t mind,” Emnar offered politely, and Aragorn quickly shrugged out of the sodden material and handed it to the boy.  Emnar hung it with the rest, then turned back to them, looking slightly embarrassed.  “Sirs,” he began hesitantly, “I don’t suppose it would be rude of me to ask you to leave your weapons here?  They might frighten my family, and my mother doesn’t like us to bring knives or swords or anything into the house.”  He sounded apologetic.

Aragorn hesitated only a moment before unbuckling his sword belt and handing the weapon to the young man.  He somehow felt certain that no danger awaited them within this house, and Emnar’s request seemed perfectly reasonable and acceptable. 

Emnar looked relieved, and he took the proffered sword carefully, almost reverently, and placed it in a long cabinet next to the door.  Gimli and Kenson also handed him their weapons, and they were carefully stowed in the exact same manner.  Then the young man rose and motioned them all to follow him down the hallway.  The sound of laughter and several young voices drifted from a brightly lit room at the end of the corridor, and it was from here that the delicious smell of food was wafting. 

Emnar bounded into the room enthusiastically, throwing his arms out wide and shouting, “Hey everybody, I’m home!  And I brought some visitors for you all to meet!”

A loud chorus of excited shouts met this announcement, and as Aragorn and his companions stepped into the large room they suddenly found themselves completely surrounded.  Children ranging from the age of ten to barely able to walk swarmed around them, all talking at once, their eyes wide with wonder that quickly turned to awe when they caught site of Gimli.  Behind the crowd of children Aragorn spotted the woman who had met them on the porch earlier straightening from over a large pot simmering on the hearth.  A tall man stood next to her, a smoking pipe held in one hand and a thick book in the other. 

“Are you a real dwarf?”  A boy of about ten asked Gimli excitedly, while a small girl looking no older than three stood on her tiptoes to reach up and grab a handful of his beard.

“Don’t be rude, Elias!”  The woman snapped, stepping forward and sweeping through the crowd of children like a large ship gliding through water.  “Elsi, release the poor man…err…dwarf’s beard at once!  Now everyone just take a step back before you end up chasing our poor guest’s right back out the door!”

“This is my mother,” Emnar said unnecessarily, motioning toward the woman.  “And the man back there is my father.  Over there are the twins Erain and Edell.  There’s Elias, Elsi, the baby’s name is Emma…oh, and my older sister Eleana.”  A young woman of about sixteen had entered the room from a side door and stood watching the newcomers shyly.  “Everyone, this is Mr. Strider, Mr. Kenson, and Mr. Gimli.”

“Welcome, welcome!” Emnar’s mother exclaimed, holding her hands out wide.  “Don’t let all the children intimidate you.  Come in, come in.  You’re just in time for supper.  Emnar, where is your brother…oh never mind, he must be taking care of the other thirty of them.”

Before Aragorn could even blink he found himself ushered firmly to the table in the center of the room and a large plate of stew placed in front of him.  Emnar, Kenson and Gimli were similarly directed to their own chairs and plates, with the children still swarming about, arguing over who got to sit next to the visitors.  It seemed that with their arrival, there was suddenly not enough chairs for everyone.  Undaunted, the little girl Elsi marched directly up to Gimli’s chair and pulled herself into his lap, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

“Thank you, ma’am…”

“Del, you may call me Del,” The woman interrupted Aragorn.  “And my husband’s name is Fandon!  Now eat, eat!  All the little ones have already eaten, and there’s still plenty left in the pot, so help yourselves to as much as you want!”

Aragorn opened his mouth to say thank you again, but Del had already turned and hurried from the room, calling over her shoulder for some of her children to come and help her get drinks for their guests.  Aragorn turned instead to the woman’s husband.

“Thank you, sir,” he said sincerely, “both for your warm welcome of us into your home, and also for the use of your barn.  You will be repaid for your kindness, I promise.”

Fandon waved his hand in dismissal.  “Bah,” he grunted, “Don’t mention it!  Now I suggest you take your companion’s lead and eat.”

Aragorn turned to find that both Gimli and Kenson had started in on their plates of stew with enthusiasm, Gimli seeming not even to notice having to eat around the little girl still perched in his lap.  With a small shrug, Aragorn turned his own attention to the steaming plate in front of him.  He took a quick bite and found the food to be not only hot, but also extremely delicious, and he set into it with as much enthusiasm as his two companions.

He was just starting to work on his second helping when Edan came in, the shedding of his cloak revealing him to be a handsome young man of about eighteen, with the same expressive green eyes as the rest of his family.  A few flakes of snow had snuck beneath the hood of his cloak and taken nest in his hair, and his face was bright red from the cold.

Aragorn felt a pang of guilt when he thought of his men packed into an undoubtedly crowded and cold barn eating pieces of dried meat while he sat here next to a warm fire and supped on a meal tasting fit for a king.  He started to rise, but Edan quickly motioned him back into his seat.

“Your men are fine, sir,” the young man said firmly.  “We cleared a space in the back of the barn and built up a nice fire.  Emnar and I caught a large, young buck just the other day, and their roasting it up right now.  Captain Jeralk told me to tell you ‘to take your time, because the men are having a good time and they would just have to calm down and behave if you went out there.’”  Speech delivered, Edan sunk down in a chair one of his younger sibling quickly vacated for him, and reached for the pot of stew his mother had placed in the center of the table.

Aragorn sunk back into his own chair, smiling slightly at captain Jeralk’s message. 

Del hurried back into the room, miraculously balancing several goblets in her hands at once and glaring at her children until they rose to help her.

“So what brings you to the Poros River Valley?” she asked when she had finally delivered all the goblets and taken her own seat next to her husband.  “We don’t get very many visitors around here.”

“Actually, ma’am, that is something I wished to talk to you and your husband about,” Aragorn replied, carefully avoiding the woman’s question.  “Your sons tell us that you were visited by a group of riders asking for supplies several days ago?”

Both Del and Fandon nodded, their faces darkening. 

“Scared the children to death, they did,” Del said heatedly, “And I can’t say I wasn’t a little spooked myself!”

“Could you tell us a little about them, ma’am,” Aragorn asked slowly.  Both Gimli and Kenson had stopped eating and where listening to the conversation intently.

Del seemed a bit surprised at the question, but Emnar quickly spoke up.  “They think the men that came here the other day might be the same group that robbed them a while back,” he explained to his mother.

Fandon and Del both nodded once more in understanding, then Fandon began to speak.

“They rode up out of nowhere about mid-afternoon four days ago.  There was seven of them, all rough looking men with swords and daggers and faces as mean as dogs.  I was out in the field when they came, but the minute I saw them I rushed in as fast as I could.”

“They wanted supplies,” Del continued, “And though they offered to pay for them, it wasn’t nearly what they were worth!”

“Still, we gave it to them and sent them on their way,” Fandon broke in.  “I wanted no trouble, and was only relieved to see them gone.”

“There was no one with them?” Kenson asked worriedly, “I mean, no one who caught your attention as not really belonging?”

Fandon shook his head.  “Fraid not,” he said simply, “They all just looked mean and cruel to me.”

“Was there a large man with lots of scars on his face?” Aragorn asked.

Del nodded fiercely.  “There was!” she exclaimed hotly.  “It was him that frightened me the most, though he didn’t say nothing, just let the other fellow do all the talking.”

“What did the other fellow look like?” Gimli asked, repositioning the little girl on his lap so he could lean forward in his chair.

“He was somewhat tall and lean,” Fandon explained.  “He had a soft voice, and he moved real graceful and smooth like.  He had short brown hair and a somewhat narrow face with a sharp nose and high forehead.  I suppose some women might even consider him handsome if he didn’t put off such a distant and cold air.”

Aragorn nodded, thinking hard.  “Is there anything else you can tell us about them? Anything at all.”

Fandon shook his head.  “I tried to strike up a conversation with them, find out where they were headed, but they wouldn’t say a word to me except to tell me what they wanted and how much they would pay for it!  But if I think of anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Aragorn nodded his thanks, than sat back in his chair, his mind a crazy whirl of thoughts and emotions.  It felt as though suddenly a great weight had been lifted from him, and he breathed easy for the first time in days. The information he had just received was very important to him, for it lent at least some validity to Delran’s tale.  Up until now he had been moving forward blindly, in no way knowing whether he was following the correct path or a path of deceit and lies. Yet the fact that Legolas and Dar’s kidnappers had indeed passed this way filled him with hope and excitement.  The fact that neither of their companions had been seen was actually not surprising.  It was likely that those who took them would keep them carefully hidden from all eyes.

“Have you had any other strange visitors within the last few days?” he asked at last, without any real hope of an answer.

Del and Fandon exchanged looks, seeming suddenly wary, and Aragorn sat up straighter, watching them intently.

Fandon shrugged and dropped his eyes to the floor, while Del seemed suddenly extremely interested in a small snag in her skirt.

“Who?” Aragorn prompted gently.

Dell finally lifted her eyes to meet his, and Aragorn was taken slightly aback by the sorrow he saw in the woman’s expression.

“Only the boy,” she at last whispered, softly, sadly.  “Only the boy.”

TBC 

 Chapter 21      Fighting the Darkness

Servius stood and watched as Tervanis, Garish, and Legolas disappeared down the long steps leading to the cellar.  His face was twisted in a grimace that could have been either a smile or a scowl, and was in fact a little of both.  Anger flowed through him like a fitful river, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. 

Things had not gone as well as he had hoped this night.  The elf had not reacted at all as he has expected when he revealed his plans and intentions.  Instead of being worried and frightened, his prisoner had remained calm and unaffected, firm in his faith for his friend.  He had looked at Servius with disgust and pity.  Pity!  As if Servius were the prisoner facing defeat and death.  This reaction enraged him, as well as planted the first seedlings of doubt and uncertainty.  If things had gone so vastly different than expected with the elf, how much more would it be when the King of Gondor arrived?

Angrily shoving his doubts away, Servius returned to the small dining hall to await Tervanis’ return.  A smile lit his face at the thought of Legolas in the tiny cage.  He had had the small prison specially made and brought in for this occasion, a display of his newfound power. 

Yet power came with a price in the city of Norvil, and Servius was all too aware of this.  When he had been mayor of Calembel, he had taken his power and influence for granted.  It was something he had always had and always would have, or so he had believed.  He had learned differently, the hard way.  In the blink of an eye, he had gone from power to poverty, everything he owned stripped away from him by a single word from the hated King Elessar.  His home, his possessions, all his money, had suddenly become someone else’s, while he was left to wander the land a penniless beggar.

The rage returned as Servius allowed his mind to return to that time six years prior in his life.  His two advisors, Fanchon and Telfor had shared his banishment from the city, and the three of them had wandered Gondor for two years, moving from city to city and begging for what food they could get.   In truth, it was Telfor and Fanchon who kept him alive, for Servius was too busy wallowing in his anger and resentment to be of much use.  He was not sure why the two men had stayed with him, yet they had, and the three of them had slowly learned to adapt to their new life of poverty.  Yet each time Servius laid eyes on the wealthy and influential men of whatever city he happened to be visiting, he felt an overwhelming wave of jealously and resentment over what he had lost.  As time passed, instead of fading, these feelings grew more and more intense, evolving into a simmering hatred.  He hated his life, he hated the rich men for the simple reason that they had what he did not, he hated the pity of those who provided them with food and shelter, but most of all, he hated the one who had brought him to such a low position.  That hate had grown so fierce within him, that Servius had been forced to find a way to release all the emotion pressing inside him lest he go mad.  It was then, almost two years after his banishment, that he had committed his first murder!

Now, over four years later, the memory of that crime bothered Servius not a bit.  He recognized it as the moment he had truly begun to change, shedding his old life and beginning his new.  His victim had been a simple merchant in one of the large cities located in the western most reaches of Gondor.  The man’s only sin had been his wealth, his only mistake, sniffing down his nose at three beggars as he passed by.  Servius had followed him to his home, confronted him, and then killed him, taking a generous portion of the man’s wealth.  With his two companions, he had fled the city, plagued by guilt and fear.   Only the heavy purses of gold he had stolen offered him any cheer.  What conscience remained inside of him twisted with agony and regret.  It was yet another pain for which to blame the King.  After all, if the man had not banished him, Servius would not have needed to kill in order to survive.

It had not taken them long to spend all the stolen money, and after that, the second murder had been even easier.  And so it had been for several long months, moving from place to place, and always leaving behind a body whenever they left.  It did not take long before Servius was completely able to ignore the voices of his conscience, and soon after they fell forever silent.  He even began to enjoy the feelings of power he experienced every time he faced one of his victims and ended their life forever.  He began to envision that each of his victims was the hated King Elessar, and as he sank his blade into their chests with glee, he promised himself that someday it would be the King kneeling at his feet pleading for his life.  It wasn’t until two years after his banishment that Servius made his first mistake. 

He had killed a woman. 

It had been quite by accident; the woman had entered into the room where he was searching for the riches of her recently deceased husband.  They had both been caught unaware, but unfortunately for the woman, Servius was the first one to recover.  Afterwards, he and his two faithful companions had fled the city as they had always done before, but this time they were followed.  A group of bounty hunters tracked them for three weeks, nearly capturing them on several occasions.  The men were relentless, and at last Servius realized the only way to be free of them would be to leave Gondor altogether. 

It was then that he had come to Khand and the city of Norvil, a place for rogues and misfits, a city that accepted all those that no other city would accept.  Norvil was a teeming hive of depravity and lawlessness, appearing to have no leaders, nor want of any.  Servius had found out later that this was not completely true, and Norvil did indeed have its own set of leaders, though they were unlike any others he had encountered thus far.  They were the Guildmasters of the city, men who had wealth, and therefore, power.  Each Guildmaster owned and governed a portion of the city, using their wealth to control those under them.  Yet for the most part, they ignored the people and concentrated instead on using their money to gain whatever whims or desires they might have, allowing the city to go on however it pleased just so long as it didn’t interfere with their private plans.  It was almost a game between the Guildmasters, each one waging their own private war against another to see who was most powerful.  It was a very dangerous game, for power within Norvil was a very dangerous thing.  Those who had no power were always looking for ways in which to gain it, and those who already had it constantly thirsted for more.  Each Guildmaster had to be cunning and wise in order to keep their position, constantly hiding from their rivals exactly how much money and power they had gained.  If their rival was unable to determine this, then they would be much more reluctant to challenge an unknown force.  It was a well-known fact that in Norvil, even the Guildmasters were not completely safe, as Rigor had so effectively proved.

Servius smiled slightly at the thought of his ‘benefactor.’  Rigor had indeed been a powerful and wealthy force within Norvil, yet he had also been a fool.  He had found Servius and his two companions wandering the streets of the city, and had taken them in to serve him.  He had had an extreme interest in the land of Gondor, and had wanted to learn all that Servius could teach him.  He had grown to like Servius.  Like had eventually grown into trust.  A misplaced trust, yet Servius had played it for all it was worth.  He pretended to be the perfect servant, faithful and true, his act undoubtedly helped by the fact that Rigor would never have believed it possible that a simple foreigner would be brave enough to betray him within his own home.  Rigor had begun to share with Servius some of his carefully kept secrets, and one day, had revealed the biggest secret of all; the position where his wealth was hidden.

Killing Rigor had been a bit more difficult than his previous murders, for the man was under constant guard.  Yet Servius had grown to be quite cunning, and though the task was difficult, it was not impossible.  The man had trusted him, and in the end, he had died for his foolishness.  Within the blink of an eye, Servius had taken over his wealth, his guild, and his power.  The people of Norvil had barely even noticed, and by the time the other Guildmasters had truly taken an interest, Servius was firmly entrenched in his role as Guildmaster.  They had not bothered much with him, undoubtedly believing it was only a matter of time before he lost his new position to some ambitious cutthroat.  Yet Servius had been much too careful to allow that to happen.  He had learned from the mistakes of his predecessor, and he survived by being careful.  Perhaps even more careful than what was warranted.  He had remained in power, and the city of Norvil shrugged its shoulders and continued on as they always had.

And now Servius once more lived in a position of power and wealth, though it was far different than what it had been in Calembel.  Instead of the giant mansion he had once owned, he now lived in a rather small building displaying none of the grandeur and riches he had once so coveted.  His wealth was carefully hidden away from prying eyes instead of proudly displayed as once it had been.  Yet none of this really mattered to Servius, in truth even his wealth no longer held the same desire in him as it once had.  His view of riches had changed along with him, and now he saw it merely as another tool to use to accomplish a single purpose, another way to attain that which he desired above all else; revenge.

Servius began to laugh, the sound low and rough, and filled with a myriad of different emotions.  For four long years he had worked and planned, and now, at last, he was harvesting the fruits of his labor.  The moment he had waited for so long was quickly approaching, and nothing would stop him from his revenge! 

“He is secured.”

Servius whirled around, startled by the sudden voice behind him.  Tervanis leaned casually against the doorframe, watching him with narrowed eyes, his right hand idly playing with the hilt of his dagger.  There was something extremely dangerous about the assassin’s relaxed position, and Servius suddenly found himself feeling quite uncomfortable.  He quickly turned his back to the man in order to hide his nervousness. 

“Good,” he said briskly.  “Come in, for we have many plans we must discuss before the king arrives.”

Tervanis made no answer, and after a moment Servius glanced over his shoulder to find that the assassin had not moved.  The man was still watching him with narrowed eyes, and his hand continued to caress the hilt of his knife.

“Well?” Servius demanded, hating how weak his voice sounded.

At last Tervanis moved, straightening from his position, and Servius took an unconscious step back.  “I played along with your little games earlier,” the assassin said simply, his voice turning Servius’ blood to ice, “Yet if you ever speak to me in such a manner again, as if I were your personal slave, I will gladly slit your throat.  Do you understand?”

Servius froze, staring at the assassin with unveiled fear.  Tervanis’ voice was perfectly calm, yet Servius had no doubt that the assassin had meant every word.  ‘Here is another man with power,’ he thought shakily.  Tervanis might not be a Guildmaster, or have great wealth at his disposal, yet he had another very important tool; fear.  He was well known as the most dangerous assassin in all of Norvil, perhaps in all of Khand, and that position brought with it its own power.  Servius realized with growing horror that Tervanis could very easily slit his throat here and now, and take every ounce of his treasure if he so chose.  That is, if he could find the hidden wealth.  Yet at the moment, staring into the cold eyes of the assassin, Servius doubted very much if there was anything Tervanis could not accomplish.

Servius took several very long, deep breaths to help himself relax.  Tervanis was not going to kill him.  It was common knowledge that the assassin held no desire for the title of Guildmaster, or the fortune that inherently came with such a position.  He held his own sense of honor when it came to money.  He would gladly accept payment for a job rendered, yet looked with distaste at the acquisition of too much unearned money.  If hired to assassinate a Guildmaster, he would accomplish the job swiftly, take the money he had earned, and turn the rest of the fortune over to whoever had hired him.  In his opinion, too much money made a man weak.  He enjoyed his job, and had no desire to do anything else.  It was clear he would not kill Servius simply for his riches or his position.  In fact, killing Servius at all, for any reason, would be a blow against the assassin’s reputation.  It wouldn’t take long for the word to spread, and afterward, Tervanis would have a hard time finding someone willing to hire him.  Many an assassin had ruined their career by turning against their employers.  No one was willing to hire someone who could easily turn on them and kill them at the slightest whim.  Surely Tervanis knew that, and would not risk it.

Still, Servius was not willing to stake his life on the assassin’s reputation.  “My apologies,” he said sincerely, bowing slightly in Tervanis’ direction.  “I am afraid the excitement of the moment overwhelmed my senses.”

Tervanis nodded slightly in acknowledgement, his hand at last leaving the hilt of his blade as he came further into the room.  Servius let out a silent sigh of relief.

“Now tell me about your journey,” he ordered carefully. After all, he was still Tervanis’ employer.  As long as the assassin was accepting his money, he had to do as Servius said.  Servius might have to be careful as to how he talked to the assassin, but it didn’t mean he had to curl up like a whipped dog.

Tervanis’ lips twisted upward in a slight mocking smile, as if reading Servius’ thoughts.  “There is not much to tell,” he answered simply.

“You had no trouble in Minas Tirith then?” Servius asked.  “No trouble disposing of the queen and that annoying dwarf?” His hand went up to the slight ridge on his nose where the broken bone had not quite healed from when the dwarf had hit him.

Something flickered in Tervanis’ eyes, then just as quickly was gone.  “No more trouble than expected,” he said simply, moving over to the table and pouring a goblet of wine from the pitcher sitting there.

“Good,” Servius said, rubbing his hands together.  “He will be struggling with his grief even as he comes to save his friend.  This is perfect!”

Tervanis’ nodded, then tipped the goblet back and drained it in one gulp, slamming the cup back down on the table with enough force to bend the stem.

“And what about the elf, did he give you any trouble on your way here?”

Tervanis shrugged.  “Very interesting creatures, elves,” he muttered softly, seeming to talk more to himself than to Servius.  “I would very much like to study their race more closely.”  His gaze snapped back to Servius, and he answered the original question.  “He gave us a little trouble at first, but nothing I could not handle.  I have been giving him some doses of Svellon to ensure his behavior.”

“What!?” Servius demanded, his surprise and anger making him forget briefly the danger of riling the assassin.  “You could have killed him, and then all my planning would be ruined!”

Tervanis shrugged.  “He responded to the drug differently than any I have seen before.  It was quite interesting.  But as you can see, it did not kill him.  He is very strong.  Do you truly intend to kill him when the King arrives?”

Servius was surprised at the question, and even more surprised at the assassin’s tone.  “You do not approve?” he asked coolly.

Tervanis did not answer, but turned his back to Servius and poured himself another goblet of wine.

“Why?” Servius asked, truly curious as to why the assassin would care what his plans for the elf were.

“You would not understand,” Tervanis finally answered after a very long pause.  “Nor does it matter.”

Servius’ gaze sharpened, but Tervanis’ back was still turned to him.  “No, it does not matter,” he said slowly, “Not as long as you do your job.”

Tervanis turned to face him again.  “Of course,” he said simply, his features completely unreadable.  “Yet I warn you now, you may have more trouble with the elf than you believe.  He will not sit idly and allow you to carry out your plan.  He will fight you.”

Servius shrugged, a small smile of malicious delight tugging up the corners of his mouth.  “That is yet another concern that does not matter, my friend.  A few nights spent in the cages’ cramped interior will certainly work wonders in eating away at our elf’s calm.  I will have him broken and begging for his life yet!”

********

Legolas stood in the middle of Greenwood, looking up into the intricate network of branches intertwined above his head and listening to the soft song of the trees.  Forms flitted about him, elves dancing in and out of his line of vision as they moved through the trees.  Their laughter rang through the cavernous halls of the wood, filled with peace and contentment.  Familiar voices called to him, encouraging him to join the merriment, yet Legolas stood where he was, intent upon the trees around him.

There was something that was not quite right with the trees, a single note in their melodious song that range false.  The other elves seemed not to notice as they laughed and played, yet Legolas focused his entire being into discovering the cause of the discordant sound.  It seemed small and distant at the moment, but growing stronger and louder the more he listened.  He wished he could silence the other elves so he could better hear, yet they continued on with their merriment, completely unaware.

A small tug on his arm caused him to turn in time to see his sister, Laurell, dance away into the trees, laughing wildly and motioning for him to follow. 

Legolas shook his head and turned back to the trees.  Their song had grown worse, grating upon his sensitive ears until he wanted to cover them with his hands to block out the gruesome sound, and still the elves played on as though they could not hear.

‘What is wrong?’ Legolas called to the trees, yet they only groaned in response, their leaves beginning to wilt and ugly patches beginning to appear upon their lovely trunks.  Legolas cried out in horror, and at last the elves ended their play, growing silent and somber as the green of their home slowly faded to a dead brown. 

‘We must help them!’ Legolas cried, whirling to face the other elves.  They stood in a quiet line behind him, familiar faces of family and friends, their light features now darkened by pain and grief.  Yet it was not to the trees that they looked, but to him, their eyes filled with a deep sadness.  Then, one by one they turned away and disappeared into the darkness of the rotting wood, many of them throwing regretful glances over their shoulders in his direction.

‘Wait!’ Legolas cried, yet the elves seemed not to hear him, and soon they had all gone but for his family, standing in a somber cluster and watching him gravely.  Then, one at a time, they too turned and disappeared into the forest, swallowed by the darkness that had once been their home.  Only his father remained, the king of Greenwood looking greatly agitated and grieved.

‘We must help the trees, father,’ Legolas whispered, certain that his father at least would stay and help heal the strange sickness that had come over their land.

Thranduil did not reply, only continued to watch Legolas with sad eyes.  At last, moving extremely slowly, he turned and began walking away.  Legolas wanted to cry out for him to stay, yet it seemed all breath had left him, leaving behind a horrible ache.  His father at last stopped and turned once more to face Legolas, his face questioning and one arm raised slightly as if to motion Legolas to follow.

Legolas stared at his father in confusion, his heart beating wildly within his chest.  His father loved the trees!  He could not believe the king would so easily abandon them.

 He shook his head.  ‘I must help them!’ he whispered hoarsely, desperate for his father to understand.

Slowly, Thranduil’s arm fell back to his side, and with a last sad look at his son, he turned and disappeared after the others.

Legolas felt torn in two, the grief within him rising until it almost choked him.  The trees, no longer tall and beautiful but bent and ugly, closed in around him, filling the air with their rotting stench.  Branches reached for him, rough bark tearing into the flesh of his arms and snagging at his hair.  Legolas cried out and attempted to pull away from their sickening grasp, but they merely moved in closer, tearing at him like a wild predator ripping at its prey.  He felt their dark poison transferred to him, sickening his body and poisoning his soul.  His flesh began to wither, and the world began to darken, tilting wildly.  Legolas cried out, desperately struggling against the limbs that were trapping him, but it was no use.  Slowly, inescapably, they dragged him downwards into blackness…

****

Legolas awoke to the same blackness as his dream, the cold metal of the bars pressing tightly against his back.  The dark stench of the rotted and poisoned trees seemed to have followed him into his cell, and his stomach heaved repeatedly in violent protest.  He waited for the feelings of sickness to subside, but instead his nausea seemed only to grow, a violent shaking taking over his limbs.  He grasped the bars of his cell tightly, gasping in pain and growing panic, his stomach churning and his head pounding, every muscle in his body feeling as if it was stretched to the point of tearing.

He had been drugged again.  Tervanis had given him some more Svellon.  That had to be why he was feeling so sick.  Yet he could not remember being given the drug, in fact, he was almost certain that he had not!

He moaned and curled himself into a tight ball in the center of the cage, frighteningly aware of the bars that closed in tightly around him, refusing him even enough room to stretch out his long limbs.  A moan was torn from his lips, and tears leaked unbidden from the corners of his eyes.

Something was very wrong!

TBC 

Chapter 22    Friends of the Future, Foes of the Past

The little girl was positioned firmly on his lap, her tiny fist gripping a handful of his beard, her small head tilted back slightly so she could look up at him.   A mass of brown ringlets surrounded her small face, framing her tiny, doll like features, and large, sea green eyes.  Wonder and awe lit up her face, and the sparkle in her eyes reminded him very much of Legolas when the elf was up to a particularly mischievous prank.  Hardships and worries had yet to make a mark on this small child’s spirit, and she glowed with life and enthusiasm untainted. 

Gimli was very much aware of the fragile figure he held in his arms, and he was very careful not to make any sudden movements that might harm or frighten the small being.  Tension filled the room, so palpable it seemed to thicken the very air, but Gimli forced his body to remain relaxed and calm so as not to startle the child.

Kenson, however, held no such restraint.  At Del’s soft statement, the mayor of Calembel leapt to his feet, his chair toppling backward to land with a crash on the floor.  His face had drained of all color, and his body was taught with tension.

Both Del and Fandon seemed taken aback by their guest’s violent reaction, and Emnar and Edan moved to rise, their faces showing a mixture of worry and determination as they placed themselves between Kenson and their family.

“What boy?!” Kenson demanded, completely unaware of the new tension he had brought to the room.  “Tell me, what did he look like?  Did he tell you his name?  Was he with the men?  Where…”

“Sit down, Kenson,” Aragorn interrupted, his voice gentle but firm as he slowly rose from his chair. 

Kenson’s wild gaze swung to meet Aragorn’s, and he opened his mouth to argue, but the King did not give him a chance.

“We are guests here, and you are behaving rudely!  Calm yourself Kenson, and I am sure we will receive the answers to your questions.”

Gimli watched as Kenson visibly struggled to get a hold of his emotions.  “It is Dar,” the man whispered hoarsely.  “I know it!”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn said calmly, though Gimli could see the rigidity in his friend’s stance.  “Sit down,” he ordered for a second time, and this time Kenson obeyed, lifting his chair from the floor and sinking limply into it.

“I am sorry,” Kenson said softly, looking earnestly at Del and Fandon.  “I meant no harm, nor did I mean to frighten your family.  I have recently…lost my son, and I thought…well, I hoped,…that perhaps….”  Kenson trailed off slowly, throwing Aragorn a beseeching look.

“We think that the men who robbed us earlier, the men who came to your homestead, might have also taken Kenson’s son,” Aragorn explained quietly, his expression one of sadness.  “We were hoping that perhaps you might have seen him.”

Both Del and Fandon nodded, their faces sympathetic.  “I understand,” Del said softly to Kenson, quickly motioning Emnar and Edan back to their seats.  “No harm was done, and I suspect I would act the same way if one of my babies were taken from me.”

“Kenson looked up and offered a wavering smile of appreciation.  “He is my only child,” he explained in a choked voice.  “And if anything were to happen to him…”

“Perhaps you would care to tell us a little more about this boy?” Gimli suggested, interrupting that desolate thought.  His deep voice caused the little girl on his lap to let out a small giggle.

“Of course,” Fandon replied, “But perhaps Emnar and Edan should tell the story.  They are the ones who found him.”

All eyes turned to the two young men.

“We were coming up the river from the east,” Emnar began.  “Dad had sent us to Pharkson, the town down the river a ways, and we were on our way back.  It was about the same time those other fellows came and bothered everyone here at home.”

“The river was badly flooded,” Edan picked up the story.  “There was a lot of debris floating downstream, and the banks were completely under water.  Emnar and I stopped to water the horses at this one place where the bend in the river forms a slightly sheltered lagoon.  That is where we found him.  It was somewhat dark by this time, and at first we thought he was just a piece of timber swept downriver by the flood and caught in the lagoon.  Emnar was the first one who got close enough to see his clothes.”

“I about fainted dead away when I realized I was looking at a body,” Emnar broke in.  “He was laying half on shore, half in the water, and when Edan and I pulled him out, that was when I realized he was only a young man, no older than me.”

Gimli felt a horrible twisting sensation within the pit of his stomach, yet when the boys hesitated in their story, he forced himself to ask the question to which he knew Kenson was too afraid to speak.  “Was the boy dead?”

Emnar and Edan exchanged glances with their parents, and some hidden dialog seemed to pass between them.  Gimli frowned, wondering why they seemed so hesitant to answer the simple question.  Kenson appeared to have stopped breathing while waiting for one of the boys to speak, and both Gimli and Aragorn watched him with concern, uncertain what the man would do if the news was bad.  There had been nothing said so far that linked the boy in the river to Dar.  The only indication they had that it might be him was the fact that the men who had taken Dar and Legolas had passed this way.  Still, it seemed as if Kenson was positive the boy was his son, and Gimli could not deny his own strong suspicions toward the matter.

At last Edan turned back to his anxiously waiting guests.  “He was alive,” he said simply.  “We did not believe so at first, but then he moaned, and we…”

“Where is he?” Kenson interjected, leaping from his seat once more, though this time he had enough sense to catch the chair before it fell to the ground.  “Please, tell me where you brought him.”

“We brought him home, of course,” Emnar answered easily, though he kept a wary eye on Kenson.  “It was too far back to Pharkson, and we knew he needed to be warmed up and cared for fast or he would not survive.”

“He is here?” Aragorn asked, for it seemed as if Kenson was too startled by the thought to even speak.

“Upstairs,” Del admitted, jerking her head upwards.  “I have had some experience working under a healer, so I have cared for him the last few days.  Yet he is very ill, and I am not sure I have the skills required to help him much further than what I already have.”  Her tone was regretful and sad, and she looked at Kenson with pity.

“May I see him?” Kenson asked softly, a strange reserve coming over him now that he knew his son, in all likelihood, lay only a short distance away.

Del hesitated only a moment before nodding and rising from her chair.  “I will show them upstairs, Fandon,” she said to her husband.  “Why don’t you remain down here with the children.”

Fandon nodded, and Gimli rose then, effortlessly lifting the little girl in his arms.  Emnar smiled at him from across the table, then quickly moved around to take his sister, ignoring her whines of protest.

Gimli followed his companions to the back of the house, then up a short flight of steps that led to the upstairs hallway.  Del led them directly to a closed door, hesitated for a moment, then swung the heavy wood inward, revealing a small room with a single bed and washstand pressed against the far wall.  A chair had been pulled up close to the head of the bed, and the young girl Eleana, whom they had met earlier downstairs, was seated comfortably upon it.  She rose as they entered, and beyond her a limp form could be seen lying upon the bed, covered from toes to chin with a single, thick coverlet, head turned away from the door.

Kenson stumbled into the room and over to the bed, a small cry echoing from his throat as he recognized his son.  He moved to pull the limp form into his arms, but Aragorn reached out and firmly caught his arm. 

“Easy Kenson,” Aragorn whispered soothingly.  “We do not yet know the extent of his injuries.  You do not want to do him further harm, do you?”

Kenson let out a strangled sob, but he did not fight against Aragorn. 

Gimli moved forward and peered down at the form on the bed.  Dar’s face was gaunt and pale, and his breathing a low rasp heard clearly from across the room.  He appeared very sick, and Gimli casts a worried look at Aragorn. 

“Del,” Aragorn said softly.  “This is indeed Kenson’s son, and you are correct.  He is very ill.  However, I also trained under a very fine healer, and I believe I can help him.  Yet I will need your assistance.  I will examine him, but if you could tell me of the injuries you know of, it would help my attendance greatly.  I will also need to know how you have been caring for him and what herbs and medicines you have been using.”

Dell nodded, murmured something quietly to her daughter, then moved up next to Aragorn beside the bed.  Eleana turned and silently left the room

 “His most serious injury seems to be the wound on his side, where I removed the head of an arrow.”  Dell began slowly.  Aragorn glanced at her sharply, but she only moved forward and swept back the blanket covering Dar, revealing a chest bare but for a bandage wrapped tightly around the young man’s side.  “As you can see, he has no small amount of cuts and bruises from his trip down the river.” she continued quietly.  “Those were rather easy to care for.  The arrow in his side came out cleanly, but the shock of being shot, combined with the cold of the river has weakened him considerably.  His fever comes and goes, but I believe the sickness has entered his lungs, for he has trouble breathing, and sometimes he coughs most violently.”

As if to prove her words, the form on the bed let out a soft moan, followed by a short, raspy cough.

