Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Dwimmerlaik (#3503)
Author: TheLadyofLight
Chapters: 16

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings (Movieverse)
Description: When the peace of Rivendell is disrupted and two friends separated by darkness, Aragorn must make a terrible choice: save the elf he owes his life or protect the one secret that so many, including his own father, have died to conceal.
Published: 01 Jul 2007
Updated: 01 Jan 2008
Warnings: Violence
Type: Action/adventure
Characters: Aragorn; Haldir; Halbarad


Chapter 1 - Prologue / Part One: A Sunny Start

Author’s Notes: 

I have lately become enamored of the ancient Kingdom of Arnor and the DĂşnedain capital at Fornost. There is so little written about the ruins so I wanted to explore. There’s a lot of history to juggle and some things may not be canon though I did research into those elements I needed: questions and comments are appreciated. There are some spoilers for my previous stories but this is a stand-alone.

I would also like to thank WendWriter for her stylistic criticisms and D.G. Arrow for helping get this story off the ground.

Disclaimer:

Aragorn, Haldir and other canon characters do not belong to me. They are zealously guarded by Tolkien and his estate—as they should be.


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Dwimmerlaik

By: The Lady of Light

Prologue

Rain lashed his face with all the pent-up fury of a spring storm. Unlike the gentle drizzle of spring, however, the drops stung his face like thousands of tiny needles, pouring down the back of his neck and soaking his tunic, mingling with the crimson stains already seeping through it. His captain would be furious with him for ruining yet another good uniform.

He laughed into the face of the gale but the vicious wind slapped it out of his mouth and stole away his air, leaving him gasping and reeling against his horse’s neck as it raced along the dark and rutted road. Long branches, bent and broken in many places, reached out for him, catching his grey cloak and golden hair, raking across his arms and face like knives.

Darkness whipped past them. Even with his keen sight, his eyes could scarcely see the ghostly road flashing away under his steed’s hooves. His stomach plummeted when sudden air opened up beneath them as they leapt over a shallow brook foaming over the path. He flinched as they landed hard, hooves sliding and scouring deep furrows into the mud. With every shallow inhale, the point of pain in his back seemed to pierce deeper.

Behind him the screeches were louder now, the thunder of iron shod feet far too close and his steed already lathered in sweat, sides heaving with froth and exhaustion. Gasping, the rider felt along his steed’s side until he found the leather satchel, making sure it was securely tied, battered and scarred as it was. The message was safe there, all of his notes and things were safe there. They would make it.

Even if he did not.

Slumping low over his horse’s neck, he whispered, his voice almost inaudible even to his own ears over the howling wind. “You have to get to Rivendell. You will be safe there and it is close, east of here. Get the message to Rivendell. Lord Elrond and my kin must be warned…” Someone had to know the tidings he bore…the terrible tidings…

The horse flicked its ears as though in understanding.

Half-frozen more with pain than cold which he had long since stopped feeling, he fumbled at his waist. With trembling, slippery fingers, he unraveled the ropes that bound him to the saddle and slid limply off. He barely felt the jarring impact when the sodden, unforgiving earth connected with his body, or the shattering snap of the arrow embedded in his back. He lay there, listening as hoofbeats faded into the drumming monotone of the rain.

Low growls and disgruntled curses stung his ears as his seekers slowed, their trackers easily finding his bedraggled frame half-submerged in mud at the side of the road. But he no longer cared. He was beyond their power to hurt and the message was safely gone. No one could catch his steed at a full gallop even tired as he was. No one could catch him…

Thought and pain swirling together into cloudy numbness, Caladir of LothlĂłrien closed his eyes, rain dripping slowly down his pale face.



Part One

A Sunny Start

A bright afternoon sun glittered and flashed on drawn steel. Sweat streaking his temples and jaw clenched tight, Aragorn firmed his grip on his broadsword and braced himself. Too late. A sharp, hard blow knocked him off-balance and he smacked face-first into the lawn with his sword under him. To add to his chagrin, ringing laughter echoed from the porch where his brothers relaxed in the shade.

“Honestly, Estel, how many times do we have to tell you to move your feet!” Elladan called, a little less than encouraging.

“Haldir’s got him three times with that same move!” Elrohir added his unwelcome opinion. “You’d think he’d learn.”

The ranger blew his dark hair out of his face and heaved himself back to his feet, trying and failing to ignore the hot flush that crept up his neck. He couldn’t pretend his brothers’ teasing didn’t rankle just a little.

“Laugh while you can,” he growled darkly, shaking his thick, unsharpened practice blade in their direction. A strand of his dusty hair flipped over his eyes which only made them laugh harder. He turned back towards his opponent with a little bow, acknowledging the hit.

Haldir had not joined in the teasing but a distinctly smug, little smile played around the corners of his lips as he began to circle, his blade flickering this way and that, sunlight glinting off the polished steel. Aragorn was not distracted by the glitter. He kept his eyes solely focused on his opponent’s where the first flicker of his intention would betray him.

The elf captain knew exactly where the ranger was looking and therefore knew where his eyes were not. Feinting left as though he were going for the ranger’s shoulder, he lured him in. Aragorn moved to block the high blow only to find the flat part of his compatriot’s blade smacking him a stunning blow in the shin. Had it been a real instead of a play-fight, the stroke could easily have splintered bone. The man shifted his weight quickly off his numb leg, twisting sideways to regain his balance. A pang shot up his thigh.

It had been a little more than two months since a rogue elf torturing and murdering men on the southern ridges of Dunland had stabbed him. The wound still ached at times—especially when he was putting it through more it was supposed to be. More careful now as fatigue gnawed at his dwindling energy, he backed off a few paces, stretching the distance between them to more than a sword-length. Haldir let him, watching his eyes just as Aragorn had his. Knowing the condition of each other’s wounds, they both held back the majority of their strength—though neither let the other know it.

“Father’s going to have your head, Estel. This isn’t exactly taking it easy on your leg is it?” Elrohir’s words were meant to remind of the lecture his father had given him before releasing him for the afternoon but Aragorn could hear the underlying concern.

Had he not been evading a particularly vigorous thrust from Haldir’s sword, he probably would have rolled his eyes. He loved his brothers, truly he did, but they had not left him alone since he’d returned home. He was glad he hadn’t told them the rogue had actually captured him not just fought him or he might very well have found himself locked inside his room until the end of the summer.

He parried Haldir’s stroke aimed at his wrist and spun lightly. But his leg twinged more violently and instead of coming up behind his adversary as he’d meant to, he lurched a little sideways and ended up beside him. Haldir took advantage of his opponent’s slowness to trip his legs out from under him.

Aragorn hit the dirt again, the breath knocked out of his lungs for the second time in as many minutes. The tip of the practice sword brushed dangerously close to the underside of his jaw as he tried to sit up and he carefully shallowed his breathing so as not to cut his throat.

Elladan and Elrohir were very much amused, having found their own dignity hanging on the point of the marchwarden’s sword more than once in their younger days. It was nice to see someone else put through the same treatment.

“Humility, Estel. That’s a good lesson to learn from the ground,” Elladan said.

“One you never managed. Would you like to be next, Elladan Elrondion?” Haldir lifted his eyes from the ranger’s throat with a dangerous gleam towards the twins.

The named elf held up his hands in capitulation. “No, thank you. I have quite enough bruises already that have still not healed from yesterday when you felt the undeniable desire to test your arm’s strength.”

Haldir smiled, experimentally flexing the aforementioned limb injured in the same fight as Aragorn’s leg. He was mostly healed from his deadly encounter with the dark elf but he had paid dearly for his and Aragorn’s lives; the deep wounds to his arm and side were unusually slow to mend.

He lifted the pressure from Aragorn’s throat and offered the man a hand up which was gratefully if a tad grudgingly taken. The man was tiring and growing short-tempered as his leg threatened mutiny. His energy was gone, his dignity trampled. He just wanted to end this on his own terms.

Risking a gamble, he stepped in too close for the blades to maneuver and lashed out with his crooked arm. Haldir, not anticipating the maneuver, caught the man’s elbow right in the side. He grunted and staggered sideways, almost losing his hold on his own weapon. His face whitened slightly.

Aragorn checked immediately. He hadn’t meant to hit him there quite that hard but exhaustion had made him misjudge his aim.

Haldir stayed bent over a minute longer, regaining his breath, then straightened determinedly. “Well struck,” he beckoned with the tip of his weapon. “Come. Once more.”

But Aragorn flung his blade away and flopped over spread-eagled in the grass. His leg was really starting to throb. “Then you practice. I’m done.”

The blunt tip of Haldir’s weapon poked him in the stomach, forcing an ‘oof’ out of him. He caught it and tugged sharply, pulling the elf off-balance. His friend mockingly made to fall on him then curling at the last second hit the grass beside him.

“I think they finally killed one another,” Elladan could be heard commenting from the shaded porch.

“At last,” Elrohir grumbled. “My arms hurt just watching them.”

Aragorn grimaced as he sat up and sore muscles drew his attention. “I’m going to have bruises again tonight. Do you have to hit so hard?”

“Do you think your enemies will spare you in combat?” came the predictable, dry-humored reply that made the man roll his eyes as he dusted loose grass off his trousers.

“You’re not my enemy.”

Earning the elf’s friendship and trust had been one of the hardest things Aragorn had ever had to do—and something he still struggled with despite everything they had been through together. The marchwarden had witnessed many horrors in his long life, seen the evils of creatures: both human and otherwise and discovered a darkness in himself he could not forget. Aragorn tried to help him as best he could but some things left scars too deep. Scars he was just beginning to uncover. He knew from the way Haldir still sometimes looked at him or jerked away from a friendly touch that the elf hadn’t put certain events behind him as much as he’d like. But Aragorn was proud of how far his friend had come nonetheless.

Aragorn offered the elf a hand up which was predictably refused but Haldir staggered slightly as he got his feet under him and had to grab the man’s shoulder quickly to keep from falling. He grimaced and hastily took his weight off the young human.

“I’m sorry,” Aragorn mentally cursed himself as the elf pressed a hand against his side. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

Haldir waved it off though it took a moment before he straightened fully. His wounds were still at the stage where they could be reopened if strained enough. “Come on. I think at the very least you and I have earned a drink.”

Aragorn plucked a grass blade out of the elf’s hair with a laugh. “Go in like that and Sadron will have a blue fit.” The head of Elrond’s household was not well-known for his tolerance of messiness—or anyone who brought such inside.

“There’s not going to be anything left for you two if you don’t hurry up!” Elrohir warned from the veranda where dinner was being set out.

Haldir playfully shoved Aragorn out of his way and vaulted the porch railing into the cool interior of the house, leaving his companion to chase after him, protesting through his laughter.

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The aromatic fragrance of roasted meats and vegetables wafted from covered dishes. Elrond had decided to have the board set out on the veranda since the long dining table in the feast hall was used only on high days and also since they were unusually few this evening with only the three sons of Elrond, the elf-lord himself and Haldir seated around the table. Normally the big house had whole crowds of people passing through it: visiting DĂşnedain, envoys from the elven realms, or the rare dwarf or wizard. It was never this empty.

The clatter of plates, dishes and silverware was all that could be heard for a few moments over the musical roar of waterfalls. The veranda was open along three fourths of the sides and a cool wind came down from the mountains to ruffle the magnolia-entwined railings. Summer was in full bloom in Elrond’s gardens and the heavy, perfumed air made it quite a pleasant night to sit outside.

They made it almost all the way to the end of dinner without speaking of the afternoon’s illicit activities. Aragorn had finished a rather amusing tale about his elder brother’s most recent mishap in the house that involved Sadron and a riding crop which had the company in appreciative stitches.

Elladan, however, still bore the marks of that unfortunate encounter with his father’s head servant and though he had laughed along with the rest, had not found the story as amusing. Scooping summer strawberries onto his plate with far too much innocence, he proclaimed. “Guess who was sparring on his bad leg today, Adar?”

Aragorn glared at his treacherous brother across the table and flicked a sliver of potato skin at him.

“Estel,” Elrond made the name a reprimand. “If you feel the need to waste your supper, you can go without.”

“Sorry, Adar.” Though he was nearly twenty-one years old, Aragorn knew to some extent he would always be treated as a child in his house. At times like this he didn’t mind it. It meant nothing had changed and he was still part of the family.

The elf-lord nodded, easily forgiving, but he had not forgotten his elder son’s words. “I have already told you once that you should not be on that leg at all. That was a deep cut and it isn’t going to heal if you do not rest it.”

“He’s fine,” Haldir said, unexpectedly supporting the errant ranger, but his focus was still very much on his food. “He held his own more than adequately today.”

Aragorn felt a huge, warm upsurge of gratification towards his friend. It didn’t last long.

“But he fights like a Noldor: all strength and no grace.”

The three Noldor elves at the table paused in their meal. Only Lord Elrond remained composed, a small smile on his lips. He knew the elf-captain of old and was therefore unsurprised by any arrogant, bull-headed or provocative thing that came out of his mouth—for the most part. However, his sons were another matter.

“Simply because our swords do not exceed our heights does not mean we are any less the skilled,” Elrohir said, a hint of frost on his lips.

Haldir laughed.

Estel rolled his eyes with a hint of aggravated amusement. He knew the elf captain had said that just to get him out of a lecture and hadn’t meant any disrespect to his hosts though the look on Elladan’s face alone had been priceless.

“Rameil is Noldor-born!” he chided, referring to Haldir’s second-in-command.

“I never said he was a skilled fighter.”

“Oh yes?” Elladan challenged. He set his knife and fork down rather too hurriedly and a little gravy splattered onto the white tablecloth. “The Noldor were crafting weapons and battling before your people emerged into starlight.”

“All right, Elladan, that’s enough,” Lord Elrond halted the argument calmly before it went too far beyond jesting. He turned the smile which had not left his face onto his more hot-tempered son to soothe his injured pride. “I will have peace at my dining table. You can squabble about the finer points of Noldorin against Silvan skill when you are out of my hearing.”

The master of Rivendell switched his severe glance around the table and pinned the one who had started all this in the first place. “And I’ve already had words with you, Marchwarden—more than once I might add—about your own wounds.”

“I remember something of those words, yes, my lord,” Haldir replied absently as he snatched the last roll out from underneath Elrohir’s fingers and dropped it on his plate.

“Good.”

Elladan still looked a little rankled but Aragorn stretched a hand across the table and jogged his brother’s arm.

“Come on, Elladan, don’t look so sour, you’ll rot the fruit on your plate. Haldir was only jesting.”

“Actually—” Aragorn jabbed Haldir sharply and he amended, “Come, Elladan. Bear me no ill will. Do you think I would be so foolish as to insult the kindred of not only my Lord’s grandchildren but his wife and daughter as well?”

Elladan knew full well there was no one in the world the captain respected more than the rulers of LothlĂłrien and his grief upon the Lady CelebrĂ­an’s departure across the Sea was etched in his face just as it was in the faces of her sons. Elladan grudgingly nodded and even smiled.

“This is excellent fare, my lord,” Haldir told Elrond, turning away from Elladan now that he was forgiven. “Your son is many remarkable things but he is no cook.”

Aragorn took up the unspoken challenge eagerly. “Oh? And you are?”

“Nope. Rameil cooks at home. I burn water.”

The table laughed and the last of the tension drained away. The remainder of the meal passed in good-humored chatter for an hour longer. After dinner, they relaxed with a last glass of wine and a few story requests that Elladan and Elrohir took up enthusiastically and with increasingly gory detail until Elrond finally ushered them upstairs so the servants could clean up.

Aragorn dropped back a little to talk to his father while Elladan, Elrohir and Haldir went upstairs, still arguing over the debate the elf captain had started at dinner.

“There weren’t many to grace our table tonight were there, Adar?” Estel said quietly. He thought his father looked a little tired and worn.

Elrond slipped an arm around his son’s shoulders as they walked back towards the elf-lord’s study. “No, I’m afraid our halls have been much too quiet of late. The roads are growing ever more dangerous with highwaymen crowding it—and worse things. Fewer and fewer people are seeking farther than their own doorsteps. It is good to have you home safe, my son. I worried when I had no word of you by spring. Elladan and Elrohir were about to go searching.”

“I bet they wanted to go searching for me less than a fortnight after I left,” Aragorn teased. “Thinking I’d fallen into some ditch or got waylaid by bandits or knocked myself out with my sword.”

“True,” Elrond admitted with a laugh. “Though had they known you were traveling with a captain of LothlĂłrien perhaps they would not have been so hasty.”

“He has been a…rather interesting traveling companion,” Aragorn admitted with a slightly nostalgic smile. “I’ve learned a lot from him.”

“I have never known him to take to strangers as he does to you. You must have done something great to earn his trust,” Elrond said as he opened the door to his study and nudged his son on in ahead of him while he lit a lamp in the hall.

Aragon looked at his father in the flaring orange light and wondered how much he knew of Haldir’s previous experiences with men. He shrugged lightly. “It must be my winning personality.”

Chuckling, the elf-lord set the lamp on the desk, shrugged out of his day robes and draped them neatly over the back of his armchair. “That I can well believe.” He brushed off the embroidered velvet absently, his expression growing more distant.

Aragorn watched his father closely. “How do you know him, Adar?”

Elrond’s long fingers stilled. “I’ve never told you this but when your—Elladan and Elrohir’s—mother was taken,” he corrected himself quickly. “Haldir’s command was one of the first to answer our call for aid. I had been introduced to him only once—CelebrĂ­an knew him far better. He was relentless in searching for her, so much so that sometimes I feared as much for his health as I did for your brothers’.

Elrond favored him with a quick though slightly sad smile when he realized his son was watching him gravely. “You have wrought a change in him, my son. For the better.”

“I hope so, Adar. He deserves a little peace,” Aragorn said. He shifted his weight slightly so he was leaning against the door lintel and not his bad leg.

His father noticed. “Does it ache, Estel?”

Aragorn could never lie to his father and with a sheepish smile rubbed the limb absently. “A little. It’s healing. Don’t worry.”

“I always worry,” Elrond gave his son a one-armed hug and gently kissed his brow as though he were still the little boy of two who had come into their lives what seemed like such a short time ago. “All right then. It is late and you have had a long day—the best thing you can do for that leg now is sleep. Off to bed, ion nin.”

Aragorn did not disagree. His limbs were so heavy he didn’t know if he could drag himself up the staircase but before he thought too deeply on it, he was upstairs. Haldir’s bedroom door was already closed and no light shone from the gap under the door. A few minutes later, cool sheets slid over his tired body and he was instantly asleep.

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One by one the lamps and windows of the Last Homely House darkened as the residents settled down for the night. In the valley, all was quiet with only the never-ending lull of water to break the peace. The night was shattered by rattling stones as a group of hooded figures slithered down the zigzagging path leading into Rivendell’s gorge. Skirting a deep pool and keeping in the shadows off the road, they splashed through a stream and up the further bank, heading in the direction of the dark house.

They slowed and went forward more furtively as they drew closer and a brief gleam glided over unsheathed weapons. A few broke off from the main company, scattering to either side and gathering their weather-stained cloaks close about them as they watched the silent house as though looking for some sign of movement or sentinel. Seeing none, they crept forward until they lay at the very edge of the open courtyard, concealed by deep shadows.

One, taller than the rest stood up, sprinted boldly across the open yard and pressed himself in the shadows of the great door. His hard, dark eyes raked the empty court and the high windows overhead. No light flickered on, no cry went up. Sighing, he ran his large hands over the double doors. They were thick and made of solid oak. He pushed ineffectually but they did not budge.

Shaking a mane of tangled hair out of his eyes, he drew his sword blade with a hiss. It fit neatly into the small partition between the two and with a little wriggling he slid it all the way through and heaved until it caught on something. A growing smile of satisfaction spreading across his grimy face, his grip tightened as he levered upwards carefully until something thudded on the other side and he knew the bar holding the doors closed had fallen.

This time the doors yielded with one hard shove. The hinges didn’t even squeak. Turning back towards the hedges where the others lay concealed, the man beckoned forward and his rangy frame disappeared into the depths of the house.


Chapter 2 - Part Two: Dangerous Stirrings

Author’s Notes: It’s Independence Day this week so I am celebrating with an early chapter post! Hope you enjoy even if it’s not a holiday for you. To all of my lovely reviewers and readers, thank you so much for your kind encouragement—to new readers welcome! and to old, welcome back! It looks like it’s going to be a perilous road ahead of us.

But we’ll have fun anyway.


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Part Two

Dangerous Stirrings

A white-hot poker burrowing between his ribs woke him. With a suppressed groan, Haldir rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut tight, one hand sliding up to rub the stitches burning under his skin like piano wire. He had slept on them and now they were avenging themselves. Shifting his cheek to a cool place on the pillow, he attempted to sink back into painless rest but his wound refused to let him. Giving in to the inescapable fact that he would have to get up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped on his boots. As an afterthought, he picked up his saber on the way out. Even in as secure a place as Rivendell, ancient habits lingered longer than old scents and he had yet to shake the one that made him go armed into the dark.

The corridor was softly black: all the candles extinguished save the vigil-lamp guarding the head of the stairs on its ancient pedestal. The candle within flickered behind the glass as the elf passed it and threw his elongated shadow over the staircase wall. A streak of blue moonlight brightened a strip of floor on the landing. As Haldir came down the last few steps, he realized it was coming from the direction of the front door…

Which was ajar.

The thick bar used to secure it lay on the floor. Frowning, the elf captain replaced it, wondering why the servant had been so careless. And yet, that didn’t make any sense. He had seen Sadron lock the door for the night when Lord Elrond chivvied them upstairs. Then it hit him.

Someone was in the house. All thought of his wound vanished. Blessing the saber in his hand, he unsheathed it, straining his hearing for any sound. Bare silence met his ears so he stretched his other senses open wide. His eyes lingered on the floor. Mud streaked the polished boards. In some places it was clumped and formed the shape of hobnails. The trespassers were wearing thick-soled boots and numbered at least half a score or more.

He should warn Lord Elrond, rouse the rest of the household. But that might alert their quarry as well and scatter them before they could be captured. Haldir knelt and squinted at the prints tracking across the hall. One seemed to have split off from the group—probably a scout sent to look for guards. The others, it seemed, had headed towards the Hall of Fire, a dead end. Smiling grimly to himself, Haldir noted it and slipped off after the lone set of muddy footprints.

They led him towards a corridor, left down a short flight of stairs and towards a door Haldir recognized. It was the infirmary. Why would one of the prowlers go there? He could hear movements within as he drew closer: rustling and clattering. Cupboards opening and closing. Haldir pressed his eye to the partially open door and saw the back of a tall figure within, silhouetted against the back window.

It was too tall to be a dwarf and too broad-shouldered and smooth-gaited for an orc. A cloud slipping away from the moon gave him a glimpse of ginger-colored facial hair. Not elven then. Human. Haldir felt his heartbeat thrum and he tightened his grip on the saber to reassure and steady him. What were men doing here? Why did they have to come to the one place he felt almost at ease? He tamped down hard on a surge of ugly memories and took a silent breath.

The infirmary was a long, low, rectangular room with a waist-high table commanding the center of it. The intruder crouched at the far end, rifling through some glass paned cupboards full of rolled bandages. Dried herbs hanging overhead on a rack lent a familiar, antiseptic smell and a wooden counter ran beneath. Stuffing a wad of gauze down the front of his shirt, the figure pushed to his feet. On the table, a long knife gleamed. He snatched it up while making for the door.

It burst open before he could reach it. The heavy walnut wood smashed him full in the face and he leapt back with a yowl of pain and surprise. The elf-soldier was on him in seconds, thrusting him against the long table. Blood gushed between the man’s fingertips and spattered the floor with crimson drops.

The sight of it did not stop Haldir. The elf’s night vision surpassed the human’s and he had his saber up before the prowler even realized what hit him. The man scuttled away from the long blade and backed up against the counter near the window. The light threw his unfamiliar face into clear relief. He was ill-shaven and had a scar in the cleft of his chin but his watering eyes were hard and bright above his bruised or broken nose and flickered towards the open door. Haldir closed it without taking his eyes from the human.

The man took another wary pace back and his shoulder jolted against a cupboard as the elf drew nearer. He held his hands palm outward to show he was unarmed as the saber hovered within an inch of his chest. Scarlet stained his fingers and blood still dripped sluggishly over his lips and down his chin. He frowned at the elf’s face.

“You’re not a Noldor,” he said thickly.

“And you must have very much lost your way.”

“Clearly, there’s been a-a mistake. I’m known here,” the unkempt man said. His hand moved towards his shirt where he had sheathed his knife but the saber tip pricking the back of it warned him to think better. His eyes narrowed and his voice acquired a distinctly cool edge. “Put the sword down. There’s no need for that.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Haldir said without lowering his blade an inch. “Who are you and what are you doing here, boy?”

‘Boy’ was a bit of a stretch for the man looked older than Aragorn but Haldir didn’t really care to split hairs at the moment.

The man had opened his mouth as though about to answer but the epithet seemed to have stung a nerve and his jaw clenched. His face was white with panic and he started to breathe faster as the sword hovered closer and closer to his throat. “I will not answer any accusation at the end of a sword. Put it down!”

Without warning, he slapped the saber away and pulled the knife. He managed to scrape the elf’s ribs before a flick of the longer lame sent it spinning into a corner. Feinting left and dodging right, the man ducked under the saber and with surprising nimbleness for one his age sprang over the table, scooping the knife up in one fist.

An unseen blow jarred his shoulder and sent him staggering into the counter. Vials and jars smashed on the floor, scattering their contents, as he fumbled for balance. The knife went skittering across the floor as Haldir disarmed him again.

“Look,” the man tried desperately, flinging up his hands. “I’m not—”

But Haldir was past listening to lies. The man had drawn steel on him. His iron grip fastened on the intruder’s leather coat and swung him around with considerable force. A long, glass cabinet shattered as the man’s body smashed into it. Glass splinters rained down over their arms and shoulders. The man wheezed against the soldier’s tight grasp struggling in vain.

“You’ve…got to…listen to me,” he croaked, gripping the elf’s wrist. “I—”

Brilliant blue light flooded the room and sparkled off the fragments of glass, the broken pottery all over the floor and the two grappling figures in the corner of the room. Haldir blinked and turned towards the doorway.

The man shrugged off his loosened hold and sighed with relief. “Lord Elrond.”

Haldir looked at him sharply. How did he know the elf-lord’s name?

“What is going on in here?” the master of the house asked calmly.

“By IlĂąvatar! What on earth have you done?” Elrond was not the only one who had been attracted by the thumping and crashings.

Sadron, Elrond’s chief house of staff, gazed over his lord’s shoulder at the destruction, his face white with shock and outrage. His hand tightened convulsively around the pace stick steadying his lame leg as though he would very much like to hit whoever had wreaked such utter devastation in ‘his’ domain. “Do you have any idea how ancient that cabinet was? Early Second Age! Irreplaceable!”

Elrond touched his servant’s shoulder gently to calm him and stepped carefully over the glass, setting his glimmering lantern down on the tabletop. “Are you all right, Halbarad?” he questioned the human who wiped blood off his chin with a sleeve keeping the long table between himself and Haldir as he circled round to the elf-lord’s side.

“Still in one piece,” the man named Halbarad admitted wryly as Elrond gently inspected his nose.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Elrond glanced over his shoulder at the now thoroughly bewildered elven soldier standing with drawn saber in the midst of the wreckage. “You can sheathe your sword, Captain—your vigilance is appreciated but there is no danger here.” It was said lightly, as a request, but from the High King’s former herald it was a command.

Haldir did not disobey though he did sheathe his weapon with a little more force than strictly necessary. He did not like being (he thought) subtly chastised as though he’d done something wrong. Pain pricked in the wake of adrenaline and his hand pressed against his aching side. Halbarad had managed to hit him right over the stitches. “Will someone kindly explain to me why that is so, my lord?”

“Adar, what’s going on?” Aragorn, Elladan and Elrohir appeared in the doorway and paused just behind their father. “We heard crashes from upstairs.”

“Watch your step,” the elf-lord cautioned, holding out an arm to halt his sons so they wouldn’t cut their bare feet upon entering the room. “There’s glass all over the floor.”

But Aragorn had already identified one of the occupants of the room and instinctively edged into the room towards his elven friend who was leaning against the table. “What happened? Are you hurt?” The bandages between his fingers had taken on a disturbing red tinge.

Haldir straightened up and glanced at the seeping gauze. “Confused mostly.”

Aragorn, shifting aside bits of glass, had already knelt beside him and pried his hand away from his side to inspect the damage. “You’ve broken the stitches.”

Elladan frowned with concern while Elrohir started gingerly helping Sadron clear away the jagged edges of cabinet.

“No, I didn’t,” Haldir said with a murderous look at the human who was backing swiftly towards the exit.

For the first time, Aragorn looked up and caught sight of the man in the tatty leather coat. His eyes widened. “Halbarad?”

The older man gave a wary smile as he clasped Aragorn’s outstretched forearm. “This isn’t exactly the way I wanted to see you again, my friend.”

“This will need to be restitched,” Elrond said as he too examined the marchwarden’s side. “It is only a surface tear but it will take longer now to heal—”

Haldir wasn’t listening, all his attention focused on the humans’ conversation.

“What are you doing here?” Aragorn asked in a very different tone than Haldir had used.

Halbarad chewed his lip. “We were being pursued. Angrad was wounded almost a ten day ago and he needed better aid then we could give him. I didn’t want to wake the whole house so I just let myself in.” His eyes flickered uneasily over to the silent elf behind Aragorn. “If I’d known it was so well-guarded I might have preferred to face the orcs instead.”

“How badly was your companion hurt?” Elrond asked, already gathering bandages and herbs from the undamaged cabinets.

“We lost a lot of our supplies in the flight. I would be grateful if you would take a look, sir,” Halbarad said. “Some of the wounds might be poisoned.”

The elf-lord nodded, inspecting a needle in the scant light. “I can take a look at him in a minute’s time. Elladan, Elrohir will you two see what you can do for the DĂşnedain until I get there?”

“I can take care of this, Adar,” Aragorn gathered up a few of the things his father had brought out. “Go see to Angrad.”

The elf-lord looked over at Haldir who still had not taken his eyes from the floor and nodded slowly. “All right, Estel.”

Haldir sensed more than saw the eyes on him, the accusing, questioning looks he didn’t deserve. A man had broken into their house and he was being told off for defending it? And yet, a nagging feeling arose at the back of his mind. Shouldn’t he have tried to assess the situation first instead of rushing to the attack? Should he have known the man wasn’t a threat? Doubt and the creeping, stinging beginnings of humiliation crept up his spine.

The room was too stifling and crowded. He couldn’t sit here anymore. He pushed himself off the table. Boot heels crunching over glass, he ignored Halbarad entirely as the man quickly stepped aside to let him through.

“Haldir?” Aragorn’s worried voice barely slowed him down. “Halbarad, give me a moment will you? Go see how Angrad is doing.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Haldir.”

The ranger was following him. A hand touched his arm but if anything, he increased his pace, half-leaping up the stairs despite the agonizing pain in his side which was very displeased with the amount of movement he had forced it through the last half-hour. The grip on his arm slackened as Aragorn fell behind, hampered by his leg.

“Haldir, your wound needs to be tended.”

“I’ll do it myself.” Blessedly, his bedroom was scarcely eight feet from the landing. He reached his door and fumbled with the knob. Aragorn’s paces were right behind his. At last, he lunged through and shut the door in his friend’s face. The lock snapped into place when he turned the key and tossed it onto the dresser.

The soft knock a second later drove the elf into the washroom which unfortunately had neither door nor lock. The knocking stopped and Haldir, leaning against the porcelain sink, closed his eyes, praying Aragorn had had enough sense to leave him alone. His prayers were not answered. Footsteps returned less than a minute later and something jiggled the lock which clicked. More footsteps, softened by the thick carpet, crossed the room.

Aragorn’s reflection appeared in the bathroom mirror. He surveyed the elf for almost a minute before breaking the silence, “Will you please look at me?”

Haldir glanced at the mirror image then down at his hands splayed on the porcelain counter where a basin and a pitcher of water lay.

“You attacked my friend. I think I’m owed at least a glance.”

Stung by this injustice, Haldir glared at the ranger only to find him smiling with his arms folded triumphantly across his chest.

“How was I to know he was your friend?” Haldir growled, a little indignantly as he curled a hand around his side. A thin trickle of crimson escaped his fingers and stained the edge of his sleeping pants. “He did not act like it. He did not explain who he was—and sneaking into the house in the dead of night isn’t exactly innocent is it?”

“All right. That’s fair,” Aragorn quickly conceded, resting a firmer hand on the elf’s arm. “Come on. You need to sit down.”

While Haldir perched on the edge of the marble tub, Aragorn set the full basin on the floor and tossed a clean rag in it. Kneeling beside the tub, he unwound the sopping bandage in a trice to inspect the worst of the damage.

“Where did you learn to pick locks anyway?” the elf captain flinched when the ranger plucked out the broken stitches.

“Adar taught me.”

Haldir barely had time to wonder about that before Aragorn began to bathe the reopened cut. He hissed slightly and pinched the bridge of his nose. Pushing aside his own discomfort, he gritted out, “Well, this gives you a cast-iron excuse to fuss over me for the next week and a half.”

Aragorn dunked the red-tinged rag in the basin, glad at least the elf was talking without having to be coerced. There had been a time when he had had to drag every word out of the elf’s mouth even when he wasn’t hurting. “It’s not that bad. And I don’t fuss.”

Haldir snorted disbelievingly. “I don’t think you’re in any position to say what you do or don’t do. You’re biased.”

“Am not.” Aragorn peeked at the wound and, satisfied that the bleeding had slowed enough, dropped the cloth in the reddish water. He hesitated, “This might hurt I don’t have anything to numb it.”

Haldir merely shook his head, adjusting his position to give the man better access to the wound. “He’s just the kind of scoundrel you’d take up with too.”

“Odd how that sort seems to gravitate toward me,” Aragorn grinned mischievously at his friend as he threaded a needle brought from downstairs. “Lift your arm up a bit. He has been a friend of mine since I was young.”

Haldir made no sound though the cords in his neck tautened. He glanced at the top of the ranger’s bowed head and away towards the outer door. “How many of them are down there?” he asked in a slightly strained voice. He wanted to know if he would have to barricade himself in his room for however long these men were staying to keep another disastrous episode like tonight from repeating.

Aragorn felt the tension in the elf’s body and thought it was due to pain. “I’m sorry. It’ll be over soon. And I don’t know. I haven’t seen them yet. They are good men though and hate orcs almost as much as you do. You’d probably like them.”

That didn’t help the guilt surging just under the surface of the elf’s calm exterior. The knowledge that he had come very close to killing one of Aragorn’s friends haunted him so much he forgot about the needle sliding in and out of his skin. “Ow!”

“Done.” Aragorn bit off the end of the thread with his teeth, making sure he didn’t pull the new stitches too tight, and unraveled a fresh bandage roll.

Haldir plucked the gauze out of his hands and finished dressing his wound himself. “You shouldn’t be kneeling on that leg.”

“Now who’s fussing?” Aragorn washed his hands off in the tainted water and cleaned up the remaining unused thread.

Haldir leaned back against the wall. The tile felt cool and comfortable under his cheek and side. It steadied his still-jangled nerves. The softest brush on his knee let him know Aragorn was still watching him, undoubtedly with concern.

Aragorn looked up into the marchwarden’s closed face and forced himself to ask what he had been putting off for the last couple of minutes. “What happened, mellon nin?”

Haldir heaved a deep sigh and rubbed his face, “I saw what I thought was a threat. I reacted. I was in the middle of reprising my role as executioner before your father stepped in.” The bitterness there was unmistakable.

Aragorn’s brow crinkled. He wouldn’t let his friend stew in self-reproach—he’d done too much of that on the journey home. “Stop it. Halbarad’s not dead. If anything, he’s relieved you’ll be blamed for breaking the cabinet instead of him. I’d worry more about what Sadron is going to do to you than anything else.”

Haldir snorted. “I can outrun him.” He opened his eyes when he didn’t hear Aragorn move and offered a weak, unconvincing smile to the darkened grey-green eyes. “Don’t you have people to question? Other friends to reassure—and annoy?”

The diluted sarcasm meant he wanted to be alone. Aragorn took the hint and heaved himself to his feet, his leg cramping. He looked at the elf but Haldir had closed his eyes again. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder with gentle, still damp fingers. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“In the morning.”

----------

Elladan accosted his youngest brother the second he entered the Hall of Fire. “How is he?”

“I replaced the stitches. He’s fine,” Aragorn assured him in a low tone, his gaze shifting past his brother towards the group of men sitting close to the hearth, draped in spare blankets and quilts the twins had fetched from the linen closet. Though his eyes itched with tiredness, he wanted to make sure his men were all right—it still felt odd to refer to them as such.

They had spread their bedrolls out in the Hall with Elrond’s permission until suitable quarters could be found for them on the morrow. Their faces were weary and haggard, as though they’d gone for many, consecutive nights without sleep. Lingering shadows haunted their eyes. At the moment, however, they were mercilessly ribbing Halbarad after hearing about his little escapade in the infirmary.

“—you would find one of the most valuable things in the house and break it,” one teased.

Halbarad rubbed his neck and grimaced at the speaker. “I still think there’s a couple of glass splinters in my neck. Lord Elrond assured me he won’t let Sadron set the hounds on me.”

Another with a mane of long, silver hair shook his head with a mixture of aggravation and amusement, “So much for not stirring up the household. Are you quite sure you’re a ranger, Halbarad?”

“It wasn’t my fault! Why, Eldacar, do you always think the worst of— Aragorn!” Halbarad jumped gratefully to his feet when he saw the tall man standing in the doorway. “Look, it’s Aragorn! It is good to see you again, my friend.”

Aragorn grasped the older man’s wrist with a knowing grin. “Considering I saw you a spare minute ago—it’s been too long indeed! Once again, Halbarad, you make a stirring impression withersoever you go.”

“If ‘stirring’ it could be called,” One with a bandage wrapped around his arm and propped up on several pillows grinned. “ ‘C-catastrophic’ maybe is n-nearer the mark,” he had a peculiar stutter to his speech. “W-we can’t take him anywhere. He nearly got himself h-hanged once for w-wooing this dimpled little—”

“All right, all right, Angrad, save your breath will you,” the older man grumbled. “Why don’t you rest up that arm? Perhaps Lord Elrond would be so kind as to give you something for instant sleep.”

Angrad hastily snatched the not-so-subtle hint and snuggled down on the floor, pushing his pillow under his head with his unimpaired arm. “R-right, boss. Good night.”

Elrond smiled from where he was gathering up a wad of bloodstained cloth and a pestle. “If you have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask. My servants will watch over you tonight and within a short fortnight, I expect you’ll be back out on the hunt.”

“Thank you, m-my lord,” Angrad said as the elf-lord clasped his uninjured shoulder briefly.

Aragorn touched his father’s hand in thanks and received a squeeze in return as Elrond bid the company a peaceful rest of the night.

Halbarad clapped his hands briskly to get their attention. “Right. I think it’s about time for sleep, lads. Remember, no smoking in this good house at the request of its master. Breakfast will be waiting whenever you want it tomorrow morning thanks to the good people here. I expect we’ll stay a few good days if they’re willing to put up with us.”

“Having rangers in the house again, good grief,” Sadron muttered as he tossed down his dustpan and broom. “The house will be destroyed and our larders empty within the week.”

Those who heard the servant’s wry comment laughed good-naturedly. Finally able to sleep in a place of safety without need for guard or weapon, the rangers spread out beneath the vaulted roof. Some though still slept with their swords at their sides. A few stayed up to talk longer and found seats near the window. Elladan and Elrohir joined them, quietly greeting those they recognized as they extinguished all lights but the fire.

Halbarad waited until the rustlings and shifting had died down a little before he approached his chieftain. Aragorn had hung back near the fireplace. It had been almost a year since he’d last seen or spoken to these men, many of whom he’d known since his birth—or theirs—and he wasn’t yet willing to impose his presence on them until they could get used to him and he to them.

The older ranger touched his shoulder. “May we speak?”

They walked softly away from the fire towards the shadowed pillars of the inside wall a few yards away from the sleeping company. Forgetting his own rule, Halbarad drew out his short, stubby pipe and tamped it full of tobacco taken from a leather wallet in the inside of his coat. A red spark illuminated a patch of the smooth pillar he leaned against and the sweet fragrance of Longbottom leaf reminded Aragorn of the camps where his people lived. For a moment he was no longer Estel but Strider the ranger.

“Your…friend’s all right?” he asked around the pipe. He had cleaned the blood from his face though it still crusted his tunic.

Aragorn nodded.

Halbarad exhaled a long, thin stream of smoke and his eyes, pinpricked by the red glow of burning leaves, met Aragorn’s briefly, his expression graver than it had been all night. “It’s nice to see you alive.”

Aragorn had the sudden impression of how long it had actually been since he’d last seen the rangers. While he had lived in Rivendell all his life, the DĂşnedain had been infrequent visitors who Aragorn, not knowing who they were or their purpose, eschewed until he learned better. They watched from afar, more to assure themselves of their chieftain’s continued safety and the preservation of his secrecy than from a desire for closeness with their king. The rangers were very much the body-guard not only of the north but of Isildur’s heir as well. Aragorn, in his un-tempered youth, had often resented the escort.

On his twentieth birthday when he learned of his true heritage and the purpose of the DĂşnedain, he left, scorning help and his guard. Halbarad’s words held more than a ring of uneasy truth for if not for sheer luck and perhaps some greater power, he might very well have returned home on his figurative shield than on his legs.

Aragorn glanced at the red light flicking over the living stone. “I did not mean to leave as I did.”

“You did what every young man has ever dreamed of doing once he discovers he can. You wanted to strike out on your own—I did it when I was your age. Of course it took a broken leg and two ribs for me to realize I was being an idiot. I cannot pretend we weren’t worried when we found out you’d gone but I am glad you’ve come back more or less in one piece.”

Aragorn couldn’t resist and nodded at the impressive bruises forming around the older man’s nose and eyes. “And yet one night in my house and you’re already sporting a beautiful shade of purple.”

“Next time I think I’ll knock.” Halbarad grinned and grimaced, touching his swollen nose tentatively. “Now, it might still be my head swimming from a couple of those blows, but I thought I heard your father call him ‘captain.’ “

“He is. Of LothlĂłrien.”

The older man groaned. “Of course he is. I know how to pick them. What were you doing over the mountains?”

At Halbarad’s incredulously raised eyebrows, Aragorn explained about his travels since leaving Rivendell, his journey to the Golden Wood and what they had encountered on their way back.

“A rogue elf in Dunland?” The older ranger puffed out his cheeks in a mixture of admiration and disbelief. “That tried to kill you?”

“Several times,” Aragorn said but he was quick to move on. There were several sensitive issues buried beneath the good tale it made which he didn’t feel like discussing with Halbarad in the middle of the hall. “So what news do you bring out of the north-west, my friend? How are the Shire-lands?”

Halbarad tapped out his pipe, letting the ash fall at the base of the pillar. “The Little People are untroubled—at least by us. But I’m afraid that is as all the good news I have to bring with me.”

Aragorn frowned as Halbarad avoided his eyes, guessing this was the real reason Halbarad had wanted to speak with him and why he had snuck into the house in the later hours of the night. “Why? What has happened?”

The older man glanced around their pillar. The hall was quiet. Most of the men had either dropped off to sleep or were too far away to hear. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice to less than a whisper so Aragorn had to lean forward to hear him. “Things have been bad since last autumn. Orcs have been increasing on the roads, waylaying travelers, wreaking havoc in villages. We’ve done what we could but we’re stretched too thin. Just a few weeks ago, we were looking into a number of disappearances in a tiny village outside of the Chetwood—the orcs were waiting for us. They’d razed the village and either killed its people or taken captives. We tried to fight them but they surprised us at night and took Angrad and a couple of ours. We found two of them dead up by Deadmen’s Dike. I don’t know why they left Angrad alive but he hasn’t been able to talk right since.”

‘Deadmen’s Dike’ was the common name for the haunted downs abandoned by the DĂşnedain after the Witch-king murdered most of the people there and infested the heart of their own capital with his evil servants.

“We left in a hurry. That place has an even more evil name of late. We barely stopped for anything: eat, sleep. I…felt…something on the road behind us. Something that didn’t want us to make it to Rivendell. I can’t remember ever feeling a dread like it though we never saw what it was.” He shook his head and the horror faded out of his eyes as he drew reassurance from the long, beautiful windows and the men sleeping in the glow of the firelight around them. “We ended up bringing more than tidings and wounded though. We found a horse near the wrecked village.”

“Oh?” Aragorn’s head spun as he tried to keep up with this flood of information.

“Half-mad I shouldn’t wonder, poor thing. It barely would let us near it. All covered in scratches and brambles, looked like it had run itself half to death but what from I don’t know.”

“A rider?”

“It had none though by its harness I would guess a man or elf. We couldn’t lay hands on it but it followed us into Rivendell. Your stable master cares for it now I think. Anyway,” Halbarad stowed his pipe back in his pocket and rubbed his wayworn face briskly. “It’s not good. Something’s going on up north and we—” Halbarad suddenly trailed off. He spun and his hand caught hold of a bony shoulder.

Aragorn blinked with surprise as he dragged Angrad out from behind the other side of the pillar.

Halbarad shook the younger man warningly. “Angrad, I thought I told you to go to bed. You’ve been eavesdropping.”

“E-Eaves—?” the man fumbled, trying to struggle out of his leader’s tight grip.

“Yes, eavesdropping. What did you hear?”

“N-n-nothing, sir!” he squeaked in a horrified whisper. “I-I only wanted to m-meet…E-Eldacar said,” the young man’s pale eyes fell on Aragorn. “Said he’s our chief.”

Aragorn pitied him and glanced at Halbarad who let him go reluctantly.

“You can meet him tomorrow; he’s not disappearing overnight. Next time, respect your elders and keep your ears out of places they shouldn’t be.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Halbarad watched until the lad had settled himself again in the blankets before turning to Aragorn. “That boy is going to be the death of me.”

“We can take counsel in the morning,” Aragorn said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “We’ll sort this out.”

“You had better go. Your mad elf friend will probably think I’d ambushed you and he’ll come after me again,” Halbarad grinned teasingly as he tossed a spare pillow at the head of his bedroll.

Aragorn just shook his head unsmiling though he knew the man had been trying to make light of it. “Really, he’s all right once you get to know him.”

“Don’t think I want to stay that long,” the older man glanced up at the ceiling. “It’s actually nice to see a bit of roof overhead for once.”

As Aragorn shut the door of the hall behind him, the strained reassuring smile faded from his face and his look grew troubled. The tidings from the north had been ill to say the least and he was eager to take counsel with the others and his father. But first, he needed a little sleep. It had been a longer day than usual and he suspected somehow that the coming days would hold little different.


Chapter 3 - Part Three: Smoke Rings in the Dark

A/N: Thank you to all those who reviewed / read! 

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Part Three

Smoke Rings in the Dark

Just visible beyond the columned pillars, the pinewoods on the south side were trimmed with opalescent blue. The faintest crimson streaks glittered on the smooth walls, disrupted only by a smoky shadow. Aragorn savored the peace as he crossed the polished floor, his light and for once unimpeded footsteps echoing slightly in the stillness. As the sun tilted higher into the valley, copper shafts streamed through the open, airy rooms. One of these glanced off the wall and illuminated the vast black figure painted there.

For a fleeting instant, the chieftain of the DĂşnedain let his eyes be drawn to the towering figure of Sauron and in his great shadow, the tiny, brilliant form of Isildur, the sword, Narsil, raised desperately high to lope off the fingers of the Black Hand. That very sword lay in pieces just across the room on a marble pedestal held. The weight of it hung in the back of his mind and stayed there. Disregarding the reminder of his prestigious and dark heritage, the ranger checked the small sack on his hip while he passed the staircase leading up to the guest rooms and made his way towards the front porch.

Halbarad was already waiting for him, unbuttoning his collar in the humid, steamy morning. “Ready to go?”

A small group of horses and riders were already saddled and shifting impatiently under the arch that would take them up the gorge. All the rangers were going (excepting Angrad who was still recovering) and even a few of the Imladris guard had volunteered their services. One of these, a tall fellow with a thin, green baldric stretching across his chest, dismounted lightly and hailed Aragorn.

“A fine day for orc-hunting, is it not, Estel?”

“Good morning, Galen,” Aragorn greeted him, accepting the reins the elf scout handed him. Galen had been a friend of Estel’s since he had come to Rivendell. Too often the curious human child had snuck out to the barracks to watch the guards ride out on patrols, dreaming of joining them. Galen, who was still rather young for an elf though older than many humans, had fielded the boy’s eager questions and taught him about tracking and reconnaissance alongside his brothers.

“We’re about ready.” Halbarad heaved himself into the saddle and pulled his horse towards the arch. “Everyone who’s coming is here?”

Aragorn hesitated, his gaze drawn back towards the second floor windows. Haldir had made himself scarce since the DĂşnedain arrived, preferring to ignore and be ignored. He had taken to spending more time with Elladan and Elrohir which, while Aragorn didn’t mind, he wished the elf would set his suspicion aside for a little; he had invited the marchwarden to join them this morning but Haldir prided himself on being punctual…Aside from their party the courtyard was empty.

“Aragorn?”

The man jolted. He had been holding up the rest of the company while they waited for his affirmative. With a soft sigh, he nudged his horse, taking his place in the vanguard of the company though he let Halbarad go ahead of him. He didn’t feel quite comfortable leading yet. “Let’s go.”

The path out of the valley wound back and forth, the Last Homely House falling farther and farther below as they rode up towards the high moors. Gradually the little lane grew too steep and they had to dismount and lead their horses up a long cutting of steps. Once they reached the top and came out onto the heather, they followed the white stone markers down to the bridge which stretched across the Bruinen’s rushing waters.

The river sparkled blindingly bright in the now fully risen sun. Aragorn shaded his eyes with a hand, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the glare of sun off the water. They widened when he realized the DĂşnedain were not the only ones present on the bridge. Three other horses stood to one side and on one of them was…

“All of you are late,” Haldir said, letting a teasing undercut of disapproval edge the words. “The trail is going cold.”

“Had I known you would be waiting I would have hurried,” Aragorn hastened forward. with a broad smile for his brothers who were on the other horses.

“Sadron made it very clear that he would rather me elsewhere while he replaces the cabinet in the infirmary,” the marchwarden cast a sidelong glance at Halbarad and the rangers who had reined in a respectful distance away. “And I wouldn’t miss what promises to be a good hunt.”

“Did you sleep in, Estel?” Elladan wondered aloud, stroking his steed’s glossy neck. “We’ve been waiting nearly an hour.”

“Halbarad’s the slowcoach. Took him nearly three-quarters of an hour to gather up his gear,” Aragorn said with a playful glance over his shoulder.

The older ranger cleared his throat pointedly to let the younger know in no uncertain terms that he had heard the comment and adequate vengeance would wreak itself on his unsuspecting head at a later date. But his eyes slid past and rested on the elf captain who met his stare evenly. They had not spoken to each other since the unfortunate misunderstanding in the infirmary and the tension level ratcheted up uncomfortably.

In an effort to diffuse it, Elladan and Elrohir began discussing routes with Galen and the other elves and rangers. They had picked up the orcs’ prints on the other side of the Bruinen near the bridge but hadn’t followed it further.

“So close?” Galen hissed in both anger and shock. It had been many years since the enemy had dared venture so close to the hidden valley. “Did you see how many?”

“They must have camped not far away in hopes of catching you all out when you left,” Elrohir suggested.

“They number at least two score,” Elladan answered, his eyes dark and gleaming with challenge. “It seems they really didn’t want you to reach here.”

“Looks like runners,” Eldacar said, shaking his silver hair out of his face so he could inspect the tracks. “Swifter and lighter than usual warriors. They were hoping to take us by surprise.”

“What do you think, Haldir? We can take those numbers with our company,” Aragorn was watching his friend who had not dropped his eyes from Halbarad’s unflinching gaze. “Haldir.”

The elf blinked, caught Aragorn’s eye and realized he had been locked in a staring contest with the dĂşnadan for over a minute. “We could take those numbers with half this company. It would be faster going if there were not so many of us,” he said, directing his words at his friend though his eyes had returned to the man opposite him.

Halbarad’s jaw tightened slightly at the implication that his group was unwelcome. “Still, there is safety in numbers.”

“To a point. Then they become a needless hindrance.”

“ ‘Needless’—?”

“Greater numbers mean greater chance of discovery not to mention the noise—”

“Look,” Elladan interrupted before the two came to more blows. “if we dally here any longer there won’t be a trail to follow,” His eyes rested on Haldir briefly. “The more eyes we have the better.”

Overruled, Haldir shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance and twitched the reins of his mount towards the bridge.

Aragorn sighed and cast Halbarad an apologetic look. He understood why Haldir reacted the way he did around unfamiliar humans. However, it wasn’t just what men might do to him that made the elf standoffish to the point of rudeness—but what he would do to them as the night in the infirmary proved. Aragorn knew what his friend feared and it wasn’t necessarily the rangers.

Halbarad, however, didn’t know that and scowled at the elf’s rigid back. “What is it with you? Can you just not stand to be around humans or are you ashamed to be indebted to one?”

Haldir checked his horse so sharply Aragorn’s nearly ran into him. He swerved hard left and just barely managed to avoid a collision. The elf didn’t turn around. “Meaning what?” he requested acidly.

“Meaning, I know you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Aragorn. I heard about what you put him through before you got here. He could have been killed saving your sorry skin; he could have died and it would have been your fault. Now you won’t even talk to him or those he considers friends. You have a funny way of showing gratitude.”

“Halbarad,” Aragorn shut his eyes in a mute plea for salvation. This was not how he had imagined his two dearest friends would get along. “Please.”

Unfortunately, Halbarad was neither precisely informed nor did he know the full story. All he knew was what he had experienced: being attacked (albeit accidentally), watching the elf cold-shouldering Aragorn, listening to the whispered stories.

Aragorn, keeping Haldir’s confidence, had not explained in detail how he had acquired the injury to his leg but the older ranger had gleaned enough scraps from Elladan and Elrohir to draw his own conclusions. The wrong ones.

The dĂşnadan held up his hands in surrender. “Perhaps it is not my place to speak.”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn agreed with a razor-sharp glance at the man. He knew Haldir still struggled with guilt over what had happened in Dunland and he didn’t need Halbarad rubbing his friend’s face in it. Though it was hard to catch unless you were looking for it, he saw the lurking doubt in the elf’s eyes and the questions flooding through him: Was it his fault? Should he have known it had been a trap? Should he have been more prepared? 

“No, Strider. He has something on his mind, let him speak it,” Haldir said, endeavoring to keep his tone level yet it vibrated with thinly restrained anger.

But Halbarad took his chief at his word and would say no more.

Haldir suddenly realized the whole company was staring at him with rapt attention, looks varying from confused to eager. Very conscious of the fact that he was an officer and this unseemly behavior would be more embarrassing if he struck the man over it, he cleared his throat and leaned back in his saddle, willing his shoulders to relax with what seemed an almost physical effort.

“I have a rule. Three things are earned: respect, trust and apologies. They are not freely given. Not by me.”

“Strider happens to trust us,” Halbarad said, bristling as though the elf had challenged him with drawn sword.

Haldir jerked his head once to show he had acknowledged the man’s words but would disagree with him anyway. “I trust Strider, but do not make the mistake of thinking I will then trust you.”

“If his judgement isn’t good enough for you then whose is?”

“My own.”

Aragorn decided to intervene before his name was dragged through the rest of the confrontation. The use of the man’s ranger name was necessary outside the valley but he couldn’t pretend it didn’t sting just a little coming from the elf who almost always called him ‘Estel.’ “The trail breaks off here, heading away from the Bruinen. We’re not more than half a night behind them.”

The recollection of their purpose called the rangers and elves back to their task and even Halbarad and Haldir stopped glaring at each other long enough to turn their eyes back towards the soft bank of the river where hard-soled, ironshod feet had churned up the mud and disappeared under the trees, heading away from the valley.

The marchwarden squeezed his horse’s sides a little harder than necessary and she broke into a canter, hooves clattering over the narrow bridge.

“A granite wall has better manners,” Halbarad muttered, dropping back to talk to Aragorn.

“You just…have to give him time to adjust to you,” the younger ranger said, a tad stiffly.

“Or I could punch my teeth down my throat. You put up with that,” the man indicated the elf’s back, “—all the way from the Golden Wood?”

“Actually, he was a little politer to me. Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”

“Great.”

For hours the orcs led them steadily on deep under thick, leafy branches that wiped out the slanting afternoon sunlight. Where the grass bugs had once been loud and chattering, they fell silent and even the birds, usually raucous enough to stir a stone troll from eternal slumber, quieted in their nests. The voices of the company too grew hushed, some invisible weight pressing on their vocal chords and stifling any unnecessary speech.

“We’re close,” Galen whispered, his eyes wide as he scoured the larch trunks changing to woodland, his hand steady on the rapier strapped to his waist.

Haldir had already drawn his saber and laid it across his saddlehorn.

“Quiet down,” Ardamil the captain of the Rivendell guard, hissed unnecessarily down the line. “We’re not far now.”

Eldacar riding on Aragorn’s other side sniffed the air, “I smell smoke.”

“The hooves will give us away if they lingered,” Galen halted and swung down from the saddle.

Ardamil cast a slightly annoyed glance at the scout for not awaiting orders but he did not disagree. One by one, the company dismounted and tied their horses loosely to low-hanging branches.

Eldacar was right. Smoke was indeed drifting up above the treeline and the tangy, acrid stench only grew stronger as they skirted close-growing thickets of bracken and stole into a dark hollow. A fallen log lay up at one end, a sturdy oak toppled by an old storm. Except for the log, however, the hollow was empty. The smoke came from the remains of a fire pit near the root base that stuck up like solid spiderwebs. Gnawed bones and scraps of skin and feathers littered the ground, the pickings of a fierce and brutal meal. Something else lingered on the air aside from the smoke: a rotten, ugly stink that made the elves wince and the DĂşnedain curl their lips as though they’d bitten into gristle.

“All right, Estel,” Galen prompted as though he were still giving lessons to his avid student. “Tell me what we’re looking for since we’ve missed the enemy.”

“We can’t have missed them by longer than a few minutes. The ashes are still warm. Obviously they ate recently so they’ll be slow. They’ll try to seek shelter from the sun, so somewhere dark and cool. Maybe one of the bramble thickets.” Aragorn reeled off. He breathed on the embers, watching them flare, and glanced once about the clearing, his face dark. He hated that such evil creatures had come so near his home. “They were here without a doubt.”

Haldir came up soundlessly beside him as he rose dusting off his knees. The elf’s adamantine eyes flecked with dark green from the glimmering foliage scanned the thickets one by one. “They are still here. And they are watching us.”

A frisson shot down the spines of everyone within earshot and those who had not already drawn their weapons did so nervously, twisting around and attempting to pierce the darkened spaces between tree trunks. To Aragorn’s astonishment, Haldir sheathed his sword.

When he saw the ranger’s puzzled stare, the elf shook his head without taking his eyes from the trees, “They won’t attack. We are too many.”

“Oh, so our numbers do come in handy now don’t they?” Halbarad, who was still feeling rather cross, couldn’t resist adding. “How are you so certain they won’t attack? Are you so deep in their counsels you can relate their movements?”

“That was unworthy of you, Halbarad,” his chieftain said. The chastisement pricked like a needle though Aragorn hadn’t raised his voice. The ranger shut his mouth.

“You don’t have to be an orc to know their hearts are craven,” Elladan, always a little prickly when it came to the subject, supported Haldir. Elrohir laid a calming hand on his arm.

“It is my duty to think as orcs do, Master Halbarad,” Haldir replied, unfazed. “After all I do more than hide in cozy taverns and elven refuges.”

“That’s enough,” Aragorn snapped. The grass bugs were still silent which meant the orcs could probably hear them arguing. Nevertheless, he was inclined to trust the elves’ judgment and sheathed his blade much to Halbarad’s disquiet.

Haldir prodded the firepit’s ashes with a long stick, unearthing bones and little chunks of unburned wood. He circled the fallen log. “They won’t attack. Are there any signs of horses, Estel?” His voice sounded too loud outside a whisper and a few of the elves and rangers hissed at him.

“Be quiet.”

“The fool. What does he think he’s doing?”

Haldir disregarded them and looked up at the ranger who was now scouring the perimeter with Halbarad and Eldacar. “Estel?”

“None that I see. Why?”

“And you,” Haldir switched his gaze to Halbarad who looked surprised that the elf was even deigning to speak to him. “The wild horse you brought with you, it had no gear, no bag of any kind?”

Halbarad rallied hastily, “Uh, no. Not that we found. Why?”

The marchwarden sank almost onto his stomach and stretched under the fallen oak. A niche formed by the buckled trunk and uneven ground made for a small space inside. His head and shoulders disappeared as he reached back into the nook until his fingertips connected with coarse fabric. He tightened his grip on it and with a few careful tugs, pulled it free.

Aragorn, curious, crouched beside him as he shook it out.

It was a satchel such as long-distance message carriers bore. It was covered with grime, leafy debris and darker spots of crimson that Haldir stared at for a long time. The seam on one side had begun to come undone and the shoulder strap was charred as though it had been dropped in a fire. But the most disquieting wound was a gaping slash all along the bottom as though some wild thing had gripped it in its teeth and ripped.

“Whatever it once carried is gone.” Mild disappointment filled the human. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until Haldir looked at him. An odd closed expression suffused the elf’s face and Aragorn grew immediately wary. He knew something.

“What is it?”

“This is not orc gear.”

Despite being extraordinarily filthy and torn, the satchel was not orc-made from the skins of animals but crafted from a light, homespun cloth, strong and silver in color. Aragorn tilted his head. It looked strangely familiar.

Haldir’s fingers ghosted over the corners, caressing the raised embroidery underneath the crimson splotches. “And this blood belongs to no orc,” the elf got to his feet and dangled the satchel from his fingertips.

“You left this behind!” he shouted at the still thicket.

The others tensed but nothing challenged him, nothing stirred and the silence seemed to aggravate the elf captain even more. Aragorn could have sworn a look passed between him, Elladan and Elrohir but he blinked and couldn’t be sure.

Haldir ran a hand through his hair, the fingers of his left hand clenching. The elf made a low noise in his throat like the discontented rumble of a tom-cat as he turned his back on the thickets, slinging the satchel’s strap through one arm. Aragorn was bursting to ask him what he knew but Halbarad touched his shoulder.

“Where did Elladan and Elrohir go?” he hissed out of the side of his mouth.

Aragorn frowned and searched the rest of the company who were looking unnerved and quite ready to leave. “I know they were here. I just saw—”

A sharp squeal rent the air and a black shape ripped through the brush, flattening bramble bushes. It collapsed next to the log cringing as Elladan and Elrohir stalked out after it, their blades unsheathed.

“You were right,” Elrohir said, his gaze flicking to Haldir. “It was lurking off to the left.”

“The way the wind was blowing, it could smell us,” Haldir said, unsheathing his saber too. He looked to Elladan. “This was the only one?”

Elrond’s son nodded curtly.

Everyone looked stunned at what had just happened.

“A spy sent to report on any pursuit I imagine,” Elrohir explained, looking down at the orc with distinct distaste. “There’s always one who gets the runt job. What are we going to do with it?”

Elladan’s eyes brightened and he pushed his sword a little forward until it dug into the soft skin under the cowering orc’s neck. “I know what we should do with it.”

Haldir’s saber scraped across the younger elf’s and pushed it back slightly. The marchwarden cast him a look. When Elladan dropped his eyes, the LĂłrien captain’s roved to encompass the other elves as well as the DĂşnedain. “Lord Elrond will wish to be informed that orcs are so close but for now they are not a threat.”

Aragorn glanced between his brothers and his friend, aware that he had missed something. But the look in Haldir’s eyes told him now was not the time for argument.

“You’ll tell me what’s going on, won’t you?” he whispered as Halbarad rolled his eyes and turned towards his other companions.

Haldir’s eyes flickered over his young friend’s shoulder. “Of course. But later.”

“What are you going to do with—?” The ranger reluctantly glanced at the orc who snarled until Elladan prodded him warningly into silence.

“Leave it to me. Go.”

Reluctantly the others left the hollow and retrieved their horses. Aragorn’s mind was swarmed with confusion and questions. What had brought orcs so close to Rivendell? Threat of numbers had never stopped them before whatever Haldir said and there was clearly more to this than the marchwarden was willing to say. To whom did the satchel belong? Some unfortunate victim of the orcs? Halbarad hadn’t mentioned casualties.

It was only upon heading back, watching Halbarad’s pack jostle and bump with his horse’s stride that realization hit him of where he’d seen a satchel like that before.

Its mirror image hung on a hook in Haldir’s room.

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Rivendell’s smokehouse, a small, squat building at least a mile from the main house, was little used in summer and much overgrown since the heavy rains in April. Ivy curled into the pale, grey-yellow stone. A hazy twilight blunted most of its features and dappled the walls with branch shadows and the two, long ones of the figures standing in front of it.

“At this rate it’s going to be dawn before we get anything confirmed,” Haldir grumbled. “I thought you said he was quick on the run.”

“He had to go find Father who was probably already at dinner with everyone else,” Elladan muttered back mutinously. “Unless you wanted to keep this from him, you’ll just have to wait until Elrohir returns.”

Haldir glanced at Elladan, a little piqued that he was being lectured on patience by an elf who had done so much pacing in the last half hour the weeds choking the doorway were flattened into pulp. Instead he sighed and leaned his shoulders against the door, humidity seeping through his tunic. “No. Your father has the right to know.”

At that moment, a rustle announced Elrohir’s return. Elladan’s mirror image was breathing lightly as though he’d done no more than stroll the length of the path from the homely house to here. To Haldir, it felt like it and it didn’t improve his impatience.

“Well?”

Elrohir straightened as though giving a report to a senior officer though he himself held a place in rank close to Glorfindel’s. “He gives his permission but he would rather word not be spread about—he thinks it would cause undue panic. And he’s told Glorfindel as well just in case.”

“That’s all?”

Elrohir nodded. Despite his easy breathing, his temples were streaked with sweat and his tunic clung to him in the moisture-laden air.

“What else did he say to you?” Haldir prompted, his eyes narrowing. Elrohir couldn’t lie nearly as well as Elladan and he knew Lord Elrond would have had something to say to his sons about this little jaunt specifically.

“He said…” Elrohir glanced apologetically at his brother then said in a rush. “He said we were not to have anything to do with this under any circumstances.”

“Why does he still not understand we are not children and haven’t been for a long time? We are capable of making our own decisions!” Elladan predictably railed against this parental restraint.

But Haldir respected the master of the house too much not to grant his request. “It’s just as well. You two have done enough of this sort of work to last you several lifetimes.”

Elrohir bowed his head but Elladan faced him, his visage dark with outrage and contempt. “How can you say that to us? You don’t think you’re mired just as deep in orc-blood as we are? How can you dare lecture us on restraint after what those creatures did to your—!”

“That’s enough,” Haldir’s eyes glinted and Elrohir gripped his brother’s shoulder tightly in warning. “I won’t brook any more argument from you, Elladan.”

“You do not command us.” Elladan thrust away his brother’s hand.

“But your father does,” the older elf’s voice snapped back like a whip crack but hard as steel. He snatched the key from Elrohir’s hand and jammed it into the door’s stiff lock. “Do you want Glorfindel out here looking for you when you don’t show up? You who were so anxious to be off, wish to stay now?”

“You didn’t tell me you were going in there alone,” Elladan scowled right back, unintimidated. “I thought you would wait at least until morning. Take someone like Ardamil or us with you.”

“This cannot wait until morning,” the marchwarden said, picking up the satchel he’d set down near the wall corner. “Go to dinner. I’ll meet you later.”

Elladan gripped his upper arm forcibly to stop him from going inside. “You are not going in there alone.”

“Yes, I am. I have interrogated a prisoner before, Elladan. I am also aware of the danger and have taken the proper precautions when securing him.” His saber was strapped to his hip as always. He glanced once at the younger elf’s hand. “Let go of my arm.”

Haldir looked over Elladan’s shoulder. He knew Elrohir was not a coward and he, unlike his brother, saw the wisdom in their father’s and friend’s counsels. He knew Elrohir never wanted to tread again the dark path he had when their mother was taken. It was still hard to see the creatures who hurt her and not want to hurt them in return. This was a job for one who could keep in control those emotions and dark thoughts. For the most part.

“I don’t have the strength for this, Elladan,” Elrohir said softly to his twin. “And neither do you no matter how you like to protest.”

Elladan opened his mouth to utter a blistering retort then saw the look in Elrohir’s eyes. He snorted and only reluctantly stepped back from the smokehouse door. His eyes glittered on catching Haldir’s.

“I’m going to send Galen out here for you.”

“Fine. Tell him to change out of his dinner clothes.” The door scraped open. Haldir didn’t waste any more words but crossed the threshold and shut it firmly behind him.

The smokehouse consisted of a single room with blackened, shiny walls from centuries of curing and salting. The only light came from the glowing firebox in the center. Haldir’s keen eyes needed nothing else to pick up the form hanging a few inches to the left of it. Some applewood he had found in a corner burned nicely and gave off a sweet scent that helped keep away the spiders that had spun their webs in the crevices and covered the stench of an impromptu visitor.

The orc began to growl and thrash against the chains hooking him to a ceiling beam as the elf paced closer. In a corner, wooden tubs holed in the bottom for tightly packed meat to drain had leaked a salty crust over the loam and sand floor which whispered under his boots.

Haldir stopped just within reach of the creature which infuriated his captive all the more because the orc was close enough to claw him save for his bound hands. A beat of silence passed as the two measured one another, as different and unlike as possible: the tall, straight elf and the squat, black creature like a stiletto balanced upright beside a boulder.

The elf lowered himself into a crouch until he was on an eye-level with the orc. There was a bloody knot just above the left ear where Elladan had enthusiastically subdued the orc so they could bring him back with them. The marchwarden of LothlĂłrien did not feel pity because he knew how much suffering the orc had probably visited on innocents in his long life; but the captain also had suffered bonds before and in mercy had left the chains long enough that his prisoner could sit on the ground without having to lean all his weight on his wrists—at least for the time being.

The orc watched him with wide, yellow eyes, his nostrils dilating. He didn’t speak to his captor but waited and shied away from the sound of the elf’s voice.

“I know you are not afraid of pain,” Haldir said rising slowly off his haunches and walking behind the orc who tried to twist over his shoulder to see what the elf was doing.

Haldir took the length of chain running over the beam and hauled on it, jerking the orc up a few feet until his wrists nearly touched the low ceiling. The wooden beam was lined with empty hooks. Looping the loose chain over the beam and fastening it securely, Haldir circled back around the orc and picked up the satchel from a curing table.

“This was in your camp. It belongs to a Galadhrim rider named Caladir. I want to know what happened to him.”

The orc’s eyes narrowed in a wicked smile and he smacked his lips pointedly.

With great self-restraint, Haldir did not react and tried hard not to show how very much he’d like to smash the creature’s skull into the stone behind him. “Where was he?”

The orc continued to smile at him.

Walking away, Haldir stirred the embers in the firebox and checked a roll of tools on the table that had lain hidden under the satchel. “There was no sign of remains at your camp. The messenger horse that he rode escaped to Rivendell. Yet you were pursuing humans. Why?”

The orc spoke, its voice grating and harsh. “He didn’t deliver his last message. What a pity.”

Haldir realized this would probably go on for awhile and was glad he had dismissed Elladan and Elrohir. Tugging the table across the floor until it stood in clear view of the prisoner; he selected one of the tools lying on it: a long, carving knife with a blade almost as wide as his forearm. The orc’s eyes fixated on it. Haldir tilted it ever so slightly so the embers caught the sheen of the blade and it flashed scarlet.

“You don’t fear pain. You are more like an elf in that way.”

The orc spat at the comparison.

“It is indignity you fear. Cannibalism is not an uncommon practice amongst the orc tribes, I believe,” Dark certainty undercut his voice and made it even deeper than usual. Thank goodness none of the winter meats remained on their hooks or the irony would have been unbearable. The knife hissed slowly up the leathery skin of the orc’s calf, tracing an imaginary line through the muscle.

“Maybe I’ll start with a leg and work my way up. First the calf, then thigh. Stringy bit by stringy bit ‘til I reach those succulent eyes,” the knife hovered there, a scarce fraction away and the orc closed its yellow orbs. “I’ll probably have to salt you before then but this hook will keep you fresh in the meanwhile…”

Haldir’s eyes glinted in the red light. “Unless you tell me what I want to know.”

At last he detected a flicker of fear in the orc’s face and the elf privately applauded himself. Finally they were getting somewhere. He would not lift a finger to carry out his threat of course, orcs being far beyond his normal appetite, but his prisoner fortunately did not know that. The Dark Lord had long ago burned into his servants’ minds the idea that Elves were crueler than the orcs themselves. It was the only threat the prisoner would understand for it was exactly what he would have done had their places been reversed.

The orc muttered something in its foul tongue Haldir was sure was far less than complimentary

His blood scorched his veins at the sound of that hideous language and his hand snapped out of its own accord, catching the orc across the ear and jaw. “Politely. Why were you pursuing the humans?”

The yellow eyes shone at him as it licked blood obscenely from its lips. Something like intelligence glittered in those huge orbs. Haldir wondered briefly if the orc feared what would happen to him after all usefulness had been wrung out of him.

“Not chasing men. Chasing horse,” the orc snarled at last. “Men took the horse with them.”

“Why did you want the horse if the message had already been lost?”

“Orders. Nothing could reach elf-place. Not the message. Not the horse. Not the rider.”

“Who gave these orders? From where?”

But a greater fear than that of Haldir overcame the orc and he shut his mouth with a snap. The elf captain nearly swore with frustration. Clearly Caladir had discovered something big, something dark that had gotten him into deep trouble. He was close to finding out what that was but his prisoner had clammed up. Something frightened him worse than the elf’s threats.

Strictly speaking he was not allowed to torture an orcish prisoner even if the information he carried could end the world. By the teachings of the Wise, orcs were to be dealt with through the sword if necessary but not cruelly at their own level of depravity. If the orc asked for mercy, he would have to grant it but judging by the way his captive was glaring at him, he wouldn’t have to go that far. Besides, the law wasn’t always heeded anyway in these war-torn times.

Haldir’s muscular shoulders bunched like a wolf’s hackles rising but relaxed almost immediately. He would get nothing more from the captive. Though it went against every orc-hating fiber of his being, he crossed to the door and flung it wide, revealing a cloudy night and the thick beginnings of the forest beyond it. The orc twitched as the elf’s hands reached up and unfastened the manacles from his wrists. Haldir, drawing his saber smoothly, stepped back and jerked his head towards the open door.

“Go.”

Rubbing his wrists where the fetters had cut them, the orc stared from his freedom to the elf’s face, clearly expecting some kind of trick. Keeping eyes on his former captor, the orc slunk towards the door. He was almost there when he lunged for the table and snatched up the carving knife the marchwarden had let drop.

Haldir sidestepped a gutting sweep and ran the orc through in the same movement. Black blood spattered the floor as the body collapsed, the dark light fleeing the orc’s eyes. Hurriedly, the elf captain hooked the orc by the belt and dragged him outside so blood wouldn’t soak into the ground.

Galen, coming up the overgrown path, had on a pair of stained trousers and a coarse linen shirt. His eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of the warrior standing over the slain orc. Haldir glanced at him as he took a handkerchief from his tunic and wiped his steel clean. They would get rid of the body before morning and be gone by daylight.

“It would have done better to run,” he murmured, stepping over the corpse.

Snatching up a bucket of rainwater that stood under one of the vents in the walls, he tossed its contents over the firebox. The embers extinguished with a hiss and a rush of smoke spiraled up towards the small hole in the roof.


Chapter 4 - Part Four: Premonitions

Author’s Note: Ah, a fantastic weekend. Naturally, all the excitement is about the new Harry Potter book (in the literary world anyway). However, I have not forgotten that I owe a chapter to those of you who wish to read still more this weekend or for those of you taking a break from or not reading Harry Potter. It’s a good long one and hopefully enough to tide you over til next week while I straighten out kinks.

Aragorn angst coming up for all you fans of it—and I know there are a few of you.


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Part Four

Premonitions

Sadron knew before he opened the door what he would find inside. It had been the same for more than a week, ever since the marchwarden left. After the hunting accident that had lamed his leg, Elrond had taken him on as an odd-jobsman where he gradually shouldered the staff workings of the kitchens, gardens and general upkeep of the household. He served the family of the house with as much care and devotion as he would have his own. So without bothering to knock, he limped into what should have been an empty guest room and set his lamp down with a clunk hard enough to startle the sleeper stretched out on the quilt.

Aragorn squinted blearily in the suddenly blinding glare so he could see who it was. “Sadron? What time is it?”

The servant surveyed him with a mixture of annoyance and impatience tempered with perhaps a little pity. “Well, the feast has ended and the dwarves have left crumbs all over the rugs and some idiot spilled wine on the back of a chair dating from 322 of the Second Age. It is late, young master, and you should be in your own bed.”

“I know, I know,” Aragorn sat up, rubbing the silt out of his eyes. Sadron had been kicking him out of Haldir’s room rather frequently of late. He glanced up at his father’s old friend hesitantly. “You aren’t going to tell my adar are you?” Elrond had already been looking troubled enough of late.

“I haven’t yet.” The servant couldn’t help the smile that quirked his lips. That contrite look under the eyelashes was the same one the human had given him since he was the age of three. And he still fell for it. Every time.

Nevertheless, he tapped his pace stick against the ranger’s calf menacingly. “But if I ever see you fall asleep like that again, I will thrash you until your father knows you will never sleep on anything comfortable again.”

Aragorn swung his stained boots guiltily off the quilt and onto the floor. Sweeping disheveled strands out of his face, he stared preoccupied around the now-dark room. Every passing hour made it seem drearier and, had it not been for his uttermost faith in Sadron’s neat-keeping abilities, he would have sworn dust was beginning to gather in the corners.

“He said he would be back by now. Midsummer was today.”

“Midsummer was today!” Sadron exclaimed, feigning surprised. “I would never have guessed what with all the merriment and singing, feasting and storytelling you didn’t participate in.”

Aragorn smiled slightly ruefully but his eyes remained fastened on a far corner of the room. His heart was darkly worried and it had kept him from enjoying the grand festival his father always hosted at this time of year. He couldn’t enjoy it when his mind kept drifting back to the last conversation in this room.

He had not seen Haldir since they had returned from their day of orc-hunting. Passing on the upper landing, he saw a light under the elf’s door and decided he couldn’t wait any longer for answers. He rapped twice even as he continued to push the unlocked door open with his knuckles. “You were missed at dinner.”

“Other things required my attention,” the elf said distractedly without looking up.

Aragorn had a feeling he knew what that “other thing” was. Elladan and Elrohir, after being chewed out by Sadron, confided to him the reason for their lateness. But before he could voice his suspicions, he caught sight of the nearly full satchel on the bed.

“What are you doing?”

Haldir tugged a bureau’s top drawer open, pulled out a few black tunics and shoved them messily into his pack. Turning slightly, he pushed a loose strand of hair out of his eyes, and finally looked up. For a split second, Aragorn thought he saw a flash of guilt cross the elf’s face but it was gone quicker than he could ascertain.

“I am leaving.”

At first the words did not register to Aragorn’s fuzzy mind and he was halfway through a nod before the full meaning of his friend’s statement hit him. He frowned in complete bafflement.

“What?”

“I am leaving,” Haldir mouthed the words emphatically as though to someone who was deaf. Dropping his eyes back to his task, he added, “As soon as possible.”

Aragorn still didn’t get it. “But…I thought you were going to stay the summer.”

“Circumstances change.”

“Your wounds were just restitched. Adar won’t let you ride,” Aragorn hated how puerile he sounded but he couldn’t explain the disquiet that reared up in his mind like a dark wave.

Haldir smiled at him but it lacked any kind of humor, dry or otherwise. “I hardly need Lord Elrond’s permission to leave—or yours for that matter.”

Aragorn was still confused and a little hurt, not sure what he had missed. “Are you going back to LothlĂłrien?”

“No. There is something I need to do north of here.”

“ ‘North of here?’ ” he echoed. “As in, between here and Forochel?”

“I hope I won’t have to go quite that far.”

He was evading the question which meant the real answer was either something he didn’t want the ranger to hear or something he didn’t feel quite certain about. Aragorn, recalling the burgeoning hostility between Halbarad and the elf that morning, took a stab at finding out which it was.

“Look, I know the rangers being here might be a little uncomfortable for you but that’s no reason to leave.”

Haldir looked quickly around at him and a slight wrinkle appeared between his brows. “The DĂşnedain have nothing to do with this. Not with my leaving anyway,” he amended. ‘They’re…your friends. Whatever else they might be.”

“Then, if that’s not it, what is going on?” He spotted the bloodstained satchel draped over a chair next to the terrace doors. “Your leaving doesn’t have anything to do with the orc we took today, does it?” His eyes locked onto the elf, demanding an answer.

Haldir picked up a long, curved blade, leather-wrapped and rather plain, from the foot of the bed and drew it a few inches out of its sheath. “That satchel belongs to a Galadhrim rider. I have it on good information that he was carrying something of import on his last ride. I have to find out what that was. I will not be going far.”

Aragorn had the feeling he was stretching the truth a little. “How are you going to find out what was in the message if it was lost?”

“There are ways,” Haldir hedged unhelpfully.

“Let me come with you.”

“No.”

“I do not need your permission,” Aragorn shot the elf’s words right back at him. “If you need to leave, then I will go with you. That’s what friends do remember?”

“I will not risk your life.”

“You’re not risking my life. I am. It’s my choice,” Aragorn said as Haldir rolled his eyes at the ceiling in exasperation. He frowned at his friend, but not in anger. “You’re letting what Halbarad said get to you, aren’t you?”

The elf captain slammed his borrowed sword so hard on the chest Aragorn jumped. “He was right though wasn’t he? You were nearly tortured to death on my account.”

“That’s not true. You didn’t know that was going to happen.” Aragorn stepped closer to his friend despite the sudden pounding in his chest. “I’ve already told you to stop blaming yourself for that. Take me with you.”

Haldir shook his head, picking up the sword again and tossing it amongst his things. He sighed and said in a calmer tone, “This is a Galadhrim affair. There’s no reason for you to go.”

“This isn’t about whether it’s a Galadhrim affair or not. If you are going, I will go as well,” Aragorn insisted. He didn’t know why he was pushing this so hard when Haldir clearly didn’t want him. Maybe it was Halbarad’s troubling reports of smoking villages and pursuing shadows or that orcs had been discovered so close to Rivendell for the first time in decades, but he was afraid. “I don’t want you to go alone.”

“I have already asked Glorfindel to lend me a small contingent. I will not be alone,” the marchwarden’s hard-edged expression softened briefly and he took a step nearer the human he had so recently called his friend. “I have a favor to ask of you actually if you would be willing to grant it. It is part of the reason I need you to stay here.”

Protests still roiling in his mind, the unfettered gravity in the elf’s pale visage pushed all of them aside and he nodded. “Name it. So long as it’s not a promise to get me to stay here.”

Haldir went to his wardrobe and unhooked his saber and sword belt from within.

“What’s this for?” Aragorn asked, confused, as the elf removed the belt and pressed the sword into his hands. The elf captain zealously guarded his blade and never let another handle it without his strict permission. It meant more to him than many people so why the elf would give it to him as though he were leaving it behind was…frightening.

“I can ill-afford to have something so conspicuous where I’m going,” Haldir said, resting his fingers lightly on the hilt in farewell. His eyes caught and held the human’s. “Keep it well for me.”

Stunned speechless, Aragorn could only look down at the saber in its battered sheath that was older than the elf in front of him. On the one hand, that Haldir trusted him enough to hand over his prized possession loosed an elated bubble in his chest. On the other, knowing the elf was going out into the wild without it, popped the bubble and left him feeling strangely hollow.

Haldir could see all the varied emotions flickering across the ranger’s face almost faster than sight and touched the man’s shoulder to redirect his attention. “Look for me by midsummer. I wouldn’t miss the feast in the Last Homely House if all the orcs in Mordor stood between us.”

The nightmares had started a week later.

With a sharp crack, the pace stick hit the footboard a foot from Aragorn’s nose and the ranger started, having quite forgotten he was still sitting in Haldir’s room with Sadron watching him.

“Now, that I have your attention,” Sadron said silkily. The bed dipped lightly as he seated himself and propped his stick up on the headboard. “If I may suggest, Estel, a day late is not much—and far too little to be fretting this much over.”

“You sound like my adar. He said the same thing.”

“You should listen to him then, he is accounted wise by many.”

Aragorn only shook his head. Sadron had not seen what he had the last few weeks in his sleep, the same scene over and over that filled him with such nameless terror he could not help but remember it when he woke. He hadn’t told anyone yet, hoping upon hope that Haldir would return by the date he had promised. But Midsummer had come and gone; and there had been no word. It was only from the deep respect he held for the LothlĂłrien captain and his father’s concern for his leg that still held him within the confines of the valley.

“A lot can happen on a long road,” Sadron suggested, clearly a little wrong-footed by his young charge’s crestfallen expression.

“And little of it good.”

Sadron conceded that with a nod. “But it is no good worrying about what you do not know and cannot change if you did. For all you know, he was delayed by bad weather or a horse’s thrown shoe. He’ll come back in a few days and laugh at you for worrying over him so—though I have more than half a mind not to let him back in the house. That cabinet was three thousand years old.”

That at least coaxed a small smile from the ranger and Sadron nudged him to his feet, ruffling his hair as he had when the man was no more than knee-high to a sapling. “Much better. Now get to your own bed. It’s late. And take off your boots!”

“I will, I will,” Aragorn rolled his eyes at the elf’s nagging until the pace stick poked him hard between the shoulder blades.

“I saw that.”

Rubbing the sore spot in the center of his back, he opened his door. His chamber was just as he’d had it since he was a boy with high raftered ceilings and a long window facing the west. A great maple tree grew right outside and had been a source of many escapades and terrors when he was young and the winds caused the branches to scrape against the glass.

He listened to them tap-tap-tap as he obediently pulled his boots off and readied himself for bed as slowly as he could. He dreaded going to sleep at the moment. The continued absence of his friend made it even harder.

Groping under the dark space beneath the bed, he extracted something long and thin wrapped in oilcloth. He sat cross-legged in the middle of his quilt and unwrapped the gleaming saber. He had kept it oiled and polished enough to make even Sadron proud. But he didn’t leave it in plain sight anymore. He drew the elegantly tapered blade out. The lame did not shine as brightly as it had and Aragorn had the fleeting impression that the saber missed its wielder as much as he did.

His head ached and despite his determination to stay awake he found his body sinking lower and lower into the pillows, the saber sliding from his grasp to thud on the floor, the noise muffled by the thick carpet.

The road: pale-lit and flanked on either side by tall, imposing ash trees was familiar to him by now. Branches curled like long claws over the path. He couldn’t hear anything. Not a leaf or insect stirred in this nightmare place; a funereal stillness choked off all usual nocturnal noises. It made him want to shout if only to break the deathly quiet. Instead he approached the strip of path in front of him cautiously his heart hammering in his chest. 

He looked to his left expectantly where the road curved out of sight. Sure enough, he hadn’t waited long before he saw a glimmer of starlight growing stronger as a small company drew near. They moved slowly and uneasily, cloaked and hooded up as much as possible, weapons drawn as they peered into the shadows on either side of the road.

Haldir rode as the forerunner of the elven warriors, a black-banded sword in hand instead of his saber. His bright, keen eyes slid right over and through the human standing near the road in plain sight. Aragorn wanted to call out a warning but his voice had been struck dumb in the unnatural silence. 

There was no warning. Two elves in the vanguard dropped from their mounts with arrows through their throats. Instantly the elven company fanned out into the trees opposite the attack. Elves dressed in grey and green slipped past Aragorn, ignoring the human as a ghost. To them he was. 

The ranger watched helplessly as orcs spilled onto the path, setting into the company with a bloody, malicious and entirely silent vengeance. He hated this. Forced to watch his friends and people he knew die as orcs crowded the path and drove the remaining elves off it. Rivendell’s warriors were far outnumbered and the orcs seemed driven on by a strange madness though many fell from sword and spear thrusts. 

Instinctively dodging a swipe from the enemy though the orc couldn’t harm him in a dream, the ranger searched frantically for a sign of his friend. At last, he spotted the elf captain in the thick of the melee, his borrowed sword gleaming briefly before a spurt of black orc blood marred its shimmer. He was trying to gather the remnants of his ragged group about him. The captain seized one of his men, shouted something at him that Aragorn couldn’t hear and thrust him back along the road behind, plainly telling him to go. 

As the soldier looked back, Aragorn felt a shock race through him as he recognized Galen. The scout cast one stricken look backwards then heaved himself into a horse’s empty saddle, flying back down the road, with a third of the enemy hot in pursuit. But Aragorn did not have time to see what happened to him. 

Most of the elves had been killed or driven back and the remnants grouped around Haldir as he faced the orcs. But something odd was happening. Instead of moving in for the kill, the orcs had stopped their headlong charge and were drawing away staring back down the way they had come with wide, yellow eyes as though even they feared what now came down the road. 

A vast, black insubstantial something rode up in the wake of the orcs, gradually assuming the shape of a black horseman, the leader of the assault, robed and cowled so deeply nothing of his face could be seen; but something about the rider, his stiffness or maybe the way he let his steed trample the bodies of the dead without giving thought to whether they were elves or his own servants sent a cold shudder down Aragorn’s spine. 

Hooked metal gauntlets covered in spines tightened around battered leather reins. The rider observed the carnage without giving any reaction. His eyes, if eyes there were under that hood, raked the elves huddled in a small group a few yards away. The youngest among them shrank from his gaze but even those of stern disposition were grey-faced. Aragorn was so close he could have stretched out a hand and brushed the tattered cloak. He swallowed hard, unaware that his throat was dry with fear, his legs stone. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. 

The eerie rider finished his examination of his enemies and made a gesture at the cowering orcs who hastily scuttled around their master towards their defeated adversaries. Manacles hung from their long nails. The figure was quite impassive though the horse shook its head and gnawed restlessly at the bit. Its red eyes gleamed as they settled on Aragorn. Then, unquestionably, the faceless hood swiveled towards him too. 

It would find him; it would take him. He didn’t know how he knew this but he didn’t want to stay and find out. However before he could move or even think of turning away, a long, wailing cry like the shriek of a dying eagle rent the silence. It shattered Aragorn’s eardrums and put the nape of his neck on end. 

It was unmistakably a cry of victory. 

The wail continued even as Aragorn thrashed himself awake. It was several, desperate seconds before he realized the cry was coming from his own mouth and he buried his face in the pillow to strangle it. A hand on his shuddering back startled him and he rolled over, staring wide-eyed into Elrohir’s white face.

“Estel? What’s wrong?” he peered down at his youngest brother. The room was lit only by bare moonlight. “We heard you cry out.”

Elladan, dressed only in his sleeping trousers, perched on the other side of the bed, looking worried. “It was the nightmare again wasn’t it?” He had known his little brother wasn’t sleeping well though Aragorn had tried to conceal it.

Aragorn didn’t speak for a moment, still hearing the cry echoing in his ears, seeing the blood-spattered forms of dead elves. He brushed both hands over his face and through his drenched hair. “They’re all dead.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged looks over their brother’s bowed head and Elrohir said soothingly, “It was just a nightmare, Estel, nothing more.”

“You don’t understand, Elrohir. Something’s happened to him, I just know it. Please, you have to believe me.” It was imperative they understood. Somehow, he would make them.

“Believe what? You’re not making any sense, muindor. Calm down,” Elladan tightened his grip on his brother’s arm.

“Haldir. I saw him. They were fighting orcs and—”

“You probably just had too much to eat at the feast,” Elladan reasoned, trying to be dismissive and understanding at the same time. The alternative was too dreadful to contemplate. “Too much food and too much worry. You’ve been making yourself anxious because he’s a day late; it’s only natural you would dream up something like that.”

“It wasn’t a normal nightmare,” Aragorn said. He would know; he had suffered more nightmares before the age of six than many had in their entire lives. “It was real. I know it.”

“How?” Elladan asked bluntly.

Aragorn groped blindly as details of the dream blurred as though he were looking at them through a misted windowpane. “I can’t dream about something I’ve never seen before. This place—a road—I’ve never been on it. And the horseman…I didn’t recognize him.”

Elrohir frowned. “Horseman?”

Aragorn told them what he remembered though it made him shiver involuntarily. The steed’s gleaming red eyes and the malevolent spirit under the invisible gaze still haunted him. Elrohir rubbed his back comfortingly but his eyes were worried as he looked at Elladan. It was not unheard of that some of the DĂşnedain possessed a quality of foresight. Could it be Estel had the same affliction?

“Maybe we should talk to Adar,” Elrohir offered still looking at his brother with concern.

“Yes, let’s. Now,” Aragorn threw himself out of bed and without bothering to pull even his sleep shoes on he was out the door, not caring if his brothers followed or not. He barely felt the cold chill on his feet as he hastened towards his father’s rooms. Everything that had seemed so comforting and familiar to him just short hours ago now seemed dark and menacing as ghost-eyed windows and objects shaped like bodies flashed past.

His father’s door was always unlocked and he opened it without hesitation though once he did, he paused, a small part of him doubting, hesitating to waken his father. What if he was wrong? Maybe it had just been a nightmare; maybe he was being silly and overreacting. Second thoughts crowded his mind and he almost backed out but the thought of Haldir’s grey face and the leering orcs holding chains bolstered him. He stepped further into the room.

Elrond slept as he had for many years in a wide bed under the window. Shafts of soft, blue moonlight illuminated the sheets which fell in folds from where the elf-lord lay with his face turned towards the side of the bed his wife had once occupied. He breathed steadily and deeply, clearly asleep and unaware of his son’s presence. Despite his urgency, Aragorn tiptoed to the elf’s side. This scene was a familiar one: it wasn’t the first time he had snuck into the elf-lord’s room seeking comfort and assurance after a night terror scared him from his bed.

The master of Rivendell with the uncanny ability of a parent who knows when something is amiss stirred and blinked. When he saw who was standing in the shadows over his bed, looking pale and dressed only in a loose nightshirt, he propped himself up slowly on his elbows. “Estel? What is it?”

The deep, calm voice of his father dispelled the swirling doubts and Aragorn opened his mouth to speak when the bedroom door creaked open. Elladan and Elrohir peered into the room and entered once they saw their father was already awake.

“We think it was a nightmare, Adar.”

“He just had too much to eat.”

Aragorn found his voice again. “It was not, Adar. I saw it! I felt it. Haldir’s company was attacked by orcs and something…something I don’t know…huge and black like a horseman was there.”

To his relief, Elrond did not tell him it was just a dream or that he’d had too much to eat. On the contrary, his face paled and he looked suddenly anxious. “You are sure of this, Estel?”

“Yes!”

The master of Rivendell did not speak right away. Instead he wrapped a dark green dressing robe over his nightclothes and proceeded into his study. His sons followed him watching impatiently as he lit a lantern. Once he was seated in his winged armchair and his sons on the couch, he gestured to his youngest.

“Now, tell me everything.”

For the second time, Aragorn recounted what he could remember of his nightmare. His father listened without interrupting all the way through then questioned him closely on slightest details. Especially when he came to the tall, hooded horseman: where he was on the road, if he seemed in command of the forces, if there was any face under the hood, his raiment and anything else until Estel felt as though he were going over the same thing over and over again. He was impatient to start the search—why was Elrond bothering him about some horsemen when the orcs with the chains seemed the far more immediate danger to the elves?

“Do you think it really happened, Adar?” Elladan, seated on an arm of the couch, had been watching his father calculatingly.

Elrond remained silent for a long while, staring of the picture window with his fingers laced together under his chin. The swards and flowered lawns were veiled in darkness. “It is quite possible.”

“So we should do something!” Aragorn interjected, pacing back and forth in his agitation. “We should rouse Glorfindel. He can get another contingent ready and we’ll—”

Elrond held up a hand to silence him. “Glorfindel has gone to patrol the borders of the valley. He will not return for some days yet.”

“Then I will go myself—I cannot wait that long,” He would have gone and fetched his cloak and sword right then if Elladan and Elrohir hadn’t grabbed him by the upper arms and sat him back down on the couch.

“Hear Father out, Estel.”

Elrond met his frustrated eyes calmly. “I would suggest waiting for him to return and let me send out some scouts to discover what exactly we are facing. We do not even know where or how far along their road they were.”

“But you believe me.”

“Yes, my son, I do,” Elrond said firmly. “But I do not believe in taking unnecessary risks until we find out more. Give me time to find out what has happened.”

“By the time you do that, Haldir might already be dead!” Aragorn said, jumping up again. Elladan grabbed him tightly and pulled him back against him.

“No, I do not think so. From what you told me, the orcs were taking prisoners.” Something in the elf-lord’s normally gentle face hardened. “They would want their new thralls to last as long as they could.”

Elladan and Elrohir’s holds on Aragorn’s shoulders abruptly slackened and he knew they were thinking of their mother. It was enough to stifle the protests on his lips.

Briskly, Elrond shook himself free of the clinging memories and got to his feet, heading towards his desk. “Let me send out such messages as I can and then we’ll—”

He fell silent, staring back towards his bedroom and the door into the hall which the twins had left open.

“Adar, what is it?” Elrohir had noticed his father’s sudden tension.

“Wait here,” the elf-lord ordered, already sweeping out of the room.

But his sons had no intention of obeying and leapt up in his wake as he headed down the hall towards the stairs. As they reached the dark landing, they heard a voice calling which had been muffled by the walls and their own buzzing concerns.

“My lord! Lord! Lord Elrond!”

Sadron was making his way laboriously up the staircase, hampered by his lamed leg which made it difficult for him to climb. “Damn leg,” he panted, completely out of breath as Elrond hastened down towards him. “My lord…he ran right up to the door… pale as a spirit. I tried to call for you but…no one heard me and he’s—”

“Wait, wait, Sadron, slow down,” Elrond grasped the servant’s arms steadyingly. “Who is here?”

The servant took a deep breath though his chest still heaved. “I went to lock the doors for the night when he came running up, begging me not to shut him in the dark. I think he was a member of the company who left some weeks ago. He is bleeding.”

“Was it Haldir?” Aragorn asked, his heart leaping. The hope died almost instantly when Sadron shook his head, all his usual self-discipline as disrupted as his world at the moment.

“One of ours.”

“Alone?” Elrond asked, already hurrying down the stairs.

“Yes. My lord,” Sadron attempted to keep up with Elrond’s swift pace as he explained. “He insisted on seeing you. I laid him in the library. He wasn’t steady enough on his feet.”

“Catch your breath, Sadron. You have done well. I will handle it.” Elrond brushed his servant’s shoulder calmingly, his robes swirling round his heels, his sons close behind.

Aragorn was right at his father’s shoulder as they entered the library and he was the first to see the ragged figure huddled in an armchair before the great fireplace near the back of the room. The pitiful figure’s draggled hair hung in a lank mass around his shoulders, the high collar of a long robe Aragorn recognized as Sadron’s largely hid the rest of his face and form. For some reason the figure made him nervous and he hung back a little to let Elrond move forward. The elf-lord’s face was creased with concern.

At the sound of their footsteps, the figure’s head shot up and Aragorn raced forward and dropped to his knees beside the chair. “Galen!”

The elven scout was whey-faced and a scratch crusted with dried blood marred his cheek. A longer and uglier-looking gash scarred his throat and had been messily wrapped in a green rag. The elf’s eyes were wide, shadowed and staring as though sleeping but there was no peaceful relaxation in his rigid body. He didn’t seem to see his young friend though he was looking right at him. When the elf did not respond, Aragorn tried to get a look at the wound.

“I think he’s in shock,” he said over his shoulder.

The sound of the ranger’s voice so close literally startled the elf. He blinked and suddenly Aragorn found Galen’s hands clamped tight to the front of his nightshirt. The man touched his thin wrists, offering comfort despite the hard grip. His nostrils stung with the sickeningly thick reek of blood and sweat which rolled off the elf’s ice-cold skin. Soft sounds of distress burst out of the afflicted’s throat.

“Shh, shh,” Aragorn felt the empty scabbard still strapped to the elf’s waist digging between his ribs. “You are safe. You are among friends, mellon nin. Galen, it’s all right.”

But the warrior again did not seem to hear him. His eyes fixed on the wall behind Aragorn as though watching something else there…something terrible. “Keep it back… keep it back…” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Nothing is going to hurt you I promise.”

Elrond edged his son aside and with gentle but strong fingers pried Galen’s desperate hands off the ranger. He clasped his wrists with one, strong hand and cradled the elf’s face in the other. “Galen son of Gelmir, what has happened? Can you tell me?”

But Galen twisted against the healer’s hands like an animal caught in a snare. “No, no, no, no, no…”

Elrond let him go and he scuttled over to the fire so close Aragorn almost put a hand on his shoulder, afraid he was going to singe himself. The elf flinched from his touch. The robe had slipped off his shoulders and now they could see his tunic was torn as though by iron brambles and his hands and neck were scratched still further. Some of the cuts were quite deep and still oozing blood.

“He must have run,” Elladan said softly, peering over his father’s shoulder. Elrohir was too horrified to speak.

Galen began to pant, clawing at his tunic and his face until Elrond and Aragorn grasped his wrists to restrain him lest he do himself some harm. The elf-lord laid the struggling elf beside the fire and commanded his twin sons. “One of you, go back to my study. Find the long wooden box in the lower drawer of my desk. The other, fetch heated water. Hurry!”

“What’s wrong with him?” Aragorn grunted still clinging fast to Galen’s hand which tried to scratch his face. He had never seen such an affliction suffered by the Eldar before. It frightened him because aside from the wound to his throat and obvious exhaustion there seemed to be nothing else wrong with the elven soldier.

“Exhaustion and blood loss. Shock, I don’t doubt, and a long, horrible road,” Elrond said, peering into the elf’s glazed eyes. “He has ridden through some dark peril. It has nearly overcome him.”

At those words, Galen suddenly relaxed. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell utterly lax and pliant under their hands. He was still far too pale for Aragorn to consider even for a second that he had fallen asleep and his face was twitching as though he were dreaming but caught in a horrible nightmare.

“Adar, is he—?” But the ranger got no further for Elrond had urgently knelt upon the carpet and shed his cumbersome dressing gown. Laying the elf’s limbs out straight, he rested a hand on the young elf’s brow and closed his eyes.

Stunned, Aragorn could only watch as his father murmured the elven scout’s name in a low tone that seemed to sound farther and farther away. Though Elrond remained kneeling on the carpet, he seemed far away calling for one who was almost lost. “Galen…Galen…do not stray so far under the shadow. Return. Return to light, to life. Do not let the darkness take you. You are still strong and hale. Return, Galen.”

The command was so compelling and powerful Aragorn found himself leaning forward though the call was not for him. His knees ached on the thin-carpeted floor but he didn’t notice; instead he stared mesmerized at his father’s face illuminated by the soft firelight, at his lips which were moving soundlessly now. He didn’t even realize Elladan and Elrohir had hurried back until Elrond drew in a deep breath and pulled away, taking his hand away from Galen’s brow so he could accept the long thin box and a steaming bowl from his sons. His eyes were weary and filled with an incomprehensible strain but he was smiling.

“How is he?” Elrohir asked anxiously.

“The worst is over.” Elrond looked over at his youngest son and there was something so strange in his gaze that Aragorn took his eyes away from Galen long enough to meet it.

“Do you understand what has happened, Estel?”

Aragorn could truthfully say he had never seen anything like that in his life.

At a signal from his father, Elladan handed him a pillow which he eased under Galen’s head. The elf looked now as though he were truly sleeping. “He was suffering from a foul vapor I have not seen in many, many years.” His eyes were dark again as he cleaned the lengthy cuts on the young elf’s face and neck. “Many have received worse for such a brave fight as he must have put up to bring word back to us. You, Aragorn, are one of the few DĂşnedain, of Men who still have the ancient power in your bloodline to do such things as I have just done. To cull the shadow and call those under its sway back.”

Aragorn stared at his father and shook his head. Though he understood much of his heritage was still a mystery to him, he couldn’t fathom either a time or circumstance where he would be called upon to do something like that. And more than half of him hoped he would never need to. “I don’t think I could do that, Adar.”

Elrond smiled again. “In time, my son, you will realize there is much you do not think you can do, that you can if the need arises.”

Aragorn didn’t understand but he watched attentively as his father sorted through different, pungent herbs and vials within the box and drew out three, long leaves.

“Something else you will be able to use, Estel, look carefully. Even as old as these are, they should do,” Elrond murmured as he crushed and steeped the leaves in the bowl. “I will have to replenish the stock—they are hard to find here and grow only where the DĂşnedain of old once dwelt or camped away north and west.”

When his youngest looked at him questionably, he said, “We may learn some news from him and these leaves will help him rest better.”

“We can settle him in a guest room, Adar,” Elladan offered.

“Not yet. Let us see if he will speak.”

As the leaves soaked, a wonderful, bright scent tingled through the room and Aragorn could not help feeling lightened as though several of the burdens of his heart had been removed for the first time in days. The fragrance reminded him of the playful day on the sparring field, a quiet meal on the veranda, the fragrance of summer winds. Elladan and Elrohir too were smiling.

“Athelas?” Elrohir guessed, breathing deep, and his father nodded.

“A good remedy for headaches. Among other things,” he said with another sideways look at Aragorn but his youngest son’s attention was focused elsewhere.

Galen was stirring. As the steam wafted across his face, his cerulean eyes opened and he looked up into the faces of his caregivers confusedly. “It was darker than this…W—where am I? Lord Elrond?” he frowned up into the healer’s face and immediately tried to sit up but Elrond pushed him back down firmly.

“Lie quiet, young one. You have been through a lot in a short time. It was very close.”

The scout’s eyelids flickered as his gaze roved over their faces and landed on the one closest to him. “Estel, you are here as well?”

“Yes, I am here,” the man said, squeezing his friend’s hand. He was glad to feel warmth returning to it. “You look a mess.”

Galen did not laugh. He closed his eyes and an uncontrollable shudder shook his slender frame.

The elf-lord touched his shoulder. “It’s all right. Tell us what you can.” When Galen looked questioningly at him, he nodded. “You can speak freely.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged significant glances and immediately moved closer to listen as the elf started speaking in a rough, hoarse voice.

“Our journey went well our first few days out. We crossed the Last Bridge and followed the East Road west under Captain Ardamil and Captain Haldir. We found signs of orcs near the Weather Hills where we cut through to avoid the marshes.”

“What were they doing out that far?” Elladan wondered aloud but his twin shushed him.

“Then the rains came. The roads flooded and we had to seek shelter in the hills. Captain Haldir chafed under the delay, afraid that traces of his messenger would be washed away, and tried to press our captain on. Ardamil didn’t like that. He thought Captain Haldir wasn’t telling him everything about our errand…By the time we got back on the road, we had lost the orcs’ scent and didn’t know whither they’d gone. They set on us without warning at twilight on the north downs. Orcs, by the score! There was no mercy. They cut right through all of us. They took Ardamil’s head…and laughed.” He squeezed his eyelids shut, a suppressed tear escaping out of the corner. “There were too many…A black shadow appeared on the path. I felt…so cold. Captain Haldir told me to ride, to get back to the hills if I could. But my horse was shot out from under me before I’d gone far. The orcs…they…” he trailed off again, battling some inner demon they couldn’t see.

Elladan’s hand was clamped almost painfully tight on Aragorn’s shoulder. He looked up at his brother who let go with an apologetic nod.

“So many dead...” Galen paused again and shook his head in frustration. Clearly, recalling it all still distressed him and he spoke no more. “It’s all dark…I—I can’t remember…”

“It’s all right. You need not tell us just yet,” Elrond soothed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It is enough; you are safe now.” When Galen relaxed and let his mind drift at last into peaceful slumber, Elrond pulled back with a sigh. “It is as much as we could have hoped for in the way of confirmation. It was not a dream then, but something more.”

For a minute Aragorn was confused; his nightmare had been driven clean out of his head by the events of the last hour. Now, he remembered and he bent over Galen but the elf was asleep. “What then? What happened to the others?”

“Since he left the battle before it was finished, I doubt he could know, Estel,” his father said gently. “And even if he did, I would not press him so hard now. It is better for him to forget for a little. Perhaps tomorrow he can tell us more.”

“What were they doing out near the Weather Hills, Adar?” Elladan asked.

“They were searching,” Elrond replied cryptically. He looked up towards the doorway. “Sadron, might I ask you to send a message to Gelmir? Tell him his son has returned.”

The attentive servant nodded once and whisked out of sight.

The lord of Rivendell glanced down again at his pale charge then bent and lifted Galen’s shoulders, motioning the twins closer. “Help me get him settled in one of the more comfortable guest rooms. He should not sleep on the floor even for what little remains of the night.”

Aragorn moved to help but Elrond stayed him. He could see the weariness and worry in the grey-green eyes of his youngest son. “Ion nin, why don’t you go catch up on some rest. Your night has been broken.”

The ranger nodded numbly and headed back upstairs towards his room but he knew even as tired as he was, sleep was the last thing on his mind. Dark-cloaked figures and bloody fighters chased around inside his head. He stayed awake until the first ashen tinges of dawn spread across the leaden sky.


Chapter 5 - Part Five: A Dark Road Begun

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who either read or reviewed! It certainly brightens my day. Our heroes set off on their respected journeys...what will they find?

Part Five

A Dark Road Begun

Aragorn tightened his swordbelt and hefted the sack he had just finished filling with peaches. It was still dark under the close-growing espalier and the soft sweet fragrance filled the pre-dawn air. It soothed Aragorn little. He had not closed his eyes but he was not tired. On the contrary, a fire burned in him that even a sleepless night could not quench.

Slipping through a narrow gap between two hedges, the ranger headed towards the small wicker gate that would take him out of the valley. The front porch’s long windows gleamed amber as the early sun tilted down onto their faces. Aragorn skirted them nervously. He hoped to reach the Bruinen before full daylight. Doubtless his brothers and father would discover him missing if he didn’t turn up by midmorning; he planned on being far away by then.

Galen’s disturbing tidings had made him more determined than ever to seek news of his friend whether his father permitted him or not. Thinking of his father and their conversation later that night after the house had gone back to bed caused him to slow and he almost looked back.

Elrond had seen the lamplight coming from under his son’s bedroom door and pushed it open to find Aragorn standing pensively at the window, staring out over the dark valley. But he didn’t seem to see his reflected face in the glass and his eyes were distant.

“Galen will be all right. He has already fought the worst battle. All he needs now is rest—like you, ion nin.”

Aragorn hadn’t turned at the sound of his father’s entrance but he did now and the look of horror on his face was enough for the elf-lord to wrap an arm around his son’s shoulders as if he were still the little boy, frightened of shadows.

The ranger who looked far younger than his years beside his father stayed tense against the older elf’s shoulder. “I keep thinking, Adar, that he’s out there somewhere…hurt… maybe dead…”

“We do not know that for certain, Estel.”

“You listened to Galen,” Aragorn said, his eyes hardening, willing his father to speak the truth. “They were being cut down. Worse, if he was taken by orcs…Adar, you know what they do to elves.”

Pain flitted across the elf-lord’s face and made Aragorn halfway regret his words though he could not take them back once spoken. “Yes, my son, I do. All too well.”

“Then you know why I have to go after them.”

“You, alone, can do very little at the moment,” Elrond said, brushing his son’s dark hair out of the tired, wan face.

“Haldir would not wait if it were me.”

“And Haldir is also old and cannyenough to know when we need more information. I have never seen Galen so wild and I have known him since he was a babe in the cradle. No orc can hold such power as that over the Eldar. There is more to this than we know, Estel, and I am not willing to risk more lives—especially yours—until we are certain of what we are facing. The black horseman in your dreams, the dark shadow Galen and Halbarad both spoke of—I cannot help but feel it is all connected somehow.”

He did not say the word “wraith” though the thought had crossed his mind. But that enemy had been vanquished from this part of the world early in this Age; there was no reason to think he would dare return to this country…yet.

He fingered the boy’s chin to direct those grey-green eyes which very slowly met his. “My son, you must trust me and have a little patience.”

“I do trust you, Adar, but my heart bids me to go lest I be too late.”

“I know it is hard. But wait. And get some sleep…I will join you for breakfast tomorrow…”

Aragorn pulled a peach from his pack—it was all he had had time to grab as he snuck out of the house, fearing either his father or brothers would catch him before he could get a decent enough head start. He hadn’t risked taking a horse lest the noise of hooves on the cobblestones attract someone. For the tenth time, he checked his swordbelt and the saber wrapped in oilcloth tied to his pack. He had resolved to return it to his friend when he found him.

“I’m sorry, Adar,” he whispered. “Please don’t worry. I’ll bring him home.”

“A fine morning is it not?” a voice asked from almost right beside him.

Aragorn dropped his breakfast and already had half-drawn his weapon before Halbarad stepped out of the brush and fell into step at his side. The younger ranger slammed his sword back into its sheath irritably.

“What are you doing out here? You’re never up this early,” Aragorn accused his friend.

The older ranger tapped his nose slyly as he stopped a pace ahead of his chief. “Ah, but I have quick ears. By sheer chance, I discovered that some crazy ranger was thinking of going off into the wild on his own chasing after an even crazier elf and his company.”

“Were you eavesdropping on me?”

Halbarad looked affronted. “I? Eavesdropping! The very idea! The things you accuse me of, Strider, honestly. I went down to investigate the noises I heard last night and met Sadron on the stairs. Rather shaken up, he was. He told me. I figured if Galen hadn’t brought good news, you’d go out sooner than planned no matter what anybody said to dissuade you and I was right wasn’t I?” He eyed his chief’s gear which consisted of a long traveling cloak, the lumpy, unmistakable shapes of a bedroll and pack bunched under it.

“So?” Aragorn said, a trifle defensively. “I may go where and when I please.”

“I’m not about to stop you,” Halbarad agreed. “But you didn’t really think we would let our chief go alone?”

“What do you mean ‘we’? Did you bring the whole company with you?” Aragorn was beginning to think nothing of his journey was a secret anymore—and he’d only just started!

For answer, Halbarad stuck two fingers between his lips and blew a low whistle.

The hedges parted. Men in dark green cloaks and hoods emerged, all fully armed and with identical packs slung over their shoulders. Aragorn choked a groan behind his teeth while Halbarad folded his arms, all too satisfied with himself.

“It is too dangerous,” Aragorn winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He knew these men knew the risks and had faced more dangerous things with him and without him. But he didn’t even know what he was riding into. How could he ask it of them?

Silver-haired Eldacar grimly rested a hand on the hilt of a longsword and raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Dangerous, you say? Chances of mortal injury? I should have known two peaceful days was too long with you around.”

“M-m-maybe we should listen to him,” Angrad said, turning uneasily toward Halbarad. “I already pulled my shoulder once I d-don’t want it to…”

“Stop complaining about your hurts, Angrad. Lord Elrond patched you up good as new,” Halbarad interrupted, his eyebrows knotting over his forehead at his youngest warrior. “Loyalty to your chief is more important than shoulder aches.”

Angrad threw his eyes to the ground, frowning at the rebuke.

Aragorn hadn’t heard the exchange. “I am not jesting, Eldacar. I don’t even know what I’m getting into. All I know is my friend is in trouble and I must find him. Whatever else I meet along the way…”

“All the more reason for you to have someone at your back. If only for the ride,” Eldacar cautioned. “You might need help—if you find your friend.”

Another ranger with lank, shoulder-length hair asked, “Why are you so willing to risk your life for this elf? From what Halbarad has told me he is more than capable of defending himself—against real or imagined intruders.”

“Halbarad should know better than to spread stories,” Aragorn glanced reprovingly at his friend. He was beginning to lose his patience with this roundabout questioning. His tone held the ring of finality as he said, “He is my friend. As are you. Would you not risk your life for mine?”

“In less than a heartbeat but you are far better-tempered than that curmudgeon. Most of the time,” Halbarad said.

Aragorn snorted, imagining the expression on Haldir’s face if he had heard that particular moniker applied to him. But his eyes were sober when they met Halbarad’s again. “I am going.”

“You really care for him.” It wasn’t a question for the answer was all too obvious in Aragorn’s eyes.

“Yes. And I will go whether you come or not. But do not hinder me.”

The older ranger nodded then glanced around at the gathered company. “Then so be it. We are coming with you.”

----------

“Why did we agree to come with you?” Halbarad moaned, swiping at his stinging, sunburnt neck.

“I did not ask you to come so you can keep your complaints to yourself,” Aragorn muttered from the head of the line, a little more sharply than he intended. A mixture of heat, midges and lack of sleep was wearing on him.

They had left Rivendell behind some days ago and made rapid progress at first with sunny day following sunny day and the path stretching firm and clear ahead of them as they crossed the Last Bridge and headed deeper into the Lone-lands as the Road switch-backed towards the more habited lands of Bree and Archet. Aragorn had only the briefest sketch of where he was going, basing his directions on what Galen had said in his moment of half-lucidity as any trace of the missing company were long faded.

Here and there, they spotted signs of flooding from recent rains and deep, murky pools glistened in ditches at the side of the road. But the rangers turned off the beaten way before reaching the dwellings of other men, taking a shortcut towards the Weather Hills into what had been an old Gondorian commonwealth though now it was decimated and largely empty of people and game.

For hours they scrambled up the gentler backslopes of the bald hills, each one seeming longer and higher than the ones before. The relentless sun beat down on the backs of their necks and left them all irritable and red-faced. Worse than that and the insects, a growing shadow darkened their hearts as the afternoon of the fifth day slipped down towards dusk, bringing little relief from the heat which now seeped up from the ground.

They had come to a rocky stretch of country. Unrelieved by grass or trees, it was a stark, barren, lonesome place that made Aragorn long for the cool forests they had left behind. It also left him with a horrible feeling of exposure as he stood at the top of a steep scarp, able to see and be seen for miles.

It was not only his brothers he believed would hunt for him.

As the sun sank in a fiery cascade in the west, the scarlet light painting the stones bloody, Aragorn and his companions scrambled and slid down into a small hollow filled with weeds and a circle of great stones that towered up like teeth against the navy sky. He had almost passed through it when Halbarad’s voice called him back.

“Strider! This is a good spot to camp—it’ll be dark soon.”

“Here?” Aragorn glanced around at the grim circle of standing stones and felt an unexplainable chill.

“It is the only shelter we are likely to get,” Halbarad said, already tossing his pack on the ground at the foot of one of the standing stones.

Aragorn didn’t follow suit. “Amon SĂ»l is only another hour or two’s walk away. We can camp in the dells there.”

“And it will be twice that in the dark on empty stomachs. Besides, Amon SĂ»l is hardly more a comfort than here and here is closer.” The older ranger looked up at his friend who was staring longingly forward. He continued in a softer voice, “Strider, you’ve driven the men hard today. Let them catch up their strength and they’ll put on a good enough turn of speed to shame a pony tomorrow.” So saying, he took no more heed to his young leader and began to unpack his meal kit.

Seeing that they were stopping, most of the men mimicked him and spread out in search of sleeping spots or simply tossed down their bags and collapsed on the ground with sighs of relief.

Defeated, Aragorn sighed and dumped his pack next to Halbarad’s.

“You’d never have made it in the dark,” the older ranger soothed. He knew Aragorn begrudged every rest stop even when he had need of it.

The other ranger had no response to that and merely leaned his back against the rough, still-warm surface of one of the stones, watching as red and orange lights sparked to life where the rangers kindled fire from the little brushwood they found scattered around the clearing.

Aragorn knew Halbarad thought he was bordering obsession the way he pushed the men. But Halbarad didn’t understand—every time they delayed, even if it were only by a few hours, the chances of finding Haldir and the elves of Rivendell alive and unharmed decreased.

Halbarad must have sensed his gaze for he looked up from rolling out his groundsheet. “Here, give you something to do,” the ginger-haired ranger tossed a pan and a water skin into Aragorn’s lap. “Go find water will you? I think we passed a stream not too far back. Angrad,” he called across the camp. “Make yourself useful for once. Go with Strider will you—make sure he doesn’t get lost!”

Aragorn aimed a swipe at the older man who dodged with a galling chuckle as Angrad trotted up, swinging his longbow over his shoulder.

Rather small and lean, Angrad wore a tunic that gaped at the collar and held a hunting bow he had obviously made himself. Clearly, he was still becoming accustomed to living in the wild outside of the rough DĂşnedain settlements for his face had the pinched look of the young and untried though dark circles ringed his eyes.

As they set off back up the slope and out of the hollow, Aragorn glanced at his quiet companion and smiled slightly when the younger ranger’s awe-struck gaze met his briefly.

“How are you holding up?” Aragorn asked kindly to break the silence. The young man started as though he’d shouted.

“ ‘m fine, my lord,” he mumbled with his eyes on his footing as the hill steepened.

For a few minutes, neither spoke any more as the climb robbed all their breath. It was hard to see in the gathering gloaming and Aragorn almost tripped when the incline abruptly evened out again. The faint glare of the DĂşnedain campfires lay far below them with the tall, stones ringing them like a circle of black teeth in a red maw.

Angrad kept so close behind him, he kept treading on the older ranger’s heels. Aragorn couldn’t blame him for being jittery after what he had been through but his heels were aching enough already. Gently touching the man’s arm, he edged him a few inches to one side. Thankfully, Angrad took the hint and offered an embarrassed smile.

Water trickled somewhere above their heads. A shorter climb later, they found it: a thin runnel of white gleaming in the dark as it fell from a rocky height overhead, spilling over a lip of stone. Aragorn filled his water flask and Halbarad’s cooking pan while Angrad faced outward with his bow in hand.

“W-we came this way once b-b-before,” Angrad said.

Aragorn looked over his shoulder then back at the pan which was slowly filling. “These lands are largely empty now since the kingdom of Arnor fell. Not since the battles with the Witch-king—” he stopped. The naming of his people’s greatest Enemy save the Lord of the Dark Tower himself stuck other words in his throat.

“W-w-witch-king?”

Aragorn looked at him in some surprise. “Do you not know who he is?”

Angrad flushed and mumbled something that sounded like “no good at history.”

A shudder rippled up Aragorn’s spine though it was not cold and he returned to his task. “That dread sorcerer is not something to speak of far from firelight and companions. The standing stones we’re camped among tonight are a remnant of the first battlefields with him. That ring is where King Arveleg made his last stand with all the remains of his escort after Amon SĂ»l’s fortress was razed. They were buried there.”

“We’re camping in a g-graveyard?”

Aragorn grimaced. “Blame Halbarad. He wanted to sleep there tonight.”

When the other man blanched, the older ranger handed him the full pan of water and smiled encouragingly. “Come now. What better company could we ask for than a king’s guard?”

Angrad laughed a little though he clenched his bow tightly against his side as they made their way back down the hill.

Aragorn was so concentrated on the downward winding road, he forgot to watch his feet He missed a foothold in the dark. Angrad grabbed his arm to steady him and pulled him safely back. But Aragorn scarcely noticed. Something moved down below them. He stopped too quickly and Angrad’s pan hit him in the back and slopped water over his tunic, saturating him down to the belt.

Aragorn grabbed the man’s wrist and yanked him down to his side. “Quiet.”

The older ranger’s eyes narrowed as he peered into the gloom below them. Something clacked like two rocks hitting one another and a shadowy shape darted downslope but was too far and faint to make out. Aragorn tracked it with his eyes but lost it in the shadows under a wide overhang.

Crouched beside him, Angrad had also stiffened and his grip tightened on his bow, his other hand crept down towards his hip where a quiver of arrows hung. “Wh-what was that?”

Aragorn made a motion for him to stay silent. He strained his ears a few minutes longer but could hear nothing more.

“A r-rabbit?” Angrad suggested; he hadn’t gotten as good a glimpse of the thing as Aragorn had.

“It was far too big for a rabbit.”

“M-m-maybe it was a g-g-ghost,” Angrad quavered worse than ever. “This p-place is haunted.”

“Not haunted. But dark,” Aragorn corrected, getting to his feet and feeling his wet tunic sticking uncomfortably to his back. “Come on. We should get back to the others, tell them to douse the light.”

“What do you mean ‘no fire?’ ” Halbarad protested when they returned. “And here I was slaving away just so we could have a hot meal.”

“Better to have cold food now so we live to have another hot meal than attract undue attention and get caught out by orcs,” Aragorn said, smothering the small fire closest to them with his boot heel. “Pass the word along, Angrad, and draw two men out who are willing for the first watch tonight. I’ll take the later one.”

“Did you even see this thing?” Halbarad asked as Aragorn shrugged out of his damp tunic and hung it on a pinnacle of stone to dry. “Maybe it was just some hill-animal.”

“It had two legs and moved fast,” Aragorn said, sitting down beside the glowing pit that had been their fire. “I am not taking chances in this country.”

“Fine then. Did you at least bring water back?”

“Absolutely. All over my shirt.” Aragorn slipped on a replacement tunic from his pack and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. “You know you need to teach our men a little more of their history.”

“You try teaching a bunch of hot-headed young fools anything,” Halbarad mumbled, disgruntled, as he accepted his almost-empty pan back.

The camp grew gradually still and silent as the rangers bedded down for the night. Only those taking the first watch were alert, pacing the perimeter just outside the stones to keep themselves awake, occasionally stopping together to speak in low voices.

Aragorn lay on his back with his arms folded behind his head, listening to Halbarad’s deep, throat-rattling snores. It’s a miracle all the orcs in Angmar aren’t bearing down on us now! Even if they were completely deaf, they’d be able to hear this racket. Even as he thought it, he heard a twig snap and one of the guards who was standing just on the other side of the tall stone Aragorn had set his bedroll against challenged the sound.

“Halt! Show yourself!”

As Aragorn sat up, a voice called back out of the dark. “Peace! I am unarmed and mean you no harm.”

“Galen!” Aragorn threw off his cloak and leapt up, rounding the stone as the elf-scout stepped into their midst, brightening his natural glow so they could see him more clearly. The elf smiled on seeing the disheveled ranger.

“You were too avid a student, Estel. I had trouble following your trail until I saw the lights,” his eyes twinkled. He looked a good deal better than when Aragorn had last seen him in Rivendell though still a little pale.

“It w-w-was he then—that was the one we s-saw,” Angrad who had been one of those taking watch reasoned, looking relieved.

“That was no elf,” Aragorn said softly.

Galen frowned in puzzlement but the young ranger only waved him into the circle of stones. “Come. You’re welcome here.”

The elf glanced down at the snoring form of Halbarad and chuckled. “Tis a wonder I could not track you by ear alone.”

Aragorn kicked his sleeping compatriot who merely rolled over on his other side with his mouth open. “Indeed. Why are you here? Did my brothers send you? Should I expect them in the dead of night as well?”

“Nay, and I am sorry I had to come upon you so and cause you undue alarm but this country is dangerous and hard to cross. I could not follow any swifter than I did,” the elf said, leaning wearily back against the stone as Aragorn sat beside him and offered him the leftovers of their cold supper.

But the scout waved the provisions away and unshouldered his own pack, adjusting his rapier so he could sit properly. “I brought such as I could to bolster your supplies,” he handed the ranger several wrapped packages which Aragorn guessed rightly were full of cram. “These will keep you on your legs for many days yet.”

“And break all our teeth too,” Aragorn grinned wryly and nibbled experimentally on the biscuitlike morsel. He wished he had thought to bring the lembas Haldir had given him in LĂłrien; but his thoughts turned too quickly to where his friend might be now and he closed his eyes to will the despair away.

Galen sipped from the flask at his hip to clear his throat. “I was beginning to think I’d never catch you up.”

Aragorn seized eagerly on the distraction. “Why did you want to?”

“I heard one of your brothers—Elladan or Elrohir I can never tell which—say that you had gone after Captain Haldir. They wanted to send out a search party to find you. Lord Elrond though was still awaiting the scouts he had sent out to bring back Glorfindel. I volunteered to go look for your trail. I knew you had a far lead but I could catch you up if I moved quickly—I at least knew where you were heading.”

“And now that you have caught me up?” Aragorn asked, beginning to see where this was going and mentally preparing his argument to dissuade the elf from making him return home.

“I wish to persuade you to return if you would. And if not, to give you such aid as I can.”

“I cannot go back, Galen.”

The elf scout was silent for a minute as he ran his fingers through his hair. “You do not know the dangers of this road.”

“Do you remember anything more of what happened that night?” Aragorn leaned forward.