“Can you help him?” Kenson asked of Aragorn, crowding in close in an attempt to be near to his son.  He reached out a shaky hand and brushed it along Dar’s forehead.  The boy turned his head into the caress, as if seeking out the touch of his father, yet he did not open his eyes or show any other sign of regaining consciousness.

“I can help him,” Aragorn assured him, then reached out and grasped the man’s shoulder firmly.  “Yet I will need room to work.  Del must remain here to help me, but you and Gimli must leave.”

Kenson shook his head.  “I cannot leave him!” he gasped, seeming almost in a panic.  “What if something should happen while I am gone?  You cannot ask me to leave, Ar…”

“Kenson!” Aragorn said sharply, cutting the man off before he could reveal his real name.  “I will not allow your son to die.  You must trust me and give me room to work.”

Kenson looked rebellious, so Gimli moved forward and firmly grasped the man’s arm, causing him to start in surprise.  “Come Kenson.  The sooner we leave Strider to his task, the sooner he will be finished and you can return to your son’s side.”

Kenson still looked ready to argue, but he allowed Gimli to drag him to the door and out into the hall.  They both had time for one final glance into the room before the door swung firmly shut, blocking their view.

With a small sigh, Gimli led Kenson away from the room and back towards the steps leading downstairs.  Aragorn had a job to do, and he would do it.  In the meantime, Gimli has his own task to accomplish.

******

The barn doors swung open with a loud crack and a burst of icy air.  Captain Jeralk leapt to his feet and reached for the scabbard of his sword, aware of the men around him doing the same.  His hand tensed on the hilt, then just as quickly relaxed as the familiar stout form of Gimli stalked into the barn.

“Master Gimli,” he called out, stepping towards the dwarf.  “I had thought you would be staying…”  He trailed off as he caught sight of the expression on Gimli’s face, and instinctively his hand went back to the hilt of his sword.  “Where is the King?” he demanded.

Gimli did not answer, but without bothering to shut the doors behind him, he stalked forward angrily, his gaze fixed upon the small, bound figure sitting in the far corner of the barn under the watchful guard of two soldiers.

Delran saw the irate dwarf heading his direction and began squirming nervously, pushing himself backwards toward the end wall of the barn.  Where the small little man thought he was going to escape, Jeralk did not know, but he didn’t blame the man for trying.  Gimli looked ready to kill.

“YOU!” Gimli bellowed when he finally reached the man.  Delran let out a terrified squeal as the dwarf reached down and bodily lifted him from the floor, slamming him back against the barn wall with enough force to crack the wood.

“I’ve done nothing!” Delran screamed, wriggling wildly in an attempt to escape from the dwarf’s iron grasp.  “Please, I have done nothing!”

“I want to know who took Legolas and Dar, and I want to know where they were being taken.  NOW!!!”  Gimli continued to hold the thrashing form of Delran firmly against the wall.

“If I tell you, you will just kill me!” Delran argued stubbornly, though he continued to look terrified.

“I am going to kill you anyway,” Gimli growled, his hand tightening around Delran’s throat.

“Gimli,” Jeralk said warningly, taking a cautious step forward.  “Where is King Elessar?  Perhaps we should talk….”

Gimli shook his head, his hand tightening even further around Delran’s neck.

“You kill me and you will never see your friends alive again!” Delran gasped desperately.  “You are killing them!”

“He is right, Gimli,” Jeralk said desperately, moving forward and carefully touching the dwarf’s shoulder.  “Only he knows where we can find Dar and Prince Legolas.”

“Wrong!” Gimli said hotly, ignoring the rasping sound coming from Delran and the fact the man’s face was turning a lurid shade of purple.  “We have already found Dar!  It seems the men that took him shot him with an arrow, then threw him in the river to die!  For all we know, they could have done the same with Legolas, which means there is no reason to keep this lying, orc-scum alive.”

“No!”  The cry came as more of a gurgle.  “They wouldn’t have killed the elf.  Maybe the boy, but never the elf.  He was too important!”

Gimli scowled, but he did release some of the pressure on the other man’s neck so Delran could gulp in some air.  “I have no reason to believe you,” he said coldly, his glare deadly.  “You have to make me believe you, and the only way you can do that is to start talking!  Tell me everything, and if I even suspect you are lying to me, or leaving something out, I will kill you right now!”

Delran’s eyes were huge, and he glanced desperately around the barn as if seeking for some way to escape.  But in the end, there was no escape, and apparently he did want to live.  He started talking.

*****

“He already looks so much better.”

Aragorn finished securing the bandage around Dar’s side, then looked up and smiled at Eleana.  Del had left sometime during the night to see to putting her children to bed, and Eleana had replaced her mother at his side.  She was a silent and effective worker, ready and willing to help with whatever task he gave to her.  She was extremely shy, but as the hours had worn away, Aragorn had at last managed to get her to relax enough to talk with him.  She seemed quite knowledgeable when it came to the art of healing, and not once did he have to explain to her which herb he wanted at hand.  He had learned that she had played a large role in caring for Dar, nursing him during the day and night so her mother could devote time to the other children and the tasks of the house.  Eleana seemed to enjoy her role as caregiver, and she had shyly admitted to him that she dreamed of one day becoming a healer.

“He is breathing easier,” Aragorn admitted, “Yet we still must watch him closely.  The wet cloths on his chest need to be re-warmed every hour, and fresh evelsonce leaves crushed into the water basin as well.  This will help his breathing and his fever.  The most important thing is to watch the injury to his side and make sure his coughing does not tear the wound.  You saw how I cleansed it?  And the mixture of herbs I used?” He asked, briskly washing his hands in a basin of warm water.

Eleana nodded gravely.  She had watched his every move during the long hours of the night, and Aragorn somehow doubted she would forget a single detail.

“Good,” he said lightly.  “Use those same herbs on him every time you change the dressing, and if it begins to look infected, clean it the same way you saw me do it.”  Eleana nodded again, and Aragorn smiled at her.   “You and your mother did very well.”

She blushed at his inclusion of her in his compliment.  “He will live then?  You are certain?”

“Yes,” Aragorn said simply.  “He is a very strong young man.  He will live.”

A small moan sounded from the bed as Dar twisted slightly in his sleep.  Eleana dropped a hand to his forehead, and the boy immediately calmed beneath her soft touch.  “I will stay with him now if you like, Mr. Strider.” She offered quietly.  “I don’t mind.  Sometimes he has bad dreams, and it helps if I sing to him.”

Aragorn smiled.  “That will be fine, Eleana.  Thank you for your help.”

She blushed again and quickly dropped her gaze.  Aragorn watched as she moved a chair to the side of the bed then reached out and took Dar’s hand in her own, speaking to him in a low, soothing whisper.  He turned and left the room quietly, content that his patient was under good care.

He was not surprised to find Kenson and Gimli awake and waiting for him in the downstairs dining room, though it was nearing the early hours of dawn.  Fandon was slumped in a large chair in front of the hearth, the book he had carried earlier resting atop his chest.  The low rumble of his snores occasionally echoed through the room.  It was obvious he had felt uncomfortable leaving his guests unattended, yet at the same time been unable to keep himself awake.

Kenson leapt to his feet as Aragorn entered the room, and only some quick maneuvering on Gimli’s part kept the man’s chair from crashing to the floor and waking everyone in the house.  Gimli glared up at him, but Kenson was paying no attention, intent upon only one thing.

“How is he Aragorn?  May I go and see him now?”  The mayor of Calembel demanded anxiously.

Aragorn motioned Kenson to keep his voice down so as to not wake Fandon, then replied in a low whisper.  “He is doing well Kenson.  He will be fine.  Yes, you may go and see him, but try to let him rest.  Do not try to wake him.”

Kenson nodded his agreement, then darted past Aragorn and up the stairs.  Aragorn shook his head wearily, then sunk into a chair next to Gimli.  “You should have tried to get some rest Gimli,” he admonished the dwarf softly.  “The next few days promise to be very long and tiring.”

Gimli snorted.  “You think Kenson was about to lay down and sleep.  Someone was needed to keep him from breathing down your neck every few seconds!  I am telling you, the man has lost all sense.”

“Can you blame him?” Aragorn whispered, wondering how he would react if it were his son lying upstairs.  This only led to thoughts of his lost baby, and he quickly forced his mind to other matters.

“No,” Gimli said quietly.  “I would most likely act the same way were it Legolas up there.  Still, it is quite exasperating!”

Aragorn let out a mirthless laugh.  “So what do we do now, my friend.”

Gimli regarded Aragorn calmly, then shrugged his shoulders casually.  “I suppose we go on to Norvil, find the man named Servius, rescue Legolas, and end this nightmare once and for all!”

Aragorn jerked upright, staring down at the dwarf in surprise.  “What have you learned, Gimli?” he asked excitedly, ignoring the smug twinkle in his friend’s eyes.

“Everything,” Gimli replied smugly.  “At least everything that stinking pile of orc guts, Delran, knew.”

“Tell me,” Aragorn demanded, leaning forward and remembering to lower his voice only at the last moment.  He listened intently as the dwarf spoke, feeling his anger growing within him.  By the time Gimli finished speaking, Aragorn’s hands were shaking with a mixture of frustration and rage.

“So they never intended to take Dar,” he murmured disgustedly.  “He was only a tool to be used to control Legolas.  And obviously they decided they didn’t need him any longer, so they just rid themselves of him.”

“Perhaps,” Gimli said quietly.  “Yet I find it more likely that he was injured while trying to escape.  If they had wanted to kill him, they could have easily slit his throat before throwing him in the river.  The arrow to his side indicates he might have been hit while on the run.”

Aragorn nodded.  “Still, I do not like it.  In either case, Legolas would not have sat idly.  He would have tried to help Dar. I dread to think what methods they would turn to in order to control him once Dar was gone.”

Gimli’s face darkened, and his hands balled into tight fist, yet he said nothing.

“Did you find out anything more on this Servius?” Aragorn at last asked, pushing down his own rising waves of anger and fear.

Gimli shook his head.  “Delran knew very little about him.  Only that he was a Guildmaster who was paying them a lot of money to bring Legolas to him.”

Aragorn swore softly.  “Well at least we know they aren’t going to kill Legolas if we don’t make it there exactly on time.  Now we merely have to plan how we are going to go in and rescue him.”

“It will be just you and me,” Gimli pointed out quietly.  “We cannot ask Kenson to leave now, after he has finally found his son and the boy is so grievously injured.  He will still come if you ask it of him, but I am not sure if he would be more hindrance than help at the moment.  He is extremely worried for Dar, and though you assure him the lad will be fine, he will not be convinced until he sees for himself.”

“Kenson will not be coming with us,” Aragorn agreed.  “We will have Captain Jeralk and the men, but they must follow from a distance and under disguise once we cross the border.  Gondorian soldiers will not be welcome in Khand.  Nor will they be able to enter the town with us.  I am afraid you are right.  We are on our own.”

Gimli sighed.  “The snow has already died down a bit.  With any luck we will be able to leave here sometime today.  Emnar and Edan have offered to guide us to a good crossing a few miles downstream.  The believe the Harod Crossing will be impassible.”

Aragorn nodded.  “We were lucky to find them,” he said sincerely, glancing over to where Fandon still slept peacefully.  “They have helped us in so many way, and will continue to help us.  You must help me think of a proper repayment for them when this is all over.”

Gimli only smiled, and the two sat in companionable silence for several long minutes while outside the snow continued to fall.

*******

Everything was dark.

Whether Legolas closed his eyes or kept them open, the blackness remained the same, pressing in on him like some unwanted lover forcing attention upon his battered body.  He could not escape it any more than he could escape the strange illness that had laid claim upon him, and his spirit quailed beneath the fierce forces of fear and despair.  The iron bars of the cage held him prisoner as his own mind turned against him, conjuring up nameless horrors that flitted through the darkness outside his cage, laughing and taunting him for his terror.

He had managed to free his hands from their bonds, leaving his wrist chafed and bleeding, and now he gripped the bars of his cage and fought the urge to weep.  The pain in his body refused to recede or relinquish its grip upon him in the slightest, and his form trembled violently in the onslaught of inescapable agony.  He could no longer control the shaking of his limbs nor did he have the strength to try.  It felt as if he had been trapped within the dark cage for days, and try as he might he could not force his tortured mind to believe otherwise.  His captors had forgotten about him, had left him to slowly die alone within this horrible darkness.  Brief thoughts of his companions, Gimli and Aragorn, offered him some semblance of peace, for he had faith that they would come to rescue him.  Yet these thoughts were slowly being overcome by the shadows dancing around him, and despite his desperate attempts he could not keep hold of them.

‘Greetings Prince Legolas.’

The familiar voice drifted from the shadows somewhere to the right of his cage, and Legolas’ entire body flinched in terror.

‘It has been too long since I have had the pleasure of tasting  your pain,’ the voice whined cruelly.  ‘Let me taste your blood, Prince.’

“No,” Legolas whimpered softly, attempting to squeeze his eyes shut and will away the new demon who had come to haunt him.  “You are not real.”

‘Aren’t I?’  The voice mocked coldly. 

Legolas’ breath was coming in sharp gasps, his hand clutching wildly at his chest where the faint traces of a scar, faded but not gone, marred the smooth flesh.  His stomach heaved, attempting to empty itself of contents it did not contain, and Legolas gagged repeatedly.

Malek laughed at him from the darkness, stepping closer to the cage to better view his misery.

‘I brought you some friends, Legolas,’  the creature taunted, black shadows shifting all around him.  Orcs stepped from those shadows, brandishing whips and sharply curved daggers, their grins eager and hungry.

“NO!” Legolas cried, flinching back against the bars of his cage.  “Ai, Elbereth, not again! Please not again!”

A whip cracked, and Legolas’ body jerked in pain.  The scar on his chest began to burn fiercely.  His mind swam in panic, and all thoughts that this was not real, that he was in fact dreaming, faded like water under a scorching sun.  More whips cracked, and Legolas fought against the screams building in his throat.

‘I have to escape!’

The desperate thought flittered through the shadows of his mind, filled with desperation and a hint of something else: madness.

‘You are ours now, Legolas.  There is no escape!’

This time, Legolas could not stop the scream.

TBC

I must offer special thanks to Ithilien (my beta :)), Thundera Tiger, and M.N. Theis, whose works never cease to inspire me, and who never hesitate to offer me encouragement.  And also Mari, who makes me fly!  Thanks guys!  You are the greatest!

Chapter 23    Sighs and Moans

Something was wrong with his prisoner.

Servius swore silently as he quickly made his way down the hall.  The man who had brought him the message from Tervanis scurried on before him, casting nervous glances over his shoulder.  Servius ignored him.

Garish met him at the doorway leading down to the cellar where the elf was being held.  The giant man’s face was blank and unreadable.

“Has someone sent for the Herbwoman?” Servius snapped as he approached the guard.

Garish merely nodded, then turned and silently opened the door leading down to the cellar.  Servius impatiently pushed past him and took the stairs two at a time, flinging open the door at the bottom and storming angrily into the small room.  He felt a brief flash of nervous surprise when he realized that his prisoner was no longer in the cage, but it faded quickly as he caught sight of the elven prince stretched out on the cold ground of the cellar a few paces to his left.  The elf’s eyes were closed, his face pale, but Servius could still make out the slight rise and fall of his chest in the dim light cast by two lanterns.

“What happened?” He demanded worriedly, striding over to look down upon his unconscious prisoner.  The two slashes on the elf’s cheek bones stood out harshly against his pale skin, and Servius could see the deep bruises and raw skin circling each of his wrists.  Beyond these, he could see no other obvious signs of injury.  “What is wrong with him?”

Tervanis glanced up at him from where he knelt beside the elf.  “I cannot be certain,” he said with his usual calm, “Yet I believe he is having some sort of reaction to the Svellon.  And perhaps a reaction to your cage as well,” he added carelessly.

“Explain!” Servius growled.

Tervanis shrugged.  “Svellon is designed to affect its victim for a certain period of time, depending on how much is ingested.  After this time, the drug’s affects fade, and the victim is left with no physical damage.  I have already told you that Legolas reacted strangely to Svellon.  I would give him the drug each night as we made camp, and through the majority of the following day, long after the drug should have faded, he would appear slightly ill.  Nothing as bad as now, yet perhaps since I have stopped giving him the drug—”

“You noticed him reacting badly to it before, and yet you continued to give it to him?” Servius cut him off, fuming.  He was expecting Aragorn to arrive within the city on any day, and if he lost his hostage now, it would mean years of planning wasted.  He would have to find some other way to destroy his hated enemy, and that thought did not sit well with him.

Tervanis gracefully rose to his feet.  “He had to be controlled,” he replied without emotion. 

Servius swore, then glanced down as his prisoner shifted on the cold stone floor and let out a low, pain-filled moan, his smooth features twisting in some unknown torment.

“Is there nothing else that could be causing this?” Servius asked, his gaze sweeping across the elf’s figure in a second search for injuries.  “He is more than just sick, he is in pain.”

Tervanis shook his head.  “He fell from his horse earlier on in our journey, and later, I was forced to shoot him in the leg when he attempted to escape.  Yet the injury on his back appears to have completely healed, and his leg is well on the mend with no sign of infection.  Garish was the first one to come down here since we brought him yesterday, and he says he found the elf twisting and moaning as if he were under attack.  He sent for me, and I, in turn, sent for you.  He was already unconscious when I arrived, yet when Garish and I moved him from the cage, he fought against us quite violently without ever opening his eyes.  He calmed a bit when we brought in the second lantern, but as you can see, he is still quite ill.”

Servius swore a second time, and fought back the urge to kick something in frustration.  This was out of his control, and he hated things out of his control.  At his feet, Legolas moaned again and began to thrash weakly, calling out something in a smooth, musical language Servius could not understand.  The elf’s call seemed to be one for help, the tone filled with desperation.

“What do we do now?” Servius asked grimly, more to himself than to Tervanis or Garish, who stood silently by the door.

“I suggest we move him out of here,” Tervanis replied quietly.  “I don’t think being trapped down here has helped his condition any.  He does not like darkness, of that I am certain.  We can put him in one of the upstairs rooms, and when the Herbwoman arrives, perhaps she can help him.”

Servius nodded reluctantly.  “We’ll move him upstairs,” he agreed, “Yet I want him heavily guarded at all times.”

“Of course,” Tervanis replied calmly.  “Garish, if you will carry him…”

The giant man moved forward, knelt on one knee beside the prisoner, and slid his hands beneath the elf’s shoulder and knees.  At his touch, Legolas’ thrashing increased, but Garish merely lifted the elf and firmly crushed him against his massive chest, stifling his struggles.  Rising to his feet, he followed Tervanis and Servius through a maze of doors, stairs, and hallways and at last into a sparsely furnished room with a single, tightly boarded up window.  Though the building looked small from the outside, it was actually quite large, with numerous rooms used by Servius’ guards or tradesmen.  This room was currently unoccupied, and the bed let off a light puff of dust as Garish lowered his burden down onto the blanket.

“Garish, return downstairs and when the Herbwoman arrives, bring her to this room immediately,” Servius ordered.  “And bring some rope with you when you return.  I want the elf bound to the bed.”

The giant man nodded,  then turned and silently left the room.

“We should try to get some water into him,” Tervanis observed, “And perhaps some food as well if he wakes.  It has been nearly two days since he has had either.”

“The Herbwoman can see to it when she arrives,” Servius said dismissively, striding over to the window and peering through a small crack in the boards.  Of course, there was nothing to see but a narrow stretch of dark alleyway, and he impatiently turned back to the room.  Tervanis was standing over the bed, looking down at the elf with the same strange expression Servius had seen earlier.

“I hope he survives,” Tervanis whispered softly, his voice so quiet Servius had to strain to hear him.  “There is much I would learn of this elf and his people.”

Servius frowned, feeling somewhat disturbed by the assassin’s actions, and uncertain exactly why.  “He had better survive,” he snapped angrily, “Or I might have to send you to finish off the King of Gondor.”

Tervanis shrugged.  “That shouldn’t be too difficult,” he said lightly, at last moving away from the bed and it’s occupant.  Legolas was still moaning and shifting, but his movements were weak and sluggish, and Servius had no fear he would roll from the bed.

“Perhaps it would be more difficult than you think,” Servius replied tightly.

Tervanis glanced at him and arched an eyebrow.  “Oh?  As I recall, it wasn’t that long ago that Legolas told you that.  You didn’t seem to believe him then, have you now changed your mind?”

Servius was unsure how to reply to this, but he was saved from having to do so by the arrival of Garish and the Herbwoman, an older lady who smelled heavily of sage and other plants.  She appeared cautious and slightly nervous at being within the presence of one of the Guildmasters, and Servius gratefully turned his attention toward her.

“He is very ill,” he said smoothly, forcing his voice calm as he motioned toward Legolas.  Garish was already at the elf’s side, steadily binding the prisoner’s wrists and ankles to the posts of the bed.  “I don’t care what you must do, but I want him better within the next few days!  I will return to check on you shortly.”

Without a single glance at Tervanis, he turned and swiftly strode from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

****

Dar shifted in his sleep and let out a soft sigh, his head moving slightly on the pillow. 

Kenson gripped his son’s hand tightly, murmuring softly to him as Aragorn finished his final examination and readjusted the blankets around the lad’s slim form.  Kenson looked apprehensive, but relaxed when Aragorn smiled at him and nodded reassuringly.

“He will be fine, my friend,” Aragorn said quietly, softly laying his palm against Dar’s forehead.  “The herbs are already at work, and his fever is greatly reduced.”

Kenson let out a long sigh of relief, his shoulders visible relaxing, and Aragorn could not hold back a small smile. Kenson had been assured several times within the last few hours that his son would live, yet his reaction each time was the same. At the slightest moan or sigh from the bed, the man would stiffen like a taut bowstring, and Aragorn would have to convince him once again that all would be well.

Aragorn glanced down at the figure on the bed and let out his own soft sigh.  He had hoped he would be able to speak with Dar before departing, yet now realized it would not be possible.  Dar showed no sign of waking on his own, and even if Aragorn should attempt to rouse him, it was unlikely the lad would be coherent enough to answer any questions.  At the moment, Dar needed rest above all else, and time to heal his wounds.

Unfortunately, time was not a commodity Aragorn had in abundance. It was nearing the noon hour, the snow had abated to small flurries long before, and it was past time for them to depart.

As if to punctuate the thought, a soft knock sounded on the door, and Gimli stuck his head inside the room.  “Aragorn, the men are all prepared.  We can be on our way as soon as you are ready.”  It was obvious the dwarf was more than anxious to resume their journey.

Aragorn nodded.  “Thank you, Gimli.  I will be down in a moment.”

Gimli nodded, then pulled his head out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

“It seems it is time to say farewell,” Aragorn said to Kenson.

Kenson rose from his seat, a strangely intent expression on his face.  “You said my son would be fine?” he asked, then quickly waved his hand in the air before Aragorn could answer.  “Of course you did, and I shall not make you repeat yourself.”

Aragorn smiled at him, but Kenson seemed too caught up in some internal struggle to notice.  He kept glancing between Aragorn and the bed, a torn expression on his face.

“Both Del and her daughter know what is needed for his care, and if anything unexpected should happen, they are more than capable of handling it,” Aragorn said firmly, thinking that Kenson was in need of more reassurance.

Kenson nodded slowly, then turned his gaze to meet Aragorn’s, obviously coming to some sort of difficult decision.  “In that case, my lord, Dar does not need me here,” he paused, his face twisting in pain before he careful forced his expression blank.  “At the beginning of this journey, I vowed to accompany you to the end and aid you in whatever way I was able.  I will continue on with you and Gimli.”

Aragorn looked at the determined set of Kenson jaw and the way he refused to even look toward the bed, as if afraid the sight of his son might lesson his resolve.  The King smiled.  “I thank you my friend, but I am afraid you are wrong.  You claim that Dar does not need you, and yet he does.  He will eventually wake, and having a familiar face will be of comfort to him.  Having you by his side will speed his recovery.”

Kenson looked relieved, though he struggled to hide it.  “But what of you?” he asked quietly.

Aragorn shook his head.  “Worry not for me.  I will have Gimli by my side, and Jeralk and the rest of the company near.  All will be well.  And now it is time I must depart before Gimli grows impatient and leaves without me.”

Kenson gave Aragorn a weak smile, then moved around the bed to clasp his arm tightly in farewell.  “I pray your journey is successful,” he said softly, gripping Aragorn’s arm tightly.

Aragorn nodded, “As do I my friend.  Fare thee well, and Valar willing, I will return soon with Legolas by my side.”

Kenson released him, and Aragorn turned and quietly left the room.

He found Del and her children gathered downstairs, Del attempting to pry a protesting Elsi from around Gimli’s neck.  Gimli looked somewhat ill at ease by the girl’s clinging, and his face showed a mixture of embarrassment and relief as he spotted Aragorn coming down the hall towards them.  Del appeared a bit relieved as well as she finally managed to pry Elsi loose.  Despite her friendly hospitality, Aragorn suspected the woman would feel contented to have her household return to a normal state of chaos once they were gone.

They thanked Del, said farewell to the children, then hurried outside and through the snow to the barn.  They found Jeralk and the men waiting with the horses already saddled and ready to go.  Even Shandarell was saddled, though the soldier holding his reins was rubbing a bruised jaw and casting the horse a wary look.  Fandon, Edan, and Emnar all stood at the far end of the barn.  Kitten and Dove appeared as two giant mountains behind them, waiting patiently to begin the journey.

Aragorn caught Jeralk’s gaze and nodded, and the captain immediately shouted out the order to mount up.  Two soldiers aided Gimli up onto Shandarell’s back, while Jeralk led Cierno over to Aragorn. 

Off to one side, Delran was being firmly tied to his saddle, his gaze nervously shifting between Gimli and Aragorn.  Aragorn had considered leaving the man behind with two of the soldiers, yet had ultimately decided against it.  Delran would remain with Jeralk and the rest of the company, and if the little man caused any trouble, Aragorn had given Jeralk permission to deal with him in whatever way necessary.

“Fandon believes we can make the Harod road by nightfall,” Jeralk said quietly from beside him, jerking Aragorn back to the task at hand.  He reached over and took Cierno's reins from the captain, freeing Jeralk to mount his own horse.  “Edan says that is where he and his brother will leave us.  We will be traveling away from the mountains for a time, and the drifts should not be so bad, so we will not need the Gemnis to clear a path for us.  After we reach the road, we will have about a day’s travel before we come to the border and your plan goes into affect,”

Aragorn nodded in understanding, then gracefully mounted Cierno and scanned the barn in search of Fandon.  He spotted the man standing by the large doors to the barn, ready to close them after the company had left.  He moved Cierno over to the man and reached down to clasp his arm.

“You have my thanks, and the thanks of my men for your hospitality.  You will be repaid for you kindness.”

For the second time, Fandon waved away the comment.  “We don’t get guests around here very often, and it’s a real pleasure as long as they’re the right sort!  I wish you luck finding those men who robbed you!”

Aragorn nodded his appreciation, straightening in the saddle.  “You have aided us greatly, and once more I give you my thanks.”

Fandon nodded, and with a final glance behind him to make sure his men were ready, Aragorn signaled Edan and Emnar to lead the way out of the barn.  It was time this journey was brought to an end.

TBC

Chapter 24    Ragged Plans

Norvil lay spread out before them, its dirt streets strangely quiet, lacking in the normal bustle and activity of a city its size.  Though it was nearing mid-morning, the city appeared to be mostly asleep, the shutters of its buildings drawn and doors firmly shut. The few citizens that could be seen on the streets all seemed to be wandering about without purpose, as if they were unsure of where they wanted to go, and in no particular hurry to get there. 

“Maybe it’s the weather,” Gimli grumbled softly, casting a quick glance upward to where a thin blanket of iron gray clouds veiled the sun.  An icy wind blew through the small copse of trees where he and Aragorn stood observing the city.  Gimli sighed, pulled his cloak more firmly about him, then turned to face his companion.  “I do not like this place, Aragorn,” he muttered.  “There is something amiss here.”

Aragorn shifted in his saddle, turning from his study of the city to face Gimli.  In his black garb and dark cloak, he looked every bit the Ranger he had once been, and nothing like the noble King he was.  Anduril was firmly belted around his waist, and the hilt of a small dagger could be seen peeking out from the top of his boot.  “I do not like it either, Gimli,” he replied quietly.  “You are correct, there is something foul about this city.  Yet we have few options left open to us.  We must continue on.”

“We could wait for Jeralk and the rest of the soldiers,” Gimli suggested.  “If we all go into the city together…”  He didn’t finish the sentence, partly because Aragorn was already shaking his head, and partly because he had not really been serious about the suggestion in the first place.

“If even one person in Norvil were to discover a group of Gondorian soldiers riding through their streets, the entire city would turn on us within the blink of an eye,” Aragorn replied calmly.  “If they were to even suspect who we were, the result would be the same.  And that is saying nothing of the man who took Legolas.  If what Delran told us of this guildmaster is to be believed, it is possible the man might panic and kill Legolas before we ever reach him.  I alone was ordered to come here.  I run a risk bringing even you, my friend.”

Gimli scowled at Aragorn, a clear warning in his eyes.  Two days prior, when they had split company with Jeralk at the border between Khand and Gondor, Aragorn had suggested that Gimli remain behind with the Captain and the rest of the men.  Gimli had staunchly refused, claiming that there was no way he was going to allow Aragorn to go on alone.  He had been appalled that his friend had even suggested it, and had stubbornly refused to listen to Aragorn’s reasoning.  He did not believe the man named Servius would kill Legolas because Aragorn had brought him along.  He had gone to far too much trouble bringing them here for that.  Gimli wanted to be there to help set his friend free, and he had already made it his duty to protect Aragorn.  He would not allow the King to be killed in this place, no matter what plans this mysterious guildmaster had in store for them.  And now, it seemed as if Aragorn was once again going to suggest that he remain behind.  Gimli swore that if his friend did, he would hit him!  A childish act, he knew, yet he was so irritated he didn’t particularly care.

Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, and Gimli tensed.  Yet instead of hearing what he had expected, Aragorn simply said, “Watch your back there, Gimli.”

Gimli blinked in surprise, unclenched his fists, then nodded in response.  “I will watch yours as well.  You concentrate on finding Legolas.”

Aragorn sighed,  “I will do my best.”

“Then we are sure to succeed,” Gimli answered softly.

Aragorn smiled slightly at Gimli’s show of confidence, then turned back to his examination of the city.

Gimli also studied the city for a few moments before turning to glance over his shoulder.  Somewhere behind them, likely still several hours away, Captain Jeralk and his men were steadily approaching.  Though Gimli could not see them, he still felt comforted by their presence.  Jeralk would position his company approximately a mile west of the city, and if Gimli and Aragorn needed any assistance, they would somehow find a way to send word to him.  If they did not send word, Jeralk had been ordered to wait five days for their return before sending men into the city to investigate.

Gimli certainly hoped it didn’t come to that.  If he and Aragorn had not managed to rescue Legolas within five days, it was unlikely they ever would.  In five days, they would either have succeeded or failed, in which case they would likely be dead.  Still, he supposed Jeralk would need to send men in to find out what happened so he could bring word back to Gondor of what had befallen their King.  It wasn’t a very comforting thought.

“Do we wait here for nightfall?” Gimli finally asked, inwardly cringing at the thought of another day wasted waiting.  He knew Aragorn wanted to avoid notice for as long as possible, yet he had a suspicion that they would attract even more attention if they tried to enter the city at night.  He could not explain his feelings.

However, Aragorn must have felt the same way, for he shook his head.  “We go in now,” he replied quietly.  “We’ll scout the city, locate Servius’ guild, then find an inn somewhere and discuss what to do next.  My guess is it will not take long before Servius knows we have arrived in the city.”

Before splitting company, Aragorn and Gimli had forced Delran to describe the layout of the city.  The little man had been cooperative, but not extremely helpful.  He had given the precise location of Servius’ guild, but had been unable to describe the building in detail or even tell them how many men were likely guarding it.  He had claimed he had never been inside the guildmaster’s home, and only had dealings with the man through Tervanis.  He knew almost nothing of Servius, or why he might be after Aragorn.  The most information he had been able to give them was regarding the assassin, Tervanis, and none of what he had told them was very pleasing. 

“At the moment, we are playing this game by Servius’ rules,” Aragorn continued.  “Until I know what it is he wants of me, I cannot make any detailed plans.  We are going in blind Gimli, with no way of knowing what to expect.  We must be prepared to think quickly and act fast.  This is not the most ideal way of approaching the situation, yet under the present circumstances, we have little choice.”

“And what of the assassin?” Gimli asked, unconsciously arching his shoulders and tightening his grip on the haft of his axe.  The dull ache in his back had faded, yet Gimli knew he would never forget the feeling of the arrow slamming into him from behind.

Aragorn cast him a sympathetic look.  “We will have to deal with him when we have a chance.”

Gimli nodded, squared his shoulders, checked that his axe was within easy reach—not that it would aid him much against arrows flying from behind—and motioned for Aragorn to lead the way.

“Keep your cloak pulled close about you,” Aragorn ordered as he moved Cierno out of the clump of trees and back onto the main path.  “If luck is with us, and no one looks too closely, you might pass as an extremely stocky child.”

“And if luck isn’t with us?” Gimli asked, moving Shandarell after his friend.

Aragorn shrugged.  “Dwarves are not common here.  If you are discovered…well, let me just say that we can forget about avoiding attention.  The whole city will know of our arrival within a matter of hours.”

Gimli grunted in reply as he carefully tucked his beard within the folds of his cloak and pulled the cowl more firmly about his face.

“You may wish to cover the haft of that axe as well,” Aragorn suggested.

Gimli reluctantly moved his cloak to cover the haft of his axe.  He was used to keeping his weapon in plain view, and being forced to hide it now, when entering a place he was most likely to have to use it, didn’t set very well with him.  He didn’t feel any better when he noticed that Aragorn continued to ride with Anduril in plain sight.

As soon as they entered the city, Gimli unconsciously tensed, his gaze searching each flat rooftop, shadowy alley, or dark alcove they passed for signs of an ambush.  Ahead of him, Aragorn seemed somewhat less concerned, though Gimli noticed his friend’s hand resting upon the hilt of his sword.  Gimli’s own hand was firmly clutching the haft of his axe beneath his cloak, and he carefully watched each person they passed.

He needn’t have bothered.  The few people they passed seemed more interested in the ground at their feet then in the strangers.  Only rarely did anyone even look their direction, and when they did, it was only a quick glance before they returned to studying the dirt before them.

“The ground here must be very interesting,” Gimli mumbled.  In any other city, at any other time, he would have found the behavior of the city’s citizens most unwelcoming and downright insulting.  Now, however, he was only relieved.

His relief did not last long.  Aragorn was still headed down the main road that would eventually, if Delran’s information was correct, lead them to a second branching street and the district governed by Servius’ guild.  His pace was slow and casual, and his voice perfectly calm when he softly announced to Gimli that they were being followed.

Gimli struggled to keep from stiffening at Aragorn’s statement.  He casually turned his head to the side and caught a flash of brown several yards behind them.  Moving Shandarell up alongside Cierno, he asked simply, “How long?”