The hauntedness returned to Galen’s eyes and his gaze darted over the large humps of rock and the rangers lying slumped on the ground. “I…would rather not speak of it here.”

“You don’t have to,” Aragorn assured him hastily. “I would that you return, Galen, at least you can tell my father I am alive thus far.”

Galen looked at him and his eyes were bright and hard. “No, young one. My purpose was to find you and now that I have I will not go back to your father’s house empty-handed. Either you come with me or we go on together…Captain Haldir was a friend of yours?”

“He is a friend of mine,” Aragorn corrected softly but with gentle emphasis. He touched the hilt of the saber wrapped tightly among his things.

“Of course, forgive me.” Galen’s eyes followed the movement. “I would find my friends as well—to see if they yet live and if not…to give them a well-deserved resting place.”

“I would welcome you,” the ranger said softly.

Unnoticed by the two of them deep in talk, Halbarad’s snores had ceased.

----------

Commotion and curses rang off the stones as the orcs clattered into the courtyard, dragging a struggling figure between them. The tall, strong elf was clearly a warrior for an empty scabbard hung at his waist and he fought and twisted viciously despite the many hands arresting him. But it was a losing battle. Long strands of golden hair tangled around his face and shoulders and blood trickled freely down his cheek from a cut on his brow.

A hard shove between his shoulder blades sent him stumbling forward and he would have fallen if not for the cruel grip that prevented him escaping. Haldir shook his hair out of his bruised face to little avail as the loose strands simply fell back. His hands were tightly bound with rope and he could scarcely move for the orcs jostling him. Once or twice a spear jabbed his lower back warningly if he made too sudden a move. They were enraged and at the same time afraid for he had killed many of theirs before they finally brought him down.

“The lord of the house wants you for questioning, elf, did you know that?” one of his guards leered.

“He’ll make you scream, pretty. Your fancy swordwork won’t save you then,” hissed another at his elbow.

The marchwarden ignored them for the most part. He had heard threats like that before—and had felt them carried out too. But though his blood froze on the inside, he refused to show it outwardly. That was what they wanted. They wanted him cowed. They wanted him frightened. He wouldn’t give them that yet. Instead, he stared around as much as possible, trying to memorize the way in so he could find a way to escape.

Fornost had once been the royal court of the DĂşnedain of the North. Rich and prosperous, it had called people from miles around, the twin of the great Minas Tirith in the south that is until war visited the kingdom of Arnor…

Now the main highway was abandoned and overgrown as it ran up to the wood and iron gates. The long streets echoed in silence. Roofs and walls of many of the buildings and living quarters had fallen in covering the streets with rubble, destroyed by the Witch-king after the people fled, but here and there, a few stood like ragged survivors rising from a battlefield.

The old palace, however, remained mostly intact, not yet completely reduced to crumbling masonry. Set high on a hill above the surrounding buildings, it was crafted with the aid of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains and had weathered many years of ill-care and disuse. Nevertheless, it shone like white silver in the sunlight and its walled garths and high crenellations overlooked all the North Downs as far as Evendim to the west and Angmar to the north-east.

But the windows were empty and lightless, gaping like eyeless sockets. Cracked arches and expansive courtyards had grown derelict with decay, weeds swallowing up the summer flowers. Gold filigree winding about pillars and veining long, dark rooms were dulled and scratched off. Wicked things crawled in the depths. A sweetish, rotting odor exuded from the very stones—death had visited these walls and not in quite as distant a past as all believed. Black pennants with a garish red eye painted on their facings fluttered in a chill breeze.

Evil infested her heart once more.

Orcs bustled all over the main courtyard, some carrying whips. Haldir wondered why until he saw the pitiful line of ragged slaves: men, women and children who looked as though they had come from nearby villages straggle past, their limbs weighted with heavy chains as an orc captain cracked a threatening lash expertly over their heads.

“Go on there! Move it!” the slave driver shoved a young woman with a gaunt face who had looked over at the tall elf in the midst of the orcs.

Haldir’s blood boiled but a crack across his own back with a spear haft got him moving again as his guard hustled him past the slaves and up the stairs into a vast entrance hall. One of the orcs left the group and disappeared up another staircase off to the left.

Now that they were sure their prisoner could not escape with the solid, wooden doors shut and barred behind, the guards relaxed slightly and started talking among themselves. Haldir understood their guttural speech for there were apparently members of several different tribes here and they spoke Common so as to understand one another. But even that language on their lips sounded cruel and tainted.

The one who appeared to be the leader of the hunters though he was smaller than most jeered at him and picked his teeth with a grimy claw. He had uncommonly wide, scarlet eyes that while making him look rather mad probably helped him see in pitch blackness. “Spy aren’t you? Not too good at sneaking if you and yours get caught on the road. My, they screamed so pretty when we ran ‘em through didn’t they, boys?”

Chuckles of grotesque agreement came from the guards.

When the captive did not acknowledge him, the orc loped forward, bandy-legged, and grasped the firm-set chin, his nails digging into soft skin as he forced the elf to face him. “You know, I almost hope you don’t say nothing. Then we might get to play a bit.” He caressed the long, golden tresses tangled around the proud shoulders, laughing when the prisoner wrenched away from his loathsome touch.

“Think he makes good sport?” asked the one who had called him ‘pretty’ unsheathing his knife and licking it as though he could already taste the elf’s blood on it.

Haldir turned his head very deliberately and gave the creature a long, slow stare until the orc flinched and hissed at him, raising a forearm to strike him. But the arm fell nerveless at his side before it connected. A sudden uneasiness had fallen on the company and they all shuffled back slightly, their eyes fixed on the staircase.

Despite himself, Haldir followed their gaze and his heart plummeted to the floor. Dread sheathed its claws in him and he renewed his struggles until the lead orc slammed a spearpole sideways into his stomach, doubling him over and dropping him onto his knees. The wound in his side, already strained by the long chase, began to bleed again.

When he regained his breath, he managed to raise his shoulders a few inches and look on the orcs’ dark master who had appeared at the other end of the hall. At that moment, his worst fears instigated by Caladir’s missing message were confirmed. This was what the young messenger had died trying to warn them.

He had not seen the Lord of Angmar since his defeat upon the North-Downs so many years ago but he remembered all too well the terrible presence of the Nazgûl, the most fearsome servants of the Dark Lord. The Nazgûl were the reason darkness was feared and the Witch-king most of all: the master of nightmares and greatest lord of evil save for the One who sat in the Dark Tower.

The Witch-king, hooded and cloaked, regarded his captive with interest before turning to the orc standing a pace or two in front. “Well, Critz?” His voice was hissing and rasping but threaded with hidden power.

“We got the last of them, my lord,” the orc-leader answered, speaking in a low, unctuous voice. He did not seem to want to get too close to his sinister master.

“You have less than half the company I left with you.” The Witch-king did not much care either way about orcs in a personal sense. But both they and slaves were resources he could ill afford to lose while their plans had not yet reached full fruition. “What have you to say for yourself?”

The orc looked down at the floor then at the captive behind him. “He escaped into the trees, lord, and—”

“One? One did this?” The voice had acquired an almost silky inflection. A danger signal to the orc who stepped quickly out of the wraith’s reach closer to the captive elf who was trying to get off his knees. He was held firmly in place by the guards. “Let us see what this one elf is. Show me his face.”

Critz now used his spear like a garrote to pull the prisoner’s head back, exposing the elf’s face and flashing silver eyes for his lord’s inspection.

The elf’s bright eyes and skin shone painfully bright in the wraith’s shadowy vision but the NazgĂ»l was by far the more powerful and flexed his senses outward like metal claws seeking purchase in the flesh before him. Satisfaction swelled in the hole where his heart had been as he smelled the tantalizing stench of fear and blood rolling off the elf in waves. A brave one, but afraid nonetheless.

For his part, Haldir met the wraith’s dark glare with his own. This was the most evil thing he had ever encountered in all his travels around Middle-earth and it transformed his blood to icewater. Something brushed his mind like shadowy wings. He almost likened it to the sensation he felt under the Lady Galadriel’s stare except this was not a gentle brush, a joining of thought. It was an invasion—one trying to bend the other to its will. He felt that fleeting touch probe the surface of his mind, not going too deep yet but tentative as though expecting barriers. It was looking for something, searching through him, inside him for something he did not have, a call he could not answer. The evil touch, dissatisfied but interested, withdrew after several long, uncomfortable minutes that felt like hours.

“You were the leader of your company?” When he predictably received no answer, the wraith moved closer, his fell power falling so heavily upon the group that even the orcs backed away. “We entertained several of your companions here not long ago. Unfortunately, my servants were a little…overenthusiastic,” he said and the hood turned towards Critz. “They were useless to me. You, you have eluded us for a while but your flight was ultimately futile. What were you and a company of mounted warriors doing in my lands?”

Haldir would tell the wraith nothing but he could not resist snarling. “These are not your lands. They belong to the DĂşnedain of Ar—”

He got no further. The spike-tipped knuckles of the wraith’s glove raked three, long, bleeding lines across his cheek, the pain stunning him into a defiant silence.

“The DĂşnedain of Arnor have been broken by the mere shadow of me,” the wraith hissed, shrill with thinly concealed rage at the naming of his ancient enemies. “They are vagabonds, useless indigent tramps whose seed failed them years ago,” he gestured at the orcs surrounding him. “I could kill you with a word, elf, or not. I could let you linger for a hundred, a thousand years in unbearable agony of mind and spirit until your body would beg to be broken to free it from this world. You would tell me your darkest desires if it meant freedom.” He motioned for the guards to take the prisoner from his sight.

“Soon you will know that bitter taste all too well.”


Chapter 6 - Part Six: A Horrific Discovery

Author’s Notes: A lot of the terrain described herein comes from studying the Atlas of Middle-earth—a very useful text—and I’m sure if you’ve read the Fellowship of the Ring you may recognize some of the places. Since Tolkien gives us little detail of the lands north, I’m left to guess.


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Part Six

A Horrific Discovery

The rangers rose before the sun and left the ominous standing stones behind them. Amon SĂ»l’s lonely height appeared even more burnt-out and spectral with early-morning mists still clinging to the damp stones like old ghosts as they passed. They found the overgrown path paralleling the skirts of the Weather Hills unwinding north. Ahead, stretched a shadow of woodland which they hastened toward as the afternoon warmed.

A languorous breeze stirred lace patterns of branches across their backs and shoulders. It was a deceptively bright, beautiful day. DĂ©jĂ  vu crawled down the back of Aragorn’s skull and itched between his shoulder blades as he set foot under the trees. He twisted over his shoulder to see if any of the others had sensed what he did but they still loped grimly on, their faces alert and hands lingering close to weapons. The heavy silence of the wood did not mean safety.

Though it was cooler in the shade, the men did not relax. The close density of the trees made them feel trapped and airless. Dried leaves and bits of bark crackled and snapped far too loudly under their boots. Aragorn started when their movement disrupted a crow hiding in the greenery. It took off with an echoing croak into the sky. Aragorn followed it until it was a speck high above them and inhaled deeply to try to slow his heart. His eyes flicked over the heads of the stragglers in the back and saw the bend in the road curving back through the trees.

Like lightning it struck him.

He had been here before but never in the light of day. Always in the dark…to one side of the road…a ghost, unable to cry out or give warning as they were cut down…

“Estel? What is it?”

Halbarad’s voice seemed to come from far away; with difficulty Aragorn pulled himself back and glanced at his friend. He hadn’t even noticed he had halted in the middle of the road for seemingly no reason. Now that they had stopped and the wind was still again, Aragorn could hear a faint noise. A restless buzzing.

Then he was running, ignoring Halbarad’s anxious inquiry. He could hear them yards before they were near enough to see and a sick feeling swooped through his stomach as a cloud of blowflies disturbed from their nesting rose up in an angry swarm.

He stopped dead at the hooves of a large something stretched across the path like a barrier. It might have been a horse but predators and steady wear of time and weather had stolen much of its form. A nauseously tangible stench clung to the heavy air and Aragorn, unaccustomed to battlefields yet, recognized the stench of death only from what was around him. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before and whatever fear his nightmare had gored into his heart, the reality was a hundred times worse.

Nearest to him, a stab of crimson light sliced through the leafy branches and lit on a handsome, strong-jawed face.

A terrible slash split the soldier wide from right hip to left shoulder, leaving a gaping wound even an elven-strong body could not heal. There were other green uniformed bodies, half-hidden in the gloom around him. Aragorn dimly heard the others catch up to him and felt their horrified silence like a lead weight on his chest.

Dried and flaking blood swirled in the dust at his feet as he walked numbly through the carnage. The path was littered with shattered spearpoles, swords, and other bodies, grotesque, blackened shapes—orcs. Nothing stirred save the insects and no sound broke the deathly stillness save a tentative cricket way back in the woods.

The remains of a captain hung, eviscerated and decapitated, in the fork of an elm tree. The elven warriors had been left to lie in the sun and the subsequent days of rain and wind had done little to preserve them.

Angrad was so green he looked ready to be sick. Galen put out a hand as though to touch the bloodied thing on the tree and retracted it, unable to express the depth of his horror.

Names and ranks flashed across Aragorn’s eye as he glanced from face to face. They were dead. Just like in his dream. He had known in his heart that they would be too late but that did not stop the bitter sting of failure from driving home. He thought of Haldir.

“Search them, try to find out who they are,” he said, his tongue thick and unwieldy over the words. “We won’t leave them here for the crows.”

Not all of the warriors had fought and died on the path. The rangers spread out into the surrounding woods, calling back to one another when they found more of Rivendell’s finest locked in death grips with their last foes. With a sigh, Aragorn bent and hauled an orc’s carcass off the legs of an elf warrior. He searched the face of every single one but all of them were dark-haired and the familiar golden form he sought with a mixture of dread and anguish he did not find.

Haldir would have fought, of that he was terribly certain. He wouldn’t have let the orcs take him without a bitter struggle.

“Estel! Over here!”

His heartbeat leapt up into his throat and his mouth went dry at the sound of Eldacar’s shout. Forcing his legs to move, he stumbled towards the man’s voice.

Two rangers including Eldacar held another between them. He was not one of the DĂşnedain. He had the thin, sly mien of a fox and scrawny limbs but wiry with strength judging from the way Eldacar and Menelir were having a hard time holding onto him.

The others came running at the sound of the commotion and at the sight of the overwhelming numbers the stranger slumped in his captors’ grasp. Rather long in the limbs and rakish, he looked not unlike a scarecrow stuck in the wrong field as he treated the company with an ingratiating smile. He had weird, flat, shifting eyes that darted nervously from one face to another as a wolf looks for a gap in a ring of woodsmen.

Aragorn took his eyes from the stranger long enough to nod at Eldacar, “What’s the trouble?”

“There were two or three of the elves over there,” Eldacar jerked his head towards an outcropping of rock a little ways behind them. “Looks like they made a last stand. We surprised this one over a fire. We found him holding this.”

Aragorn caught the glittering thing Eldacar tossed him and his heart which thumped somewhere in the vicinity of his throat plummeted through his boots. It was a cloak clasp, beautifully wrought of silver filigree and green crystal in the shape of a mallorn leaf. There was only one warrior he knew who would bear such a token.

The ranger closed his fingers around the clasp so tightly the pin pierced his palm before fixing the stranger with a hard stare. “You took this from the dead.”

The sticklike thief snorted defensively and shrugged off Eldacar’s hold. “I’ll have you know I found that lyin’ on the ground. Discarded more likely.”

“And these other things?” the silver-haired ranger growled, kicking open a sack lying at their feet. Its contents spilled out, glittering in the sun: trinkets and talismans warriors carried with them as good luck charms or as remembrances of loved ones.

“It’s not like they’ll need it anymore.”

“You didn’t even wait for them to stop breathing before you stripped them, did you?” Halbarad snarled, grasping the smaller man by the collar and shaking him like a dog worrying a rat.

The instant the man’s hands closed on him, the smaller one lashed out and caught the ranger in the shin with his heel. Something flashed in his hand.

Halbarad flung him aside as the blade came up. The man twisted and landed lithely in a crouch. The weapon on first glance looked like the end of a sickle broken off near the tip with the thicker end wrapped in a rag.

“Put another hand on me, and I’ll relieve you of it.”

Aragorn pressed Halbarad back. “Stay back. All of you.” He addressed the stranger. “No one is going to hurt you. Can you tell us your name?”

Halbarad glanced at his chief as though he thought Aragorn a bit touched but the polite request seemed to ease the stranger’s ire. He straightened and the blade lowered slightly. “Veil.”

“Strange name,” Halbarad said, already disliking the stranger.

Veil’s eyes rolled over and dismissed him.

“Do you live around here?” Aragorn kept his voice soft but the man jumped as though the ranger had taken a thrust at him.

“Live?” The man chuckled mirthlessly and starting scooping up the shining pieces he had taken from the elf warriors. “Y’can have the trinkets. For food?”

Halbarad leaned close to Aragorn. “Our caches are low enough without having to share them with mendicants.”

Veil heard him and his heavy eyelids flickered. “Gold’s very well and good but you can’t eat or drink it. Bet you’d want some keepsakes of your…friends were they?”

“Out of the question,” Halbarad snapped. “I wouldn’t give you a handful of grain even if you hadn’t been stealing from the dead, orc-sired filth.”

“Halbarad,” Aragorn chided softly and the older ranger subsided, scowling.

“Forgive my friends their ill tempers,” he said in an attempt to smooth ruffled feathers though the blood still pounded in his own ears. “The elves were friends of ours and seeing them like this...”

Veil nodded and something darkened in his eyes though they kept darting every which way. The bones in his wrist stuck up at sharp angles and Aragorn could have wrapped his fingers entirely around his forearm.

“You may eat with us if you like. We have little but we will share what we have,” Aragorn said, ignoring Halbarad’s dirty look. A couple of the other rangers were looking uneasy at their chief’s pronouncement.

“How can we t-t-trust someone we d-don’t know?” Angrad interjected. The expression of loathing looked surprisingly out of place on his youthful visage.

Veil’s sleek, dark head swiveled around like an owl’s and his eyes narrowed mockingly. He stared at Angrad for a long time and something skittered under his inscrutable expression. “Don’t know?” he echoed softly. “I guess we’ll just have to t-t-t-try.”

Halbarad took a protective step forward as Angrad flushed a dull, dark red. He didn’t trouble to lower his voice. “You watch your mouth. Estel, the man is a complete scoundrel. How do we know he’s not in league with the orcs who attacked them?”

Aragon grabbed his subaltern’s arm and yanked him a few feet away, dropping his tone to a hiss. “All the more reason to keep him close. He may know something of use to us. Like what happened to the others.”

“He’s right,” Galen who had been listening in said, his face very pale. “Come. We have greater concerns at the moment. We must build a cairn before it gets too dark to see. Let’s not leave our companions dishonored here.”

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While the rangers gathered together their slain companions, those who had butchered the elves of Rivendell were engaged in an only marginally better trade.

The high sun boiled on the sweat and dust-streaked backs of the laborers; and the steaming air shivered with the clanging echo of hammers rising and falling wielded by aching and numbed hands. The quarries or the “pits” as they were called by those who toiled in them were well-named: sheer-sided and treacherous as a newly sharpened blade. An almost vertical cutting of shallow, stone stairs provided the only entrance and exit. Long slave-chains stumbled down them every morning and staggered up every evening.

Since the orcs abhorred sunlight, it was usually men who surveyed them during the daylight hours but they were hardly better than orcs themselves. Either driven by a desire to please their new master through mirroring his cruelty or by fear of repercussion, they often drove the workers far beyond their endurance. The monotonous, back-breaking work helped them weed out the weak and kept the strong exhausted.

One of the workers paused and swiped a hand over his face, leaving a streak of dark grime across his forehead. Though he’d wrapped them in rags to protect them his hands were blistered and scoured from hauling the rough stone and the one holding the blunt chisel was slick with sweat. The thick chains connecting his wrists didn’t help for they were well over forty pounds of heavy iron and checked his usually smooth pace. He readjusted his grip and lifted the clinging weight of golden hair off the back of his neck to provide some kind of relief from the pounding heat.

A particularly volatile and malevolent slave driver caught sight of him and flicked a whip in his direction. “Get back to work, you lazy slowcoach! That south wall won’t repair itself!”

The slave raised scornful eyes the color of hematite to his tormentor’s face.

The man’s flabby jaw tightened. “Defiant still are you? You must be new. You don’t know how things work around here yet. I tell you to move, you move. You haul stone until your arms break and then you do it some more. And you don’t stop until I tell you to stop is that clear?”

The slave made no sign he had heard but continued to stare at the driver who, a craven at heart, cracked the lash. It flicked the air threateningly a hairsbreadth from the slave’s face but he didn’t even twitch. The next time, it opened a weal three inches long along the worker’s bare shoulder. Still, he didn’t move. Unnerved, the driver appealed to the overseer in the shadows.

“The elf’s acting up again, sir.”

The chief overseer, the wiry Critz, cast his eyes lazily in the complainer’s direction. Keeping well out of the sun in the shaded part of the quarry, he reached out and stroked the pale, pointed head of a large wolf that lolled at his side. Sighing, he rose and stretched, the corded sinews in his arms standing out like red-purple blood splotches on a newly slain deer. His limber frame stepped out into the sunlight but he only blinked twice. He reached the human and elf in three leaping strides. Pausing briefly, he surveyed both of them then his clawed hand snapped out and struck the errant slave to the ground.

The not-entirely-unexpected blow gave Haldir the taste of blood in his mouth as he fell hard onto his forearms. He coughed, swallowed dust and blood and tried to get up but a boot heel in the spine nailed his chest to the dirt. Somewhere above him, he heard a low growl and massive, gray paws trotted past a foot from his head.

“You’re having trouble taking orders, aren’t you, elf? I thought obedience was a requirement for all good soldiers,” Critz intoned pedantically above him. He heard a quiet snicker and guessed the driver was enjoying this. The orc ground him into the dirt for good measure, the sharp edges of rocks digging ever deeper into the soft flesh of his injured side but the elf merely gritted his teeth and didn’t cry out, knowing the orc wanted him to.

Hard-nailed fingers dug in close to his scalp and hauled him halfway up by his hair. Spittle flecked his jaw as the orc breathed in his ear. “You don’t get back to work and I’ll strip the skin off every single one of them except you. Got that?”

The last few weeks had been wasted trying to break the elf down. Beating had done little for he stood up to their worst punishments. Consecutive shifts of hard labor exhausted guards sooner then elven endurance. In the end, the orc overseer learned the only way to make the elf cooperate was to threaten innocent workers with his punishment.

Unwanted tears pricking his eyes from the cruel grip, he nodded once and the overseer shoved him away. Breathing hard, Haldir scrambled to his feet and heaved his chunk of rock into the waiting cart with an energy born of frustration and helpless rage. Half his scalp felt stripped away and blood trickled from his lip. He licked it bitterly and wished death on both of them.

Merciless even to allies, Critz spun and backhanded the guard viciously. “And you! You keep control of this lot or it’ll be your hide I nail to the door.” Snarling to himself, he walked towards the center of the quarry gesturing at the drivers to herd their slaves over. Aside from torturing their only elven prisoner, Critz’s other favorite game was “step up the mark.”

With a long nail, he gouged a line in the dust. Perspiration crawled down the backs of their necks as the workers, encouraged by several cracking lashes, shuffled into a rough semblance along the line, the chains clinking and gradually silencing enough for Critz’s thin voice to be heard.

“Sniff ‘em out, my sweet.”

The sand-colored wolf, led on a long leash, prowled up and down among the nervous slaves. The animal’s eyes were filled with an inhuman glitter as it paced and suddenly stopped, growling, in front of a man who barely had the strength to raise his head to meet the handler’s eyes as Critz beckoned him forward.

Haldir heard a sharp intake of breath from the woman beside him but he didn’t take his eyes from the man who was brightly visible with a scarlet sweat cloth around his brow. His chains trembled with nerves. No one moved or spoke save for the soft sobbing of the man until Critz cuffed him into silence.

“You’ve been stealing,” the orc accused in a filing rasp that carried to all corners of the quarry.

The man dithered, shaking so hard his knees gave out but he shook his head mutely, furiously. Sweat sheened his temples.

“Don’t lie.”

The wolf ran a pale tongue over long, black lips, eyeing the man hungrily with the fur on her nape standing up rigidly like spines. The worker seemed fascinated by the fiery green eyes that bored into his. He could only keep shaking his head when the orc snapped his fingers and the wolf’s jaws fastened over his face.

Haldir averted his eyes from the grisly spectacle. But he couldn’t block out the earsplitting screams or the harsh, ringing silence when it finally fell.

The slave driver who had threatened Haldir earlier bent down and hauled the wolf away to search the dead man’s pockets. He looked up, his sunburnt skin slightly white under the peeling, “He’s not carrying anything, sir.”

“Oh, well. Now I know no one else will,” the orc said with a nasty snigger. The accusations, of course, had been false—Critz had done that to amuse himself and to weed out the weak and sick so a stronger slave could take his place.

Haldir closed his eyes so the cruel creature wouldn’t see the hatred in them. Beads of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and made his tunic stick to his back as the drivers cracked their lashes overhead to get them back to work.

The cages where the slaves were housed were located near the more secure north wall. The iron bars faced a long stretch of muddy parade ground and the blank stone wall along the outside of the fortress. Come evening, the drivers crammed their workers like cattle back into the wide cages and their fetters removed save Haldir’s. He was still being punished for his earlier misbehavior.

Slumping against the back wall, he thumbed grit from underneath the cuffs which made them irritating and even more uncomfortable against his chafed skin. Hunger gnawed at his belly. He hadn’t eaten since he had been taken, preferring fasting to the unappetizing gruel thrust at him through the bars. But that part of his pride was breaking. He needed strength to fight and he couldn’t have strength without food.

A vibrating series of clangs echoed down the cell block: the rations master swiping his ladle against the bars to summon the slaves forward for their daily meal. Reluctantly he pushed himself up and shouldered to the iron grille with everyone else sticking their hands through to receive palmfuls of some lukewarm sticky mess out of a large pot. The orc who passed out the meal had heard about the elf’s defiance. He dumped a spoonful of the grits on the dirt floor with a foul grin.

“You can lick it up like the dog you are.”

He dodged so sharply backwards as the elf’s hand shot out at him that half the mess splattered over his trousers. He cursed as his companion rapped the prisoner’s outstretched arm hard causing it to snap back within the darkness.

The rations master kicked dirt into the prison and snarled, “You’re not going to last long here with a temper like that, elf,” he sneered, licking white flecks off his face. “Critz has got his beadies on you. Under him, they all break sooner or later. I hope it’s later for you—more fun when you finally snap.”

“Thanks a lot. You just cost us the only food we’re likely to get,” one of the prisoners snarked at him, smashing his fists against the bars when the guards had gone on.

Haldir glanced at the thin figure; his ribs showed underneath the shredded remnants of what at one time may have been a tunic. “Sorry.”

“ ‘Sorry’ doesn’t fill our stomachs does it.” The young man threw himself against the wall and eyed the elf balefully. “Behaving like that’s a quick way to get yourself killed. Do us all a favor and hurry it up.”

“I won’t be here long enough for them to kill me,” Haldir said with more confidence than he felt. The manacles were cutting into his wrists.

“Farlog is already dead. How many more need to get their faces eaten off before you give it up? Critz knows.”

Haldir ignored him and turned towards a gaunt, hollow-cheeked woman who had been watching with brightening eyes. “How are we doing with the weapons, Sayna?”

The woman spoke with slurred difficulty for her jaw looked like it had been broken at least twice and healed badly but her eyes burned with an almost fanatic fervor. “I managed to collect a few more sharp rocks in my skirt today. They didn’t notice. And Henna,” she put a proud arm around a young girl who couldn’t have been more than ten. “She did real well. She sneaked a bit of a broken chisel that might fit the lock.”

“Good.”

With a glance over his shoulder to make sure no guards were near, Haldir squeezed his raw wrists out of the fetters with a deep sigh of relief. He flexed them painfully, waiting for the tingling to subside as blood finally started circulating properly. It had taken him the better part of sixteen days and nights with a meticulously crafted, stone shim and a lot of strength to spring the lock and slip his hands free. He had worn his wrists bloody.

The routine of the prison guards had been easy enough to memorize and he had even convinced some of the slaves, many of whom were still new to the lash, to join him. Haldir had fanned that into full-blown determination and one by one they pilfered what they could from their workplaces that would aid in the revolution to come: broken bits of tools, sharp rocks, even a half-forged dagger from the armory. A near fortnight and more had gone into preparation. They were almost ready, he was sure.

The only, really irritating obstacle remaining in the way was Torenul.

“I don’t have to remind you this is suicide. I’ve been here two years—that’s longer than anyone’s ever come close to lasting. I thought about running at first too. And tried it.” The young man who had first snapped at Haldir rolled up his tattered pant leg to reveal an ugly mass of badly-healed keloid scars they’d already seen plenty of times before. “I got ten feet before Critz’s pet jumped me.”

He dropped his pant leg. “There’s no getting out and anyone who thinks that’s a blind fool. You saw what happened today—they’d kill you just for fun,” his eyes narrowed at the only elf in their midst. “With you, they wouldn’t even need much of an excuse.”

“Better to die a fool than a slave,” Haldir murmured. The hopelessness around him was like a sucking vacuum and had already begun to wear on him.

“Well you’re going to be a dead one if Critz finds out,” Torenul said. “How do you know someone in here’s not passing everything onto him?”

“Those who treat with orcs are the worse fools,” Haldir said. “Death will be their only reward.”

“Stop being so cheerful, Torenul,” Sayna said. “We’re almost out of here. You’re not going to spoil it for us. When are we going to do it, Haldir?”

“As soon as we can.”

Soft murmuring like a rushing wind swirled in the cage. Some of the twenty-odd slaves packed in with them were shaking their heads in disgust but more were looking fearful and excited. It had been a long time since they’d had any hope.

Torenul raised his hands in supplication but his expression twisted with dark foreboding. “You’re only going to make it worse for the rest of us. You’ll see.”

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Ruddy flamelight flickered across his face casting half in uneven shadow. Aragorn sat in front of a small, dry fire, ignoring the sparks erupting from the knotty wood inches from his cloak. He was wholly concentrated on the object rotating between his fingers. The mallorn pin absorbed the firelight with every turn until the stone gleamed with autumnal light.

He’s alive. Aragorn closed his hand tightly over the pin again and pressed his forehead against it. He had to keep believing that. They had found thirteen of the score of elves who had ridden out of Imladris weeks ago (including Galen). The other seven, they guessed, had been taken captive.

Aragorn sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the just visible pile of stones that marked the last resting place of Rivendell’s warriors. Grief ghosted over him and he squeezed his eyes shut. Tossing another pine faggot in, he stoked the fire to a feverish blaze until the heat seared his cheeks and the light caused whirling sparks to dance before his eyes. He didn’t want to lay in the dark again tonight; it made it too easy to imagine the worst. They had found the Rivendell company but any trace of their killers had been long trampled or washed away. There was nothing more to find and no one to ask… Except…

Aragorn got abruptly to his feet, ignoring the ache in his leg, and picked up the untouched plate Halbarad had pointedly placed beside him more than an hour ago.

Veil sat with his back against a buckled stone wall that may once have formed the garth of an ancient homestead. At Aragorn’s insistence his hands remained unbound though he had been relieved of his broken sickle and Halbarad sat on the ledge above him with his sword across his knees. The thin, vulpine man looked up with wide eyes when Aragorn sat down next to him and offered him the plate and a flask.

A beat in which the man’s eyes darted from the ranger’s face to the food then snatched it out of his hands. After a quick, suspicious sniff, he began shoveling food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Halbarad grimaced in disgust and turned his face away.

“How long have you been out here?” Aragorn asked after the man took the first edge off his hunger.

“Good food this.” Veil licked his lips and tore off a hunk of bread with his teeth. His calculating eyes measured the tall, grim-faced man with the troubled eyes but the offering of food had lowered his suspicion a little. “What day is it?”

When Aragorn told him, he flicked a few crumbs off his scrubby chin. “Too long then.” He cast a glance around the camp and up at Halbarad. “I don’t feel like talkin’ about it.”

The ranger nodded understandably, his eyes falling to the long hands curled around the plate. His sleeves were rolled up over his forearms. There were bands of new skin around his wrists and a white scar stretching across the back of one hand. Aragorn frowned.

“Finish your meal,” he said kindly. ‘Then, if you feel up to it, you can join us or sleep if you wish. Come, Halbarad. We need to take counsel with the others about the next step on our road.”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d just as soon stay here,” the older ranger said with a beady eye on Veil who seemed obliquely unconcerned about the other’s scrutiny.

“He is not a prisoner but a guest and you will treat him like one, Halbarad. Come on.”

At their chief’s summons, the men gathered round though they were weary and stumbling from the long labor of building the cairn. Angrad looked as though he would fall asleep where he sat but he straightened obediently when Aragorn’s eyes fell on him. “Wh-what are we going to d-do now?”

Aragorn wished he had the answer to that question. He sighed and passed a hand through his hair. “We keep going. Seven of the Imladris guard are unaccounted for. They may still be alive.”

“But go where? We have no idea where they were headed,” Eldacar interjected hesitantly, not wanting to sound like he was badgering his chief.

“We haven’t crossed their path yet. It stands to reason they would follow the road,” Halbarad suggested, always ready to back up his leader.

“But that’s just more guessing…” A ranger sitting to the left of one of the fires said.

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” Another intervened.

“Better than a blind road? We don’t know where we’re going or what we’re getting into.”

“That doesn’t matter; we can’t leave them out there.”

“I’m not saying we should! But we should at least find out—”

“Deadman’s Dike.” A hush fell instantly when their chieftain said the name. Aragorn’s eyes glinted in the reddish light as he glanced around at his men. “Fornost. You said that was where you found orcs the first time didn’t you, Halbarad?”

Halbarad bit his lip but nodded. “I did.”

“It is still a haunt of evil. Maybe the orcs needed a place of safety. They might make for it,” To torture their captives in peace, he added bitterly to himself.

The rangers exchanged dark glances but their faces were filled with resolve except for Angrad who had gone pale and silent.

Aragorn’s eyes ran around the circle of his exhausted troop. “That’s enough for one night. Get some rest while you can. Halbarad, set a watch.”

Halbarad jumped to it. “Angrad, you dozy lump, since you felt the need to sleep halfway through your chief’s speech, you can have first watch.”

The younger man groaned as he pushed himself to his feet and cast the ginger-haired warrior a glare.

Aragorn touched Halbarad’s shoulder and indicated the young man with his eyes. “Perhaps, my friend, you shouldn’t be so hard on him. He’s as exhausted as the rest of us, maybe more so given his recent injuries.”

Halbarad snorted. “Recent injuries, my left foot. He just doesn’t want to stand watch. I’ve had to practically yank him by the ear to do anything of late. Toughness is the only way through to him, trust me. He’s got to learn he can’t let pain overrule him. A warrior bears his injuries with pride not whining.”

Worn out, Aragorn didn’t press the issue further and sank onto his bedroll. With a firmer resolve now that he knew where he was going, his hand pulled the saber into his lap.

“Bet that’s worth a small fortune.”

Aragorn lifted his eyes slowly to find Veil watching him. The man had shifted his position nearer the ranger and his pale eyes were fixed on the beautiful, filigree-traced weapon. “More than you know.”

“Do you always carry two then?” he nodded at the broadsword Aragorn had stuck in his belt.

“The saber doesn’t belong to me.”

“It belongs to an elf.”

“How do you know that?”

Veil gave him a crooked smile. “Heard you talking. You think some of your friends were taken?”

“By orcs.”

The scarecrow man’s hands clenched into fists. The scars on his wrists shone lurid white. “Then they’re dead.”

“I don’t believe that,” Aragorn answered with steady calm though his heart had started to pound again. Angrad was watching them from across the camp. When he noticed his leader’s scrutiny, the young man quickly started talking to Eldacar.

Veil gave him a look from underneath his lank hair. It was dark and intense. “If they’re not already, they’re going to wish they were.”

----------

The cells had finally quieted down after the ravers grew too hoarse to ply their trade. Only strangled, muffled sobs broke the miserable silence off to the left in another cell but the cage nearest the north wall corner was easy with deep, heavy breathing.

Torenul dragged his stiff leg right up to the bars and sat beside it. Glancing once around at the tangle of arms, legs and bony faces arranged near his body, he picked up a chunk of rock and tapped out a short rhythm on the iron.

The wolf sentinels’ ears pricked up and one of the guards stirred. With a grunt, he came fully awake and strolled over to the bars. “Whaddya want this time o’ night?”

“I’ve got information—go get Critz.”

The orc curled his lip contemptuously at him.

Torenul insisted, “Come on. They could wake up any second. If you don’t pass it on, you’ll be sorry.”

“Why don’t you tell me and I’ll decide whether or not it’s important enough to bother Critz with. He don’t like being waked you see.”

“Not here,” the slave peered nervously over his shoulder. “Come on. It’s important.”

The orc guard sighed gustily and motioned one of his cronies over. They unlocked the cage door with a rattle and, for the benefit of any listeners and their own pleasure, grabbed the prisoner up roughly, slugging him a few times for good measure.

The exhausted, hagridden slaves within barely stirred.

The orcs dragged him into a deserted corner just off the prison block and dumped him on the ground. “So. What’ve you heard?”

“I won’t talk to anyone but Critz.”

The guard who had first come to his summons kicked him hard. “You’ll talk to us, snaga or I’ll send you to the wolves instead.”

“All right! All right! Just…don’t hit me again.” Shakily Torenul repeated everything he had heard in the cage that night: the cache of ‘weapons,’ the names of the ringleaders and followers. The traitor spilled it all.

The guards glanced at one another and the thicker one muttered, “Go get Critz.”

The orc leader emerged from a dark passageway a few minutes later with the littler one on his heels looking bloodshot and foul-tempered. His impatient shrill echoed off the stone. “What?”

The guard repeated what he had heard the prisoner say and Critz’s irritation vanished in an instant. He stared hungrily at Torenul as though trying to read his mind. “You had better not be lying to me, boy.”

“I’m not lying. You know I’ve given you sound information before.”

The orc leader folded his arms. “What do you want for this?”

“Transfer. I’ll work the fields but get me out of those damn, plague-ridden pits.”

“All right. It’s done.”

Torenul blinked. “Just like that? You agree and it’ll happen.”

“You doubt my word?”

“No, no, of course not,” the man shook his head posthaste.

“You still haven’t told me when they are going to try this little rebellion.”

Torenul twisted his fingers together. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Critz repeated, widening his red eyes. “So, the elf and this slave girl are planning a traitorous mutiny under the master’s very eyes and you don’t know when.”

“It shouldn’t be that hard to find out…” Torenul realized he sounded more defensive and sullen than he meant and tensed, knowing his captors’ tempers were unpredictable. He amended quickly. “I could question them…find out more…”

But Critz chipped a flake off the wall with his nails, reflective. “I have an idea.”

“Are you going to torture them? What about the elf? He knows a lot and he’s a rabble-rouser,” Despite himself, Torenul’s eyes gleamed. “Warping Sayna’s mind with false hopes.”

Critz drank in the man’s obvious frustration and jealousy and realized he could pierce this fish’s big mouth with more than one hook. The laugh lines at the corners of his crimson eyes crinkled. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? Fine then. Find out ‘when’ and you’ll get your transfer and the elf.”

With a sudden violent movement the orc grabbed the man up and slammed him against the wall. Blazing red eyes inches from the human’s, he snarled. “But play me false, just once, and you’ll wish I’d fed you to my wolf, boy.”

The desperate human’s eyes locked on the crimson ones, mesmerized. “I obey only your command, my lord.”


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Author's Notes: As always, those lovely people who take time out of their schedules to send me a little encouraging note are treated with more adoration than they know (without being creepy).

Best,

The Lady of Light


Chapter 7 - Part Seven: Storms and Insurrections

Author’s Notes: This chapter has been the most difficult to write so far.Thankfully, a bad spot of inclement weather proved illuminating (in more ways than one) and enticingly inspirational. So delight in the rainy references if you’re snug and dry at home. (If any of you are actually reading this in the rain...)


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Part Seven

Storms and Insurrections

“As if we didn’t have enough trouble, now the weather conspires against us too.”

Aragorn looked up at the angry sky that had grown twice as dark in the last two minutes. Nightfall in the middle of the afternoon. A tumultuous mass of purple-grey clouds swamped the watery sun and stretched out towards the north without a break. A cool front had moved in ahead of the first sprinklings of rain. In the distance, a low mutter vibrated over the still air. As the first few drops tinted the rangers’ coats a darker green he pulled his hood up over his head. The foul weather was unfortunate but expected—they weren’t called the “Weather Hills” for nothing.

The downpour increased in malignant force as they hiked on. Within a half hour their tunic clung to their skins and soaked their knees. Water crept out of the grass and squished under their boots, making for perilous footholds on the rockier slopes. The wet got into everything: under their clothes, into their mouths and ears. It even seeped into the food packs so their lunch when they finally halted for it was soggy and flavorless.

Aragorn gingerly swallowed a mushy mouthful of cram as Halbarad blinked rainwater from his eyes and mopped his brow with a sleeve which made little improvement on his vision. “It’s no use slogging through this mess much longer, Estel. We’re not even following a trail anymore. We need to look for shelter and sleep this out.”

The ranger made a magnanimous gesture around their miserable rest-spot, scarcely more than a hollow at the bottom of one of the larger hills. “I am open to suggestions.”

Silence fell for a brief moment.

“What about just staying here?” Eldacar suggested. “There’s an outcrop over there. Might give us some shelter.”

“Too dangerous—that outcrop’s held up by little more than mud and twigs. This wet’s enough to bring it down on our heads,” Halbarad discouraged, eyeing the sight the ranger indicated.

The men glanced desperately around hoping a magical solution would present itself. All they could see was hills and low valley rapidly filling with water. It was a dismal thought that if they could find no better they would have to curl up under their cloaks and sleep where they were.

“I have a bad idea,” Galen ventured at last, his words barely audible over the groping thunder on the heels of a flash of pure white. “It’s hardly better than staying here though we may have a roof. Still…it’s not—”

“Just tell us, Galen.” Aragorn sighed. “What is it?”

“The barrows,” the elf explained simply. “Up on the hills. There are a few that are deep and wide. There’ll be shelter and room enough for two hundred of us if necessary. And if we find any dry wood, we could even have a fire.”

The mention of fire seemed to cheer the men up immensely despite the thought of it being lit in a burial chamber. One, however, did protest.

“No decent folk lived in those hills,” Veil scowled, ignoring Angrad’s remonstrating look. “Who knows what restless oathbreakers lurk there?”

“These hills b-belonged to a v-valiant p-people loyal to their l-lord.”

“Fine, then you can drown out here,” Halbarad groused, cutting off Veil’s tart reply. His fondness for the man had not grown any since the night before, his mood soured even more by the icy beads trickling down the back of his neck. None dared argue with him.

Wordlessly, they made for the barrows. With the wind hurling rain stinging as glass into their faces, afternoon darkened gradually towards evening with no sign of the storm abating. The nearest hill known as Amon-en-Achas towered high over them like a dark bastion holding vigil over the lower-lying plain and woodlands.

Hill of Dread indeed, Aragorn mused to keep his mind off his numb cheeks and stiff, clumsy fingers that searched in the dark for a handhold. The very look of it made his scalp prickle. It was almost as if the high, tumbled rocks hid some shadowy menace or the groves of trees flanking them were full of hidden, vengeful eyes.

Galen bounded up the slick stones with enviable ease and glanced back at his struggling companions. “Well, you will not get dry lingering there. Make haste! The entrance is up here…somewhere.”

“Oh, great. ‘Somewhere.’ That’s comforting. We’re all going to die of plague in this damp,” Veil muttered, a tiny waterfall streaming off the front of his hood.

Halbarad smacked his shoulder lightly, sending up a slight spray. “What? A staunch corpse-robber like you swooning over a little dark and wet?”

Veil mumbled something that was thankfully lost in a fresh, much closer-sounding growl. The sky overhead was nearly black and if possible the rain fell even heavier. Aragorn didn’t think it was possible for him to get any wetter than he was but he was proven wrong a few seconds later. He could feel the water sloshing in his boots and his grip on the steep rocks became worse than precarious. The men were running out of patience and energy. Already a few of them were mumbling mutinously, Veil foremost among them.

“Not much further…” the elf ushered them on hopefully but his fair face wore an uncertain expression. “I think,” he muttered so quietly only Aragorn who was right next to him heard.

The DĂşnedain chieftain looked at him askance. “Do you know where you’re going?” he asked in a low tone so Halbarad looking for an easier foothold on the slick rock behind him couldn’t hear.

“I know there are barrows around here… It’s just,” the elf grimaced guiltily. “When last I was this way, I approached more from the south where it’s not so rocky. I’m not quite as… familiar…with this area.”

Aragorn stifled the groan that threatened to rise out of his throat. That was all they needed, to get lost in the hills in the middle of a storm but then…

“Wait! There!” Galen grabbed his sleeve and pointed ahead. “I see it!”

The rain fell so thick and dark at first Aragorn couldn’t make out anything at all except for impenetrable blackness. He stretched his eyes open wide to take in the least bit of light and gradually something shimmered into his vision.

A large black wall rose sheer up out of the shelves as if cloven by a giant knife. But it looked all solid with no door or niche in sight. Galen led them towards it as straight as he could, zigzagging to avoid clumped bunches of brambles which were the only growing things in sight.

Though they were no drier, the men sighed with relief when they reached a rock ledge. Angrad threw his pack down and slumped against it wearily. Aragorn kept watching Galen who was pacing back and forth along some twenty feet of rock, staring at it as if he could penetrate the solid wall with his eyes.

“I know it was here,” the elf muttered. “It would be better if there was light…” He turned to meet Aragorn’s eyes when the ranger touched his shoulder. “I know, I know, I’m looking! It’s here…or a little further on.”

“Take your time, just think.”

“Sir?” Angrad beckoned to him as he turned away from the elf. “M-may I speak with you? Privately?”

“Now?”

“It’s important, sir.”

“Certainly, Angrad.”

Aragorn noticed Veil’s pale eyes watching them as they moved away from the others. He didn’t look away when the DĂşnedain chief raised an eyebrow. The gaze was almost challenging.

Angrad twisted his fingers together nervously without looking up at his chieftain. “Sir, p-perhaps it isn’t my p-place to say this but I feel I should w-warn you about that m-man we found.”

“Who? You mean Veil?”

The younger ranger nodded, his eyes still fastened on his jerky fingers. “I recognize him…He was in the orc c-camp with m-me. He was there when they…when they…”

Pity squeezed Aragorn’s heart and he touched the man’s arm comfortingly. “It’s all right, son. Take a breath.”

Angrad did so and passed a hand over his white face. “He was their th-thrall. They m-must have r-released him. That’s p-probably why he was wandering in the wild.” He heaved another breath and said in a surprisingly steady, hard voice. “Don’t trust him.”

Aragorn, a little astonished by the normally mild ranger’s vehemence, stared at him. He opened his mouth without knowing what he was going to say when someone calling his name distracted him.

Galen had found it.

A square doorway the height of two men and as wide as four loomed up set deep into the hillside. Briars crawling up along the walls concealed most of it from view and from a distance it only appeared as a smooth patch in the stone.

“It’s sealed up,” one ranger pointed out, his shoulders sagging.

“Not quite,” Galen said. “there’s a sliver here that’s been cleared away. We can slip through if we’re careful.”

“What if someone beat us here first? Like orcs?” Veil’s eyes were wide and Aragorn’s brow furrowed.

“We have to squeeze through that?” Halbarad’s upper lip wrinkled with dismay at the narrow crack. He was rather broad-shouldered.

“Just suck your gut towards your spine, Halbarad. Like you do for your wife.”

The ginger ranger cuffed the speaker.

“You’ll be fine,” Aragorn assured him but he glanced uncertainly at Galen.

The elf swallowed hard and offered the chieftain a smile. “Best let me go first…lest we meet anything…unfriendly.”

High above the heads of the disappearing DĂşnedain, a tiny black shape was caught up like a scrap of cloth in the very teeth of the gale. Feathers torn away by the screaming wind and rain, the large bird flapped desperately for the earth battered and jostled mercilessly by the whims of the wind. Awkwardly it skipped and splashed down onto a moss-covered rock. It had been scouting the brown miles for several days now, searching at the command of its lord who fed it on live meat.

The bird was a shrike otherwise known as a Butcher Bird whose favored tactic was to hang its prey on thorn bushes, still kicking.

Movement below caught its quick eye and it leaned out over the precipice, its glossy head cocked interestedly to one side. The shrike’s beady eyes narrowed on the rain-drenched humans. When the last head had passed into the crevice, it shook rumpled feathers violently to rid the pinions of moisture and fluttered down towards the ground.

Someone had dropped his cloak clasp shaped like a six-pointed star: the star of Eärendil from whom the first King of Men was descended. It glistened in the shrike’s orange eye as it plucked the shiny thing up in its beak. With an odd hop-skipping gait, it took off into the crashing sky again, winging like a bolt of thunder towards Fornost and its master.

----------

Haldir slumped against the back wall of the cell. A weary ache had settled in most of his limbs. The cold, damp caress of the limestone blocks soothed the weal marks inlayed along his shoulders. Sayna dropped beside him, pushing draggled, lank strands off her face and rubbing a rheumatic hand.

“Phew, lucky the rain got us in early. I couldn’t take much more of slogging through that mud.” Critz had kept them out an extra hour after the rain started hammering.

He replied with only one word, “Tonight.”

Her jaded eyes sparked instantly and a slow smile, strangely incongruous with her ill-used appearance, brightened her face. Blooming with sudden energy, she scrambled up to pass the word along to those who would join the escape.

A few feet away across the pen, Torenul looked up, gaunt-faced and brooding. “Sayna, what are you doing this for? You know there’s no chance.”

The woman spun on him, “You’re wrong, Torenul. We do so have a chance and I’m taking it. I’m taking it because I am sick of being out there in the middle of a storm to suit the whims of a tyrant, sick of the stripes on my back. I’m taking it because those creatures are the reason my little girl isn’t here anymore. Because I am old when I should be young. I wasn’t born a slave and I’m not going to stay one anymore.”

Rain slapped the stones harshly for a short silence.

“At least as a slave, you’ll live.”

“You are content with this kind of life?” Haldir answered him. He gestured around the crowded, rank-smelling cell. “Being told when to eat, when to work, when to sleep, when to breathe. They’ve taken everything from you, even your desire to fight back.”

“Hear, hear,” other slaves echoed him though quietly as the guards hovered under the eaves formed by the cell’s sloping, wood roof.

“Fear cripples you. Don’t let it,” Haldir said, crouching next to him. In the past few weeks, he had seen the varying effects slavery had on the life and minds of those under its yoke. Fear being one of the most debilitating. “You do not have to do as they command anymore.”

Torenul glanced up at the elf, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the closeness of those penetrating silver eyes. With difficulty, he wrenched his gaze away, afraid what the elf would see, and shook his head. He turned his face towards the wall.

It was common knowledge that the guards would be skiving off duty that night. Several dozen slaves had already been pulled from the ranks to attend the great hall where a massive feast had been prepared to celebrate the near-completion of the south wall repairs and no one was willing to stand in the drenching rain guarding prisoners who had nowhere to go when their confederates would be plundering vittle-and drink-lined tables.

When the courtyard about was completely empty, Haldir screwed a broken-off chisel into the lock. It was sharp and rubbed to a razor point to which the calluses on his fingers attested. Sayna and the others chosen to go in the first party hovered nervously behind him. Some talked excitedly and one old woman sobbed happily into her hand. The elf felt the lock start to give and applied more pressure. It creaked in protest.

The young girl, Henna, couldn’t resist an excited giggle as she hopped free of her mother’s encircling arms. “Look at the cords in his neck!”

“Hush,” her mother squeezed her, her eyes wide with wonder. “Let him work.”

Haldir took the half-forged dagger Sayna handed him and bent the slender steel at a right angle to the tang then slid it in after the securely lodged pick. A sharp tug on the back of his tunic warned him of trouble and a split-second later he heard voices.

“Grishtag in the cellars says there’s enough grog to drown a body in.” Two guards were hurrying in from the gates.

“It’s about time, mind you, we’ve been working our fingers down to the bones,” an orc sentry grumbled. He jerked hard on the chain in his hand, tugging the pale wolf whose glittering eyes were fixed on the pitiful figures just inside the bars. “Get away from there! Come on! Enough morsels for you at the table!”

The elf captain sidled towards one side of the cell as the orc sentries passed. He knew the guards’ suspicious eyes would be drawn to him first instead of the lock if they chanced to look this way. All of the slaves held their collective breath.

But the guards, uncomfortable and soaked in their leathery skins, sped up past the cells with barely a cursory glance. Torenul idly picked up a rock and with an uneasy sideglance began to tap a slow rhythm on the iron bar. The wolf’s ears pricked back.

When the final echo of the orcs’ clunking footsteps faded from even elven hearing, Haldir attacked the lock with renewed vigor. He jiggled and strained for what seemed a strained eternity before with a sudden grinding crack, the lock clicked and a piece dropped out of the keyhole when he extracted his tools. The makeshift pick’s edge had snapped clean off inside the keyhole. He shoved against the door. It creaked reluctantly open then the bolt still partially secured in the jamb caught and held fast. The door was stuck. Haldir wedged his shoulder in the small partition and braced his hands against the wall for added leverage. He jerked his head and the others crowded about him.

“Come on. A few good heaves ought to do it.”

Goaded by his success, they pressed forward, each gaining a firm grip on some part of the door. Even little Henna wrapped her hands around the bars next to the elf’s waist and smiled proudly at him. One of the burlier men who regularly pulled the stone full carts scooped up a handful of grit and rubbed it into his palms to give him a firmer grasp on the wet iron. He nodded at the elf who gave the order.

“Push!”

Muscles strained, beads of sweat mingled with rain and footholds skidded in the mud as they all pushed and pushed and...Crack! The bolt tore out of the stone with the suddenness of a taut line snapping. The barred door buckled outward and sent the slaves staggering into free air. A few of them were so shocked at this sudden, illicit liberty, they froze. Haldir rallied them with a hasty glance towards the illuminated windows of the great hall.

“We have to move as quickly and quietly as possible,” he dropped his voice so the sibilance wouldn’t carry as he fell into the natural rhythm of a commander accustomed to giving orders. “Split up into small groups. Mix the young ones with the strong. All right. The first six of you with me. The rest of you follow one every few minutes, close the door almost all the way until then. Remember, vigilance.”

The burly slave saluted.

“You sure you don’t want to come with us, Torenul?” Sayna asked with something like regret on her twisted face. He glanced at the broken lock then dropped his eyes to the rain-spattered stone.

The first group set out cautiously, keeping close under the protective shadows of the battlemented walls. Palming the straightened dagger, Haldir led the way ushering them along at as swift a pace as their emaciated limbs could muster. They met no guards. There wasn’t even one under the sentry-box.

Haldir paused at the corner. He thought he had discerned movement over by the gate but the dark of storm and deepening evening made it impossible to tell for certain. The rain drumming on the hard-packed ground sounded like so many pounding footsteps. A tug on his arm startled him. Sayna jumped too but pointed towards a small leaning shack resting at the base of the wall.

“There’s the storehouse. We’ll need food.”

“There’s no time.”

“It’ll be a fine thing if we reach freedom only to starve in it,” she argued, her face shining with hope and confidence.

A prickle of growing disquiet shivered up his spine. “Make it swift.”

The delay was by far worse than running. Every second increased their chance of being discovered. But Sayna was faster than Haldir had given her credit for. She nipped inside and was back in minutes with a burlap sack stuffed with bread. By then the second and third groups had joined them. They, too nervous and excited to wait, hadn’t waited five minutes.

“Let’s go,” Haldir motioned the much larger and unwieldy group hurriedly away. He thought it highly unlikely that the Witch-king would be so arrogant as to relieve all his guards but his nervousness lessened as they drew near the west wall steps. Their escape route lay just ahead.

The south wall was nearly finished but there was a section where it joined with the western wall low to the ground that had been shoddily filled in with simple board planks nailed together until real repairwork could start. It took them seconds to dismantle it. A flash of brilliant lightning revealed a three or four foot wide gap, two feet high, just wide enough for a body to crawl through with care.

Haldir summoned the youngest and smallest up front with him. He could almost taste the free air on his face. Almost there.

“I’ll go first and you come right after me, all right?” he told her.

She nodded and watched as he maneuvered his broad shoulders through the narrow hole, his tunic snagging on uneven cuttings. Pressed almost flat, he managed to pull himself through with little trouble though water seeped onto his head and his knees and elbows congealed with mud. He helped Henna up as she followed after him, blowing her stringy off her face.

A rain-soaked breeze whipped Haldir’s hair out of his face and he laughed. “Next!”

Henna tugged on his wrist hard, her sharp little nails digging into his skin. He glanced down at her quizzically but she was not looking at him, her eyes wide as saucers. He turned over his shoulder.

The glaring red stare of Critz blazed into his. “Oh, dear,” the orc drawled, a wide leer stretching his lips. “We are in trouble.”

----------

Silence reverberated in their ears after the loudness of the thunder. Total blackness pervaded the inside of the barrow like a wet cloth thrown over nose, eyes and ears. It muffled sounds but heightened their senses. Aragorn, groping his way forward like a blind man, recoiled when his hand touched something hard and unyielding. The tunnel wall. He could hear the breath sounds of the others around him.

“Everyone stay close,” he warned, his voice an automatic whisper, choked by the dark. “Go forward slowly.”

They stepped cautiously, unable to see where they were placing their feet. With hands braced against the smooth walls, they twisted through the tunnel, ears straining for any sound, nostrils opened wide to the rank stench of mildew and centuries-old stone. The whole place had a cloying, claustrophobic feel to it. It was dry but cold. Presently Aragorn felt a wind on his damp forehead and knew the tunnel must soon open up into a larger cavern.

He paused just before the opening, uncertain of what might be lurking in the far, invisible corners. Nothing moved that he could hear but that did not mean the chamber was empty. He thought he glimpsed almost beyond his sight a glint of red. As he set foot over the threshold, a flare right next to him seared across his eyes.

He flung up his forearm in shock but the brilliance was gone almost immediately, snuffed like a candle. His men cried out in shock and a few drew their weapons but they didn’t know what had attacked and feared hitting their fellows. Dazzled, Aragorn fought to blink the sparkling streaks of purple and yellow from his eyesight.

Something grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and slammed him bodily up against the wall. Before he could recover from the surprise or think to reach for the sword still strapped at his hip, something icy and sharp Aragorn recognized as a knife scraped beneath his jaw and pricked his left earlobe.

A voice chill as the steel rasped in his ear. “You may go no further.”

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Lightning forked and illumined the terrible scene in lurid blue-white. Critz chuckled as his score of warriors fanned out, encircling the elf and girl-child and pinning them against the wall. Haldir moved protectively in front of his charge, shielding her with his body. The only weapon he had against the rending orc blades was the hilt-less dagger.

Prepared to sell his life dearly, he flung it straight at Critz.

Only the orc leader’s speedy reflexes saved his life. As the knife left the elf’s hand, he caught the nearest soldier’s scruff and jerked him in front of himself. The hapless soldier took the elf’s dagger through the eye. At once Haldir lunged and dragged the falling javelin from its owner’s lifeless claws as Critz let the body fall.

The orcs closed in. There were fully a score of them, more than enough to keep the elf busy. He lashed out with his borrowed weapon, outstripping the reach of the short, curved swords many of them carried. The razor-tipped javelin soon ran with black blood as he wreaked devastation on the orc heads; the weapon flashed and spun like a living thing in his hands, goring open bellies, piercing throats and sword arms with the speed of a gale. Though already eight had fallen the odds were sorely against him. Yet the orcs didn’t seem to want to kill him only capture him even as he cut them down.

“I want him alive!” Critz roared when a frustrated soldier slipped under the elf’s guard and gouged a wound across his forearm.

Haldir switched the javelin to his other hand and smashed the heavy wood into the fighter’s snarling face. They were little by little herding him away from the wall, out into the open so they could swarm him.

Critz slunk carefully out of range as one of his warriors let out an agonized cry, clutching his leg. “We have a real warrior on our hands, boys!”

A high, shrill scream echoed it, pierced the thunder with the force of shattering glass. It was female.

Haldir spun, blood dripping into his eyes from a high cut on his brow.

Critz held Henna tightly against him, his hard, sharp nails pressed into her soft neck. “Keep fighting, elf, and she’ll feed the maggots sooner than you will.”

“You unspeakable coward, you hide behind a child,” Haldir snarled, unable to hide his contempt.

Critz’s red eyes glittered at the insult. “Lower your weapon and come towards me or you can spit curses over her dead body.”

Henna whimpered as the nails dug in hard enough to leave little red marks.

“Give her to me.”

“Lower your weapon. Stand off,” Critz ordered his remaining men.

The orcs uttered soft curses and nursed cracked claws and puncture wounds as the elf passed edgily through them, the javelin gripped tight in his fist. When he was feet away, the orc leader hurled the sobbing girl into his arms. Startled, he caught her and the orcs advanced. One wrenched the javelin out of his hands and snapped it. The others dug their swords warningly into every bit of him they could reach. Chest, arms, stomach, throat, he was hemmed in on all sides by blades.

“Now, get back through that hole,” Critz’s grating voice snarled. “Now.”

He had no choice. The swords were on Henna too and while he was willing to sacrifice his own life, he couldn’t bear to see a child suffer. Guiding her gently back through, he followed. The stone walls closed around once more and bile rose in his throat as he saw freedom slipping further and further out of his reach.

Sayna and the others were standing in the courtyard where he had left them. Judging by their wide eyes and white faces, they had heard the fight and the screaming and thought the worst. Henna scrabbled up and ran into her mother’s arms.

Upon sighting their captors, most of the slaves were too cowed to even think of resisting. They’d been too long under the lash and most of them were farmers or forgers not warriors. They threw down their makeshift weapons in surrender. But Haldir did not. Neither did Sayna.

“You wicked, murderous wretch!” She lashed out at Critz with a broken spearpole as he came through.

Critz caught it with one hand and snapped it off near the haft, forcing splinters deep into her arms. Then he had her by the throat. Scarcely pausing in his stride, he flung her.

Her head cracked against the stone like rotten fruit smacking brick. She slumped, blood running from her forehead, and didn’t move.

“No!” a cry like a wounded wolf rang out. Torenul who Haldir had just noticed standing among the orcs pushed his way through and collapsed beside the woman. “You said you wouldn’t kill her!”

“Should think you’d be used to this by now, my little weasel,” Critz murmured with a smile.

The other slaves stared at Torenul with mingled looks of fury, hatred and hopelessness on their pinched faces. He defended himself hotly. “Any of you would have done the same! You would have taken the chance to live!”

“But we didn’t and you’ve got blood on your hands now,” the burly slave said.

“You blame me?” Torenul spat at him. “Why not blame the one who stirred you to fight in the first place? The blood’s on his hands, not mine,” he glared murderously at Haldir.

Critz giggled. “Now, now, children, play nicely. Don’t fight amongst yourselves.”

“You promised me,” Torenul said, cradling Sayna’s lifeless form in his arms. “What about the rest of it?”

For answer Critz gave him an evil smile and nodded at two of his guards who grabbed the man up by his shoulders. “I always keep my promises,” the orc lieutenant said. “Transfer it is. You’ll have right fun mixing alloys in the armory—if you don’t burn to death that is.”

Torenul, stunned speechless with horror, let his cruel guards drag him away, Sayna’s body rolling limply out of his arms into the mud.

Critz took no further notice. “The rest of you will have no rations until I say otherwise. Apparently, you didn’t learn your lesson the first time if you’re so eager to rally against your betters. But I’ll let you off this once. I’m too soft-hearted for my own good, you see. Can’t abide unhappiness, so you all get to live. Except for you,” he stalked towards the elf who was now being held by four guards all with their blades leveled at his throat and chest. “No one talks to me as you did, elf, and lives.”

He held up his unbloodied sword and licked the edge as if he could already taste the saltiness of blood. He said, almost reflectively, “Rebellious ones always cooperate more fully when their masters execute their leader.”

He beckoned to the soldiers. “Get him on his knees and bend his head.”


Chapter 8 - Part Eight: Amon en Achas

Author’s Notes: This was one of the most fun chapters for me to write! (Aside from the next one, hee hee.) You have a couple of more OCs to meet so I hope you’re not too tired of new faces. To make it a bit easier, I’ve also started including notes on elvish terms and archaic words at the end.

Part Eight

Amon-en-Achas

Haldir’s knees jarred against unyielding stone as the flat edge of a blade cut his legs out from under him. Blood streamed down his temple from the cut on his brow, mingling with the rain and sweat beading there. His bruised and cut forearm seared with slow fire as one of his guards twisted it meaningfully, daring the elf to move. The tip of a sword appeared, just brushing his chin, stilling his struggles.

“So, my bold elf,” Critz’s voice held a wicked chuckle in it. “Any brave words for your weak and pitiful rebels?”

If his mouth hadn’t been so dry, Haldir would have spat at his tormentor.

“No? Not a word? No pithy stubborn remark from the martyr? ‘Down with tyranny!’ ‘Born for freedom!’ Nothing? Tut tut I expected better from your ilk. Oh, well. Bend his head.”

Raking his hair away from his neck, the orc guards forced ruthlessly down until his forehead connected with the flagstones.

Haldir’s shoulders tensed. He could almost hear the rain drops tinging off the blade as it rose to sever his head from his shoulders. In the odd, elongated moment preceding he could think of nothing but that Aragorn would never know what had become of him. He almost felt sorry for arguing so much with that ginger-haired ranger and making their last days together so tense. He would have liked to have parted with his friend in peace. He closed his eyes.

But the death strike didn’t come.

Unconsciously it seemed, the orc sentries’ holds loosened and he was able to unbend his spine. Critz had frozen, the sword hanging slack from his hands. He was staring at the sky. Haldir followed his gaze.

A shrike hovered on a gust of wind above the assembly before diving to alight on a saddle horn.

Haldir had not seen the Witch-king since he had been brought here but the lord of Angmar looked as terrible as ever seated high in the stirrups of a black steed. The horse’s hooves echoed off the corners in the cowed silence that fell in the wake of the NazgĂ»l’s presence. Cold dread swept over the elf as the Rider halted mere paces from him and his would-be executioner.

Critz fidgeted with the hilt of his sword. Clearly the master did not often make an appearance in the slave quarters. “He’s their leader, my lord,” the orc said, nudging the elf with his boot. “We caught him trying to escape with these others. I was just going to finish the troublemaker off for you, sire.”

“I could have slain him the moment he came to us and spared you the trouble, Critz. I did not do so because he is of use to me, alive. Yet in your arrogance and injured pride you do not think so.”

“My lord?”

The wraith explained, his voice like wind over a frozen pond, a sibilant hiss yet no one missed a word. “None have ever succeeded in even nearly escaping this place and yet he was beyond the walls before you caught him. That kind of cunning spirit can serve me well if taken proper care of.”

Haldir didn’t like the sound of that though it seemed for the moment he was spared instant death; he listened intensely though the proximity of Sauron’s feared servant electrocuted his already-jangling nerves.

Critz’s eyes widened, intrigued, though the vicious way he stabbed his sword between a chink in the stones betrayed his disappointment. “Aye, sire.”

All along its back, the shrike’s feathers bristled as though in a blast of cold when iron-tipped gloves touched the top of its head. “My spy has brought word that there are enemy movements in my lands.” The NazgĂ»l pulled something from the bird’s beak. “The DĂşnedain have returned home. We must prepare for them a fitting welcome.”

Coherent thought fled Haldir’s mind. He stared at the glittering thing in the wraith’s hand, a claw of deep fear sinking into his chest. He knew that ornament. A rayed star-shaped brooch that only a very select few wore. One name, one blissfully hopeful and damnable name blossomed on his lips, unspoken and stifled, as the orcs grabbed him up roughly and hauled him towards the fortress’ main stairs.

Aragorn.

----------

Aragorn held very still as the knife brushed his throbbing jugular. He couldn’t see who had him by such a tight grip but the voice that had warned him did not sound like an orc. He heard the others shifting uneasily in the dark behind him.

“What’s going on?”

“Estel, you all right?”

“I can’t see a blasted thing.”

The hard, un-orclike voice rapped out again. “All of you, be still! I have one of your men under my knife. Be still, I say!”

The mutterings quieted. No one moved.

Aragorn felt the blade shift slightly against his skin as his captor bent. Something began to burn at the edges of his vision to reveal a woman sliding back a lantern shutter. But she was not only a woman. Her steps on the hard floor had made not even the slightest whisper though she’d come up fast and her luminescent skin shimmered in the pitch-black of the barrow. An elf, he realized with a jolt.

“Ivriel,” Off to Aragorn’s left Galen let out the breath he’d been holding in a gasp when he saw the woman’s face. “You’re alive.”

“Who are you?”

“Galen son of Gelmir.”

The knife lowered from Aragorn’s neck slowly. The elf woman called Ivriel uncovered her blue lantern completely and held it up sparkling to examine the blinking faces of the rest of the company. Her eyes rested last on the only other elf. “You are a little late in bringing aid, son of Gelmir. In fact,” she took in the sopping garments and their miserable, thin faces. “It seems you are more in need of aid than giving it.”

In the clearer light, Aragorn could see she had a messily stitched wound running through one eyebrow. Ivriel’s pale eyes rested on him for a long minute. “You are Lord Elrond’s foster-son aren’t you?”

Aragorn blinked and straightened, wondering how she knew who he was. “I am.”

“And these?” she gestured towards the rangers who were watching her warily.

“My companions.”

“Can they be trusted?”

“I would entrust any one of them with my life,” Aragorn replied staunchly.

Ivriel’s eyes crinkled in a smile that was not altogether reassuring but it was nevertheless good to know she did anything as friendly as smile. “Ah, but it is not your life that is now in their keeping but ours.”

“You escaped the orcs,” Aragorn noted, recognizing the deep blue of her uniform as that of Rivendell.

Ivriel frowned as though he had been questioning her loyalty. “We would have died with our fellows gladly had we not been in the rear guard. We were more than a mile behind the others, making sure we were not pursued. By the time we were aware of the attack, we were too late.”

To soothe her ruffled pride, Aragorn softened his tone. “I know. We found them and laid them to rest.”

Her expression gentled a little, indignation blunted by grief. “Orcs have been prowling the hills here. We could not risk discovery.” Ivriel glanced back the way she had come. “There’s more than a score of you. Rancir’s not going to like this.”

“Rancir is with you?” Galen sounded both relieved and apprehensive.

“Who’s Rancir?”

“Were you pursued?” Ivriel demanded, ignoring Halbarad’s query.

“No,” Galen answered.

“Are you certain you were not seen?”

“I doubt anyone could see anything the way it is out there,” Aragorn put in. “Of course, nothing is certain. If you feel we are a danger to you, we will leave.”

Angrad shot him a pleading look, his lank hair dripping into his eyes.

Ivriel glanced at each of their faces, closed her eyes, and said at last, “We would be poor hosts and allies if we sent you back out there. Come. Follow me. Step softly.”

They needed no further encouragement. Questioning Galen quietly, she led them across the wide antechamber and into another tunnel that led down a short flight of stairs. Other smaller passages opened at intervals left and right always heading downwards but they stayed on the straight way until another, larger entrance opened up right in front of them. Instead of striding directly into it however, Ivriel stopped and faced them.

“Galen and the human commander come with me. The rest of you must wait here.”

Aragorn glanced back at his men. Halbarad took up an easy posture leaning against the wall, his cloak thrown back pointedly from his sword blade. He nodded at his chief. With a reassurance he did not feel, Aragorn nodded back, took a deep breath and plunged after the two elves.

The first thing he noticed was the smell: a sour, musky odor like preserving salts. But he forgot it in the next moment as he stared around in awe. The chamber they now entered was far larger than any they had yet traversed; forty feet and more it stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling and it was not empty. On either side were long niches cut into the walls. Within each one of them, all half-hidden under a gauzy curtain lay a figure, bony elbows and knees making lumpy shapes. It was a charnel house.

A clammy shiver crawled up his spine. He had the unsettling sensation that the bare eye sockets under the shrouds were watching him and did not like the intrusion. He averted his gaze to the back wall as Ivriel led them towards the middle of the mausoleum where a vast, stone vault sat.

The ancient tomb must have belonged to a great lord or king for the stone casket concealed the once-vaunted body under intricate, gold-leafed carvings and a foot-thick lid a host of dwarves couldn’t have lifted. It stood boldly, almost defiantly in the exact center of the hall, watched over by the slumbering knights.

Resting on what would have been the deceased’s chest another blue lantern, a mirror of Ivriel’s, threw piercing rays out over the smooth, dusty floor and seated languidly on his feet was a living figure who cast a long shadow, a sheet of parchment and smudged charcoal pencil in hand.

Galen greeted this figure in a voice hushed by the immensity of the funereal space around them, “Lieutenant-Commander Rancir.”

Aragorn’s first impression was this was not an elf to cross. He was rangy as a starved wolf with a long, dark mane trapped at his nape by a leather thong. The curve of his jaw underlit by the lantern was sharp-cut and stern. His features though as fair as any of the Eldar had a pinched, saturnine cast to them, bone-white instead of elven pale from lack of sun and a decent meal for several weeks. The solid dark cloth of his uniform made his face and visible hand oddly disembodied. He was left-handed, Aragorn noted idly.

Ivriel bent and spoke inaudibly to him. Aragorn couldn’t make out anything except his name and what might have been “trespassing” which didn’t sound very reassuring. The noble-looking elf nodded curtly and the woman backed away.

Exchanging a nervous fleeting look with Galen, Aragorn nodded for the elf-scout to speak first. Galen cleared his throat loudly but the elf didn’t so much as bat an eyelid, still tracing something on the parchment. “Sir, it’s good to—”

“You’re a bit late aren’t you, Galen?” He had a hoarse, rasping sort of voice that nonetheless carried a bark of authority startling in the eerie silence.

“Sorry, sir. I was detained.”

“So Ivriel tells me.” Lieutenant-Commander Rancir crossed something out with an irritated flourish, threw down the charcoal stick and stood up.

As hunched as he’d looked bent over, Aragorn noticed he was quite tall and straight as an oak. The ranger’s eyes drifted downward and his mouth fell slightly open in surprise. In the dim half light he hadn’t remarked it but now Aragorn saw the elf was left-handed because his right was gone. The navy tunic sleeve was folded up and pinned against the shoulder leaving nothing but empty space beneath the elbow. He had never seen an elf so maimed. It took him so completely by surprise he couldn’t help reacting.

Rancir’s eyes were bright and hard though the light in them appeared slightly jagged as he turned them on Aragorn who shut his mouth guiltily. “Is that how you greet a commanding officer?”

Aragorn snapped to a rigid attention that would have done the most hard-bitten officer proud. Raising his fingertips to his forehead and lips in salute, he sank into the courteous but proud bow of one leader acknowledging another.

Rancir nodded approvingly but a flash of astonishment lit briefly in his eyes. He returned the gesture. “The courtesy of Lindon. It has been a long, long time since I’ve been so treated.”

“I had good instructors of courtesy in the Lords of Rivendell and the House of the Golden Flower, sir.” Aragorn said, straightening.

“So, what Ivriel tells me is true. You are the fosterling of Lord Elrond and his house.”

“I have that proud honor, sir.” Aragorn’s brow furrowed slightly and he decided to ask the question that had been bothering him since he had recognized Ivriel’s uniform. “Forgive me, sir, I do not mean to slight you but I know most of the guard by name as well as rank and I do not recall seeing either you or yours before.”

“Nor I you. That would be because Ivriel, Lalaithien who you have yet to meet, and I do not ride with the regular patrol but keep watch in an inactive and useless outpost near the Bruinen outside the valley. No slight perceived, soldier. Where is Lalaithien anyway?” he shot this at Ivriel.

“How should I know?” she retorted, disregarding formal manner with an abruptness that shocked Aragorn—he guessed many did not dare speak so flippantly to the commander. “He went up the south slope this morning. I suppose you’ll want a report from him when he gets back?”

Rancir bore her reply with long-accustomed indifference. “Immediately.”

It was like talking to Haldir in the early days of their friendship. Aragorn fell easily into the rhythmic repartee of soldier and commander, thinking as he did so that the LĂłrien marchwarden would probably have gotten on with the strange Rancir. The distrustful atmosphere relaxed slightly and hands lingered away from weapons as Aragorn explained what had brought them up here.

Wondering what was taking their chief so long, the other rangers had gotten worried that something had happened. Halbarad led the way down the long aisle. The older ranger’s brow crinkled when he saw the elf sitting on a king’s tomb as though it were a common stool. The company stood in a protective semi-circle around Aragorn, looking as though they had just climbed out of a lake but prepared nevertheless to defend their leader.

“You were not sent for,” Ivriel told the ginger-haired warrior sternly.

“We’re not much for ‘being sent.’ ” Halbarad answered, ignoring Aragorn’s quelling look and addressing his words to the lieutenant-commander. “Whatever you have to say to our chief, you may say in front of us.”

The others looked embarrassed by this bold pronouncement. Angrad fiddled nervously with his cloak collar which flapped loose. His brooch was missing. Veil, too, hung towards the back, scrunching himself into as small a space as possible.

Rancir to his credit took no offense at the man’s impudence and kept his attention fixed on Aragorn who finished explaining their errand and how the storm had disrupted their hunt for the missing elves.

“There, at least, our purposes coincide,” Rancir leaned back against the stone tomb with a challenging glance at Halbarad. “Four of our company are still missing. We weren’t going to pack up and go home without them or without discovering what had become of them.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“By name and rank. Three of Rivendell: two scouts and a lieutenant, and the captain of LothlĂłrien whose sword you seem to carry,” Rancir’s probing eyes narrowed slightly at the saber hilt poking up out of Aragorn’s pack.

“He bequeathed it to me. He said it was too conspicuous where he was going.”

“An officer does not lightly relinquish his weapon. Why should he give it to you?”

“He had his reasons.”

“Oh? And yet you traipse about the countryside with it while he is missing...”

“I am going to return it to him.”

Halbarad had had enough. Already annoyed and now stung by this unfounded suspicion shown his chieftain, he bulled his way past Galen and Ivriel’s restraining clasp. Even sitting the elf commander was almost as tall but he planted his hands akimbo fearlessly.

“Listenif you think he stole the sword then say so and be done with it. You’d be dead wrong which only shows you’re dim as well as disrespectful.” He jerked his chin at the casket. “I somehow doubt these people fought and died so you could have a seat.”

Galen closed his eyes with a little, despairing moan. Ivriel leapt forward, her face stormy but Rancir held up his hand. He leveled his hard stare at the man until Halbarad’s eyes started to water with the effort of holding his gaze.

“These people,” the elf said at last, gesturing to the walls. “are of Rhudaur. Allies of Angmar and traitors to the DĂşnedain. They are not worth your self-righteous outrage.” He released Halbarad from his eyes and leveled his stare in Aragorn’s direction once more. “You are courteous, Chief of the DĂşnedain, but you need to instruct your men in it as well. I have slain men for words less proud and insolent seeing as you came unannounced bearing arms in the middle of the night.” A short-handled glaive, pointed at both ends, rested against the corner of the stone casket within the elf’s easy reach.

Aragorn grasped his friend by the scruff of his neck and hauled him backwards, warning him with a stern glance to keep his mouth shut and his comments to himself. “In truth, sir, we did not know this place was habited by the living and sought only shelter from the storm. I ask your pardon for any offense—Halbarad is simply bad-tempered and weary. Our road’s not been an easy one.” He was careful to keep eye-contact as the elf’s almost-black eyes bored into his own. He felt as though he were being tested or measured in some way and was anxious not to be found wanting.

“Hasn’t all of ours?” Rancir bent back over the parchment he had been examining. He perused it for a few minutes in silence before barking. “Galen, your compatriots are dripping all over my floor. Why do I still see them?”

That seemed to be the signal to relax. Ivriel shook her shoulders loose and Galen smiled weakly, a sign Aragorn took to mean they were welcome to stay at least the night.

The chieftain kept his grip on his friend’s collar as Ivriel led them out of the great hall. “Must you fight with every elf I introduce you too?”

Halbarad defended himself indignantly, yanking free. “I am not a child, leave off, Estel. He was nearly accusing you of thievery. Forgive me for telling him he was terribly mistaken.”

“I’m sure you convinced him by calling him dim and disrespectful.” Aragorn threw up his hands.

Halbarad had no argument to counter that and so held his peace.

Ivriel showed them a side room off the main burial chamber that held the king and his guards’ worldly possessions. “You can lay your things out in here to dry.”

It was a smallish square room, more comfortable than the large hall though a little stuffy, smoky and crowded when they all spread out. A veritable mini-arsenal of spears, swords, armor, and chests of clothes lined the walls and floors though much had been shifted around to make room for the gear the elves had brought with them.

Two rumpled sleeping rolls and one neatly made up a little further apart had been laid out in a corner alongside sagging haversacks. The Rivendell elves were hardly better off than their ranger counterparts. Orc activity and the need to stay hidden impeded their time and leisure to hunt though a pile of dead brushwood lay within the cool ashes of last night’s fire in a circle of stones. Ivriel skillfully kindled light and warmth within moments and with grateful sighs, the rangers spread their damp cloaks on the floor and huddled up close to the blaze.

They broke out their meager, water-damaged rations for a late supper while Ivriel scrounged about and mixed up a small batch of wheat and honey to make bannock. After pouring little splotches of the meal onto hot stones to cook, she placed a small kettle filled with rainwater over the fire to boil and with the ease of long practice chopped up little spring onions for a watery soup.

All sounds and thoughts of the storm raging outside vanished and the place, despite being a tomb, grew quite cheerful as the men joked and laughed amongst themselves now that there was a roof over their heads and warmth and food, however light, to look forward to. Aragorn remembered them back in the Last Homely House and a pang of longing shot through him. He wondered if Elladan and Elrohir were searching for him and if his father was desperately worried.

“Is it s-safe here?” Angrad asked, wringing a stream out of his tunic.

“Orcs fear this place,” Ivriel explained as she tasted the broth and added a couple of parsnips. “At least so far. We’ve been lucky. We’ve been here for weeks without trouble. Though our food stores are getting low,” she added almost as an afterthought.

“Do you know what’s happening? Where the others are?” Aragorn accepted the bowl she handed him gratefully.

Ivriel plucked the mildly toasted bannock cakes off the stone, “You’ll speak with Rancir on it later. I hope Lalaithien brings something back with him. We don’t have quite enough here for all of you.” She said it softly as though slightly embarrassed there wasn’t enough to go around.

“Don’t worry, we have—” Aragorn started to reassure her when a new voice interrupted.

“Hey ho, the nest! Soaked scout and harried hunter reporting back!” With this incredible pronouncement, a long-limbed elf ducked into the room from the opposite end where they’d entered, two brace of thrushes swung jauntily over one shoulder. His tunic of green-grey weave was several shades darker and his boots trailed mingled mud and rivulets. He halted theatrically short upon spying the DĂşnedain. “Hel-lo! We have company! And me not fit to dine with trolls,” he tisked at his decidedly un-presentable gear.

“At last, Lalaithien,” Ivriel greeted him with a roll of her eyes. “Figures you would turn up just in time for dinner.”

“Dinnertime, you say? I brought just the thing to add to—what are we having? Broth and bannock again. Excellent,” he tossed down his catch beside the fire and reached eagerly for one of the cooling bannocks only to have his hand slapped away by Ivriel’s spoon.

“Not yet you don’t. You owe a report.”

Lalaithien’s boyish features drooped into an almost comical pout as he rubbed his wounded hand. “Aw, Ivriel, he can wait a minute while I unstick my stomach from my backbone.” He noticed the rangers watching him warily and grinned. “I see you lot have all met Rancir then. Cheerful isn’t he?”

Aragorn grinned at the elf’s buoyant lightheartedness but Ivriel was adamant.

“Go. He hasn’t eaten anything for longer than you, you might as well fetch him.”

“But—that’s twenty minutes of him grilling me, another twenty minutes of me stalling him from grilling me, and I’m about to drop dead of exhaustion as is. I just can’t take him this late in the day and after suffering the bountiful hardships of Mother Nature all afternoon too so I could bring back dinner...” He managed to snag three of the cakes and started juggling them to keep from scorching his hands. He winked at the company.

Ivriel gave up and shook her head, muttering. “Dramatist. Fine. But don’t put it on my head when he harangues you.”

“Oh, I’ve been harangued so many times I’ve grown a hide of steel. Nothing can penetrate my thick skin.”

Ivriel poked him with her ladle. “If you drop any of that, you have to eat it.”

“Certainly, my lovely ladle-beater. Even eating it off the floor, it would still taste delectable if made by your hands,” Lalaithien replied, sending the bannocks even higher with a dexterous twist of his wrists. “Did you lot ever eat anything so deliciously prepared from nothing? She shames barrack rations.”

“Orc food would shame barrack rations,” she retorted dryly.

“Ah, but there is not an orc, dwarf, man or elf who could rival your culinary skills. Many a long patrol has been eased with a good meal and this one’s pretty face.”

Ivriel slapped his leg again almost making him lose his balance. “Base flatterer. Watch this one, all of you, he’ll charm the gold right out of your pockets—or the food out of your mouths.”

“That’s all right, m’am, we’ve no gold worth taking and he’d be hard-pressed to steal from our famine-stricken faces,” Eldacar said to rousing cheers of agreement.

Rancir’s long fingers swiped one of the pilfered cakes out of mid-air. The other two dropped with muffled flumps beside the fire as Lalaithien jerked in surprise. No one had seen him enter.

“This is why I don’t get my report, wastrel?” the commander growled low and dangerous as near thunder. He threw the bread-cake at his errant hunter’s feet with such a scathing flick the cooled meal crumbled like dried mud. “The reason Ivriel has to make something from nothing is because there is nothing to eat and if you have the brass nerve to treat starvation so lightly, you can go without. Again. Furthermore, you can dislodge one of our obliging neighbors in the chamber adjacent tonight: learn well what it feels like when you’ve squandered away your life since the very sight of you leeches away my patience. Now divest yourself of those mud-splattered rags you dare call a uniform and get that catch plucked and smoked before it spoils.”

Eldacar nipped sharpish out of his way as the commander swiveled on his heel, tearing his two-layered vambrace off with his teeth and flinging it carelessly aside as he stalked towards the neatly made bedroll.

An uncertain silence lingered among the men in the wake of this acerbic manifestation of displeasure. However, neither Ivriel’s nor Lalaithien’s expressions altered; for them it seemed the abusive diatribe was part of the evening’s expected—and even banal—routine.

Lalaithien feigned injury, a hand pressed to his heart. “By my honor, sir, I was on my way to report dutifully. Blame Ivriel. She said—nay demanded!—that I first recover strength with what little sustenance I could.”

The so-named scapegoat threw him a partially offended, more exasperated look. “I warned you. You didn’t listen! I used the last of the meal to make those.”

He smiled an apology and obediently swept up the spoiled bannocks. Stuffing one in his mouth for safekeeping, he reached for his birds. “Noffing to report, ’m afraid, sah. S’all quiet,” he said around the gluey cake.

“There’s no such thing and close your mouth. That’s repulsive,” Rancir hurled a clean tunic at him over the fire and extracted a flask out of one of the haversacks. But before he could do more than take an experimental swig, Ivriel plucked it gently out of his fingers and replaced it with a bowl with a bannock resting on the rim on him instead.

“Eat first.”

She tossed the flask at Aragorn who caught it bemusedly. “Something to stave off the chill.”

Rancir threw her an irritated look but dunked the bannock in the soup nevertheless. “Apparently I’ll have to wait upon Lalaithien’s whim the rest of the night for a flippin’ report.”

The younger elf heard the warning snap in his commander’s voice and relented. “All right, it’s not entirely quiet. Most of the guards skived off-duty to celebrate with various customs of mayhem and disorder. That battlemented south wall they’ve been working on all spring is almost done.”

“That’ll be a problem. You are sure there’s—”

In his excitement, Aragorn interrupted the commander. “You mean Fornost? You were there?”

“It’s not that far from here. Maybe half a day there and another half back,” Lalaithien shrugged and continued. “Well, there was some kind of hullabaloo around dark. Apparently some of the slaves almost escaped.”

“Almost?” Surprisingly it was Veil who spoke up, rubbing his scarred wrists.

Lalaithien smiled sadly. “Brave fools. They must have had someone damned bold with them to spring those cell locks. But the orc captain had them boxed in without their knowing. All those who rebelled are probably dead by now.”

“Not necessarily,” Rancir shook his head and laid aside his meal, his irritation with his subordinate temporarily forgotten in light of this information. “With the high death rate in the quarries and the need to refortify that wall…Slaves are too valuable for them especially now. They couldn’t execute the whole block.”

“Did you recognize any of them? Know any of their names?” Halbarad asked with a sharp glance at Aragorn. The rest of the company had gone quiet.

“Didn’t get around to asking their names. Next time I’ll be sure to along with their favorite food and color,” Lalaithien’s teasing softened when he saw the effect those words had on the company. He glanced at his elder officer. “It’s a delicate business. I didn’t get closer than the field outside the walls. Just heard a rumor of the fight.”

Aragorn leaned his head back against the wall. A thoughtful frown marred his brow. “What did you mean ‘next time?’ ”

Lalaithien pointed over his shoulder. “Rancir’s going to get us ins—”

His commander brusquely cuffed him alongside the head. “Close your mouth. You talk too freely among alleged friends as it is. Next time I ask for a report you will attend me not the other way around. I haven’t the energy for chasing you down.”

Lalaithien rubbed the back of his head. “The day you haven’t enough energy to chase me down, Commander, is the day I start to worry.”

“Hmph.”

The elf watched his elder’s face a minute then, apparently believing himself forgiven, ventured. “I don’t really have to oust one of our delightfully creepy neighbors out of his little niche do I? That’s bad form that, turning a man out of his bed.”

The commander’s reply was implacable. “One stone floor’s as good as another to them. They won’t mind.”

Lalaithien laughed with the company albeit a little uncertainly. “Lieutenant-Commander likes to have his little joke…You’re joking right? Rancir?”

Slowly elves and humans alike relaxed around one another and talked amongst themselves or their neighbors as the mouth-watering aroma of roasted thrush filled the small space. Aragorn sat on a natural form carved in the rock and propped his back against the wall, close to the fire but far enough away for easy thought.

As always, his thoughts turned first and foremost to Haldir. The news of the slaves’ near-escape had heartened him a little. There was still a chance his friend was alive… Every day weighed more and more heavily on his mind. Where was he right now? Was he fed, warm? Or alone, in pain? Was there someone to help him? With him? He glanced around at his men, red-faced and laughing in the dim light. Even Angrad sat closer to the others than usual.

Nearest him, Lalaithien crouched down beside Ivriel. “Old man went off on me a bit don’t you think?”

The elf woman didn’t look up as she wrung out a cloth she had soaked and heated in the newly filled kettle. She spoke barely moving her lips, her tone threaded with unusual tension. “His arm hurts.”

“His arm always hurts.”

“The damp chill makes it worse, you know that. Mind you though, you deserved it.”

The other elf caught Aragorn’s eye and gave him a rueful smile. “The favored are always punished.”

But the ranger was watching Ivriel as she rose and walked over to the figure of the commander who had stretched out on his bedroll with his forearm flung across his eyes. He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers as she crouched beside him. Aragorn pretended not to notice as she spoke softly and Rancir’s eyes darted in his direction. He looked hastily away and saw only out of the bare corner of his eye her unpin the tunic sleeve, rolling it up over the severed arm. The man unconsciously winced.

Where there should have been a wiry, muscled forearm and hand reflecting the left, there was nothing but a ragged lump of skin-encased bone crisscrossed with white scars. They were healed over but gruesome-looking, the relics of unimaginable damage. Thin, uneven scores almost like claw marks crawled up and vanished into his tunic collar.

Movements brisk and proficient, Ivriel pressed the damp, warm cloth against the puckered stump. Rancir’s eyelids flickered then drifted shut, his jaw slowly unclenching as he relaxed. He took the cloth out of her hands, still cradling his arm, and faced the wall.

“He’s a hero you know.” The confiding whisper belonged surprisingly to Lalaithien. For once, the elf’s merry face was sober as he followed the ranger’s line of sight.

Aragorn blinked hard, the firelight burning in his deep eyes. “Yes. I know a few of those.”
Notes:

Amon-en-Achas- "Hill of Dread;" That whole area along the Weather Hills was a bone of contention amongst the Dunedain and Angmar for years.

glaive—(as defined by Chris Smith The Lord of the Rings: Weapons and Warfare)A long spearlike weapon with a curved, single-edged blade at its end. I am assuming that Rancir, possessing the Eldar’s strength and time to master necessary skills, could wield such a short-handled version of this weapon one-handed. [A glaive is also an archaic name for a medieval sword according to the regular dictionary but the above definition fits better for what I have in mind

Author’s Notes: This was a quieter chapter, true, but there should be enough action in the next couple of chapters to keep even the most eager for bloodshed sated. At least, I hope so. As always, I love your comments! They enthrall and delight me, no matter how small.

The Lady of Light


Chapter 9 - Part Nine: When the Black Breath Blows

Author’s Notes: Argh! Back to school madness…Thus the reason this chapter is posted a tad later in the afternoon than I’d like. I hate keeping readers waiting.

And yet I’ll make you wait for a couple of warnings first. This is where things are going to start getting really gritty. There will be torture later on. A NazgĂ»l doesn’t skimp. So, those tender-hearted among you might wish to use caution in proceeding. It will still, however, retain a PG-13 rating.

If you notice inconsistencies in regards to earlier chapters, I’ve altered a few things here and there—small things that don’t directly affect the storyline but just in case you notice.

Dedication: This chapter is humbly attributed to Noelnoel who, despite her reservations, is an enthralling conversationalist and bestower of excellent ideas. The first half of this chapter was altered for the better because of her brilliance.

Part Nine

When the Black Breath Blows

Parents’ greatest heartache is the loss of their children, Lord Elrond reflected with attempted detachment as he stared out at the dripping eaves. The same storm that moved over the Weather Hills smothered Imladris in roiling cloud though the night was far more advanced. Lightning crackled over the pinewoods, bathing the valley in garish brilliance and the rain echoed through cavernous, empty rooms.

However, the foul weather suited the valley’s master perfectly. He did not often give himself over to anxiety and the ache of worry knowing that such feelings would grow the more you fed them and eventually paralyze you with a terrible indifference to everything else. As keeper of a vast number of lives, he couldn’t afford that. Until rain stopped the valley’s inner workings of course and the house was too quiet to be busy.

With a swift, almost desperate motion, the elf-lord flung open the long windows that faced across the courtyard. A light spray on his brow, he stared towards the mist-shrouded gates as though expecting to see an array of horsemen cantering through it, droplets scattering over their leather pauldrons. But the road was deserted and tranquil save for the puddles rippling constantly on the walkways. An uneven dip in the courtyard had become a miniature reflection of the Bruinen as it snaked down towards the gardens.

Anyone with any sense would be well under cover tonight. Except for one person who hurried past his window wrapped in a voluminous cloak and leaning on a very familiar-looking pace stick. Distracted from his brooding, Elrond curiously edged the window wider.

“Sadron, what on earth are you doing out there?”

The figure swiveled on his heel, water streaming off his back and shoulders in tiny waterfalls. He shrugged the cloak rather uselessly up around his neck. “Do you mind if I get inside first, my lord? It’s a little damp out here.”

“Of course, of course.”

“We were out of comfrey and willow bark,” Sadron explained when Elrond met him at the kitchens’ back entrance stripping off his sopping garment and trailing loose grass blades and rivulets from his boots. “I had to nip out to the garden.”

“At this time of night? Surely that could wait until morning,” Elrond said, bemused. “Or at least until the rain ceased.”

“No, it very well could not, my lord,” Sadron snapped, shaking his saturated hair out of his eyes. He limped heavily over to the table and upended a small leather pouch wound about his waist. Wisps and shavings of the aforementioned plants tumbled out.

Elrond stood back and watched him in curious silence as he mashed the ingredients together, pulverizing them into a fine powder until the kettle placed on the fire whistled loudly. He knew better than to interrupt. Sadron when it was raining was even more formidable than usual since the intensified pain in his leg made him far less patient.

So he meekly sipped the tea thrust into his hands and let it warm him all the way through. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until the soothing liquid released his taut muscles. For the first time since Estel had left, he felt sweet calm seeping into his heart.

Sadron tossed a dishcloth over the puddle in the doorway, his expression much more amicable as his lord sighed and sat down at the long table. He tossed his stick on the table, took a seat opposite and stretched his leg out with a soft groan.

“I have never been very adept at waiting.”

The servant smiled patiently. “You worry for them—all of them—but this is bordering on unhealthy if you’ll excuse the observation, my lord.”

“You always speak freely with me, my friend. Whether I wish you to or not so I will not gainsay you,” Elrond rubbed his face and said into the soft silence of the kitchen, “All my sons are gone, Sadron.”

“Glorfindel will keep those twins of yours in line. They’ll bring Estel and that cabinet-breaker back safe and sound. You’ll see.”

“If I could ride out with them--”

“You would still not be able to keep them from harm and you are needed here,” his servant reminded him with his usual austerity. “And you won’t do anyone, especially your sons, any good if you fret and waste away before the windows. I made sure they had provisions enough to keep a regiment on their feet for a year and enough bandages and medicinal herbs for ten.”

“I pray they will not need them.”

They subsided into silence watching lightning flicker silver-hued over the copper pots. Sadron set his mug down with a gentle clink to recall his lord’s attention. “One grey wanderer at least would have your counsel at this appalling hour if you cannot find peace of mind enough to rest. Though if he insists upon smoking that foul self-poisoning instrument in this house I must insist we at least cover the furniture. Goodness knows ash has already burned a hole in—”

“Yes, yes, Sadron, all right. Mithrandir is a guest here and therefore allowed his little quirks,” Elrond smiled, patting his servant’s arm consolingly. He knew his old friend was trying to distract him and, fortunately, it was working. “I shall try not to worry. There is plenty to do here to take my attention. You are right. As usual.”

“One of my many talents, my lord.”

Elrond rose but before leaving cast a sideways, measuring glance at his companion. He knew well the relaxant qualities in the tea and his servant’s uncanny talent of guessing when they were needed most. “You went out into the middle of a raging thunderstorm for two plants though there are plenty of other tea stocks in this house?”

“I had a taste for comfrey.”

----------

Aragorn was a light sleeper. He woke suddenly with the oily, dry taste of sleep in his mouth and the echo of thunder in his ears. At first he couldn’t remember where he was; he had dreamt of home. Memory sharpened when he spotted the weapons resting against the walls and the motionless, lumpy forms of his men barely picked out by the fire’s dying embers.

His eyes fell on Halbarad first who lay near the wall, snoring loud enough to compliment any thunder-growl. Annoyed at being thus woken and unable to go back to sleep, Aragorn sat up and drew his dry cloak around himself. Tomorrow, he would have a long talk to Halbarad about sleeping outside the camp…far outside the camp.

But he was not the only one awake. Angrad lay huddled up in the corner, staring at the far wall.

“Can you not sleep?” Aragorn asked kindly. The man’s eyes jolted up at the sound of his soft voice. He shook his head.

“The f-fire went out.”

Aragorn wasn’t sure if it was the lack of warmth or the lack of light that bothered the younger ranger and thought it less upsetting to not ask so he settled for poking the last bits of dry wood into the embers which sizzled and popped.

When a flicker of flame reappeared, Angrad scooted closer and asked suddenly. “D-do you think the p-people buried here were noble, sir? Like the b-barrows of Amon SĂ»l?”

“Perhaps only among their own ranks. They betrayed their king, Angrad.”

“The king of Arthedain was not the k-king of Rhudaur. It was not b-betrayal—if one were t-to look at the situation through their eyes,” he explained when Aragorn raised his eyes sharply. “Halbarad always s-says ‘know your enemy—especially the p-parts of him you don’t s-see.’ Actually he has a lot of s-sayings like that.”

Aragorn smiled less sourly at his snoring adjutant. “Well, I’m glad he has his uses.”

“The p-people of Rhudaur must have fought for s-something they b-believed in? Some c-cause we d-didn’t understand. M-maybe it was just as n-noble as ours and we just c-couldn’t accept it b-because they were the en-enemy. They were slaughtered for no reason other than ignorance.” His eyes keened like razors in the dark, fastened on Aragorn almost hungrily. The chief’s seemingly endless knowledge of history and old legends had been a source of wonderment and increasing interest for the youngest ranger. Aragorn had found a good listener in him.

The older man shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about it. “It’s possible. But anyone who allies themselves with Angmar…”

”M-must have hated someone else m-more.”

“Hate is never a good motive. Those who treat with evil and with evil intent are often treated with evil in their turn.”

“How can you b-be sure of who is evil and who is n-not?” Angrad asked quietly after a moment. “The W-witch-king is a sorcerer, yes? He can c-con…damage the m-minds and s-souls of others to suit his purposes? We sh-should be wary of those we c-can’t trust.”

Aragorn’s skin crawled. He knew who Angrad thought they should be wary of. Veil’s bedroll was empty. And oddly so were their hosts’.

A blue light brighter than their meager fire shone on the wall from the doorway that led into the great hall. Leaving Angrad to his thoughts, he climbed to his feet and paused in the shadows of the threshold when he heard soft voices.

Rancir, Lalaithien and Ivriel stood near the expansive vault upon which a long piece of parchment lay. Veil was poking around the wide niches, peering beneath shrouds and sneaking interested sidelooks at the elves.

“You are sure of this?” Rancir questioned him with a raised brow.

“It’s how I got out.” He touched the hilt of a jeweled sword lying at a warrior’s feet. It was notched at the tip. “That little line leads right down into the lower halls. It’s risky but it’ll take you right under the battlements on the north side. I’m guessing it was made by the king’s guards as a last resort if the city was ever taken—lucky them, eh?—though they might have sealed it up by now.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Rancir traced a line on what must have been some kind of map thoughtfully.

“Ah, this is much better than a sickle shard,” Veil hefted the broken sword and swung it experimentally.

“The people interred here died of plague you know.”

Veil hastily replaced his pilfered weapon and wiped his hands nervously on his trousers.

Ivriel still had her eyes on him while she questioned the younger elf standing next to her. “You are certain you saw the LothlĂłrien captain, Lalaithien?”

Aragorn caught his breath and strained to hear.

The addressed chewed his lip then said, “Had to be didn’t it? All of ours were dark-haired and he was fair. Definitely an elf though. He did things with a javelin I’ve never seen. He certainly gave that orc patrol a run for their lives and he almost could have had them save that treacherous one grabbing the girl to hold him off. That’s bad though isn’t it—if he’s still alive?” He looked uncertainly at his commander.

Rancir’s thumb and smallest finger which had been absently drumming the parchment stopped. “Probably.”

“Why?” Veil wanted to know. “You know one of ‘em’s alive at least. That should be good.”

“Because once they find out he’s a high-ranking officer, they’ll sweat him. And hard too. He’ll know things very valuable to the enemy: number of defenders, hidden caches of weapons, last eventualities…All of which would be disastrous for the Enemy to learn.”

Aragorn went cold inside. Disastrous for the Enemy to learn. He hadn’t thought of that. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen him?” He spoke before he remembered the elves didn’t know he was there.

All four of them started at the sound of his voice and Aragorn allowed a brief surge of pride before he clamped down on it with a questioning frown.

Rancir recovered first. “For the same reason you did not tell us you had one who had been to Fornost among you.”

Aragorn stared at Veil. “I didn’t know.”

The attention clearly made the other man uncomfortable because he dropped his eyes to the skeleton in front of him.

“You might have told us you were familiar with orcs too.” Aragorn stepped into the chamber, his eyes hard and challenging.

“Familiar?” Veil’s eyes snapped up to the chieftain’s face, looking him straight in the eye. “They ripped my entire village apart when they came in, burning everything. Setting houses alight. Slew everyone we knew. Did worse to those they didn’t. Like my wife…” His voice broke. “Sure. I’m familiar with orcs.”

“How did you escape?” Aragorn asked, hushed, his eyes softening slightly seeing the horror in the man’s eyes.

“I didn’t. We were all chained together and taken back to Fornost. Even my little girl. She’s ten with the brightest hair. The first few days in the quarry were so bad I can’t remember them. Heatstroke got to me or something. I couldn’t remember my name afterwards. ‘Veil’ stuck. Seemed better to forget what had been because remembering the good in your life hurts worse when you have nothing to look forward to.”

“But you did escape,” Rancir said. Aragorn started. He’d almost forgotten the others were in the room.

“Death rates are high in the quarries. It wasn’t hard to find something to hide under for a few hours until it got dark. See these scars on my wrists? Rats found me but I never moved. Never screamed. I had to leave my Henna with Sayna, my wife’s sister—her little girl was too young to survive the march in chains. Do you know what it’s like to leave your sobbing child clinging to her aunt’s arm in that hellish place, knowing you might die trying to come back for her? Or even if you do somehow manage it, how long is a child supposed to survive in…?

“That’s why I was getting weapons from those elves. They didn’t need them, I did. I figured they wouldn’t begrudge me it. I’m not lying,” he’d been watching Aragorn’s face closely.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Veil sneered, contempt glittering bright in his eyes. “But you don’t trust me either. You’d rather listen to your men. Every one of them loyal to the core.” He stalked away, yanking his sleeve down over his scars as he thrust past.

Aragorn stared after him long after he disappeared into the dark.

----------

Sheets of rain lashed the tall windowpanes and threw a wavering, silvery light over the dusty, red-gold carpet. Something, indistinct to the naked eye, shifted before the window like a shadow or a heat wave. Black robes draped a moth-eaten chair beside a sword and belt. Only here, in the sanctity of what had been the King of Arnor’s chambers, did the Witch-king feel comfortable revealing himself in his entirety as he truly remained in this world.

One who had power against the Unseen would have discerned a ragged king strong but withered with age and evil, wrapped in grey shroud-like robes and resting wasted fingers on the windowledge. Two luminous and hypnotic eyes gazed into his from the reflection of the window.

The Lord of Angmar had been a cruel man in life and after more than twenty three centuries under the Dominion of the Shadow he had grown still greater and crueler. The ring on his right forefinger glinted with no visible lighting in the room. This precious gift from his master long ago had augmented his already-dangerous strength. As it was, his victory was sure to come easily. The kings who had opposed him of old in the days of Fornost’s glory were dead and broken and none of their ilk remained in this part of the world. The elf-lords were small and driven into hiding in their supposedly secure refuges. His lord would burn them out in due time. Once he declared himself openly, the lands would be swept away on a tide of war.

Visions of conquest and bloodshed, of the horrible vengeance he would wreak on the elves and men who still dared defy his master consumed his thoughtful mood. They believed themselves safe, the elf-lords holed up in their refuges west of the mountains. Long he and his fellow wraiths had been drawing more and more of the west under their control as far as Mirkwood’s great forest. If the Dark Lord could but stretch out his hand as far north as he once had, nothing—not even the remnants of the DĂşnedain—could withstand him.

But the time to reveal such intentions had not yet arrived. That was why he had pursued a single elf, his horse and message halfway across the country, hoping to prevent any warning of his arrival back into the north. Now suspicious, the elves had sent more. Well, he would deal with them in good time and any others who dared oppose he and his Lord. Like the elf.

A lipless smile curved the invisible mouth. It had been a long, long time since he had had an elf within his power and an officer of the Sorceress in the Golden Wood no less. The Witch-king whose shapeless grasp had nearly gouged the stone in his agitation and verve relaxed with pleasure. Yes, it wouldn’t be long now. He would pull the elf under his sway whether he wished it or not.

Whirling suddenly from the window, the Witch-king, filled with new purpose, pulled the black robes over his powerful shoulders and retrieved a delicately shaped vial from a chest. As a mighty sorcerer he had great power and influence over lesser minds and weaker wills though Elves remained difficult to bend. The poison in the vial, one of his own making, laid the mind open to his influence, susceptible to suggestion. It was half-empty.

Even the most despicable of his followers shrank back at his passing.

----------

Haldir’s head slumped forward. His drenched hair, long tangled from its braids, swept his cheeks like a wet net and clung to the wounds inflicted on his bare chest. His shoulders were wrenched up at an uncomfortable angle as his keepers dragged him roughly down the stairs he had no strength to attempt.

Despite the Witch-king’s “mercy” the elf had not been easily forgiven his little escape attempt. With their master’s express orders to inflict no permanent damage, the orcs punished him soundly. They performed admirably and did everything within their power to stay just shy of the permanent-damage line.

Time had ceased to mean anything to him. Hours…days…when his current guards grew tired of subjecting him to new and inventive ways to cause him discomfort, others took their place. Haldir prided himself that he had not yet given them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out though—except perhaps where he had no control, in the fleeting moments when he slept.

His chin bumped against his collarbone as they halted before a rough-hewn door and one of his guards released him, leaving red crescent marks imprinted on the scored shoulders. Haldir didn’t look up; he knew well enough where he was. He heard the keys jangle in the lock and then the other pair of hands returned.

They dumped his body on the cold, flagstone floor of his cell and left him there. They knew he was too weak to need chaining. Though his draggled hair itched along his neck, Haldir didn’t move until the iron-shod feet slouched well away down the corridor, echoing and reverberating inside his pounding skull. Beads of sweat and water mingled with something reddish and rolled down his back as he dragged himself slowly, painfully into the corner farthest from the door.

He had explored the small cubby-hole that comprised his cell top to bottom in the early days of isolation. Barely the size of a broom cupboard it contained nothing but smooth, impenetrable walls and a waste bucket. The darkness overlapped like a second skin on his damp one, hot and stifling. He could feel it seeping in, gaining a grip that was harder and harder to shake off every day.

His extensive training had prepared him for torture, for possible methods his captors might inflict on him. He had held up fairly well, he thought. But he had been completely unprepared for the times he was left alone which had become oddly frequent of late: silence was his enemy as surely as pain was.

Detaching himself from the latter had worked for awhile, however, the lingering, narcotic effect of looking through the eyes of someone else was dangerous in that it made him ignore the danger signals. Three of his ribs had already been broken by the orcs’ rough treatment. He’d only just reset them with his fingertips and they’d felt stiff and clicked awkwardly back into place as if they’d been broken some time ago without his knowledge.

The silence pressed harder.

In the beginning when he still had the strength to be defiant and foolish, he tried singing or humming though he had never had much of a voice: too rough from millennia of shouting commands (one of his lieutenants had once remarked his singing had a certain quality to it—like the boughs of an oak creaking, discordant but comforting). It infuriated Critz and his men. After the punishment that evoked, he never did it again. Guards paced the corridors outside his door but they were infrequent and odd-houred. Other than their heavy tread, he heard nothing and saw no one until those off-duty decided they had need of entertaining.

He leaned his back against the coarse stones of his cell, the only place that was mildly safe in so far that the orcs had to take nearly two steps more to get to him than if he stayed by the door. His side ached dully; one of his ribs might have unset itself while he had been dragged down the stairs. His mouth tasted like steel and the filthy rag they’d shoved in it.

He wanted to curl up and not think, he wanted to sleep and never wake. But worst of all, he wanted to escape. That thought he firmly quashed, grinding that tiny blossom of hope ruthlessly into the dust of his cell. He couldn’t start that: if he started hoping it would drive him mad when he was disappointed. Ever since he’d seen the rayed star in the Witch-king’s hand, heard the name “DĂşnedain” treacherous hope had blossomed in his mind.

But Estel couldn’t—mustn’t—come. Not for him. Not for any reason. He had to stay safe; he had to stay where the shadow couldn’t reach him. Estel must not come.

In spite of his best intentions, a selfish voice deep in the part of his mind that still felt pain reared up: why couldn’t he? Had he not proven his friendship to the young human more than once in their journeys together? Did he really think Estel wouldn’t come for him as soon as the ranger discovered him missing? The answer was no. Estel would come in an instant if he knew. And part of the marchwarden hated himself for hoping Estel would at least try. He shouldn’t. He can’t.

Torn in mind, exhausted by the suffocating darkness and the lead weight of despair crushing his heart, Haldir lay flat, his cheek against the filthy stone floor.

Estel must not come.

But even those words eventually petered into empty meaning; and the walls ground close about him suffocating him just as surely as his jailers had done with the saturated cloth poured over nose and mouth; he buried his face deeper into the cradle of his arms so he wouldn’t have to see the walls even though the very action enclosed him in a nearly-as-impassable cage. He couldn’t break free of his own flesh. Not yet.

He rolled over again, unable to keep still but having little enough strength to move. It wasn’t only his ribs that made his side burn. The old wound Aragorn had tended so diligently in Rivendell what seemed like a lifetime ago had been viciously reopened, the stitches plucked mercilessly and methodically out. A black substance clung to the exposed skin.

A shadow deeper than the current blackness crept over him as time passed and engulfed more than just his sight; it stripped away bits and layers of his life. He found himself struggling to remember people’s faces and places he’d traveled which had served well as a distraction when the orcs played with him.

His head jerked up when hard nails dug into his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard the door open. His guards were back and they leered at him in the light of a tallow candle.

“Shrieker wants you, snaga.”

They man-handled him down a dim-lit corridor until they reached a door flanked by torches. Just glimpsed through the doorway, a rough-hewn wooden table dominated a small room.

Haldir knew that table too well and, despite the weakness threatening to overtake him, he dug in his heels and resisted the orcs’ grasp until Critz, coming up behind, struck his knees out from under him. They wrestled him through the doorway and with difficulty strapped him down: wrists, ankles and a smooth, metal bar across his chest to stop him torquing so hard, he’d break his wrists. The table was even bolted to the floor to keep him from overturning it.

It was impossible for the windowless cell to be any darker but the wraith made it so as he glided through the doorway. “Well, Captain, we begin again.”

His side throbbed in response to the chilling coldness, worse because of his damp skin but Haldir made no reply and continued to stare at the dark ceiling. He knew it was fairly useless to struggle. He could sense the Witch-king’s presence even if he couldn’t see him. The wraith hovered close to his head.

“It will be much easier for you if you simply say it. I can always give you back to my servants if you feel you would rather not. I will ask you again,” this had been a repeated ritual over the last few weeks. “Who do you serve?”

“The lord and lady of LothlĂłrien.” The reply was prompt though hoarse.

The wraith hissed angrily. He was not pleased. By rights the elf should have broken days ago. Furious, he groped towards his prisoner. The sharpened, iron glove brushed over bruises and broken ribs and halted above the open, filth-crusted wound.

Haldir braced. He knew what was coming by now. His body had been the first to give up when the Witch-king began his ‘treatment’ in an effort to break him. He couldn’t stop himself from vomiting, screaming, finally passing out…

The worst of it though was he couldn’t prevent himself from sinking. The longer he stayed here, the more ground he lost: pieces of himself broke away every time the wraith touched him. The sorcerer uncorked the vial filled with a viscous black substance, like a moonless night made liquid. Laving the tip of his spiked glove with it, he inserted the deadly tip into the open wound, widening and deepening it even as he thrust his substantial will against the barricade of the elf’s mind. Thick, ugly and shockingly crimson blood pooled over the wooden grain and dripped onto the floor.

All thoughts of Estel, of escape, of life and duty wiped instantly away on a tide of flickering black. The dark rushed through his veins, drowning out his thoughts and even the reverberations of his own screams. Violent visions flashed across his mind’s eye with the vividness of reality: the broken bodies of elves on the threshold of the Last Homely House… the charred skeletons of mellyrn… a hanging man whose face had been half-ripped away and whose rayed star brooch clung to his cloak by all but a thread. There’s nothing left…the noxious, familiar voice hissed in his ear. All gone…all dead…

Sweat poured off the elf’s face even more freely than the water just moments ago. His chest heaved as he fought to deny the horrible thoughts twisting themselves into sense in his head. He had to keep fighting, keep fighting…keep fighting what? The stone wall of his will behind which he desperately crouched began to crumble as one greater than his thrust unbearable pressure against it. Poisonous, coercive words seeped through the cracks like a deadly gas. If it was all gone, why keep fighting?

The pain will stop if you stop fighting, coaxed the voice Haldir could no longer tell apart from his. Just stop. Stop. It will end.

The Witch-king could tell it was working. The elf’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and his limbs shook so hard one of the guards edged closer to make sure the cuffs still held. Even Critz had gone quiet to watch.

The blackness in the chamber spread as the wraith pressed ever harder, sensing victory. When his victim went silent and the muscles finally stopped spasming save for a slight reactive quiver, he withdrew. One of the guards stuck two fingers under the sweat-streaked jaw against the elf’s neck and nodded.

The lord of Angmar bent low over the deathly white form, close to the gently tipped ear, and whispered in an almost caressing voice. “Who do you serve?”

The elf’s eyes opened. The adamantine silver was cloudy as if cobwebs drew across them. He spoke without inflection as he answered,

“You, my lord.”

Satisfied at last, the Witch-king chuckled and with several, deft flicks, unfastened the restraints. “Rise.”

The elf did so, his face blank and utterly bloodless. He stood straight as though the pain of his many wounds no longer held any sway over him. The wraith liked what he saw. His new slave was powerful and strong but a test was needed…

“Slave.” Haldir’s head tilted upwards slightly. “Do you see that?”

The wraith indicated one of the guards standing near the doorway. The elf turned his eyes thither and nodded once.

“Kill it.”

The orc glanced at his master with something like surprise then it bared its fangs and drew a black-edged scimitar with easy confidence. Stalking forward another pace, it faced the unarmed elf who still stood calmly in the center of the room beside the table.

The Witch-king moved back to observe. He had grown acquainted with his captive these last couple of weeks—the elf would never have done anything the wraith requested, even kill one of his tormentors. But not now. Now, he could not refuse.

The orc lunged, swinging the blade like a cleaver; there was little space to maneuver and his blow would chop the elf in two. The sword thudded deep into the wood grain where his intended quarry had been a split second earlier. Before the orc had time to pull his weapon free, a sharp blow numbed him from shoulder to wrist and his hand slid off the hilt. Another close-fisted strike sent him staggering back. With a shriek of splintering wood, the sword wrenched free and swung just once. The orc’s body flopped backward over the table, its head thudding under it.

Task completed, the elf lowered the dripping blade and stood to attention, eyes staring straight ahead, focusing on nothing. The Witch-king laughed, coldly pleased. He turned to his lieutenant.

“Critz, my spies tell me the DĂşnedain have crawled into a den not far from here. I want you to find them and kill them. All of them.” He stoppered the vial of black liquid and slipped it beneath his voluminous robes.

“The rains probably washed all signs away. How are we going to find them, sire?”

“You have one of the Eldar at your disposal. Improvise.” The wraith’s black robes slithered along the ground as he swept towards the doorway. He paused beside the unmoving figure. “Slave, your lord has work for you.”
Author’s Notes: I’ve been packing and heavy-lifting all day. A review would make me stretch the kinks out of my shoulders, neck, back, arms and legs, do a couple cartwheels of ecstatic joy and write the next scene.

Best,

The Lady of Light


Chapter 10 - Part Ten: Into the Teeth

Author’s Notes: I am utterly flabbergasted by the amount of response I got from the last chapter. Not to mention delighted. I feel quietly incredulous that so many fascinating, thoughtful people take moments from their lives to stare at words on a computer screen for ten—fifty + minutes (depending on how fast you read) every week.

To my two anonymous reviewers: timberWolf07 and rosie cotton who I was not able to contact, if you’re still reading thank you so very kindly for your beautiful words. (Rosie—that is the very first time any reviewer has ever told me that. I take your comment as the high compliment it is.)

All right, enough palaver. This chapter’s a nice, lengthy one. Oh, the trouble our heroes get into… All translations of elvish or rare words follow the end of the chapter.

The Lady of Light

Part Ten

Into the Teeth

Dried hemlock crackled under his boot heels and the white flowers brushed the top of his head as Aragorn crouched in a tall clump of the herb. The rain had passed them by weeks ago, day after day of scorching sun leaping eagerly up behind until the grass yellowed and shriveled. Disregarding the wavering foliage and sweat sliding down his temple, his eyes fixed through the bright glare on the road winding about the wooded foot of the hill until he located what he sought.

Indistinct dark shapes moved below him, taking advantage of the thick shade offered by the copse flanking either side of the path. Their bent, knobbly forms and bandy-legged lope identified them immediately. They were but a small percentage of the menace he had espied of late.

Edging closer, Aragorn pursued his lips and led off a short series of sharp birdlike notes. He was soon answered. Using every bumpy tussock and shrub for cover, he crept down the slope from whence the reply had come. When he came level with an oak a couple yards back from the road a small acorn lightly struck his shoulder. He glanced up.

Barely visible behind a screen of green leaves, Galen pointed, mouthing. “Scouts.”

Judging by the way they swaggered up the road with weapons still sheathed, the orcs clearly expected to meet nothing. If they had known more than fifteen armed rangers and four elves shadowed them on either side of the path, they might have proceeded more warily.

A humidity laden breeze ruffled the tops of the oaks and teased Aragorn’s sweat-drenched hair over his shoulders. One of the orcs stopped, its nostrils widening. It muttered something to its companion and began to draw its blade.

Leaves crackled with too-late alarm as a black shadow dropped. Rancir’s steel-tipped boot smashed the right-hand scout’s jaw and neatly snapped his neck. The other, at the sight of rangers breaking from cover, turned to flee only to find Halbarad’s sword cleaving down between his eyes.

“Quick. Get them off the path,” the dark-haired elf rose swiftly from the deep crouch he’d landed in and scanned the road to make sure the little disturbance hadn’t been noted. The woodlands were still as ever.

Grabbing up one of the scout’s arms, Aragorn couldn’t help feeling a trifle disappointed for having missed the action. His sword hand itched for something to do. This was the first time the DĂşnedain had been allowed out of the barrows in nearly a fortnight after receiving word of orc movements which Lalaithien’s frequent forages had given them early warning of. They were being hunted.

“They were following the same path as the two yestereve,” Galen remarked, leaping down from his perch. “Their main encampment must be nearby.”

“Lot of good that does us,” Halbarad muttered.

While accustomed to a certain amount of subterfuge, the DĂşnedain generally disliked stalking their prey from the shadows; and this seemingly endless game of hide-and-seek was beginning to take its toll on them.

Halbarad, as usual, spoke aloud what the others only hesitated to venture, “I still don’t see why we can’t go after the rest of them. These two went down easy and between you four,” he indicated the elves. “And us, we ought to make a pretty good fight of it.”

“Because too rash a move now will yield us up that advantage and spill unnecessary blood,” Rancir who had fielded more than one of these arguments—particularly in the least few days—told him with a bite of impatience. “Can you be sure one won’t escape our net and go back to warn whoever his master is? No. We have to wait; we have to be cautious.”

“We’ve been waiting—” Halbarad started.

“And you’ll keep doing so until I say otherwise—”

“Estel is my captain, not you.”

“I agree with them, sir.”

With an arm half-outstretched to caution Halbarad, Aragorn glanced at Ivriel in surprise. She didn’t seem like the kind to disagree with her commander. Indeed, Rancir was frowning at her.

“We cannot hide forever,” she reasoned, unperturbed by his stare. “Eventually, a scout’s going to get too close. Even if we kill him, they will guess where we lay hid eventually. I think we should bring the fight to them.”

“Besides,” Lalaithien offered his opinion. The elf was nearly invisible in his dun and green weave leaning against an old sycamore. “Sergeant Mithrion and the others are probably having all the fun giving the orcs a hard time. They’re going to rag us mercilessly when we catch up to them—think we got lost.”

“Insubordination is it?” Rancir tilted a flask to his lips, eyeing those still remaining under his command with a kind of resignation. Once he’d cleared his throat of dust, he conceded ungraciously. “Fine. You want to chase after them, go on. If you get yourselves killed, don’t expect me to mourn you.”

“Oh, you’re such a grouch. But you can’t fool us. We know you’d cry buckets over our biers. Wouldn’t you, Camlost?” Lalaithien clapped him amiably on the back, eliciting a grunt from the older soldier.

Rancir’s hand shot out and snatched a fistful of his tormentor’s hair like a vise. “I have asked you before not to call me that—a better one than I owned that name—I will not answer to it. You will address me with the respect accorded my rank,” he released him roughly.

The miscreant staggered away rubbing his scalp and pulling a face behind his elder’s back.

“Your face is going to stick like that, Lalaithien, if you’re not careful,” Rancir remarked without looking round and the younger elf grinned.

“Don’t get yourselves killed; we don’t want to have to save your skins too,” Aragorn advised with a teasing smile. Lalaithien saluted dutifully.

Rancir leveled a strangely thoughtful glance in Aragorn’s direction before switching it to Ivriel. “I’ll expect you back before mid-night with news.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll make sure they stay out of trouble shall I?” Galen offered with a smile as he jogged after them. Like him both Ivriel and Lalaithien bore the standard rapier of the Imladris guard. Swift as wraiths, they vanished into the woodlands.

Rancir sighed and watched the path they’d taken for a moment. A disturbing grimace of distaste that was almost a snarl twisted his lips as he glanced down at the slain scouts. “All right. We’ve got work to do. Let’s get these back home.”

Less than a breath later nothing stirred but dappled leaf-shadows swirling over the path.

----------

Nightfall found Aragorn pacing restlessly. Having little else to occupy his energies these last two weeks, he had explored every cavern of the barrows until he knew each crevice and dip in the stone even in the dark. Inactivity itched on the back of his neck like a pestilence. For want of fresh air, he climbed to the top of Amon-en-Achas.

The muggy evening air blew over the bare skin of his face and forearms like blood, hot and wet and thick. Amon-en-Achas stood alone and a little removed from the main chain of the Weather Hills. Rocky and bald, it offered a peerless view of the lands all around. Aragorn circled its perimeter, careful of his footing as he picked his way over the uneven surface. Reaching a steep edge, he slowed cautiously. If he narrowed his eyes he thought he could discern a red glow and caught an imagined whiff of cooking fires from the copses in the distance.

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t know this place blindfolded the way you’ve been stalking all over it.”

Aragorn’s eyes traced the rippling curve of the oak grove they’d left earlier, pinpoints of orange and red flickering in and out of his vision. One eyebrow quirked mildly. “ ‘Stalking?’ ”

“Like a caged wolf.”

Halbarad came up beside him and followed his gaze. “I know you don’t like having to stay cooped up in here.”

“I’m sick of sitting on my hands.”

“I know.”

“At least you’ve had the chance to do something…” Now that Halbarad had opened the channel Aragorn was willing to expunge some of the bitterness and helplessness that had been plaguing him. “It’s been too long, Halbarad. We’ve lingered here too long.”

“I know how you feel, Estel, but…”

“No, I don’t imagine you do,” Aragorn said very quietly. He could barely see the other’s face but he could guess.

Halbarad shut his jaw with a snap then said semi-stiffly, “I had my disagreements with him…but I would not see him in the hands of orcs any more than you would. Do you think he’s still alive?” the grizzled ranger asked, attempting to sound casual and failing.

“He has never given me up for dead. I won’t give up until I see his body.”

“Fair enough. You should eat something though and then rest. I haven’t seen you take a meal all day. And I know you haven’t been sleeping—”

Estel exhaled heavily through his nose to cut across his companion. “I am hoping you had another purpose to coming up here than nagging me like your wife.”

“Galen is back with the others.”

“Why didn’t you say that instead of chattering about food and rest?”

Clutching a stitch in his side, he bolted into the main burial chamber just as Ivriel came out of the side room where the rest of the DĂşnedain were eating, closely followed by Galen and Lalaithien. They looked harried and colored with dust but exhilarated.

“What…news?” Aragorn panted.

“Where’s Rancir? He’s not in the other room,” Ivriel asked.

“Disappeared…about an hour ago,” Halbarad volunteered, out of breath as he rushed in behind his chief. “What news?”

“They’re camped a couple miles from us,” Lalaithien reported, all traces of his innocent good humor replaced by gravity. He turned up the lantern resting on the bier in the center of the room. “More than three score—it’s a raiding party. They missed the scouts we slew this morning. Their leader is some beast called Critz.”

“He is evil.”

Aragorn was taken aback by the vehemence in Ivriel’s tone. To his mind, orcs varied little from one to another; he wondered what this one had done to merit such hatred in her eyes.

“They are all evil,” Halbarad said dismissively, thinking along the same lines.

“What else?” Aragorn’s gaze landed shrewdly on Galen who had not yet taken part in the others’ report. The elf-scout raised his eyes fractionally to the man’s face and dropped away.

“Galen?” Aragorn prompted.