“He came from behind one of the houses at the very edge of the city and has been following us ever since,” Aragorn replied.

“One of Servius’ men?” Gimli asked, glancing over at his friend.

“Most likely,” Aragorn answered calmly.  “He has made no effort to hide his presence, nor the fact that he is following us.”

Gimli grunted.  “You seem quite unconcerned, Aragorn.  Need I remind you that we are surely walking into a trap?  We could both be ambushed and killed at any moment.”

Aragorn shook his head.  “It is not that I am unconcerned, Gimli,” he replied in the same irritatingly calm voice. “I am merely not surprised.  This Servius has gone to far too much trouble bringing me here to not know exactly when it is that I arrive.  Far too much trouble to merely send someone to murder me in the streets as well,” he added with a quick smile at Gimli.  “He has something more planned for me, or he would have merely had his assassin kill me back in Gondor when the man had me at his mercy.”

“What a comforting thought,” Gimli grumbled.  “So what do we do about our friend back there? Continue to ignore him?”

“Do you see that inn up ahead?” Aragorn asked.

Gimli scanned the street and quickly spotted the squat, two story building.  A wooden sign hung from a post above the door.  The sign contained a picture of what Gimli could only assume was supposed to be a sleeping dragon surrounded by piles of treasure.  Beneath the picture, the word “INN” had been carved in large letters.  “Aye, I see it.”

“We will stop there and obtain rooms.” 

Gimli nodded.  It was obvious Aragorn had discarded his earlier plan of scouting the area surrounding Servius’ guild.  “And what do we do then?” he asked.

“We wait,” Aragorn answered grimly.  “Servius likely already knows that we are here.  If he wants me, he will have to send his men to get me, and I would rather face them on neutral ground then deep within their own territory.”

“And what if they simply come and demand we surrender or they will kill Legolas?” Gimli asked slowly.

Aragorn’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but he did not answer Gimli’s question, and Gimli did not press him.  They were playing a game with a thousand different questions, and only time would reveal the answers.

*****

Servius was overjoyed at the news that King Elessar had finally reached the city.  Years of planning were at last coming together.  His revenge was near at hand.  He could barely contain his excitement and anticipation.

He could, however, contain his anger, and did an admirable job doing so as he gave his men instructions and sent them to their tasks.  He waited until the door to the room was shut behind the last of them before turning on Tervanis, the fury in his gaze enough to make any man quail before him.

Tervanis didn’t quail.  Instead, he yawned.  Seated in a high back chair behind Servius’ desk, the assassin looked completely unconcerned with the heat in his employer’s gaze.  In fact, he looked bored!

It was this fact that gave Servius pause, and he was careful to guard his words lest he offend the dangerous man.  Still, he could not keep the anger from his voice.  “You told me the dwarf was dead!”

Tervanis arched an eyebrow at Servius’ accusing tone.  “I did not,” he replied calmly.  “I merely told you I had taken care of him.  There is a difference.”

Servius’ rage was growing at the assassin’s indifferent attitude, and it was all he could do not to lose his temper and say something he would later regret.  He reminded himself that Tervanis could easily kill him any time he chose.  “Obviously you did not take care of him,” he grated out slowly.  “He is here now with the King.  If you had taken care of him, then I would not have to worry about him now!”

Tervanis shrugged.  “I struck him in the back with an arrow.  If he was strong enough to survive, it is of no fault of mine.”

Servius clenched his hands into fists and resisted the urge to remind Tervanis that he was an assassin, and that his job was to kill, not merely injure.  It was dangerous to upset Tervanis, and nothing was more likely to upset the man than saying something he would take as an insult to his skill.

What was done was done, Servius reminded himself.  He would not jeopardize his plan now over such a simple matter.  As soon as he had taken care of King Elessar, he would pay the assassin what he owed him and be finished with him.  He could not deny the relief he would feel then.  Tervanis had turned out to be much harder to handle than he had believed.  The assassin was simply too dangerous.

“Do you wish me to go now and finish the task?”  Tervanis asked.

Servius considered the offer for several long minutes before finally shaking his head.  “If we were to kill the dwarf now, it would be that much harder to gain the King’s cooperation.  He is of little importance anyway.  We will deal with him later, unless he attempts to interfere with my plans.  Then we may have to kill him.  

Tervanis shrugged, looking only slightly disappointed.

“Tell me of the elf,” Servius demanded.  “Has his condition improved?”

Tervanis nodded.  “He grows stronger every day.”

Servius smiled.  “Good!  I want the number of men guarding him doubled.  There can be no chance of his escape.”

A loud knock on the door announced the arrival of Kiesco.  The man swaggered into the room, gave Servius a somewhat cocky bow, then turned to Tervanis.  “You summoned me, sir?” he asked.

Tervanis shook his head and waved a dismissive hand in the direction of Servius.  Kiesco turned to glance at Servius questioningly.

Suppressing his irritation, Servius addressed the man.  “I have heard, Kiesco, that you once fought in the pits.  Were you any good?”

Kiesco grinned.  “I was the best,” he boasted arrogantly.

“And now?”

Kiesco shrugged, then flexed his shoulders, showing off the powerful chords of muscles across his chest and down his arms.  “I can still beat any man you put against me,” he stated proudly.

Servius nodded slowly.  “Good.  I have a task for you.  You will be paid well for your services of course.  Listen carefully, and I will tell you what I wish you to do.”

TBC 

Chapter 25    Simple Tasks

“Welcome to the Sleeping Dragon, sirs.  I’ll be happy to take your horses for you.”

Aragorn and Gimli had barely come to a halt in front of the inn before they were greeted by a young boy around the age of twelve.  The lad was dressed in the uniform of a stable boy, with a long, thick overcoat, and sturdy, knee high boots.  A small patch bearing the same picture as the one on the sign above the inn’s door was sown into his tunic directly above his left breast.  His smile of welcome seemed genuine, if a bit guarded as he moved forward to hold their horses as they dismounted.

Aragorn shook his head.  “We thank you for your welcome, lad, but we will take care of our own mounts.  These horses can be somewhat temperamental at times.”

Gimli snorted softly at that statement, but Aragorn ignored him.

“Of course, sir, whatever you want,” the boy replied nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders.  He was looking at Gimli curiously, and trying to peer beneath the dwarf’s heavy cloak.  “If you follow me to the back, I’ll show you to the stables.”

Aragorn nodded for the lad to lead the way, thankful when the boy turned his attention away from Gimli.  He spared a quick glance behind him as he followed their guide to a narrow path leading to the back of the inn.  The man who had been following them was still there, leaning against the front of the building across the street and openly watching them.  Aragorn felt somewhat relieved when they rounded the corner and were no longer in the man’s sight.

The stable was a long, one story building filled with the familiar scents of straw and manure, combined with the strong smell of leather from the tack.  It appeared neat and orderly, with rows of stalls lining both sides of a wide alley.  Several other horses were already in residence here, and the echoing sound of hooves striking against wood and soft nickering filled the air.

The boy, who at last revealed his name to be Kyan, led them to two adjacent stalls near the center of the long building, then stood back and watched as they worked at unsaddling their horses and rubbing them down.  Shandarell was feeling playful and was giving Gimli some trouble, but the stout dwarf had grown accustomed to dealing with the high-strung horse and handled him well.

“You’re here for the pit fights, aren’t you?”  Kyan, who had been silently watching them work at last spoke up.  “We get all kinds of foreigners here to see the fights.  My father says that is the reason Norvil is here in the first place.”

Aragorn had heard about the popularity pit fights in Khand, though he saw not the thrill.  It was siad two fighters entered a small pit cut into the ground and pounded each other until one was knocked senseless and the other was declared winner.  Crowds would gather around the outside of the pit to watch the fight and bet on their champion.  Aragorn thought the whole idea was rather pointless and foolish, but he did not believe it wise to state that fact at the moment.

“Have you ever seen a pit fight?” he asked instead, hoping to divert Kyan’s attention away from them.

The lad’s eyes brightened.  “My mother won’t let me out after dark, but my father once snuck me and my older brother out to one.  I was younger then, and there was a lot of blood, but I didn’t get sick at all.  My father was worried I would, and he was real proud of me when I didn’t.  He promised to take me again sometime.”

Aragorn nodded in understanding, trying not to show the disgust he felt at the boy’s obvious eagerness to see more violence.  “Are there fights every night?” he asked.

Kyan shook his head.  “Not every night, but almost!”  He continued to talk animatedly about the pit fights while Aragorn and Gimli finished tending Shandarell and Cierno.  Both horses were soon comfortably settled and contentedly munching on a bundle of hay.

“The nights around here sound pretty rough,” Aragorn commented lightly as Kyan led the way back up the stalls toward the doors.

The young boy nodded vigorously.  “All the action around here takes place at night.  I can always hear shouting and screaming from my room.  It’s worse on the nights with no pit fights,” he added.  “Then, it gets really bad, because no one has anything to do.”

“Why don’t they try sleeping,” Gimli mumbled sarcastically, his voice soft enough that only Aragorn heard him.

“You needn’t worry about safety while at the Sleeping Dragon,” Kyan continued.  “The stable doors are barred each evening at sundown, so no one can get in and steal the horses.  It has been almost ten years since a horse was stolen from these stables!  The inn is just as safe.  The owner is married to The Serpent’s niece, so no one dares mess with any guests here for fear of inciting his wrath.”

“The Serpent?” Aragorn asked, confused.

“That is the name of the Guildmaster who rules this section of the city,” Kyan patiently explained.  “Everyone knows this inn is under his protection, so they pretty much leave it alone.  It’s probably the safest place to stay in all of the city, and the pits aren’t too far away from here, either.  You chose a good place to stay, sir.”

Aragorn smiled.  “It seems I have.  Tell me, does The Serpent get along well with any of the other Guildmasters?”

Kyan appeared thoughtful as he considered his answer.  “He likes Corin, the Guildmaster to our North, but rumor says they are somehow related.  Other than that, I wouldn’t say any of the Guildmasters get along with any of the others.  They tolerate one another just so long as they stay out of each others way.”

By this time they had reached the back entrance to the inn.  Kyan left them to return to his chores, and Aragorn and Gimli entered the Sleeping Dragon.  They found themselves in the inn’s kitchen, where a pretty young woman wearing an apron greeted them and then led them to the innkeeper.  Gimli hung back while Aragorn spoke with the fat little man.  The innkeeper was brisk and efficient, and in no time at all Aragorn had acquired a room.  The young woman reappeared then and quickly led them up a wide set of stairs and down a long hall to their room.  After making sure they required no more assistance, she turned and left them to return to her duties.

Aragorn opened the door to the room and entered, taking a quick glance around.  Two comfortable looking beds took up the majority of the space in the room, but there were also two large trunks against the far wall and a washstand with a mirror near the door.  He tossed his saddlebags on one of the beds, then hurried over to the window looking down onto the street below.  “We have more company,” he informed Gimli softly.

The dwarf grunted, then after tossing his own bags on the bed joined Aragorn at the window, peering over the ledge.

Two others had joined the man who had followed them, and they now stood conversing in a small gathering across the street.  Two more men stood further down the street on either side of the group, their gazes fixed on the Sleeping Dragon.

“I’ll wager they have this place completely surrounded,” Gimli muttered.  “Do you suppose they are planning on attacking us?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “If they attack us here, they risk angering this Serpent fellow.  I cannot be certain, but I do not think Servius will wish to involve another Guildmaster in his plot against me.  He will have to use caution, and that will work to our advantage.”

Gimli sighed.  “I suppose you will now tell me that we must sit and wait for our enemies to come to us.”

Aragorn smiled at the dwarf.  “You know what they say about patience, Gimli,” he replied lightly.

“No, I don’t.” Gimli snapped.  “I don’t want to know, either,” he added, when Aragorn opened his mouth.  “Let’s just get this over with.”

Aragorn nodded.  “We will go downstairs to the common room.  My guess is it will not take Servius long to contact us.”

The two left the room and hurried downstairs.  They found the common room all but deserted, with only one other guest, an old man who spared them barely a glance before returning to his mug of ale.  The pretty young woman who had shown them to their room was using a cloth to wash the tops of the tables.  She smiled at them when they entered, then after they had chosen a table off in the corner of the room, she hurried over to ask if they would like to order anything to eat or drink.  Aragorn declined, and after letting out a regretful sigh, Gimli did as well.  Then, the waiting began.

They did not have long to wait.  Barely a quarter of an hour had passed before the front door of the inn swung open and a tall man with a dark mustache strode into the room.  He glanced around the common room, caught sight of Aragorn and Gimli, and immediately strode over to their table.  Without asking permission, he seated himself in a chair opposite them and leveled the two companions with a stern look, as if they were two naughty children about to be taught the error of their way.  “You’re late,” was all he said by way of greeting, then sat back in his chair and waited for their reply.

Aragorn stared at the man and tried to suppress his rising anger. He did not answer the man’s statement, but remained quiet as he calmly studied him.  His silence seemed to unnerve the visitor, for he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and seemed to lose some of his bluster.

“My master would know why you are late,” he finally prompted, obviously unable to stand the silence any longer.

Aragorn didn’t bother answering, but instead phrased a question of his own.  “Who is your master, and what does he want with me?” he demanded coldly.

The visitor shook his head, frowning with annoyance.  Aragorn expected him to press them again for an answer as to why they were late, but the man merely said, “My master will reveal himself in time, but first you must prove yourself worthy.”

“Worthy of what?” Gimli demanded impatiently, the anger in his voice obvious.

The man spared the dwarf a quick glance before returning his attention to Aragorn.  “Worthy of the elf’s life, of course,” he replied simply.

Gimli let out a low growl of fury and began to rise, but Aragorn quickly reached out and placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, forcing him back down into his seat.  He never took his gaze from the man in front of him, however, and his voice was low and hard as he demanded, “And how am I to prove myself worthy?”

Servius’ messenger was obviously beginning to feel slightly nervous at the dangerous undercurrent he detected in Aragorn’s voice, for he began to shift restlessly on his seat and he could not hold Aragorn’s gaze.  He cleared his throat, then began reciting the message he had been sent to deliver.

“My master is not interested in your companion, only in you.” he began.  “But first, he wishes you to prove yourself worthy of his attention.  You will do so by accomplishing a few simple tasks he has planned for you.  If you succeed in each of these tasks, your friend will be set free and my master will reveal himself to you.  However, if you should fail, your friend will be killed immediately.  He will also be killed if you refuse any of the tasks, and his death will not be painless.  I have come to reveal to you what your first task shall be.”

Aragorn did not allow him to continue, but instead raised his hand sharply in the air, halting the man’s explanation before it even began.  “You have delivered your message,” he said in a voice as hard as steel.  “Now, I have a message for you to take back to your master.  Tell him that I demand to see Legolas, and only after I know that my friend still lives will I even consider playing his foolish games.  Now go!” 

Arwen had once told Aragorn that when he was angry, his glare was fierce enough to sheer the wool off a sheep. At fifty paces.  Aragorn wasn’t angry now, he was furious, and the full heat of his rage was leveled at the tall man sitting across from him.  The man didn’t even attempt to argue with him.  He leapt from his chair and all but fled from the room.

Several moments of silence passed then, as Aragorn struggled to regain control of his raging emotions.  Hearing the man so casually threatening to kill Legolas had angered him beyond measure,  mostly because it had also frightened him.  He knew Servius would have little trouble carrying out his threats, and there was nothing Aragorn could do to stop him.

It was Gimli who finally broke the silence.  “Aragorn, if it is your wish to completely crush my shoulder, then I will admit that you are well on your way to succeeding.”

Aragorn looked at his friend in surprise, then realized that he had never released Gimli after forcing the dwarf back into his chair.  The grip he now had on the dwarf’s shoulder would have likely crushed a frail man, but as it was Gimli’s face only showed slight discomfort.

Aragorn immediately released him and mumbled a quick apology.  Gimli nodded in acceptance, rotated his shoulder a couple of times to work out the ache, then quietly grumbled, “I would ask you what we do now, but I know you will merely tell me that we must wait.”

Aragorn smiled slightly, but did not answer.  Several more minutes of silence passed before Gimli at last gave in.

“So what do we do now?” the dwarf demanded.

Aragorn was careful to hide his smile.  Gimli sounded as if he wanted to break something, and Aragorn’s arm was resting much too close to the dwarf’s meaty fists for comfort.  “We eat,” he answered simply. 

Gimli actually smiled, but a second later, Aragorn completely destroyed the dwarf’s budding good humor.

“And then we wait.”

*****

He was almost free.

Legolas gave a final jerk and his left wrist, made slick with blood and sweat, slipped free of its bindings.  His right wrist was loose only a few moments later, leaving the blood stained ropes dangling uselessly from the iron posts of the bed.  His hands felt swollen and numb, and his wrists ached fiercely, but Legolas ignored the pain as he quickly sat up in the bed and reached for the bindings on his ankles.

He immediately regretted his hasty action as a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him, leaving him gasping for air.  He slowly sank back down and closed his eyes, fighting the bile rising in his throat.  Even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t completely rid himself of the sensation that the room was spinning around in circles.  Legolas knew he was close to losing consciousness, and he struggled against the shadows claiming his mind.  He knew what nightmares awaited him in the darkness, and the terror of that far outweighed any physical complaints of his body.

Long minutes passed before he thought it safe to open his eyes.  After taking a deep, steadying breath, he once more attempted to push himself into a sitting position.  This time he was successful, and with a sigh of relief, he reached for the ropes binding his legs to the bed.

He had no memory of being moved from his cage in the cellar to his current room, no idea of how much time had passed as he had lain deathly ill, drifting on the brink of consciousness as the fever raged through his body.  All he knew was that several days had passed, and Aragorn would soon be arriving in Norvil.  He was swiftly running out of time.

Legolas steadily worked at the knots securing his legs, cursing the trembling in his limbs that made the task difficult.  He was unaccustomed to such feelings of weakness and physical illness, for as an elf he had never had to worry about the sicknesses and diseases that plagued other races.  He wasn’t exactly certain what had caused his illness, but he had a deep suspicion that it had something to do with the drug Svellon.  He could think of no other explanation to account for his present condition.  He was recovering, but it seemed to him far too slowly.

Yet even worse than the physical damage done to him was the darkness awakened within his spirit. Legolas had fought against this darkness before, and he had believed it defeated.  Now, however, he knew he had never completely been rid of it.  It was a stain upon the light of his spirit, a blemish put there by the evil creature Malek, and like the scars that would never completely fade from his chest, the darkness in his soul remained.  He had managed to push it away once, with the help of his friends and family, and yet the darkness had only needed a single moment of fear and weakness to once again take control.  And this time Legoals was alone.

But he was stronger than he had been before.  He had managed to defeat the darkness once, and he was determined to do so again, even if he had to do it on his own.  And he would not merely push it away, as he had previously done, but this time he would destroy it.  Never again would he allow the shadow and despair to have control over him.  What had been done to him was in the past, and had nothing to do with his future.  Now, Aragorn was all that mattered.  Fear for his friend afforded Legolas all the strength he needed to do what had to be done.

His legs were free.  Carefully, but as swiftly and quietly as he could, Legolas rolled to the edge of the bed and pushed himself to his feet.  Once again he had to fight off a wave of dizziness, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as before.  He noticed with annoyance that his legs were trembling.  He felt as weak as a newborn, and had to suppress an overwhelming urge to sink back to the bed and sleep for a week.  Instead, he moved to the boarded up window and peered through a small crack in the wood.  Just as he had expected, long iron bars had been fastened to the outside of the window, blocking this particular escape route.  He cursed, then reminded himself that in his weakened condition it was unlikely he would have been able to pry the boards loose anyway, and even more unlikely that he would have been able to do so without attracting the attention of the men surely standing guard outside his door.  He would simply have to find another way to free himself.

He knew the door to his room was securely locked from outside, and he had no idea how many men stood guard in the corridor beyond.  Yet perhaps if he made enough noise, the men would unlock the door and come inside to investigate.  He had no weapons, and there was nothing in the room he could use as one, but he would have the element of surprise on his side.  He would overpower them, and then….

His planning was suddenly cut short when he heard the latch on the door click.  He had no time to react before the door suddenly swung open and Merton, followed by at least half a dozen guards, strode into the room.  The ex-mayor of Calembel skidded to a surprised halt when he saw Legolas standing unbound only a few feet in front of him.  He opened his mouth to let out a shout of alarm, but Legolas did not give him time.  Leaping forward, he slammed his fist into the other man’s nose with all the strength he could muster.   The blow was made awkward by the fact that Merton was already trying to back away from him, but it still was enough to send the man crashing backward into several of his men.

Legolas didn’t take time to celebrate the small victory.  Instincts honed from years as a warrior immediately took over, and he leapt forward without hesitation, straight into the middle of the group of guards.  He knew his only chance lay in reaching the door and hallway beyond before more men came running in answer to the guards’ shouts of alarm.

Three guards came at him at once, but Legolas refused to back away.  He ducked the first guard’s blow, then delivered his own punch to the man’s midsection before spinning around and kicking the legs out from beneath the second guard.  The third man had just managed to pull his dagger from its sheath when Legolas kicked it from his grasp, sending the weapon flying away across the room.  The man responded by leaping at Legolas with arms outstretched in an attempt to force him to the ground.  His forward momentum was brought up short, however, as Legolas landed two fierce punches to his throat.

More guards rushed forward, replacing the first three, and Legolas faced them without fear but with a hint of worry.  His strength, afforded him by desperation, was quickly failing as his days of illness began to take their toll.  His movements were not as quick as normal, his blows weaker, and he knew if this fight lasted any length of time he would surely lose.  He had to reach the door and then make a run for it.  It was his only chance.

This proved to be somewhat difficult, however, as the guards seemed just as intent to keep him from his goal.  They were awkward in their attacks on him though, partially because he refused to stay put.  He was constantly moving, and in the small confines of the room the guards simply couldn’t keep up.  They found themselves merely getting into each other’s way as they struggled to reach him.

Legolas kept up a constant wary dance, darting in to land a quick blow on one of his opponents and then just as quickly slipping away.  He was watchful for any chance he might get to slip past the guards to the door, and at last his patience was rewarded.  Two men leapt for him at the same moment and their feet became tangled, sending them both crashing to the floor long before they ever reached him.  Legolas didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the hole in the line of guards trying to corner him.  Leaping onto the fallen men’s backs, he sprang forward, the open door standing only a few feet in front of him.

The way was open, and Legolas sprinted forward, using every ounce of strength remaining within him to force speed into his shaky legs.  He had just reached the door when a figure suddenly appeared from the hallway and blocked his path.  Legolas did not slow his pace, but attempted to use his momentum to barrel through the form blocking the doorway.  He threw a wild punch to help clear his advance, but this turned out to be his undoing.

With lightning swiftness, the figure blocking his path dodged his blow, then reached out and seized his wrist.  A second later, Legolas felt his arm being twisted around behind him.  His own momentum worked against him then, and he went crashing to his knees as sharp pain shot up his arm.  His arm was released then, but before he could rise to his feet the cold metal of a knife was pressed against his throat, and a low voice warned him to remain still.

Legolas slowly looked up into the calm gaze of the assassin.  Tervanis glanced inside the room and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he viewed the chaos Legolas had left behind him.  “Nice,” he murmured softly, before motioning Legolas to slowly rise to his feet.  The blade never left his throat as he complied.

Merton came thundering out into the hall then, blood pouring from his nose, his face a mask of rage.  “Bind him!” he screamed.

Legolas sighed as two guards stumbled from the room to do their master’s bidding and his abused wrists were once again firmly secured behind his back.

Merton was in such an obvious rage, Legolas suspected the man would strike him, or at least find some way of punishing him for his escape attempt.  He was surprised, however, when the man simply turned down the hall and ordered the guards to follow him with the prisoner.  Legolas was immediately afraid that they meant to return him to the cage in the cellar, and he had to force down his rising panic at the thought.

Tervanis, walking beside him in the center of a ring of guards, leaned close to him and murmured.  “Your friend has arrived. Now the fun begins.”

Legolas felt his stomach sink with dread as he was dragged along.  He doubted very much that what was coming would be any fun at all.

****

The sun had already set by the time Servius’ sent a messenger to fetch Gimli and Aragorn from the Sleeping Dragon.  This messenger was not the same one who had come earlier, but an older man with thick white hair.  He strode into the common room of the inn, walked over to the table where Aragorn and Gimli sat waiting, and ordered the pair to follow him.

“Follow you where?” Aragorn demanded.

“To your first task,” the man answered simply before turning to leave.

“I have already made it known that I will do nothing until I have seen Legolas alive,” Aragorn calmly announced, not even bothering to rise from his chair.

“Your friend will be there,” the white haired man called back over his shoulder.  “You may refuse to follow me, of course, but I assure you that if you do, the elf will be dead before the end of the hour.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, then exchanged a quick glance with Gimli before rising to his feet.  He had told the dwarf before that they were playing this game by Servius’ rules.  He would not do anything that would risk Legolas’ life as long as he had a choice.  If Servius wanted him to accomplish several tasks in order to prove himself, then Aragorn would do so.  He could only hope that the Guildmaster would then keep his word and set Legolas free.  Yet somehow he doubted it would be that easy.

Gimli and Aragorn followed the white haired messenger out of the inn and then through a maze of darkening streets and alleyways.  They passed several different groups of rough looking men, but surprisingly they were not disturbed.  Ahead of them, they could hear a loud frenzy of shouts and screams, and as they drew closer Aragorn realized exactly where they were headed.

“The pit fights,” he whispered softly to Gimli.  “That is where he is taking us.”

Gimli nodded his understanding, but did not reply.

A moment later, they entered a large courtyard surrounded on all sides by tall buildings.  The courtyard was swiftly filling with people, and the din in the air was deafening.  Near the center of the courtyard, a large hole had been dug.  Four lanterns hanging from posts at each end of the hole provided light for the area.  The ground leading down to the pit was steeply sloped so that those standing farther back in the crowd could still see what was happening.  Already two fighters were engaged in battle within the pit, the crowd screaming encouragement from the sides.

The white haired man led them forward through the crowd to the very edge of the pit, then motioned across the wide hole to a set of stands that had obviously been erected for the more wealthy and influential members of the city.  The stands were only half full and Aragorn had no trouble at all spotting Legolas standing near the back.  Several guards surrounded the elf, and a slim man dressed all in black stood directly beside him.

Aragorn was flooded with intense relief at the sight of his friend.  Legolas’ hands were bound behind his back, and his shoulders had an unusual weary slump to them, but at least he was alive.  His friend was looking directly at him, and Aragorn smiled to assure the elf that everything would be fine.  Legolas offered a weak smile in return, but it was obvious that he was worried.

“He looks ill, Aragorn,” Gimli announced from beside him, his voice raised to a shout to be heard over the cries of the crowd.  The dwarf’s face was creased in a frown of concern, and his hand was stroking the haft of his axe.  He looked as if he was considering charging around the pit to his friend’s aid.  Aragorn could understand the dwarf’s reaction, for he felt the same way. 

A loud roar erupted from the crowd, and Aragorn glanced down into the pit to find that one of the fighters had been knocked to the ground.  It was obvious he was unconscious, but his assailant continued to kick at his prone body, much to the delight of the crowd. Two men hurried down a set of stairs at the far end of the pit and began dragging the unconscious man away as the winner began to stride around the pit waving his arms in the air.  The screams from the crowd became almost unbearable.

The white haired man grabbed Aragorn’s arm, gaining his attention, then pointed to the side of the pit where a large man with scars covering his face stood leering at them.  Although he had never seen the man before, Aragorn immediately recognized him from Dar’s description.  A wave of white-hot rage washed over him, blurring his vision of the man who had beaten Arwen and killed their unborn child.  A low growl, much like that of an injured animal sounded from the back of his throat, and his hands balled into fists at his side.

The scar-faced man grinned mockingly at him, then turned and moved down the steps leading into the pit, stripping off his shirt on the way.  The crowd screamed their welcome as the previous winner exited and Kiesco began strutting around the pit, his gaze never leaving Aragorn as he waved his muscled arms in the air.

“Your task,” the white haired man yelled into Aragorn’s ear before pointing down into the pit.

Aragorn’s eyes widened in surprise.  He knew what the man was telling him, and though he was startled, he was also more than a little eager.  He knew there was nothing more he would like to do than pound senseless the man who had dared hurt his family.

“Aragorn is to fight?” Gimli demanded of their messenger.  “That is his task?”

The white haired man simply nodded.

Gimli’s face suddenly broke out into a wide grin as he looked up at Aragorn.  “That fool down there doesn’t stand a chance,” he boasted loudly.  “Aragorn, you should have no problem winning this fight.”

Aragorn smiled at his friend’s confidence in him.  He was angry enough at the moment to agree with the dwarf.  He took a step toward the stairs leading down into the pit, but the white haired man stopped him by grabbing his arm and shaking his head.

“Your task…, “the man began, but Gimli cut him off.

“You said his task is to fight, now why can’t we get on with it!”

The messenger continued to shake his head, barely sparing a glance for the dwarf.  His gaze was fixed on Aragorn when he stated simply, “You are to fight.  Yet your task is not to win…but to lose!”

TBC 

Chapter 26    Valar, Keep Them Safe

“You want Aragorn to lose!?” 

Gimli’s enraged shout managed to jerk Aragorn out of his shock.  He stared at the white haired messenger in disbelief, wondering if he had heard the man correctly, praying that he hadn’t.  The thought of simply marching down into the pit and allowing the beast who had beaten his wife and killed his child pound him into pulp was almost too much to contemplate.  If it had been any other man Aragorn might not have found the task as difficult, but as it was, he felt a wave of outrage and defiance building within him.

The messenger was nodding in response to Gimli’s indignant demand, but his gaze remained fixed on Aragorn.  “Aye, you are to lose,” he stated a second time.  “You may, of course, refuse this task, but if you should do so the man standing next to your friend has been given the command to slit his throat.”

Aragorn felt his wall of defiance crumple at the man’s threat.  In his anger, he had forgotten for a moment exactly what was at stake.  His child was already dead, but now he was being given an opportunity to save Legolas.  He knew in his heart that there was very little he would refuse to do in order to save his friend.

The messenger must have seen the acceptance in his face, for he continued on with his instructions.  “My master also orders that you make the fight interesting.  The people of Norvil are quite fond of these events, and they would be most displeased if they did not believe you were trying your absolute hardest to win.  Make the fight interesting, or your friend will suffer the consequences.”

Gimli mumbled something dark beneath his breath, but Aragorn merely continued to stare at the messenger calmly, refusing to show his anger.  He hated being used for the amusement of another, yet Servius seemed intent upon playing his little games, and Aragorn had little choice but to go along with it.  He turned and glanced down into the pit where Kiesco continued to strut, waving his arms in the air.  The crowd was still cheering him, but it was becoming obvious that they were impatient for the fight to begin. 

Aragorn’s gaze moved from the pit up to the stand where Legolas still stood watching him, the penetrating gaze of the elf boring through him.  Gimli was right, Legolas did look ill.  He also looked worried, and as Aragorn watched him, he frowned and shook his head.  Aragorn smiled in return, gave a brisk nod, then turned and began fighting his way through the crowd toward the steps leading down into the pit.  He heard Gimli call out to him, but he pretended not to hear the dwarf.

Two men stopped him at the entrance to the pit.  They motioned toward his sword, their gazes dark, and Aragorn hurriedly unbuckled the belt holding the weapon around his waist.  One of the men reached to take the sword from him, but Aragorn took a step back and shook his head, unwilling to hand Anduril to a complete stranger.  Luckily, Gimli appeared at his side then and took the sword from him along with the dagger he pulled from the top of his boot.  Weaponless, Aragorn nodded to the two men and they parted to allow him entrance into the pit.

The crowd went wild as he stepped forward, screaming in anticipation.  Aragorn walked to the center of the hollow, his gaze locked on the gloating face of his adversary.   Aragorn was expecting someone from the sidelines, or one of the men who had stopped him, to come forward and announce the start of the fight.  Therefore, he was caught completely by surprise when Kiesco stepped forward and punched him forcefully in the side of the jaw, sending him reeling backward.

The fight had begun.

Aragorn stumbled back against the far wall of the pit, his vision blurring for a second.  When it cleared, he spotted Kiesco stalking toward him, a huge grin on his scarred face.  Aragorn waited as the large man approached, pretending the blow had dazed him far worse than it really had.  When Kiesco reached for him, Aragorn leaned back, allowing the wall of the pit to support his back and shoulders as he raised his foot and kicked the man full in the face.

It was Kiesco’s turn to stumble backward, blood oozing from a long cut to his lip.  He recovered quickly, however, his grin gone as he and Aragorn began to circle each other within the confines of the pit.

Aragorn watched Kiesco’s every move closely, the screams of the crowd fading to nothing but a buzz in the back of his mind.  His entire concentration was on his enemy.  Servius had commanded him to make the fight interesting, and Aragorn was more than willing to comply.  He might have to lose in the end, but Kiesco would still pay for some of the harm done to his family.

The large man leapt at him, goaded on by the impatient screams of the crowd.  Aragorn easily dodged the attack, landing a quick punch to Kiesco’s side as he darted away.  Kiesco let out an enraged roar and dove at him a second time, his meaty fists swinging wildly.  Aragorn ducked the blow aimed for his head, then moved in to land two fierce punches to Kiesco’s stomach.  The large man let out a loud grunt of pain before knocking Aragorn away. 

The two began circling again, watching each other warily.  Kiesco was wise enough to realize that Aragorn was too quick for him, and so he began trying to herd the smaller man against the pit walls, obviously hoping to trap him with nowhere to go.  Aragorn realized what Kiesco intended, and did his best to keep the fight in the center of the pit.

Minutes seemed to drag into hours.  Aragorn managed to land the most blows, but his punches were quick and lacking any real amount of strength behind them.  Kiesco, on the other hand, only managed to land a few punches, but with each, the blows sent Aragorn reeling.  Both men were soon breathing in panting gasps as they kept up their game of circle and attack.

The crowd was getting impatient.  No real damage had yet been done to either fighter, and the people were thirsty for blood.  Aragorn managed to ignore their screams until a large stone, tossed from the sidelines, struck him in the back, sending him stumbling forward. 

Kiesco took advantage of Aragorn’s dropped guard and charged forward like an angry bull.   He threw Aragorn against the wall of the pit, held him there with one hand, and began slamming his other fist repeatedly into the King’s right side.  Aragorn would have been finished right then and there, but his fighter instincts immediately took hold.  There was a pause as Kiesco hesitated in his attack, attempting to readjust his grip on his opponent.  Aragorn used that moment to send his fist flying into the other man’s nose with as much force as he could muster.  Kiesco immediately released him, stumbling back with a dazed look on his face.

Aragorn gulped in several deep breaths, ignoring the fierce pain in his side as he tried to maneuver away from the sides of the pit.  Lucky for him, his blow had carried enough force to stun Kiesco, giving him the precious moments he needed to recover.

The two men faced each other again, Aragorn leaning slightly to his side to protect his injured ribs.  Kiesco fared little better, a bloody giant with a silent trail of red running down his face and onto his chest.  Kiesco’s glare was furious, but his tone was mocking as he taunted Aragorn.