Halbarad’s hand squeezing his shoulder like a steel clamp stole all his attention and he glanced at the man quizzically as the older ranger unsheathed the sword he never went without, his wide eyes fixed on the far end of the hall. A half-second later, Aragorn realized why and followed suit.

Just out of reach of the lamplight crouched a villainous dark creature that almost blended with the stonework save for its flapping, raggedy cloak that gave it an eerily wraith-like appearance. A rust-speckled cleaver hung from one hand. It looked as though it had followed the scouts in undetected from the night. Even at this distance, it smelled highly objectionable.

The three elves turned when they noticed the two humans staring so fixedly at something over their shoulders. Lalaithien let out a low hiss and groped for his rapier, Galen’s eyes widened but Ivriel nodded familiarly as she surveyed the menacing figure up and down.

“So, this is your plan then? Looks very convincing, sir.”

Aragorn gaped, his sword point actually scraping the floor in shock. The lieutenant-commander was completely transformed. The severed right arm was the only recognizable feature that gave away the true identity of the bizarre creature. In front of the company stood something that was neither wholly orc nor human but somewhere in-between, definitely evil-looking.

Lalaithien, true to his light-hearted nature, laughed and let go of his basket hilt. “Sir, you scared two centuries of life out of me! More so than usual, I mean.”

“Still have to put on the finishing touches,” Rancir’s gravelly voice came from the ugly creature’s mouth. “So, none of you are dead I see. Where are they?”

“We’re fine thank you. Nice of you to be so concerned for our welf—”

“Not far,” Ivriel overrode her garrulous partner. “A few miles. Sir…I think you should remain here.”

“Why on earth should I do that?”

She glanced at Lalaithien who was giving her a look that plainly conveyed ‘you said it, not me.’ “We need to…finish fortifying the doors here. The passage that opens on the summit needs…”

“You know perfectly well that passage is blocked up. You never could lie well, Ivriel,” Rancir chided, his eye narrowing at her. “What is it truly?”

“Critz and his wolf are leading the force, sir.”

The commander halted abruptly, his spine snapping erect. Aragorn could tell this meant more than he knew. “Oh? And you do not think me capable of dealing with them, is that it?”

“No, of course she didn’t—” Lalaithien started, trying to placate his officer.

Rancir rounded on him. “Was this your idea too?”

“No, sir!”

“Then my answer is no. Let’s have no more argument.” Obviously casting about for a change of subject, he turned to Galen. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” the elf scout shook his head, his face so disturbingly white Aragorn moved protectively closer to him and touched his arm. Galen seemed to draw courage from it. “An Ăšlaire.”

“What?” Aragorn’s disbelieving whisper sounded stentorian and harsh even to his own ears. At last he understood why Haldir had not wanted him to come in the first place. He had been looking for an Ăšlaire, the Sindarin name for one of the Nine. His brothers had tried to frighten him when he was younger with bedtime stories of such creatures who came upon you in the middle of a dark wood in the dead of night.

Rancir’s gaze nailed Galen’s with his trademark, truth-seeking stare. “You are sure of this?”

“He is displeased with the lack of progress and came himself last night. I wasn’t sure at first but—”

“Be sure.”

“I know what I saw.”

Rancir mumbled a short, rather blasphemous oath before passing a filthy hand across his brow. “Well, nothing else for it. Breaking into Fornost aside, this is the only way we can get news of our friends—or your Captain Haldir.”

Aragorn nodded but Lalaithien interjected, softly, as though fearing to incur his officer’s irritation again. “Why don’t we do that? Break into Fornost? The wraith’s not there. It would be the perfect time to poke around inside without him being any the wiser.”

“Do you really think he’s going to leave his keep unguarded while he’s gone?” Rancir shot him down. “More likely than not we’d find it better defended. There’s probably less than a third in the woods now of what he’s got on the inside. No. We can’t take the chance of getting trapped there.”

“Sir, an Ăšlaire. Maybe you should…” Lalaithien broke off when his commander’s eyes widened threateningly and instead tried a plea. “Ivriel and I have done this before and we’re not dead yet. Why can we not go?”

Aragorn knew that beneath the younger elf’s light-spoken bravado, he was truly concerned for the older elf. But Rancir was adamant.

“Because I said so. I’m already kitted out and uglier than either of you.”

Ivriel gave him a reproachful look from under her eyelashes.

“But—”

“Are you fluent in their tribal speech?” Lalaithien stepped back, his nose wrinkling when the older elf whirled on him. “Do you know their customs better than I do? Can you debase yourself before the monsters who tortured your brother and sister without the desire to lay them low writ plain in your eyes? No. Therefore I will go.”

Lalaithien’s face had gone rigid; he did not protest again.

“Are you going alone?” Ivriel asked calmly, her face as masklike as her comrade’s.

“No. I’m going with him,” All pairs of eyes flashed to Aragorn who had spoken.

“Excuse us.” Halbarad clasped a hand tight on his chief’s shoulder and steered him a little away from the group. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Aragorn looked into his friend’s incensed face and said quite calmly. “My duty.”

“Orcs are swarming all over this place looking for us and you want to go find them?” He made it sound like this was the most insane thing he had ever heard come out of his leader’s mouth. “It’s all right for Rancir; he’s suicidal—but my priority as well as every other ranger’s on this useless hunt is to make sure you stay safe and alive.”

“ ‘Useless’ you think this?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Halbarad hastily backtracked.

Finally, this was the chance for him to do something. Dangerous and possibly fatal as the task might be, all his fear seemed to have burned away. He couldn’t let Halbarad’s overprotective rebukes stop him from doing what he needed to do. “Halbarad you know you are my sword-brother but one thing you are not is my father; the time for keeping me safe is over. I need you to help me.”

“Dammit, Aragorn, listen to me,” he hissed almost inaudibly. “I’m trying to help. It’s not easy reconciling what you want to do and my duty. You know what you mean to the DĂşnedain. To Gondor. To me.”

Aragorn knew what he meant; his survival was pivotal if the darkness were ever going to be completely finished. That more than anything else should be his duty. It nettled him that his friend was right but his almost-overwhelming fear for Haldir and the nagging realization that time was running out made him reckless. He turned to Rancir.

“I’m going with you.”

Halbarad closed his eyes but decided to issue several stipulations when Rancir merely nodded acknowledgement.

“He’ll not go alone with you. Not with a wraith involved. You both should have some sort of…contingency plan lest things go astray. I will take a couple of ours and surround the woods about them should you need aid.”

“Good idea,” Lalaithien agreed fervently. Ivriel seconded. “I’ll go too.”

“Do what you think best,” the officer produced a ball of clothes comprising of a stiff leather jerkin, patched trousers and cloak which he tossed into Aragorn’s arms. “Put these on.”

The ranger almost dropped the revolting-smelling bundle, a mixture of fetid meat and compost left in the sun too long searing his nostrils.

“Phaw! What a reek!” Halbarad pressed his collar over his nose and mouth and took a smart step away from his chieftain.

Rancir was already heading towards the small side room. “Yes, well, it’s had a dead orc in it. Hurry up.”

The garments were uncomfortable and stank to high heaven. Aragorn’s skin crawled as he shrugged the jerkin over his shoulders but he dutifully followed Rancir into the other room.

The elf was rifling around inside a pack and laying out several assorted vials with the rest of the DĂşnedain looking on curiously.

“We’ll start with the face first and go from there. That peach fuzz on your chin will give you away. And your ears even more than mine. Can’t do too much about either of them…We’ll probably end up with one goblin and one highly disreputable human. Daub a bit of this brownish oil on all visible skin—face, cheeks, don’t forget the back of your neck and hands. Once it sets, it’ll give you a nice crusty look. You won’t be able to recognize yourself in a glass. Now then, a couple of these drops in the eyes—it stings—but it’ll turn them a nice bloody color.”

Aragorn gingerly wiped burning moisture from his eyes as he applied the drops, careful not to blur his scrubby skin.

“Cover any remaining bits over with grease.” As he spoke, the elf removed something crescent-shaped and hollow from a small case. He slipped the mould into his mouth, bit down once and bared his teeth which were now brown and pointed. “Instant fangs. Almost done.”

The two nearly unrecognizable warriors put a rough new edge on the orc scouts’ blacked swords using the intricately carved slab of the Rhudaur lord. Above the rasp of steel on stone, Rancir issued last pointers. “The rest is all about movement and look. Never look an orc directly between the eyes; they’ll see that as a challenge. Hunch your shoulders. Little bit more, like that. Good. Bend your legs. All that excellent posture you learned from Glorfindel, forget it.”

Moments later the four elves, Halbarad and his chosen rangers were out in the night, picking their way down to the copse. They moved stealthily and in absolute silence as weeds brushed their upper arms and the red glows Aragorn had spotted from the hilltop grew closer and sharper. Sweat itched his skin under the tight leather jerkin.

He leered dreadfully and widened his reddened eyes, trying out what he thought a hobgolin snarl sounded like. “Ah, taste the roastin’ meat on the air! We’ll feast on blood tonight, lads!”

Under his disguise Rancir winced at the attempt. “That was pathetic. You’d best let me do the talking.”

“You’re too nice-spoken, Estel,” Lalaithien nodded sagely though he kept well upwind of the foul-smelling pair. “Not like Rancir. Better to keep your lip well-buttoned and a keen eye open.”

Halbarad and the others hung back once they neared the orcs’ perimeter and the red glow became a myriad of bonfires with dark, hunched figures crouched in front of them.

“We won’t be far,” the man whispered to his chief. Translation: You’re doing this against my better judgement. At first sign of trouble, I’m pulling you out.

Aragorn slipped a small pouch from around his neck and pressed it into Halbarad’s hand. When the older ranger raised a puzzled eyebrow, he explained, “Barahir. Keep him for me.”

His friend closed his fist tightly over the priceless heirloom. “Watch yourself. Rancir, you’d better take care of him.”

“Be careful, sir,” Ivriel relinquished her hand on her older officer’s shoulder. Rancir nodded curtly in answer to both as he beckoned Aragorn. Now alone, they proceeded.

“Remember, you’re dumb. So not a word,” the elf whispered, hurried and almost inaudible. Only a dozen yards separated them from the first sentries. “Stay close to me. Do not eat or drink anything they offer you—regardless of what you may see others do. Above all, stay away from the wraith.”

Too close to voice his fervent agreement, Aragorn only nodded.

A split second later, swordpoints touched the two warrior’s throats.

Grishtag was about ready to fall asleep propped up on his sword, the tip planted in the earth. It had been a long, hot day toiling under the sun and he was hungry and tired. Though nothing yet had happened to warrant such, Critz had insisted on a full double-watch all around the camp. They were looking for spies or renegades or something, Grishtag hadn’t asked and didn’t much care so long as they could live off the fat of this land for awhile. He was thinking so longingly of the wood-thrush he’d caught that afternoon for his supper he almost missed the movement.

Abruptly he straightened and nudged his companion blinking owlishly beside him. “Nark, you’ve got good glims. Take a good stare over thatway. See next to that split tree? You see something moving?”

Nark did as requested, his unusually bulbous eyes skilled in piercing the dark. “Something moving’s about. Two creatures…”

Blood pounded so loud in Aragorn’s ears he feared the orcs crouching around the fires, the ones lurking in the shadows under the trees, and those flitting in and out all around them would hear it, that its steady, very human rhythm would give him away. Rancir’s bark-tipped claws bit sharply into his back to make him move forward as their guards ushered them into the light of a huge bonfire. His gaze swept the clearing but he could see no sign of the wraith.

Grishtag, the one who had accosted them, turned to survey his catch in the better light, an evil smirk twisting his lips as he looked them up and down. Aragorn cast his eyes to the ground, careful to do as Rancir said and not seem as if he were challenging the orc as those yellow eyes rested on him.

“ ‘S yer names?”

Rancir answered in a guttural snarl. “Ramaric. This n’s Strig. Saw the fires and thought we’d take a look,” he indicated Aragorn who tried to affix his face into what he thought a half-goblin’s sneer looked like. It was easy enough to approximate when so many leering faces environed him.

“What’re you doing out here?”

“Could ask the same thing of you, bucko. Not seen this many tribes together since my last burrow in the mountains.” The elf scrutinized them and his eyes settled with feigned casuality on the sable shields and armor some of the orcs wore. “Fornost is it? Where’re you’re from?”

Grishtag spat, narrowly missing the disguised ranger’s leg. “You ask a lot of questions for a raggy beggar.” He jerked his head at Aragorn. “Why don’t he say nothing?”

“Strig here took my arm. Made me a sword instead of a bowman. So, I took his tongue for guerdon.”

The orcs appreciated the brutal weregild and laughed. Beginning to lose their suspicion of the strange pair, the orcs surrounding the elf and ranger lowered their blades.

Grishtag stuck his in the earth and leaned on it, warming his back by the fire. “You two look fair done-in.”

“Parched more like,” Rancir mimicked him. “Hidin’ from the cursed sun all day in this scrub-country.”

The orc nodded sympathetically though a glint shone in his eyes. “I understand that, mate. You need something to steady your nerves after such a trial,” He passed Rancir an iron-studded flask.

“Dangerous out here,” Grishtag remarked conversationally, the glint sharpened when the elf didn’t drink from it. “We’ve had some reports of bloody-handed Elves or tarks or something sneakin’ around these hills. Mayhap you can shed some light on it in your…travels. Spirits not good enough for you?”

It was an unmistakable challenge—a test to see if they were worthy enough to join the ranks of Fornost.

The elf impersonating an orc shrugged and lifted the neck to his lips. “Can’t tell you anything about that, haven’t seen squat except my ugly old ragtag here.”

His throat flexed as he swallowed. Aragorn stared in utter amazement and horror as a thin trickle of oddly dark ochre ran down the elf’s chin. It seemed an eternity before he finally drained the bottle, slightly unsteadily but still standing.

“That’ll put a bit of shine in your eye and an edge to your blade,” Grishtag winked and nudged Aragorn with a dark chuckle, pressing the refilled flask on him. “This one next! Drink up! Drink up!”

Rancir snatched the flask roughly away, his voice raspier than usual. “Too good a drink for the likes of this one! Not worth it.”

This inspired greater hilarity among the sentinels who wrenched back their drink hurriedly. Jostled and pushed by the growing crowd, Aragorn and Rancir let themselves be herded past the bonfire towards a canvas awning stretched between the branches overhead.

A lean, scarlet-eyed creature reclined under it with a large wolf lying at his feet. It rose as they drew near, its black lips lifting in a half-snarl. The orc laid a calming hand on the brute’s head. “What is this?”

Grishtag saluted. “Found these two in the woods, lieutenant. They’re all right though—journeyed from the mountains.”

Critz’s scarlet eyes appraised them. “What brought you here?”

Rancir shrugged one-shouldered, his posture loose and easy as though the swordblades reflecting the glare of the bonfire merited little to no concern. Aragorn couldn’t believe his outward calm. Every instinct inside him was screaming to run as the wolf’s green eyes watched him hungrily.

“Found a lifeless group of gold-haired rats a day’s run down the road. Your work?”

All the orc officer’s teeth flashed in a wicked smile. “Liked that did you?”

Rancir’s eyes smoldered though whether this was an inflammatory effect of the drink or something else, it was hard to tell. “I heard tell you could always use two extra soldiers. Always more elvish rogues to bring to slaughter.”

The orc’s hairless eyebrows shot up and his gaze settled leeringly on the mangled remains of the elf-soldier’s arm. “You don’t look like you could halve a grub with a wound like that, cripple.”

It happened so fast Aragorn almost missed it. He saw Rancir twitch and caught a hiss of drawn steel. For a heart-stopping second, he thought the elf was actually going to attack the red-eyed orc. They’d be exposed instantly.

A hulking, broad-chested pike-orc, who was almost as tall as Aragorn and Rancir together looked dumbfounded at the sword spiking his middle. The blade swept down in a smooth, disemboweling scythe and he dropped. Grishtag and his sentinels broke into incredulous chatter.

“Did you see that? He just slew Bolog.”

“ ‘e didn’t even see it coming! His blade’s mine!” They started to squabble over their dead comrade’s gear, knocking each other aside and snarling out insults.

Rancir sheathed his blade, still bloody. “Two soldiers for that one. Even a cripple’s better than a corpse, sir.” The quivering hatred lying under the deferential address did not go unmissed by Aragorn at least. He glanced nervously at his companion, afraid the elf had gone too far.

A half-smile shadowed Critz’s face. He had enjoyed the spectacle. A surge of raw disgust pierced Aragorn as those joyful red eyes rested on him. With an effort, he willed his expression to smooth.

“He doesn’t talk,” Critz observed.

“Nah. Bit dim too,” Rancir said, taking a seat on the grass. “He shouldn’t mean any harm so long as no one bothers him. Strig, go on. See if you can scare up a bird or two for our comrades.”

Aragorn realized the elf commander was giving him an excuse to report back to Halbarad and the others. The wolf had not once taken her eyes off him so he took an indirect course out of the camp, zigzagging around the fires and past bodies who scarcely looked up at his passing.

His hands were shaking so much he had to ball them into fists, his fingernails digging crescents into his moist palms. The wolf had followed him. A low growl erupted from her throat as Aragorn glanced over his shoulder. Those blazing green eyes glared at him as if the wolf could smell he was not an orc or a corrupted human. Thinking fast, he stooped beside a low-burning fire whose occupants lay snoring and seized a smoking branch. The wolf yelped, leaping back as embers singed her coat. Aragorn gathered up his rags and fled into the dark.

“Estel, over here!” someone hissed out of the shadows. Galen rose up out of the brush as Aragorn wove towards his voice. “Halbarad is on your right and Angrad and the rest are further back. What’s going on?”

“Rancir’s got us in deep,” Aragorn said, taking a swig of cold tea from the canteen the elf offered him. He needed a bath. “They think we’re soldiers from the mountains.” He told Galen what he could of their numbers and positions while the elf set out a small meal of oat farls smothered in honey.

“Might as well have a last meal,” the elf scout smiled, encouraging the young man to eat the lot. “Ivriel made them.”

“Thanks,” Aragorn grimaced. “I don’t want to stay there longer than I need to.”

“Not for long, I shouldn’t think. Halbarad won’t let you,” Galen sighed at the young man. “Such is the price you pay for stepping into the role of a hero.”

“I’m not a hero. I’m scared out of my mind,” the man admitted, staring at his filth-encrusted hands. “The only thing that keeps me from running away from those creatures without looking back is that Haldir might still be alive and among them.”

Galen patted his hand. “I know exactly how you feel and I’m out of the thick of it. That’s what makes you a hero though. You’re doing it anyway. Despite fear.”

Aragorn lingered as long as he could but in the end rose regretfully. “I should get back. I don’t want to leave Rancir alone too long.”

Galen touched his arm, his lips still upturned though his blue eyes radiated concern. “Halbarad said it would be best if we kept changing position so their scouting parties don’t find us. If you have need of me, I’ll be by that clump of boulders over there.”

“All right. Stay out of sight and be careful, my friend.” Aragorn squeezed the hand on his arm.

“And you.”

He carried two woodpigeons back with him and delivered them to Grishtag. Wondering where Rancir was, he wandered around the perimeter staying as far away from his snuffling, arguing ‘mates’ as he could get. He finally spotted his comrade in arms leaning limply against a yew.

Something was wrong. The elf’s dark head was too deeply bowed between minutely spasming shoulders. The tree seemed to be the only thing propping him up.

“Are you all right?” Aragorn asked, forgetting himself in concern. He glanced belatedly over his shoulder. Luckily they were quite alone. When he received no answer, he stretched out a hand but Rancir warded him off.

After another minute or two, the elf straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Hollow-eyed, he faced the ranger with a wry, almost apologetic smile. “Lalaithien couldn’t have taken it. He despises tippling.” He sank wearily against the yew’s wide span, his fingertips rubbing back and forth across his brow.

“I wish I had something to give you,” Aragorn said, pitching his voice so low he almost couldn’t hear himself though Rancir glanced up at him. “I’m guessing that was no health drink.”

“Not necessarily good for the stomach…though it does take the edge off other things.”

Aragorn glanced at the elf’s mangled arm and nodded though the idea of seeking relief from an orc draught rather revolted him. Still…if it took away his pain…

“You’ve got to watch yourself.” Rancir said hoarsely, distracting him. “That wolf was following you. Probably on her master’s orders.”

“I know.”

“I saw the singed coat,” the rueful smile turned almost gleeful. “That was good work.”

Aragorn eyed his companion incredulously. “You’re actually enjoying this aren’t you?”

Rancir eased his head back against the trunk. “Sergeant Mithrion, Faelwen and Alphiel are dead. Looks like the only one of ours alive, if he still is, is your Galadhrim captain.”

Relief washed over Aragorn like a balm. Almost instantly, guilt took its place. Three more of Galen’s friends were dead.

Rancir didn’t comment on his reaction as his restless eyes roved around the camp. “At least now we know and can take adequate action. Oh, the pits of the abyss will be crowded when this is done.”

“I thought we were here to find news of our friends,” Aragorn said, a little disconcerted by the fervor in the elf’s low baritone.

The dark-haired lieutenant’s eyes glittered though the bonfires were too far away to cast sufficient light over their little space. “We did. And now we can exact payment for them.”

Anything Aragorn might have said in reply withered in his throat as the orcs around the bonfires suddenly began to stir and raise their heads. They directed their gazes towards the perimeter where the shadows lay thickest. Aragorn felt an inexplicable coldness all over as something large, powerful and darker than even the starless blackness under the trees emerged into the clearing.

The horseman from his nightmares.

Around him ranged an entourage of orc guardsmen, wolves, and a taller figure whose visage was blocked by distance and the bodies of the orcs in front of him. Those not part of the company slunk well away from it and the horseman: they carried a pall about them that made others uneasy. Aragorn could feel it from here. He was spellbound by the tall Rider though his eyes were drawn almost simultaneously to the figure matching pace beside him.

It kept its face lowered and as one of the orcs in front of him moved, he saw its wrists were manacled in front of it. For some reason, those long, pale wrists made Aragorn nervous. They didn’t belong to an orc.

The company drew nearer and nearer to their resting place and halted not six yards away. The wraith dismounted well back from the fires and beckoned to the chained figure. “Slave, attend me.”

Lank strands of hair so matted with filth it was impossible to tell what color it might have been concealed face and shoulders as the figure bowed acquiescence. At a word, it stood straight while the wraith withdrew a vial from the depths of his black cloak.

The slave’s back was half-turned to him; Aragorn didn’t see what happened but every muscle in his body tensed as the tall figure’s shoulders gave a violent convulsion though no sound escaped him. Aragorn’s frown deepened until his eyebrows nearly met.

When it was over, the slave lay panting on the ground; he could hear the ragged breathing from here. Unbeknownst to himself, he had drifted closer to the dark pair, curiosity warring with horrified fascination and a troubling twinge as if he were close to something familiar.

After an interminable moment, the trembling shoulders rose a few inches off the ground. An electric jolt seared through Aragorn as the bonfires cut the well-known, bloodied face into painful relief.

It was Haldir.

Notes:

Camlost— “hand-empty” Name Beren, lover of Luthien, gave to himself after losing the Silmaril and the hand that contained it to Sauron’s great wolf.

tark(s)—an orcish perversion of the elvish word for “Gondorian”

Author’s Notes: At last, they’re all in one place again. Though that’s not very reassuring given their current situation is it?

The Lady of Light


Chapter 11 - Part Eleven: Sacrifices One

Author’s Notes: I couldn’t stop writing this which is why this chapter is actually the first part of a two-part mini arc. It’s also a cliffhanger. Which probably means you will either love it and curse me or hate it and curse me, whichever. Aragorn angst-lovers, glut yourselves! The next few chapters are just for you (though not exclusively—Haldir angst-lovers too).

The Lady of Light

Part Eleven

Sacrifices One: The Truth of Nightmares

Aragorn would have bolted forward save for Rancir clamping around his arm and hauling him back onto his seat. The elf’s rag-wrapped hand instantly stifled any cry of surprise as his voice grated harsh against the man’s ear.

“Start a fight now and he’s dead and you and I with him.” He waited until Aragorn calmed completely before letting him go.

Haldir remained quite still as Critz, sullen and scowling, unlocked the fetters from around his wrists. The chains fell to the ground with a muffled clink. Aragorn had not seen his friend in over a month and the change disturbed him.

Imprinted on that familiar countenance was the marble-white mark of intractable suffering. Eye sockets gaped like tunnels and the ragged remnants of a black undertunic hung loose around a wasted frame of sinew. His wrists bore ugly, healing marks from the constantly rubbing manacles and he stood oddly stiff even with the chains removed. But the wraith was speaking and the low, hypnotic voice pulled Aragorn forward almost against his will.

“You have pleased me today, elf, therefore you are free tonight. But displease me, and you will quickly find—as you already know—there are worse things than chains. Do you understand?”

The elf’s reply was inaudible but the orcs jeered cruelly.

“Master’s got him whipped.”

“They all break sooner or later.”

A sharp jerk on his sleeve startled Aragorn and he spun around. Rancir was trying to tug him back, away from the two. The ranger recaptured his sleeve brusquely.

“I’m not leaving him.”

“We came here for information, not a fight. Not yet.”

“If you think after all this time I’m just going to—”

“Yes, I do.” A harsh shove sent Aragorn stumbling back nearly into their small fire. Rancir grabbed him roughly and turned him about with another push towards the trees. There was another emotion undercutting Rancir’s irritation. Had Aragorn been less frustrated and afraid for his friend, he would have thought it was panic. “Rejoin Halbarad and the others. That’s an order. You’re not prepared for this.”

“You are not—”

A shout interrupted their whispered debate.

“You, cripple!” Both Aragorn and Rancir froze as Critz beckoned them imperiously with a spear haft. “Come with me and bring your friend. Our lord wants to take the measure of his newest soldiers for himself.”

Other orcs, all bearing weapons, drew a semi-circle around the two warriors, eyes alight with cruel anticipation. Aragorn and Rancir exchanged tense glances. There was no chance of returning to the others now.

Coerced by prods from spears and javelins, the two followed in Critz’s wake towards a dark awning where the wraith lord had seated himself.

Aragorn’s insides churned with nauseous fear. He had never encountered one of the NazgĂ»l and before this he had never had any intention of going near one. Questions roiled under the surface of his mask as he remembered his brothers’ stories. Was it true they could smell blood? Could they really see into the minds of others and leave them stripped of all humanity?

Haldir stood a pace behind the wraith’s seat. He did not look at Aragorn though the man tried to catch his eye. When the wraith spoke in a sibilant, dry voice that even pitched soft thrummed with power, Aragorn felt it behind his eyes.

“Critz has told me of you. You are soldiers from the mountains?”

“Yes, my lord,” Rancir answered for both of them with a respectful, if stiff, bow.

“I am familiar with many kinds of orcs…which breed are you, rat?”

Rancir’s amputated arm gave a nervous little twitch against Aragorn’s shoulder. These were muddy waters indeed and Aragorn thought he hesitated a fraction too long before answering. “Goblin tunnels under Silvertine.”

“I see.” Disbelieving. “With vast armies at my command, what use do you think two soldiers could possible be to me? And a maimed and a speechless one at that. Furthermore, why did you not show yourselves to my scouts—we have been hunting this region for days.”

He didn’t give Rancir a chance to answer. Instead the steel glove creaked as it touched the arm of the pale mannequin behind his shoulder. It was almost a caress. “My servant found very interesting tracks just outside this camp. Very interesting indeed. Humans’.”

Aragorn heart slammed against the wall of his ribs and part of him almost wanted to scream the truth of it to the wraith if only to relieve the terrible pressure in his head.

“What have you truly come for?” the Witch-king rose as he questioned them, the span of his powerful shoulders like an encompassing bulwark of night, insubstantial but deadly. A glitter of red eyes underneath the deep cowl made Aragorn avert his face.

It was the wrong move to make. The wraith’s gauntleted hand lashed out and seized the ranger’s chin, dragging his gaze back. Aragorn clenched his jaw against the iron spikes digging furrows into his skin as those eyes assailed him, probed deep as though searching for the lies he knew he must conceal. A sharp pressure lanced through his temples and he squeezed his eyes shut against it as unwillingly Haldir’s face swam before his eyes.

The wraith dropped his chin. The voice that next issued from the hood purred with malicious pleasure. “You are not what you seem. Did you truly think me so senseless that I could not smell the blood that courses through your veins, tark?”

The orcs stirred and muttered at this pronouncement. The Witch-king ignored them. He turned instead to Rancir whose steely expression gave away nothing. “You who shield yourself from me should have chosen your companions better. The boy’s mind is weak. I know who you are. Critz, I believe you do too. A former guest to our humble camp.”

The orc lieutenant glanced at his master curiously then swaggered forward to examine the prisoners. His carmine-flecked stare flicked from Aragorn to Rancir. He grasped the elf’s tangled, dark mane and wrenched his head back, exposing his face to the firelight. After a long moment, his gash of a mouth opened dumbly in surprise.

“My sweet!” he addressed the wolf who had prowled to his side. “It’s the morsel.” A sick, wormy smile curled the black lips. “You know, morsel, I’ve told her tales about her pack mother once tasting elf-flesh. How sweetly you scre—”

Rancir jerked out a knife, forcing the orc to back off fast. “Challenge me, pen gwaur, and I will rip out your intestines and feed you to her!”

Instantly, the guards jumped him and Aragorn. Borne down by three, Aragorn cracked his head on the ground and a javelin haft robbed him of breath. Gasping against the sharp, painful lance through his ribs, he was dragged upright by the hair and his hands bound behind him. Rancir, bleeding from a mouthwound, had two swords against his neck while a noose slipped around him, pinioning his arm to his side. They were summarily relieved of their weapons.

The wraith drifted closer to his captives, his long shadow casting a dark veil over their faces. “Before the night is out, I will find the rest of your companions and where they lay hid. And you can watch them die screaming before you follow.” He gestured for them to be taken away but Aragorn resisted, his wide eyes finding the one who had made no move or sign the entire time.

“Haldir,” the name came out an anguished croak. “Haldir…”

The elf’s eyelids flickered but the once-keen silver eyes remained blank and pupil-less. The sheer lifelessness behind his friend’s familiar gaze frightened him horribly, more than the orcs crowding ever closer, more even than the wraith whose very presence sent icy pricklings of terror stabbing down his spine like shards of glass.

“What did they do to you?” Aragorn could not believe his friend was looking at him like that—as if he were a stranger. He didn’t know what had happened in the weeks since their parting but this was not the Haldir who had left him in Imladris. “Why won’t you help us?”

“I heed only the command of my lord.” His tone was as empty as his eyes.

“I did not know Lord Celeborn approved of his wardens making acquaintance with the dross of Mordor,” his eyes darted back at the orcs whose claws dug painfully into his shoulders. “I thought the marchwarden of LothlĂłrien heeded only his own counsel and did not let himself be swayed by others. Clearly I was wrong.”

The elf did not react to his biting, hurtful tone.

The Witch-king touched his slave’s shoulder with mock-fondness. “You will find, youngling, that things change. Orders and lords crumble into dust, new ones take their place.”

Ignoring the wraith’s poisonous insinuation, Aragorn spat, his words made all the more venomous by the burn of betrayal stinging the corners of his eyes. “Since when do you serve the Shadow of Mordor, Haldir?”

While enjoying the obvious pain this revelation caused the miraculously speech-restored human, the wraith did not have time to waste on pleasure. He waved Critz towards his new slave and handed him the black vial. “Dose him again in a few hours. Stronger this time. I want his mind fully mine before the slaughter begins. You others, guard them well.”

Hurt and bewildered by his friend’s condemning silence, the ranger didn’t even have the strength to fight as the orcs tugged him away.

----------

Halbarad didn’t like this one little bit. Because of the danger of being spotted by the perimeter guards, he had pulled his rangers out of sight of the orc camp. Of course this meant he couldn’t see what was happening inside it. His legs ached for want of movement that might take the edge off his tension but he stayed perfectly still. He wasn’t exactly in a place that benefited movement. More than fifty feet off the ground, a misstep in the dark now would send him plummeting to his death. Then what use would he be to Estel?

He just knew something was wrong. Apart from his jangling nerves strung already taut from being so high off the ground, it had been too long without a report. Galen said he had spoken to Aragorn—hours ago. Nothing since. The frequent patrols coming and going had ceased too which at this time of night was unusual behavior for orcs. Unless something had happened…something to make them stay in the camp…

A rustle in the branches directly overhead made him instinctively grope for his sword before he realized his ‘attacker’ was a breathless elf climbing swiftly down to his position. The look on his face did not reassure Aragorn’s deputy.

“They’re in trouble,” Galen panted. “The wraith returned…knew who they were…found our tracks outside the perimeter. They’re tied up at the south end of the camp surrounded by guards.”

Halbarad struck his fist against the bole of the hawthorn so hard he hurt his hand and nearly lost his balance. “I knew something like this was going to happen! I shouldn’t have let him go!”

“Don’t panic yet. Rancir’s been in worse scraps than this; he’ll bring Estel through all right,” Lalaithien assured him from below though his lower lip was raw from gnawing on it.

“We’ve got to get them back,” Ivriel appeared on Galen’s other side, her eyes wide and glowing with ferocity. She twitched her drawn rapier until it sang through the air. “We can take them by surprise! They still don’t know where we are.”

“Watch it with that! You’re going to take someone’s eye out!” Halbarad snapped, shielding his face. “We can’t just go charging right in there. Knowing orcs, they’ll slay their captives rather than risk them being freed. No, we’ve got to think of something else.”

“Then think swiftly. I’ll not wait long.” Ivriel sheathed her blade slightly waspishly and descended as though a flock of bees were on her heels.

Halbarad whistled in soft admiration and remarked to Lalaithien as he began his much-slower, more cautious descent. “A firebrand when roused! If it weren’t for us, she’d charge in there no matter if she had one or a hundred at her back!”

“And she would too,” Lalaithien agreed as he leapt into space, landing on a lower branch some twelve feet below with the perfect equilibrium of an elf born to the trees.

It took the heftier, less accustomed ranger several disgruntled minutes longer to reach the ground but as soon as he touched blessed earth again, he muttered, brushing his hands together. “I’m no squirrel for shinnying up and down trees, I’ll tell you that. What on earth—?”

A scuffle had broken out among the bushes. As Halbarad darted forwards, Angrad and Veil tussling wildly fell almost at his feet. He wrenched the lanky thief off by the collar and threw him bodily from the younger soldier. “Get off him! What do you think you’re doing?”

Veil staggered but caught himself and came back with blazing eyes as Angrad rose shakily to his feet, wiping a bloodied lip on his sleeve.

“He attacked me, sir!”

“Fight your own battles, whelp!”

“You’d better get out of my sight quick before I take a swing at you myself,” Halbarad spat at the former slave. “You’re supposed to be with Eldacar’s group.”

Veil still hadn’t taken his eyes off Angrad. “Caitiff.”

Halbarad lunged but Galen abruptly intervened. “Stop this senseless bickering. Any longer and Rancir and Estel will know too well the hospitality of orcs.”

Aragorn’s subaltern reluctantly dropped his glare from Veil’s face and glanced up into the foliage, a plan already forming in his mind. “Right. Galen, go fetch Eldacar’s group over by the split trees, tell them to gather their best archers and meet me here. I have an idea.”

----------

Aragorn leaned his head back against the trunk. Cords of rough hemp bound he and Rancir around its girth and pinched across his chest as he inhaled deeply. The ache in his heart made every blow the orcs had bestowed on him throb like a brand of iron.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe Haldir had betrayed him willingly. They’d done something to him…He had seen the wraith hand Critz some kind of vial…That had to be it. Whatever it was had taken control of his friend’s mind. Elves’ wills were difficult to break or harness and he knew Haldir was strong enough to give a good fight if one attempted to master his. Whatever had happened to make him lose so much of himself must have been horrible. And despite the fact that Aragorn knew he could have made no more haste than he had, nevertheless a nasty guilty knot tightened in the pit of his stomach.

So entrenched was he in these despairing thoughts, he didn’t give any to his own predicament.

Rancir, however, had no such distractions from considering their fate at the hands of the NazgĂ»l. He was calmer now though there was a granite-like set to his jaw. “Have you ever been put under torture, pen neth?”

That jarred Aragorn harshly out of his preoccupation. His mouth went dry. He had had that question put to him before. “Yes. It is not my preferred way to die.”

“Nor mine.” The dark-haired elf licked the crusted blood from his lip and shifted slightly. The rope that secured them was tight but he had been working steadily on getting his hand free. Since he was bereft of one, the orcs hadn’t bound him quite as snugly as Aragorn who had ties fastening his wrists in addition to those about his chest.

Interrupted sleep and dull hours of boredom had numbed their guards’ hypersensitive vigilance. The elf torqued his shoulder and managed to slide his fingers into a small pouch concealed at the back of his tunic. Inch by cautious inch, he extracted several purple-blotched stems hanging with deceptively beautiful, white blossoms.

“When I decided upon this course, I took it upon myself to be…prepared for every eventuality. Though I’d rather you didn’t have to share in it.”

Aragorn recognized the highly toxic hemlock instantly—it was just like the patch he had knelt in when they’d first spotted the orc scouts. Had that just been this morning? “Do you think that’ll be necessary?”

“No, I rather hope your and my troops will come charging in here blades flashing but there again, I believe in being prepared. The herbs will grant us a much kinder mercy than the orcs will.”

Night deepened with little sleep for either of them. Even though most of the camp dozed, the prisoners were never unguarded even for a moment. Crows and a large shrike perched in the branches over their heads and cawed loudly if they moved even to adjust their tingling limbs while the large wolf paced restlessly to and fro, always eyeing them with a disturbing hunger.

Grishtag, who had accosted them when they’d first entered the camp seemed to have taken their true identities as a personal insult. He stood guard near them and flicked them with a whippy branch he’d hewed from a willow. When they ignored him, he resulted to threats.

“You ought to tell us whatever you’re hiding. The master’ll drag it out of you sooner or later. Believe me when I say you’ll want it sooner. They all break in the end…like that one over there.”

Aragorn had tried to speak to Haldir to no avail. The elf was chained up and staked down not far from them. The ranger didn’t know and didn’t care to know where the wraith sequestered himself but his hold over the marchwarden seemed to dim, especially as dawn approached.

As the sky lightened to a moist deep blue, the silver eyes had grown clear. Aragorn couldn’t be sure but he thought they met his briefly before Critz, given strict orders to guard both their prisoners and the master’s newest thrall, went to where the elf lay prone, unsleeping.

With a sharp, violent movement, he ripped back the tattered shirt, displaying a hard-muscled chest mottled with dark purple-green bruising and an inflamed, infected-looking wound beneath his ribs. A small groan escaped his patient as Critz’s ungentle hands worked the venom deep into the cut. The soft admission of pain from the elf sent a frenzied tremor straight through Aragorn’s stomach and up his spine. His bonds tightened as he unconsciously fought their knots, yearning to go to his friend and tear off the head of the one who hurt him. When it was over, Critz departed, visiting a last malicious kick to the reeling elf. Haldir slumped as one mortally wounded, his eyes lifeless once more.

Grishtag’s whippy branch struck without warning, stinging across Aragorn’s cheek.

The ranger kicked out hard with his bound ankles making the orc guard stumble with a curse. Eyes glowing with the promise of retribution, he whirled on the ranger. Aragorn curled his legs up to protect his face as the orc laid into him with the makeshift whip, striking stinging blows to the back of his neck and shoulders.

Rancir lunged against his bonds to help the ranger but one of the other guards thrust him back with a spear against his breastbone.

Flinging the broken branch away bad-temperedly, Grishtag produced instead a wickedly curved, serrated knife which he waved under Aragorn’s chin.

“You just cost your friend ‘is other arm. We’ll see how snappy you are after that, my fine young lad. I’ll save you for taking apart slowly. You two, grab hold of that elf. Master never said we couldn’t play with them a bit,” Grishtag leered at Aragorn as the bidden guards sank their claws cruelly into Rancir and pulled his arm straight against the tree trunk like a slab of meat across a cutting board.

Grishtag sniggered evilly as the knife caressed the elf’s strained elbow joint. “Critz says he squalls like a—.”

The orc abruptly stopped speaking and a choked gargle rattled from his throat as the knife slid out of his limp hand closely followed by the rest of him, slain by a green-fletched barb.

Before the other guards had realized what happened two more arrows zipped vengefully from the woods and snuffed them out.

Black feathers rained down and crows screamed as Ivriel dropped out of the branches directly overhead. In a trice, she slashed their bonds while the DĂşnedain loosed arrows rapidly into the mass of orcs, easy targets in the brightening dawn sky. Several more fell before the orcs realized they were under attack and officers shouted orders to organize.

Galen grinned in relief as he pulled Aragorn to his feet. “Well, Estel, did you have fun? Enjoy the company?”

“Oh, yes. Remind me to send them a thank-you note,” Aragorn ducked, pulling his friend down as a return arrow thocked solidly into the trunk where he’d been tied a second before.

“It’s just a handful of tarks! Kill them!” The cry went up.

“Kill! Kill!”

“Ivriel, get them out of here,” Halbarad shouted, sighting another shaft down his short-range bow. “We’ll give them one more volley and follow you.”

The capable elf woman nodded once. But Rancir snatched the knife out of her hands and without a word stalked deeper into the camp, slaying with a brutal thrust one of the orcs who got too close. Aragorn knew exactly what his counterpart was going to do and snatched his arm, restraining his knife.

“I have a reckoning to attend to. Leave off, boy,” he tried to throw the ranger aside but Aragorn clung on stubbornly.

“This is not the time for vengeance—” A scream drowned his words as an orc toppled into one of the bonfires, a spear through his middle. “We need to go.” He stared around wildly for Haldir and found him. The elf stood beside the NazgĂ»l whose black shape was horrifically visible in the center of the camp, silhouetted by the bonfires, a merciless, mesmerizing figure.

With an agile twist the Imladris soldier sent the ranger staggering. “Then go. Nothing is keeping you here.” Ivriel had paused at the edge of the perimeter and he barked at her. “Take them! Redannao!”

The red glitter of battle light shone from the commander’s eyes. He seemed beyond reason. He whirled again towards their attackers, seeking the one who had called him “cripple.”

Lunging at his back, Aragorn blitzed him as arrows buzzed overhead from both sides. Rancir swore and fought him viciously until Ivriel ran to his aid. The audible crack of bone so shocked Aragorn he released his grip as the commander’s head slammed back against the earth. Unconventional, but Ivriel’s fist seemed to have brought Rancir to his senses at last. She latched onto his arm and didn’t let go.

“Go!”

A last salvo of arrows erupted on the other side of the camp from Eldacar and his group and caused total confusion among the orcs as they wheeled about, trying to figure out where the attacks were coming from.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the hail of arrows stopped. The rangers broke off and in full flight, vanished into the blue, smoky light of dawn.

----------

No trace could be found of them. The Witch-king was furious and let everyone within his reach know it. Of his sixty creatures, fifteen were dead, another several wounded. Search parties had been sent out to scour the perimeter and the wolf picked up the DĂşnedain’s trail as far as the stream where it abruptly ended. Through some elvish trick, not even a broken reed could be discerned on the other side where they’d left it. Snipers that had sped ahead of the main body of trackers floated dead in the shallows.

So great was his rancor and hatred for the DĂşnedain, the wraith lord momentarily forgot his newest charge. Removed from the action, Haldir stood apart from the others, doing whatever he was bidden but exhibiting little independent movement on his own. His eyes stared at the rushing brown water where the DĂşnedain trail ended. Critz was cursing as he pushed two of his hapless soldiers into the water to retrieve the bodies of their bloated comrades.

The past few days had been pure torment for the marchwarden. The side wound was a throbbing mess from the wraith’s ruthless ministrations. As the dosages increased every time, the elf lost more of who he was. Seeing Aragorn the night before had thrust something to the fore that he thought had been buried: his friend had come for him. He had actually come. But emotion was dangerous; the wraith sensed the momentary lucidity of his “slave” and acted accordingly.

Now he could barely move without pain, though curiously, the sensation seemed duller than the all-consuming agony he vaguely remembered from his earliest days of captivity. Discomfort had become something he had grown accustomed to, like the ache from breaking in new boots. Pain was part of the life he led now.

But there was a part that still remained—for all the wraith’s attempts to drag him fully under the Shadow—solely his. Though battered and unspeakably weary, he clung to that fenced-in corner of his mind where he gamely held onto the last of his secrets. At whiles, especially at night when his despair was strongest, he retreated there and prayed for release. Aragorn was gone. If he had any sense at all, he would flee back to Rivendell, back where he was safe.

“Slave.”

Inside the only corner of his mind that remained his, Haldir lashed furiously against the bars at the hated, hissing voice. Outwardly, his body which no longer belonged to him turned towards the dark shadow on the bank, mist curling around the black cloak like a protective veil. The sun was already riding the sky.

“My lord?”

“My minions are useless, perhaps you will prove better. Go down to the bank. Find me the DĂşnedain.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He didn’t feel the frigid water creeping up his calves as he waded into the rain-swollen stream. Critz watched through resentful eyes; he had found something of a rival in the master’s newest plaything and had resolved to put an end to the elf’s usefulness sooner or later.

Haldir paid little attention to the orc lieutenant when Critz followed him up the bank while he cast about in the reeds. There were signs here only another elf could read. And unfortunately, Haldir had honed his skills well hunting in the woods of LothlĂłrien. There was no quarry he could not track be he hare, stag or man. The evil that mastered his mind also mastered the deft skills that had made him one of the most trusted guardians of the Golden Wood.

A great willow heeled up on the further bank, its top split by the lightning storm weeks ago. Shards of exposed tree pulp hung at crazy angles and its distinctive vine-like tendrils were reduced to charred and disintegrated skeletons. Seated within a small crevice formed by a broken limb was a lean figure, elbows resting casually on bent knees, the very picture of relaxation.

He didn’t seem at all alarmed to see the blank-eyed elf nor Critz. When they approached, he stood.

Critz hailed him with a familiar nod. “Well, if it isn’t our little spy-rat. Tarks were swarming all over here, figured you were still with them.”

“I separated from them. It was simple enough. I must speak with our lord.”

The orc bared his teeth in a satisfied, predatory grin, his red eyes crinkling with joy. “You know where they’re hiding.”

The traitor echoed the feral smile. “I know where they’re hiding.”

----------

Helpful Notes: Elvish has become increasingly rare in my stories which is a pity because I love the language—it’s just a pain to translate correctly especially if you don’t have the nouns or verbs you want. So important, those nouns and verbs. Anyway… For your interest, I have provided translations since not everyone uses the same Sindarin dictionary. The less familiar archaic words are included too.

pen gwaur—the curse Rancir hurls at Critz is closely translated as “dirty one.” If I could have found, “swine” that’s what I would approximate it to.

caitiff—an archaic word expressing contempt, and often involving strong moral disapprobation: A base, mean, despicable ‘wretch’, a villain.

pen neth—“young one”

redannao—“fall back!”

Author’s Notes: I have never had so many notes for one chapter. –wipes melodramatic sweat from brow- I hope they were helpful. (I don’t think they’re going to become a regular staple of every chapter but they add a nice bit of flavor, right?)

As always, this is the part where I tell you longsuffering readers how much I adore hearing from you and hope you will gift me with a few words to spur on the next chapter (which is already written but, hey, every little bit helps).

‘Til next,

The Lady of Light


Chapter 12 - Part Twelve: Sacrifices Two: For the Sake of a Friend

Author’s Notes: So after much too much delay, here is the second, longer half of Sacrifices. Before I thank you all for being so patient and putting up with wretched, uncooperative computers, I have to request a little more. My postings have caught up with my writing at long last. I have only one more chapter that’s already prewritten, after that it’s touch and go. With my schedule it seems likely that updates might take a little longer though we’re now fast approaching the end of the tale.

Because of this, I am also postponing Part Thirteen until next week. So, let’s pretend last week’s delay never happened and we’re continuing our usual schedule.

Thank you all for being so patient. And now…

Part Twelve

Sacrifices Two: For the Sake of a Friend

Relieved to be out of orc rags and into his own again, Aragorn made his usual rounds, checking on his men, making sure no injury was more severe than it looked. He was pleased: they’d gotten off lightly with only here and there a few scratches or bruises incurred by the more exuberant fighters who disdained arrows as a weak route to killing your enemy.

“You should rest that arm, Eldacar,” he gently admonished as one of that intrepid number bypassed him juggling two water flasks, a few of Ivriel’s bannock cakes and two bowls of stew.

The silver-haired ranger gave him a swift smile as he adjusted one of the shoulder straps with a shrug. “Can’t be helped, sir. Menelir whines if I leave him on duty with an empty stomach,” Some of the younger element had decided to take up a post near one of the outlets to watch for pursuers.

Aragorn nodded reluctantly. “Well, go then. We wouldn’t want a hungry soldier to waste away would we?”

“Ha! The day Menelir wastes away from hunger is the day I pick up archery as a favored hobby.”

Chuckling, Aragorn ducked into the small side-chamber his group had made their own and found Halbarad sitting away from the others in a corner, his cloak wrapped around his knees.

His leader dropped next to him. “What troubles you, cousin?”

The older man’s face was grimmer than usual. “Angrad’s missing. I’ve checked twice. No one’s seen him since the fighting started.”

A cold claw gripped Aragorn’s stomach and tugged. They hadn’t been as lucky as he’d thought.

“Veil’s gone too.” Halbarad absently began to shred the untouched bannock he’d picked up. “If that man did something to Angrad…I’ll throttle him! I swear it.”

Aragorn found his tongue at last. “We don’t know anything’s happened. Angrad may have just gotten separated from the rest of us in the retreat. It was darker than Mordor out there, he could easily have gotten lost. Once it’s safe enough, he’ll return.”

“If the orcs got him again I’ll never forgive myself.”

The creases deepened in Aragorn’s forehead but the older ranger dusted crumbs off his fingers, rubbed his eyes roughly and stood up. “You want anything?”

Aragorn didn’t and went restlessly to his bedroll. Propped against his pack was Haldir’s saber. He stared at it for a long time, his fingers wandering over the battered sheath. He hadn’t found time to polish it for some time. Fetching a rag and sword oil out of his pack, he considered sitting in some quiet corner in the vaulted hall despite the depressing denizens of that chamber, but as he reached the threshold, he heard Rancir’s distinctive bark. Ivriel apparently was still getting a blistering dressing down. Feeling a little guilty but not enough to not listen, he settled his shoulder just behind the doorframe.

“—ever countermand my orders like that again and I’ll strip you of rank and send you back to play soldier for the statues in the Imladris gardens. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” The whisper was barely audible as though Ivriel was hoping to temper her officer’s stentorian roar with her own quiet alto.

Aragorn could almost picture Rancir standing rigidly to attention, summoning discipline to cover his agitation. “Concern for any thing or any one other than the matter at hand has no place on the battlefield, you know that. All it takes is one distracted soldier in the field to get yourself and others slain. I could slap a charge on you for disobeying orders.”

“I have heard this threat before, sir, and with all due respect am still awaiting my discharge papers. And if I may, I do not think it was I who was distracted, sir.” Her tone accused indirectly and when Rancir said nothing, she continued, “Are you saying then we should have no concern for any of the fellows who fight beside us? If we do not worry for their individual safety then what are we but orcs driven solely by blood thirst?”

“What I’m saying is what I’m saying. You follow the orders your commanding officer gives you not edit them to suit your whims, however high-minded. And don’t spout insolent palaver at me trying to make me a villain. You know that’s not what I meant.”

Her voice maintained its softness but a faint treble belied anger and anguish behind it. “What would you have had me do then, sir? Let you kill yourself?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot do that.”

An aggravated exhale. “I have already told you my reasons on this matter. They have not changed since we last spoke of them and they will not change now.”

“I have listened to your reasons,” now the anger and frustration flared; Aragorn heard it clearly. “I am your subordinate, you’re too old, not whole. Your body is crippled, Rancir. Your mind is not. You know how ridiculous you’re being.” The abrupt change from formal address to first-name startled the impromptu listener. He had never heard her talk to her commander like that.

“Dismissed.”

“You hide behind rank only because you—”

“Dismissed, I said, maethor.” The lieutenant-commander’s clipped tautness made Aragorn finch visibly.

Ivriel stalked from the room without seeing him and headed at a fast walk towards the further end of the hall, murmuring something about joining the watch at the gate. Lalaithien hurried towards her but she waved him away. Exchanging a sympathetic frown with Halbarad, Aragorn slipped into the outer chamber.

Rancir had his back to the ranger, leaning over a cracked basin balanced precariously on the Rhudaur lord’s slab. He didn’t look around when Aragorn’s hard soles announced his presence. The unguent of his disguise still patched his jaw, also mottled a gloriously plum-sable from the blow Ivriel had bestowed on him.

“Do you need anything for that?” Aragorn asked with a hesitant quirk of his brows.

The elf gave a jerk of his head to the negative and resumed scrubbing the ointment off his face, wincing as he brushed the sore spot.

To cover the not-entirely-comfortable silence, Aragorn unsheathed the saber and ran the rag over it, “It looks like we are safe for now. No injury is severe. Although two of ours are unaccounted for—Angrad and Veil.”

“If our pursuers assail this place, we won’t hold it. If your two are still alive they’ll have to find us on their own.”

“I don’t think we should leave them behind.” If Angrad was still alive…if the orcs got him too…

“Sometimes single sacrifices must be made for the sake of the group,” Rancir stated implacably: a hollow axiom brushed over so many times with the same tired strokes, the truth and stubbornly-held rightness of it clung only by a thread. “If we all started worrying about individual soldiers, we forget what is best for the group, forget our purpose.”

“Sometimes it is the bond between individuals that makes our purpose all the stronger.”

The elf’s black eyes surveyed the ranger knowingly over the cloak he was using to dab his face dry. “You too?”

Aragorn schooled his face into careful vacuity, not wanting the commander to know he’d overheard him arguing with his subordinate. “It’s just what I believe, sir.” He sighed. It would do no good to pretend he hadn’t heard with Rancir looking at him like that.

“She seems to care very deeply for you.”

Rancir gave him an ineffable look that left any chance of continuing this conversation dead as last autumn’s leaves. Interests of self-preservation made him backtrack swiftly.

“It’s not my place, I know.”

The commander rubbed his bruised jaw, his gaze tracing the path Ivriel had taken out of the room, then passing the ranger’s shoulder and focusing on something in the doorway at the end of the hall.

Aragorn turned to see what he was staring at. “Angrad.”

The young ranger looked pale though oddly determined. His tunic was torn, his fingers grubby from scaling up the rocks. A dark stain tainted one sleeve. “Sir.”

“Are you all right? Is Veil with you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Estel? Rancir didn’t kill you, did he?” Halbarad stopped short upon recognizing the young man in the doorway, mentally sweeping him for injuries. His shoulders visibly relaxed when he found nothing life-threatening and he smiled his relief. “Angrad. Thought we’d lost you there.”

“You left me.”

“I didn’t mean to, lad,” Guilt edged the older man’s eyes. “It was dark. I thought you were right behind me.”

But Aragorn had noticed something more important and much more troubling. “You’re not stuttering anymore.”

“No,” Angrad turned amused eyes in his direction. “I have no more need for pretenses.”

“ ‘Pretenses?’ ”

A strange, little smile hovered about the young ranger’s lips and an unexplainable warning pricked the back of Aragorn’s neck. “You know nothing do you? Not one thing.”

“What’s gotten into you, Angrad?” Halbarad demanded, taking a step closer, guilt transforming rapidly to outrage. “You don’t talk to your chief like that.”

“He is not my chief. He never has been,” Angrad said, his eyes now narrowed with menace shockingly out of place on his familiar mien. “I am a son of Rhudaur. I do not answer to the whims of the DĂşnedain.”

“What?”

“Ever you told me to know my enemies, Master Halbarad. Then again, when would you ever deign to heed your own counsel?” The smile returned but it was knife-edged, laced with bitterness. His entire comportment had changed. No longer was he the mild-mannered, timid ranger. He lifted his arms to encompass the room, “I am just like the noble people buried here. You were so easy to deceive, so ready to believe I’d escaped the orcs when they pursued us to Rivendell though none of my more valiant companions had done so. My true lord knew me for who I was at once and I aided him as I could in return.”

“But they hurt you,” Halbarad blustered as if willing Angrad to agree what he said could never be possible. “I saw the wounds.”

For the first time a shadow of horror crossed Angrad’s face. “Yes. Sometimes…when I have failed, my lord has felt the need to punish me. But I did not fail him again. An elf rider had escaped Fornost; the news he carried could ruin everything. Except he never made it. His horse only escaped the trackers. Unfortunately it was enough that the steed was still wearing the message satchel. There was a chance the elves of Rivendell would find it and grow suspicious.

“It was still carrying the messages when we came on it. I made sure they fell into the hands of my friends even if I couldn’t kill the horse without rousing suspicion. And it would have stayed that way—only your foolish Galadhrim captain had to get involved. He knew something was wrong though he didn’t suspect me. I heard from the twin sons of Lord Elrond that he tortured at least part of the truth out of one of the trackers and was assembling a company. I had to warn my lord. He made them pay fitting reparations for their snooping.”

Aragorn’s mind had locked up, the words washing over him meaninglessly. He couldn’t believe it. He thought he’d known Angrad: callow, somewhat timid, a little fearful and withdrawn but essentially good-natured and trustworthy. Who was this lean, angry, man standing before him with clenched fists and a kindled flame in his eyes, confessing that he had as good as murdered the contingent of Rivendell? Given Haldir to the orcs…

“Only one knew my secret, the slave, Veil. He saw me the one time I made the journey to Fornost. I had to keep a very close watch on him. I think he did manage to warn others but who would believe the word of a formerly enslaved corpse-thief over a valiant soldier of the North?”

Aragorn closed his eyes, his grip tightening so hard on the unsheathed saber the sharpened edge bit into his palm. Veil had tried to warn him about a traitor in their midst! And he hadn’t wanted to believe him.

“What did you do to him?” the chieftain whispered, dreading the answer he knew he would hear.

“When he tried to stop me warning my lord tonight, I had no choice. When you circled round to the camp, I killed him.” Angrad seemed determined that they should know the fullness of their folly for he continued to gloat, his eyes sharpening with satisfaction. “I can’t tell you how hard it’s been. I have had to use every skill I learned from you to avoid detection. And tonight, I finally gave my lord what he desired most—you.”

With an enraged bellow, Halbarad charged forward, forgetting that he had no weapon. “You’re lying! I treated you like a son and you—”

Angrad’s sword came up like a trap springing, warning the other man off, his smile a taut leer. “Give me a reason and I’ll rip a death-hole in your belly.”

Halbarad froze, disbelief and fury alternatively flickering over his face.

Attracted by the angry voices, the rest of the DĂşnedain crowded in the side door, incredulous looks on their faces at the odd tableau spread in front of them: Angrad, triumphant with elation, holding steel on their chieftain and his subaltern.

“Why would you do this?” Aragorn could only ask. His mind had begun to start again and with it came a pressing fear and a realization of infringing danger.

Angrad curled his lip as though the question were quite ridiculous. “Haven’t you been listening?My father was of Rhudaur. Surely you at least remember Saurdar, Master Halbarad? He brought me to your settlement when I was a child. You said he could stay until the roads thawed. He saw how hard you lived. Especially in winter. He wanted to repay you for your kindness,” he slurred the word. “He knew there was a far better homeland and destiny for the King’s men than a wreck of filthy hovels guarding a weakling race of ignorant half-men.”

“He wanted to end our nomadic life and reestablish a kingdom just south of Angmar,” Halbarad explained to Aragorn who had been a boy at the time and cared not for the rumors and whisperings that reached him. He had not yet known how closely his fate would tie with that of the DĂşnedain.

“My father was a great speaker,” Angrad said, pride gleaming in his eyes. “People were attracted to what he had to say.”

“Those who remembered the horror and power of the Witch-king better had more sense. They warned him more than once to stay his glory-mongering, his talk of subjugating the north. Those were Angmar’s ideas. Never the DĂşnedain’s.”

“Wolves came down during that snowmelt,” Angrad continued, drowning out Halbarad. “They were stealing sheep and killing men—evil creatures from the north, one of the elders said. You didn’t care did you? That Saurdar went out to fight—on your behalf—and never returned. But it was not wolves who slew my father, no. He was struck with an arrow from one of his own comrades.”

“It was an accident.”

“It was murder. Oh, the noble DĂşnedain. Couldn’t even face a man to silence him. You had to hit him in the back,” Angrad was breathing hard, bright spots of red coloring his cheeks but he slowly relaxed, regained calm. “But no matter. I found someone who was not only willing to help me avenge my father but would give me lands and a people of my own to fulfill his dream.”

“Mordor and Angmar do not share power, Angrad, they take it,” Aragorn said, very gravely. “You do not yet know what you do.”

“I told you, Strider, those who would ally themselves with Angmar must have hated someone more. Even then you didn’t see it. All those boastful stories you told me about the DĂşnedain only fueled my ambitions. I was right, you see. I know better than my poor father—he thought the DĂşnedain would listen to him. They’re too proud to listen, too stubborn to heed others’ words that might have helped them, might have saved them.

“Rhudaur will become strong again without the DĂşnedain’s help. Its houses rebuilt, its lords returned once the last of your people are gone into the barrows and the true King of the North returns!”

Halbarad moved protectively to Aragorn’s side, growling like an angry wildcat. “We’re still alive and fighting, pup. The battle’s not over yet.”

“That won’t take long.” Angrad laughed, a fanatic gleam blazing all over his transformed face. “Surely you do not think I would confess myself to you, outnumbered and outfought, and rely on your mercy to spare my life? I am not alone.”

Like bands of frozen iron, dread closed around Aragorn’s heart at the traitor’s admittance. Now he knew why the hairs on his arms and neck pricked with cold and despair. Why Angrad had talked so long and so boldly. And why no scout had come to bring them word of his return. Behind him, he heard a sharp rasp as Rancir picked up his glaive. As if entangled in a surreal dream he faced the outer door and beheld the terrifying apparition framed there.

Beneath the arch like something out of a nightmare sat the NazgĂ»l himself mounted silently upon his black steed. He did not stir but let his presence roll over the company. The torches along the walls guttered. Looping something round and dark off his saddle horn, he flung it down the center aisle. Bile surged up Aragorn’s throat as Eldacar’s head tumbled to a stop two paces from him.

“Your scouts are slain and your burrow unearthed. It is over, DĂşnedain.” His voice slithered against their ears like liquid darkness.

On either side of him, shadows undulated. It wasn’t until the torchlight caught a glint of steel that Aragorn realized they were orcs, filing close to the wall to avoid being spotted until now.

A chill light gleamed as the wraith pulled a dark lame from beneath his voluminous robes. Angrad bowed reverently low before him.

“I did as you asked, my lord,” he whispered breathlessly. “Will you fulfill your promise? A land and servants to rebuild my country, my lost people?”

The wraith laughed softly. “One who betrays his friends should expect to be betrayed in return. You have been a valuable spy, true son of Rhudaur, but you are of no further use to me now that you are known.”

Angrad blanched. Clearly he had not expected this. “But…my lord, you promised!”

His lord barely slowed his horse. The deadly sword swung once, catching him across the face, and Angrad slumped to the floor. “So I did. I name you lord of the maggots.”

The deathless king spurred his mount on, his sword swinging like a scythe. “Slay them all!”

The saber rose slightly unwieldy in Aragorn’s hands as orcs surged from the walls. “Na dagor!”

The DĂşnedain hurtled forward, swords flashing and arrows already notched. So fierce was their first onslaught, they drove the foe clear back into the narrower antechamber.

The saber scythed a lethal path through the enemy as Aragorn grew accustomed to its weight and superb balance. It glowed with a vengeful blue light and the orcs gave back before him as his men pressed for the doorway. Their advantage did not last long. Critz bellowed something in a guttural tongue and the orcs screeching wildly, threw themselves at the rangers, forcing them back by sheer weight of numbers.

A black-fanged face swung a curved blade at his neck. Aragorn dropped it with a slash across the belly. Three more sprang up to take his place.

A heavy weight crashed into his hip and spun him off balance. He had a mere glimpse of dark fur and six-inch gleaming fangs inches from his face. The saber came up too slow and he readied to feel those fangs sinking any moment into his flesh. Critz’s wolf yelped and whirled about with a snarl, blood matting its shoulder fur. Another blow from his rescuer sent the wolf scurrying off for easier prey.

Ivriel was bleeding from a scalp wound but she was alive bringing those of the scouts who had escaped the Witch-king’s first wave. She pulled him to his feet and thrust his blade back into his hand. “Get your back against something!” she yelled and spun off. Aragorn saw the lieutenant-commander’s eyes flash in their direction.