“Is that the best you can do,” he spat angrily, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand.  “Why, even your pretty little wife put up more of a fight than you have!  Oh, how I enjoyed feeling her soft flesh give beneath my fists.  She was quite a beautiful thing, and if I had had more time….”

He never finished his sentence, for a wave of white-hot fury had enveloped Aragorn, making him forget everything but the monster who stood before him.  He let out a wild yell and charged Kiesco, intent on nothing else but bringing down the beast who had dared harm his family.

Kiesco’s eyes widened in surprise, for obviously he had believed Aragorn too badly injured to attempt such a daring maneuver.  He put up his arms to block Aragorn’s blows, but it was to no avail, for nothing could stop the King’s wrath.  Aragorn attacked the large man with every ounce of strength remaining in him, completely oblivious to the violent blows he received in return.  His fists slammed into flesh again and again, until his knuckles were raw and bleeding, and still he attacked.

Aragorn was unaware of what finally brought him to his senses.  Perhaps it was a shout from the crowd, or maybe it was due to the fact that he was now facing towards the stands where Legolas still stood, surrounded by guards. But it was as if someone had suddenly poured a barrel of ice-cold water over his head.  He ceased his attack as quickly as he had started, stumbling back from Kiesco in horror.  The scarred man was swaying dangerously on his feet, and Aragorn knew if the man fell, Legolas would surely be killed.

“Kiesco, you are a weakling coward!” he shouted in an attempt to rile the other man back into the fight.

Kiesco shook his head, sweat flying from his hair and face, his eyes glazed with pain.  He managed to straighten, however, and Aragorn let out a small sigh of intense relief.  The full impact of what he had almost done was beginning to settle upon him, and he suddenly felt ill.

Kiesco let out a strangled cry and lunged at Aragorn, his movements sluggish and sloppy.  Aragorn put up his arms in a pretense of trying to block the other man, but he made no move to get out of the way.  Kiesco slammed into him, and both men went flying backwards.  Aragorn sensed the wall of the pit looming up behind him a second before his head impacted with the hard dirt with a sickening crack.  Stars exploded across his vision, then just as quickly faded as the world went black.

******

Legolas could not contain his cry of alarm as he watched Aragorn and Kiesco slam into the side of the pit.  Both men went crashing to the ground, but a moment later Kiesco pushed himself to his hands and knees, then surged to his feet.  Aragorn, however, remained still and motionless upon the ground, bright crimson blood coating the side of his face.  Legolas felt helpless and weak as he stared down at his friend.

The crowd was going wild, and Kiesco, caught up in their enthusiasm, began to kick at the motionless figure at his feet.  He was still unsteady from the beating Aragorn had delivered, and his blows lacked his full strength, but regardless Legolas felt hot anger surge through him.  He jerked forward, mindless of the guards surrounding him, intent only upon doing something, anything, to aid his friend.

Tervanis, who had obviously suspected such a move, was quick to kick Legolas’ legs out from under him, sending the elf crashing to his knees.  Yet Legolas still struggled forward, ignoring the guards rushing in to hold him.

A sudden roar drowned out even the shouts of the crowd, and an instant later, Gimli appeared in the pit.  Legolas watched in wonder as his short companion strode forward, grabbed Kiesco’s arm, jerked the man around to face him, then slammed his fist into his stomach.  Kiesco staggered back, and though Legolas had not thought it possible, the crowd grew even wilder.

Gimli was obviously in a rage.  The dwarf tossed his cloak away, then stormed toward the swaying Kiesco, murder in his eyes.  The crowd let out a gasp as Gimli’s form was revealed, but just as quickly they began screaming out their encouragement, always hungry for new blood.

Kiesco, already considerably weakened from his fight with Aragorn stood absolutely no chance against the enraged dwarf.  Within a matter of seconds, he too lay unconscious upon the dirt floor of the pit.

Legolas watched as Gimli hurried over to Aragorn and knelt by the King’s side.  Two men were entering the pit to drag away the unconscious fighters, but they seemed reluctant to approach the furious dwarf any sooner than necessary.  They moved to take care of Kiesco first.

Gimli glanced up from Aragorn’s still form, his gaze seeking Legolas.  Their eyes met, and Legolas could tell the dwarf was torn.  It was obvious Gimli was tempted to come to him, yet at the same time he was reluctant to leave Aragorn.  Legolas shook his head at his friend, trying to silently convey to the dwarf that he would be fine and that Gimli should not try to free him.  Gimli surely knew any attempt would be hopeless, but Legolas knew his friend was stubborn enough not to allow that to keep him from trying.

Gimli reluctantly nodded, though his face darkened when Tervanis and another guard lifted Legolas to his feet and began leading him away.  Legolas offered his friend a final encouraging smile, and Gimli managed a small smile in return before Legolas was led around to the far side of the stand where Merton stood waiting for them.

Legolas expected the Guildmaster to be angry over Gimli’s interference, but the man only looked smugly pleased.

“That has to have been one of the best fights I have ever seen,” he crowed proudly, as if he had personally won the victory within the pit.  “I believe your friend will be somewhat sore come morning,” he added with an evil grin.   “I wonder if he will be willing to complete the next task.  If he does not, dear Legolas, I fear your time is nearing an end.”

Legolas hid his anger and returned the man’s stare with a cold one of his own.  He said nothing, and after a moment Merton was forced to turn away from the intensity of his gaze.

“Bring him,” he muttered, before starting off down the street, Legolas and his guards trailing along behind.

*****

“Aragorn, it is time to wake up.  Rise, my friend, for the hour is growing late.”

Gimli cursed when his efforts to rouse his friend proved futile.  Aragorn was apparently going to wake up when he chose to and not a moment sooner. Gimli knew it was impossible for him to carry or drag his friend all the way back to the Sleeping Dragon, yet staying where they were was also out of the question.  Two men had dragged Aragorn to a small, open-faced tent erected on the far side of the courtyard, and though no one had bothered them there so far, Gimli knew it was only a matter of time.

Gimli had carefully checked his friend from head to boots for any broken bones or serious injuries.  Aragorn had a nasty gash on the side of his head, and no small amount of bruises marring his face and chest, but beyond that he did not appear seriously injured.  Gimli knew it was the wound to the head that had knocked Aragorn unconscious, but until they returned to the inn, he had no way of properly tending the man’s injury.  In the meantime, he merely sat with his friend’s head cradled in his lap and his axe within easy reach, waiting for Aragorn to decide to wake up.

Gimli was not an especially patient individual, a flaw for which Legolas had repeatedly tried to cure him, to no avail.  Each passing minute felt like hours to the waiting dwarf, and in no time at all he was mumbling curses beneath his breath and threatening Aragorn with all sorts of dark tortures if the man didn’t wake up, and wake up soon! 

“Come, Aragorn,” he muttered darkly.  “I know what a hard head you have.  The blow could not have done too much damage.  You are merely trying my patience.  I swear, you are as bad as the elf!”

Aragorn shifted in his arms and let out a soft moan.  Gimli immediately began shaking his friend in an effort to rouse him.  He tried to be gentle, but suspected he had failed when Aragorn muttered, “Gimli, if you do not stop shaking me, I will use your own axe to lob the head from your shoulders.”

Aragorn made the threat with his eyes still closed, but as Gimli ceased his shaking, the King slowly opened his lids.  His blue gray eyes looked slightly dazed, and Gimli thoughtfully gave him several long seconds to blink away the cobwebs before trying to push him into a sitting position.  “Come, Aragorn, we must return to the inn.  It is not safe here.  How do you feel?”

Aragorn grimaced, his left arm moving down to wrap protectively around his ribs.  “Bruised,” he answered simply.

Gimli snorted.  “You’ll feel worse tomorrow,” he predicted grimly.

Aragorn gave him a disgruntled glare.  “Thanks for the encouragement,” he muttered darkly.  “Would you stop tugging on my arm, I am getting up as swiftly as I can!  For what reason must we rush?”

Gimli sighed.  “We are not safe here,” he explained again, using a tone that suggested he was instructing a thickheaded child.  “At the moment everyone seems too interested in the pit fights to bother us, but I am sure that will eventually change.  I would prefer we be well away from here before then.”

Aragorn nodded, then suddenly jerked upright, his head swinging around wildly.  “Legolas,” he gasped, lurching to his feet.  “Gimli, do you…”

“He is gone, Aragorn,” Gimli interrupted, reaching out a hand to steady his swaying friend.  “They led him away shortly after you were knocked unconscious.  I wanted to follow them, but I could not leave you.”

Aragorn sighed, obviously trying to hide his worry and disappointment.  “What about Kiesco?” he asked, wincing as he raised his hand to probe at the bruises on his face and at the side of his head.

Gimli scowled, unable to hide his anger.  “You need not worry about that beast bothering us again any time soon!” he stated angrily.

Aragorn looked at him curiously, but before he could question the dwarf further, the white haired messenger who had led them previously now appeared in their clear sight.  Gimli muttered something dark beneath his breath, then moved to stand slightly in front of Aragorn until his friend could regain his balance.

The messenger ignored Gimli, but bowed slightly to Aragorn.  “My master congratulates you on the success of your first task,” he stated simply.  “He sends his men to escort you back to the inn where you will be contacted mid-day tomorrow with the instructions for your next task.’

“And how many more tasks am I to complete before my friend is set free?” Aragorn demanded, moving forward to stand next to Gimli.

“You will be given tasks until you prove yourself worthy,” the messenger replied.

Gimli snorted loudly, but both Aragorn and the messenger ignored him.

“Why not give me instructions for my next task now?” Aragorn asked.

“You will be given your instructions tomorrow,” the messenger insisted.  He waved behind him, and four men stepped forward from the crowd.  “These men will see you safely back to the inn.”  With these words, the white haired man turned and strode away, disappearing into the thick mass of people.

Gimli glared at the four men standing in front of him.  “We can get back to the inn on our own,” he growled.

None of the men answered him, but they didn’t move away either.  Gimli took a step toward them, intending to prove that they didn’t need assistance, but Aragorn’s hand on the dwarf’s shoulder stopped him.

“Let them accompany us, Gimli,” Aragorn said softly.  “As you said before, these streets are not safe at night.  I fear someone might see my injuries and use that as an excuse to attack us.”

“I can protect us against any attack,” Gimli argued, gripping the haft of his axe tightly.

“I am sure you can, my friend,” Aragorn replied gently, “but wouldn’t it be easier if you didn’t have to.  Lay down your pride and let these men see us back to the inn.  Now where is my sword?”

Gimli sighed in defeat, then motioned behind him to where he had laid Aragorn’s sword and dagger.  The man went to fetch them, and Gimli couldn’t help but notice that Aragorn’s movements were stiff and slow.  It was obvious his friend was in pain, but Gimli knew Aragorn would never complain.

“Let us get back to the inn quickly,” Gimli suggested, moving closer to Aragorn to offer his support should his friend need it.  “Perhaps we can get some rest before we face this next task of yours, whatever it may be.”

Aragorn nodded, and the two started forward, the four men spreading out to form an arc around them.  Gimli knew that morning would come all too soon, and that whatever task Aragorn was given, it was not likely to be pleasant.  He was just as sure that Aragorn would need his assistance, and he was determined to be prepared to help his friend in whatever way he could.

Yet despite his determination, Gimli could not keep his doubts at bay.  He could not fight back the sinking feeling that things were going to get a lot worse, and that he would be powerless to help the two people he held as dear as brothers. He, Aragorn, and Legolas were all caught in a dangerous current of madness and revenge, and as he moved through the dark streets, Gimli kept repeating a single prayer over and over again.

‘Valar, keep them safe.’

TBC

Chapter 27    Revelations

Gimli’s prediction that Aragorn’s injuries would feel worse come morning turned out to be not far from the truth.  Gimli could see his friend’s discomfort in his pale face and slightly tensed jaw, but he knew Aragorn too well to expect his friend to complain.  Aragorn would suffer in silence, downplaying his pain and leaving Gimli guessing as to the true extent of his injuries.  In this manner, Aragorn was much like Legolas. 

When they had returned to the inn, Gimli had done his best to play healer and tend to Aragorn’s wounds.  He had cleaned and bandaged the gash on the side of Aragorn’s head, clumsily examined the man’s ribs, washed his swollen and cut up knuckles, then ordered him to bed. 

Aragorn had patiently tolerated the dwarf’s fumbling efforts to help until Gimli’s last order.  Then he had arched a cool eyebrow, muttered something about bossy dwarves, and then moved over to sit on one of the chests near the window.   He showed no signs of obeying the order to go to bed, and after several minutes of useless arguing, Gimli had given in.  Aragorn had insisted that he only needed a few moments of peace and quiet in which to think. 

Gimli was not exactly sure when he had drifted to sleep, but when he woke the following morning, he found Aragorn still perched upon the edge of the trunk, his gaze distant as he stared out the window.  Gimli rolled from the bed and sprang to his feet, feeling a flash of annoyance.  “By the Valar, Aragorn, have you been up all night?!”  he demanded in a near shout.

Aragorn gave a slight start at Gimli’s bellowed question, turning toward the dwarf in surprise.  His eyes looked slightly glazed, though Gimli was uncertain whether this was due to exhaustion or simply because the man had been jarred from deep thought.  He scowled at Gimli in obvious displeasure at the dwarf’s surly tone, then offered a simple shrug in reply to Gimli’s question.

It was not enough of an answer for Gimli.  Not at all intimidated by Aragorn’s frown, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and then commenced in letting his friend know exactly what he thought of his foolish behavior.  Aragorn was clearly exhausted, and in his weakened state, rest was what he needed more than anything else.  Gimli knew that the man was determined to come up with a way to free Legolas, and stubborn enough to set aside his own discomforts in order to accomplish this goal.  Still, today they would learn their second task, and if Aragorn was not prepared…

Aragorn had to wait until Gimli was forced to pause his tirade in order to draw a breath before he could speak.  “I was thinking, Gimli,” he explained simply, shrugging once again to show that he thought the matter inconsequential. 

Gimli let out a low growl of frustration.  Arwen had once told him that when Aragorn was in a truly thoughtful mood he could walk through an avalanche, earthquake, or flood without ever realizing it.  Gimli had laughed at the ludicrous notion, yet now he wasn’t so certain that the Queen hadn’t been serious.

“And do you have anything to show for your hours of thought?!” he demanded sourly.

Aragorn let out a mirthless laugh.  “A sore backside?” he offered dryly.

Gimli was not amused.  “Aragorn, things cannot continue on as they have!” he exclaimed in frustration.

“No, Gimli, they can’t,” Aragorn answered softy.

Gimli peered at him suspiciously.  From the distant look in Aragorn’s eyes and the determination in his voice, Gimli suspected his friend was speaking of an entirely different matter.  With a loud sigh, he decided to let it go.  He was still worried about Aragorn, but he knew the King was strong, and yelling at the man now was not going to bring back the lost hours of the night.  In truth, Gimli was more angry with himself than his friend.  While he had been sleeping, Aragorn had at least been trying to come up with a plan.  Gimli had never considered himself a great strategist, but he could have at least made an attempt.  Legolas’ life hung in the balance, after all.

Thoughts of Legolas filled his mind then, and he found himself wondering how the elf fared this morning.  He had looked ill the previous night, a fact which served to upset Gimli no small amount.  Legolas was never ill, and he dreaded to think what his friend had gone through to make him look so pale and weak.  He swore that as soon as he found out, he would find those responsible and make them pay dearly!

“So you have been unable to come up with any plan yet?” he asked glumly, sinking back down onto the edge of the bed.

Aragorn sighed and shook his head.  “Servius had been very clever in this game he plays with us.  Look at the men he has sent to guard this inn?  Five watch the front, while still more guard the back.” he waved a hand toward the window.  “How many more men do you suppose he has guarding his Guild.  Still, I would not hesitate to take on a whole legion of soldiers if there was some way we could assure Legolas’ safety!  Yet if we so much as set foot outside of this inn, his men will know it.  Even if we manage to sneak past them, there is no guarantee that we will be able to get past the men guarding the Guild without detection.  Servius may panic to learn we are so close, and I doubt he will hesitate at all in killing Legolas.  I simply cannot risk his life in such a manner.”

Gimli nodded in understanding, hiding his disappointment.  “So we continue to do things Servius’ way,” he muttered darkly, detesting the idea.

“Perhaps,” Aragorn answered softly.

“Perhaps?” Gimli countered.  “Then you do have some sort of plan?”

Aragorn shook his head as he slowly rose from his position on the chest.  “I am still working on that,” he answered softly.  He grimaced in pain then, his arm cradling his ribs gingerly.

Gimli frowned in concern.  “Are you sure those ribs are not broken, Aragorn?” he asked worriedly.

“I am sure,” Aragorn answered firmly, “They are merely bruised and will cause me some discomfort for a few days, but nothing that will hinder me too greatly.  Now come, Gimli, we only have a few more hours before Servius’ sends his messenger.  Let us go downstairs and find some breakfast.”

Gimli liked that idea, and he and Aragorn quietly left their room and made their way downstairs to the common room.  Both wore their cloaks, but Gimli kept his hood down.  After the previous night, the majority of the city already knew of his presence and he no longer felt the need to hide.

The morning seemed to crawl by slowly, and Gimli soon found himself growing impatient.  Aragorn, as usual, seemed completely calm, a fact which served to annoy Gimli all the further.  He attempted to put the extra time to good use and come up with a plan, but all his ideas seemed to contain a single, critical flaw; they all ended up with Legolas being killed.  He desperately hoped Aragorn was having more luck than he, but all it took was a single look at the bleak expression on the King’s face to prove otherwise. 

Just when Gimli thought he could handle the tension no longer, the white haired messenger from the previous evening strode through the door and into the common room.  He spotted Aragorn and Gimli and quickly made his way over to their table.  He didn’t bother sitting, and it was obvious from his stance that he intended to make the meeting as short as possible.

“My master sends me with instructions for your next task,” he offered by way of greeting.

Aragorn nodded.  “And what is to be my next task?” he asked softly.

The man shrugged.  “My master wishes for you to retrieve an item for him.  It is an item of extreme worth and beauty, and he would have it for his own,” he explained.

Gimli snorted in disgust, not at all surprised that Servius was motivated by greed. “What is this item?” he demanded.

“It is a silver medallion,” the man informed them, “With precious stones inlaid about its edges.  It is in the shape of a crescent, and has intricate scrollwork surrounding the stones.”

“And Aragorn is to find and buy this medallion for your Master?” Gimli asked, casting a worried look toward his friend.  Neither he or Aragorn had brought much gold with them, and certainly not enough to purchase such an item as the man had just described.

The white haired messenger remained expressionless as he replied, “You may try to purchase the medallion if you choose, yet it is unlikely its current owner will wish to part with it.”

“Someone already owns this medallion?” Aragorn demanded sharply.

The man nodded.  “It is the prized possession of Thorbis the Black, master of the Thieves Guild.  It is said he keeps the treasure locked within a secret compartment in his private office.”

Gimli gawked at the messenger, disbelief and anger building up within him.  “Are you saying that Aragorn must steal this medallion from the master of thieves?” he demanded.

The white haired man merely shrugged.  “My master does not care how you acquire the prize, only that you do.  You have until midnight tonight to achieve your mission and bring the medallion back here.  A man will be waiting to take it from you.  Should you fail, your friend dies.”  With these ominous words, the messenger turned and strode from the common room, leaving a speechless Gimli behind.

All the tension within Gimli suddenly erupted.  Jumping to his feet, he slammed his fist down on the table hard enough to crack the wood.  “Aragorn, this is insane!  A few simple tasks?  Ha! Try impossible!  I am beginning to believe this Servius wants you to fail.  He cannot possibly expect you to succeed in this.  Delran told us the Thieves Guild was one of the most powerful Guilds in all of Norvil. To go against them would be madness!”

“You are right, Gimli,” Aragorn agreed, much to the dwarf’s surprise. “I do believe Servius does want me to fail in this task.”

Gimli blinked, then slowly sank back to his seat.  “Then why go to all this trouble?” he muttered in confusion.  “If he truly only wishes you to fail, then why give you all these tasks in the first place?”

“He is toying with me,” Aragorn replied, his voice deceptively soft but laced with a burning anger.  “He hurts those closest to me, then draws me here simply so he can play his little games.  I am sure he is enjoying having me dance upon his strings.  It will not matter whether I succeed in this task or not, for he will continue to give me more impossible duties until I eventually fail.  Then he will kill Legolas, and use his death as another blow against me.  It all makes perfect sense to me now, Gimli, and I curse myself for a fool for not seeing it earlier!”

Gimli shook his head, still not quite understanding.

“He doesn’t plan on releasing Legolas,” Aragorn explained patiently.  “He intends to kill him, and is merely using these tasks as a way to place the blame upon me.  He must think the guilt will make me easier to destroy, or perhaps he simply does this out of hate.”

Gimli stared at Aragorn, realizing the man’s words made sense.  He felt such a tidal wave of different emotions racing through him he could barely make sense of his own thoughts.  He was so angry he wanted only to find Servius and strangle the man.  Yet he was also afraid.  Afraid for Legolas, and afraid for Aragorn.  For the first time since he and Aragorn had arrived in Norvil, he felt completely useless, like a silent observer watching a drama unfold from the safety of the sidelines.  Servius was interested only in Aragorn, and he was using Legolas as a tool to force the King to play his twisted games.  No matter what course of action Aragorn chose, Legolas’ life was in jeopardy.  Aragorn was trying to save Legolas, while Gimli desperately wanted to help both of them.  And yet he knew he could not.  Legolas’ life was out of his hands.  All he could do was support Aragorn and try to keep the man alive long enough that they might come up with a plan to free Legolas.

Gimli realized that there was a strong chance they might not be able to save Legolas, and that possibility caused his chest to tighten painfully with fear and desperation.  He knew deep inside that if the elf were to die, a part of himself would die also.  Every time he was around Legolas, his life seemed somehow richer, more complete, and he could not even fathom what life would be like without his friend. They were constantly arguing, tossing insults back and forth, and yet he supposed it was just another way they had of showing their affection for one another.  Gimli knew without a doubt that he would willingly give up his own life in order to protect Legolas, just as he knew the elf would do the same for him.  They were more than just close friends, for in their hearts, they were brothers. 

“Then what do we do?” he whispered, surprised by the despair he heard in his own voice.  “We have already decided that we cannot risk attacking Servius outright.  Yet we cannot continue on playing his games either.” 

“No, we cannot,” Aragorn said softly, his voice as hard as steel, his dark eyes burning with anger.  “Games,” he muttered darkly, “This whole city plays them!  Servius plays them even now with us.  Yet perhaps we can turn his own game against him…”

Gimli watched Aragorn intently, recognizing the strange glint in his friend’s eyes.  Aragorn was formulating a plan.  Gimli felt a flare of hope ignite within him. He did not ask what his friend had in mind, for it was plain that Aragorn still had not completely worked it out himself.  The King’s eyes were glazed with thought, and Gimli could almost see the wheels of his mind turning over the different options available to them.

“The Guildmasters are the key to this,” Aragorn finally murmured after several long minutes of silence had passed by.  “They manage to stay in power because they don’t trust anyone.  They are constantly fighting amongst themselves, and their hatred and suspicion of one another has made them wary.  Perhaps we can use this against them.”

Gimli was not exactly sure what Aragorn was saying, but he had complete faith in the King.  Whatever Aragorn’s plan was, Gimli was more than ready to help in whatever way he could.  One thing was for certain; they were no longer going to be doing things Servius’ way.

****

 “Aragorn, this is madness.”

Aragorn glanced over at Gimli as the two made their way down the street from the Sleeping Dragon.  “Do you have a better idea?” he asked lightly, flipping the side of his cloak behind him so he would have quick and easy access to the hilt of his sword.  He didn’t expect to have to use the weapon, however, for it was only mid-afternoon, and the streets were mostly deserted

Gimli snorted, then glared fiercely at a passing merchant, causing the man to let out a soft gasp before hurrying on his way in the opposite direction from the two companions.  “Of course I don’t,” he grumbled, “But that doesn’t mean I have to like this one.”

“It can work, Gimli,” Aragorn insisted.

“Aye, it may work,” Gimli admitted, “Or we may both be walking to our deaths!”

Aragorn sighed, but said nothing.  He knew he really had Gimli’s complete support, no matter how much grumbling the dwarf did.  They had both been over the plan repeatedly so as to reduce the chance of error, and Aragorn truly believed they had a strong chance of success. It was true, many things could go wrong, yet Aragorn still felt sure in his chosen path.  After all, they really had no other choice.

They walked on in silence for several long minutes, before Gimli finally spoke.  “How many are following us?” he asked quietly.

“I believe only three,” Aragorn answered calmly.

“So when do we get rid of them?”

Aragorn glanced around him, then motioned to the opening to a small, dark alley that split off from their main path.  “That looks as good a place as any.  We must be quick, though.”

Gimli nodded, a small grin of anticipation lighting his face.  “You know, Aragorn, this is the only part of your plan I expect to enjoy.”

Aragorn laughed as they rounded the corner then flattened themselves against the shadowy walls of the alley.  “The first one is only a few yards behind us,” he quietly informed Gimli.  “The other two follow at a greater distance.”

“The first one is mine!” Gimli declared, “We can share the other two.”

Aragorn nodded, amused by Gimli’s eagerness.  They were both in desperate need of releasing some of the tension that had built up over the last several hours, and this seemed as good a way as any.  The men following them would surely report their activity back to Servius, and Aragorn could not risk the Guildmaster knowing what he and Gimli were up to.  “Make it quick, Gimli,” he ordered softly, “I know how much you are itching for a fight, but I would be done with this deed as swiftly as possible.  We have much to do before nightfall.”

Gimli looked slightly disappointed, but he did nod in agreement.  A moment later the first man rounded the corner and entered the alley, completely oblivious to the danger before him.  He was making no attempt at caution, obviously believing Aragorn and Gimli would never dare do anything to risk the wrath of his master.  He strode forward boldly, his gaze fixed before him.

He noticed Gimli only a scant second before the dwarf reached out and grabbed a handful of his tunic, jerking him forward.  Struggling wildly, he opened his mouth to let out a shout, obviously hoping to warn his companions of the danger.  Aragorn acted quickly, moving forward to land a vicious chop to the back of the man’s neck before he could cry out and rendering him instantly unconscious.

Gimli looked disappointed.  “I thought you were going to let me have him,” he muttered grumpily.

“And I thought you were going to be more quick about it,” Aragorn replied evenly.  “He was about to cry out, and his shout would have surely warned his companions.”

Gimli grunted, then reached down and grasped the unconscious man’s shoulders, hauling him further back into the shadows of the alley.  He had barely finished the task when Aragorn signaled the approach of the other two men. Gimli hurried back into position.

As soon as the men rounded the corner, Aragorn attacked, dimly aware of Gimli launching himself from the shadows opposite him.  Both men were rather large, but they were caught by surprise by the unexpected ambush, and were no match for Gimli’s strength and Aragorn’s speed. 

Aragorn felt a slight twinge of pain from his battered ribs as he slammed his fist into the throat of the man closest to him, but he ignored the discomfort.  His hand, however, began throbbing so fiercely he could not hold back a hiss of pain.  He watched with a frown of annoyance as the man he had hit sank to the ground, gasping for air.  A second later the man fell unconscious, the imprint of Aragorn’s boot on the side of his head.

Gimli had already dispatched his own opponent and was dusting off his hands, looking smug.  His grin faded quickly, however, when Aragorn suggested they be on their way.  Muttering darkly to himself he followed Aragorn out of the alley and back onto the main street.

Aragorn made certain that they were not being followed by any more of Servius’ men before he led the way to their destination.  He moved quickly, anxious now that he was nearing the most critical—and most dangerous—part of his plan.  He sensed Gimli moving soundlessly behind him and was comforted by the dwarf’s silent support. 

At last he came to a stop at the edge of a wide courtyard, his gaze fixed on the large building rising ominously before him. He knew that within a few precious minutes he would face the man who would be responsible for either the failure or success of his plan.  If it failed, it was likely that neither he nor Gimli would live to see the sun set. 

With this grim thought to keep him company, he silently moved forward into the shadow of the Thieves Guild.

TBC

Chapter 28      Plots

Aragorn did well at hiding his apprehension as he and Gimli crossed the courtyard and moved toward the Thieves Guild.  The building was the largest he had seen yet in the city.  Made of stone and rising at least four stories high, the structure supported several carved stone statues depicting various beasts that appeared as if they had crawled from some child’s nightmares.  The statues glowered down at all those daring to pass through the courtyard, their ugly and misshapen forms creating an air of foreboding that settled darkly around the large structure.  Two guards stood sentry before the massive doors leading into the building, their clothes colorful and rich in appearance, their faces completely void of any expression as they watched Gimli and Aragorn approach.

“They do not look as if they are eager to let us in,” Gimli whispered softly from beside Aragorn.  “What if they do not grant us entrance?”

“They will,” Aragorn murmured.

“And if they don’t?” Gimli insisted.

“Then we will find another way,” Aragorn answered softly, his voice filled with determination.

They were drawing within earshot of the two guards now, and Aragorn motioned Gimli to remain silent.  They had already agreed that he would do all the talking, and that Gimli’s main role was to offer support while simultaneously watching Aragorn’s back.  They both knew, however, that if a situation requiring battle did happen to arise, they were not likely to leave the building alive.  Still, they would not go down easily.

Aragorn and Gimli were still several paces away from the doors when one of the guards stepped forward and ordered them to halt.  They immediately complied, their hands held carefully away from their weapons in a sign they meant no threat.

“What is it you want?” the guard who had ordered their halt asked in a bored voice, his hand casually laying across the hilt of the sword belted about his waist.

“I seek an audience with your master,” Aragorn replied calmly, bowing his head slightly in a show of respect.  He had learned from one of the servants back at the Sleeping Dragon that all of the members of the Thieves Guild were extremely prideful, and that their master, Thorbis, was worse than all of his men combined.  He had also learned that Thorbis was an extremely suspicious man when it came to the other Guildmasters.  His position of strength within the city made him a target for the jealous ambition of those less fortunate than himself, and he constantly had to protect his guild—and himself—from the attacks of those seeking to rob him of his power.  Aragorn hoped to use this fact to his advantage.

The guard showed no response to Aragorn’s request.  Without taking his gaze from either of them, he made a small motion to the other guard, who promptly turned and entered the building.  Only a few minutes passed before he returned, this time with a tall, lavishly dressed man beside him.  The man strode down the steps and moved to stand before Aragorn and Gimli, a deep scowl on his face.

“Why do you wish to see Master Thorbis,” he demanded in a haughty voice, his gaze moving back and forth between Gimli and Aragorn.

“I have a message for him,” Aragorn answered simply.

“Give me this message and I will have it delivered to him,” the man demanded, holding out his hand.

Aragorn shook his head.  “I am afraid the message I bear is for the ears of your master alone,” he replied, trying to make his voice sound respectfully apologetic.

The man’s scowl grew even darker.  “Master Thorbis does not grant audience to every beggar that comes knocking at his door.  I will not have him disturbed.”

Aragorn nodded.  “I assure you, sir, that your Master will wish to see me.  My message is of the utmost importance.  I believe your Guildmaster’s life may be in terrible danger.”

The man didn’t even so much as twitch an eyebrow at this statement, though he did take a step closer to Aragorn in an obvious attempt to intimidate.  Aragorn met his stare without any hint of fear, and the richly dressed man was the first to look away.  “Who are you?” he demanded in an angry voice, his question directed more toward Aragorn’s chest than his face.

“I am Strider, a ranger from the North, and this is my companion, Master Gimli.

The man gave Aragorn a curt nod before turning back toward the doors.  “I will tell him you are here, yet I doubt he will agree to see you,” he announced as he disappeared back into the building.

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Gimli.  If Thorbis did refuse to meet with them, then Aragorn would have to find some way to force the Guildmaster to change his mind.  The hardest part would be finding a way that wouldn’t get both his and Gimli’s head lobbed off in the process.  Both of the guards had returned to their positions beside the doors, but their eyes remained fixed on Gimli and Aragorn with only the slightest hint of interest in their hard gazes.

Several long minutes dragged by, and Aragorn was just beginning to despair of ever being granted entrance, when the lavishly dressed man reappeared at the doors.  “You have managed to attract my Master’s curiosity,” he announced piously.  “He is eager to learn what might bring two foreigners to his doorstep with a message for him.”

“Then he has agreed to see us?” Aragorn asked.

The man gave a curt nod.  “You will leave your weapons here,” he ordered, motioning to the two guards who immediately stepped toward Aragorn and Gimli with the obvious intent of relieving them of their weapons.  “The men will return them to you if you return.”

Aragorn did not miss the fact that the man had used the word if instead of when.  He slowly unbuckled Anduril from his side and handed it to one of the guards.  Gimli followed suit, if a bit more reluctantly.  Once their weapons had been handed over, the richly dressed man turned back to the doors, motioning Aragorn and Gimli to follow him inside.

The interior of the building turned out to be much more impressive than the exterior.  Wide hallways were richly adorned with thick, expensive rugs in a myriad of colors.  Exquisite vases etched with detailed designs stood on intricately carved stands in numerous places along the hall.  Bright tapestries hung from the walls with scenes ranging from a nude woman bathing under a waterfall to two men fighting on a dusty street.  The evidence of great wealth was displayed everywhere they looked.

They were led down several different hallways, then up a wide set of stairs and into yet another hallway that appeared even more richly adorned then those on the floor below.  The lavishly dressed man led them to a wide, iron bound door guarded on either side by two men.  He knocked on the door, waited for the call to enter, then ushered Gimli and Aragorn inside.

The room they entered was immense, with over a dozen bright lamps hanging from hooks on the walls.  Layer upon layer of thick, soft rugs woven in bright, colorful designs, muted their footsteps.   Heavy bronze statues of all sizes and shapes stood on small white pedestals against all four walls of the room.  In the center of the room stood a massive table decorated with even more of the bronze statures.  A large chair was positioned behind the table, and it was in this chair that Thorbis, Guildmaster of thieves, sat.  The man was about the same height and weight as Aragorn, with thinning black hair, a high sloping forehead, and a hawk like nose.  His full attention was currently fixed on a small statue he held in his right hand, and he didn’t even look up as they entered the room.

The richly dressed man hurried forward and bent to whisper in his Master’s ear.  Thorbis merely nodded to whatever the man was saying, and continued to study the statue in his hand.  He still had not looked at Gimli and Aragorn.

Aragorn suspected Thorbis was deliberately forcing them to wait in order to unnerve them.  He squared his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, then calmly waited for the Guildmaster to acknowledge his presence.  He was pleased to see Gimli doing the same, though the dwarf looked far from pleased.

Several long minutes passed before Thorbis at last carefully placed the statue on the table, then lifted his head to study his guests.  His face was the picture of boredom, though Aragorn did notice a small spark of interest light up his eyes as his gaze fell on Gimli.  Thorbis continued to study them silently for several moments, then he turned to the lavishly dressed man still standing at his side.

“Tell me, Harum,” he asked in a soft, silky voice, “Do these two look familiar to you?”

“Yes, Master,” Harum answered, “they were both at the games last night.”

Thorbis arched an eyebrow then turned back to studying Aragorn and Gimli, “Ah yes,” he finally murmured, a small smile twisting the corners of his lips.  “You took part in the pit fights last night.”  His gaze was fixed on Aragorn now.  “As I recall, you lost your particular fight.”

Aragorn did not react at all to the slight mocking he detected in Thorbis’ voice.  “Yes, my lord, I did,” he answered simply.  Thorbis was no lord, but Aragorn was not above stroking the man’s pride a bit in order to get what he wanted.  Thorbis’ grin grew wider, though Aragorn was unsure whether it was due to his answer to the man’s statement, or because he had called him a lord.

“Harum here has told me that you bear a message.  A ranger from the North, and a dwarf.  I must say I am intrigued.” 

“It is more a warning than a message,” Aragorn answered simply, his gaze pointedly fixed on Harum.

“You wish my aide to leave,” Thorbis observed.  “Yet how will I know that once I dismiss him you will not attack me?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “There is nothing we would gain from attacking you, sir.  Besides, both my companion and I are unarmed, and I suspect we would not get two steps in your direction before your guards would be upon us.”

Thorbis smirked.  “What you say is true,” he admitted arrogantly.  “Yet even if you should somehow manage to reach me, I am an excellent swordsman, and would cut you both to pieces.”

“I have no doubt that you would,” Aragorn answered with a bow, forcing a mixture of respect and fear into his voice.  Inwardly, however, he was scoffing at the arrogant man.  One look at the jeweled hilt of the sword around Thorbis’ waist revealed that the piece was meant for show, and not as a real weapon.  Aragorn doubted Thorbis even knew how to hold the blade properly.

Thorbis nodded, obviously believing Aragorn properly cowed.  He turned to his aide then and dismissed the man.  “Wait outside the door, and I shall call you if I have need,” he commanded.

Harum looked far from happy, but he obeyed his master without argument.  As soon as the doors had shut behind him, Thorbis turned his complete attention on Aragorn.  “Tell me of this warning you have for me, and be quick about it, for I have much to do,” he ordered, his voice practically dripping with disinterest.

Aragorn was not fooled.  He knew Thorbis was curious.  “I have come to warn you of a plot against your life,” he informed Thorbis gravely, hardly wincing at all at the blatant lie.  He was determined to save Legolas, and if that meant telling a thousand lies, then he would do just that.

Thorbis waved a jeweled hand in the air.  “When you become a man of my position, everyone plots against you,” he informed Aragorn with indifference.  “I have ceased to worry about it.  No one can break through my security.”

“Even if the man plotting against you were a fellow Guildmaster,” Aragorn asked simply.

A flicker of interest passed over Thorbis’ features, then just as quickly was gone.  “The other guilds are envious of my position,” he stated boldly, “They are constantly seeking to find a way to overthrow me.  Yet my guild is too powerful.  We will crush anyone who dares to attack us!”

Aragorn quickly nodded.  “I am sure your guild is more than strong enough to defend itself.  However, the man who plots against you does not intend to attack your guild, but instead, he will merely attack you.  He has already hired an assassin to complete this task,” he hurried on when Thorbis looked doubtful.  “A man by the name of Tervanis…”

Aragorn was cut short when Thorbis leapt from his chair.  “Did you say Tervanis?” he asked in a strained whisper.  “The name of the assassin hired to kill me is Tervanis?”

Aragorn nodded, startled by the man’s violent reaction.  From Delran’s description of the assassin, Aragorn had suspected Tervanis would be well known within the city.  What he had not expected was the raw fear he saw in Thorbis’ eyes.  It seemed that the mere name of the assassin, combined with the possibility he might be after him, terrified Thorbis.

“Tell me his name.” Thorbis demanded, his jaw clenched in fury, but the fear still more than evident in the slight quiver to his voice.

“I have told you,” Aragorn began, “His name is Tervanis…”

“No!” Thorbis hissed.  “I know the assassin.  Tell me the name of the man who plots against me.”

Aragorn shrugged.  “His name is Servius,” he answered simply.

Thorbis swore, picked up one of the bronze statues on his desk, and hurled the object violently against the wall.  “He would not dare!” he bellowed angrily.

The door to the room swung open, and Harum and the guards rushed in, swords drawn.  They had barely stepped into the room, however, when Thorbis turned on them and screamed, “Get out!  Now!”  The guards immediately turned and fled, but Harum hesitated. 

“Is all well, Master?” he asked.

Thorbis glowered at him, and seemed about to order the man out a second time.  Then he hesitated, his gaze turning to where Aragorn and Gimli stood, his eyes narrowing.  “Come here, Harum,” he ordered, never taking his gaze of Aragorn.

Harum hurried to his master’s side, casting Gimli and Aragorn a triumphant look.  Thorbis leaned down and began talking to his aide in a hushed whisper, his voice too low for Aragorn to make out what he was saying.  The discussion lasted for several minutes, and Thorbis did not appear to be at all pleased with the topic.  At last he dismissed Harum once more, then turned back to Aragorn and Gimli.

“My aide has confirmed your story,” he said darkly.  “He tells me that Tervanis has been seen in the presence of Servius several times within the last week.  No doubt they have been planning my execution for some time now.”  Thorbis turned his back on them and walked over to the wall, bending to retrieve the small statue.  “Only Servius would be fool enough to plot against me,” he hissed, turning the statue over and over in his hands in search of damage.  “I have always known him to be hungry for more power, yet I never thought he would become so daring.  I will make him regret his boldness.  No one plots against me, no one!”  He seemed to have forgotten that just moments before he had informed Aragorn he was aware that everyone was plotting against him.

Since Thorbis’ back was turned to him, Aragorn did not try to hide his smile.  Thorbis was in a rage, and Aragorn could not have been more pleased.  The Guildmaster had accepted his story as the truth, never once questioning how Aragorn, a foreigner, might have come by this information.  Thorbis’ wariness of the other Guildmasters had given Aragorn the advantage.  It had turned out to be almost absurdly easy convincing Thorbis that Servius wished to kill him.  It seemed that the name of the assassin had truly frightened and worried Thorbis, an added bonus which Aragorn had not been expecting.  Thorbis would likely be willing to do almost anything to ensure his safety against the assassin, and it was this fact that Aragorn hoped to use to his advantage.

Thorbis continued to rage on against Servius and his guild, and it seemed that he had completely forgotten the presence of Gimli and Aragorn.  Man and dwarf exchanged a glance, then Aragorn surreptitiously cleared his throat in an attempt to gain Thorbis’ attention.  When the Guildmaster showed no sign he had heard him, Aragorn cleared his throat a second time, this time louder.  Still Thorbis continued to ignore his two guests, completely caught up in his plans of revenge.  Aragorn was about to give it a third try, when Gimli decided it was time to take matters into his own hand.  His cleared throat sounded more like a bullhorn, and was strong enough to stir some of the tapestries on the wall.  Aragorn winced, but Gimli’s method turned out to be effective, for Thorbis ended his raging and turned to give the two companions his full attention.  

“Ah yes,” he muttered, “I suppose you two will be wishing a reward for bringing me this information.  Name the amount you require, and I will see that Harum gives it to you.”  He began to turn away from them once more.

“It is not money that we desire,” Aragorn said quickly, raising his hand to regain Thorbis’ attention.

Thorbis arched an eyebrow.  “You do not wish for money?” he asked, obviously startled by that possibility.  “Then what could you possibly want.  You cannot expect me to believe that you gave me this information with no hope of anything in return.”

“We do indeed wish for something in return,” Aragorn said softly, “Yet it is not your gold.  Instead, we wish for your assistance in a more personal matter.”

Thorbis looked intrigued.  He walked back to the table, set down the statue, then seated himself in the large chair facing Aragorn and Gimli.  “Continue,” he ordered simply.

Aragorn took a step forward.  “You and I share a common enemy, Guildmaster.  Servius seeks to kill you and steal your position of power, yet you are not the only one he has attacked.  He has stolen something of great importance from me, and I greatly desire to get it back.  I was hoping that perhaps we can ally ourselves together and work to right the wrongs done against us by this man.”

Thorbis clasped his hands together in front of his face and regarded Aragorn with a curious expression.  “What is it that Servius has stolen from you?” he finally asked.

Aragorn hesitated for only a moment before telling the Guildmaster.  He supposed that a little bit of truth would make his lies all the more believable.  “He has taken a companion of mine.  A very dear friend who I hope to rescue before it is too late.”

Thorbis nodded.  “And why was this friend taken from you?” he asked.

Aragorn knew Thorbis was fishing for more information before he decided whether or not to offer his aid.  Aragorn thought it was the first wise move Thorbis had made yet.  “He took my companion in order to get to me,” he answered simply.  “He seeks revenge for some misdeed against him.  I have no doubt he intends to kill my friend in order to punish me,” he hurried on, hoping Thorbis would not ask him what misdeed he was referring to.  Aragorn did not want to have to admit he did not know.

Thorbis looked at him for a very long time, his gaze calculating.  “So you wish me to aid in freeing your friend?” he asked quietly.

Aragorn nodded.  “I thought we could work together as we both have reason to see Servius’ downfall.  Gimli and I cannot free my friend on our own.  Servius has the inn we are staying at closely watched, and even should we manage to slip past the guards as we did in order to come here, we could not attack Servius guild.  He would kill Legolas before we could ever hope to reach him.”

Thorbis let out a small sigh, then sank back in his chair.  “I cannot attack Servius’ guild,” he announced bitterly, “At least, not until I have found some  way to prove that he plots against me.  If I were to attack him before then, the other guilds would think I was merely attempting to strengthen the power and influence of my own guild.  They would fear that I have become too powerful, and they would unite against me.”

“It seems Servius has placed you in a dangerous position,” Aragorn said softly.  “If you move against him, you are in danger of being overthrown by the other guilds, and yet if you wait, it will give time for his assassin to do his duty.  From what I have heard of this Tervanis, he does not strike me as a man who fails in his assigned tasks.”

Thorbis’ face darkened.  “Indeed you speak the truth,” he muttered angrily.

“All the more reason why we should join together,” Aragorn said firmly.  “The only way you will be free of the assassin’s threat is if Servius is destroyed.  Once he is dead, Tervanis will have no reason to come after you.”

Thorbis shook his head.  “I have already told you, I cannot attack Servius’ guild until I have proof of his plot against me to give to the other Guildmasters.”

Aragorn smiled.  “You cannot,” he said slowly, “But Gimli and I can.  We would need your men’s help in getting past the guards at the inn, and perhaps those stationed around the guild, yet none of them would have to set foot within the guild itself.  Gimli and I will go in alone, so no blame can be placed upon you when Servius is defeated.  If your men are careful, the other Guildmasters might never even know you were involved.”

Thorbis looked incredulous.  “You believe that you and the dwarf alone can defeat Servius.  He is likely to have many guards within his guild.”

Aragorn shrugged.  “Gimli and I are no strangers to battle,” he said firmly.  “We would defeat them.”

Thorbis continued to shake his head.  “And what if you should run into Tervanis?”

“We would deal with him as well,” Aragorn answered calmly, not even a hint of a boast in his voice.

Thorbis regarded Aragorn with narrowed eyes for several long seconds.  “And what should happen if you fail?” he asked slowly.

“Then you will have lost nothing,” Aragorn responded lightly.  “You will be no worse off than you are now.  Yet if we should succeed, then you will have gained everything.  The threat to your life would be gone, and since Servius’ land borders yours to the east, I am sure you will have no trouble gaining at least part of his guild-land as your own.”

Thorbis nodded slowly, his hands still clasped in front of his face.  Aragorn could tell the Guildmaster liked the idea, no matter how hard he tried to hide the fact.  Thorbis would be taking a minimum risk, with the chance of gaining maximum profit.  Aragorn was certain he would agree. 

Thorbis turned to regard Gimli.  “You have said nothing since entering,” he commented softly.  “What have you to say of all of this?”

Gimli shrugged, then stepped forward to stand beside Aragorn.  “My companion’s thoughts are my own,” he stated simply.  “He speaks for us both.”

Thorbis nodded, then suddenly broke out into a wide grin.  “I think I shall agree to this arrangement, though I do have some doubts as to your ability to defeat Servius’ guild all on your own.  Still, you both look like fit warriors, and perhaps you will surprise me.” 

“Then it is agreed,” Aragorn asked.

Thorbis cocked his head to one side, his smile growing even larger.  “I do believe you two have gotten the worst end of this deal, and yet it matters not.  It is agreed.  How soon do you wish to act?”

“Tonight,” Aragorn and Gimli said together.  “Before midnight,” Aragorn added with a glance down at the dwarf.

Thorbis shook his head, his smile still in place.  “Tonight it will be, then,” he agreed, “Though not before midnight.  I will not have time to assemble all my men and instruct them properly before then.  I think you should choose to strike closer to dawn.  It is then that our adversaries are more likely to be drowsy and drunk.  You will stand a better chance of success then.”

Aragorn was already shaking his head.  “It must be before midnight,” he insisted.

“That is not possible,” Thorbis replied simply.  “I will not rush my men.  They are more likely to make mistakes if they are not completely prepared, and any mistakes they make can prove deadly to me.”

Aragorn and Gimli exchanged looks, then Aragorn took another step closer to Thorbis.  “Then I am afraid I have another request I must make of you,” he announced quietly.  “I am sure you will have no qualms about granting my request as you have already said you believe Gimli and I have the worst end of this deal.”

Thorbis’ shrugged, the smile never leaving his face.  “The thought of Servius’ death has put me in a most pleasant mood.  Ask what it is you want, and if it is within my power I will grant it to you.”

Aragorn nodded.  “The reason Gimli and I wish to attack before midnight is because Servius intends to kill Legolas at that time.  If we cannot act before then, then our friend will surely be dead.  There is only one thing that will buy us some more time.”

“And what is this thing?” Thorbis asked pleasantly.

“Your medallion,” Aragorn answered simply.  “Servius desires your medallion, and I am certain I can use it to persuade him to allow Legolas to live.”  Aragorn did not admit that Servius had in fact sent both he and Gimli after the medallion lest Thorbis come to suspect that everything Aragorn had said was nothing but a ruse.  “I am sure you know of the piece I speak.  It is crescent shaped, with many jewels inlaid around its arc.”

Thorbis was no longer smiling.  He straightened up in his chair, all pretenses at pleasantness completely gone.  “You want my medallion?” he demanded in a hard voice.

Aragorn merely nodded.  “Without the medallion, Legolas will surely be killed, and then Gimli and I will have no reason to attack Servius’ guild.  Do you understand?”

Thorbis shook his head, then leapt to his feet.  “The medallion is precious to me,” he grated out, “It was the first piece I ever stole as a young thief, and it has brought me great luck over all these years!  I will not part with it!”
Aragorn sighed.  “I understand your reluctance,” he said quietly, “Yet what if I were to assure you that the medallion would be returned to you just as soon as Servius is defeated?”

Thorbis shook his head. “There is no assurance that Servius will be defeated,” he argued.

“He will be,” Aragorn said firmly, his gaze locked with Thorbis’. 

Thorbis slowly sat back down in his chair.  “I will not give you the medallion,” he stated resolutely. 

Aragorn clenched his jaw in frustration.  Things had been going so well up until the point.  He had to find a way to convince Thorbis to part with the medallion. 

“It seems our agreement has been for naught,” Aragorn said slowly.  “I apologize for wasting you time, and I wish you luck in your dealings with the assassin.”

Aragorn turned as if to leave, but Thorbis called out to him.  “If I were to give you the medallion, I would need something of equal value in return.  Something I might keep to ensure the return of the medallion.”

Aragorn turned to face Thorbis, then shrugged helplessly.  “I am afraid I have nothing of value to give you.”

Thorbis shook his head.  “Ahh, but you do.” he said slyly, a slight gleam in his eyes.  “In exchange for the medallion, I would have your word that should you fail to return it to me, you will give your own life in exchange.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  “My life?” he asked softly.

Thorbis nodded gleefully.  “I will give you the medallion, but first you must swear that should it not be returned to me, you will serve me for a period of three years.  Only once you have given me your oath will I give you the medallion.  And should you think to break your pledge and flee from me, I will send my men to hunt you down and kill you.  Will you give me your promise?”

Aragorn felt a horrid sinking feeling within his stomach.  He knew it would be so easy to give his pledge and then take the medallion, and yet something held him back.  Should the medallion be lost, he knew he would be honor bound to hold up to his end of the bargain.  He was more than willing to take such a risk if it meant saving Legolas, yet at the same time he knew he had not the right to make such a promise.  He was King of Gondor, and his life belonged to his people.  In truth, he had already betrayed them by coming after Legolas in the first place, yet his heart had allowed him no other course.  Still, how far could he go?

A part of Aragorn screamed at him to give the oath.  After all, surely the medallion would be recovered and his promise would come to mean nothing.  Yet what if the medallion was not recovered?  He would then be forced to keep his word, and by so doing, he would be abandoning his people.

Aragorn felt as if he were being ripped apart inside.   His life was balanced on a precarious scale.  On one side was Legolas, his dearest friend whom he loved as a brother, and on the other side, his people, whom he had sworn himself to.  Whatever choice he made, he would be betraying one of them.  The friend inside him refused to even consider betraying Legolas, while the King within him knew there was no other choice. 

“He can’t.”

Aragorn was startled by the gruff voice beside him.  He glanced down to find Gimli looking up at him, a strange expression on his rough features.

“He is unwilling to risk his life in order to save his friend?” Thorbis asked.

“He can’t,” Gimli merely repeated, his gaze firmly fixed on Aragorn.

“Gimli…”  Aragorn began, but the dwarf cut him off.

“I understand.  You need not explain it to me.”  The dwarf’s voice, instead of being filled with anger, was instead filled with sympathy and understanding.  “You cannot do it,” he continued, “But that does not mean that I cannot.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything, Gimli turned to face Thorbis.  “You have my promise that should we fail to return your medallion, I will serve as your slave for not three years, but five.  You shall not be getting a better offer, and so I suggest you take it!”

Thorbis considered the dwarf’s proposal for only a moment before quickly agreeing.  “Done!” he stated.  “You will keep your promise to me, or you will die.”

Gimli nodded gravely.  “A dwarf always keeps his word,” he said stiffly.

Aragorn stared at Gimli, unsure whether to feel relief or worry.  Gimli merely smiled back grimly as Thorbis opened a hidden drawer beneath the table and withdrew a cloth-covered bundle.

“The medallion,” he said simply, offering the bundle to Aragorn.

Aragorn merely stared at the cloth covered offering, then turned to look at Gimli.  The dwarf gave a brief nod, then stepped forward and took the proffered gift from Thorbis.

“Now,” Thorbis said cheerfully, “Let us discuss the rest of our plans for this night.”

*****

The sun was setting low on the horizon when Gimli and Aragorn finally left the Thieves Guild.  As they crossed the courtyard, the cloth covered medallion clutched close to Gimli’s chest, neither of them knew they were being watched.

Tervanis sat on an overturned barrel near the mouth of an alleyway, his narrowed gaze following the steps of the two companions.  He was sharpening his knife, the low hum of the steel sliding across the whetting stone the only sound in the dank alley.  He had been sitting here waiting for some time now, ever since he had followed the man and dwarf from the Sleeping Dragon to the doorstep of the Thieves Guild.  They had dispatched the three fools following them with practiced ease, yet they had never suspected a fourth set of eyes watched their every move. 

“It seems the elf’s faith in you has not proven false,” Tervanis murmured softly as he watched Aragorn swing the belt containing his sword around his waist.  The king secured the thick strip of leather with a quick grace that spoke of a man well accustomed to the feel and fit of his weapon.  “You made a daring move today.  I am sure Servius would be most displeased should he learn of this.”

Tervanis let out a small laugh as the two disappeared down one of the streets branching off from the courtyard.  He made no move to follow them, for he had already learned what he needed.  He had no idea what had happened inside the Thieves Guild, yet he was almost certain that the man and dwarf had somehow managed to acquire the assistance of Thorbis the black.  Tervanis dearly would have liked to know how they had accomplished that feat, yet he knew it truly did not matter.  The only thing that mattered was that King Elessar was no longer playing the game by Servius’ rules.  This fact absolutely delighted Tervanis.

Tervanis re-sheathed his knife, then rose and began heading back to Servius’ guild.  He had no intention of telling the Guildmaster what he had seen today.  Let Servius find out on his own just how much he had miscalculated his opponents.  Tervanis felt no loyalty to the man.  In truth, he despised Servius with a passion bordering on hatred.  The Guildmaster was nothing but a pathetic weakling.  If it weren’t for the elf, Tervanis would have ended his business with Servius long ago.

Tervanis smiled slightly as his thoughts turned to Legolas.  Fate had brought them together.  The elf was perfect: beautiful, strong, graceful, his very being one of light and nobility.  He was a perfect warrior, invincible and immortal, and Tervanis could not help but feel as if he had been waiting his entire life for Legolas.  He was a man who thrived off of challenges, and the elf would be his ultimate challenge.  He could not even look at Legolas without feeling a deep possessiveness.  The elf was his to conquer, and Tervanis looked forward to the chance with every particle of his being.

He hurried his steps, anxious suddenly to return to the guild.  King Elessar would make his move soon, and Tervanis was determined to be ready when he did.  One way or another, Legolas would be his.

TBC

Chapter 29 Unexpected Developments

Servius was having dinner with his two advisors, Telfor and Fanchon. The three men were alone in the giant dining hall, happily feasting on large platters of roasted fowl, bowls of deep red turnips, a variety of delicate pastries, and tankards full of fine wine that Servius had ordered prepared and delivered from one of the finest inn's within the city. The lavish meal was Servius way of making up to his advisors the fact that he had not allowed them to participate in the plans against King Elessar. He had not wanted either of his men to be spotted and recognized by his enemies, and consequently they had been forced to play an extremely minor role in his revenge against the King. Servius knew that neither man was happy about this. Both had suffered at the King's banishment just as he had, and in truth, if it weren't for them, Servius admitted he would not likely be in his current position of power. He owed much to Telfor and Fanchon. They were the closest things to friends he would ever have, and the only two people within his entire guild in whom he trusted. They had saved him from certain capture and death while wandering in Gondor, and after, when he had become Guildmaster, they had continued to serve him faithfully. Therefore, Servius was doing his best to make up for the fact that he had ignored them shamefully within the last couple of weeks. His plan, so far, seemed to be working. Telfor and Fanchon were extremely pleased when Servius promised them a chance to spit in the face of the King before he killed him.

Servius' glee was so great he could barely refrain from rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Soon now, very soon, the moment he had waited years for would arrive. King Elessar would kneel before him, and Servius would wield the blade that would end the man's life forever. He had planned on giving the King a series of several difficult, but possible, tasks in order to weaken and discourage him, but his impatience got the better of him. Having his quarry so close had proved too much for his restraint. He needed his revenge, and he needed it soon. Therefore, he had hastened to issue the task he had previous intended to save for last; the impossible mission of stealing the medallion from the Thieves Guild.

Servius had no doubt that King Elessar would fail in this task. Once midnight arrived and a his messenger returned with the news that the King had failed to retrieve the medallion, Servius would ordered his men to capture Elessar and bring the man to him. He would have to move carefully lest he attract the wrath of the Serpent. The Guildmaster was extremely finicky when it came to the protection of the people staying within his inns. Servius' men would have to find a way to lure the King and his dwarven companion away from the Sleeping Dragon before they made their move. Undoubtedly the two would put up a fight, yet they would not stand a chance against the superior number of men Servius had guarding them. He would order the dwarf killed, then have King Elessar brought to him.

He couldn't contain a shiver of glee at the thought of his most hated enemy brought defeated before him. He would order the elf brought down, then, after proclaiming Elessar's failure, he would kill the fair being. Perhaps, instead of ordering the dwarf killed, he would have him brought before him as well. It would be a double blow against the King to be forced to stare into his companion's eyes as Servius slowly slit both their throats.

Then, Servius would turn his attention on the man he hated above all else. He would likely torture the King for a bit-Telfor and Fanchon would be more than willing to aid in that particular endeavor-and then he would kill him. Slowly.

"I think you should allow Fanchon and I to kill the elf," Telfor spoke up from across the table. "After all, you get to kill the King, we should at least be able to slay his friend."

Servius considered this request while stuffing a large portion of the fowl into his mouth, it's juices flowing down his chin, staining his tunic. He knew Telfor's request was a fair one, but he had developed a sort of personal grudge against the elf, and he wasn't keen on being robbed the pleasure of killing him. Legolas had been trouble from the moment he had arrived in Norvil. His escape attempt last night had resulted in the injury of several of Servius' men, as well as the guildmaster's own slightly tender nose. As soon as they had returned to the guild from the pit fights, Servius had ordered the elf beaten for his rebellion, then taken back upstairs and re-tied to the bed, this time with two guards stationed inside the room. He had considered returning Legolas to the small cage in the cellar, but he was unwilling to risk the possible repercussions. He wanted the elf awake and aware of his surrounding when he killed him, and returning him to the cage might cause the elf to slip back into the coma-like state that he had suffered earlier.

"I will consider your suggestion," he said reluctantly, using a square piece of cloth to wipe the grease from his chin. "Perhaps I will allow you to have a little fun with both the elf and the King before we finally take our revenge."

Telfor and Fanchon nodded, obviously placated. They spent the remainder of the meal planning the gruesome details of what they would do once they had King Elessar firmly in their hands. As the hours dragged on and midnight approached, Servius found himself growing more and more excited, the greased fowl churning anxiously within his stomach. He drank several goblets of the fine wine in order to try and settle his nerves, but soon switched to water so he could keep his thoughts clear and his mind sharp. Tonight of all nights he would not allow his actions to be clouded by too much drink. He was pleased to notice that both of his advisors seemed to be using caution as well.

Midnight had not yet come when a soft knock sounded upon the door to the dining room. Servius called for whoever it was to enter, and a moment later a tall man whom Servius recognized as the leader of those guarding the Sleeping Dragon stepped reluctantly into the room.

"Aha!," Servius called out at the sight of him, thinking that the man's presence before the assigned deadline could mean only one thing. "So, King Elessar and the dwarf have decided to attempt retrieving the medallion after all," he shouted gleefully. He had ordered his men to notify him the moment the King made a move against the Thieves Guild

Telfor and Fanchon exchanged startled looks. "Surely not!" Fanchon exclaimed. "They would not be so foolish as to risk stealing the medallion from Thorbis when there is obviously no chance of success."

Servius turned to them and shrugged. "King Elessar is a fool," he stated haughtily. "He is blinded by his affection and loyalty to the elf, and is likely to risk anything in order to save him. Ha! I was beginning to believe that they might not even make an attempt, and I was somewhat disappointed at the thought. This way is so much more fun. To have tried and failed will make Elassar's fall all the more complete!"

"But they will surely be captured by Thorbis' men," Telfor objected. "What if the Guildmaster has them killed? He will rob us of our revenge!"

Servius waved a hand dismissively in the air. "I have Tervanis standing by with a little message and a hefty bag of gold that will surely convince Thorbis to hand his prisoners over to us."

"But what if he refuses?" Fanchon questioned nervously.

Servius arched an eyebrow. "Have you ever seen anyone refuse Tervanis anything? I am no fool, man. Why do you think I use the assassin for such a mundane job as delivering a message? Thorbis will be wary when he realizes Tervanis is working for me, and it shouldn't take too much to convince him it is in his best interest to do as I ask. And even if he is still somewhat reluctant, the gold will surely serve to persuade him."

The two aides did not look entirely convinced.

"He is very powerful," Fanchon said softly, "If he thinks you are threatening him, he might retaliate."

"He is also very wealthy," Telfor added. "Your gold might not hold as much sway over him as you believe."

Servius laughed and waved away his companion's concerns. "Tervanis will make sure they are not killed," he assured them both. "I might not like the assassin, but I do have faith in him."

He then turned back to the guard who had listened to their conversation without interruption. The man's face was extremely pale, and Servius briefly wondered what was causing the guard to look so terrified. He didn't give it much thought, however. "Go and inform Tervanis to be ready to move in just as soon as the King and dwarf have been captured," he ordered briskly "I do not wish to risk them being killed before he can reach Thorbis with my message."

The guard swallowed hard. "S..si..sir?" he stammered. "My message."

"Yes, yes," Servius interrupted impatiently. "I know what your message is! Haven't you been listening? You have come to report that the King and dwarf have left the inn and gone to the Thieves Guild."

It didn't seem possible, but the guard grew even paler. "But sir," he objected in a tremulous voice. "I have not come to report that they have left, but that they have returned."

"Returned?" Fanchon repeated, surprised.

"How can they have returned if they never left?" Telfor demanded, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I gave the order to be informed the minute they went to the Thieves Guild," Servius growled.

The guard nodded. "Yes, master," he said quickly. "That is why when they left about mid-afternoon, Torlin, Jesil and Ran followed them. They were going to make sure they were truly heading to the Thieves Guild before reporting to you."

"They never reported to me," Servius hissed

"No, sir," the guard said slowly. "It appears as if they have disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Servius repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

The guard nodded glumly. "There has been no word from them, and when the King and the dwarf returned to the inn they were alone."

Servius ground his teeth together, his ire rising. What was King Elassar up to? Obviously the King had not gone to the Thieves Guild, for surely if he had he would not have returned. So where had he been? And where were the men sent to follow him?

"There is more sir," the guard added reluctantly, pulling Servius' from his thoughts. He glared at the man, and the guard looked as if he were about to bolt, his gaze flying toward the door. "When they returned to the inn they marched right up to us and gave me this," he bravely stepped forward and placed a cloth wrapped bundle on the table in front of Servius. "They asked.no, commanded me to deliver it to you immediately."

Servius felt an odd sensation of dread build within the pit of his stomach as he stared at the bundle, though he could not explain exactly why. Telfor, Fanchon, and the guard were all three watching him closely, and so with a pretend air of control and indifference, he reached for the bundle. Flipping aside the cloth, he quickly revealed the contents, his eyes widening in shock and disbelief.

"What is it?" Fanchon demanded, standing up from his chair in an attempt to see inside the bundle.

Servius slowly lifted the crescent shaped medallion from its nest within the cloth, his hands shaking slightly in a mixture of rage and shock. The light from the fire in the hearth glinted merrily off the bright stones inlaid among the intricate silver designs, causing the medallion to sparkle and glow in Servius' hands. All the occupants of the room stared at the precious necklace in awe, frozen into silence by its beauty and the impossibility of its presence.

"It seems you have underestimated your opponent," a low voice said from the doorway.

Servius jerked his gaze away from the medallion and sent a dangerous glare toward Tervanis who stood casually behind the guard in the open doorway. The assassin was also looking at the medallion, but unlike the others he seemed impervious to its spell. Nor did he look entirely surprised to see it, and Servius felt a wave of rage wash through him.

"Aren't you supposed to be standing watch at the Thieves Guild?" he snapped angrily, grasping the medallion in a tight fist and ignoring the pain as its sharp edges cut into his skin.

Tervanis shrugged. "There seems to be no need for me there any more."

Servius felt a blaze of angry suspicion. Surely Tervanis would have seen the King and the dwarf from his position guarding the Thieves Guild, and yet he had sent no word. He had obviously known they had succeeded in claiming the medallion or else who would not have returned early from his post. Or would he have? Servius honestly did not know, for Tervanis continued to remain a complete mystery to him. He could in no way predict what the assassin would and would not do if it fit into his own, private interest. And the fact that Tervanis had his own interests at heart had been clear from the very start. Servius was beginning to wonder if he might have made a mistake in hiring the assassin.

Tervanis was staring at him from across the room, a small, mocking grin on his face as if he could read Servius' every thought. The guildmaster shivered, then opened his mouth to demand an accounting from the assassin.

"How did they manage it?" Telfor asked in confusion, unknowingly distracting Servius from his intended interrogation of the assassin.

Servius turned to his aid, once again opening his mouth to reply before realizing that he didn't have an answer. He had no idea how King Elessar had come to acquire the medallion? Servius had been sure that he had given them an impossible task, and now he was left at somewhat of a loss. How had the King managed it?

Servius suddenly felt very suspicious and more than a little nervous. Warning bells were beginning to chime within his brain, urging him to use caution and to choose his next steps carefully. He had the most horrible feeling that all his well-laid plans were beginning to come unraveled beneath his very nose, and he wasn't at all certain what to do about it. Only moments before he had been celebrating the nearness of his victory, and now he was trying to figure out exactly what had gone wrong and how he was going to deal with it. All he knew was that he had to find a way to put a stop to whatever King Elessar was up to before it was too late. Tervanis was right, he had underestimated his opponent. The wise thing to do now would be to carefully think through his planning, discover his error, and then move quickly to correct it before the situation moved out of his control. He could always give up this game of tasks and simply order the King and his companion captured and brought to him.

Yet even as these thoughts were going through Servius' mind, a part of him stubbornly rebelled. He knew that should he take this course of action, he would, in essence, be admitting defeat. Instead of being brought to him in failure, Elessar would come in triumph, knowing he had succeeded in the tasks set against him. This was not the way that Servius had wanted things to be, and he obstinately held to the belief that he could still somehow hold victory over this situation. He wanted the King to be completely crushed before he was destroyed, and he was determined to think of some task that would ensure Elessar's failure once and for all. His plan was not completely lost to him. He merely needed time to think and he would find some way to set things right. King Elessar might have surprised him this time, but he would not do so again.

"Master Servius?" Telfor urged softly when Servius did not reply to his question. "What do we do now?"

Servius did not answer right away. Instead, he stared down at the medallion still clenched in his hand. At last he looked up. They were all watching him: Fanchon, Telfor, Tervanis, and the guard, waiting for his next orders.

"I am going to bed," Servius said at last, his voice admirably calm considered the raging storm of emotions tearing through him. "I will tell you my plans in the morning."

None of them argued, and Servius strode quickly toward the side door of the dining hall that led directly up to his chambers. As he passed the hearth, he opened his fist and hurled the medallion into the raging flames, watching in satisfaction as the fire hungrily swallowed the precious offering. Then he turned, and without another word left the room.

******

Legolas was not fairing well.

Locked in the upstairs bedroom, his hands and feet securely tied to the bedposts, and under the close watch of two guards stationed beside the door, he was finding it impossible to sleep. He was weary beyond measure, and he knew he would need to regain at least some of his strength if he were to be any use to Aragorn and Gimli, yet his mind was too full to offer him any hope of rest. He had all but given up on any hope of freeing himself on his own, and decided he would merely have to remain watchful for any opportunity that might present itself, and be ready to act when the time came. Until then, he was helpless, lost in his misery and growing despair.

His body ached fiercely from the abuse he had suffered the last couple of weeks, the most recent the beating Servius had ordered in response to his escape attempt. His ribs ached, his head throbbed, and his wrists burned fiercely from the ropes chafing against his tender and torn skin. He knew he had not yet fully recovered from his strange reaction to the Svellon drug, for he still felt incredibly weak, and the normal quick healing tendencies of his elven body seemed to be somehow disabled. He also continued to feel slightly ill, something that was completely foreign to him.