The tomb writhed and echoed with living bodies, the floor wet and slick with blood. The defenders stumbled over the bodies of their slain foes, a few of their own number had fallen to poisoned blades and rending teeth.

Aragorn brought the saberblade cleaving down on a skull. It grated against bone and he grunted as he dragged his weapon free. As he did so, his elbow jarred against something harder than stone and, turning, he realized the fight had backed them up against the bone-shelves where the dead of Rhudaur were interred.

There was a little more room to swing now since the fight had carried into the outer hall as well. The DĂşnedain were hardy and valiant, but they were overmatched by a foe they had never before encountered. The sheer, terrified madness that infected everyone around the wraith king ensnared them too.

The wraith himself did not fight but lingered near the door, watching from atop his mount, for none dared attack him. He was calling out in a foreign, evil tongue, speaking words of summoning and horror that Aragorn didn’t want to understand. Heaving shadows whirled and clashed along the wall as if in answer, the guttering light throwing smoky shrouds over skulls and rusted swords. Torches flickered and extinguished, filling the hall to choking with smoke and ash.

An unearthly wind ruffled Aragorn’s hair and behind him he heard the bones stir. Without warning, a shroud wrapped tight around his neck. His hands flew to his blocked airway as he thrashed wildly from side to side, trying to loosen the throttling sheet but unseen hands pried his fingers away, numbing them with a shocking cold. His vision started to waver as the shroud pulled tighter, strangling him. He couldn’t think. He needed air.

Without knowing why he did it, words sprang to his lips and he gasped. “O Elbereth! Elbereth Gilthoniel!” The hands slackened and his voice burst out strong. “Silivren penna mĂ­riel! O menel aglar elenath!”

The ragged veil suddenly tore with a screech and the cold hands vanished. Coughing and sucking in blessed air, Aragorn staggered upright rubbing his neck. Rancir’s voice boomed like a jaguar’s hoarse cough over the fray, repeating his chant which was quickly taken up by the rest of the DĂşnedain. “O Elbereth! Elbereth Gilthoniel! Silivren penna mĂ­riel! O menel aglar elenath!”

The effect the blessed tongue of Valinor had on the waves of darkness was instantaneous and alarming. An ear-splitting shriek of many, inhuman voices filled the entire hall so loud it caused a momentary lull in the fighting. Even the orcs were looking baffled and unnerved. Bones exploded out of the niches as if hurled scattering under the heels of defenders and attackers alike. Dust and shrouds billowed as the cavities cracked down their middles, raining rocks and debris everywhere.

Another shriek rent the air, full of hate and fury, scorching the ears and hearts of the DĂşnedain. The Witch-king’s hooded gaze whipped towards the human leader. The beautiful Sindarin tongue blistered like acid against he who had heard it years ago from the lips of an elf-lord, a brilliant, excruciating flame against the pervasive dark. The one who had shamed him and driven him from the field at the head of his decimated host. How dare this mere mortal attempt to break his power!

He gestured to the one he had kept back from the fight until now and indicated the dark-haired ranger. “Silence him!”

Aragorn fought his way from the niches but a monster wielding a falchion almost as tall as he bore down on him. His charge forced the man back dodging a heavy swipe that would have cleaved him in half. Twice more he evaded even parrying the blade, allowing the heavier being to expel strength.

Frustrated by the agility of his quarry, the orc bellowed, cast aside his weapon and flung himself full on the man. His weight bulled Aragorn over backwards against something hard and smooth. The casket of the Rhudaur king. Clawed hands found his already abused neck and squeezed. Aragorn didn’t give him a chance to snap it. The saber hilt smashed into the heavy jowl with the force of an iron bar. His enemy screeched, spraying blood from a broken mouth.

Struck by a sudden idea, Aragorn sprang up onto the stone tomb, calling hoarsely over the clash of steel, gathering his men to him even as he lashed out at every spear and blade that came near to snatch him from his perch.

The orcs gave back suddenly, clearing a space about the tomb. But Aragorn kept his bloodied sword in a defensive position, not yet ready to believe they had given up so easily. They hadn’t. The battle around him fell away and instead of the cries and screams of fighting and dying, he heard only silence as he saw the figure approaching.

Haldir strode towards him, a long, blackened sword raised as the orcs parted to let him through. Aragorn froze with uncertainty. The Witch-king and all his servants he would slay without reservation or quarter until his last breath. But regardless of what had been done to him, this was his friend, his brother-in-arms. He couldn’t hurt him.

Consumed by the NazgĂ»l’s poison, Haldir had no such choice. He leapt catlike onto the tomb beside the ranger, his blade already whistling through the air.

The man parried the arcing strike just in time though jolts of pain ran all the way down his elbows and up his shoulders. He was close enough to see the elf’s blank eyes rake up the length of the saber. Aragorn wondered if his friend recognized his blade.

There was scarcely room for both of them to maneuver and their long swords clashed repeatedly on the thick, unsharpened ricassos near the hilts, razor sharp tips almost gouging their faces. The blades locked as the combatants swayed, each trying to unbalance the other, boots finding tentative purchase on the damp stone. Through crossed steel, Aragorn was suddenly acutely aware of how much taller than he the elf was. The noble strength and unnatural agility that had once saved his life now turned against him.

The Witch-king watched the private battle with interest. The human fought with an elven blade that blazed like a red brand in his sight though the hand that wielded it was only a shadow. The human held his own well against the elf whose bright form was shot through with veins of strengthening darkness.

Though none of his strokes aimed to kill the man parried anything thrown at him. With the travesty of a disguise washed away, the wraith could sense him clearly now. There was something…strange about him. Something that hinted of Elves or long-lost NĂşmenor. The blood was stronger beating in him than any of the others here.

Disentangling their weapons with a twist, Haldir stepped in too close for the ranger to wield his weapon and lashed out with an open hand, hitting his opponent so hard white sparks exploded behind the man’s eyes. Aragorn stumbled and nearly fell as his heel caught the edge of the casket, threatening to send him tumbling off. The place where the elf had hit him throbbed like a bruise and he tasted blood. Haldir had never hit him that hard even in sparring.

Aragorn straightened slowly. He swallowed with difficulty; his throat suddenly obstructed. “You have to fight this. I know you are there, Haldir. You are not this darkness. You are not a servant of Mordor. You are my friend. You have to fight it—whatever it’s doing to you. You wouldn’t do this.”

For the briefest of seconds, the elf paused as if listening to the man’s words and the ranger acted.

He swung the flat of the saber with considerable force. The heavy, blunt edge connected solidly with the elf’s ribs. When his knees buckled, the ranger’s fist cracked against the side of his head. Both blows seared a blazing pain over his heart.

Half-stunned and hanging partially off the casket, Haldir shook strands of loose hair out of his face. His clouded eyes flamed like an open furnace and pierced Aragorn to the quick. The marchwarden vaulted to his feet, fast as a lynx, and the black sword he wielded gouged a screeching, deep furrow in the king’s stone tomb as Aragorn rolled off, the blade missing him by a hairsbreadth.

His onetime friend followed him to the ground and slashed savagely at him. Retreating fast, Aragorn tripped over a lifeless orc and went sprawling. He stilled his inching back as the black sword pricked against his windpipe. He was dead. He knew it. He couldn’t see any trace of his friend in those pitiless eyes. He closed his own. He didn’t want his last sight to be of his friend murdering him.

The sharp edge withdrew. Wonderingly, Aragorn dared open his eyes a slit as a dark shape leaped over his inert form and backhanded the elf backwards over the sepulcher.

“No! Halbarad!” Aragorn scrambled up as the older ranger lunged. “He’s not himself!”

“Get out of here, Estel!”

On the other side of the vault, the elf captain rose to his feet. He didn’t bother to wipe the trickle of blood snaking down his chin but his pale, unresponsive eyes fixated on Halbarad as he plucked up the black sword.

Lalaithien, a bloody score across his cheek, suddenly thrust through the melee and grabbed the DĂşnedain chief’s arm. “Come on! Rancir’s called us back! They are too strong!”

The DĂşnedain were fighting their way towards a side door. Orcs fell and gave back around them, beaten back by the hardy blades of Westernesse. The Witch-king was blocked in by his own minions as they scuttled away from their enemies’ desperate assault.

Aragorn had lost sight of Haldir in the fray. Numb as a sleepwalker, he let Lalaithien and Halbarad maneuver him through the path they’d made. Hands and sleeves splashed with gore, Rancir and Ivriel held the downward stairs against all comers.

“Follow him. Go,” the dark-haired elf shouldered Aragorn aside, his glaive impaling a massive goblin. With a brutal kick, he knocked the corpse off the end of his weapon, a feral laugh on his lips.

Aragorn knew better than to argue. A sense of clarity returned as Halbarad and his remaining men looked to him for guidance. “You heard him. Go. Help the wounded.” Sheathing his bloody blade, he fell back to the rear.

He remembered little of the flight through the dark, the cries and curses of their enemies fading but never quite vanishing behind them. For what felt like an eternity, they groped blindly down flights of stairs, able only to see a dim gleam ahead of them as Lalaithien’s bright shape led the way ever down and deeper. At last they came to a large crack in the wall at the back of a cavern. Fresh air blew through the crevice wide enough to admit a man.

“This’ll take us out onto the slopes,” Lalaithien explained. “But Rancir and Ivriel can’t hold them forever so all the wounded go first, quickly now. I’ll guide you.”

“Do as he says,” Aragorn relinquished the man he was supporting to Halbarad and pushed his friend ahead of him while he and Galen gazed anxiously across the cavern. The silence was unendurable as the minutes crawled past. Most of the men had gone through and Lalaithien and Halbarad had returned.

“Rancir and Ivriel—?” the younger elf broke off when he saw they were alone.

“We can’t wait much longer,” Galen said, his face grave as the sound of running feet and yells drew nearer. “You’re next, Estel.”

Aragorn shook his head. He had heard something and gestured his friend to silence as he squinted into the pitch-dark. Someone was coming up fast. The footsteps were soft and uneven as if whoever it was had trouble walking. Nervously, he grasped the saber in his sweat-slick hand.

“Who comes?” Lalaithien’s whisper startled him.

“The bloody cavalry. Move.” Rancir’s light was dim in the vast cavern. Blood spattered his tunic and splashed up along his neck; an ashen Ivriel clung to his shoulder. Her hair was matted thick with a scarlet crust. He thrust her half-conscious into Lalaithien’s arms. “Take her. They’re right behind us. Go.” He hefted his bloodstained blade exhaustedly as wild, yammering cries burst from the other end of the hall. The frontrunners were right on their heels.

The saber took an orc’s head from its shoulders as Aragorn swung it, feeling as if his limbs were filled with lead. His head spun with exhaustion and a chill had crept over his skin like icewater. He knew. The NazgĂ»l was coming.

“Come on, you three,” Rancir called as he ducked into the crack behind Lalaithien and Ivriel.

With a vicious thrust, Halbarad’s longsword took an orc through the thigh, dropping him. “You first, chief.”

Galen’s rapier sang through the air close by, cutting a swathe of death through the oncoming horde. Black blood spattered the rocks but the numbers against them were steadily pressing them backwards. They’d have to break the fight now or be overwhelmed.

Aragorn saw the pale, familiar face among all the twisted ones and his heart contracted painfully. This time, he was the one leaving his friend behind. He wasn’t the one paying attention to the orc rushing up on his right, a spear centered on his chest.

“Estel!”

A lithe body bowled him over and sent him tumbling against the wall. Shoulders and skull aching where they’d hit, he heaved himself up as the orc bearing a broken spear fell sideways, its yellow eyes already darkening. The warrior who had deflected the spear-thrust slumped against the wall beside him. At first, Aragorn thought he had collapsed from sheer fatigue but then he saw the splintered wooden spar protruding from the elf’s side.

“Galen.” Aragorn crouched beside the wounded warrior with Halbarad lunging to cover them both. He tried to examine the wound but rapidly pooling blood obstructed his view. Galen’s crimsoned fingers covered his and pushed back gently.

“It’s bad, Estel…passed right-right through,” he coughed and warm spatters flecked Aragorn’s cheeks. The man winced.

“Oh, Galen.”

The elf shook his head weakly at the horror and grief in the man’s voice. “Do not mourn, Estel. I’ve lived longer I’d-I’d hoped…than I deserved.”

“Don’t say that. If you hadn’t brought word to us, we would never have known what happened and I would be dead by now. Just stay still; I’ll find my pack…there’s medicines and bandages there… You’re not going to let a little stick like this stop you.” Even as he spoke, Aragorn realized he’d left his pack behind in the upper room.

Galen smiled. Already the misty light of Mandos’ Halls sparkled in his eyes. “Help me up will you?”

Aragorn’s hands shook so hard he could barely grasp his friend’s enough to pull him to his feet.

The scout of Imladris wavered, pain spasming across his beautiful face. Briefly, he closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the rapier hilt. “Let me have my honor-death, Estel. As I should have had with my captain and the others.”

Aragorn wordlessly squeezed his hand as Halbarad cut a lightning fast look over his shoulder at the pair of them.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” The older ranger stooped, retrieved his leader’s forgotten saber and thrust it into his hands. “We can’t hold this forever.”

“I will hold it,” Galen staunchly shoved away from the wall. Driven by some inexplicable energy, the rapier flashed out and pierced the tall orc Halbarad had been battling. The grizzled ranger fell gratefully back, tugging on Aragorn’s belt to make him move. Only numbly did the ranger turn.

“No quarter, Galen!” Halbarad called out, his roaring voice echoing off the cavern walls.

“For Rivendell!” Aragorn’s cry boomed after; the Witch-king’s screech of fury resounding in their ears and lending wings to their feet.

Grey-faced, Galen listened as their pounding footsteps and shouts of encouragement receded down the tunnel, one hand pressed against his middle. His rapier glittered like a messenger of death, slaying all with ferocious skill as he defended the narrow way. “I bet you’ve never felt the fighting spirit of Lieutenant Gelmir’s eldest son! Come!”

With a grunt, the gallant soldier pulled the spear haft from his side and hurled himself full upon his enemies like a tidal wave, a last war cry and blessing ripping out of his throat to send his friends on their way.

“Elbereth!”

----------

A fragrant breeze cooled their sweat-soaked locks as Aragorn and Halbarad stumbled onto the grass-covered slopes of the west side of Amon-en-Achas. The hill was startlingly quiet and still after the cacophony of battle. The others were gathered lower down.

“Where is Galen?” Lalaithien asked, closing the last few yards between them. He and the Imladris scout had gotten to know each other well in the few weeks they’d been pinned up in the caverns.

Aragorn shook his head, his eye caught by Ivriel who despite her wounds had lit a small brush fire and was dipping a rag-wrapped arrowhead into it. “What is she doing?”

The well-aimed arrow flew over their heads, an arc of brilliant light, and bedded in the grass close to the tunnel exit. Within seconds the parched weeds went up in a sheet of flame as though they’d been doused with oil.

“That’ll stop any others from coming after us at least for awhile,” she explained, shouldering her bow.

Lalaithien grasped her arm protectively as she swayed, his face stony. “Come on. We need to be gone from here before daylight.”

For a moment, Aragorn lingered and watched the thick, grey smoke spiral skyward against a backdrop of clear night netted with pinpricks of stars. The fire blazed painfully in his overbright eyes and he had to look away, bowed with weariness and heartache for all that had been lost this night.
Notes:

Maethor— “warrior.” Rancir hides his feelings behind formality.

Na dagor!— “To battle!”

O Elbereth! Elbereth Gilthoniel/ Silivren penna mĂ­riel. / O menel aglar elenath— Doubtless you already recognize this as a fragment of the hymn to Varda sung in the halls of Elrond. I make no pretense, it’s straight from Tolkien. Translated by Ruth S. Noel: “O Star-Queen, Star-kindler (white) glittering slants down sparkling like jewels from firmament glory (of the) star-host!”


Chapter 13 - Part Thirteen: Western Glooms are Gathering

Author's Notes: Despite this being the shortest of my chapters, it took me more than twenty-three days to write! It is shorter mostly because the next chapter is so long. I like to keep my stories balanced as much as possible.

This is hot-off-the-press, so to speak. I was scrambling to rewrite the last scene this morning but I thought I’d go ahead anyway and let you read. It’s ready. However, Part Fourteen is not written yet and it’s going to be a long, involved chapter. I’m going to tentatively say I won’t be able to post next week and hope you’ll bear with me while I iron out the kinks.

Once more, I have to profusely thank Noelnoel for going over this chapter with a fine-toothed and razor-edged comb. His help proved invaluable, irreplaceable and wonderfully insightful. Thank you, Noel! Couldn’t have done it without you!

The Lady of Light

Part Thirteen

Western Glooms are Gathering

Bodies littered the chamber. Orcs and DĂşnedain alike lay in the attitude where the fatal stroke had found them with looks of fear, surprise or defiance permanently fixed across their pale visages. The illusion of peaceful rest does not include the fallen of battlefields. Unlike those of Rhudaur that environed them, the rangers were not covered over in feature-blurring shrouds, their grisly horror un-softened by time and dust.

The surviving orcs picked through the gore, stripping their foes of weapons and going about the grisly business of sifting through the dead. Critz kept eyes on his men, impatiently tapping the hilt of a long knife against the stone.

Sweeping through the gore, careless of the scarlet blood seeping into his black garment, the Witch-king paused almost thoughtfully beside the large stone vault of the Rhudaur lord. Piled beside the tomb were the bodies of his minions brought up from the caverns where his quarry had at last eluded him. Somewhere under the mound was an elf still clutching a broken rapier. A single elf, torn and wounded to death, had accounted for almost a third of his slain force alone!

The longsword was still clenched in his hand. It rose almost of its own accord, hatred the only emotion he could still feel with any strength. He stabbed savagely downward until he reached the golden body. The surviving orcs huddling against the back wall watched their enraged lord wide-eyed until the fires of his rage were spent. Only one among their number moved.

Coming up behind the wraith, Haldir stared at the mutilated soldier. For a brief, almost undistinguishable moment there shone in his rigid face a stab of recognition and remorse. But as the wraith’s hood turned towards him, his face became smoothly blank and attentive.

The Witch-king sheathed his lame and Critz deemed it safe enough to approach. “What now, Sire? Our losses were great but not overly so. We could still go after them once the brush fire in that tunnel dies down. They’ll be burdened with wounded.”

The icy voice sneered from under the hood. “Our losses would have been less severe if you had properly surrounded and eliminated the quarry. I made one, simple request: find the DĂşnedain and kill them. We had them trammeled within our very grasp, weakened, surprised and yet somehow they escaped our noose. Clearly I made the oversight of thinking you competent enough to subdue a few weakling rebels.”

He did not notice Critz’s fangs bare in a petulant scowl as a vision flashed before his mind of their leader, that young, grey-eyed man. There was an elvish cast to him. It at once intrigued him and filled his dark heart with an inexplicable emotion he did not yet recognize as fear.

“Too many years of cracking whips over the inferior have made you lax and soft, Critz. You have wasted enough of my resources and my time. No. We will wait. Knowing we have one of their own, their professed nobility will not allow them to let him remain in our hands. They will come to us. And we will be ready when they do.”

He indicated the DĂşnedain corpses with a sweep of his iron-clad hand. “Collect those. We return home.”

----------

“I need to speak with you. Privately.”

“Not now,” Aragorn didn’t look up from his work as he sorted through his dwindling herb stock, trying to find a little more yarrow ointment for a shoulder wound. It was close to the neck and inflamed.

Frustration began to wear through Halbarad’s earnestness. “You need to replenish your stocks anyway. They’ll be all right for a few minutes.”

Aragorn sighed as he finished binding the wound a little more snugly than he intended and his patient winced. Loosening the linen, he addressed him, “Are you going to be all right if I leave him with you for a little?” he nodded at the soldier’s friend who hovered close though his own arm was wrapped in a bloody bandage.

The injured man quirked a wry smile and shifted his newly bound shoulder. “I’ll live.”

Aragorn’s smile at the soldier’s bravery quickly faded as Halbarad led him downstream away from their cold, uncomfortable bivouac. Burdened by the injured, they had been forced to stop still within sight of Amon-en-Achas beside a shallow, green burn hidden within a birch grove. Aragorn had ordered no fires lit though he had hardly needed to. They were all too exhausted to do more than slump where they fell.

Angrad’s treachery lay like a pall over them. Aragorn still couldn’t absorb the realization fully though grief and fatigue gnawed at the raw hole in his chest.

“Galen was a brave soldier. He died how he wished,” Halbarad said awkwardly, intoning the usual consoling phrase said during this kind of time. His usual ruddy face was pale as his chief’s and another, grimmer emotion Aragorn couldn’t pinpoint in the dark furrowed his brow.

“Yes, he was.”

The older ranger slowed and halted, leaning against the cracked trunk of a birch that bent low to the water. “I didn’t want to say this in front of the men. And you’re not going to like it.”

Aragorn raised his eyes dully, silently inviting the other to continue.

Halbarad’s calloused fingers rubbed the knobby trunk edgily. “Know that I say this in love, because you are not only my chieftain and sword-brother but my friend.”

“Say it, Halbarad.”

A beat. “We need to pull back.”

“Haldir is still a captive among the orcs. We have to get him out of there.”

“After what happened tonight…I do not think it possible.”

There was a dark note in Halbarad’s tone that made Aragorn suddenly wary. “I did not come all this way to leave my friend behind,” he said slowly, the uneasiness growing when Halbarad minutely shook his head. “Our men did not die—Galen did not die—for us to retreat like startled hinds at the sight of the hunter. We’ve had worse numbers against us before and prevailed.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What then are you saying? Plainly.”

“We have no further purpose here. Nearly half our number are dead; of the rest not one is without hurt. We need to fall back, recoup our numbers and strength—”

“That would condemn him to death.”

“He cannot be saved.”

Aragorn stared at his faithful adjutant then said in a voice soft but laden. “You believe him lost?”

“He fights for the Enemy now. I’m sorry for his loss but perhaps it wasn’t—” Halbarad seemed to think better of whatever he’d been about to say and simply shook his head. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

Aragorn didn’t seem to have heard him. “He does not fight by his own will. I will bring him back to reason.”

“And if you are unable to?” Halbarad challenged, his darkly troubled eyes softening his tone. “Pain—and fear of pain—can challenge even the closest loyalties, Aragorn.”

“So can fear of betrayal.” The grey-green stare of his leader pinned him meaningfully.

It silenced the older man for a minute but only a minute. “I watched that elf nearly kill you, Aragorn— yes, I fear betrayal. We were mistaken in Angrad. I’ve known him since he was old enough to stride a saddle! Is it so improbable to think you too might be mistaken in someone? Someone who, you remember, tried to kill me the first time he met me?”

“You know that was an accident. I was not in any serious danger.”

Halbarad’s lips curved with scornful incredulity. “You mean to tell me, if I had failed to knock away the lame he had pressed to your throat he would have let you walk away unscathed? Why then the need to fight him with drawn steel? Why then is your lip bloody?” He indicated Aragorn’s mouth where a black-red split marked top and bottom, the force of Haldir’s backhand. “Your friend.”

“He’s given me worse sparring.” Aragorn touched the wound, attempting to shrug the lie off lightly and failing.

A shriveled birch leaf tumbled as Halbarad’s fist slammed helplessly into the white trunk. “He would have slain you, Aragorn! And you would not have hindered him!”

When his chieftain did nothing more than continue to regard him, Halbarad sighed and forced his fingers to uncurl. “Even now, we would follow you into that dark keep without hesitation. I ask only that you consider alternatives. What can we truly accomplish now? He who was your friend is no more. Accept it, Aragorn, and let us look to avenge him and all our fallen."

“No, I will not accept it, Halbarad,” Aragorn allowed the first tinges of anger to inflame his normally calm voice; his emotions were too torn and his body too exhausted for him to do anything but succumb to the slow-building rage and fear boiling in his chest. He rubbed his neck reflexively where the blackened sword had left its bite mark. A vision of Haldir’s strangely emotionless eyes flashed across his mind.

“They did something to him,” he endeavored with enforced calm. “But I am going to bring him back.”

Halbarad opened his mouth, undoubtedly to protest again but Aragorn was done listening.

“I have given you your say and have made my decision. I’ll argue no more. The men need more yarrow. Make yourself useful and find some.” his chief whirled on his heel, heading back towards the camp. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if Halbarad obeyed or not. Guilt threatened to wring his heart but he thrust it away savagely. He’d meant what he’d said to Halbarad: he wasn’t going to turn back. Not now. Maybe he was being indurate but he would not let his men’s, Galen’s sacrifices be for nothing. He wouldn’t believe Haldir was beyond saving.

Nevertheless Halbarad’s words had raised a sudden doubt like the awareness of a bruise. "He who was your friend is no more."

If they couldn’t bring him back…

The camp was still dark when he returned. The others huddled in their cloaks, damp and chilled as the night slid by. Few were awake, and only two were speaking. A shard of moonlight highlighted Lalaithien’s compassionate expression as he crouched in front of Ivriel who sat up against the bole of an oak, her cloak pulled tautly over her thin shoulders.

“—worried about you,” Lalaithien’s usually merry face was uncharacteristically vulnerable. He touched her fingers where they gripped the edges of her cloak. “He is not willing to place you before his duty. You know that.” He sighed when she pulled gently away.

“I know.”

Ivriel’s eyes caught Aragorn’s and Lalaithien, following her gaze, rocked onto his heels, giving the man a smile that somehow lacked its usual brilliance as he wordlessly withdrew.

The ranger approached softly. "Is Rancir asleep? I hoped to speak with him."

Ivriel adjusted the bandage covering her scalp wound as she glanced at her commander's nearby form, inert and wrapped in his tattered cloak. "His arm was bothering him. I gave him a full dose of poppy syrup. He might sleep until dawn if undisturbed." Ivriel spoke with a meaningful look that Aragorn missed.

"A full dose? Was that wise? That much can—"

"I know what too large a dose can do, Master Healer, thank you," her voice was whisper soft, yet pointedly quelling; Aragorn lowered his voice as he conceded, "Of course, you know him best. Forgive me."

Ivriel's eyes closed briefly in chagrin as Aragorn sat down next to her. "He needed to rest. But he wouldn't give up first watch."

"So you took it for him?" Aragorn guessed, lifting an eyebrow. He had been on the receiving end of such enforced rest before and knew that it was probably for the best. "You must be tired. Let me take the remainder for you."

She shook her head in refusal and touched the bandage wrapped tightly over her hair again. "I feel strangely restless. Battle does it. Even after it is over, I do not feel at ease enough for sleep."

Aragorn nodded his understanding as he wrapped his cloak more snugly around his shoulders. "The nights are getting colder." His abstracted gaze focused far across the river towards the rising woods beyond. They both knew somewhere over the tops of the trees, lay the menacing bastion, concealed only by tree shade and night shadow.

“It’s nearing autumn. With the dying season, his power will wax again,” Ivriel’s penetrating eyes fastened on him. “What do you intend to do now?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, exhaling softly. “Some part of me knows that the wise course would be to flee from this place as fast as we can before we are snared. The other fears that giving in would…”

“Cost your friend his life,” she finished. “It would.”

Aragorn sighed. A soft rustle of movement drew his attention away from the conversation. He glanced up as Halbarad wordlessly handed him a handful of yarrow leaves. The younger ranger took them with a nod of appreciative thanks, tucked them into his belt and, on second thought, rose to follow the older man. A touch on the shoulder made Halbarad turn, his expression cautiously neutral.

“Sir?”

Aragorn shook his head at the formality. “I have no desire to quarrel with you, Halbarad. As you said, you are my friend and sword-brother and I thank you for your counsel however driven it is by personal concern. But, I have made up my mind. I need your support in this, my friend.”

“I am your support. I feel I have to speak my mind regardless,” Halbarad squeezed his chief’s arm gruffly. “I’ll wake the others.”

Overhearing him, Lalaithien knelt beside his own commanding officer and gently touched his shoulder. “Sir?”

“Lalaithien, he needs rest,” Ivriel made a movement as though to stop him but he brushed her aside, his grip tightening when Rancir didn’t stir.

“We need to rouse him.”

“Why?” Ivriel frowned and scooted forward, irritably shoving the bandage up on her forehead again when it slipped over her eye.

The younger elf flashed a quick glance at her face, still shaking his officer. “What did you give him?” He started slightly when a vise-like grip snapped closed around his wrist, effectively dislodging his clasp.

“What is it?”

“Sorry to wake you, sir.” Lalaithien apologized swiftly, reclaiming his wrist and cradling it gingerly. “There’s been a change of plans.”

Rancir pushed his long, dark mane off his face with an aggravated sweep as he sat up. “I shouldn’t have been asleep in the first place.” He cut a shrewd, sideways glance at Ivriel who hastily found somewhere else to look. “What is it, Lalaithien?”

“Strider’s decided not to wait until dawn. We’re leaving soon.”

The dark-haired commander lurched slightly unsteadily to his feet. “I need to walk.”

A slight commotion at the edge of the camp made him pause, rubbing his arm. “What the—?”

“What is going on?” Aragorn questioned as two of the guards they had posted around the perimeter appeared, dragging a familiar scarecrow of a figure between them. He stared, incredulous. “How…?”

Veil flexed his shoulders against the sentinels’ grasp. “Sorry I’m late.”

No one returned his tentative smile. If one of their own could betray them, a stranger would have an even easier job of it.

“We thought you were dead,” Halbarad said when Aragorn didn’t say anything. He laid a hand on his sword hilt. Veil’s eyes followed the movement and darkened. The smile vanished from his bony face.

“He did it then,” he whispered. A heavy sigh shifted his shoulders. “You can take your hand off your sword, Master Halbarad. I didn’t bring an entourage of orcs with me as you can see. Do you mind if I sit? The walk was kind of long.”

“You’re hurt,” Aragorn observed, gently putting Halbarad aside so he could approach the man who sank to the ground.

The rakish grin reappeared even as he stretched his leg out with a soft groan. There was a long gash across his thigh. “Takes more than a swing in the dark to kill me though I imagine that pup of Angmar didn’t think so.”

Aragorn peeled the cut trouser leg back to inspect the gouge. “You were lucky. How did you escape the orcs?”

The former slave grimaced, shutting his eyes tight, as Aragorn applied pressure to his leg. He gritted out through clenched teeth. “They must have missed me in the dark…It was chaos after you all escaped…I crawled as far as I could, hid under a dead log for the night, made my way back in the morning…” His hand suddenly covered Aragorn’s and the chieftain looked up at him.

“I’m sorry,” the man whispered. “I didn’t need to go inside to see what had happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you.”

The sight of Amon-en-Achas’ lone hill made a lump rise in Aragorn’s throat as he followed Veil who was limping but steadily towards the footpath that wound towards the summit. He led them up the familiar avenue but he turned aside before reaching the entranceway they had used so many times and led them up a short climb of scrub grass and tumbled boulders. Rounding a spur of rock that protruded from the hillside, Aragorn stopped short at the sight before him. He realized now why Veil had been unable to speak.

Startled by their unexpected appearance, a crow took off with an angry croak. The heads of the DĂşnedain who had fallen in the dark tombs had been brought out into the sunlight and perched on the boulders. Their mouths had been wedged open with stones bearing the painted sign of the Red Eye or the vulgar graffiti of their killers.

But what had been done to Galen was even worse.

The elf warrior had been dismembered and propped on a pike driven deep into the soil. Ghastly injuries rent his body in so many places he was hard to recognize at first. Sunlight glinted in his hair, made ugly by bloodstains and tangled about his neck which had been pierced right through with the pike’s steel nail to hold him in place. Hung like an old coat. The pitiful, milky stare of the dead elf warrior sent a pang of rage through Aragorn’s breast and his fingers tightened around the saber pommel until the smooth metal ground against the bones in his hands.

“By Nienna’s tears, curse them, curse them,” he heard someone behind him whisper.

Veil didn’t look at the carnage again. “These creatures have no sanctity for life or death. At least the dead cannot feel their cruelty. The living can,” a shuddering breath escaped him and he had to stare at the ground when he admitted. “My daughter is still among them—in that keep…That Angmar mongrel told me my wife’s sister had been caught trying to escape and slain. Who’s taking care of Henna? She’s the only family I have left. I won’t lose her—I can’t lose her.”

Lalaithien came up beside him, his eyes dark with a determined fire Aragorn had never seen before. The young elf addressed himself to Veil, not once taking his eyes from the lean face. “My only family are those with me now.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rancir and Ivriel.

“My parents departed before the first wars with Angmar ended. My brother and sister raised me in Rivendell. When they decided to help Lord Glorfindel avenge the loss of Fornost, they took me with them though I was deemed too young to fight. They—and consequently I—were put under the bullying domination of a then-sergeant who made you do drills all the time even if you were only a go-for.”

Rancir snorted. “Kept you out from underfoot.”

Lalaithien’s answering smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Brethwen and Mallion…became part of his ambuscade company—they were both archers and skilled in concealment. We received word that the Witch-king was moving his forces farther from the palace into open country. They departed to make a surprise sortie. I couldn’t go with.” A grey shadow crept over his face and he fell silent.

Ivriel picked up the tale when it seemed neither of her male companions would explain. “Someone panicked. Let their arrow loose too early. We lost the element of surprise. Half of the company was slaughtered in the first charge—Brethwen and Mallion were taken captive along with...some of the senior officers.”

Horror rippled the length of Aragorn’s spine.

Ivriel continued. “There was a particularly vindictive creature that commanded the Witch-king’s forces at that time. You’ve met him before,” her eyes focused on Aragorn meaningfully. “In the orc camp.”

“Critz.” Aragorn saw a muscle tighten in Rancir’s jaw and remembered the commander’s berserk hatred of the orc lieutenant. A cold lump of ice slid down his throat and settled like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next. “He tortured them.”

“Oh, he did more than that,” Rancir didn’t take his eyes from Lalaithien’s bowed head. “By the end of the first night, some of them had forgotten their own names, who and where they were. He broke them in hours.”

Lalaithien hadn’t lifted his face. Ivriel rested a consoling hand on his back, her eyes fastened worriedly on her commander.

Rancir’s shoulders were so rigid had his mouth not been moving he would have seemed a graven statue. The DĂşnedain remained utterly silent, watching. “If their officer had not been such a damn overconfident idiot, he would have known better, he would have been prepared. He wouldn’t have let them suffer.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” The words escaped Aragorn’s lips before he’d realized he’d spoken them. Compassion and sorrow for all these three had lost beat against his breast so strongly he thought he might shatter with the force of it.

A heavy sigh escaped the lieutenant-commander. He brushed Lalaithien’s shoulder in passing, looking up at Galen’s still form. “At least, our dead did not suffer.”

“And no one else will if we can prevent it,” Halbarad said. When Aragorn’s eyes lifted to his, he nodded shortly.

Turning, Aragorn addressed his men who watched him expectantly. “There is no time to go back for aid. By the time we returned with reinforcements, who knows how great the wraith’s power will have grown? We are the only hope for the north now.”

“There is a way,” Veil leaned back against of the boulders to take the weight of his leg as he explained. “I know how we can get our hands on a proper-sized fighting force. It’s insane but I think it’ll work. Listen.”

“You’re right. That is insane,” Halbarad said when Veil had finished outlining his proposition. “I like it.”

The other man threw him a reckless smile.

With grim determination, they went about the grim duty of laying their companions to rest and got to work. Sharpness replaced blunted sword tips, bows needed restringing, arrows crafted from light birch and oak were hardened over small fires and rubbed to razor points.

Steadier now that their fate was decided, Aragorn perched on a boulder, staring across the plain towards Fornost which loomed like the beginnings of a great mountain out of the earth, its craggy shoulders aflame with the last glimmer of sunset.

Rancir’s eyes caught the reddish glints as he climbed up beside him, the heavy leather bracer strapped on his forearm once more, his weapon honed to a new edge. “You should sleep while you can. We won’t move until it’s fully dark.”

Aragorn acknowledged the elf’s sensible suggestion with a nod but little else. He could not sleep even if he tried. The knowledge of what they were about to do erased all thought of exhaustion from his mind.

Rancir was still watching him, an unusual expression on his stern face. It looked almost like pity. “It is a noble thing to sacrifice your life for a friend,” he said.

“I hope it will not come to sacrifice. Veil’s idea can work.”

“Certainly it can but even with the added numbers, we’re going in blind. We don’t know their exact defenses, where the wraith is…Or your Captain Haldir.”

Aragorn had thought of this already but hadn’t dared say it aloud. “I will find him if I have to search under every flagstone.”

“And we will give you that time if we can. However, it is more than a month now since his capture. A lot of damage can be done in even a short amount of time,” the elf commander did not need to glance at his own ruined limb for evidence. “It is better to be prepared. If we are too late…”

The man stared at the ground as though fascinated by it but not really seeing it. If they were too late, the most they could accomplish would be to get themselves killed. He started when Rancir pressed something into his hand and felt a chill quite unrelated to the cooling wind when the pouch of hemlock leaves nestled in his palm.

“Death is better than eternal servitude to the Shadow. And better at the hand of a friend. He would wish it.”

Aragorn thrust it back at him with a vehement shake of his head. “We will get him back.” But Rancir had already walked away to rejoin Ivriel and Lalaithien.

Oaths were vowed that night: of brotherhood, of loyalty and friendship. Even as they keened the weapons of war, the DĂşnedain laughed and teased one another as old comrades do. They sang and some murmured prayers. Come dawn tomorrow, they knew all laughter, songs and prayers could be silenced for all of them.
Notes:

go-for— a semi-feudalistic term for a page boy who ran errands for the knights


Chapter 14 - Part Fourteen: A Light from the Shadows Springs

Author’s Notes: An update, at last. This was painstakingly cobbled together in one hour snatches these last couple of weeks. I know you’ve all been waiting anxiously (at least that’s the hope). I’m fond of the result—the beginning reminds me of E. A. Robinson’s Luke Havergal though it’s been a year at least since I’ve even looked at that thrilling poem. 

Warning: This is a long chapter, as I’m sure you can tell. I would not advise reading it on a computer if at all possible. 

Hope you all haven’t forgotten where we left off, 

~The Lady of Light~ 

Part Fourteen
~A Light from the Shadows Springs~

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies	
To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything
	--E.A. Robinson 

Quietness and agility even in utter darkness ran in the DĂşnedain’s very blood. Making no more noise than ripples, they stole through the man-high grass into the shadow of Fornost’s vast north wall.  

Aragorn breathed in the cool, sweet smell of the wall rue sunk in the limestone’s fissures. He couldn’t think of anything except that he had never seen a clearer sky. By habit, he sought the clump of tiny, blue stars that shone brightest above Rivendell’s gorge. They were hidden behind a hilly shoulder of the Weather Hills. 

Beside him, Lalaithien, also searching the spangled sky, sighed. “It’s a beautiful night at least.” 

“The last some of us may see,” Halbarad murmured, tapping the pommel of his longsword grimly. “Where’s this door of yours?” he addressed Veil who had limped closer to the wall and was running his fingers over the contours.   

An architectural quirk made the particular portal they were searching for recede down a short passage into the wall so it was hidden from sight if one approached from either right or left. An intruder had to come straight at it and even then the thick blanket of ivy draped across it made it difficult to spot. 

“This is it.” Veil hissed after several, long tense moments, stripping away handfuls of leaves and stubbornly clinging stems until he’d cleared a larger section, revealing a door bleached and cracked by countless years and rusty at the hinges. He applied a liberal dollop of sword oil to the hinges then stepped back to let Halbarad squeeze past him. 

“Your scouts did good work,” the former slave said, leaning against the wall to take the weight off his injured leg. “I’d forgotten this door was here—Arvedui fled Fornost and died before my great-grandfather’s lifetime. Lucky for us, it seems the orcs forgot about it too.” 

Rancir’s eyes glinted in the faint light as he watched Halbarad fit his sword into the marginal space between wall and door, endeavoring to catch the hook that secured it. “Let’s hope this works before you congratulate them.” 

Halbarad cast a half-smile over his shoulder. “These kinds of skills aren’t appreciated by some in Imladris but as luck would have it, it’s needed here,” Holding his breath, he levered carefully upward, making several adjustments, with his ear pressed to the door until he heard a faint clink on the other side. He tugged on the crumbling iron handle and eased it back and forth experimentally. It squeaked faintly at first then whispered wide open. 

“Congratulations to us,” Lalaithien threw a triumphant grin at his leader but faltered under the return of a stern glower. “I know, I know. Close my mouth. Yes, sir.” 

“Orchards should be just beyond here. They’ll lead us into the main courtyard where the cages are next to the quarry.” 

Aragorn issued final orders to his men who, varying looks of apprehension and determination meeting his. “Advance in pairs, six yards apart, straight across. Be careful. Watch for the orc, Critz, and his guard.” 

Without another word between them, they slipped one by one through the gate and onto the dark grounds.  

The pair of rangers a few yards ahead and to the left of him suddenly stopped. Their chieftain crept up to them. “What’s the matter, Menelir?” 

“Movement, sir,” the ranger breathed in his ear. “There. I saw it.” 

Aragorn squinted in the direction indicated but only a clump of thick, ragged brambles met his eyes, glinting a deep purple in the scarce light. Exchanging an uneasy look with Rancir, he and the elf lieutenant slipped soundlessly forward, Halbarad and Ivriel on their heels. 

The thorn-laden bushes sprawled over a dilapidated wooden fence that separated the espaliers from shrubs and herbs. A little ways beyond the fence, Aragorn caught a shimmer of moonlight on water and guessed there must be a pool there. Something rustled through the reeds and a lithe, black shape rose up, ducking between the fence’s horizontal braces. 

A startled gasp at the sight of strangers. A muffled thump. 

It was a child. 

Aragorn held a finger to his lips as he gently reached down and righted the fallen bucket she had dropped in her fright. The girl couldn’t have been more than ten years old, withy with an oddly familiar, narrow face and long fingers. Her large, hollow eyes watched him warily and she didn’t move to retrieve the bucket from his hands. 

Ivriel smiled softly at her and asked as if they were but chance-met strangers strolling in a garden. “Hello there. What’s your name?” 

The sight of a feminine face seemed to reassure the girl and she switched her gaze to the elf woman’s. “Henna.” 

“What are you doing out here, Henna?” Ivriel crouched so as not to startle or intimidate her. Aragorn could feel his men’s eyes on his back, wondering what was going on. 

Henna nudged the bucket. “Fetchin’ water.”  

“Henna?” 

Veil had come up behind Halbarad and Ivriel. He stared at the little girl as if she were a ghost. A sudden thought struck Aragorn like a bolt when he looked at the lean-faced man. Now he knew why her features had struck him as so familiar. He snatched her up in his arms before Aragorn had seen him move. She hung limp against his shoulder like a rag doll, her eyes wide. Slowly, her thin arms closed around him and she squeezed him tight, burrowing her face into his neck. 

“Papa.” 

Rancir let them have a moment longer before he stepped forward. His dark eyes settled on Henna speculatively. “How many sentries are on duty at the slave cells? Orcs,” he explained when she looked at him blankly. 

“Two, I think. Duruk and Yarg. They’re watching for me.” 

Veil seemed to cling even more tightly to her. “Not anymore they won’t.” 

Rancir peered over the low wooden fence. “It’d raise their suspicions if she didn’t turn up.” 

Veil’s eyes narrowed over the top of his daughter’s head. “You can’t mean to send her back there. No, I won’t let you.”  

“She’s our best way of snagging the element of surprise,” Rancir explained with a bite of impatience in his voice. “The biggest flaw in your plan was time. We don’t have it. Either let her give it to us or a whole lot more people are going to die needlessly.” 

“This is my little girl’s life you’re talking about!” 

“And does hers outweigh the ones of those who will die for her sake?” 

“To me, yes.” 

“We’ll be with her the entire time. She’ll never be left alone.” 

Henna still had her head pressed into her father’s chest. She lifted it slightly. “Can we go now? Please?” 

Veil stroked her hair absently. “Soon. Very soon. I promise.” 

“We’re going to bring Egle with us, right? She doesn’t like it here either.” 

Veil swallowed and leveled a hard glance at Rancir even as he addressed his daughter. “You’re right. We can’t leave her here. We can’t leave any of them. We’ll get Egle out and Burran and the rest.” He sighed and said almost warningly at the elf lieutenant. “She doesn’t leave our sight.” 

The elf nodded brusquely and crouched until he was looking up at Henna who turned in her father’s clasp to meet his eyes curiously.

“What happened to your arm?” 

“War wound.” He spoke in a far kinder growl than Aragorn or indeed any of the company had yet heard. “We’re here to take you home. But, we need your help.” 

She nodded slowly with a wide-eyed glance up at her father who barely managed to mask his disapproval. 

“Good girl. You just take up that bucket and do whatever it is you do every night. Take those in the cells their water; we’ll be right behind you.” 

“Then we can go home?” 

“Then you can go home,” Aragorn’s heart ached for the little girl. He smiled reassuringly at her. She smiled tentatively back as she picked up her bucket. 

Rancir straightened and gave his company a last, satisfied once-over. His fingertips hovered ever so slightly over Ivriel’s shoulder before he gave her sleeve a brisk tug, straightening out the creases. A shadow of a smile quirked his lips. “Let’s open the ball properly shall we? Maimed before beauties.” 

With that, he strode to the garden gate, flipped the latch and strode through, Ivriel and Lalaithien flanking his back. Dropping back to let Henna take the lead, the two younger elves notched their arrows as they proceeded, talking softly, the DĂşnedain filing like shadows behind them. 

“Make me proud of you now, roquin.” 

“Always.” 

“It’s not enough I have to do as I’m told; now I have to make you proud as well?” 

Rancir cut a sidelook at the youngest in his command. “Brethwen and Mallion have seen the warrior you’ve become, Lalaithien, I have no doubt of that.” 

Though he never took his eyes off the gently swaying bucket, Lalaithien’s smile shone. “My brother and sister teased me that I could eat like a soldier but never fight like one. I always told them one’s as good as another—if your sword doesn’t work, you could always brain the enemy with that break-teeth cram cook liked so much.” 	 

The commander’s smile froze. 

“If you don’t quit dawdling, gruel-brat, I’ll hurry you up with this,” an orc-voice growled. One of the sentries appeared, brandishing a long knife at Henna as she fumbled with the heavy bucket sloshing water over her bare feet. 

Rancir extended his arm slightly, motioning them back into the deep shadows between cell blocks. Veil stood right at his shoulder, every muscle rigid. 

His little girl skirted the threatening knife with the ease of too much practice and kept her head bent submissively as she rushed to the cells with a little dipper dropped in the bucket. Her arms were thin enough to slip through the bars as the figures behind them shuffled up to her for their water. There were over twenty of them crammed into the one cell alone. Aragorn regarded their limbs and hands worn and strengthened by hard stonework in the quarries. A thin woman with wispy white hair and calloused fingers reached through the bars and touched Henna’s head in affectionate thanks. 

“That’s enough,” one of the orcs clanged his spear haft against the bars jolting the slaves back on instinct. 

But he had made his fatal mistake. He had turned his back on the courtyard. 

A puzzled scowl stole the sneer off his face as he glanced down at the glaive tip sticking out of his chest. His body crumpled as the weapon jerked free. 

The other unlucky guardsman only had time to turn over his shoulder to see what had slain his comrade before Ivriel’s first arrow struck him in the mouth, hurling him back against the bars where he slid limply down in a heap. 

Veil jerked his daughter away from the dead as Lalaithien and the rest of the DĂşnedain dragged the bodies out of sight, their eyes warily raking the palace’s dark windows. Nothing stirred. 

The slaves had watched the slaying of their captors with interest and now crowded as close to the bars as they could get to look at their rescuers. 

Veil snatched the keys from the guard’s belt and threw the cell door wide. “Come on. Everybody out. Hurry up.” 

Accustomed to such brusque orders, they jumped to obey. He flashed them a quickly reassuring smile as they passed him. “Time to take back what’s ours.” 

“Veil, you cur!” the scarecrow man was almost lifted off his feet as a burly, swarthy slave enveloped him in a rib-crushing embrace. “You must have the luck of the very devil! Thought you’d gone and died on us.” 

“Won’t be livin’ much longer if you squeeze the breath out of me, Burran,” he croaked. He staggered back, rubbing his chest when the other man released him apologetically. “See the quarries have treated you all right.” 

Burran flexed powerful shoulders. “All right enough for cracking some orc skulls.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Rancir tossed him a long knife. 

Aragorn watched the slaves as they filed out of the cage, a few of them wept openly. Even tough Burran wiped something suspicious from his eye. 

Halbarad caught his chief’s attention as he approached with another group. “We haven’t enough to arm them.” 

“I can help. They put me in the armory,” volunteered one of those he had freed, a man with a limp and quick, empty eyes. Reddish-white burn scars gleamed across the length of his forearms. He’d filched one of the dead guard’s heavy scimitars and hefted it easily. 

Veil’s brows lowered. “Why should you help us, Torenul? Critz always rewarded you so well for giving up the lives of your friends. That sword suits you.” 

Torenul’s eyes narrowed with open contempt. “Your daughter would have been wolf meat a long time ago, Veil, if I hadn’t done what I had to do. Who do you think got her placed as gruel-brat after you abandoned her? I could have let her die in the quarries and I didn’t. Show at least a little gratitude—if you’re capable.” 

“You felt guilty because you let Sayna die—that’s the only reason you’d do anything for anyone,” Veil shot right back. “Had her aunt been alive to protect her, Henna’d never—” 

“Bicker amongst yourselves later,” Aragorn interrupted. They were dangerously exposed in the middle of the courtyard. He turned to Torenul, his eyes radiating intensity. “You say you have weapons? Where?” 

Veil shook his head. 

Meeting Aragorn’s gaze, Torenul beckoned them with the scimitar. “This way. Follow me.” 

The invading warriors watched only the windows which would betray their enemies’ presence first. None remarked the black shrike perched against the leaded glass fixing on their progress with its predatory, butcher’s eyes. A moment later, it fluttered from its perch, banked sharply around the corner and vanished. 

----------

“Weapons’ve gone missing,” growled a low, unctuous voice. The bulbous eyes of the orc refracted shatterpoints of flamelight from the stoked furnaces. “Not a lot but 
Duruk on his last watch said he missed a couple of those new blades.” 

Critz’s clawed fingernails scratched edgily at a stain of smooth melted steel, hardened over an anvil as he absently absorbed his subordinate’s report. “Probably stole a few of them himself, greedy fool. I’ll string him up later. And you too if you brought me down here just for that.” 

A raucous clanking interrupted them as one of the workers gingerly tugged on a heavy chain to tip its contents of melting iron into a large vat. The thick, gelatinous liquid smoked red-hot, lit up the armory’s scorched stone floor and glittered in the orc overseers’ eyes. 

It was the worst kind of assignment, one Critz usually bestowed on those he felt were too uppity for their own good. The armory had an oft-rotating list of workers due to the frequent accidents which resulted. 

The orc overseer cast an eye over the workers’ bent, sweat-soaked backs and shook his head, lowering his voice so Critz had to bend forward to hear him. “I’ve got a cold ache in my bones ever since we got back. Something slipped back in that charnel house; we should’ve killed all those tarks—” He yelped as his leader’s nails dug into his cheek. 

The mention of his recent failure had not endeared him to his subordinate and he pinched viciously. 

“Your old bones ache because you’ve lived too long, snaga. Don’t talk about what you don’t understand,” he snarled into the unfortunate miscreant’s ear. He shoved the orc soldier from him. The lieutenant’s crimson eyes widened when a galling smirk curved the other’s lips. 

“What the blazes are you grinnin’ at, wolf-meat? If you think for a second, it’s safe to flout me, I’ll—” 

“What are you going to do, Critz?” his subordinate sneered contemptuously even while as he rubbed his clawed cheek. “I understand more than you think. You won’t be officer for much longer if the rumors are true. We didn’t slip up with the tarks. You slipped up. Mayhap the Shrieker’s already looking for another to take your place—one smarter than Critz, one who knows how to deal properly with rebels…” A hand inched slyly for a long knife at his belt. 

Critz didn’t give him a chance to draw it. Seizing a half-finished sword from an anvil close to hand, he brought it cleaving down on his fellow’s head. 

In the cool corner, the large wolf raised her head from her paws. 

“Or maybe the Shrieker thinks some shoulders need relieving of swollen heads,” her master addressed the corpse, chuckling as he tossed the sword carelessly onto the body. 

He turned to find the slave workers watching him. A strange quiver raced through him at their grim, oddly watchful expressions. The looks of some of his men were hardly more assuring—less in fact. The humans were not armed and not renowned for eating those they slew. 

Deciding bravado would do, Critz scooped up the gory sword and clanged it against the anvil brusquely. “Ho la, all you! Get those blades sorted and put away! What are you waiting for it to rain fire and blood! Move, maggots, or I’ll let firelight into your skulls too!” 

To his satisfaction, his guards found more interesting prey to distract them as most of the workers did as they were told. One, however, a tall slave with a grey wrap wound protectively around his mouth and nose even in the unbearable heat, continued to stare at the orc lieutenant. Long, dark hair pulled loosely back swept forward over his face but he didn’t tie it back. And he didn’t drop his eyes when Critz’s landed on him. 

A snarl interrupted the rapidly heating stare and the orc leader pulled his gaze irritably away in time to see his wolf snap at the tall slave who stepped smartly backwards, snatching his tattered clothing away from the animal’s teeth. 

Critz was in no mood for play-games. The wraith had already reprimanded him once for wasting precious “resources.” He had no desire to endure that wrathful temper again. Kicking out sharply, he landed several blows to the yelping beast before she leapt clear, fur sticking out like spikes, her displeasure voiced with low, surly growls. She balefully eyed her master but his red glare forestalled retribution. With a disgruntled huff, she twitched away but abruptly stopped, her fur pricking on end. 

Though he didn’t have all his pet’s quick senses, the orc’s eyes were just as keen if not keener. One of his sentries had fallen asleep in the heat of the furnaces. Critz stalked over, his red eyes glittering at the prospect of waking the errant soldier with a little tickle from his knifeblade, but he slowed as he drew nearer. Something skimmed uneasily over his mind like a shadow of doubt. 

The guard’s yellow eyes were staring brazenly right at him but they were vacant, glazed as black glass. A thick, viscous liquid swelled from a gaping hole in its chest. The orc lieutenant’s wicked heart thrummed faster as he gazed into the dark. The sentry was dead. 

---------- 

“Where does this lead?” Aragorn asked attempting to relieve the burnt-egg stench of wasted slag with a sleeve across his mouth and nose. Grit stung his eyes and combed through the sweat-soaked tendrils clinging to his forehead. 

Torenul didn’t flinch as another gust of scalding air seared the walls of the narrow tunnel just off the quarry pits. “Bloomery. Ironworks and forges. This lot is all from the bellows. It should quiet down in a bit. We’ll have to hurry before then—the shift’s almost run out. All the guards’ll be rounding up everybody.” 

An orange glow the size of a candle grew steadily brighter and broader before Aragorn’s eyes until he stood on the threshold of a great cavern. It stretched away into darkness so complete he couldn’t discern the far wall. However, the corrugated floor in front of him was smeared visibly with melted iron and coated filth. Intervals of low-banked fires recessed into niches threw the shadows of forge anvils onto the walls like vengeful hammers. Trailing down from the invisible ceiling dangled chains tipped with serrated hooks as thick as Aragorn’s forearm. 

Beneath one of these, not two yards from where the motley army crouched stood an orc sentinel. He had his back to them, arms indolently folded across his chest, eyeing the weary slaves with sleepy disgust. Others of his kind were similarly dotted about the cavern herding together the workers for the night. They were enough to make a decent fight.

Aragorn, glancing over his shoulder at his men, was glad they had hidden those too sick or weak to fight with Henna in the orchards. 

Torenul crouched down close to the wall, cursing under his breath. But he wasn’t looking at the guard. “What’s Critz doing down here? Armory’s not his beat.” 

“Critz?” Rancir pushed through the ranks, Lalaithien right behind him. 

“We have to worry about him first,” Halbarad jerked his chin at the orc guardsman. 

“Leave that one to me,” the dark-haired commander slipped past like a shadow, his dark garb and hair blending perfectly with the mottled stone walls. 

Cautiously Lalaithien and Ivriel drew arrows to their strings as their officer silently stole up on the sentry, keeping well out of sight. 

The guard never knew what happened. The lethal glaive tip snuffed out his life like a gust of wind to a candle flame and Rancir caught the heavy body as it lurched to one side and lowered it softly to the floor before beckoning the others forward. 

A protruding rock ledge concealed them as Aragorn darted into its shadow with Halbarad and Torenul at his back. The burn-scarred slave shook his head at the elf officer, seemingly caught between awe and fear. 

“You could have been killed doing something like that.” 

“It’s not worth doing otherwise. What, Lalaithien?” 

Lalaithien had grabbed his commander’s arm in a tight clench. He couldn’t speak only jerked his head. 

Critz was drawing nearer their hiding place, his gaze fixed on the lax sentry, a knife half-drawn in his hand. Aragorn held his breath as those red eyes settled unmistakably on the hole in his guard’s chest then probed the darkness beyond it searchingly. 

Ivriel twitched, her fingers curling warningly around Rancir’s which trembled on the glaive handle. 

The orc lieutenant visibly swallowed, seeming to sense without seeing the enemy gazes on him. Hastily, he spun on his heel, hauled a tall figure out of the slave ranks and shoved him towards the dark ledge. 

“You! Go check that corner!” 

The slave blinked blankly. “What am I checking for, sir?” 

Critz cuffed him brutally. “Don’t question your betters! Just look, maggot, or I’ll feed you to my fanged lady. Tell me whatever you find.” 

The unfortunate slave had no choice. Tentatively, he headed towards the corner, glanced at the dead sentry with some surprise then peered over the rock ledge behind which Aragorn and the others crouched. The ranger had a feeling that the slave’s sight was not as easily deceived as the orc’s. He looked straight into Aragorn’s face and the keenness of the glance made the DĂşnedain chieftain frown, a frisson of familiarity rippling in his mind. 

Before he could venture anything, the slave turned abruptly to Torenul, lips barely moving as he spoke. “The people you take up with, Torenul. First, orcs, and conspirators, now, armed ruffians out of the wild.” 

Aragorn gaped. He knew that voice like his own. “Elrohir! What are you doing here?” 

Elrohir glanced over his shoulder then swiftly stooped behind the rock ledge as though pretending to search for something. Tugging off the rags that concealed his fair visage, he pulled his little brother into a fierce embrace. “You frightened Elladan and Father and I half to death with your little stunt, Estel,” he hissed in his ear. 

“But how did you—?” 

“You didn’t really think we wouldn’t come after you?” Elrohir teased lightly. “I’ll have to explain in fullness later—as I’m sure you’ll have to do some of your own—but the middle of an orc stronghold is neither the time nor the place for it.” 

“Elrohir, my nightmares were real. Haldir was taken.” Aragorn’s throat tightened as he tried to get the rest out, “There’s a NazgĂ»l here.” 

The brightness that had kindled in Elrohir’s eyes with the appearance of his little brother dimmed. “I know. Father suspected. I’d prayed we were wrong. The wraith was abroad when I snuck in here. I haven’t had the chance to report back to Elladan and Glorfindel. We brought more than a full patrol with us.” 

“Those weapons in the back are ready?” Torenul asked his fellow conspirator. 

Elrohir started to nod. 

“What’s taking so long, wolf-bait?” Critz’s voice snapped like a whip-crack, shrill with impatience and the edge of panic. 

Hurriedly rewrapping the rags about his distinctive features, the elf looked over his shoulder at his “master” who was watching intently. “I’m searching every inch, sir. Sentry’s dead.” 

“I know he’s dead, maggot! Anything else?” 

“Couple of lurking spiders. He probably fell asleep and speared himself, sir.” 

Accepting the easy lie, Critz sneered and started to lay about indiscriminately with the flat of his swordblade. “All right, you lot! Get those maggots back in the cages! Plenty o’ work left for tomorrow!” 

Aragorn and his men pressed even further back into the shadows as the slaves passed them. Unobserved by the guards, Veil insinuated himself beside Elrohir at the tail of the line, keeping his head down, a long knife hidden against his leg. He gave Aragorn a conspiratorial wink which the ranger acknowledged with a nod. 

The cavern was empty as far as he could see and quiet save for the sputtering of the dying furnace flames casting a dim, dark red glow across the hall. Aragorn and the others edged warily out of hiding. Torenul, however, strode forward boldly towards a recess which Aragorn discovered was lined with barrels. Finished swords, unrefined ones, axes, spear heads, hammers, tongs—all could be used as weapons. 

Rancir examined a sharpened pike edge critically. “Good steel.” 

“You sound surprised,” Torenul grinned bitterly as he handed out a sheave of blade-tipped poles. “These aren’t orc-made. Some of us were blacksmiths before we were slaves.” 

The quietude that had settled over the cavern with the departure of the slaves and their guard made Aragorn uneasy. He drummed chilled fingers against the sheathed saber, pacing back and forth between the weapon barrels under the stairs and the nearest forge. Something fluttered on the verge of his senses like a black cloak, like a hiss of icy breath, like the glint of red eyes from an invisible face. 

The clatter of footsteps made him spin sharply about startled, saber unsheathed before he realized he had drawn it. 

Veil, closely followed by Elrohir, and a band of workers emerged from the tunnel-darkness, triumphant and bloodied. 

“Your ‘brother’s’ quite the warrior,” the thin-faced man clapped Elrohir admiringly on the back. “He almost took all of the scum by himself.” 

Aragorn lowered the saberblade slowly, realizing vaguely that the fingers gripping it were shaking. “He does do that.” 

Elrohir’s eyes followed the direction of his brother’s knowingly. “I sent Henna and a few of the younger ones to our encampment to warn Glorfindel and the regiment…” He dropped his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “Are you all right?” 

“I just want to find Haldir and get out of this place as fast as possible.” 

Rancir’s glaive tip rapped Elrohir’s black-streaked blade, diverting his attention to the Noldor elf perched on the bottom step. “You cheated me, my lord.” 

“How so? You’ve slain more orcs than I could ever have hoped in my lifetime, you old battler,” Elrohir said with a wan smile. 

“Ah, but the value is not in the number. One captain’s head is worth more than twenty lowly infantrymen.” 

Elrohir quirked an eyebrow bemusedly. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, my friend.” 

“You slew Critz.” 

Now Elrohir’s frown held less puzzlement, more growing apprehension. “Critz wasn’t out there. I thought you had slain him already.” 

Aragorn’s insides jolted with cold alarm as red eyes appeared over Rancir’s shoulder at the top of the stairs. 

“Then you’d be mistaken.” Critz raised his blade in a signal to the score of archers pooling down the stairs on either side of him. Horn bows creaked as their bearers pulled them back to full draw, poisoned shafts aimed point-blank at the enemy beneath them. 

The sword arced down like an executioner’s axe. 

Rancir sprang clear but staggered as he hit level floor. Aragorn snatched his arm as Elrohir thrust them both down against a water trough usually used for cooling glowing iron. The almost-instant thuds of impact told them how close death had–and still might—come. 

Something sharp and slender pricked Aragorn’s finger as he hunched against the trough. He glanced down and his stomach flipped over. Black feathers and an inch or two of wood were all he could see of the arrow transfixing the elf commander’s side. 

“You’ve been struck.” 

Rancir grimaced and grasped the wood haft almost angrily. “It’s a low hit. I can still fight.” 

Elrohir glanced at it worriedly but did not dissuade the other. “They could loose those at us all day.” His sharp eyes scanned the cavern ledges. “We need to get above them. If we can get an archer or two to keep their heads down…”

“Well, I’m not he,” Rancir craned his neck around and whistled shrilly. Lalaithien’s head came up, grimacing as an arrow ricocheted off the iron vat he crouched behind with Ivriel. Dodging missiles whistling past their heads, they threw themselves down behind the water trough. 

“You’re hurt,” Lalaithien’s eyes searched his commander’s face anxiously. 

Rancir batted his hands away, his breathing a little labored. “We need you two up there on those ledges, pick them off, thin their ranks. Take any other archers you can find with you.” 

“And let you have all the fun down here? What a wrench.” 

Though she did not protest, Ivriel held his gaze for a long moment. 

He met it squarely. “That’s an order, Ivriel.” 