Yet despite all these physical complaints, Legolas' suffering was on a much deeper level. He could no longer remember the number of days in which he had been held prisoner against his will. His longing for release eclipsed all other discomforts, and his body virtually shook with his need to be free, to be rid of the rough bonds holding him in place. He was desperate for a chance to move about under his own power and free will, even if it was only a small moment in which he could stretch his legs. He was sure that were he free he would better be able to combat the darkness that continued to threaten to take his control. It seemed that the longer he was held prisoner, the weaker his body and will became and the stronger the darkness within him grew. He was not sure how much longer he would be able to fight it.

And as if the afflictions of body and mind were not enough, Legolas spirit too seemed locked in a frantic battle for survival. His desperation for freedom had awakened within him a longing that swept over him with the unmistakable scent of salt and sea air. It seemed that fate had decreed that he should suffer even more. In his mind the familiar cry of a hundred winged birds swooped down to catch their prey from crystalline waters. The thoughts mocked him, and Legolas was well aware of the sea longing rising up within him. A part of him was warmed and comforted by the familiar songs lifting from the place where water met sand. Yet another part of him recognized the danger of the calling of the sea, a danger that was far greater now than it had ever been before. Trapped as he was, held prisoner against his will, he knew that should he give in to the sea longing, it could very well drive him mad.

Legolas knew that time was swiftly running out. Servius had likely already assigned Aragorn his second task, and though Legolas did not know what it was, he dreaded it all the same. The thought of Aragorn and perhaps even Gimli suffering on his behalf was almost enough to make him start tearing desperately against the bonds holding him despite the sure knowledge of his guards' punishment. He had faith in Aragorn, yet he could not keep himself from worrying over his friends' safety. It was yet another concern that plagued his weary mind.

And then there was Tervanis. Legolas could not even think about the assassin without feeling an odd twisting sensation within his stomach. It wasn't fear exactly that he felt toward Tervanis, but it was definitely caution. Whenever the assassin looked at him, Legolas felt immediately wary. There was something in the man's eyes, something that deeply unsettled him. Tervanis' gaze was almost possessive in it's intensity, something that Legolas did not understand. Nor did he understand the respect, almost admiration, he saw in the man's face. It had not always been there, and Legolas tried to think back to when he had first seen Tervanis look at him in this manner. The last several days of travel to Norvil were nothing but a distant blur to him, and yet he was somehow certain that it was around this time that Tervanis' attitude toward him had changed.

But why had it changed, and what was Tervanis planning? Legolas knew the assassin was up to something, and yet he was not sure what it might be. Tervanis was a complete enigma to him.

In all his years as friend to Aragorn, Legolas had met and lived among many a human. He knew more about that race than perhaps any other elf still remaining in Middle Earth. But Tervanis was unlike any other human he had ever encountered. The assassin looked at other men with contempt and disgust, as if ashamed of the ineptitude of his own people. He was a man that seemed oddly displaced from the rest of his race, as if he did not truly belong, and in that aspect he was frighteningly similar to Aragorn. Raised and taught by elves, and with the blood of Numenor running through his veins, Aragorn was not elven, but he was certainly something greater than an ordinary man. Yet Tervanis had not been raised by elves, and he did not have the blood of kings in his veins. So what made him so different from the others in his race?

Legolas shivered slightly when he thought of the speed and grace in which the assassin moved. It seemed almost to be a learned version of the innate talent of the elves. The fact that Tervanis was well skilled was indisputable, and Legolas was curious to know how the assassin had come by his talent. Still, he could not help but feel slightly apprehensive at the interest Tervanis had shown toward elves in general and in him particularly. Did Tervanis somehow plan to use Legolas and perhaps other elves to prove himself superior to all other men? And if so, how?

Legolas sighed and closed his eyes, shifting as much as he could on the hard bed in an attempt to find a comfortable position. This turned out to be an impossible task however, for the complaints of his body made it difficult to relax. And so he lay quietly, showing no signs of the internal battle that raged within him, nor the questions that hounded him relentlessly. He would just have to be patient and put his trust in his companions. They would come for him, and once they did he needed to be ready to aid them in whatever way possible.

A small sound drifted in through the boarded up window, soft yet distinct, and Legolas turned his head to the side, straining to hear. A few moments later it came again, so softly that Legolas was sure that no one inside the house could have heard it except for himself. It was a faint cry of pain and alarm, the low ring of steel against steel. As he continued to listen, Legolas became more and more certain of what it was he was hearing.

Outside in the alley, a silent battle was raging.

Aragorn and Gimli had come for him.

******

Tervanis sat motionless in his hiding place upon the roof of the guild, watching impassively the massacre taking place below him. Servius' guards held no chance against the stealth and strength of the men from the Thieves Guild, and they were one by one being cut down even as they came to realize the danger. One man had managed to let out a small cry of alarm, but he was silenced so quickly that Tervanis doubted if anyone in the house had heard him.

It seemed as if he had been right; King Elessar had indeed managed to form an alliance with Thorbis. They had not delayed in making their move, either, though this did not surprise Tervanis. He had expected them to act right away, that fact being the reason he was sitting out on this cold roof in the first place. Tervanis could not see either the King or his dwarven companion in the fray below, but he was not worried. They would come. Perhaps Thorbis' men were merely clearing a way for them.

Over a dozen men had been guarding the alleyway leading up to the guild, but they were now all dead, fallen where they had been standing. Thorbis' men melted back into the night, leaving the alley eerily silent and completely devoid of life but for the large, darting forms of rats, which were already moving forward to feast on the dead flesh of the fallen men. The tangy smell of blood hung heavy in the air.

Tervanis waited a few minutes, then silently slipped down from his hiding place on the roof. He moved with a silence and grace that put even the stealth of the Thieves Guild to shame, calmly skirting the dead bodies littering the alley. He knew the King and his companion would be coming soon. It was time he make his move.

Entering the guild, he quietly moved down the hall toward the stairway leading up to the room where the elf was being held.

TBC

Chapter 30    A Race Against Time

“They are gone, Aragorn.”

At Gimli’s quiet comment, Aragorn rose swiftly from his position on the bed and went to join his friend at the window.  The street below was lit by the soft glow of the almost full moon and by the lantern light filtering from the windows of the Sleeping Dragon.  Nothing moved on the dark street, and the positions where Servius’ guards had earlier stood watching the inn were now eerily vacant.

 “It is time for us to go,” Aragorn murmured softly, his eyes carefully searching the street below.  “It seems Thorbis’ men have done their duty, and now we must do ours.  There is only a few more hours until dawn, so we must be quick.”

Gimli grunted in reply, his hand rubbing against the haft of his axe, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.  He was not an exceptionally patient being, and the long hours waiting in the dark room for Thorbis’ men to make their move had caused him to become somewhat irritable and edgy.  It was obvious that he was more than a little anxious to be given the opportunity to unleash some of his frustration on Servius’ men.

Aragorn moved to the foot of his bed were Anduril lay on a low wooden chest.  Lifting the sword, he belted it about his waist, then motioned Gimli to follow him out of the room.  He too was feeling the quickening rush of blood through his veins that always preceded a battle, and he could not deny the fact that he was relieved that the wait was finally over.  If all went according to plan this night, Legolas would be free by dawn, and they would all be well on their way away from Norvil by mid-morning. 

They took the back way out of the inn, unwilling to go through the common room crowded with rough and drunk citizens looking for a final glass of ale.  The cook and a few of the maids gave them curious looks as they moved through the kitchen towards the back door, but no one moved to stop them.  Once outside, Aragorn led them carefully down the narrow alley beside the inn, keeping a sharp eye out for any of Servius’ men.  Yet it seemed that Thorbis’ men had done their jobs effectively, for there was no sign of any of the guards.

They moved quickly through the streets, dodging from shadow to shadow and avoiding the numerous gangs of dangerous looking men drifting about the city looking for a fight.  They made good time, using the direction provided by Delran, and soon were standing at the mouth of the alleyway that led down to Servius’ guild.  There they stopped, peering suspiciously into the dark shadows before them.

“I can’t see anything,” Gimli growled, hefting the haft of his axe out of his belt and holding the weapon at the ready.  “The guards could still be down there for all we know.”

Aragorn nodded, then motioned for Gimli to remain silent so he could listen.   He heard a strange scratching sound, like long claws scraping against wood or stone, and an occasional angry squeal.  It didn’t take him long to guess what was making such noises.  “Rats,” he whispered softly.  “Many of them from the sound of it.”

Gimli grunted, glaring into the darkness with a look of disgust.  “Every single one of Servius’ men are rats, if you ask me, with him being the largest one of all!”

Aragorn sighed.  “I suppose we will have to trust that Thorbis has kept his word,” he said softly.  “Come Gimli, we are losing time.”  Aragorn removed Anduril from its sheath, then cautiously began making his way forward into the deep darkness of the alley, Gimli only a step behind.  He stopped only a few steps in, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the blackness and listening intently.  Still, all he could hear were the scurrying noises of rodents, and so he started forward once more.

They had gone perhaps a yard down the alley when Aragorn spotted movement up ahead.  He squinted through the gloom, barely making out the squat bodies of several large rats, their eyes glowing ominously red in the dark alley.  Littering the alley all around the rats were strange mounds which Aragorn soon recognized as bodies.  The smell of blood was strong in the air, and now, along with the sound of claws and squeals, there came the disgusting noise of sharp teeth ripping through flesh.

Aragorn grimaced, sickened by the gruesome sight.  He could not see Gimli’s expression in the dark, but he sensed the dwarf stiffening beside him, and knew that he too was affected by the scene.  Death hung heavy and oppressive over this alley, and for the first time Aragorn was glad the moon had veiled itself behind a low sheet of clouds, masking the details of the horrendous sight.

Aragorn wrenched his eyes away from the floor of the alley and peered at the squat front of the building sitting before them.  No light spilled from the boarded up windows, and all was eerily silent.  Aragorn exchanged a glance with Gimli, then slowly began making his way forward once more, cautiously skirting the bodies littering the ground and kicking any rat that seemed reluctant to give up its feast and move out of the way.

Three men lay slumped before the entrance to the guild, their positions giving the false pretense that perhaps they were only sleeping.  Aragorn stepped over them, then hesitated, staring at the plain wooden door before him.  He reached out a hand and tried the latch, fully expecting to find the door barred shut.  Instead, it swung silently inward, revealing a dimly lit hall.

Aragorn shook his head, marveling at Servius’ stupidity.  The man obviously believed the guards out in the alley were adequate protection, a thought which he would soon realize to be folly.  Still, Aragorn wasn’t about to question his luck.  Stepping inside, he waited until Gimli had entered behind him, then quietly shut the door.

The hall was wide and plain, lacking the rich decorations that had been so prominent in Thorbis’ guild.  It was completely deserted, but Aragorn spotted a small stool sitting beside the door with a tall bottle of ale resting beside it.  The bottle of ale was only half empty, and Aragorn had a sudden suspicion.  Whoever had been set as guard here might have heard a noise out in the alley during the fight and gone to investigate.  They were likely lying dead in the alley at this very moment, which would explain the unlocked door and the empty stool.  Aragorn had to admit that Thorbis’ men had been extremely effective in their attack.

Aragorn turned his attention to the rest of the hall.  Several doors branched off to both the right and the left, and near the end of the hall a set of stairs led upward.  All was silent, Gimli’s breathing the loudest thing to be heard.  It seemed that Thorbis had been right in suggesting this as the most opportune time for their attack.  Whatever soldiers remained in the guild were either sleeping, or keeping to themselves in their own quarters.  This offered Gimli and Aragorn more time in which to search for Legolas without interruption.

“Should we split up and search in different directions?” Gimli suggested in a low whisper.  “It is nearing dawn, and it would save us time.”

Aragorn considered this for a moment, then shook his head.  “I think we should stay together for the time being,” he answered softly.  “At least until we get a better idea of what it is we face and how large this place may be.”

Gimli grudgingly nodded, then headed for the first door branching to the left.

“Be careful,” Aragorn advised quietly.  “I wish to keep our presence here secret for as long as we may.”

Gimli didn’t answer, but he did place an ear to the door and listened quietly for several long moments before swinging it open to reveal a set of narrow stone stairs leading downward.  Gimli glanced at Aragorn, then reached up and grabbed the single torch that flickered in a small bracket at the top of the stairs.  He motioned Aragorn to follow, then led the way down the narrow steps.

Another wooden door stood open at the bottom of the stairs, and as they cautiously moved through it, they discovered themselves in some sort of cellar.  Large crates and barrels lined the walls haphazardly, and near the center of the room stood a small iron cage. 

Aragorn scanned the room carefully, then turned back toward the door, confident that there was nothing to find within the cellar. He stopped, however, when he caught sight of the strange expression on Gimli’s face.  The dwarf was staring toward the iron cage, his brow furrowed.

“What is wrong, Gimli?” he asked quietly, looking at the cage curiously.  Then he saw what had caught the dwarf’s eye.  Near the center of the cage two loops of rope lay discarded, the brown fibers of one of them stained a dark red, almost black.  Aragorn frowned and took a step closer, a slow, sick feeling rising in the pit of his stomach.

“Aragorn,” Gimli whispered softly, his voice a mixture of horror and anger, “Do you think they put Legolas in there?”

Aragorn stared at the tiny cage, his own horror building up within him.  He was certain the two loops of rope lying within the cage had been used to bind the hands and feet of someone.  The probability that that someone was Legolas caused his stomach to clench painfully and his rage to rise hot within him.

Gimli obviously did not need Aragorn to answer.  The dwarf knew, just as certainly as Aragorn knew, that Legolas had indeed been held within that tiny cage.  The fury on Gimli’s face was enough to make any sane man run screaming in terror, and the dwarf’s voice was rough with emotion when he asked, “So where is he now?”

Aragorn only mutely shook his head, not trusting his own voice.  He knew only one thing for certain; Servius would pay dearly for what he had done to Legolas.

“If they have hurt him…” Gimli began, but did not finish.

Silently the two turned and left the room and the small cage, the memory of it forever burned into their minds.  They both knew very well how Legolas would react to being locked in the tiny confines of the iron prison, left alone in the dark of the cellar.

Once back up in the main hall, they quickly moved to search the other doors.  Two of them led into storage rooms and two more into completely empty rooms. The fifth door they explored branched off into yet another hallway with even more doors, and the sixth led into a large dining hall with the remains of a feast still sitting upon the table.  Nothing in any of the rooms indicated where Legolas or Servius might be.

They had just left the dining hall and were heading toward the stairs, when the door leading into the second hallway opened and a band of about six men burst into the front hall, laughing and talking amongst themselves.

There was no time for Gimli and Aragorn to hide, and a moment later the men spotted them.  The group jerked to a halt, their eyes widening in surprise.  For a moment all they did was stare at Gimli and Aragorn, obviously too shocked to do anything else.  Then, one of them finally opened his mouth and screamed “INTRUDERS!” at the top of his lungs.  His scream was cut short, however, as one of Aragorn’s knives flew through the air and embedded itself deep within the man’s chest.

Complete pandemonium broke out then as the remaining men leapt forward, brandishing their weapons and crying out their challenges.  One man leapt at Aragorn, his face filled with rage, only to crumple at the King’s feet in a motionless heap as Aragorn’s sword smashed into the side of his head.  Two other men came at him then, but Aragorn easily dodged their blows.  Beside him, Gimli let out a loud war bellow and slammed into two of the guards, knocking them both to the floor with one blow.  Soon the hall was filled with cries of pain and the angry clash of steel against steel.

It did not take Gimli and Aragorn much time at all to dispatch the men attacking them, Aragorn with grace and elegance, and Gimli with pure brute force.  Yet the last man had barely fallen to the floor before another group of soldiers burst from the same hall, this time led by a giant of a man with muscled arms even larger than those of Kiesco’s.

“Get em’, Garish,” several of the men shouted as the large man charged across the hall toward them.

Aragorn and Gimli immediately split, forcing the large man to chose which one of them he would come after.  The man veered away from Gimli and raced toward Aragorn, an ugly grimace on his large face.  He swung a giant sword toward Aragorn’s head, which the King easily ducked, then lunged forward, obviously intent on pinning his smaller combatant against the wall with his superior strength.  He did not count on Aragorn’s speed, however, and the ex-ranger easily danced out of his way, his own sword sweeping around to cut a gash in the giant man’s arm.  Behind him he could hear Gimli’s roar as the dwarf fought against the other men.

“Come and get me, Garish,” Aragorn taunted softly, grinning as the man let out an angry roar and dove for him once more.  But instead of dodging out of the way this time, Aragorn met the charge straight on, ducking beneath the giant’s outstretched arms at the last moment and bringing his sword’s point up.  Garish was unable to stop his own forward momentum, and he let out a strangled cry as he impaled himself on Aragorn’s sword.  Aragorn rolled away, pulling Anduril with him as Garish crashed to his knees, his sword dropping from his hands as he clasped at the gaping hole in his belly.

Aragorn turned to help Gimli then, only to find the dwarf slamming his final opponent to the ground, his axe raised above the man for the final blow.

“Wait, Gimli,” he called, hurrying forward.

Gimli checked the downward momentum of his axe, his surprised gaze moving to Aragorn.  The man Gimli had been about to kill reached for a discarded sword lying near him, but Aragorn’s boot slammed down on his wrist before he could bring the weapon to bear.

The man let out a terrified squeal, and began to thrash desperately in an attempt to escape.

“Be still,” Aragorn snapped angrily, placing the tip of Anduril at the man’s throat, “or I will allow my companion to finish what he started.”

The man immediately quit struggling, his eyes going wide.  “Please,” he whimpered, “Please do not kill me.”

“I will allow you to live as long as you answer my questions?” Aragorn said simply, listening carefully for the sound of any more approaching guards.

The man nodded wildly.  “Yes anything,” he yelped.  “Anything.”

“What lies up these stairs?” Aragorn demanded, motioning to the stairs he and Gimli had been about to take.

“That leads to my Master’s office,” the man said quickly, “and to his private quarters and the quarters of his two advisors.”

“Are there guards?”

The man hesitated, and Aragorn pressed Anduril more firmly against his throat.  “Do not lie,” he hissed threateningly.

The man gulped, then nodded.  “Yes,” he said pitifully, “There are guards.”

“Where is Legolas?” Gimli demanded from over Aragorn’s shoulder.

The man pointed a shaky finger back down the hall he had just come.  “At the end of the hall there is a set of stairs.  Your friend is in the room at the top of those stairs.  He is guarded by four men.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn muttered, kneeling and slamming the hilt of his sword against the man’s temple, immediately rendering him unconscious. Then he rose, his gaze meeting Gimli’s.  The house was once more silent, but Aragorn did not entertain the hope that they had managed to defeat all of the guards so easily.  It was likely that even now the remainder of the soldiers within the guild were flocking to their master’s side, preparing to make a final stand.  The battle was far from over.

 “It will be dawn soon, Aragorn,” Gimli muttered softly from beside him.

Aragorn grimaced.  “It is time we split company,” he decided.  “Go and find Legolas.  Hurry Gimli, for I know not what orders have been given regarding him.  His guards may have been commanded to kill him should anyone break through the guild’s defenses.”

Gimli nodded his agreement.  “You will be going after Servius, then?”  It was more of a statement than a question.

Aragorn didn’t answer.  He didn’t have to.  “Find Legolas, then join me as quickly as you can.  I may need your assistance.”

*******

Servius was barricaded within his office along with his two advisors, surrounded by a small contingent of his guards.  He had been awakened by the first sounds of battle from downstairs, and had known immediately what was happening.  He did not know how his enemies had managed to get past the men guarding his guild, but the fact that they were inside and searching for him was inescapable.  He had gathered as many of his men to him as he had been able, then hurried to the relative security of his office.

He was furious, but he was also more than a little nervous.  King Elessar had been full of surprises this night, and now Servius was unsure of what to expect next.  How had the King managed to get inside his guild?  How many men did he have under his command?  How long would it be before he discovered where Servius was hiding?

It didn’t matter, Servius told himself, for before this night was through, King Elessar would be dead.  One way or another, he would succeed in his plans of revenge.  Perhaps it would not end in the way he had always dreamed it would, but that hardly mattered any more.  The only thing that did matter was that the King die.  Soon.

******

Legolas lay tense and expectant upon the bed, his ears straining to catch any more sound from outside.  All was silent now, and yet he had been certain of what he had heard. A battle had taken place outside within the alley, and he could guess from what he had heard that it had been brief yet fierce.  The silence now seemed loud in comparison, telling him nothing of what had happened or who had won.  The lack of reaction from within the guild told Legolas that he alone was aware that anything had happened at all. At first he had felt certain that what he had heard was Aragorn and Gimli coming for him, but as the long minutes dragged by he began to doubt this assumption.  He knew there were many men guarding the guild.  Far too many even for the great strength and skill of his two companions to withstand.  Aragorn would not have been foolish enough to make such an attempt when there was no hope for victory.  Yet who had it been then?

Legolas jerked in surprise as yet another sound reached his ears, this time from directly outside his door.  It was a small grunt, one that could very well have been made by one of the guards out in the hall shifting positions.  Yet Legolas somehow knew it wasn’t.  He gazed intently at the door, his heart beating expectantly within his chest, waiting for what would come next.

The door swung open, causing the two guards on either side of it to jump up in alarm, their hands flying to their weapons.  However, a moment later they relaxed as Tervanis entered the room, silently shutting the door behind him as he came.  Legolas heard the unmistakable click of a lock sliding into place.

“What are you…?” the first guard began to ask, but he never was given an opportunity to finish his question for a small knife suddenly blossomed in his throat.  His eyes widened for a moment in shocked surprise and pain, and then he sank lifelessly to the ground.

The second guard grasped for his sword, his mouth opening in alarm, but he fell as quickly as his companion, a second knife protruding from his own neck.

Legolas watched in helpless horror from the bed, marveling at the quickness with which the assassin had dispatched the two men.  Neither had been given a chance to cry out, and Tervanis had moved so quickly that not so much as a single drop of their blood marred his tunic, though it was now spreading across the floor in a gruesome pool of scarlet.

Tervanis crouched and withdrew both of his knives, pausing to wipe them clean on the dead men’s tunics.  Then he rose and moved toward the bed,  knives still gripped loosely in his hands.

Legolas watched his approach warily, wondering if the assassin had come to kill him were he lay.  Somehow he doubted it, but his stomach still clenched with apprehension.  Whatever Tervanis was up to, Legolas was certain he would not like it.

The assassin stopped only inches from the bed, his gaze moving up Legolas’ bound form.  Their eyes met and locked, and Legolas felt a horrible chill spreading down his spine at the expression on Tervanis’ face.  The assassin looked like a man who had been desiring something for a very long time, and had suddenly been offered it upon a silver platter.

Legolas opened his mouth to speak, suddenly desperate to end the man’s stare, but before he could say anything, Tervanis was moving again.  With the same speed he had used to kill the two guards, the assassin lashed out once…twice, and the ropes binding Legolas’ wrists to the bed fell away.  Then, without a word, Tervanis turned and cut the ropes from Legolas’ ankles as well.

Legolas was so startled by the man’s actions that he could only stare up at Tervanis in disbelief.  He felt the painful tingle of blood flowing back into his wrist, but the discomfort was lost to him as he stared up at the assassin.

“Get up,” Tervanis ordered simply, his knives disappearing somewhere beneath his cloak as he took a step back away from the bed.  He continued to watch Legolas with his hungry gaze. 

Legolas slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, swinging his legs off the bed and onto the floor, his gaze never leaving Tervanis.  A wave of nausea threatened him, but he ruthlessly pushed it back, swallowing the bile rising in his throat and ignoring the loud protests of his battered body.  Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he slowly rose from the bed, only a slight trembling in his legs giving evidence to his weakness.

“Move around until you have regained your strength and balance,” Tervanis commanded, taking several more steps back in order to give Legolas room to move about.

Legolas hesitated for only a moment before obeying, still trying to figure out what the assassin could be up to.  He moved around the room, the blood beginning to flow once more through his legs and arms and the feelings of dizziness slowly beginning to fade.  His ribs still ached fiercely with every step he took, and his head still pounded relentlessly, but he resigned himself to these weaknesses and then staunchly worked to ignore them. 

After a few moments had passed he turned back to face Tervanis.  “What is it you want?” he asked softly.

In reply, Tervanis reached beneath his cloak and withdrew two swords, one of which he tossed toward Legolas who caught it easily.  “You,” he answered simply, a small, crooked grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

Legolas looked down at the sword he was holding, then back at the assassin.  “You wish to fight me?” he asked, incredulous.

“For someone as intelligent as yourself, I would have thought it to be obvious,” Tervanis replied mockingly.  “Yes, Legolas, I wish to fight you, and though the conditions are not exactly as I might have liked, they will have to do.”

“Why?” Legolas asked slowly, still unable to mask his surprise.

“Why?” Tervanis repeated, then shrugged.  “I began my trade as an assassin when I was only twelve years old,” he explained calmly, “and since that time I have never been bested by anyone, nor met anyone who could even begin to match up to my level of skill.  Yet when I watched you fight my men that day you tried to escape, I knew that fate had brought you to me.  I saw your skill and knew that you alone could fight me, and perhaps even defeat me.  Many years I have lived without challenge, and I have grown weary of it.  I decided that one way or another I would find a way to fight you and see for myself if my assumptions regarding your skills are correct.”

“And what if you defeat me?” Legolas asked slowly.  “What will you do then?”

Tervanis cocked his head to one side.  “I will merely have to go in search of a new challenge,” he stated simply.  “Perhaps I have stayed in Norvil for too long.  I will go out into the world and discover for myself if there is anyone worthy of my skills.”

“And if you fail?”

Tervanis grinned widely, then shrugged, “At least it will be a new experience,” he murmured softly.  “But come, Legolas, enough talking.  Even now your friends will be coming for you.  I would have this done before they arrive.”

Legolas gave a start at the news that Aragorn and Gimli were coming for him, but he was given no time to reflect on this piece of news, for Tervanis had unsheathed his sword and was steadily advancing.  Legolas quickly unsheathed his own weapon, then squared his feet in preparation to meet the man’s attack.  He was well aware of how swift and skilled the assassin was, and in his present weakened condition he knew he would be hard pressed to defeat Tervanis.  Still, he was given little choice as the assassin leapt toward him, his sword aimed straight for Legolas’ chest.

Legolas’ own sword came up to meet Tervanis’ with a loud ring of steel upon steel, and the dance for survival began.  Legolas, his injuries forgotten, moved with the grace and speed of his people, his elven reflexes guiding his sword in each thrust and parry.  His feet never remained in one place for more than a moment, and his blade was nothing but a silvery blur as it arched and cut through the air.

Tervanis matched him move for move, his own sword a blur, first cutting one way, then feinting back mid-swing to sweep in from another direction.  The assassin’s form was perfect, his eyes locked on Legolas as they moved about the room in a graceful dance, their steps matched perfectly, the ring of steel against steel the music that guided their feet.  Anyone watching the fight would have been immediately captivated by the deadly beauty and elegance of the battle going on before them.

Legolas felt the hot rush of blood through his veins, urging him to greater speed.  Tervanis danced forward, his blade sweeping toward Legolas’ head only to be knocked away only inches away from its target.  Then Legolas was moving forward, his own sword pressing for any chance to break through Tervanis’ guard and find flesh.  Minutes seemed to drag into hours as the battle continued, neither gaining any ground on the other.  Both combatants were soon breathing hard, covered in sweat, and yet their battle did not slow in the slightest. 

Still, Legolas abused body was beginning to show signs of rebellion.  He could easily block out the pain of his battered ribs and aching head, but the weakness in his limbs was not something that could long be ignored.  The warrior within him was giving him strength, and yet that strength would not last forever.  Sooner or later this fight must end, and unless it was sooner rather than later, Legolas highly doubted his chances for victory.  Yet no matter how hard he pressed his injured body for more speed, Tervanis seemed to be matching him step for step.  Had he been in fine health Legolas would not have viewed this as a problem, holding faith that his elven endurance would see him through.  Yet as it was now, he knew he could not keep the battle up much longer.

His old elven masters had often taught him that one’s own body could be just as effective a weapon as a sword or dagger.  Many years of experience had taught Legolas the truth of this statement, and he hoped now to use it to his advantage.  Raising his sword to block yet another blow from Tervanis, he twisted his body to the side, rolling his form with the force of the blow.  Just as expected, the assassin pressed forward, believing he had managed to unbalance his opponent.  Legolas ducked underneath their crossed blades, bending with an amazing show of flexibility, and bringing his free fist up sharply into Tervanis’ stomach.

The assassin let out a low grunt, stumbling back, off balance.  Unfortunately, Legolas’ position did not allow him to take advantage of his opponents momentarily dropped guard, and a second later Tervanis was fully recovered and pressing back in for the fight.

The cuts around Legolas’ wrists had re-opened during the battle, and soon his grip upon the hilt of his sword was made slippery with blood.  He made a quick feint to his left, switching at the last moment and sweeping his blade up and to the right, forcing Tervanis’ own blade down to meet it.  Then, instead of stepping back and waiting for the counter-attack, he stepped forward, his left leg sweeping around in an attempt to pull the assassin’s legs from beneath him.

Tervanis was too quick, and darted back from the attack.  However, Legolas had carefully judged exactly when and where to make the bold move, and as the assassin moved back, his sword rising in order to strike down at his vulnerable opponent, he tripped over one of the sprawled bodies of the guards and stumbled backward.

Legolas leapt forward, his blade sweeping around, yet at that moment a sharp twinge from his ribs caused him to gasp and falter, his sword merely cutting a shallow gash across Tervanis’ torso rather than killing him.

It was Legolas’ turn to be thrown off balance, and before he could recover, something hard slammed against the side of his head, causing bright stars to explode in front of his vision.  Legolas realized a moment later that Tervanis had thrown one of the guard’s vacant stools at him.

Legolas fought to regain his balance, but it seemed that his body had finally had enough.  His ribs were screaming in protest, and dark fringes of pain marred the edges of his vision.  He stumbled back against the wall of the room, raising his sword at the last minute to block a blow from Tervanis’ sword that would have surely cleaved him in two.  Yet it turned out that the true danger was in fact not Tervanis’ sword, but the small dagger he had retrieved from beneath his cloak and now held tightly in his left fist.  With Legolas’ attention focused on deflecting the blow from the sword, his left side was left completely defenseless, and Tervanis took full advantage of this fact.  Darting forward, he thrust the dagger deep into Legolas’ left side, directly below his ribs.

Legolas gasped as white-hot fingers of pain raced up his side, robbing him of his breath.  He jerked backward, ripping free from the dagger and struggling to remain on his feet.  Yet the fight seemed to be fleeing him just as quickly as the blood flowing from his side and soaking his tunic.

Tervanis stepped back, breathing heavily as he watched Legolas’ struggle to regain his wits.  When it became obvious that the fight was over for the elf, he calmly re-sheathed his blood stained knife and took yet another step back away from his opponent.

“Well done, Legolas,” he whispered softly.

Legolas fought to remain conscious, fought to keep hold of the sword still clutched in his right hand as he stared back at Tervanis.  His breath was coming in sharp gasps now, and the pain from his side seemed to be intensifying with every gulp for air.  He was uncertain what was going to happen next, yet he was determined that if he was going to die, he would die standing on his feet.

“I did not expect you to defeat me,” Tervanis said calmly, his gaze still locked on Legolas.  “Not injured and weakened as you were.  Still, you have given me much to look forward to.  We will meet again, Legolas, and when we do, the battle shall be an even one, with neither of us holding advantage over the other.  I look forward to that day.” 

And with these words, Tervanis turned and strode from the room, leaving Legolas to slump with a soft moan to the floor.

TBC 

Chapter 31    Desperate Rescue    

Gimli sprinted down the long hall, barely giving a second glance to the numerous doors branching to his left and right, his whole attention focused on the stairs at the end of the passageway that would lead him to his friend.  The loud pounding of his booted feet upon the floor, and the harsh sound of his breathing were the loudest things to be heard in the silent and abandoned corridor as he dashed toward the stairway.  His axe was gripped tightly in his right hand, and his face burned with the fierce fire of determination and rage.  He was not only ready for the fight that lay before him in order to free Legolas: he was eager for it.  Four guards would not make for such a difficult battle, yet even if the man Aragorn had questioned had been lying and there were twice that number guarding the elf, Gimli was prepared to fight his way through all of them in order to free his friend.

He reached the stairs and began bounding up them, his short legs moving with remarkable speed.  Something within him was urging him to move faster, to make haste before all was lost.  Normally he might have moved forward with more caution, making more effort to hide his presence so that he might have the element of surprise on his side when he attacked.  Yet he somehow knew that this was not the time for caution, but speed.  Legolas was in danger, and if he did not hurry he would lose his friend forever.  He did not know how he knew this, yet it was a certainty that grew stronger with each wild thump of his heart.

He reached the top landing of the stairs with a final bound, then at last came to a stop as he surveyed the short hall before him, his axe raised and ready.  The corridor seemed to be completely deserted of any living being, and for a moment Gimli feared that he had somehow been led astray.  Then his eyes fell on the stiff and cold bodies of two dead guards lying sprawled in front of a door at the far end of the hall.  The men’s throats had been expertly splayed open, their wide, staring eyes revealing their surprise and terror.  Their weapons had not been drawn from their sheaths, and it appeared as if neither man had been given a chance to defend himself.

Gimli slowly moved down the hall toward the dead men, his axe still raised cautiously before him.  He was not sure what to make of the scene.  Whoever had killed the guards had definitely been an expert with the blade, and for a moment Gimli wondered if Legolas had somehow found a way to free himself.  He dismissed the thought almost immediately however.  The scene before him was too gruesome, too coldly violent for Gimli to believe Legolas was responsible.  The elf treasured life far too greatly, and though Gimli knew Legolas would kill if given no other alternative, he also knew his friend would not choose such a brutal and cold way to dispatch his adversaries. 

Still, that left the question of who had done this and why?  Gimli felt the cold fingers of fear twist within his stomach, and again the urge to hurry was upon him.  He quickened his steps, wincing slightly in disgust as his boots tread through the sticky pool of blood surrounding the two dead guards.  He reached for the handle of the door the two men had obviously been guarding, then hesitated when he realized it was already opened by a crack.  Finding a firmer grip on his axe, he took a deep, steadying breath, then pushed the door open and entered the room.

His gaze took in the scene before him in one swift glance.  Two more guards lay at his feet, their throats slashed in exactly the same manner as their companions without.  Gimli hardly noticed them, however, for all his attention was focused on the limp figure on the far side of the room.  Legolas was half sitting, half lying slumped against the wall, his long golden hair falling in a curtain that hid his features, the hilt of a sword lying only inches from his limp right hand.  The left side of his tunic was heavily stained with blood.

Gimli stood motionless, his breath caught somewhere in his lungs and his heart frozen within his chest.  For a horrible moment he thought for certain that Legolas was dead.  He could not see his friend’s chest rise and fall!  He had not been fast enough!  He had come too late!  The panic and grief that seized him then was almost enough to send him to his knees.