She rose and bolted towards the ledges, sheltered only by the dangling chains and vats. Lalaithien followed, firing arrows rapidly back into the midst of the orcs to buy her time as she snatched up several men with bows and quarrels. Black arrows pinged off the iron anvils or hissed with a straight blaze into the fires as a few erratic ones missed their mark. Some were not so unlucky, however, and one of the archers fell with a soft gasp, a black-fletched shaft sticking out of his throat. 

Aragorn quickly wrapped a rag around the arrow in Rancir’s side to try to staunch the worst of the bleeding. If Ivriel and Lalaithien couldn’t clear the way they could be pinned down all night. Or until they were all slain. He had no sooner thought that than the arrows stopped. 

Tying off the makeshift bandage, the ranger slowly raised his head. Rancir, whose eyes until this moment had never left the cavern ledges, twisted around with a grimace. Ivriel and Lalaithien stood within the shadow of the far wall but their bows were only loosely strung, arrows lax in their hands. Their faces were white. 

“They’ve stopped,” Elrohir’s whisper sounded unbearably loud. 

“I do not think that is a good thing,” Aragorn whispered back. The familiar chill swept over him and his breath froze in his chest. A great metallic groan cut the cavern’s thick silence. Aragorn spun around in time to see an iron gate crash down over the mouth of the tunnel they had come through, sealing it off completely. They were trapped. 

At the other end of the hall that had previously been in darkness, an entourage of orcs emerged bearing torches. The ruddy glow stained their bared fangs the color of blood. In the center, a vast shadow sucked the light out of the cavern and drowned it. The tall form of the Witch-king towered above his soldiers, an iron crown of decaying steel set upon his invisible head. Red eyes gleamed in the dark of the hood and a shrike glared beadily from its place on a powerful shoulder. 

Aragorn felt Elrohir’s hand tighten on his arm. 

Before the feet of the NazgĂ»l knelt a pale figure whose matted golden hair glinted dully in the torchlight. Aragorn couldn’t see Haldir’s face but he knew it was he. From the broad, bowed shoulders to the long, abused fingers, he recognized his friend. 

“This is what you came for is it not?” the Witch-king dug his fist the long, golden locks and wrenched the white face back. Haldir’s eyes held nothing in them as if it were only his body the wraith held in thrall, his spirit already flown. Cold slithered down Aragorn’s spine like snow. 

“Commanders of this rebellion, stand forth. Claim your comrade,” the wraith taunted. “What remains of him.”

Both Elrohir and Rancir grabbed Aragorn and forced him back down in place as he started to rise. 

“Stay, you damn fool, they’ll kill you,” Rancir hissed at him. 

Across the cavern, Halbarad shot a fear-laden look at his chieftain’s taut countenance. 

The fell voice rang out again, clanging against the ears of the breathless listeners. “Stand forth now or I will bleed him here and hunt you out where you cringe.” 

The chilling gleam of a knifeblade withdrew from the depths of the sable cloak and sank lightly into the curve of the captive elf’s jaw to emphasize the truth of his threat. 

With a supreme effort, Aragorn tore free of Elrohir and Rancir’s restraining hands and strode forward despite the rapid thudding in his chest and the trembling in his knees that threatened to buckle him as he approached. 

His voice rang out stronger than he’d thought he could have managed. “Stay your hand! I am here, carrion master.” 

Immediately Elrohir sprang up beside him. Unwilling to remain behind, Rancir. Lalaithien, Ivriel, Halbarad and Veil closely followed. 

The wraith surveyed them one by one, the cold-glinting gaze settling on Aragorn. As he had in the orc camp, the ranger felt that brush against his mind, that hint of probing pressure. Hurriedly, Aragorn wrenched his eyes away from the hypnotic fire-glints that sought his and focused instead on the pale figure he could almost lean forward and touch. 

Haldir knelt where the wraith had left him, his staring eyes opaque, the steel color bleached away like the irises of a drowned man. His neck had been pricked by the NazgĂ»l’s knife and a tiny spot of red stained the blue-veined throat. The filthy tunic he wore sagged at the collar and the long fingers so deft and skilled with a saber curled in his lap, upturned and listless, a puppet whose strings had been cut. 

“He does not know you are here, little one,” the wraith all but purred, guessing what the human eyed so intently. “There is only darkness before his eyes.” 

Aragorn ignored the wraith, his eyes set on his friend’s pale, expressionless face. “Haldir. Haldir, mellon nin, look at me. We are here for you.” 

The wraith chuckled, his metal glove sliding almost caressingly up through the elf’s hair. “I cannot tell you how much he suffered in this house. My servants are not generally kind-hearted to those who kill their brethren. His pride did not last him through the nights we shut him away in the dark. He cried for his friend to save him. But Estel did not come. Not in time.” 

The barb hit its mark and Aragorn recoiled as if he had been stabbed. The realization that what the wraith said might be true that everything they had suffered, everyone they had lost, every betrayal they had endured had been for nothing, that in the end they might all die in vain because of this creature’s evil burned through his grief-clouded mind, melted it into a hard, clear anger. 

The orc ranks closed around their master as Aragorn lunged with a fearsome cry. He was barely aware that Elrohir and the others had thrown themselves in beside him. The only thing that mattered was reaching the wraith. He smashed through the orcs like a gale through autumn leaves and they parted before him so suddenly he stumbled when his sword did not swing down on another orc head. The corridor beyond him was empty. The wraith was gone but a doorway opened up leading into blackness. Aragorn did not hesitate, his sword hand too hot for fear. He didn’t hear his brother call out to him. 

“Estel! Wait!”  

He couldn’t wait. He charged into the darkness, the saber held defensively before him. He’d barely gotten six paces when something caught him tightly by the shoulder. Startled, Aragorn whipped out blindly at the being that restrained him. A stern hand seized his sword wrist and squeezed until the blade fell from his numb fingers. Someone barked his name again, a shred of fear undercutting it. 

Blinking away the haze of rage lingering before his eyes, he gazed up into his “assailant’s” face. “Elrohir?” 

“You are overwrought, Estel, calm yourself first before you go chasing an enemy into his own hole.” Elrohir slowly released his death-grip on his brother’s wrist and retrieved the saber. “What would you have done if you had caught up to him?” 

Aragorn did not reply but turned his back and started walking, his fingertips trailing against the wall to orient himself and followed after silently.  

Something shifted and scraped against stone. “What are you doing?” Elrohir’s voice asked. 

“I am sick of this relentless dark. I found a torch in a bracket here.” A few more rustlings and a soft curse. “My knife is gone. I must have lost it in the fight. Elrohir, lend me yours will you? I have flint.” 

Aragorn felt the smooth pommel of his brother’s knife brush his fingers and tightened his grip on it. It took precious minutes to produce a spark especially with his hands trembling as they were but he managed it. He coaxed it carefully to life and tore a strip from his tunic. A little stain of sword oil flared and the torch ignited fiercely as he held it up.

Damp grey stone shivered into being stretching away down a long, narrow corridor. Elrohir hefted his own sword as Aragorn led the way. 

Neither spoke. After the noise and clang of battle, the uncomfortable vacuum of soundlessness seemed particularly menacing. At least in the armories he had been able to see his enemy. 

Elrohir seemed to share his thoughts. “That torch won’t last long.” 

Aragorn looked over his shoulder nervously. For the flicker of an instant he could have sworn something moved just outside their little pool of light. 

“What is it?” Elrohir asked, immediately alert. 

Aragorn stared but whatever it was did not move again and he chided himself foolishly. What could he see in this pitch dark? 

“Nothing. The darkness teases my eyes.” Even as he said it, uneasiness washed over him. 

A few moments later, it was Elrohir who stopped. “I heard something. There’s someone—unh!” 

An unseen blow snapped Aragorn’s head to one side. The torch clattered out of his hands, guttering, but thankfully did not go out. Tasting blood and wondering what had hit him, he straightened dazedly and almost tripped over his brother who lay prone. 

“Elrohir?” 

A soft groan. 

“Elrohir!” Aragorn dropped to his knees. 

He touched his brother’s dark hair and something wet and sticky smeared his palm. He knew even without light that it was blood. A lot of it was trickling from under Elrohir’s hair past his ear. He didn’t respond when Aragorn called his name again but a quick check assured him his brother was still alive. 

The torchlight shifted and he lost sight of his brother’s face. Aragorn squinted, recoiling from the heat as the torch hovered close to his cheek. He rose slowly from his knees, his eyes wide and blinking as he faced their attacker. 

“Haldir.” 

The elf captain’s hollowed face was barely two feet from his. The torch’s unsteady illumination gave those cold, cloudy eyes the illusion of light, of recognition. For an instant, the ranger couldn’t move for shock. Even his keenly attuned senses hadn’t heard the Galadhel shadowing them. His hesitation cost him. He’d been watching the elf’s face so attentively he’d forgotten to watch his hands. 

A knife flashed up—a knife Aragon recognized as his own. With a jolt as if icewater had been flung over him, he leapt backwards, feeling a slight tug on his tunic as the keen blade sliced through it like silk, scoring a shallow gash across his lower ribs. The pain cleared his head. Instinctively, his hand tightened around the scarred saber hilt. It weighed heavily, reluctantly. 

The longer blade was a liability in the narrow tunnel. He couldn’t fully extend his arm without hitting the walls on either side of him and Haldir was so close he would either lope off the elf’s head with a wild swing or find himself impaled on the knife as it darted lethally close to his chest, just barely parried. 

As the blades skimmed off one another, an incongruous snatch of playful banter rose in the ranger’s mind from that lifetime-ago, summer day when they had crossed blades in jest. 

Do you think your enemies will spare you in combat? 

You’re not my enemy.  

A knot of painful emotion tightened in Aragorn’s chest as he ducked a knife thrust aimed at his lungs. He came up fast and lashed out, tilting his blade at the last second so the long hilt swung out like a club—it was an effective, non-lethal trick the elf captain himself had taught him. 

The marchwarden’s chin snapped back as the hilt caught him sharply. He toppled to the floor against the wall, losing his hold on the knife. Aragorn almost thought he saw a flicker of surprise break the clouds behind his friend’s empty gaze but it was gone before he could be certain. Pressing his advantage, he let the saber brush guardedly against the elf’s chest. Even as he did so, he knew he could never make the final movement, plunge that extra half-inch forward that would pierce the heart, causing instant hemorrhage and less instant death. Even to set Haldir free. 

The saber blade eased away. “Haldir…” 

He didn’t see what happened. The next thing he knew the saber jerked out of his hands, clattering to the floor several meters away. Pain from a sharp kick to his kneecaps knocked him backwards. He tripped over his brother’s legs and fell. 

Before he could rise the saber slammed into his left shoulder, point-down, pinning him to the stone. An exquisite white burst washed over him, draining his strength until he couldn’t even cry out. Transfixed with pain, he could only close his eyes, fighting the sudden urge to pass out.  

The saber withdrew with agonizing slowness, the lame no longer glistening with only red from the torchlight. The blade had torn something, Aragorn’s fingers tingled disturbingly but an iron tang on the air soon distracted him, his eyesight swaying warningly towards oblivion.

Long fingers rested briefly on the ranger’s injured shoulder, blood welling up between the knuckles. Hazily, Aragorn stared up at his friend and for the briefest instant he could have sworn the elf returned his gaze. 

“H—” 

Haldir jerked as if stung and his eyes strayed down the corridor as if he were listening to something other than Aragorn’s ragged panting. Pain swirled too strongly through the ranger’s consciousness to make sense of the emotion he saw there. He struggled to raise his head but fell back weakly into soft blackness.  

---------- 

Halbarad ducked behind a huge iron vat, almost as tall as he was. Wolf snarls knifed the cavern and the orcs’ arrows still stung the air. Wiping streaming perspiration off his face, thankful for the respite, however, brief, he tried not to look at Burran, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. After the Witch-king vanished, the wolves and Critz’s men had driven right into them, tearing at limbs, snatching swords from emaciated hands, trying to overcome them with sheer force of strength and numbers. Unfortunately, they were succeeding. 

Veil had valiantly gathered some of Halbarad’s rangers and his own fighters about him but they were falling fast, pinned between the orcs and the furnaces. Halbarad caught sight of Rancir among them wielding his double-ended glaive with ferocious dexterity, decimating weapon and claw that ventured too close. He raced to their aid even as out of the corner of his eye he saw Ivriel and Lalaithien leaping from the ledges. 

They weren’t fast enough. 

The slaves fell almost simultaneously to spear thrusts and the orcs drove the rangers and Veil back mercilessly as Critz tore the glaive from Rancir’s hand, striking out with the flat of his sword. Halbarad thought he heard the elf commander cry out. 

The laugh lines around Critz’s eyes crinkled as he levered the glaive tip under the elf’s chin, forcing his head up. “What was it you said about feeding me to my wolf, morsel?” 

Rancir leaned away from the threatening edge of his own weapon. His side was glistening with blood. Pressing a hand to it, he sneered at Critz, his eyes hard and black in the furnace-light. “There’s still time.” 

“Not for you.” 

The glaive thrust forward but Critz’s triumphant snarl turned to a shriek of pain. The glaive clattered, unbloodied, to the floor as he gaped in amazement at the green-fletched arrow protruding from his hand. 

A shadow dropped from the ledge above the furnace, landing lithely beside the elf commander. 

“You will not touch him again.” Lalaithien had another arrow strung taut and aimed at the orc’s breast in seconds. Cold fury etched the lines of his youthful face, so fierce that the orcs gave back before him. 

Rancir propped a borrowed sword in a crack in the stones to push himself to his feet. 

Critz laughed at Lalaithien but the bowstring thrummed tighter and he stopped. “What are you going to do with that, lad? You should have killed me the second you had that shaft strung.” 

“Leave him to me,” Rancir growled at his subordinate though sweat plastered his hair against his neck and shoulders. 

“Better listen to your elder,” Critz taunted the young elf who continued to advance. The orc’s tunic flapped gently against his lean body as he edged backwards. “Let him die at least before I come for you.” 

Rancir’s eyes widened with alarm. His subordinate was too close. “Lalaithien—” 

“With all due respect, sir, close your mouth. He killed my brother and sister—he almost killed you.” Lalaithien dropped his bow and pulled his rapier, the stabbing weapon firmer in his hand. “He will not take anyone else I love while I have breath to prevent it.” 

He lunged. Left-handed, Critz flicked out a cruelly serrated knife concealed beneath his tunic, ducking under the rapier thrust. 

Chaos erupted as the orcs surged around their leader and Lalaithien, their desire for blood sport outweighing any orders they’d been given to restrain their hunger. Halbarad hurtled into their midst, Veil and Ivriel right behind him. 

Halbarad spotted Critz edging out of the fight—he had lost his knife. The ranger lunged furiously towards him but the red-eyed lieutenant saw him coming. Ripping a blade from one of his own soldiers, the orc shoved the hapless one into the arc of the human’s swing. Halbarad swore as his sword sank deeply in the enemy’s body. He had to set his foot upon the slain orc’s chest to free it and by the time he had done so Critz had danced out of reach. 

The orc wiggled his fingers at the seething human in an insolent wav but the wicked smile melted off his face like candle wax when a lethal edge of a glaive suddenly appeared underneath his chin. 

Trusting Rancir to have the orc leader well in hand, Halbarad spun towards his own men. They were still dangerously outnumbered and the slaves were losing heart against their better-armed, better-trained tormentors. Menelir was beset by six who had trapped him in a corner. Halbarad rushed to his aid but something snagged his boot and he tripped. 
Someone groaned in protest. Halbarad’s stomach contracted painfully as he scrambled back up. He’d stumbled over Lalaithien. 

Burning to help his men but unwilling to leave the young elf lying there, Halbarad quickly stooped and seized him under the arms dragging him out of battle-range. His sword jolted awkwardly under one arm as he eased the young warrior down against the wall where he would not be trampled. He didn’t look further than the pale, cold-sweating face. 

Menelir was still fighting but his movements were jerky with fatigue. Halbarad watched in horror as one of the orcs knocked the sword out of his hands. Menelir’s eyes widened in surprise as a javelin passed up between his breastbone and throat, nearly lifting him off his feet even as it slew him. 

Aragorn’s adjutant closed his eyes, not wanting to see anymore. They’d failed. Veil’s mad scheme had brought death on all of them. Aragorn was gone. Their ranks were decimated. This had been suicide from the beginning as he had known it would be. Glorfindel was going to reach Fornost with only orcs and cadavers to greet him. 

A heart-thudding growl snapped him out of his despair and his head jerked up. Before he could straighten, what felt like a pike pole smashed down on the back of his neck, stunning him and pinning his sword blade under him. Feeling as though his head had been split open, the ranger closed his eyes, expecting to feel a blade tearing between his shoulder blades at any second. 

At first, he thought the ringing in his ears was from the blow he’d taken but if it was, it was oddly melodious and did not fade. If anything, it grew stronger, louder. The orc pike-man seemed to hear it too for his weapon lowered, giving Halbarad the chance to scoot out of range. The sound swelled, musical and unbelievably sweet-voiced. It crescendoed until it echoed off every wall in the cavern. 

It was a horn. 

Halbarad barely had time to grasp this thought before someone hauled him to his feet by the scruff of his neck and thrust his sword back into his hands. 

“Only you, Master Halbarad, could sleep in the midst of a battle,” a merry voice laughed as the pike-man dropped his weapon and fled. 

The human blinked at his rescuer as he rubbed the back of his battered skull. “I got tired waiting for you to show up, my lord.”  

Lord Glorfindel of Rivendell, arrayed in fine armor and bearing a sword almost as tall as he, barked another laugh as he brandished his weapon eagerly. “Hope you left something for us.” 

Thirty elven warriors of Imladris poured down the steps from the entrance hall above. They had apparently slain the sentries and Henna had shown them the way to the armory. The abrupt appearance of so many elves dismayed the orcs but lit a fiercer courage in the slaves and battle-weary rangers. They threw themselves headlong into their enemies until the orcs broke and scattered into the dark. 

Halbarad propped his sword upright in a small rift and leaned on it exhaustedly, watching the tireless elven warriors ferret out the last of the fleeing enemy. They had wrought terrible retribution for their fallen brethren and no orc would be seen inside Fornost or near the surrounding countryside for years afterwards. The ranger spied Rancir loping out of the dark and hailed him. “Elrohir will never catch up to your count after this. I think he wanted Critz for himself.” 

“Coward slipped me by the stairs,” The dark-haired lieutenant stabbed his weapon savagely into one of the water troughs to wash off the gore. Despite his obvious disappointment, a dark, satisfied smile curled a corner of the grim elf’s mouth. “Not unscathed, however.” 

Halbarad nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. Glorfindel, his once-fine armor spattered with dark blood, paused beside them. The elf-lord wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something other than the salty, iron tang of battle. “Ivriel tells me a wraith was here.” 

Pale with pain and weariness, Rancir leaned back against the trough with a sigh that was part groan. “We would have gone under sooner if it had stayed. We’ll make a search as soon as we can…We need to tend the wounded first.” 

“Not the least of which is you,” the elf-lord’s brow furrowed in concern as he glanced at the other’s side.  

Tattered as a scarecrow after a gale, Veil limped over to them, his gaunt face quelling grave after their triumph. He stopped before Rancir. “Lalaithien’s asking for you.” 

Lalaithien lay with his head pillowed in Ivriel’s lap. Elladan hovered near, tearing cloaks and tunics into makeshift strips for bandages. When Halbarad approached with the elf commander, Elrond’s son instructed Ivriel to take over staunching the wound and rocked back onto his heels to meet them. He spoke low enough so the wounded one behind him wouldn’t hear. 

“Critz caught him full on the blade. I cannot remove it. I’m sorry, Rancir. It would kill him.” 

“It’s killing him leaving it in,” Rancir stepped around him. 

“Rancir?”

The commander slowly knelt by Lalaithien’s head. “Stop talking. I’m here.” Ivriel’s thin fingers curled in his tunic sleeve as if to reassure herself he was there. He brushed them lightly with his bloodied hand. 

A small, wistful smile quirked Lalaithien’s laughing mouth. “Ivriel…I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have forced you to choose between us.” 

“That doesn’t matter now. Lie quiet.” She brushed his hair back soothingly. 

Rancir released her and took tight hold of Lalaithien’s hand which clenched desperately around his. 

“It hurts.” The blue of the younger elf’s irises was almost lost in black fear. 

“I know, son. Just keep breathing.” 

Lalaithien tried to inhale deeply and his chest hitched. The knife stuck fast in his chest tremored. “I—I can’t …” 

“Shallow, breathe shallow,” Elrohir advised, eyeing the trembling knife handle apprehensively. 

The wounded elf’s breathing steadied with terrible slowness. “I’m dying aren’t I?” 

When no one answered him, he closed his eyes. “Ivriel, now you’ll have to… remind this old grouch t—to laugh every—every now and again.” 

Halbarad felt his heart wrench with an almost physical pang. He had grown to like the light-hearted young elf and could only imagine what the other two crouching beside him felt, having known him far longer than some handful of weeks. 

Rancir didn’t release the younger elf’s hand though he blinked hard as if something burned his eyes. “Wretch.” 

Lalaithien’s teasing smile became a rictus. His eyes squeezed tightly shut as he pressed his face hard into Ivriel’s knee, stifling a soft sob. Elladan and Halbarad pressed urgently on his shoulders to keep him from curling in on himself. 

Rancir locked eyes with Ivriel. “Do you still have that poppy syrup on you by chance?” When she nodded, he beckoned for it. “Give it to me. All of it.”  

She frowned at him. 

“Come on! He’s in pain.” 

The elf woman released Lalaithien’s other hand long enough to fumble a vial of red-tinged liquid from her belt pouch. Her fingers shook. 

Rancir tugged the stopper out with his teeth. “Lift his head up.” 

Realizing what the elf was about to do, Halbarad snatched his wrist, denial written in every corner of his strained visage. “No. No, you can’t do this.” 

“Don’t think because I’ve only got one hand I won’t bite you, ranger. Let go. This needs to be done.” 

Elladan gently closed a hand on Halbarad’s shoulder and coaxed him back. “There’s nothing else we can do except ease his passing.” 

Once released, Rancir tilted the vial against Lalaithien’s lips. “Drink it all down, that’s it.” 

Lalaithien’s hand half-rose to steady the bottle as he obediently drained it. The empty glass rolled loosely out of his grasp as his head sank back against Ivriel’s leg. He blinked through a clouding gaze. “You need to laugh, Camlost… sorry, sir… know you don’t…like that…” The beatific smile remained on his lips. His body relaxed, muscles loosening as he slid into sleep with a shallow inhale. He did not exhale.   

In the heavy, respectful silence that followed, Rancir removed the knife and lurched unsteadily to his feet. Ivriel snatched at him as he swayed and Elladan quickly threw an arm around his back. 

“Why don’t you let me take a look at that arrow now?” 

Halbarad scrubbed a hand across his itching eyes. Through a haze of fatigue, he squinted across the corpse-scattered cavern. It would take some hours to separate their fallen from the chattel of Fornost. Glorfindel and some of his uninjured warriors were already starting the heavy labor. 

Something moved among the dead orcs heaped near a far door. Wondering what new devilry dogged them now, Aragorn’s adjutant snapped for his sword but his hand dropped empty to his side as the sputtering forge fires threw a red light across the flagstones. Instead, he rushed forward just in time to catch the figure as his legs gave out.  

“Elrohir, what happened?” 

Dried blood caked the elf’s dark hair and ran over his eye from a high on his forehead. He looked disoriented and stared glassily up at the ranger. 

Catching sight of his brother, Elladan hurried over. “Elrohir, are you all right? What happened? Where’s Estel?” 

Elrohir murmured something Halbarad had to bend to hear. When he figured out what the elf was trying to tell him, his face blanched almost as white as the elf he supported as he met Elladan’s stricken gaze. 

“Estel’s been taken.” 

---------- 

Aragorn was brought abruptly back to his senses by a rude jolt. It took a few moments for the nausea and disorientation subside enough for him to figure out he had been carried some distance from where he’d lost track. Red and gold-fringed carpet brushed his cheek instead of stone. He had a brief impression of decadent quarters and torch-flanked double doors before cold swept over him and chilled the sweat on his body. He shivered.

“Slave,” though it was not addressed to him, the sibilant hiss made Aragorn clench his eyes shut as if razor blades pierced his hearing instead of the venomous tone of the NazgĂ»l. “Lift him. I would see his face.” 

Obediently, long, pale fingers dug into the linen of the man’s tunic and jerked him upwards. Aragorn could not restrain a soft groan as the movement pulled at his injured shoulder. The elf’s relentless grip held him subserviently on his knees. Once he had felt protected in those arms. Now only gutting fear clawed at his heart. He didn’t want to look at the NazgĂ»l, afraid his fear would betray him to that dark servant. Instead, he sought Haldir’s eyes. 

“Please, my friend, look at me. Haldir, look at me. You and I are friends, don’t do this.” 

The ranger’s right hand closed around the cold fingers grasping his shoulder, not frantic or pleading or even angry. It was a soft touch that bespoke desperation more than anything else. Desperation not for himself, but for fear of losing the friend he had come so far and through so much to find. 

An iron-spiked glove caressed Aragorn’s cheek. The man flinched from the touch but it tightened cruelly, forcing his chin back around and up until he was staring straight into the NazgĂ»l’s faceless hood. 

“He does not hear you.” 

Some unspoken command flashed between master and slave and Haldir released Aragorn went to the large double doors locked them. 

“He is mine, body and soul. As you will be.”

“Never. What you have done to him can be undone—all darkness can be undone. You are but a—.” 

The wraith held up his hand and the bold, damning words lodged in Aragorn’s throat and strangled him. Terror threatened to rob him of the last shreds of his sanity as he fought for breath. Dizziness overtook his sight until he feared he was going to succumb. The terrible pressure on his throat eased only painfully slowly leaving his throat raw with restrained screams. He was pressed against the floor again, the dusty stone cool against his skin.  

Something like a hiss, air escaping a tight space, whistled from underneath the hood. Aragorn did not know what was in it. Anger perhaps. It might even have been laughter. 

“Such defiance in one so defeated. It will not serve you, stripling. Your men die while you kneel here at my feet. My servants will slaughter them to the last man. And where will that leave you, young ranger? I will have you chained in the darkest bowels where my servants will teach you the cost of defiance through the long, slow years. You have seen the changes my arts can devise. If such can alter the very mind of an elf—what can it do to you I wonder, Ranger of the North? Yes, I know you. And yet…” 

Aragorn raised his head slightly, waiting.

“There is something in you. It throbs in your veins.”   

As before in the orc camp and the cavern, Aragorn felt that gaze probe his mind like a dark breeze skimming the surface of his thoughts. It was searching for something. It reached down through his skin, slithered between muscles and clenched around his heart with a grasp as numbing and full of despair as the touch of a dead hand. 

Aragorn fought the sensation with undiluted revulsion, repelling it with all his strength. But if anything, this seemed to feed it, the shadow glutting on his fear and miring him in its viscid webbing until he was sinking, drowning in it…Who are you? It whispered. What strength is in your blood to resist me, boy? Tell me who you are. Tell me. I order it.  

Aragorn tried to block out the seductive voice but it was tearing down his walls, stone by stone, breaking through the barriers to reach that most closely guarded secret, the one that his father had died for, the one that had broken his mother’s heart, the one Elrond and his family had protected for centuries… 

Like a taut line snapping, the sensation suddenly vanished. Aragorn found himself able to raise his head. 

The wraith was no longer looking at him but at something just shy. Haldir had shifted position and now stood at the human’s right shoulder instead of behind him. He was staring down at the human with the most curious expression on his face. The elven saber Aragorn had carried for so long dangled from his fingers. 

“I did not order you to move, slave.” 

Blood flowed afresh from his shoulder but Aragorn’s heart leaped with hope. He caged his fear and bent ever last ounce of his energy on his friend. “You are a marchwarden of the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood. That is your sword pledged in their service. Come back to yourself, Haldir, please. I know you’re there.” 

The Witch-king’s shadow swallowed the room, extinguishing all but a single torch just beside the door. He bent over the elf, enveloping him in its vast darkness. “Slave, you cannot lie to me. Who is he?” 

Aragorn’s blood iced in that instant and his heart labored in his chest: Haldir knew who he was, knew the only reason the Heir of Isildur was still alive was because the Enemy did not yet know any of Isildur’s descendants survived. 

When the elf didn’t answer fast enough to please him, the wraith struck him across the face. “Answer me, slave! Who is he? Why does he reek of NĂşmenor?” 

Haldir straightened slowly. He looked at Aragorn. When he answered, his voice sounded rusty as if from disuse. “He is…Strider, a Chieftain among the Rangers of the North. Nothing more.” 

Aragorn stared at his friend in wonderment. The sheer overwhelming relief that sang through his veins almost caused him to crumple but it was short-lived. 

The wraith stood perfectly still within his darkness, simmering with almost palpable frustration. It was obviously not the answer he had expected. The hood faced his prisoner once again but the human did not feel the terrible, probing eyes as he had before and wondered at it. The reason for this new disinterest was not left long in suspense. 

“Kill him then. He is of no use to me save on a pike.” 

An indefinable emotion flickered for the briefest instant across the marchwarden’s face before he saluted the wraith with his saber. With fingers un-trembling, he strode towards the captive human. 

Just as he had in Amon-en-Achas, Aragorn couldn’t summon the strength to resist. He was unarmed and injured. Even if he could wrest control of the saber from his friend, what would he do with it? Steel would not slay the one who held the elf in thrall—and he would have to go through Haldir first to do so. That, he could not do. 

The saber paused as it reached his throat, Haldir watching him as if he weren’t quite sure where to make the killing stroke, which would please his master most. The blade hovered inches before the battle-grimed throat. Red from the single burning torch glinted off the steel. 

This time, Aragorn did not look away. He stared straight up into his friend’s face, sure even now that some part of him could be reached, that the elf he had known and trusted was not gone forever, but trammeled inside a mind he could not wholly call his own. He was still in there. He could still fight. 

“Kill him.” 

Sweat darkened the gold strands that clung to the elf’s temples as if he were engaged in a deathly struggle that Aragorn could not possibly fathom. The long fingers visibly trembled so the saber pricked the man’s throat, drawing blood, another inch further and the hope of the North Kingdom, of Gondor, of Men would die. 

“Haldir.” The name lingered on the air, whispered under Aragorn’s breath so the wraith would not hear. His eyes riveted on the elf’s. 

Something broke. Like a frozen river’s first crack before a spring thaw, the ice behind the marchwarden’s eyes melted. Aragorn watched color wash back into the grey eyes leaving them silver and gleaming instead of the tortured, dead paleness that had become so hauntingly familiar of late. 

“No.” 

From the wraith, a hiss, this time of surprise, Aragorn was sure. “What did you say?” 

The saber eased away from Aragorn’s throat as the elf took a step back, then another. Spinning on his heel, the beautiful elvish steel came up as if with a life of its own. It sheared through the black cloak with a ghastly noise, a rush of wind. The wraith lunged, a whirl of liquid shadow. Protested steel grated and snapped. The saber dropped, its lame shorn clear away from the hilt. The wraith’s iron fingers closed around the elf’s throat as the wraith lifted him clear off the ground with the full force of his rage behind it. 

“You dare raise a blade against me, slave!” he screeched, shrill with the sudden realization that his plans were crumbling around him. He hurled the elf from him and turned towards the human. Aragorn saw in the fell, red gleam under the hood that his blood at least would not be denied the master of Fornost. Even now as his plans and longings blazed into ashen ruin, the Witch-king would take the ranger with him. 

But Aragorn was already moving. As soon as the saber dropped, he staggered to his feet, groping for the only weapon to hand: the torch. He snatched it out of its bracket regardless of singed fingers and thrust it full into his enemy’s face. 

The flames caught hold and licked over the black cloth as though it were soaked in oil. In seconds, the whole robe was aflame. So long had he been disconnected from feeling and emotion, the realization that he was on fire did not at first register in the Witch-king’s dulled, dark-enfolded senses until a flicker of red glinted in his intended victim’s grey eyes. A cry of sheer rage raised the hairs on the nape of Aragorn’s neck as the wraith reached for him with one clawed hand, desperate to rend him before the fire consumed his physical shape. 

Suddenly a searing, excruciating light filled the entire chamber with the force of a bolt of lightning, brighter even than the blazing fire. The wraith shied from it with a squeal of agony and furious recognition. 

The double doors were broken open. Glorfindel stood in the doorway behind Aragorn, framed in his own brilliance. His golden hair unadorned shone with eldritch light and his eyes were cold, hard stars in his rigid face. A long sword gleamed in his hand. He carried a struggling shrike in the other. 

The wraith, caught between fire and starlight, powerless with rage and defeat, finally conceded at the sight of his ancient and hated enemy. With a powerful heave, he flung the human into the elf-lord’s arms and, taking advantage of the distraction, vanished out of the room into the blackness, leaving behind only the stench of smoldering cloth and a last vengeful wail. 

Glorfindel steadied Aragorn in his arms but the ranger struggled free, lunging furiously after the wraith king. 

The elf-lord caught the man’s wrist, restraining his forward rush. “Nay, Estel, let him flee again like the dark craven he is. His doom is not for you to decide and others need tending here.” 

The battle light faded from Aragorn’s eyes as he remembered. He spotted the crumpled figure lying in a corner of the dark room. Haldir lay very still. 

“You’ve been hurt,” Glorfindel fingered the man’s blood-soaked shoulder worriedly. 

Aragorn put aside his hands and with energy borne of desperation hurriedly dropped to his knees beside the still figure of his friend. 

Haldir’s eyes were open but directed at nothing. He didn’t even twitch when Aragorn called his name or gently touched his shoulder. 

“Did you find him?” Elladan and Elrohir burst into the room, Halbarad and those who had escaped the battle in the armory with only minor injuries hard on their heels. 

Aragorn barely heard them. “I’m fine, fine.” 

Glorfindel gently put aside Elladan and Elrohir and crouched on his heels beside the ranger and the marchwarden. He closely examined Haldir’s face and, reaching hesitantly forward, pulled up the tattered, black tunic to reveal an ugly wound in the Silvan elf’s side which sluggishly oozed blood and some foul, dark substance. The elf-lord’s face blackened and he didn’t touch it. 

“I have not the skill to mend this wound, Estel. It goes deep.” 

Aragorn stared at the elf-lord, uncomprehending. “What—? What does that mean?” 

Glorfindel’s eyes seemed to be trying to tell him without words but he stalwartly ignored anything he read there and redirected his gaze to the ashen, silent warrior before his knees. He laid his hand lightly on the elf captain’s chest, comforted by even a thready pulse of life there. 

“Hold on, mellon nin. We cannot lose you now.” 

Notes: 

roquin— plural of Sindarin “knight.” Above ohtar ‘foot-soldier.’ I like to think of it as distinguishing between a foot soldier and a mounted one with connotations of a higher level of regard and respect. 

mellon-nin— my friend 

Author’s Notes: This is the longest chapter I have ever written. If you managed it all sitting at a computer, bless you. 

The Lady of Light


Chapter 15 - Part Fifteen: When All Lights Pass

Author’s Notes: The long delay has chafed but at last with a new, finally working computer and a bit—well, a lot—of time, I finally have another chapter ready for your perusal. Surprisingly, it is not the last. After some debate, I decided to split a very large chapter into two. This works for two reasons, now, you have something to read and I have a bit more time to polish.

Of course, everybody extend many warm and grateful thanks to my unofficial beta, Noelnoel, for his indispensable help and insight throughout the chapter. Thank you, Noel, from a frustrated writer’s heart for your fortitude and seemingly endless patience while I ground this out piecemeal. This chapter—and I—have reached a level I never expected and am delighting in.

Best,

The Lady of Light

Part Fifteen

When All Lights Pass

When the black breath blows

And death’s shadow grows

And all lights pass,

Come athelas! Come athelas!

Life to the dying,

In the king’s hand lying!

--Tolkien The Return of the King.

A black shrike, full-glutted on the rich feast the night’s battle had provided, fluttered lazily down to perch on a knobby orc head, the eyes long since picked out. It cawed raggedly and began to search out the softer meat hiding beneath when a long blade thrust up inches from its beak. With a shrill croak of outrage, the offended bird took ponderously to the air and vanished into the cave’s darkness.

The knife slashed air as Critz clawed and tore his way out from beneath the corpses he’d dragged over himself. It had been a close thing. He staggered to his feet with a dreadful curse and, tucking his knife blade between his teeth, he clapped his left hand over the dripping, mangled mass which was all that remained of his sword arm. Damn that elf to the depths of iron-hell!Dreaming of bloody revenge and clamping down tightly on his steel, he lurched out of the silent charnel house Fornost had become.

The cold air was a relief to his over-heated hide. For a moment, he stood in the small gateway, nostrils flaring wide. Smoke and charring meat. His crimson eyes flickered slightly west where he could just see a thin film marring the indigo sky. Someone had lit a pyre or pyres. With a longing grunt, the orc turned away and half-scrambled, half-slithered down towards the quarries, heading away from the smoke whence the reek of Elves came. If he could get far enough away…somewhere dark before dawn… It was a steep climb into the limestone pits and he almost bit through his knife as each uneven boulder or sliding scree jolted his maimed hand and threatened to pitch him head over heels on the rocks.

On his right, the northern march of the mountains climbed dark and inexorable. There, he could nurse his wounds and his hate. He could be patient. He was a survivor. With these cheering thoughts in mind, he began to scale the further side which proved even more difficult with few handholds and one less hand with which to seek them. He stopped short, his crimson eyes widening suddenly when he detected movement on the ledge above his head. Relinquishing his grip, he scrambled down the way he came until the wind changed and the scent of the intruder slapped him sharp in the face. He took his knife from between his teeth to laugh in relief and turned his lamp-like eyes upward.

“My sweet,” he breathed to a pair of yellow eyes a few feet above his head.

His wolf made a low sound in her throat, somewhere between a whine and a growl. She shifted forward and a soft clink rattled in the quiet. Around her ruff, a chain was wrapped and driven with an iron nail jammed a crack in the stones.

Critz narrowed his eyes so he could make out the lean figure seated casually and almost invisibly beside the feral creature, a fire-hardened staff propped up against its knee. The orc started to chuckle. “Why if it isn’t my little weasel. Thought you’d had it back there.”

The lurid glow of old burns stood out in the sinew of his forearms as Torenul pushed the wolf’s seeking muzzle away from his leg. His eyes which held an unusual glitter flicked insolently over the once-feared orc leader. “You’re not looking so good yourself, wraith-rat. What happened? Your vaunted Shrieker turn tail at the first sight of his thrashers?”

The insulting epithet was not lost on Critz as he tightened his grip convulsively on his stump of a forearm which had begun to drip black ichor in an increasing puddle around his stained boots. His words hissed between his teeth, taut and shrill with pain. “You grubby maggot, get down here and I’ll show you just what--”

The wolf’s ears twitched at the angry tone and she gave a sharp, wrenching tug on the lead. Torenul hurriedly grasped the loosening stake, holding it steady.

The laugh lines around the orc’s eyes crinkled with contemptuous amusement even as he took a careful step back from the flame-eyed wolf he had so often set upon others in his cruel pit-games.

“I won’t hold you long, Critz,” Torenul said, a dark smile crookedly quirking a corner of his mouth but his eyes were hard and remorseless as the granite and limestone stacked around them. “I haven’t done much in my life that I’m proud of.” he began to wriggle the stake out. “Fact is, I might be little better than you…But at least it’s a little.”

As he spoke, he gradually loosened his hold on the straining chain, the links sliding through his fingers. The wolf’s growls increased, rumbling over the ears of her suddenly uncertain master who eyed her baring fangs with distinct trepidation.

“Now, lad…you keep tight hold of her…she smells blood and she’ll—”

Torenul’s voice was like a knell, tolling over his protests. “You’ve earned this death, orc. For Sayna, and for all the others you killed…” A stinging blow to the wolf’s hindquarters fended her away from the slave and maddened by the blow and the stench of helplessness, she sprang for the first defenseless creature.

Critz barely had time for an expression of stunned disbelief to flitter across his face before the wolf’s teeth sank into it.

Torenul leaned on his stick and watched the scarlet glint fade from the former slave master’s dreadful eyes. When the desperate heaving limbs stopped convulsing and scrabbling against the rocks, he rose. Without a backward glance, he turned his back on the black bastion of Fornost and his face towards freedom under the open sky.

----------

Veil lowered his bony frame wearily beside the small pool in the orchard. He chafed his hands together, wincing as crimson flakes peeled away from his ashy skin. It had taken him and the other quarry workers the better part of an hour to separate the wounded from the dead and lay them in the orchard where the elven healer Glorfindel had brought with him, the DĂşnedain chieftain and those who knew a little about wounds could help them. The pyres still smoked from the orc-dead they had piled and burnt in the courtyard. Their own dead they had covered and laid carefully in the shade until they could bury or otherwise tend them.

Enough slaves—former slaves—had survived the battle to ponder afterwards what they would do now. Some wanted to pick up the threads of their old lives, what snarled and ragged remains they could find. Others wanted something new, something far away from the degradation and hardship of the north. Veil had his own plans.

His arm swung out suddenly and he caught the thin, giggling mass of dark hair that had been trying to creep up in the reeds behind him. He bared his teeth. “Trying to sneak one over your daddy? Shame on you, girl.” He tucked her close around his arm and she giggled, struggling until he let her go. She sat close beside him and he reached out and stroked her grimy cheek fondly.

“Not too long, darling. We’ll have a little house of our own. Somewhere far from here. Would you like that? A little patch of field maybe, grow barley or oats. Keep a few horses and chickens.”

She nodded vigorously, still unused to being allowed to talk.

Movement automatically drew their eyes as they watched a dapper young soldier whose blue and white livery of Imladris was spotted with gore strode rapidly past them without even a glance, eyes fixed ahead on some determined destination.

“He’s in a hurry,” Veil remarked, letting Henna wriggle away. His eyes followed the soldier as he headed towards the area arranged for the wounded.

----------

“Hold still.”

Aragorn set his teeth and clenched his fingers into tight fists, a small, muffled grunt escaping his lips.

“If you wish me to get this finished at all in the next moon, I need you to relax,” the elven healer who had accompanied Glorfindel’s contingent said, his eyes barely inches from his careful work.

The ranger let out a long, slow breath, trying to drain the tension from his muscles as much as he could. He felt a slight tug at his numb shoulder and focused on the far wall of the makeshift tent cobbled together from supplies discovered in the orc barracks. The canvas flapped in a quiet wind and the lantern set next to their legs (for there was nowhere else to put it) flickered. A dull flash glinted in the corner of his eye as the suturing needle dipped again.

“Hurry up then.” He cut a quick glance at his shoulder when the healer paused to blot the wound. “The stitches are too far apart.”

For the first time in several long minutes, the elf raised his sharp eyes from his work and nailed his charge with a glance that had struck fretful children dumb in their mother’s arms. The healer harrumphed and snipped the end of the knotted thread indignantly. Tossing the spare string into a rubbish tin, he said from behind grit teeth, “Next time you may stitch your own wounds then, master ranger. I’m afraid it’s the best I can do in this dreadful lighting.”

Aragorn shrugged gingerly back into his blood-stiff tunic. “It is not I you should be tending anyway, GĂ»rion. Your skills are better used elsewhere.”

“And with patients less troublesome,” the healer added acidly, still gathering up his things with biting impatience. “There are those who would be a little more grateful to be spared their arm after a wound like that. Tore the tendon in your shoulder. You’ll be lucky to shoot a bow again.”

“Well, at least I can move it.” Aragorn said, grimacing slightly.

“Don’t you dare! If you pull those stitches out, I’ll bind you hand and foot in bandages until y—where do you think you’re going? I’m not finished with you yet.”

Aragorn had turned over his shoulder to reply when a blue-and-white liveried soldier ducked into the tent, almost colliding with him. The ranger took a swift step backward and Gûrion pounced, thrusting his arm into a sling.

“You are going to keep that shoulder still until it mends. If you have any illusions that I will somehow not know if my orders are being carried out, you are very much mistaken and you will be all the more sorry for it. Yes, well? What do you want?” he snapped this at the young soldier who straightened as if under a commander’s whiplash.

“Sir, Lords Elladan and Elrohir request your assistance. They fear he’s worsening,” the elf added with an almost apologetic glance at Aragorn.

“How badly?” Aragorn asked, adjusting the sling to a more comfortable position around his neck as GĂ»rion started throwing supplies into a bag.

The soldier shook his head regretfully. “I could not say. I am no healer.”

“No, you’re not. I am. Move, young one. Quickly,” GĂ»rion shoved him back out through the tent flap, Aragorn right on his heels.

Shoulder jolting at every long-legged stride, Aragorn muttered under his breath as they whipped past the small campfires that had been set up in the orchard. Those less wounded lay near a large bonfire for the night had grown chill as it deepened.

“I told you, you should not have left him to come to me.”

“Well, you were too damnably stubborn to come to me, what else was I to do? Defy the lords Elladan and Elrohir?” GĂ»rion asked without looking over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

GĂ»rion barked a mirthless laugh. “I’m afraid, young Chieftain of the DĂşnedain, that despite your high position they still outrank you by far.”

They slowed as they came to another tent set a little ways from the others. Aragorn ducked in ahead of Gûrion and a waft of warm air instantly wreathed his head along with the heady stench of coal. A brazier glowed beside the tent flap, warming the small space almost unbearably.

Elladan and Elrohir both looked up. Elladan stepped aside to make room for Gûrion who crouched quickly beside the pallet set against the wall of the tent closest to the brazier.

“Estel, you are supposed to be resting,” Elladan admonished, sounding more tiredly exasperated than anything.

“I couldn’t sleep.” When Elladan looked ready to argue, Aragorn gestured his brother to silence. GĂ»rion was questioning Elrohir and he wanted to hear what they were saying.

“—talking for the past couple of hours on and off.”

“Delirium?”

“No fever. If anything, he is too cold.”

“Hmm.” GĂ»rion leaned over the blanket-draped form. “Has he said anything useful? Something that might help us?”

“Nothing save…No.”

“Did you at least get him to take some fluids?”

“We—we tried. Elladan had to hold him down…” Elrohir’s voice shook and he touched the lightly stained bandage wrapping his head with a wince. “He—he screamed if we touched him. We couldn’t…”

GĂ»rion’s face softened perceptively. “All right. We’ll see if we can remedy that. I’ll need to examine him myself. There was little enough time beforehand and others more immediately hurt. You say these wounds were inflicted by orcs?”

Something tightened behind Elladan’s eyes. “Most of them.”

Elrohir closed his own and his brother, face full of concern, touched his shoulder. “Elrohir, I would feel better if you took your rest while GĂ»rion does what he needs to do. You have had a long day and that wound of yours was no light touch.”

Opening his eyes, Elrohir looked as if he might protest but GĂ»rion raised a long, thin forefinger. “No, he is quite right, my lord. Rest is the best treatment for all wounds.”

Allowing himself to be persuaded, Elrohir agreed so long as they called him if they needed his help or if anything changed.

Aragorn edged further into the small area at his brother’s departure and sat down close beside the pallet’s edge. GĂ»rion cast him a swift glance but the ranger steeled his jaw and lifted his chin, telling the elven healer in no uncertain terms that, wounded or not, he would not be moved.

“Lord Elladan, this…this is a delicate task…I would almost rather work alone. Perhaps one of my aides would…”

Elladan held up his hand. “GĂ»rion, this elf was at my side when I found my mother in the orc-dens He carried her out when my hands were shaking too much to do so. I would be shamed if I dared show less courage now than he did then.”

When GĂ»rion looked pointedly at Aragorn again, Elrohir said, “Estel and he are boon friends and you could not hope to have a better aide.”

“Very well.”

The healer delicately folded back the coverlets.

Aragorn had been helping his father in Rivendell’s infirmary since he had been old enough to run errands and with the fascination of a child had watched his elven father at his dutiful, often bloody work. This long journey alone had tested his endurance of the unfamiliar, the gruesome, and the nightmarish. He had seen his share of broken bodies: people he cared for, his men, Galen, Lalaithien. He had not anticipated this.

Haldir remained insensate during the examination for which Aragorn was relieved, knowing how the proud warrior’s dignity would have suffered being seen in such a vulnerable position. GĂ»rion was very thorough and felt along every bone, every inch of skin, even running his fingers up through the other elf’s hair to check for skull fractures or head trauma.

For long minutes, the man could not bear to look beneath his friend’s gaunt face but as GĂ»rion started to unroll bandages and unpack his supplies, he forced himself to push away any personal thoughts and to treat the body beneath his gaze as if it were any other injured warrior he had had to deal with in the past. The marchwarden’s usually pale complexion had a distinctly curdled-milk shade, mottled here and there by the deep blackish patches of blood collecting just below the surface of the skin. Muscles long ill- and under-used sagged, clinging to a wasted, once strongly-toned frame.

Around the collarbone and creeping over the shoulders were inflamed, red furrows, clumsily mended and cruelly reopened: the marks of claws and whiplashes. Darkly bruised ribs arched sharply like the curves of an archer’s bow and two of the long fingers on the right hand were twisted in such a way that Aragorn knew they were broken, the knuckles inflamed and swollen to almost twice the size they should have been. Turning over the starkly blue-veined forearm, Aragorn caught his breath in a sharp hiss. Scabbed over and deeply etched into the forearm muscle was a livid brand shaped like a crude eye.

“By the stars, how did you endure this, mellonnin?” he whispered, his throat tightening hard.

Elladan glanced quickly over at him.

Gûrion passed a freshly filled bowl of steaming, slightly fragrant water over to the ranger, distracting him from his examination.

“Infection will do him no amount of good. Wash up to the elbows, back from the hands, well before you touch him,” the healer ordered, sleeves rolled up and forearms glistening from their own soaking.

The worst of the injuries lay just between the third and fourth rib: a hurried bandage had been taped over it in the haste of the battle’s aftermath. Carefully, GĂ»rion peeled it back to reveal a puncture wound, low and deep. The black substance Aragorn had noticed before clung to the edges of the raw, partially crusted wound. Long untreated, it had festered like a ripe fruit left overlong in the sun and was by far the injury that merited most of GĂ»rion’s concern.

He touched the fringe of the mottled flesh and Haldir’s eyes flew open.

“Estel…”

Aragorn jolted in surprise at the sound of his name which had come from neither the healer nor Elladan and bent hurriedly over his friend, his hands still damp. “Haldir? I’m here.”

But the elf wasn’t looking at him. His glazed regard reeled over the ranger’s shoulders and wandered unseeingly around the tent walls, looking at ghosts. “Mustn’t come…Don’t come…The dark bites and freezes in veins. The mallorn tree will grow nigh unto the heavens if left alone, the oak if well-watered reaches half that, and the maple half again as high, the ash…”

“His mind wanders,” GĂ»rion said, watching the quietly raving elf with a keenly interested eye. He passed a hand above the elf’s face which did not register the movement. “Yet he is not conscious, at least not completely. I’ll need you two to hold him. I may have to cause him some pain and he won’t like that. He is a swordsman, is he?” the healer delicately handled the maimed hand as Aragorn nodded. “These have already begun to mend crookedly. I will need to rebreak and reset them or he cannot hope to handle a sword as well again.”

“I will not let you have him,” though rasping, the marchwarden’s voice retained some of the imperious growl he was renowned for and a flame had kindled in his wide, staring eyes as he spoke over the healer. “You will not have him.”

“Should we answer?” Elladan’s uneasiness was almost palpable as he watched the white figure, transfixed somewhere between horror and fascination.

“He does not know we are here,” GĂ»rion answered. His eyes narrowed. “However, if he feels threatened and moves, he might do himself more harm than good.” His fingertips brushed the skin of his patient’s arm in an attempt to calm the twitching warrior.

A feral snarl erupted from the injured elf’s chest. At the merest touch, his shoulders bucked up off the pallet and it took all three of their combined strengths to bring him back down again so he would not do himself further damage.

Suddenly Elladan jerked back with a cry of pain, clapping a hand over his opposite wrist. “He bit me!”

“You will do what you like with me, but I will be damned before you have him! Let me go, you—” the raver’s speech devolved into half-intelligible curses and straining breaths as he struggled against his handlers’ relentless grip.

“I’m going to need restraints if he doesn’t calm down!” GĂ»rion grunted, pinioning the kicking legs.

Aragorn sat frozen, unsure of what to do, his hand half-outstretched. GĂ»rion and Elladan had pinned wrists and legs but the elf soldier still fought them viciously. Not wanting to hurt his friend, Aragorn dithered uncertainly over the pallet until the elf caught him a smarting crack under the chin with a wrenched-free elbow. Tasting blood from his bitten tongue, the ranger leaned down hard on his friend’s chest, murmuring nonsensical, elvish words, hoping that the sound of his voice and the elf’s native language might quiet the wild spirit.

Torturously long moments dragged by during which Aragorn thought at any minute his arms were going to give way or his heart shatter. But the elf’s struggles began to slow and gradually ceased altogether. Chest heaving raggedly, Haldir slumped exhaustedly under their combined force, his forehead shining with his effort, uninjured fingers twisting in the bedding beneath him.

Aragorn pushed the disheveled, sweat-drenched strands away from his friend’s marble countenance, realizing he was shaking almost as violently and his shoulder wound throbbed with renewed vigor. The elf had clenched his eyelids tightly closed. Something clear and wet leaked from the corners and Aragorn who had never seen the LothlĂłrien captain cry felt as if his heart had been seized and sundered. His voice was less than steady as he tried to reassure him, “It’s all right, Haldir, it’s all right. I’m right here. I’m right here with you. Shh.”

Almost instinctively, his hand began to move in small, smoothing circles over an unbruised part of the quivering shoulder. His father had often calmed him down in such a fashion when he was a child tormented by night terrors and it worked just as well on injured warriors apparently because Haldir stopped struggling, even relaxing slightly under the ranger’s touch.

“No, GĂ»rion, don’t,” Aragorn pleaded when he saw the healer seize several lengths of cloth. “He has spent enough of his strength fighting you and he has marks enough from bonds. You do not need to add more.”

Noticing how still his patient had grown under the ranger’s hands, GĂ»rion relented and picked up Elladan’s wrist. “Well, he took a chunk of flesh from you and no mistake—at least he has some fighting spirit left in him. That gives us some hope. Estel, keep him as calm as you can. Talk to him. It seems to put him at ease better than anything I have. Otherwise, I’ll have to sedate him and I’d rather not. If he regains any semblance of consciousness, he may be able to tell us how best we can help him. Now, for those fingers.”

Aragorn kept his eyes intently on his friend’s face as Elladan and GĂ»rion set to their grim work. He did not know for how long he knelt there, his knees aching on the hard, unforgiving ground, his shoulder and arm stiffening from the strain…but his good hand never ceased its soft rhythm as the healer cleansed, set, and dressed the horrible injuries inflicted by the month-long imprisonment among the orcs.

After more than an hour, when Haldir seemed to have slipped into a light doze, Aragorn stretched the stiffness out of his back and shoulders, refilled the copper bowl with the fragrant warm water and grabbed a clean towel. Caked dirt and long clotted blood released their insistent cling as the ranger worked to reveal the elf’s true skin underneath. Even more color had drained away—a complexion which had been troubling from the first had gone the white-grey pallor of clay. His eyelids no longer fluttered and his splinted hands lay limp and still.

“He’s quiet now.”

“Good,” GĂ»rion muttered distractedly, his brow furrowed in deep consideration. He was bent over his patient’s side, his fingers lightly pinching and pressing either side of the suppurating wound to coax pus through the narrow, unhealed slit. “This runs deep. There is an evil in it that I have seen before,” he leaned back on his heels and rinsed his hands. For a long, thoughtful moment watched his patient’s face. “When I was a battle surgeon during the Fornost campaign, I treated many such wounds—often to the life-cost of their bearers. It brings a terrible malady, not wholly of the body or else it might be healed, but of the spirit and the heart. Those who sicken with it—even Elves—fall ever deeper into a dark dream and cold shadow. They do not wake from it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Elladan asked sharply.

GĂ»rion looked at him almost pityingly. “He is dying.”

When their stricken faces turned towards him, GĂ»rion felt the need to explain even though it would do little good to assuage their grief. “The physical injuries I had hopes of healing—this injury itself has already begun to knit as you can see. But…something still eats away at him that I have no power to undo.”

Elladan absorbed this news more quickly than Aragorn’s shock-fogged brain and managed to stutter, “H—how long does he have then?”

“I have done what I can. He is obviously strong and may cling to life for some hours yet but—”

“Hours?”

“He is very fortunate to have survived this long.” GĂ»rion gestured rather uselessly at the carefully applied bandages. “The severity of some of these wounds would have killed a lesser man in days. He has borne them clearly for weeks. It is a cold comfort, perhaps, but at least, he is in the company of friends now. We can make him comfortable.”

“You cannot tell me there is no hope,” Aragorn’s quiet voice cut the healer off like a knife severing a taut string. The ranger hadn’t looked up from his friend’s waxen visage but his jaw tightened in a dour expression Elladan recognized as complete and utter determination. “I will not believe you if you tell me there is no hope.”

GĂ»rion glanced helplessly at Elladan for assistance but the young elf-lord merely stared back at him so he offered, “There is always hope. But even if, by some miracle, he wakes—there is no knowing what kind of damage a month among orcs and the presence of their foul master has done to his mind.”

When Aragorn did not reply, the elven healer rose with a soft, troubled sigh. “There are others I must tend to. If you should need me…” He ducked slowly out of the tent, leaving an echoing silence in his wake.

Aragorn did not speak and Elladan, stifled by the oppressive silence, took up a position outside the tent while they both began their indeterminate vigil.

“Aragorn?”

The deep, tentative voice roused Aragorn out of a deep contemplation and he raised strained, smoky eyes to the tent entrance where Halbarad stood framed. It was dimmer in the tent than it had been for the deepest part of the night had settled over the camp. Halbarad himself looked worn and stank of pyre-smoke.

“Elladan explained,” the older man offered awkwardly as he sat beside his chief. When he received no flicker of a response, Halbarad stared down at the still form covered again in blankets. He pressed his lips briefly together but the edgy quiet laden with such heaviness seemed to be getting to him.

“Glorfindel is checking on the injured and making his rounds. He’s talking about dismantling the fortress so orcs don’t nest there again. Ivriel’s watching over Rancir just in case though the healer said with decent rest and so long as he kept the wound clean, he should well recover. The old churl didn’t actually argue, I was surprised. Veil and the others bunked up under the trees, most of them got off pretty well against the enemy. They had some fierce fighters among them. At any rate, we should be heading home soon, I guess…” He trailed off into the silence and took a closer look at his chief.

“You look tired.”

Aragorn shook his head, his interlocked fingers resting against his lips, his elbows on his knees.

Halbarad picked up the discarded sling and gave his chieftain a look of reproachful sadness. “That shoulder needs rest.”

Aragorn didn’t even nod his head this time. He didn’t even look around until Halbarad, grasping his good shoulder gently, forced him to turn away from the pallet.

“If you think I’m going to let you waste away here, you’re badly mistaken. I watched your father nearly do it after losing a man dear to him and I did not allow it then. Well, I’m too old a rock to be changed by weathering and I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you because of this elf,” the older man growled, his grip tightening slightly on the younger man’s shoulder when Aragorn only continued to regard him wearily.

Halbarad licked dry, smoke-chapped lips, surprised by the sheer exhaustion in his chieftain’s eyes. “I am so sorry, Aragorn,” he eased back on his hold. “I would never have wished this on him, you know that.”

“I know.”

“Can I do anything?”

Aragorn shook his head.

With a sigh, Halbarad coaxed his leader’s arm back into the sling. As he meticulously straightened out the slight twists in the strap so that it lay flat, his eyes roved over the injury, his brow darkened.

“How did you come by that anyway? You never said.”

“It was a clean cut. GĂ»rion said it would mend.”

“Another scar to add to your collection. You’ll surpass mine at this rate.” Halbarad’s mouth twisted in a wry smile and just as quickly faded. “When Elrohir told us you’d been attacked…I don’t mind telling you I feared the worst. Elrohir couldn’t remember who’d set upon you and all the orcs in the place seemed to already be fighting us…”

Something in the older man’s undertone suggested his growing suspicions but Aragorn, his eyes dark and distracted, only shook his head again and repeated, “It will mend.”

Halbarad did not know what there was left to say but, surprisingly, it was his chieftain who broke the silence. “You were mistaken in him. He spared me when the NazgĂ»l ordered him to slay me. He refused to kill me even though the wraith threatened him with his own death if he did not comply. You were wrong.”

“Glad am I to hear it.”

“You would have had me leave him behind.”

Halbarad heard the warning bells heralding the wrong direction this conversation was taking but had no idea how to diffuse it. “At the time, I—I thought it was for the best.”

His chieftain’s voice had sunk into a hoarse, dangerous timber. “You thought it best to leave him to the mercy of the orcs, to the mercy of those who tortured him?”

“I—”

Aragorn’s hand had balled into a fist and Halbarad drew back slightly, for a moment actually afraid his leader might strike him. This sudden rage was more alarming than the previous lethargy.

“Aragorn, calm down, you’re not—”

“If you had had your way, they would still be torturing him in that keep! Years beyond endurance!” Aragorn had risen to his feet. He was shouting now and scarcely seeming aware of what he was saying as Halbarad edged further back from him, one hand slightly outstretched as though to ward him off. “They would have taken from him the very last inch of himself and all because of your whim! He would have died alone.” His voice cracked and Halbarad dove in.

“Aragorn, I never meant—”

Aragorn’s voice was hard as flint though it trembled slightly. “You unspeakable coward.”

Elladan swept in under the tent entrance and seized his youngest brother around the chest, tugging him sharply away from the older man. He held his brother tight against him despite his attempted struggles and would not release him until the young man stopped fighting. “Aragorn, calm down. You’re overwrought. You know this was not Halbarad’s fault.”

“Are you saying it was Haldir’s?” Aragorn rounded fiercely on him and the elf held up a placating hand.

“That is not what I said. It was no one’s fault. No one’s.” he cupped his brother’s cheek, forcing him to meet his eyes. “We cannot predict the movements of evil and evil things happen to those we care for. It was no one’s fault but ill chance.”

When Aragorn seemed to calm a little more, Elladan with an apologetic glance at Halbarad released him and stepped back toward the tent entrance. “I am going to make some tea. It’ll help. All our nerves are a little…jangled, I fear.”

Aragorn threw himself down beside the pallet again, hiding his face in one hand. Guardedly, Halbarad watched him for a few minutes until the convulsing shoulders eased.

“Aragorn, I never meant that. I never meant that at all. I was wrong; I know I was wrong, I am glad I was wrong,” he was almost pleading for his friend to understand.

Aragorn raised his head slowly. His eyes were bloodshot and his face haggard, making him appear aged far beyond his twenty-odd years. He swallowed thickly. When he next spoke, his voice had lost its alarming edge and held only an immeasurably deep sadness.

“I know, Halbarad.”

Elladan returned a few minutes later, bearing three chipped clay mugs and passed them around. When he came to his adopted brother, he lingered a little. “This will help.”

Aragorn cradled the mug and inhaled the sweet fragrance. It tingled sharp in his nose and for a moment, the dreadful battle, their losses, the blood dried on his clothes and the grief clenching around his heart diminished. He sat in the Hall of Fire again on the cushions scattered about the room, his father’s robes brushing against his idle fingers. He blinked and the lovely sensation remained though he knew he was far from home still.

“Athelas?” he guessed, looking up at his brother questioningly.

“GĂ»rion found some growing wild not far from here and culled it. It’s been some time—since we left home.”

“It is what Adar gave to Galen…” Aragorn trailed off thoughtfully. He suddenly recalled the words spoken that terrible night when he had witnessed his father in the library tending to the fallen elven warrior who raved with terror and fought with desperate strength until the athelas…His father had explained what had happened, what he had done, what his youngest son could do…

You, Aragorn, are one of the few DĂşnedain, of Men who still have the ancient power in your bloodline to do such things as I have just done. To cull the shadow and call those under its sway back.

“Under the shadow,” he murmured half to himself. He glanced up and caught the eye of his brother who had evidently heard the soft comment. “How many leaves did GĂ»rion say he had gathered?”

“Several handfuls at least. Why?”

“And the hot water for the tea—is there some left?”

“Yes. What are you thinking, Estel?”

“I’m not sure yet. Go ask GĂ»rion for more of those leaves and bring me the rest of the water. Halbarad, get me a lantern, as bright as you can find. Just do it. Swiftly.”

Neither of them argued.

Elladan swept back under the tent flap in mere moments, a bowl of steaming water in one hand and a small, leather pouch in the other containing the drying leaves. “I think something of Haldir must be rubbing off on you, Estel—you already have acquired his bark when giving orders.”