But then Legolas groaned, shifting slightly, and Gimli’s body gave a start, as though he had just been struck by lightening.  His mind still numb with fear, he stumbled forward, reaching out for his friend.  His rough and work-worn hands were strangely gentle as he knelt beside Legolas and lifted the elf’s head into a more comfortable position.  Legolas’ body jerked at his touch, the elf’s eyes flying open and his body stiffening as Gimli brushed away the strands of hair from his face.

“Easy, Legolas,” Gimli murmured gently, moving his body so he could better support the elf’s limp form.

At the sound of his voice Legolas immediately relaxed, his dazed and pain-filled eyes searching for Gimli’s face.  A small smile graced his fair features when his gaze at last met Gimli’s.  “Elvellon,” he whispered softly.  “What took you so long?”

Gimli only grunted in reply, not trusting his voice to speak.  Legolas began attempting to struggle into a more upright position, and Gimli tightened his hold on his friend, growling for the elf to remain still. 

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Legolas said simply, his voice soft and weak, but still full of annoying elven authority.  “There is cloth on the bed.”

Gimli’s eyes traveled to his friend’s left side, and the gaping wound that was even now gushing blood.  He quickly steadied Legolas, then rose to his feet and moved to the bed, impatiently ripping free a long strip of cloth.  Balling the cloth into a thick wad, he moved back to Legolas and pressed the makeshift bandage tightly against the elf’s side.  Legolas’ winced and instinctively tried to move away from the pain the pressure caused, but Gimli placed a hand on his shoulder and firmly held him in place.

“You look horrible, Legolas,” Gimli remarked gruffly, running a critical eye up and down the form of his friend.  Legolas’ long golden hair was tangled and stained with blood, framing a face that was far too pale.  Two long vertical scratches, along with numerous bruises marred the elf’s facial features.  Gimli did not even want to guess what other injuries were hidden beneath Legolas’ tunic, but he suspected their would be many.

Legolas gave him a small smile.  “Thank you, Gimli,” he said simply, “I was not certain you would notice.”

Gimli shook his head in mock disgust, but he could not hide his own small smile as a feeling of intense relief swept over him. The fact that Legolas was feeling well enough to taunt him made Gimli feel certain that the elf would somehow be fine.

“What happened here?” he asked softly, refusing, for perhaps the first time ever, to respond to Legolas’ baiting.  He wasn’t in a playful mood at the moment.  Seeing his friend in such a condition was filling him with conflicting emotions of anger and worry.  Whoever had done this to Legolas was going to pay dearly.

Legolas’ smile faded, and he let out a soft sigh.  “An assassin,” he responded simply, “by the name of Tervanis—”

“The one who attacked us in Minas Tirith?” Gimli broke in.

Legolas’ looked surprised.  “You have heard of him then?”

Gimli hastily nodded, not wishing to explain about Delran.  “Is he the one who did this?”

Legolas gave a brief, short nod.

“Why?” Gimli demanded.

“He wanted to fight me,” Legolas said simply, as if this explained everything.  “As you can see, I lost.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Gimli muttered sarcastically, as he once more ran a critical eye up and down Legolas’ limp form.  “Where is he now?”

“He is gone,” Legolas replied, waving his right arm dismissively in the air. 

Despite this show of nonchalance, Gimli had the sudden feeling that Legolas was keeping something from him.  He opened his mouth to demand further explanation, but Legolas distracted him with a question of his own.

“Where is Aragorn?”

Gimli gave a small start, ruefully realizing that he had forgotten all about Aragorn in his worry over Legolas.  “He sent me to find you,” he explained quickly, “while he went in search of Servius.”

It was Legolas’ turn to give a start, and suddenly he was struggling against Gimli in an attempt to rise.  “Servius?!” he exclaimed, “We have to find him, Gimli.  Hurry.”

“We?” Gimli repeated, too stunned for a moment by Legolas’ actions to move to stop him.  “What are you talking about fool elf?  You aren’t going anywhere!”

But Legolas had already managed to push himself to his feet, and he was now stumbling toward the door.  “We have to find Aragorn,” he repeated.  “He is in danger, Gimli.”

Gimli let out a loud curse, easily catching up to Legolas before he could reach the door.  “Aragorn can take care of himself,” he argued, trying to grab one of Legolas’ arms and push him back toward the bed.

“You do not understand,” Legolas growled, wrestling his arm free of Gimli’s grasp with a surprising show of strength.  “Servius wants Aragorn dead.  He has likely set a trap for him.  He will need our help!”

“Fine,” Gimli snapped.  “Then you can stay here and I will go and find him!”

Legolas was already shaking his head and moving once more toward the door, his left hand clasped to his side.  “You can help me, or you can try to stop me, but I will waste no more time,” he called over his shoulder.

Gimli stared after his friend in consternation, the bloody wad of cloth still clenched tightly in his hand.  Then he let out a single, explosive curse, and set out after Legolas.

******

Aragorn knelt in the small confines of a narrow hallway, facing a pair of sturdy wooden doors which undoubtedly led into the private office of Servius.  The three men who had been left as guards outside the doors now lay in crumpled heaps about him, all of them dead.  Aragorn had tried to keep at least one of them alive in order to question him as to what lay in wait on the opposite side of the large doors, but the battle had not gone at all as he had planned.  A long, burning cut running the length of his right collarbone was proof to that fact.  A few inches up and to the left, and the guard’s sword would have sliced through his throat instead of his shoulder, ending his life immediately. 

It was not that the three guards were any more talented than any of the previous men Aragorn had fought.  Fate just seemed to have decided to play the game in their favor this time.  They had come at Aragorn all at once, and the narrow confines of the hall had caused the fight to resemble more of an awkward and clumsy brawl than a true battle.  Aragorn still would have had no problem in defeating the men if it hadn’t been for the lingering effects of his battle with Kiesco.  His ribs had begun to cause him some problems, but even that was minor compared to his hands.  They were still badly swollen from the number of times he had struck Kiesco, and as the minutes wore on, he had found it more and more difficult to keep a firm and steady grip on his sword.

Still, his skills and self-discipline had won out in the end, and the guards had finally been defeated.  Now, his path lay open and unguarded before him, inviting him to move forward and at last face the enemy he had come to destroy.  Yet still he hesitated, unwilling to charge blindly into an unknown situation until he was sure of victory.  He did not know how many more guards waited on the other side of the door, and with his injuries causing him trouble, he knew he should wait for Gimli and Legolas before moving on.

The problem was, Aragorn was uncertain how long he could afford to wait.  Every minute brought dawn closer, and with the coming of day, he was certain more soldiers would return to the guild from their night on the streets and in the taverns.  Unless they finished their task quickly and were gone, they would find themselves trapped and hopelessly outnumbered.  Of this Aragorn was certain.  He had to act soon, or not at all.

He had just about made up his mind to move on without his friends, when a sound in the hallway behind him caused him to leap to his feet and turn, sword raised before him.  A moment later he relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief as he caught sight of Gimli and Legolas making their slow way toward him.  Legolas was leaning heavily on Gimli for support, and Aragorn could see that the elf’s tunic was darkly stained with blood, his face deathly pale. 

He hurried toward them, reaching out to take some of Legolas’ weight from Gimli, his face furrowed with concern.  “What happened?” he asked worriedly, eying the bloody cloth Gimli was holding against the elf’s side.  “Legolas…?”

“I am fine, Aragorn,” Legolas stated in a slightly strained voice, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. 

It was hard to judge whose snort was louder at this absurd statement, Gimli’s or Aragorn’s.

“I can see how fine you are, Legolas,” Aragorn replied dryly, moving the elf around so he could lean against the wall.

“I…merely need…a moment to regain…my breath,” Legolas panted, grimacing in undisguised pain as he leaned heavily against the wall.

“You need far more than that, my friend,” Aragorn said softly.  Gimli had just moved aside the blood soaked bandage enough to give him a brief look at the deep stab wound. 

“I will be fine,” Legolas insisted, brushing aside both Gimli and Aragorn’s steadying hands as a bit of color returned to his pale face and his breathing evened out somewhat.

“Fool elf,” Gimli muttered darkly, though his expression as he stared at Legolas was one of deepest worry and concern, and his hands wavered expectantly at his sides as if he were prepared to reach out and catch Legolas should the elf show the slightest sign of falling.  “I tried to get him to stay behind, Aragorn, but he would have none of it.  He seemed to think you were in danger.”

“It is Merton,” Legolas gasped out, ignoring Gimli completely.  “Aragorn, Servius is really Merton Fallow Candywell III.”

Aragorn stared at Legolas in surprise, his mind unable to immediately register the implications of what Legolas was telling him “Merton?” he repeated in a whisper, his mind rebelling against the absurd possibility.

Legolas was nodded, his expression serious. 

“That…that fool from Calembel?” Gimli exclaimed, his face showing his utter disbelief.  “Surely you jest?”

Legolas shook his head.  “I was as surprised as you when I found out,” he said simply, “but it is true.  Yet he has changed, Aragorn.  His hatred has become a living beast within him, and he is its slave.  He has but a single desire, and that is to kill you.  I had to warn you before you face him.  He is likely to do anything to see that you die.  You must use caution!”

Aragorn slowly nodded, his skepticism fading in the face of Legolas’ serious tone.  It was hard to believe that Servius, the man who had plotted and toyed with him all this time, was merely the banished fool of a mayor, Merton.  Yet he did not doubt Legolas’ statement, and he had every intention of proceeding with the utmost caution.  Merton had shown an amazing amount of cunning in his plans so far, and he was not about to underestimate the man now simply because he had learned of his true identity.

“It matters not who he is or once was,” he said slowly.  “All that matters is what he has done.  He will pay for his crimes.”

Legolas and Gimli both nodded in agreement.

“Tell me, Legolas,” Aragorn said in a tight voice.  “Is Merton the one responsible for your injuries.”

A strange, guarded expression flitted across Legolas’ face, and he dropped his gaze from Aragorn’s as he answered slowly, “In part, he is responsible.”

Aragorn arched an eyebrow at the vague response, but it was Gimli who explained.

“It was the assassin,” the dwarf announced gruffly.  “He and Legolas battled.” 

“I was not in my best form, it seems,” Legolas offered grimly, wincing slightly as he glanced down at the blood soaked cloth pressed to his side.

Aragorn merely nodded at this bit of news, though he shared a knowing glance with Gimli.  “And where is the assassin now?”

“Gone,” Gimli and Legolas said together, though their voices carried two very different emotions with the single word.  Gimli sounded bitter and angry, while Legolas merely sounded relieved.

Aragorn nodded.  “I see,” he said slowly, though he realized that there was much more to the tale that would need explaining later.  Now, however, they were running out of time.  “Legolas, I can do nothing for your wounds here, though I daresay they will need tending, and soon.  We must return to the inn.  But first, Ser…Merton is locked away in the office behind us.  It is time we deal with him once and for all.  I cannot risk him escaping to torment us another day.

“I will help…,” Legolas began, but Aragorn cut him off.

“No, Legolas, you will remain here.”

Legolas scowled and immediately began to argue, just as Aragorn had known he would. “Surely you will need my help.  You know not how many men guard Merton.  I am not so injured that I cannot be of aid to….”

“You will do as I say, Legolas,” Aragorn interrupted.  “In your condition you would merely get in our way if you try to help.  Gimli and I cannot afford to be distracted, and  we surely would be trying to protect you…” 

“You will not need to protect me, for I can protect myself!” Legolas interjected angrily.

“You are staying here, Legolas, and that is final,” Aragorn said firmly, his voice soft and calm, but filled with a kingly command that even Legolas could not ignore.  “You will either obey my order, or I will force you to obey, but you must choose quickly.  We are wasting time with this foolishness.”  Aragorn knew his words were harsh and would sting his friend’s pride, but he did not particularly care as long as Legolas did what he commanded.

Legolas’ eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched furiously, but Aragorn met his angry glare calmly, waiting for the elf’s agreement.  It was not the easiest thing in the world, meeting Legolas’ angry gaze, and only Aragorn’s years of practice in Imaldris allowed him the strength to stand, unwavering, against the simmering fury of Legolas’ stare. 

The tense battle of wills lasted for only a minute, but it seemed more like an hour to Aragorn.  Still, it was Legolas who first dropped his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat.  The elf let out a soft sigh, then raised his eyes to Aragorn’s once more, though this time without the burning heat of anger smoldering within their depths.  “You are right, Aragorn,” he said quietly, “And I apologize for my foolishness.”

Aragorn nodded, but was not about to let his friend off so easily.  “You will promise me, Legolas,” he said softly, not taking his gaze off the elf.  “You will not interfere.”

Legolas sighed again, but he did not hesitate in offering Aragorn his promise.  “You have my word, Aragorn,” he said softly.  “I will not endanger you or Gimli.”

Aragorn felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and with a small smile he reached out and clasped Legolas’ shoulder tightly, relieved when the elf immediately returned the gesture of affection.  Legolas might still be angry, but at least he understood.

“Come Gimli, it is time we finish this nightmare once and for all!”

*****

Servius was sweating.

He told himself that his perspiration was due to the heat radiating from the blazing fire in the hearth directly behind him, and had nothing to do with nervousness.  He knew it was only a matter of minutes before King Elessar and his men came bursting into the room, and despite the half a dozen guards lined up in front of his desk, Servius was afraid.  He did not know how many men Elessar had with him, but it had to be many for the King to have so thoroughly ambushed his guild.  They would be coming for him soon, and he did not know how much protection the six guards in front of him could offer.

It was obvious that his two advisors were thinking along much the same lines.  Standing beside him behind his great desk, they were both shifting nervously, their hands shaking slightly as they gripped the hilts of their swords.

“Perhaps there is still time for us to flee,” Telfor suggested in a small voice, his eyes glued to the heavy doors leading into the office.

The only reply Servius gave to this was a low growl in the back of his throat.  He would not be running.  No matter how nervous he was, he was determined to see King Elessar die.  It seemed that most of his life had been shaped around this single goal, and he could not even fathom the possibility that he might fail, that the fates might not see fit to allow him to accomplish this single task.  King Elessar might have him outnumbered, but Servius was still certain that the man would insist on leading his men in battle.  He was still flesh and blood, still mortal, and Servius would see that he died no matter what the odds against him.

As if to punctuate this thought, the doors to the office suddenly swung open with a loud bang, causing everyone within the room to jump slightly.  Servius’ hands tightened into hard fists at his side, and his jaw clenched with a fiery determination.  He watched with cold hatred as King Elessar strode into the room, closely followed by his dwarven companion.  The King stopped only a few feet before the line of soldiers standing in front of the desk, his gaze grazing across them almost casually before lifting to meet Servius’ dark glare. 

Servius had expected the King to show surprise and disbelief at the sight of him, but Elessar displayed neither.  His expression was calm and collected, and his voice revealed absolutely no emotion as he said simply, “Surrender, Merton.  It is over.”

Rage exploded inside Merton’s head, and for a long moment he could not speak, so overcome was he with burning hatred.  His hands had balled into so tight a fist that he could feel his nails cutting deeply into the skin of his palm.  His whole body shook with fury, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that he brought his raging emotions under enough control to be able to speak.  “Surrender?” he spat, spittle flying from his lips.  “Unlikely!  I will never surrender to you!”

“Then you will die,” Elessar said simply, his voice still perfectly calm, though Servius could now see simmering fires of anger within the King’s gaze.

“Where are your men?” Servius growled.  “You make empty threats while you stand before me outnumbered.  Call your men to you, and let us finish this once and for all!”

King Elessar arched an eyebrow, his gaze flickering briefly to his companion before turning back to Servius.  “I do not know of what you speak,” he said finally.  “I have no men.  There is only Gimli and I, and our threat is far from empty.  I tell you again, surrender or die.”

Servius laughed mockingly, though inwardly he was reeling with the news that Elessar and the dwarf were alone.  “And what, o King, would you do to me if I were to surrender?”

“You would be brought back to Gondor where you would be tried for your crimes,” Elessar answered simply, his voice firm and hard.

Servius laughed again.  “And I suppose the punishment for my crimes would be death, would it not?” he asked scornfully.

Elessar did not answer, but his gaze hardened

Servius snorted contemptuously  “That is what I thought,” he said nastily.   “No, I do not think I shall be surrendering.  Yet since you have just revealed to me that you and the dwarf are alone, I am afraid it is you who will be surrendering to me.   Throw down your weapons or I will have my men cut you down where you stand.  If you give yourself up, I swear I will make your death quick and painless.  Maybe.”

King Elessar shook his head.  “You are a fool, Merton,” he said softly, showing no signs of relinquishing his weapons.  “You have allowed hate to become your master, and now it is killing you.”

Servius’ face twisted into a grimace halfway between a sneer and a snarl of rage.  “Perhaps it is you who should be more worried about death, your majesty!  Hate is not killing me, it has made me strong.  Strong enough to defeat you!”

“If you were strong, you would have come after Aragorn and faced him yourself, instead of sending others to do your dirty work,” Gimli bellowed, hefting his axe threateningly. “You will never be strong enough to defeat Aragorn, you rotten excuse for orc dung!”

“KILL THEM!”  Servius screamed at his men, his patience snapping at the dwarf’s insult.  “KILL THEM BOTH!”

The line of men lunged forward, swords raised, their cries of battle echoing eerily within the large room.   King and dwarf stood firmly to meet them, their own weapons raised and ready.  There was a loud clash as steel met steel, followed by loud grunts of effort as Servius’ men attempted to overwhelm the man and dwarf with the sheer force of their number.  Elessar and his companion stood firm, however, refusing to back down, and repelling the men attacking them with an amazing show of strength and skill.

Servius wasn’t paying much attention to the fight, however.  Instead, his hands were scrabbling desperately within a hidden compartment on the side of his desk.  When he at last withdrew them, he held a large, already loaded crossbow in his grasp, his face shinning with triumph.

“And now you die, Elessar,” he whispered cruelly.  Raising the crossbow and aiming in the direction of his most hated enemy, he waited patiently for a clear shot and an easy victory.

*****

Legolas leaned against the wall of the hallway, his eyes closed as he listened intently to the discussion going on in the room before him.  His right hand was tightly clasping the bloody rag against the wound on his left side, yet he barely felt the pain of the injury any more, so intent was he on what was happening within Servius’ office. 

Despite the burning wound to his pride, Legolas knew Aragorn had been right in forcing him to stay out in the hall.  In his present condition, weak and unsteady, he would only be in the way.  He knew he would never forgive himself should either Aragorn or Gimli suffer injury whilst trying to protect him.  Yet still he felt as if there had to be some way to help his friends.

“KILL THEM!  KILL THEM BOTH!”

Merton’s screams from within the room carried clearly out into the hallway were Legolas was waiting.  He straightened as the first sounds of steel against steel echoed from the room.  Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself away from the support of the wall and began moving toward the doorway to the office.  He knew he could not stand idle within the hall, listening to the sounds of battle without knowing what was happening.  Perhaps he would not be able to help, but he had to at least watch.  He had to know what was happening.  Stooping down, he retrieved the abandoned sword of one of the guards Aragorn had killed, then straightened painfully and continued toward the door.

He would not break his promise to Aragorn and purposefully join the fight, yet perhaps some of the guards would notice him standing in the door and move to attack him.  Aragorn would hardly be able to blame him for defending himself.

He staggered to the doorway, peering in at the fierce battle taking place before him.  Gimli and Aragorn stood side by side, fighting off half a dozen guards, their backs turned to him.  Neither of them seemed to be in too much danger, for though they were outnumbered it was obvious that they were far superior in skill than the men facing them.  None of the guard’s blows seemed in danger of coming anywhere near them, and Legolas knew it would only be a  matter of time before they were able to reduce the enemy to a much more manageable number.  Still, he had to fight off the nearly overwhelming urge to join his friends and even out the odds a little. 

A movement from the far side of the office suddenly caught Legolas’ attention, and his gaze swung immediately to where Merton and his two advisors still stood behind the desk.  His heart froze at the sight of the object in Merton’s hands, and it did not take him long to realize exactly where the Guildmaster was aiming.

“Aragorn!” he cried, stumbling into the room, forgetting his promise to remain out of the battle in his need to protect his friend.  “Watch out!”

It was too late.  Even as Legolas lunged forward, two of the men fighting Aragorn shifted, opening up a clear shot for Merton.  Legolas’ cry of warning sounded at the exact instant the bolt from the crossbow was released with a loud snap. 

TBC

Chapter 32      An End to Evil           

Aragorn never heard Legolas’ shout of warning, nor did he hear the snap of the crossbow bolt being released.  He was too busy fending off two of Merton’s guards, while trying to keep his third opponent from circling around behind him.  His concentration was focused completely on his adversaries, and the ring of steel on steel rang loudly in his ears, muting all other sound.  He had just managed to forcefully drive back his first two opponents and was whirling to face the third when he hesitated, all his senses suddenly screaming out in warning.

It was too late though.  He gasped in shock and pain, his eyes widening slightly as the crossbow quarrel found him, cutting a long, deep welt along the top of his forearm, the tip tearing through skin and muscle and grazing bone, before flying away to burry itself deeply in the wood of the floor.  His right arm went almost instantly numb, and his sword slipped from his limp fingers with a loud clatter.  He stumbled forward, all color draining from his face as blinding waves of agony raced up and down his arm.

The three men he had been fighting were quick to take advantage of his dropped guard, lunging forward with upraised swords.  Aragorn saw their approach and stumbled back, helpless to stop the blows he knew were coming.  But before any of the swords could reach him, Legolas was there, appearing out of nowhere to stand before him, his own sword sweeping out in a fierce arc that deflected all three of the guards’ blades.

The men were as startled by Legolas’ sudden appearance as Aragorn, and they hesitated, their faces showing their uncertainty.  Legolas did not give them time to regroup, but leapt toward them, his sword a whirring blur as he drove them back, away from the injured and dazed Aragorn.

Aragorn shook his head, trying to clear his mind.  Legolas’ unexpected appearance had served to buy him some much needed time in which to regain his wits.  His right arm was useless now, the cut from the crossbow bolt running from just above his wrist up to his elbow.  The gash was extremely deep, slicing clear down to the bone and bleeding heavily.  His arm was throbbing in agony, and his body seemed to suddenly be protesting his slightest movement.

Yet there was no time to either succumb or see to the injury.  Legolas was now locked in a fierce struggle with the three guards Aragorn had been battling, and it was obvious the injured elf would not be able to keep the fight up for long.  His movements were much slower, much less graceful than normal, and Aragorn knew it was only a matter of time before the elf faltered, perhaps with a fatal result.  Gimli was too busy fighting off his own three guards on Aragorn’s other side to be able to offer aide, and so it was up to Aragorn to help his elven friend.

Aragorn tucked his injured right arm protectively against his stomach, then began looking around desperately for his dropped sword.  His vision was somewhat blurred, and the burning agony in his arm was a distraction, but in his desperation to help Legolas he was able to push away the pain.  His friend had saved his life, but unless Aragorn acted quickly, the elf would die for his sacrifice.

Aragorn had just reached his sword and bent down to retrieve it when a loud roar from across the room distracted him.  He turned just in time to see Gimli fling himself forward, his axe swinging wildly before him.  The three guards facing him fell back in surprise and alarm, the force of the dwarf’s blow knocking the sword from one man’s hand, and snapping the second man’s weapon clean in two.   Both men fell dead a moment later as Gimli’s axe slashed for a second time. The third guard attempted to dash out of reach of the raging dwarf’s axe, but in so doing, he put himself in range of Gimli’s fist.  The dwarf sent him crashing to the ground with a single, fierce blow to the side of the head. 

Gimli’s path lay open then, and the dwarf charged forward, his destination clearly the spot behind the large desk where Merton and his two advisors were still huddled.  Merton was busy trying to wrestle a second bolt into the stubborn crossbow, so his two advisors, in a surprising show of bravery, moved forward to block Gimli’s path.  Their faces were twisted in anger and hatred.  Gimli met them in the narrow space between the large desk and the wall, his own face filled with rage and determination.  Unfortunately, the small area did not provide him much room in which to swing his axe, and the two advisors fell upon him with wild abandon, their ferocity and enthusiasm making up for any lack of skill.  Even as Aragorn watched, he saw one of the men pick up what looked like a heavy block of iron from the desk and hurl it at Gimli.  The object slammed into the dwarf’s face with a sickening crunch, and Gimli stumbled backward, dazed. 

All of this had happened in the space of a few heartbeats, and for the barest of moments Aragorn stood motionless, unsure of which direction to go.  Both Legolas and Gimli were in need of aid, but if he went to one, would that mean the loss of the other?

Blood was pouring down Gimli’s face from a deep cut above his left eye, but the dwarf was still fighting, the swings of his axe perhaps slightly more wild than usual, but still effective in keeping the two advisors at bay.  Still, how long would it be before the blood flowing down into the dwarf’s eyes blinded him to a surprise ending, like the single, lethal slash of a blade.  And yet on his other side, Legolas too was in serious danger.  It seemed that only desperation and rock hard determination was keeping the elf alive, and how long could that last?

Aragorn was not given the chance to decide who was most in need of his help, however.  He was saved from having to make the decision by a loud shout of triumph from behind the desk.  Merton had at last succeeded in loading the second bolt into the crossbow, and with a look of uncontained glee, the Guildmaster raised the weapon and pointed it directly at Aragorn’s chest.

“You lose, King Elessar!” he screamed in mad glee.  “Throw down your weapon!”

Aragorn stood frozen, his mind whirring in desperate search of a plan.  He knew whether he threw down his weapon or not, Merton would still kill him, and a rebellious part of his mind screamed at him to fight!  Merton might shoot him, but if he acted quickly enough, perhaps he would be able to bring the Guildmaster down with him.  Even if he died, he would at least die fighting.   But then, if he did as Merton ordered and dropped his sword, the Guildmaster was likely to take time to gloat over his victory.  This would give Aragorn more time in which to come up with a plan.  Either way his chances were slim.

Aragorn at last decided to try and buy more time, and for the second time his sword slid from his fingers to land with a clatter on the floor.  Around him, Legolas and Gimli continued to battle with their opponents, and if they were aware of what was happening, they were obviously unable to do anything about it.  Aragorn and Servius faced one another from across the room, the only two people not locked in a desperate struggle for survival. 

Just as Aragorn had suspected, Merton began to taunt him, secure in his surety of victory.

“Would you say my hate is killing me now, King Elessar?” he crowed, his voice full of disdain.  “No, indeed it is your love that has killed you! If you had not come after the elf, I would not now be given this opportunity to kill you.”

Aragorn made no response, desperately trying to come up with a way out of this situation.

“No bold words now that you are facing death?” Merton asked derisively, waving the crossbow in tantalizing little circles.  “Ahh well, I always knew you to be a coward beneath your proud play at heroics.  Perhaps you will have something to say after I have killed one of your friends.  Which one would you like me to kill first, Elessar?”

Aragorn’s heart gave a sickening lurch as Merton shifted the crossbow from him to the still battling Legolas.  He took a step forward, but then stopped, knowing he would never be able to reach Merton before he fired.

The Guildmaster was watching him gleefully, obviously enjoying the panic he saw reflected in Aragorn’s eyes.  “You will all die eventually,” he said dismissively, “But which of your friends should go first?”  The crossbow now moved to Gimli.  “Which one would you like to watch die?  The one you came to rescue, or the one who has so foolishly stood by your side?”

Aragorn’s heart was hammering wildly within his chest, and his mouth had suddenly become so dry he could not speak.  He stared fearfully at the crossbow, waiting for Merton to make his move, and dreading what that move might be. 

Merton seemed to have at last grown tired of his game with Aragorn, impatient to move along in his plans of revenge.  His gaze moved from Aragorn to fix on the struggling form of Gimli.  His aim steadied; his fingers drifted toward the trigger.

Aragorn had no time to think, only act.  His left hand plunged inside his tunic, desperately seeking out the hilt of the tiny dagger Elrohir had given him as a gift years before.  The dagger was much too small to use in a normal battle, but Aragorn had developed the habit of carrying it with him wherever he went.  The small knife was extremely useful in other tasks, as Aragorn had discovered in his years as a Ranger.

He was thinking of none of this, however, as he wrenched the small blade free.  All his attention was focused on Merton’s right hand, which was beginning to tighten upon the trigger of the crossbow.  Aragorn did not hesitate, but hurled the tiny dagger with all his strength.  His throw was somewhat awkward, due both to the fact that he was using his left hand and he had not taken the time to properly aim.  Still, the knife found its mark, burying its tiny blade deep in Merton’s shoulder.

The Guildmaster let out a surprised shout, jerking back, his hands slipping on the smooth wood of the crossbow.  The weapon began to tumble from his hands, and Merton made a wild grab for it as it fell.  As he did so, his hand bumped the trigger.  There was a loud snap as the bolt was released, followed almost immediately by a loud wail of pain. 

Aragorn watched in stunned surprise as Merton’s arms began to windmill at his sides, his face contorted in agony.  The crossbow had been aiming downward, and the bolt meant for Gimli had instead pierced deeply into the top of Merton’s foot.  The Guildmaster tried to jerk his leg away from the stinging pain, only to find that his foot was pinned to the floor by the bolt.  Overbalanced, he let out a cry and tumbled backwards, straight into the gaping mouth of the hearth and the hungry flames waiting within.

A horrible shriek filled the room as the fire blazed angrily, dancing flames reaching out to embrace the figure thrashing wildly amid the ashes.  Merton’s screams echoed throughout the room, growing slowly louder in pitch as the raging fire consumed him.  Ugly black smoke poured from the hearth, filling the room with the sickly stench of burning flesh.  When Merton’s screams cut off abruptly, the silence that replaced it was almost deafening.

Aragorn stood transfixed, staring at the fire, his face showing a mixture of relief and horror.  The other occupants of the room also stood frozen, their weapons still raised, but their eyes locked on the burning remains of the body in the fire.  All fighting had ceased, and no one seemed to dare even breathe.

It was Merton’s two advisors that finally broke the silent spell that had fallen upon the room.  With loud cries, the two men lunged forward, knocking Gimli backwards before racing past him and through the doors of the office, the pounding sound of their retreat echoing back up through the hall.  The remainder of the guards quickly followed suit, some of them even dropping their weapons in their haste to get out of the room.

As soon as he had regained his balance, Gimli made to go after them, but Aragorn stopped him.  “Leave them, Gimli,” he ordered, his gaze fixed on Legolas, who had slumped back against the far wall, his face completely ashen and his arm gripping his side tightly.  The dark stain of blood on his tunic had spread even farther, and the elf seemed to be trembling slightly.

Aragorn stooped and retrieved Anduril, then quickly moved to Legolas’ side, Gimli a step behind him.  He reached out his left arm to steady the elf, ignoring the screaming pain in his other arm.  “Legolas?” he whispered worriedly, fearing that the elf was about to pass out from pain any moment.

“I…I will be fine, Aragorn.  Just give me a moment,” Legolas requested, his eyes sliding shut for a brief moment before re-opening.

“We need to get out of here,” Gimli murmured, watching the elf with unveiled apprehension.  “Both of you have serious wounds that need tending to, and if we do not hurry more guards may return.”

“If they do, Gimli,” Legolas said wearily, “I’ll let you deal with them while Aragorn and I watch.”

“We need to stem your bleeding before we go anywhere,” Aragorn announced, struggling to tear a long strip of cloth from his cloak with his good hand.  Gimli moved to help him, and they soon had the wound on Legolas’ side tightly bound, stemming the flow of blood.  Another strip was then cut from the cloak, this time to be wound firmly around Aragorn arm.  They moved quickly, ignoring their pain in the rush to be gone.

 “It is not the best, but it will have to do until we reach the inn,” Aragorn announced when they had at last finished.  He let out a soft laugh then.  “We all look horrible.  Perhaps we are losing our touch”  The sickly stench of burning flesh was beginning to turn his stomach, and the pain in his arm seemed to be growing with each passing second. 

Aragorn and Gimli helped Legolas ease away from the wall, then supported him as they moved out of the office and down the hall.  “A dwarf never loses his touch, Aragorn,” Gimli said staunchly when they were well away from the office and heading down the stairs toward the main hall.  “Perhaps these skills are fading from Legolas and you, but mine will stay with me until my dying day.”

It was a measure of how weary they were that neither Aragorn nor Legolas had an answer for this.

“We will rest at the Sleeping Dragon for one day,” Aragorn informed them as they moved toward the doors leading out of the guild.  “I don’t want to stay in this place a moment longer than we must.  Captain Jeralk will be worried, and the sooner we return to him, the better.”

“I am as anxious as you are to leave this place behind,” Legolas assured Aragorn, his face twisted in a grimace of pain he could no longer hide.

“We will rest longer at Del and Fandon’s homestead,” Aragorn said, watching Legolas with mounting concern.  “They took excellent care of Dar, and I am sure they will be more than willing to have us.”

Legolas nodded wearily, then suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, his head jerking up.  “Dar?” he said, obviously startled.  “Aragorn, Dar is alive?  He escaped?”

Aragorn nodded, giving Legolas a small grin.  “His injuries were grave, but thanks to the kindness and care of a wonderful family, he will be fine.”

A look of joyous relief swept over Legolas’ face, and when he again moved forward, his steps were much lighter.  “It seems there is much you must tell me,” he said softly, his eyes glowing bright.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, “But not until we get back to the inn and I tend to your wounds.

They were outside the guild now, the first bright glow of dawn lighting the eastern sky.  Legolas’ face revealed his disgust as they moved through the jumble of bodies littering the ground, and they all picked up their speed slightly in their anxiousness to be free of the gruesome sight.  Even more rats had come out to feast, and their beady red eyes followed the three companions as they hurried down the alley.

Aragorn kept his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, and his gaze swept the shadows before them in search of any signs of ambush.  He knew they were not free of danger yet, and in fact would not be completely safe until they had left Norvil far behind them.  He had to admit, that like Legolas, he would be more than a little relieved when that time came.

They had gone about halfway down the dark alley when Gimli suddenly stopped, his abrupt halt causing the others to stumble.  Legolas moaned softly, and Aragorn turned to face Gimli questioningly, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Gimli’s eyes were unnaturally wide, glinting softly in the darkness, and what Aragorn could see of the dwarf’s face seemed to be twisted in horrified realization.  “Oh no, Aragorn,” he whispered softly, “We forgot the medallion.”

Aragorn winced, his eyes sliding shut for a moment at his own stupidity.  How could they have forgotten the medallion?  Gimli’s life rested on that tiny trinket, and yet they had almost walked off without it.

“What medallion?” Legolas asked when Aragorn opened his eyes again.  “Of what do you speak?”

“The medallion used to buy your life, my friend,” Aragorn answered softly, then, as Legolas looked about to question him further, he said, “I will explain everything later.  But now, we have to go back for that medallion.”

Gimli was shaking his head, and when Aragorn looked at him he cast a pointed look at Legolas.  “You need to get Legolas back to the inn, Aragorn,” he said firmly.  “Perhaps I can stay and look for the medallion myself—”

“No!” Aragorn immediately overruled the dwarf’s suggestion.  “We stay together.  Perhaps we can take Legolas to the inn, and then you and I return together to search.  It is likely the medallion is in Merton’s office somewhere.  It should not be too hard to find.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed, “But what if the Guild is crawling with guards by the time we return.  You are hardly in the condition to fight any more battles, Aragorn.”

“I could…” Legolas began, but then quickly cut off, his gaze locked on something at the end of the alley.

Aragorn swung around, awkwardly drawing Anduril from its sheath with his left hand.  Gimli removed his axe from his belt, and the two friends immediately moved to stand protectively in front of Legolas, their eyes locked in the direction Legolas had been staring.  “What is it?” Aragorn asked in a whisper.  “What do you see, Legolas.”

“Men,” Legolas answered simply.  “Several of them.  Down near the end of the alley.”

“More of Servius’ guards no doubt,” Aragorn said grimly, glancing wildly around the alley for a place the three of them might hide.  None of them, save perhaps Gimli, were in any condition to fight, and if they could hide until the men passed…

“Aragorn, one of them approaches,” Legolas whispered hurriedly.  “I do not think he is a guard, for he is rather richly dressed.”

Aragorn barely had a chance to nod his understanding before the man had reached them.  He stopped perhaps a yard from where they stood, his face cloaked in shadow, his casual stance revealing that he was not at all surprised to find them standing there.

“You may put your blade away, Strider, ranger of the north.”

Aragorn immediately recognized the voice, but it was not until the man took another step forward that his facial features were revealed.  It was none other than the richly dressed and pompous aid that had questioned them outside Thorbis’ guild before taking them to see the Guildmaster.

“What are you doing here?” Aragorn demanded, lowering his sword slightly but not putting it away.

The man’s face darkened, as if annoyed that Aragorn would dare question him, and when he answered his tone was somewhat sullen.  “My master has sent me to learn whether you have failed or succeeded in this night’s mission.” 

“Then you may tell him we have succeeded,” Aragorn answered simply.

The man’s eyes swept quickly over Legolas, then behind them to where the shadowy hulk of Servius’ guild was just visible in the early morning gloom.  His expression was somewhat dubious as he asked, “And Servius?”

“He is dead,” Aragorn replied firmly.

“And what of the assassin, Tervanis?”

Aragorn sensed Legolas shifting slightly behind him, but he did not turn to look at the elf as he answered, “The assassin is gone.  Yet your master need not fear him now that Servius is dead.”

Thorbis’ aid slowly nodded, his gaze fixing on Aragorn with an intensity that immediately set him on guard.  “You have my master’s appreciation.  In truth, he did not believe you would be successful tonight, and he will be most pleased when I report back to him.  Most pleased indeed.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Gimli grunted darkly, and when the aid cast him a curious glance he continued, “I do not have your master’s medallion.  Yet perhaps if you will spare some of your guard, they can help us search for it.”

The man shook his head, a wide and arrogant smile spreading across his face.  “There will be no need for that, master dwarf,” he stated superiorly, “You see, I already have my Master’s medallion and will be returning it to him personally.  You need not ever bother him again.”

Aragorn and Gimli stared at the aid in surprise.

“You already have the medallion?” Aragorn asked, hardly daring to believe their good fortune.

The man nodded. “ We caught several of Servius’ guards trying to escape from the guild a few moments ago.  Among them were Servius’ two advisors.  We killed them, of course, and afterwards checked their bodies for any valuables.  My master’s medallion was one of the things we found hidden in a pocket of one of the advisors’ tunics.  Of course, it does not appear in the best of conditions, yet I am sure Thorbis will not hold you responsible for that.”

There was something in the aid’s tone that made Aragorn suspect that Thorbis would indeed try to hold them responsible for the medallion’s condition.  “I am glad that your master is happy,” he said simply, “Now if you please, we would like to return to our inn.”

“Of course,” the aid said, moving aside and sweeping his arm out in front of him.  “But I would be careful if I were you,” he added, just as they started moving past him.

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked, turning back to face him.

The aid merely shrugged, but the intensity was back in his gaze as he looked at Aragorn.  “I simply mean that you may not find yourself as welcome at your inn as you once were.  In fact, you may not find yourself welcome anywhere in Norvil.  It would be my suggestion that you leave immediately.  That is, if you still can.”

“What is this you are babbling about,” Gimli growled impatiently.  “Stop speaking in riddles man, and tell us why we will not be welcomed back to the inn.”

The aid shot a sharp look in Gimli’s direction, but he did explain.  “It seems that there is somewhat of a large mob out looking for you,” he stated simply, as though he were making some comment about the weather.  “They are led by that man you fought in the pit fights the eve before last.  He has been spreading rumors about you around town.  Wild and far-fetched, perhaps, yet that is just the kind needed to stir up the good citizens of this town.”

“What do the rumors say?” Aragorn asked, though he already suspected he knew perfectly well what Kiesco was spreading around town.

“That you are no mere ranger of the north,” the aid stated, his intense gaze returning to Aragorn, “But that you are in fact a King.  And no mere King at that, but King of Gondor.  Wild and far-fetched, as I have said, but I do not think I need to remind you that Gondor and Khand are not on the best of terms at the moment.  If this mob finds you, I do not think they will hesitate in tearing you to pieces, and your friends along with you.”

Aragorn felt a strange sinking sensation within his stomach.  He had been counting on being able to stop at the inn long enough to see to Legolas’ injuries as well as his own, yet the possibility of such a things seemed remote at the moment.  If Kiesco had a mob of bloodthirsty men looking for him, it would be best if they left Norvil as fast as they could. 

“Thanks for the warning,” he offered shortly, then turned and motioned Gimli and Legolas to follow him from the alley.  The sun had barely risen, and yet Aragorn felt certain that the day would be long and difficult.

TBC 

A/N—Well, this is the final chapter, and so before I get started, I need to give out some special thanks to several different people.

First, my greatest appreciation goes to my beta, Ithilien.  Without her, who knows what kind of junk would have ended up polluting this story.  I know I have said it before, but you truly are the greatest, Ithilien.  Thank you so much for all your help.

Also, thanks to my best friend, Mia, and my parents.  All your support and friendly suggestions have helped make this writing experience truly enjoyable!

Finally, a GIGANTIC ‘thank you’ goes out to each and every person who has reviewed this story, whether once, or 32 times.  I cannot even describe to you the joy I felt each time I received your reviews.  This story ended up being a bit longer than I had intended, but you all stuck with me, and that means a lot to me.  You guys have made writing this story not only fun, but self-satisfying as well.  THANK YOU!!!

And now, without further ado, I give you…

Chapter 33      A Time For Rest

Legolas was nearing the end of his endurance.

Never before had his body felt so weak, so drained, each passing minute sapping him of even more strength.  Every step, every breath was becoming increasingly difficult, leaving him teetering dangerously on the brink of collapse.  Every inch of his body was screaming in pain, the hurt so fierce that Legolas found himself longing for the black oblivion of unconsciousness, so that his suffering might ease, even if only by the smallest of measures.  Only the certain knowledge that to falter now would endanger not only himself, but also his companions, allowed him the strength to keep moving.  But even that would soon not be enough.  Already he had stumbled several times, and were it not for the steadying hands of his friends, he would have certainly fallen and not likely risen again.

“He cannot go much further, Aragorn.”  Gimli’s concerned voice sounded from Legolas’ left side as he stumbled yet again, his friends’ arms immediately tightening around him to keep him from falling.

“The inn is just ahead,” Aragorn replied grimly.  “If he falls, we will have to carry him, Gimli.”

Legolas’ jaw clenched.  His friends’ words, combined with the fact that they were talking about him rather than to him, served to add further injury to his already severely battered pride.  Unfortunately, it was taking every ounce of strength left within him to merely place one foot in front of the other, and he had not the breath to object to this insult.   And if he were completely honest, he would have to admit that Gimli was correct in stating that he could not go much further.  But he was not about to let his friends carry him either.  Aragorn would not be able to with his injured arm, and the mere thought of Gimli trying to lift him was enough to safely jerk his mind back from the brink of unconsciousness.

Aragorn and Gimli had stopped, and Legolas stumbled to a halt also, wondering vaguely if he would ever be able to start again.

“The inn,” Aragorn murmured, motioning to the squat front of a building across the street and a few yards down.

“There is no sign of Kiesco or any others waiting for us,” Gimli muttered thoughtfully, squinting in the early morning sunlight.

“That does not mean they are not there,” Aragorn replied grimly.  “Kiesco knows where we were staying.  It is highly likely he has men stationed inside ready to inform him the moment we return.  I am afraid we will have to leave our saddlebags behind, Gimli.  It is simply too great of a risk to try and retrieve them.”

“What of the horses?” Gimli asked.  “Will they not be guarded as well?”

Aragorn slowly shook his head.  “Kiesco does not know that we are onto him, nor does he realize we are trying to leave.  With any luck, he will not have posted a guard in the stables.   It matters not though, whether there are guards or not.  We must retrieve the horses, for we will never make it out of Norvil on foot.”  This last was said with a pointed look in Legolas’ direction.

Legolas realized that he should probably add his own opinion to the discussion, but he was still trying to catch his breath from the trip to the inn, and he couldn’t think of a single think he might say anyway.

“Stay with Legolas, Gimli.  I will go and see if our way is clear.”

Before Gimli could argue, Aragorn had crossed the street and headed toward the inn, skirting close to the wall so that he might hide his presence from anyone looking out from one of the building’s many windows.  Legolas and Gimli watched him apprehensively until he disappeared down the side alley beside the inn.  Then the waiting began.

Fortunately, they did not have to wait very long before Aragorn reappeared and began hurrying back toward them, once again using the same stealth motion as he had before.

“The way is clear,” he gasped as he reached them.  “We must hurry though.”

With the help of Aragorn and Gimli, Legolas began to stumble forward once more, though he could not contain a low moan of pain.  He wanted this nightmare to be over.  He wanted to be able to simply lie down somewhere and rest, to let his mind drift away from this world of pain and worry.  When would this mad flight come to an end?

“Just a little further, Legolas,” Aragorn murmured encouragingly, as though reading Legolas’ thoughts.  “The going will be easier on horseback, and once we reach our soldiers’ camp, I will have the supplies I need to properly tend to you.”

Legolas nodded, still finding the act of speaking too great of an effort, especially now that they were moving once more.  They hurried down the short alley beside the inn, then made a quick dash toward the open doors of the stable.   A young boy was sitting on a stool by the door, polishing some saddles, and he leapt to his feet as they rushed in.  His eyes grew quite wide at the site of them, and his mouth opened as though he were about to speak, but Aragorn quickly reached into a pocket of his tunic and tossed a silver coin in the lads direction.

“For your silence, boy,” he said simply as they hurried past.

“Yes, sir!” the boy answered enthusiastically.  “Would you like any help with your horses?”

“No,” Aragorn called back over his shoulder, already heading toward the far end of the stables, “But if you would be so kind as to stand at the door and give a shout if you see anyone coming, it will be worth another coin.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Legolas saw the boys’ eyes light up as he quickly turned to do as Aragorn had asked. 

At the sight of Legolas, Shandarell began banging against the sides of his stall, neighing loudly in his excitement, so delighted was he at seeing Legolas.  The three friends made their way toward him.  Legolas could not hold back a weak smile at the sight of his faithful horse, and when they reached the stall, he caught Shandarell’s head in his hands and began stroking the horses’ soft nose.  Shandarell whickered in delight, and began snuffling along the collar of Legolas’ tunic, his warm breath stirring the elf’s long hair.

Legolas leaned heavily against Shandarell’s stall door as Gimli and Aragorn worked on saddling and bridling Cierno.  Both of them were talking in hushed voices that even Legolas could not make out, and every now and then one of them would glance worriedly in his direction.

‘They are talking about me again,’ Legolas thought glumly, his shoulders stiffening slightly at the rankling thought.

When Cierno was ready, Aragorn moved to stand next to Legolas.   “Let me help you mount,” he ordered gently as he opened the stall door and allowed Shandarell to move out into the corridor. 

Legolas would have liked to mount on his own, but he wise enough to realize that if he tried, he would undoubtedly end up flat on his back.  And so he allowed Aragorn to boost him up onto Shandarell’s back, gasping at the sharp pain in his side.  He swayed dangerously for a moment, but then Gimli was hoisted up behind him, and the dwarf’s thick arm snaked gently around his waist, offering support.

“We will take it slow as much as we are able,” Aragorn assured them as he moved to mount Cierno.  “I will be riding right beside you Gimli.  If he starts to fall, let me know.”

“I will not fall,” Legolas growled through clenched teeth, glaring at Aragorn.  His brief rest against the stall had helped him regain his breath, and though he was reeling from pain and lightheadedness, he was relieved to know he would not have to walk any further.

Aragorn looked relieved at his response, and went so far as to offer him a small grin.  “Shall we go then?” he asked softly.

Legolas nodded, squeezing Shandarell’s sides gently.  The great horse was still shaking somewhat in his excitement, but he refrained from his normal enthusiastic prancing, sensing his riders’ need for a smooth and gentle gait.  Legolas was grateful for this, unsure if he would have been able to calm the horse in his present condition.

On the way out of the stable, Aragorn tossed the young boy a second silver coin, then led the way back down the side alley.  They had just moved out onto the main road and turned west when a loud shout sounded from behind them. 

“There they are!  They are escaping!”

Legolas turned to see a large mob of people streaming down the street in their direction, their faces filled with anger and hatred.  Their hands gripped various weapons ranging from swords to simple pitchforks.  Most of the group were on foot, but at least two dozen men, led by Kiesco himself, were mounted.  Their loud shouts echoed through the streets, and Legolas felt a shiver of apprehension run down his spine.

“Ride!” Aragorn shouted, and Legolas did not need to be told twice.  He dug his heals into Shandarell’s side while gripping the horse’s main in a white knuckled fist.  His vision went dark for a few terrifying moments as the horse leapt forward, sending waves of agony throughout his entire body.  Gimli had a firm hold around his waist, however, and through sheer force of will he was able to fight back the darkness and keep his seat.

Angry shouts sounded from behind them, soon followed by the unmistakable sound of pursuit.  Legolas did not dare risk his precarious balance by trying to look behind him, but he could tell that their pursuers were hot on their trail. 

“Ride to the West,” Aragorn cried as soon as the hard packed street of Norvil gave way to dried and dead grass as the last few houses of the town drifted behind them.  “If we can get to the soldiers’ camp…”

But the rest of what he was going to say was abruptly cut off as Cierno stumbled heavily, nearly pitching Aragorn from his back.  The horse recovered from the fall almost immediately, but there was a limp to his stride now, and he inevitably began to slow.  Aragorn’s face was grim, but he continued to urge Cierno on, coaxing the horse with soft words and gentle strokes to his neck.  In response, Legolas slowed Shandarell to match the injured horse’s pace.

“We will never make it, Aragorn,” Gimli called from behind Legolas.  “They are gaining on us.”

Legolas risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw that the dwarf was right.  Kiesco and the other mounted men were indeed gaining on them, their faces filled with an evil malice.  Legolas had never before so missed the absence of his bow and quiver of arrows.  He was completely weaponless, though he doubted he would be able to do much in a battle in any case.  He drained of all strength, helpless and weak, yet even if he had been in fine health it was doubtful they would be able to resist the overwhelming numbers against them.

“Keep riding,” Aragorn ordered, though it was obvious from the expression on his face that he too realized the situation was hopeless.

Legolas ground his teeth, fierce anger sweeping unexpectedly through him at the unfairness of the situation.  How could they fail?  After all they had been through, how could it end like this?  He cursed the ill turn of fate.  Was life really so cruel, so unfair?  He found himself wishing that Aragorn and Gimli had never chosen to come after him.  He did not want to see them die in this cold and hateful land.  He would have rather suffered at the hands of Merton for all of eternity rather than see that.

Just when despair was beginning to enfold him completely in its cold and bitter shroud, an excited shout from Aragorn ripped him from his melancholy.  Ahead of them, just mounting a low rise, was a large group of soldiers.  They were dressed in the colors of Aragorn’s guard, and hope flared anew within Legolas at the sight.  Though the soldiers were still a fair distance away, they were moving swiftly in the direction of the elf, dwarf, and King. Captain Jeralk rode at their front, his sword free of its scabbard.

Legolas took the initiative and glanced again behind him to see that Kiesco and his men were slowing.  Their faces showed alarm at the sight of the charging soldiers.  Legolas smiled grimly, then resumed his focus to what lie ahead of him just as Shandarell leapt over a small knell in the ground.  Normally such a small jump would have been completely unworthy of notice, but in Legolas’ condition it turned out to be his undoing.  Because he had been looking behind him, he had not been prepared for the jump.  As Shandarell landed smoothly on the far side of the knell, Legolas pitched forward, off balance.  The abrupt jar, combined with Gimli’s arm tightening around his waist caused Legolas’ body to explode in sudden pain, and he let out a soft cry.

He was vaguely aware of the sound of horses pounding past him, and then Gimli’s shout of alarm, before he felt himself tumbling sideways.  Shandarell immediately slowed as he felt his rider slipping, but it was already to late.

‘This is going to hurt,’  Legolas thought distantly as he felt himself falling through open air.  He was unconscious before he struck the ground.

Floating in a black oblivion, he felt his world calm, the darkness offering solace for his pain.  He was content to drift along, paying no attention to the passing of time, his mind at last finding desperately needed rest.  If a part of him objected to the darkness, warning him of the danger of staying here too long, it was buried deep, and he paid no mind to it.  He forgot all about his troubles, about the danger to both his friends and himself.  Life and light might have continued on around him, but he was oblivious to its presence as it slipped past him, unheeded. 

It was some time before he found the strength to rebel against the darkness.  Once he did, his journey back to consciousness was not a pleasant one.

As the darkness in his mind began to clear, the first thing he became aware of was pain.  A lot of pain.  His entire body ached, and a tight band seemed to have settled around his chest, making breathing a somewhat difficult chore.  His head was pounding fiercely, and his eyelids, quite against his own consent, seemed to have firmly shut, casting the world into darkness.  This might not have been a problem, except that they were now refusing to open, and he did not seem to have the energy to force them.  He felt as weak as a newborn baby, and this feeling did not sit well with him at all.

“Legolas?”

The voice seemed to drift to him from very far away, familiar, yet at the same time unreachable.  He moaned in frustration, or at least, he would have if his mouth hadn’t decided to rebel against him as well.  It seemed he had absolutely no control over any part of his body, and this fact was beginning to cause him to panic.  Why couldn’t he move?  Would he ever escape this darkness?  It had been comforting at first, shielding him from the pain, but now it was only taunting him, keeping him from the light he knew lay so near.

“I think he might be waking up.”  The voice was back, and though Legolas heard the words, he was having trouble putting together their meaning.

“How can you tell?  He looks exactly the same as he has for the last two days, Aragorn.”  This voice was lower and somehow more gruff than the first, and at its sound Legolas felt himself drift a bit closer to the brink of consciousness.

“That is not entirely true, Gimli.  His face has regained some color, and his breathing is no longer as labored as it was before.”

“This is true.  For a while there I thought for sure we were going to lose him.”  The second voice had dropped even lower, and there was a grave note to its tone.

“He will live, Gimli, have no fear.  If he were a man, I would not be so sure, but already his wounds are mending nicely.”

“He lost too much blood,” the gruff voice replied.  “When he fell from the horse….  I tried to catch him, Aragorn, but—”

“Do not blame yourself master dwarf.  I am sure he would not want that.”

‘They are talking about me,’  Legolas slowly realized, and with this dawning comprehension he felt the last reluctant grips of darkness release his mind.   He felt control of his bodily function return to him, and with a great effort he forced his eyes open, blinking them groggily against the bright rays of the sinking sun.  He was lying on his back on the ground, a soft piece of folded cloth serving as a pillow.  A blanket was laid over him, and beneath its thick covering he was stripped to the waist.  He could feel the tight pressure of a bandage wrapped tightly around his ribs, and as he shifted restlessly he realized more bandages bound both his wrists and his left thigh.

“He’s awake!” a voice cried out joyfully from beside him, and Legolas winced as the pounding in his head increased somewhat.  Two shadows fell over him then, and with some difficulty he was able to make out the features of Aragorn and Gimli, their faces both furrowed in concern.  Gimli sported a small bandage above his left eye, and Aragorn’s right arm was bound from wrist to elbow, but neither of them looked to be gravely injured.  Legolas was relieved, though he could not recall exactly why he would have believed them in danger.

“How do you feel, Legolas?” Aragorn asked softly, brushing the back of his hand gently across Legolas’ brow.

Legolas tried to answer, but found that his mouth was too dry, his throat too parched to form any words.  Fortunately Aragorn seemed to realize his dilemma, for the cool rim of a cup was pressed to his lips and a small trickle of water was allowed to flow down his throat.

“Better?” Aragorn asked after removing the cup, and Legolas nodded.

“What…what happened?” he questioned weakly, his mind trying desperately to pull together the shattered bits of memory flittering tauntingly just outside his grasp.  “Where are we?”

“We are approximately two days ride from Norvil,” Aragorn answered matter-of-factly.  “As for what happened?  That is a bit of a longer story.  What do you remember.”

Legolas closed his eyes and concentrated hard on remembering.  He recalled stumbling through the streets of Norvil, desperate for rest and nearly collapsing from pain.  He remembered retrieving Shandarell from the stable at the inn, and then being chased out of the city by a large mob, but after that his memory went completely blank.  “We were being pursued,” he mumbled slowly, “By Kiesco and some other men.  But how did we escape?”

“We almost didn’t,” Gimli replied grimly.  “If Captain Jeralk and his men hadn’t shown up, we would all be dead now.”

Aragorn nodded.  “They came right in time,” he agreed.  “Jeralk says a man dressed all in black came to their camp and warned him we might be needing help getting out of the city.  He said the man wouldn’t tell him why, but merely left his warning and then rode off.  Jeralk didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but in the end decided to take a group of soldiers and ride toward the city to check it out for himself.  It is lucky for us that he did.”

“A man dressed all in black?” Legolas questioned, struggling to sit up.  Both Aragorn and Gimli immediately reached out to push him back down, and Legolas, lacking the strength to resist them, gave in.  “What did he look like?”

Aragorn was looking down at Legolas sternly, obviously prepared to give him a lecture about staying still, but his expression changed at Legolas question and tone of voice.  “Do you know who the man is, Legolas,” he asked, obviously curious.  “Whoever he is, we owe him our life.”

Legolas stared at Aragorn for a moment, then slowly shook his head. He did not know why, but he somehow suspected the man who had warned Jeralk to come to their aid had been Tervanis.  But if he told Aragorn this he would then have to explain why, and he did not feel quite ready to do that yet.  “How long have I been unconscious?” he asked, choosing instead to change the subject.  For a moment Aragorn appeared as though he would press the matter, but much to Legolas’ relief he did not.

“Two days,” Gimli answered briskly.  “You gave us quite a scare, elf.  Next time you consider tumbling from your horse, kindly do not do it while I am riding behind you!”

“Two days,” Legolas gasped, and then the rest of the dwarf’s statement hit him.  “I fell off Shandarell?” he asked, groaning.  “That makes two times in the span of a few weeks!”

“Two times?” Gimli asked, raising his eyebrows.  “When did you—”

“I’ll explain later,” Legolas interjected weakly, turning his attention back to Aragorn  “Finish telling me what happened after Captain Jeralk arrived.”

“There is not much more to tell,” Aragorn replied.  “Kiesco and his men are dead, except for a few who escaped and fled back to the town.  We feared they would return with greater numbers, and so we moved camp and have been traveling slowly back toward the border.”

Legolas digested this information, then repeated as if to confirm it. “And I have been unconscious for two days?”

Gimli and Aragorn both nodded.  “Your body needed the rest,” Aragorn murmured softly.  “I fear we pushed you to far.”

“We had no choice,” Legolas answered lightly.  “I understand this Aragorn.  I would hold you blameless for my injuries and recovery.”

Aragorn nodded, but he still looked somewhat glum.

Legolas sought to distract him.  “Tell me who that man was in the alley outside Merton’s guild?” he asked with his returning recollection and mounting curiosity.  “What was that talk about a medallion?”

Gimli and Aragorn exchanged glances, and then began telling Legolas about their meeting with Thorbis, leader of the thieves’ guild, and their dangerous alliance with the man in order to free Legolas and defeat Merton.  Legolas’ eyes widened slightly at the tale, and when Aragorn told of how Gimli had offered his life in exchange for the medallion, he turned to stare in surprise at the dwarf.

“Elvellon…” he began, but Gimli, looking extremely embarrassed, interrupted him.

“I knew the medallion would be found,” he stated dismissively, waving a hand in the air.  “Do not try to thank us, elf, for it was nothing.”

Nothing?  Legolas looked back and forth between his two dearest friends.  It seemed they had both suffered so much in order to free him.  He owed them both more than he could ever repay, and a simple thanks somehow did not seem enough.

“You are our friend, Legolas,” Aragorn said softly, as if reading his mind.  “You would have done the same for either of us.  In truth, if it were not for you, I would be dead now.  You saved my life in Merton’s office, and I was never given the chance to thank you.”

“And yet if it weren’t for me you would not have been there in the first place,” Legolas pointed out.  “Both of you have sacrificed much for me.”

“Aragorn is right,” Gimli stated stoutly.  “We are friends Legolas, and true friends do not abandon each other in times of need.  Now let us forget this silly topic and move on to something more important.  Legolas, I want to hear everything that has happened to you from the moment you left Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn and Legolas stared in wonder at the dwarf, but then quickly broke into grins at Gimli’s obvious embarrassment.  The dwarf clearly wanted to change the subject, and after a moment Legolas decided to accommodate him.

“Very well,” Legolas said lightly.  “But first, I would like another drink of water, Aragorn, and then I am going to sit up.  I am tired of having to squint up at the two of you.”

Aragorn and Gimli both frowned and tried to argue, but Legolas remained resolute, and in the end Aragorn agreed that he would probably be fine if they propped him against the base of a tree.  It took a few minutes to get him properly settled, and though Legolas was in some pain by the time they had finished, he was also relieved to be off his back.  Both Gimli and Aragorn were watching him like a hawk, but Legolas managed to ignore them as shifted to find a comfortable position and then began telling his tale.

He started with his and Dar’s capture in Minas Tirith, and went on to explain the long journey that had brought them to Norvil.  His explanation took a long time, partly because Gimli and Aragorn kept interrupting with questions.  If either of them thought he was leaving something out, they would grill him incessantly until he explained in greater detail.

“Svellon.” Aragorn murmured softly, his brow furrowed in thought as Legolas reached the part of Dar’s escape and his own subsequent poisoning.  “I have never heard of it.”

“It is a horrible drug,” Legolas stated grimly.  “I do not remember much of the rest of the journey.”  He hoped neither of his friends would press him for more detail.  He did not particularly wish to relive the torturous effects of the drug upon his body.  Thankfully his friends seemed to sense this and did not press him.

“When did they put you in the cage?” Gimli asked gruffly after a few moments of silence in which Legolas tried to collect his thoughts.

Legolas stared at him in surprise.  “How did you…” he began, but Aragorn answered his question before he could finish.

“We saw the cage as we were searching the guild for you and Servius.  So they did put you in it?”

Legolas nodded.  They were getting to the more difficult parts of his story, and he suddenly wished he could claim weariness and have his friends leave him in peace.  And yet he knew he would have to explain things to them sooner or later, for they would have it no other way, and it would probably be best to get it over with now.

“And why did they have you moved?” Gimli asked, his voice sounding strangely gentle.

Legolas winced.  That was the last question he wanted to answer.  How did he explain to his friends that Merton had moved him because he had started to lose his mind.  Because the darkness had been too much for him and he had collapsed beneath its weight.  His pride was burning within him, and try as he might he could not think of a suitable answer.

“They moved him, Gimli, because Merton did not wish to risk having him die before I had arrived and he could use him against me,” Aragorn said softly, his gaze fixed on Legolas  “Legolas was undoubtedly still suffering from whatever poison the assassin gave him, and Merton wanted to make sure he was somewhere where he could heal properly.”

Legolas stared up at Aragorn in surprise, reading the understanding and compassion in the man’s eyes.  He felt waves of relief wash over him, and he nodded at Aragorn in appreciation.  Aragorn smiled slightly and nodded in return.

“Tell us about the assassin, Legolas,” Gimli urged, showing his own understanding by his willingness to change the subject.

Legolas shrugged.  “Tervanis confuses me,” he stated simply.  “I do not understand him, nor do I think I ever will.  He is like no other human I have ever met.  He wanted to fight me, and yet when he realized the battle was unevenly matched, he left me alive with the promise that we would face each other again another day.”

Neither Gimli nor Aragorn appeared too happy to hear this piece of news.

“He said he was coming after you again?” Gimli demanded, his face darkening in anger.

“Why is he so intent on fighting you?” Aragorn added, “It does not make sense.”

Legolas shook his head.  “I told you he confused me.  He said something about waiting for this challenge his whole life.  He did not exactly say that he was coming after me Gimli, only that we would meet again.”

“He sounds rather mad to me,” Gimli grumbled darkly, “And if he thinks he is going to fight you again someday, he will have to get past me first!”

“So what do you intend to do, elvellon?”  Legolas asked gently, “Stand guard on me for the rest of your life?”

“Gimli is right, Legolas,” Aragorn spoke up before Gimli could reply, “I think this matter is serious.  I do not like the thought of a trained assassin hounding your every steps.”

“Yet what can we do?” Legolas replied.  “Tervanis and I will face each other again some day, Aragorn, of this I am certain.  I do not look forward to that day, but I do not fear it either.  Do you and Gimli have so little faith in me that you would shut me away in a box in order to protect me?”

“It is not that we do not have faith in you, Legolas,” Gimli objected.  “It is just that….well….I mean…”

“We do not want to see you get hurt,” Aragorn finished for him, his eyes locked on Legolas.  “Valar knows you have had enough pain since you have known us.”

Legolas was touched by his friends’ concern, and he sought for a way to reassure them.  “Perhaps nothing will come of this,” he said lightly.  “Perhaps we are worrying for nothing.”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn answered softly, but in their hearts, they all knew this was not the truth.

EPILOGUE

It took them over a week to reach the homestead of Del and Fandon.  They journeyed slowly, giving Legolas plenty of opportunities to stop and rest.  Though the elf was steadily recovering, his wounds had been severe and numerous, and it would take some time for him to heal completely.  Aragorn and Gimli were never seen far from his side, like two protective nursemaids fussing over their accident prone child.  Legolas, who normally would have enjoyed his friends’ company, began wearing a look of exasperated annoyance and tried to avoid them whenever given a chance.  Unfortunately, this did not seem to deter Aragorn or Gimli in the slightest.

When they were a half a day’s ride away from the homestead, Aragorn sent a soldier ahead with news of their arrival.  The man returned several hours later with the message the Del and Fandon welcomed them into their home once more, and invited them to stay for as long as they would like.  Aragorn had suspected this response, and he began thinking of ways in which he could repay the friendly family for all that they had done for them.

Kenson Brantz was there to greet them as they rode into the homestead’s large yard.  He rushed forward as Aragorn dismounted, a wide, relieved grin on his face.  Aragorn offered his left hand to the man, his right still heavily bandaged, and the two shook.

“Thank the Valar you have returned safely,” Kenson said joyfully, his eyes shifting to where Legolas was dismounting from Shandarell under the watchful eye of Gimli.  “I see your mission was successful,” he added, “You will have to tell me everything that happened.”

“It is a long story,” Aragorn warned him with a weary smile.  “How is Dar?”

Kenson’s grin grew even wider.  “He is doing much better,” he said lightly as Gimli and Legolas moved over to join them.  “Del has insisted that he start taking short walks in the afternoon in order to regain his strength.  He is walking right now with Eleana.”

There was something in the way that Kenson said this that caused Aragorn to smile.  “Del’s eldest daughter?” he mused softly.  “She is very beautiful.”

“So Dar has noticed,” Kenson responded, his eyes practically glowing.  “They spend most of every day together.”

Just then the subject of their conversation entered the main yard from around the barn, Dar’s face lighting up at the site of them.  Legolas smiled and moved over to greet him even as Del and Fandon came out of the house to welcome their guests.

They stayed at the homestead for three days, resting and recovering their strength.  Then they rode on for Minas Tirith, the weather favoring them so that they made good time.  It took them only three days to reach the White City, and Faramir and Arwen were there to meet them as they rode into the main courtyard of the Citadel, dusty and weary, but glad the journey was over.  Arwen raced forward as Aragorn dismounted and threw her arms around him, clutching him so tightly he thought he might be crushed.  He returned her embrace gently, breathing in deeply of her sweet scent and realizing, perhaps for the first time, just how deeply he had missed her.

“I am so glad you are home,” she whispered against his shoulder.  “So glad you are safe!”  She released him then, but only long enough to embrace Legolas, and then, to the dwarf’s everlasting embarrassment, Gimli as well.

Faramir stood behind her, grinning widely, his handsome face filled with relief.  “I knew you would be safe,” he called out cheerfully.  “Once you were together again, that is.”

Aragorn smiled and glanced toward Gimli and Legolas.  “Yes,” he murmured softly.  “Together we can handle anything.” His gaze fixed on Legolas then, and an unspoken message passed between them.

“Come, tell us all that has happened,” Arwen urged, moving back into Aragorn’s embrace.

Aragorn smiled, and together the companions began making their way toward the front doors of the Citadel, home at last.

THE END…..for now. ^_^

I hope you have all enjoyed this story, and I thank you for reading it on until the end.  You are all the GREATEST!!!! 

And now for an important announcement regarding the sequel to this story!  I DO intend to write another fic in which Legolas and Tervanis face one another again, but before I do this, I would like each and every one of you to help me.  How?  By simply sending me your suggestions.  What and who would you like to see featured in this story.  Obviously it is going to focus on Legolas and Tervanis, but what supporting characters would you like to be featured as well.  Let me know what you want to see in this next fic!  If you have any ideas, share them.  I know there are some wonderful imaginations out there, so let me see what you can come up with.  I will take any and every suggestion, though I will tell you now that I will not write any slash in the story.   I will probably not be able to use every idea, but I still want to know what you all want, and then I will do the best I can. You can send your suggestions to littlefish592002@yahoo.com.  If you leave your suggestion in a review, I cannot promise I will have it on hand when I actually begin writing, and so I ask that you do send it via email if at all possible.  I hope you all will take part in this, and I am looking forward to hearing your suggestions!

That said, it may be a while before this next story actually appears.  I am going to be basically incommunicado for over a month, and my time on ff.net will be EXTREMELY limited.  My family is going on vacation, and when we get back I head off for my first year of college away from home.  I won’t be writing until I am well settled in, and I cannot tell you how long that will be.  I will do my best to hurry though, I promise. ^_^

One last thing before I sign off.  If anyone is in need of a beta reader, check out Elenora.  You can send her an email at voxstellarum9@aol.com.

Goodbye for now, and thanks for all the fun!!!!