“I hope you will be able to tell him that—he’d laugh,” Aragorn accepted bowl and packet from his brother and turned the lantern wick up so a bright, unsteady light shone full on Haldir’s face, tingeing it a deceptively healthy bronze. Crushing the leaves and steeping them in the hot water, the man waited until the aromatic steam filled the whole tent and brightened his eyes with new resolve. Unsure of what was actually going to happen, he lifted the elf’s undamaged hand gently between both of his own, delicately chafing the chilled skin to give it a semblance of warmth. Resting his rough palm lightly on the elf’s brow, he closed his eyes.

“Haldir.” He could not think what he would do should this last effort fail. “Haldir…”

The hand on the elf’s clammy forehead began to absorb the chill and his eyes floated closed. Darkness deeper than the mere shadows caused by the fluttering lamp deepened behind his shut eyelids. It reminded him almost of the dizzy sensation between wakefulness and sleep except…A frown knotted between his brows and he adjusted his sliding grip. Something brushed against his mind like the touch of a familiar hand but Aragorn shuddered and almost pulled back from it. It reminded him too much of the dusty crimson and gold room.

He could feel the malevolent will even now, remote but all the more potent for its rage knew no boundaries, no distance. It tore at him, trying to rip him free of the one it sought to claim but Aragorn only tightened his hold, blackness swirling before his eyes as he struggled against it.

“Estel?” Dimly, as if through a tunnel, he heard Elladan worriedly call his name but he could not afford to distract himself by answering it.

The scent of the athelas strengthened and a bright flare of light erupted behind his eyes, gradually fading and softening into gentle blackness. Exhausted beyond his endurance, head heavy and swimming, Aragorn slumped forward against his friend's icy shoulder.


Chapter 16 - Part Sixteen: Into a Grey Morning

Author’s Notes: I present (at last) the final chapter of Dwimmerlaik.

Part Sixteen

Into a Grey Morning

A heavy gloaming heralding the beginning of autumn broadened over the browning fields until little more than a pale strand of road could be seen. Sweet, crumpled leaves scuffled across the path into the dense woodlands on the other side. The wind paused briefly in its chiding as if listening to some faraway sound and then, in the sudden hush, the soft drum of horses’ hooves came up the lane, accompanying a snatch of melody, an old homecoming song as a company, some riding, many walking, marched up the path, singing in fair and rough voices alike.

Unroll the dusky road before me

Carry me ever onward.

Like a tributary meeting the River

I walk through dark shadow and leaf shade

I see the twinkling vigil-lamp, amber star for me.

Keep it bright, keep it burning, home no longer far from me.

At the garden gate, I hear the step

Light upon the paving stones

Like the ghost of mem’ry, a wisp of warm eyes
Walking through dark shadow and leaf shade

We will light the vigil-lamp, amber star of mine

Keep step light, keep it steady, home not long ahead of thee.

One of the dark-haired elves at the head of the column twisted in his saddle to glance behind him. His mirror image who rode beside him recognized this posture all too well and rolled his eyes.

“You cannot actually see him from up here you know, Elrohir.”

“I know.”

“Face front before you fall out of the saddle. We’re not far now.”

The path began to sink, gradually at first then more sharply until Elrohir was forced to heed his brother’s advice and concentrate on negotiating his horse over the steep descent before him. The forest rose higher and higher on his right, uplifted by glimmering limestone shelves that plunged upward, forming the first cuttings of the valley’s western face.

Elrohir breathed in the deep pine smell. He had missed these trees that even now cried out for him to climb in their boughs as he had done as a young elf and later on as a huntsman but only one thought drove his mind as he gazed down into the heart of the valley and saw a bright pinprick twinkling below.

“Adar left the light on for us.”

Their pace hastened as they reached level ground and passed through the main gate, a tall, ivy-woven arch flanked by marble elf maidens. Even those footsore from keeping up with the horses quickened their wearied steps when the beautiful house of Elrond emerged from the shadows, amber light spilling out across the courtyard cobbles from the wide flung, welcoming doors.

Silhouetted in the doorway, a tall figure stood with traditionally braided raven hair in the very likeness of the two who rode in front of the company. Elladan and Elrohir dismounted swiftly and hurried up the steps to greet their father who embraced his sons tightly before greeting Glorfindel and his patrol, Halbarad and the rangers as well as those he did not recognize.

Veil stepped nervously forward and ducked an awkward bow, his forelock falling in front of his eyes.

“Adar, this is Veil. Veil, Lord Elrond, the master of this house,” Elrohir said with an amused smile as his father who hated formality clasped the former slave’s thin hand warmly in welcome.

Rancir threw his reins around the hitching post and strode up to the elf-lord, limping only slightly for the arrow wound had healed well. Ivriel stood as ever close at his shoulder.

Elrond acknowledged the warriors’ salutes with a smile softened by sadness as he noticed the absence of Lalaithien. “It is good to see you home again. Imladris has missed your vigilance.”

“I’m afraid we brought fewer back with us, my lord,” Rancir explained.

“Yet in home there is often healing and time to honor the fallen,” the elf-lord said, gesturing them towards the house. “I’ve had Sadron prepare supper.”

“You knew we were coming, my lord?” Halbarad inquired.

“News in Imladris travels swifter than snowmelt-swollen rivers as they say,” Elrond’s eyes twinkled knowingly. “However, I knew you at least, Halbarad, would not set foot in the house unless there was a meal to be had. Where is Estel?”

“I am here, Adar.”

At the first syllable, Elrond shifted instinctively towards the voice, his keen eyes searching out the familiar, tall-framed figure of his youngest who stood almost outside the reach of the home's illumination.

Aragorn let the reins of his mount dangle from his fingers. He closed his eyes as his father’s warm, familiar hand cupped his cheek. The ancient elf concernedly touched the sling that still bound his mortal son’s left arm against his chest and the ranger, glancing at it, grimaced and managed to smile somewhat ruefully.

“Well, at least I’m walking this time.”

Elrond examined Aragorn minutely. The pale, newly lined eyes bespoke a care that he had never expected to see so soon upon his youngest son’s face. He was struck suddenly with a rush of bittersweet pride: Aragorn clearly had suffered but by the proud, unbent breadth of his shoulders and the glitter in his eyes, he was still very much Estel.

“I would hear the tale behind this, Estel,” Elrond said, adjusting the sling gently. “However, it can wait for after supper and sleep. You have been on the road long—I’ve been waiting for word of you for some weeks.”

“It’s a tale I also look forward to hearing, my lord,” Halbarad said with a glance at his chieftain that was only half-playful. “Aragorn, true to his close nature, has said very little of his heroic exploits. Much to the disappointment of his men.”

“It has been a hard road and one I would not speak of in the dark,” Aragorn replied for his father’s ears only, ignoring Halbarad. The grey shadows under his eyes bore silent testimony of more than one sleepless night though the smallest fraction of a smile remained on the corner of his lips. “I’m sorry we were so long delayed. I’ll tell you it in full later, Adar, I promise. There’s truly much I need to speak to you about.”

“Home for the first time in more than a month, Estel, and you would chatter out here all night?” a dry-humored though not un-irritated voice demanded. One of the riders who had, until this point, lingered in the shadows swung gingerly down.

Lord Elrond’s lips twitched but the burgeoning smile faltered as the owner of the voice stepped into the light. The healer’s well-honed eyes read the terrible gauntness of the captain of LothlĂłrien’s face with disquiet. The sparking silver eyes sank back into deeply hollowed sockets that seemed etched from stone. Though his tone had been light, his mouth and jaw seemed steeled as if against some lingering pain; and a red tunic (Aragorn’s the father in Elrond noted) gaped at the fully laced collar, clearly concealing a frame wasted from more than long travel and frugal meals.

Haldir felt the healer’s penetrating eyes on him but he kept his gaze focused on the ground and only briefly did it flicker up to catch the elf-lord’s in a polite acknowledgement before looking towards the house.

Elrond forced a smile and wrapped an arm around the shoulders that seemed to have thickened and broadened in so short a time. “He is right, my son. Let no one linger out in the dark tonight when there is warmth and light waiting inside.”

Aragorn needed no second bidding.

The DĂşnedain, Fornost’s former slaves, and elves alike parted as he walked with bright eyes and firm steps through their ranks and led the procession up into the house.

As he set foot over the threshold, Aragorn took a deep breath of the fresh, clean scent of the open chamber and cast his eyes up at the high hammer-beamed ceilings, drinking in the familiar sight and letting it soothe away the cares that had lain on his shoulders for so many weeks.

The others filed past him as Elrond ushered them into the Hall of Fire and rang for the household servants to lay out an overdue supper.

“It is good to be home,” the ranger murmured almost to himself. He turned his head quickly as Haldir came up beside him. The elf’s expression didn’t alter.

“What? Aren’t you glad to be back?” Aragorn felt his grin slip. It was harder than ever to gauge the marchwarden’s moods these days; and it had been a tight rope to walk on the journey back. He thought now that they were finally safe, finally free…

“It’s not my home.”

“There are beds though.” Aragorn quipped. “Feather mattresses. Real pillows and clean sheets. Better food than I can cook.”

The marchwarden closed his eyes longingly and when he opened them again there was a glimmer in them that might have been the rekindling light of his old, sardonic self. “Not that that’s much of a feat though—you can hardly boil water.”

“Hey!” Aragorn protested with less indignation than he normally would have.

“Are you two coming?” Halbarad called from the entrance into the Hall. “I’m not holding this door ajar all night.”

Though the hall was rapidly filling, other guests of Rivendell had already reached it ahead of them. A group of elves sat near the wall-to-wall fireplace. They all wore similar battledress of silver and black draped in cloaks clasped with a silver-threaded mallorn leaf. Their hair, braided after the fashion of Silvan warriors, was fairer than wheat fields under a summer sun. The firelight fell on their handsome and intrigued faces as they watched the newest arrivals enter.

When Aragorn and Haldir stepped into the hall, two of them rose immediately with cries of welcome.

Aragorn thought he heard Haldir utter a soft groan but the two elves were already upon them.

“Haldir! What kept you?”

The LothlĂłrien captain nimbly dodged his brothers’ exuberant embraces and banked towards the low table which was scattered with the evidence of a leisurely night. The Galadhrim company rose and saluted their returning officer but Haldir ignored the courtesy and instead swept aside drinks and a pair of dice so he could avail himself of a seat on the table. Legs dangling inches from the floor, he spied a decanter in the middle of the table, borrowed a glass from the elf nearest him and poured himself a generous measure.

“Welcome back, Captain,” one of the elves ventured after a minute of silence.

Haldir raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement as he drained the glass. Refilling it, he shot a look over his neighbor’s head at his brothers. “What are you doing here?”

“You can take a moment, you know, to say, ‘Well met, brothers.’” Orophin said with a grin. “We know you don’t like writing dispatches, Haldir, but what kind of brother doesn’t send a letter or two to his own kin every couple of months or so?”

“Apparently a forgetful one,” Haldir supplied dryly, shooting a meaningful glance at Aragorn. His gaze drifted as the buzz of chatter rose around them. The rangers were helping to erect a long table and spread it with a white cloth so the food could be brought in. The men and women of Fornost stared around the hall in awe, their faces alight and burnished by the fire glow. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

RĂşmil in turn ignored his eldest brother. “What I find curious,” His eyes narrowed shrewdly as they scrutinized the gaunt face. “is not so much why we are here, but why you were not here when we arrived. It’s been more than a sennight. What have you been doing?”

“I am the superior officer, I get my questions answered first,” Haldir retorted, turning abruptly to his young neighbor since his brothers proved so unhelpful. “Why are you here, Gilas? And why did your sergeant so foolishly see fit to bring theentire patrol with you?”

The named elf, a soldier with arms and shoulders just beginning to gain the muscle and sinew of maturity, colored at being directly addressed by his captain.

“Orders, sir,” Gilas started with an uncertain glance at his sergeant. “From the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn…they had news of trouble in the north…”

Haldir had been watching him with unusually rapt attention. Uncomfortable and unaccustomed to such penetrating scrutiny, Gilas trailed away into awkward silence.

His captain smiled indulgently. “The Lord and Lady have their own ways of gathering news and from sources more reliable and swift than a patrol can relay in several months’ time—longer when they travel so close to wintertide and the mountain passes’ yearly closing. That’s not even a little bit true, is it?” He speculatively fingered a lock of the young elf’s hair, the unbraided length of which proclaimed him a novice yet untried in battle.

A closed look deepened the hollows around the marchwarden’s eyes as if he recalled some yet fresh grief. Older and more battle-proven warriors than this one before him had died from a simple errand that had taken a more perilous twist than any had foreseen. All their experience and skill had not spared them from orcs’ cruel swords. The deaths of Galen and young Lalaithien had hit the LothlĂłrien captain hardest of all once Aragorn had broken the news to him. To see another green, untried life risked in a needless trek over the mountains scorched his blood with anger.

“Not even blooded yet,” he threw a remonstrating look at RĂşmil that was too hot in its intensity and sharpened his tone. “Has LothlĂłrien’s defense grown so desperate in my very short absence that we are taking children now to fill gaps in the ranks?”

The young soldier once released from his captain’s grasp flushed even deeper, a slight furrow appearing between his brows, and feigned intense interest in the table grain while RĂşmil rested his hands akimbo in exasperation. Haldir returned the look with a cocked eyebrow.

“Gilas is more than of age, Captain, as you well know, and though he has not yet snared his first orc, he has proved his skill and value more than once on the journey here.”

“I’m sure he’s proved most valuable rolling up bedding and fetching ration supplies,” Haldir returned, taking a blithe and much more appreciative taste of the pale gold liquor.

“They are all perfectly trained,” RĂşmil ground out, an undercurrent of umbrage suffusing his tone.

“Oh, did I hurt the tough old drill sergeant’s feelings?” There was just enough mockery to bite.

“Why can you not tell us where you were? Or rather, why do you not want to tell us where you were?” Orophin—who had realized sooner than his younger brother that Haldir was trying to manipulate the conversation to suit him—silenced RĂşmil’s indignation. His gaze raked down the red sleeve to where his eldest brother’s hand rested on the tabletop. Two of the fingers were taped up which Haldir surreptitiously shifted to his lap and concealed under his good hand.

“What are you hiding?”

“I haven’t bathed in days.”

One of the elves behind him snorted with laughter and hastily stifled it.

RĂşmil was less amused. “You’re evading the—”

“Veil! You’re just the distract—the company I need! I want you to meet the most highly trained bed-rollers and ration-fetchers on either side of the mountains.”

Puzzled but obliging, the scrawny man came over to shake hands with the Galadhrim.

Henna bounded up behind him, flashing her small, white teeth. “We get our own beds and everything! With sheets and real soft pillows filled with feathers!”

Veil stretched out a hand to the elf captain last. “I’ve been meaning to thank you. Henna told me what you did for them. The orcs would have…I can’t tell you the nightmares I had thinking I’d be too late. So, thank you from the very deepest well of my heart. That thanks goes to you too, Strider.”

Aragorn relinquished his weight from the pillar he had been leaning against and clasped the man’s hand in his. “You are your own master now.”

Veil nodded as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. “You know I was talking to that lordly elf—calls himself Glorfindel. He said we could stay the winter and then come spring, he and his guards’ll help us find a place to settle up north of the Loudwater. Grand folk, all around, grand folk.” He smiled as Henna bumped up against him. “What do you say to these gentlemen, my girl?”

“Thank you.” She glanced shyly at Aragorn but walked right up to Haldir and pulled on his shoulder until he leaned down to her height so she could peck him on the cheek.

“Is she allowed to do that?” Gilas’ soft whisper made Aragorn grin.

Haldir blinked as he straightened. The brush of her dry lips had felt oddly cool and no answering warmth filled his heart as he thought it would.

Henna hauled on her father’s arm. “Come on, Papa. They’re putting out sweet things on the table. Apple tarts! That greedy Egle said she was going to eat them all if we don’t get over there to try them right now!”

“You’ve got a talker now, Veil,” Aragorn teased, his tired eyes twinkling.

“Bless her heart, I can’t shut her up,” Veil grinned over his shoulder as his daughter snagged his sleeve and tugged him off towards the food-laden table.

Orophin took his eyes slowly from the human girl and her father to frown at his brother. Neither he nor RĂşmil knew much of the common language. “He…thanked you?”

“You ran into orcs,” It was almost an accusation flying from RĂşmil who recognized the Common word for yrch all too easily after his years on the fences.

Haldir set his second glass down with a quiet clink. Nothing short of an act of Ilúvatar would force him to divulge what he had pushed to the back of his mind to his brothers especially not in full earshot of his patrol and Elrond's household staff.. Thankfully none save Gûrion, the sons of Elrond, and Aragorn knew in full what had happened to him among the orcs. And they would all keep silence.

Almost unconsciously, his eyes sought out Aragorn, who had remained strangely quiet, for which Haldir was grateful and a touch disconcerted. Normally the ranger would have spoken up some time ago in his own unobtrusive way. Either he didn’t want to interfere in a family matter—though that had never stopped him before—or…Haldir looked more closely at the ranger who was staring blankly across the hall. He actually hadn’t really looked at the ranger in what felt like a long time. Had those care lines always been there? Those shadows under his eyes certainly hadn’t. Aragorn looked tired, drained. The marchwarden had never asked what healing him had cost. He was glad he hadn’t.

He blinked, sensing RĂşmil was glaring at him now, more out of worry than real anger he knew from long experience. Being still underage at the time of the Last Alliance when two elder brothers and a father who would not return went off to fight made his youngest brother all the more fearful for the members of his family he still had left. Orophin was a little more tactful and managed to hide his concern better.

However, that did not stop their insistence from rankling their eldest brother. “Who is the officer in charge here? I forget.”

“You—”

“Right. Then, am I accountable to you? No. Do I need to detail every aspect of my movements for your close examination or approval? Absolutely not. I do not think—”

“We are your kin, Haldir, not only your subordinates—that I have to remind you of that fact is—”

“There was a message…”

RĂşmil, Orophin, and Haldir all turned and looked at Aragorn who had spoken, the latter’s eyes widened but the man continued anyway. “…from a Galadhrim scout. He brought tidings we decided to investigate. It took longer than we thought.”

“And you couldn’t say that?” RĂşmil folded his arms without losing a fraction of his earlier suspicion.

Haldir shrugged one shoulder, the picture of careless nonchalance.

“Perhaps if you are willing to say less than Estel, Haldir, we can put a few things together ourselves. Lord Elrond told us you had discovered something about the northern-road messenger Caladir who Estel mentioned. Now perhaps you discovered what his message contained, perhaps it held news of import, and you, doing your obligatory duty, relentlessly searched for the truth of his message. Then…you ran into trouble—and injuries. Knowing you, some of those injuries were doubtlessly severe which you always feel you have to conceal from us.” RĂşmil was trying to speak objectively, as he might have questioned his captain had the officer not been his brother—he was failing miserably.

Haldir’s eyes had narrowed steadily through this little speech: a sign that his patience was rapidly wearing down. RĂşmil was hitting too close to the mark and at any given instant he might strike the heart. To allow himself time to think, the marchwarden quaffed a third glass and prompted Gilas for another. He waited until the obliging recruit had sufficiently topped his glass up before replying. “Brilliant, RĂşmil. As always, it’s the fault of my vaunted pride.”

Orophin rested a mediating hand on RĂşmil’s shoulder and fastened his elder brother with a pleading gaze. “That’s not what he is trying to say, Haldir. You are so thin, muindor. I will readily swear you have lost at least a stone since we last saw you. Is it any wonder we want to know what happened?”

“Try living on Estel’s cooking for a few months and see how you look. You both can interrogate me until—”

“We’re not interrogating you.”

“We only want to know—”

“You can interrogate me until blood starts spurting out of my nose. My answers will not change. As it stands, I can think of many interrogators far more frightening than either of you.” There was a touch too much desperation in that last as the memory of a fell, haunting shadow stirred insidiously at the back of his mind and he hastily checked himself but he could not be sure RĂşmil or Orophin had not heard it.

Aragorn had heard it. His eyes, instantly cleared of all weariness, flashed towards his friend’s face, the same, alert expression Haldir had seen far too many times over the long ride home tensing the new lines around the ranger’s eyes. He hated that look but right now it was almost welcome. At least Aragorn understood that he didn’t care to discuss what he had been through since, for the first time in months, he was in a place where he could let his guard ease and forget for a little.

“Please,” the ranger’s soft voice broke the tension between the three brothers. “RĂşmil, Orophin, I know what it’s like to be worried for a brother and I know it’s hard to wait but we really have just returned tonight.” He darted a look at Haldir as he moved to stand between them. “A few hours of rest will help us—” A spasm of pain contorted his face and he suddenly gripped his bound shoulder.

Haldir looked at him sharply. The man’s face was tinged white. The elf hastily set his glass down but didn’t know whether he should lend his friend a hand or say something. Aragorn was deathly pale, jaw clenched, teeth bared. Haldir felt a pounding at his temple as the noise of merrymaking around him muted, the golden light dimmed and the walls seemed to narrow suffocatingly close.

“Kill him.”

Aragorn, his face a blaze of whiteness and wrenching pain stared panic-eyed up at him “Please…Haldir…You and I are friends, don’t do this.”

A saber blade scythed.

Gilas who was sitting nearest leapt up with a shocked and dismayed cry.

Haldir’s hands had flexed jerkily as if to check the deadly saber and instead of catching steel had inadvertently upset his goblet which spilled its contents over Gilas’ lap and rolled lazily over the edge. Gilas’ surprise yelp and the sound of shattering glass jolted him out of the daze. He stared, disoriented, at the young elf who hurriedly bent to mop up the spilled liquor and gingerly collect the large, jagged slivers.

The room had fallen briefly silent as the revelers glanced curiously towards the disturbance. Aragorn’s brow furrowed; he was still clutching his shoulder.

“Haldir?” Orophin’s concerned voice barely registered but the touch on his arm seared like a brand and the captain jerked away, covering the harsh flinch by sliding off his seat. Low murmurs and confused questions rumbled under the ringing in his ears and, glancing around, he saw distorted faces turned towards his, seemingly hideous, mocking faces that only sharpened gradually into non-threatening focus. Though the hall was large, he felt trammeled, and instinctively sought an escape. A door beckoned freedom.

“Captain? What is it?”

He strode so as to not seem to retreat towards the door leading out into the blessed quiet of the entry hall, head still pounding. He reached the staircase before complete solitude brought him to a full stop. Resting one forearm steadyingly against the cool, firm wood of the banister, he inhaled lung-deep breaths that expanded his chest to its limit. He pictured the heights of ashes, oaks, aspens, and mellyrn in his mind until his heart settled to a calmer rhythm and his mind stopped whirling with those confusing, nausea-inducing images he hadn’t been able to shake. Sweat soaking his temples and the back of his tunic cooled and clung to his skin with too-familiar discomfort as the minutes dragged by.

“Haldir?”

The addressed closed his eyes. Without turning, he knew who had come after him. He who had always come after him.

Hard-soled boots tapped warily on the stone floor, steady at first then slowing as if the one who approached wasn’t quite sure of his welcome.

Haldir gave his friend a wan smile as he glanced briefly over his shoulder. “You know how fond of social events I am.” The forced smile dropped when Aragorn continued to regard him only with concern. “Should I be looking for Orophin and RĂşmil to come dashing indignantly out of the Hall now?”

“No. I told them I would explain later.”

“I forbid you to speak to them of this.”

“They should know, Haldir.”

“I took you into my confidence, Estel. I told you what happened. If I had known you would want to gossip to all and sundry, I might have reconsidered.”

“If by ‘confidence’ you mean dismissing your injuries and refusing to talk about what happened then—”

“You’re the one who seems so eager to talk about it, not I.”

When Haldir refused to look at him, Aragorn circled round the banister and sat on the bottom step so he could look up into his friend’s face. “What did you see?”

“The glass slipped out of my hand, that’s all!” That hand was currently white-knuckling the railing. Aragorn waited patiently without speaking. Haldir knew that silence was meant to pry a truthful answer out of him. The awful, weighted quiet pierced his nerve before he admitted,

“It’s just a soldier’s heart acting up. I’ve been plagued with it for years.”

“It’s gotten worse.” It wasn’t a question. Aragorn was a healer; he knew the signs. With an uneasy glance over his shoulder, he lowered his voice as if to emphasize his solicitous sincerity. “Your brothers are only worried about you.”

It was not only his brothers who were worried, Haldir reflected. With a willful effort, he loosened his death grip on the abused banister. “They always worry. That’s why they’re here—do not let them tell you otherwise. They were looking for me. They always do,” he inhaled forcefully and let it out with a touch less aggravation, speaking as he would to an errant recruit who had questioned his orders.

“Worry is incessant—especially if you’re a soldier and even more so if you’re a soldier with kin in the same regiment. If indulged, that worry turns to fear, which turns to overprotection, which turns to restriction—none of which I need from my younger brothers.” Aragorn pressed his lips together uncertainly but Haldir didn’t give him the chance to interrupt. “Do you remember when you and I first met, one of my…brasher warriors made that indiscreet remark about my little jaunt as a prisoner of men some years ago?”

‘Some years’ actually numbered more closely to two millennia. Some days more than others those memories felt much closer.

“Vividly,” Aragorn replied. Haldir’s mistreatment at the hands of a band of rogue soldiers and the fear and hatred he had suffered afterwards had almost stood in the way of their friendship. The bitterness had tempered with Aragorn’s unremitting patience and resolve. The memory of his torture had not.

“When RĂşmil and Orophin learned what had happened—when I made the grievous error of actually telling them—they…they were horrified. RĂşmil could not look at me he was so stricken. Orophin stared. Every conversation for months after that contained an unspoken interrogation. About that which I wanted very much to forget. Tell them whatever excuse you can think of. In the end, we returned as soon as we could. What I choose to tell them—if I choose to tell them—is just that. My choice. I expect you to respect that.”

It was the most he’d said since he’d woken.

“I don’t think I could conceal such a thing from my own brothers.”

“You are not me. You are also not the eldest, there’s no reason—or way—you would be able to conceal anything from them. And you’re a terrible liar.”

“I think RĂşmil and Orophin have already started to guess,” Aragorn, ignoring the jab, gestured at the elf’s face and bandaged hand. “How can you hide this from them?”

But Haldir wasn’t going to let him pursue the subject further. His gaze flickered down to where the ranger cradled the wrist of his injured arm. “You didn’t tell me it still hurt.”

“It…aches sometimes. I overstrained it riding so much today,” Aragorn dismissed distractedly.

“Actually,” the elf continued on his own train of thought. “you didn’t tell me how you acquired such a fine war decoration at all.” His eyes darted up to the man’s face.

The ranger shook his head instead of shrugging which would have hurt. His eyes slid to a distant point over the elf’s right shoulder as they always did when Haldir confronted him with a question he didn’t want to answer. It had happened enough during the homeward journey for Haldir to recognize the pattern.First the point over the shoulder…then he’ll start worrying his belt…

“I was…struck by an enemy blade during the battle,” Aragorn muttered, picking at the notches in his leather belt. “GĂ»rion said rest will mend it.”

Haldir shook his head but would not press his friend for the truth. He didn’t want to hear from Aragorn’s lips what he had already heard and seen in his nightmares and in the brief, frightening flashes that occasionally set upon him at the most innocuous times—like tonight. They were in Rivendell. They were as close to safe as they could ever get. The Witch-king was gone from the North even though Haldir knew with cold certainty that he was not defeated. Mere fire would not kill what that creature was.

Although the peril of road and wraith had been left behind them, a continuing sense of danger plagued him nonetheless. Not from without: enemies could not enter the valley, but from within. This wasn’t the first time he had confronted darkness in himself. Whether it was a splinter broken off from the greater Shadow that had marred all of Arda and its inhabitants, or a flaw within himself, he didn’t know—perhaps it was both. Every time he had unearthed the rotten seedling, he had hurt those closest to him: his command, his brothers, and now Estel.

“Haldir?”

The elf blinked and dropped his eyes so he wouldn’t have to meet Aragorn’s consternated gaze. It was better for both of them in the end for him to quietly withdraw from the ranger’s life, to be content as a fond memory if nothing else. He had said once before (granted the ranger had been unconscious at the time) that it would be better if they parted, but Aragorn’s untarnished trust in him and willingness to see beyond even the most grievous transgressions had always dissuaded him. This time though, the ranger’s optimism wouldn’t tip the scales, not when the marchwarden’s own nature conspired to his undoing. Better it beleaguer him across the Sea than make him responsible for the death of his young friend.

That young friend playfully smacked his leg to get his attention, not being able to read the elf’s mind and know the grim decisions being made behind those familiar, inscrutable eyes. “If you’re dozing off on your feet, you’re better off doing so on a feather mattress.”

“I wasn’t.”

Aragorn seemed to sense his friend’s thinly veiled unhappiness. “It will be all right. We’re home now. It just takes time to...”

“Not time,” Haldir corrected, staring over Aragorn’s head, for looking too closely at the man’s earnest face would buckle his shaky resolve. Despite himself, he had grown rather fond of the ranger after his own fashion and the thought of parting from him set a dull, empty ache gnawing in his chest. The strength of it surprised him. “The passing of time never changes things. Only actions change things, change them. Were it time alone we had to contend with, we would find our lot easier and Men would need only fear death by disease and old age instead of by the sword…I’m going to bed.”

Aragorn’s eyes bored a worry-hole in the back of his neck until he reached the dark landing.

----------

“Estel?”

Aragorn looked up slowly as his father knocked and let himself into his youngest son’s bedchamber.

“One of Haldir’s brothers told me something was amiss and I did not see you come back into the dining hall.”

“Haldir and I were both tired so we just came upstairs. I am sorry we worried you unnecessarily.”

Elrond cocked an eyebrow which Aragorn knew meant the elf-lord only partially believed him. “Fortunately, those goblets were but glass and fairly new or I think Sadron might have hounded the poor marchwarden out of the house entirely. You look strained,” his father’s keen eyes seldom missed anything. “What of that shoulder?”

“GĂ»rion tended it, Adar. He said—”

“Yes, well, sometimes these wounds can be mischievous and rest does not always mend them. Let me see.”

Aragorn submitted silently to his father; he had never been able to do anything else. The elf-lord with gentle, practiced care removed the sling and the shirt beneath it, revealing the pristine dressing that gave no hint to the damage concealed beneath its whiteness.

Aragorn closed his eyes as his father’s cool fingertips searched the stitches, gently prodding, testing for suppurating or broken threads.

“This was deep, Estel. It looks like a tendon was severed. Have you tried to move your arm?”

“A little but GĂ»rion always got angry with me.”

“He would if the wound threatened to bleed again but I think it is healed enough now. I can remove the stitches. Let me fetch a few things first.”

“As it happens, I am glad for this time with you, Adar, I wanted to...speak with you.” The ranger flinched at the strange sensation when his father after cleansing the wound of encrusted blood and scar tissue and slicing the knot, gave the comfortably ensconced stitches a little, coaxing tug with a pair of delicate pincers.

“And I with you. What made this?” Elrond deftly plucked out the last of the threads and swabbed the wound with an astringent-smelling paste before taping a light bandage over his expert work.

Hesitating only a moment, Aragorn pulled a long, tightly furled bundle from the pack on his bed and handed it to his father. It clinked softly as Elrond set it on the table and drew back the wrappings to reveal a battered leather hilt and steel fragments. Elrond cradled the heavy and now-unbalanced hilt that retained barely a fingerbreadth of blade and examined it closely.

The hilt, a half more than a hand span in length, bore no crossguard and the grip though well-worn from the touch of calloused hands and exposed to the elements and time had been meticulously mended. A subtle filigree of golden leaves and vines unfurled along the edge of the blade until the abrupt break. Elegant and serviceable, it was clearly no orc weapon. The shards of its curving blade lay in myriad pieces, all razor-edged from the violence of their sundering. The elf-lord selected a tapering edge that might once have been the tip.

Aragorn found himself trying to mitigate the tense silence. “I…could not just throw it away. It is as dear to Haldir as his soul. I thought, perhaps, our smiths might be able to reforge it.”

“It is badly shattered. You may need a new blade entire.” A brownish crust stained the piece he held and both the healer and former warrior in the elf-lord recognized blood. “I think you had better tell me the full tale of this, Estel.”

Aragorn did. Unlike the revised versions he had told Halbarad and his brothers, he could never tell even a half-truth to the elf who had succored him since he was a small child. It was hard to relive it though. He spoke of discovering the Imladris patrol slaughtered on the road, and meeting the only three survivors in Amon-en-Achas. He spoke of the squalor of the orc camp and finding Haldir and later of Angrad’s terrible betrayal and the death of Galen.

Elrond did not interrupt him and sat very still with his hands folded under his chin in a posture of deep attention. It wasn’t until Aragorn confessed the desperate decision to invade Fornost and his capture and interrogation by the Witch-king that Elrond gave any sign of distress. His eyes widened and the look of alarm that flared across his face made Aragorn pause.

“What did he ask you?” Elrond demanded, a calm mask once more falling over his features though Aragorn still detected a glimmer of something he would have said was panic had it been on any other face than that of the Lord of Imladris.

“He asked me who I was. I gave him no answer. Then he demanded the answer of Haldir…” Aragorn had not withheld just how far under the shadow of the NazgĂ»l Haldir had fallen. The memory of his friend’s ghostly eyes and blank expression, how close he had come to losing the elf, still haunted him and his mind shied away from dredging up the memory.

“And?” Elrond prompted gently though with a tinge of sharpness when his son did not continue.

“He said that I was a ranger of the North, a chieftain of the DĂşnedain…nothing more. The wraith had tortured him for weeks and that was all he would say even under threat of death. The NazgĂ»l fled when Glorfindel came.” Aragorn realized his eyes were stinging as if he’d gotten candle smoke in them and scrubbed them roughly with the heel of his hand. It came away wet.

Elrond gave his son a brief respite and brushed his arm consolingly though his eyes still bore their look of haunted alarm. “I did not seriously consider that the Enemy would return to the North after all this time. A tragic oversight I intend to rectify with all haste. Glorfindel informed me that he has left hidden sentinels to warn us beforehand should orcs ever try to muster again and he will send a regiment there to dismantle the ruins. It is long past time that dreadful bastion was pulled down. I was deeply grieved to hear of the fall of so many valiant warriors. However, I was also told that those who were injured made a full and miraculous recovery—including the marchwarden.”

“I wish you had been there, Adar,” Aragorn said in a slightly muffled voice. “They told me he was going to die. I did not know what to do. The athelas was a last effort—an effort that I did not think would succeed. When I touched him, I felt something dark, something…like the wraith trying to seize him again. It was a fight I wasn’t sure I could win. But it was a fight I had to win. I think he…Haldir knew I was there. I do not know how to explain it…GĂ»rion said it was the greatest feat of healing he had ever seen.”

Elrond’s face glowed with pride though his heart was heavy. “You found yourself tested, Estel, in the worst way possible—the realization that you might lose someone you care deeply for—and not only did you attempt what many healers both older and more experienced than you would have quailed at but you succeeded. All too often skilled healers GĂ»rion and myself included have been sorely tried by such wounds and have lost those we wished we could have kept with us,” his noble face softened with old sorrow and love. Aragorn thought he might be remembering his wife. A loving smile cleared the grief. “It is not a small feat, Estel, to do what you have done. Haldir, I’m sure, is very grateful.”

Aragorn glanced out the window. The twilight had quietly progressed into true evening by now and a drape of darkness lay on the valley with the nearest stream disturbed only by the odd breath of wind. “He is…troubled still.”

“The broken glass?”

Aragorn nodded. “He will tell his brothers nothing if he can get away with it.”

“And he has doubtlessly ensured your silence as well?” Elrond guessed with a slightly disapproving lift of his eyebrows.

“He asked me not to speak of it.”

“That is not well done.”

“He has suffered,” Aragorn argued, defensive on his friend’s behalf. “If he does not wish to be interrogated about that which he would rather forget then I will not—” An upraised hand cut him short.

“Haldir may make his excuses but I would rather not hear them from your mouth.”

Aragorn subsided and though Elrond shook his head, he did not criticize the elf captain further. Instead, he leaned forward and tilted up the sullen chin so he could look into his son’s pallid face.

“What else troubles you, Estel? You do not look as if you’ve slept well.”

Aragorn fiddled with his belt, trying to avoid his father’s eyes. It was true enough. He had not spoken to Haldir or Halbarad, or even his brothers about the nightmares that had started plaguing him shortly after they left Fornost.

A burning, blank, white face, all the more terrible for its familiarity, bent over him, a naked saber blade pressed against his chest. He could do nothing but gaze up helplessly as the saber pushed down, sinking a full half-length into his stomach. It ripped a wide swathe down until wetness leaked over his tunic and his world spun into gushing crimson and black. He woke in a sweat, running shaking hands over his chest as if expecting to brush bared ribs or loosened entrails.

And after the night stilled and some amount of normalcy returned, guilt took the place of the panic fluttering in his breast. He knew Haldir would never have hurt him had he not been under the shadow’s influence. Unfortunately, that did not mean he was not affected by what the elf had done.

The young man’s eyes strayed towards the saber blade. He touched the piece his father had picked up earlier. “I cannot blame him for what happened. But…sometimes…I cannot help…He comes up behind me and I flinch or he looks at me strangely and something crawls up the back of my neck that makes me feel sick. And I do not know why I do that. He is my friend and I need to help him not—”

“—fear him,” Elrond finished quietly. “You do not blame him, Estel, nor should you but you also cannot ignore that his actions, willing or not, hurt you. Some part of you will never forget that, but the best thing you can do is let those memories fade. Make new ones that help you realize that your fear was unfounded and that Haldir is still your friend regardless of what has happened between you. Now that you are home, it is the perfect time to do just that.”

“I have to take action to change things,” Aragorn agreed, his chest suddenly lightening as if the heaviest of his burdens had been lifted from it and his parting smile didn’t feel forced when he squeezed his father’s hand.

The contentment remained on Aragorn’s softened countenance long after the door closed behind his father.

----------

Clear sunlight spilling through a gap in the curtains warmed Aragorn’s tousled, dark hair and roused him from deep slumber. He blinked his eyes open slowly, a lazy smile curling his mouth as he stretched luxuriously warm limbs, reveling in the familiar comfort of his own bed. It had been what felt like a long time since he had slept so soundly. He was by carefully cultivated habit, an early riser; within only a week something as simple as a mattress and a down-stuffed quilt had torn apart that long-standing custom as easily as burnt parchment.

Judging by the angle of the sunlight sneaking into his room, he had already slept the mid-morning away. He rolled reluctantly over and stretched his shoulder, pleased to feel only a slight stiffness in the mending limb. It would take some strenuous sword work to gain back the muscle and ease of movement he had had before the battle and he might never be a great shot with a bow but soon only the addition of a new, shiny scar would remain to remind him of the injury—at least physically.

The morning’s ablutions took him only minutes. Finishing off the fastenings on a clean tunic, he peered into Haldir’s room which stood open. The bed was neatly made up with no sign of its occupant. The marchwarden was already up and about this morning. If he had even slept.

Though thus far, the ranger had kept his promise not to say anything to RĂşmil and Orophin, it was growing harder by the day. Haldir’s appearance at the breakfast table, when he did show, was tense, drawn, and sallow-skinned, with darkening circles under his eyes attesting to one more restless night. Aragorn suspected at more apprehensive times that drink had shown a hand in tainting his friend’s complexion and manner with these telltale signs. He didn’t ask what was troubling the elf for the terrible memories of Fornost still disturbed his spirit as well.

He was heeding his thoughts so attentively he did not attend to where he was wandering until he nearly trod on a tall elf taking air out on a graceful bridge that spanned one of Imladris’ many glittering streams—not the elf of his thoughts but a familiar face nonetheless. The ranger leaned on the ornate railing, shifting more of his weight to his right arm to keep his left shoulder unstrained.

Rancir glanced at him, managing to convey in that one look both a good morning and the subtle displeasure of a militaristic disciplinarian who on mere principle was irritated by those who wasted half the day abed. The only thing he said though was, “I see you are free of your baneful restriction at last.”

“At last,” Aragorn echoed, flexing his left shoulder and wincing slightly. He nodded towards the commander’s chest. “I heard you recovered well.”

“I had a very dutiful nurse.” A shadow of a smile flitted across Rancir’s lean face as he glanced towards the further end of the bridge.

“You are released back to active duty then? Are you going back to the Bruinen outpost?”

Rancir idly fingered the little, raised tracings of wrought iron vines that wound around the railing. “I have resigned my commission. Lord Elrond has released me from service with an honorable discharge and his blessings. You seem surprised.”

Aragorn shut his mouth more firmly and watched the ivy trailing up the house’s north-facing wall. “No. Not at all.”

“I cannot follow at battle’s heels any longer. She has taken her toll of me and it was a high price but one I would pay over again if necessary. It was an honor to, for however small a time, be part of ridding the north of darkness.”

“It was an honor to fight at your side.”

Rancir looked at him keenly and nodded shortly to return the sentiment before directing his gaze to the stream burbling away below them. “It almost laughs, doesn’t it? There are tiny, glittering green stones on the bottom, run smooth but they do seem to sing every now and again pending how the water runs.”

“Rancir, you’re a poet!”

The former commander laughed and Aragorn was surprised for the second time that morning. Such a rich, warm sound, it was and the raven-haired elf’s eyes glowed, not with vermillion battle light or vengeful fervor but with honest good humor.

“No, never. Lalaithien always turned a pretty phrase better than could I—or any other for that matter.”

Aragorn had no words for the expression that softened his counterpart’s face at that moment: a blend of eternal fondness and deep grief that was taking its time in healing.

“And the marchwarden of LothlĂłrien?” Rancir asked after they had spent some minutes in pensive silence. “How does he fare? I have not seen much of him at meals though with a house this large, perhaps that is not so surprising…”

When Aragorn grimaced in reply, the older soldier grunted softly as if it did not surprise him.

The man leaned his forearms fully on the carven rail. “I think I have seen as much of him as you have. He is becoming a ghost.”

Rancir read more in the ranger’s eyes than Aragorn felt comfortable discussing aloud. “He prefers his own company over that of others—to worrying excess. He does not sleep or looks tired in the mornings as if he has not slept. Drinking?”

Aragorn looked up at him with sudden intentness. He could ask Rancir. Rancir, above all people, would understand what Haldir was going through. And what might be done to help him. “What can I do?”

The dark-haired elf sighed and gazed absently out over the stream and the pine woodlands climbing up the further bank. “Against the counsel of any battle strategist with half a grain of sense, you risked not only your own life but the lives of those you hold dear for the sake of one soldier. Either you are an idiot and an incompetent future commanding officer or you bear within you a sense of faith and hope so deep it defies reason and may make you the greatest leader this world has ever seen.”

Aragorn wasn’t given time to answer that nor could he think of a way he might.

“Remembrance can be a shackle very much of our own forging. Fond remembrances are easy to bear though; if they are restraints in any way, they are ones we accept gladly. Ill ones though are cold-forged lead and drag at every pace. They punish more than any actual suffering and mercilessly flay the raw heart until it corrodes. If the chains are not relieved of their burden, they grow heavier and heavier until we cannot help but sink beneath their weight.” The elven warrior turned to look back towards the further end of the bridge again.

“How did you throw off your bonds?”

“I never did,” the elf met his eyes squarely. “You cannot ‘throw them off.’ They are part of you and will always be so. But I am fortunate my burden is now a lighter one…”

He moved away from the ranger and, following the elf’s progress, Aragorn caught sight of Ivriel walking towards them. A radiant smile illuminated the elf woman’s face as Rancir lifted one of her sword-calloused hands in his and brushed her knuckles with a feather-soft kiss. Something glittered between them and Aragorn noticed for the first time the silver betrothal band on the former commander’s forefinger. Its mate encircled Ivriel’s slender ring finger.

Though Aragorn smiled his heartfelt congratulations, he still craved one answer. “Can I help him?”

“Unburden the chains.”

----------

Bundles of dried herbs and field gear were piled negligently on the pine wood tabletop: a small vial of poppy extract, gentian roots, dried lavender in a small linen bag, a precious box of salt, hemlock. Beside them rested a thin, neatly braided loop of cord, rolls of fresh bandages, and a trimming knife, all spread near a much-battered leather satchel.

A green-necked decanter half-full, an empty vial serving as a glass rested on the counter. Haldir uncorked the former and surveyed the disorganized mess with a jaundiced eye as he filled the latter. Three times he had packed away his fresh supplies and each time he felt unsatisfied with their placement and emptied the satchel again. More than a week had already been wasted, he chided himself furiously, and each passing day only eroded his resolve the more.

Lord Elrond, after an uncomfortable examination in the infirmary, had tactfully suggested a longer stay but Haldir was adamant. He would leave before the mountain passes closed. Yes, his men were prepared for the winter weather. Yes, he knew the risks of traveling so soon. Yes, he was determined to go regardless. He had an uneasy feeling the elf-lord knew more than he freely revealed for Lord Elrond had gravely thanked him for saving his son’s life and told him that Aragorn had spoken very highly of his actions at Fornost.

A bitter laugh threatened but with an effort he managed to soften it to a grimacing smile. He hadn’t told Estel yet that he was leaving which was what had delayed him for so long. He couldn’t seem to find the proper time. Or perhaps, a snide voice suggested, he didn’t want to find the proper time.

He drained his glass and swept both it and the bottle into a small cabinet. Scooping up the other accoutrements, he hastily bundled them into his satchel and threw it under the table as he sensed someone standing in the corridor. He listened in tense silence for a moment then abruptly relaxed.

“I thought rangers were supposed to be well-practiced in stealth—or is breathing like a winded dwarf what passes for stealth among your ranks these days?” Haldir shot a scornful glance at the infirmary’s open door as he retrieved his flask and satchel.

“It’s a wonder Aragorn’s withstood your blistering tongue for so long without bursting into flames!” Halbarad retorted, lingering just inside the doorway. “I would ask you to hold a moment,” he requested when the captain sought to bypass him.

“Well, if you’re only asking.”

Halbarad side-stepped again.

Haldir let out a little hiss of frustration. “In case your eyes are as useless as your attempts at silence, I am not in the mood to dance right now.”

“I am not asking you to dance. I need to discuss something with you.”

“‘Need to?’ Are you going to die if words do not pass your lips into my ears? Talk to Estel. He will lend you a much readier ear than I will. And he doesn’t find you insufferable.” Haldir shouldered past him and the ranger turned over his shoulder.

“I wasn’t wrong.”

The elf stopped. Casting his eyes to the ceiling, he closed them and murmured. “I am going to regret saying this,” Louder, he asked. “About what?”

Halbarad licked his lips uncertainly, his words slightly halting. “Did Aragorn tell you I urged him to abandon his pursuit? To leave Fornost even though…?”

“He did.”

“I thought that that would have been for the best. Our losses would have been less grievous if we had not challenged the Witch-king with so few. I wasn’t wrong to urge him to withdraw but…” the man blocked the marchwarden’s path when Haldir started to walk away. “I was wrong to think Aragorn might be mistaken in you and to think he might give in if I asked it of him.”

“Instead, you gave in, and allowed him to court his own death.”

“But I am not the one who stabbed him.”

Haldir flinched as if the ranger had stabbed him in return.

Halbarad’s eyes narrowed shrewdly at the other warrior’s visible reaction. “It was you, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t even tell me that. I had to have it from the healer that the wound in his shoulder had been made by a blade that belonged to no orc. Aragorn told me you saved him. That he would have died under the NazgĂ»l’s blade were it not for you.”

Halbarad lowered himself slowly onto the bottom step of the staircase just outside the infirmary and rested his elbows on his knees. “I have never seen him so wild as the night after the battle. Aragorn would not believe it when GĂ»rion said you were going to die.”

Haldir closed his eyes.

“He even snapped at me and I can count on three fingers the number of times that has ever happened…I want to be frank with you, Captain—”

“You were being subtle before now?”

A rueful grin twitched the man’s lips. “—but I’m afraid of getting my tongue bitten off. You and I will never be boon companions. I think you are arrogant, reckless with lives other than your own, overbearing, and your stubbornness is only overmatched by your complete lack of sense for self-preservation.” Letting that sink in as if he had wanted to say it for months, he reached under his tunic and withdrew a pipe and small wallet of tobacco leaves. A soft crackle and the fragrant smoke of sweet galenas permeated the narrow corridor in minutes.

Haldir’s strained smile tightened.

“But for all that, Aragorn was willing to risk his life to save yours,” Halbarad’s weather worn fingers cradled the smoking bowl. “He’s a frustratingly self-sacrificing man but even he doesn’t do that at the hiss of every arrow. Or NazgĂ»l’s blade as the case may be.”

The glowing leaves illuminated his thoughtful face and sparked in his eyes as he lifted them to the elf’s. “You do not strike me as the sort who makes or keeps friends easily but I’ve watched you and him on the journey back. You’re close. I trust Aragorn’s judgment more than my own in those matters though. If Aragorn can trust you so much, that must mean there is something of you worth saving even if I myself do not see it.”

Haldir’s gaze had slowly dropped to the floor, only looking up sharply when the ranger removed the pipe from his mouth, stood up and came towards him.

“You told me after our rather inauspicious meeting that trust and respect are two things that are earned. I would be less than I am if I didn’t tell you, you have earned mine.”

Haldir stared at the proffered hand without taking it. Through the soft haze of pipe fumes, he said, “I am leaving. Soon. And I do not intend for Estel to come with me nor do I expect to see him after this. Our ways part here.”

Halbarad withdrew his hand slowly. “Did you tell him?”

A small, shallow chip in the joints between the stonework offered a much-needed focal point for Haldir’s gaze as he tried to avoid the ranger’s. Something in Halbarad’s quiet, unassuming manner reminded him of Aragorn which is what perhaps led him to admit, “I told him once before and he followed me nearly to his ruin. Rather would I…regret the manner of our parting now than mourn his death at my hands later.” The brand of the eye on his right forearm pulsed angrily as if to remind him of the proof of his guilt.

Eyes still averted, he rent the smoky veil and strode up the stairs.

----------

When his quiet knock remained unanswered, Aragorn let himself into Haldir’s room. It was dark inside and no lamp had been lit. At first he wasn’t even sure his friend was there until his eyes adjusted to the soft, grey light filtering through the windows from a cloudy night sky.

The marchwarden sat at a small table near the terrace doors, very still as if in deep contemplation. His tunic sleeves were rolled back, exposing forearms still overly lean and upturned on the wooden surface. In the faint light, with his marble complexion and the stillness of his form, he might have been a figure graven in the likeness of the ones that stood sentinel in the gardens.

Concern brushed a feather’s touch across the back of Aragorn’s neck as he set a long parcel wrapped in green cloth on the dresser. “Haldir?”

Silver eyes, eerily ghostly in the trickling moonlight, shifted up to his face. Familiar pangs of horror were beginning to claw at Aragorn’s chest, remembrances of pale, lifeless eyes and hissing voices. He dropped his eyes from the apparition’s and groped in the corner until his wrist contacted with a lamp, nearly knocking it over. The wick snapped up brightly and the silver eyes snapped shut, swiftly shaded by an upraised hand.

“Ah, Estel! A little warning would not go amiss!”

Aragorn was too relieved to hear that biting voice and no dead monotone that he took little heed of his friend’s snappishness. “What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“Well, it isn’t dark now.”

“You missed the evening meal.”

“I know.”

Aragorn’s attuned ears did not miss the slight duskiness in his friend’s usually smooth voice or the illuminated grey eyes, bloodshot under heavy lids. The lamplight glinted on a crystal tumbler and its much-depleted decanter.

Haldir glanced over his shoulder at what the ranger was staring at and with an almost self-conscious gesture shifted the decanter out of the light. As he did so, Aragorn caught sight of something that made his stomach flip over. The elf’s forearm was clumsily bandaged, a widening stain of crimson tainting the clean white.

“Haldir, what happened?” Alarmed, the ranger lifted the pale limb between his hands to examine the wound.

The marchwarden regarded it curiously as if the ranger had merely asked an interesting question. “Apparently, deftness of the left hand in sword work does not extend to wrapping bandages.”

“That’s not what I meant. Let me look.” Other worrisome things were scattered on the tabletop: stiffening scarlet gauze, and a trimming knife, formerly belonging to one of Elrond’s higher drawers in the infirmary. A cold sinking in his stomach, he unwound the gauze inch by delicate inch, dapping at the wound with a clean square when the bandage peeled away the glossy coagulation.

The white skin beneath was blemished by a deep, ugly gouge. Aragorn fingered the torn edges of the wound, scarcely recognizing the blistered remnants of what had been an eye-shaped burn. It looked like Haldir had tried to use the knife as a scraper and so carve the brand out of his arm. Thus the fortifying presence of the liquor.

“You’ll need stitches but this needs to be cleaned better first.” He retrieved water and a cloth from the washroom and set about laving the crusted blood away gently. He could only ask a healer’s questions since the part of him that was Haldir’s friend was whirling with nausea. “Do you have a thread and needle at least after raiding my father’s drawers?” The elf reluctantly indicated his pack with an ungracious gesture.

Aragorn retrieved the needed instruments and set the lamp in the middle of the table so he would have enough light to see by. He slapped his friend’s hand roughly away as he knelt next to the chair. “Stop picking at it. You are going to scar as it is.”

“Good.”

Aragorn shook his head and upturned the elf’s forearm on its owner’s thigh, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line, an unconscious habit when he felt anxious. The words spilled out before he could stop himself. “I would think you had enough injuries to not want more.” He flinched at the way that had sounded and felt Haldir’s burning stare boring into the top of his head but he did not know what to apologize for since he had only spoken the truth. “Why, mellon nin?”

Haldir propped his free elbow on the table, shading his face with one hand from under which he watched as the ranger started stitching.

“I do not like seeing you hurt,” Aragorn volunteered quietly when his friend remained obstinately silent.

“Well, you will not have to for much longer.”

Aragorn delicately loosened his newest suture to make sure it was not too tight and distractedly nodded his agreement. “You are healing well at least. Even the scars will fade in time.”

“That’s not what I meant but that is also true.”

Aragorn glanced up but the elf captain shifted slightly in his seat and removed his eyes to the darkened window where little could be seen save the reflection of the lamplight in the glass. “You are…a very admirable man, Estel.”

Haldir was not one for compliments and coming from him right now slightly startled the ranger. He paused in his work to regard his friend’s pallid profile though the elf did not meet his eyes. The man frowned. “How much have you been drinking?”

The elf watched the candle flicker in the window and seemed not to have heard. “I assume you are not a horrible man as so many people seem to foolishly risk their lives for your sake. You continually put up with me which, in my brothers’ eyes, would make you worthy of a hero’s medal. Therefore you are either a very admirable man. Or a very convincing liar, and we both know that’s not true. Are you finished yet? My arm’s cramping.”

Aragorn tied off the knot and reached for a length of gauze which was irreverently snatched out of his hands.

“I will do it.”

The ranger folded his arms and waited, schooling his face into complete blankness as Haldir attempted to wrap up his arm with his left hand and only succeeded in hopelessly twisting the bandage. Aragorn let him simmer in frustration for a moment longer before he plucked it out of the elf’s hands and wordlessly bound up the arm and taped it so it wouldn’t come undone. He smoothed the gauze out evenly and glanced up.

Haldir was staring at him with a strange look on his face, unapproachable and closed-off as usual, but Aragorn who was growing rather skilled at reading his friend’s moods could see there was something more than discomfort in it as if he were in deep pain.

“That’s not too tight is it?” Aragorn asked, concerned.

“No.”

The marchwarden pushed himself brusquely to his feet. Too fast. Aragorn watched his face drain of more color and, seeing him start to sway, grabbed his arm. “Easy.”

Haldir wrenched his arm out of the man’s grip with a sudden, violent jerk. “Leave off! Why can you not leave me alone?”

The furious vehemence surging behind the question drove Aragorn back a startled pace. “I was just trying to help.”

“No, you weren’t. You startled when you came into the room. What reason have you for such fear, mellonnin?” The silver eyes were mocking and filled with a raging, desperate fire as they blazed at him from the dark corner.

Aragorn leaned away from their intensity, his lower back jarring hard against the table and toppling the lantern.

A humorless laugh that sounded more like a dry sob issued from across the room. “Are you really that afraid of me, Estel?”

Aragorn righted the light and, almost as an afterthought, picked it up and set it on the long trunk at the foot of the bed where it illuminated the entire room. Haldir was leaning against the dresser. There was no mockery in his face. He stood shoulders bent as if under a severe weight like a wounded soldier in a battle that he has found beyond his strength to win. The flame in those silver eyes had sunk to an anguished smolder.

In two, bold strides, Aragorn crossed the room and gripped either side of the elf’s shoulders, squeezing hard as if the pressure of his fingers could force his friend to believe him. “I would never fear you, Haldir. Fear for you. But not of you. Remember, I have already witnessed what you think is darkness in you and I know better. I know better. I see only a brilliant soldier who has had more than his rightful share of ill-fortune, a staunch champion of what he believes is right, and a dear friend I would gladly have given my life for.”

The weight seemed to lift slightly from the marchwarden’s shoulders but the heavy despair only seemed to deepen as the elf gently grasped the ranger’s wrists and detached them with a deep sigh. “Yet you cannot.” He held the ranger’s weatherworn fingers for a moment longer before letting them slide from his grasp. “What is this?”

His eyes had fallen on the long package Aragorn had set on his dresser and completely forgotten. He presented it to the marchwarden with an attempt at a smile. The atmosphere still hung tense and uncertain around them as Haldir unwrapped the oil-cloth.

“I had to steal the blade from one of your brothers to model it after,” Aragorn said. “We had almost all the pieces though I thought the smiths were going to sob when I asked them if they could piece it together instead of merely replace it.”

The curved length of a beautifully restored saber blade glittered in the folds of the green cloth. Haldir gripped the familiar hilt and drew the blade out slowly. Reverence seemed to flow through his fingers as he ran them from the elegantly tapered ricasso tracing up the fine inlay of golden leaves to the tip as keenly honed and deadly as winter’s ice. He squinted down the length of well-oiled steel as if it were an extension of his arm and motioned Aragorn back a pace or two so he could test its perfect balance with a few easy swings.

Watching him, the ranger smiled contentedly. His friend was whole again. “I thought once you were feeling up to it, we could spar together.”

Haldir slid the blade abruptly back into its leathern sheath and laid it softly on the trunk. “Thank you,” but it was distracted, remote. The elf’s form was there but his mind was far beyond the walls of this room.

A deep exhale made Aragorn’s shoulders sink. “You are straying on without me.”

Haldir turned as if about to say something, seemed to think better of it, and shook his head. Passing a hand hard over his face, he stretched out on the counterpane, the bandaged forearm resting at his side as he stared up at the ceiling. “Leave the door open when you go.”

Aragorn lifted his eyes from the discarded weapon, glanced at the satchel lying on the floor just shy of it and nodded slowly. He paused in the doorframe. “Sleep well, Haldir.”

“Goodnight, Estel.”

If the ranger noticed a roughness or peculiar finality in his friend’s nightly benediction, he gave no sign of it and left the door open just enough to let the vigil lamp’s light trickle in.

----------

A soft roseate tint flushed the misty hollows of Imladris’ pine woods and softened the starkness of the dark cobblestones in the courtyard. Dawn sprang fresh, clear and cold into the air and hung there like the mists, the early twilight still lingering under half-clad trees. Beneath the vine and mist-entwined arch sat a horseman, so still and statuesque he might have mirrored the garlanded elf maidens on either side of him save for the occasional restless twitch of his mount’s ears and the light wind that teased a few flaxen strands over his broad shoulders.

Beyond him, nearer the house, other grey shadows moved soundlessly in the faint light, taking a last stock of gear, weapons, and supplies. They were under strict orders to keep silence and one or two whispering to a comrade darted nervous glances across the courtyard though if they noted anything amiss with the manner of their leavetaking, they kept it among themselves.

Lord Elrond stood on the porch watching the preparations. After a few minutes, he descended the wide steps, shaking hands and patting the backs of the Galadhrim, accepting their thanks and appreciation for his hospitality with a gentle smile. That smile wavered slightly as he approached the horseman last who dismounted and inclined his head respectfully.

“I wish you a swift and safe journey, Captain, though I also wish you would consider delaying a little longer. The mountain passes will not remain open for many more weeks. There is already snow low on Caradhras.”

“We are prepared for it and duty will not wait,” came the stoic reply. “My thanks for your generous hospitality, my lord. Likely our journey will be much more comfortable for your gifts and I will pass on your good wishes to the Lord and Lady.” It was a formal farewell.

Elrond would have none of it. “My friend, this is not the way to part. Not with a friend. Estel, I think, has earned better from you than a cold absence as his only farewell.”

Haldir stiffened slightly and regarded the path ahead stonily. “I do not need you to remind me of what your son has done for me but I am not skilled with farewells, my lord. I would have his memories of me remain if not fond then at least untainted with bitterness from poorly chosen words that are too difficult to retake once spoken.”

One of the Galadhrim broke off from the main group before Elrond could argue and approached them both, bowing to the elf-lord and saluting his captain with a hand at his breast.

“Everyone able, DĂ©orian?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go on then and form them up. Tell them not to mount until they reach here. It would be discourteous to rouse the household.”

“Yes, sir.”

Haldir inclined his head once more to the master of the house and swung his leg nimbly over the horse’s croup. The straight carriage of his shoulders never faltered nor did he look back as he rode through the main gate.

----------

“A fine morning for stealing out of the house before dawn. Again.”

Hurriedly clad in last night’s clothes, Aragorn pulled up short at the head of the stairs and briefly closed his eyes in chagrin. “Why are you never up this early when my brothers volunteer me to muck out the stables?”

“Because then instead of spending an autumn morning warm and snug in bed, I find myself snug up to my armpits in horse dung,” Halbarad, still tousle-haired and barefoot, emerged from his doorway with a cloak draped loosely around his shoulders. “I’d pay good coin to see the look on the elf’s face when you show up. He thought he had everything fairly well-managed. I would advise you though, if you are going to eavesdrop in an infirmary corridor, at least do it before your evening pipe. I could smell you from the bottom of the stairs.”

Aragorn grinned sheepishly. “I will keep that in mind.”

The older man clasped his chieftain’s hand firmly in front of the double doors. “Good luck,” he jerked his head towards the courtyard. “The old snark’s got a manner on him that would blunt a straight razor and I still can’t say I like him much, but you do what you must. Take this; you’ll need it. It looked cold this morning.”

----------

Soft, dove shadows cast by spindly branches dappled the leaf-strewn path. The company of Galadhrim made little sound except for the jingle of harness and their horses’ thumping footfalls. Several yards in front rode their captain who kept his back resolutely straight, his eyes focused ahead but even Gilas whose youth placed him towards the rear could see the commanding officer’s attention was not fixed on the road. His profile was blank, and distantly staring. Even when a sparrow darted low overhead and startled his horse, he scarcely stirred save to idly stroke her neck a few times to settle her and soon returned to his previous unresponsive state.

“Daro!”

The horses, accustomed to the command if not the voice that spoke it, obeyed. Haldir’s neck twinged as he whipped towards his left from which the order had come.

A lane too narrow for more than one horse to pass abreast branched off from the main road and just under the draping leaves of a stately maple that crowned the small off-shoot stood Aragorn, without his sword or coat, only a verdant cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulders and a tense readiness in his jaw that contradicted the uncertainty in his eyes.

When he had gained the company’s attention, he wrapped his steed’s reins around a low-hanging branch and walked boldly onto the road, looking up at the rider closest to him.

Haldir remained unmoved as any embattled solder facing the oncoming hordes. He had made no sign that he had even seen the man save for the movement of his head and perhaps a slight tightening of his grip on the reins.

Aragorn did not look discouraged by the lack of warmth or welcome in the marchwarden’s implacable figure but drew still nearer, speaking in a clear voice that carried. “I am sorry I missed you at the house. Had I known you would be departing so soon I would have forthwith wished you well and spared myself an effort.” Dropping his voice, he whispered in a soft voice both hurt and entreating, “I thought I merited a farewell at least, Haldir.”

The captain’s eyelids flickered once. Without taking his eyes from the ranger, he attracted RĂşmil’s attention. “Sergeant, a moment if you please.”

RĂşmil wordlessly gave the signal for the company to withdraw a little ways and granted the ranger a small, encouraging smile.

When they were alone enough to speak freely, Haldir dismounted.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” Aragorn demanded before the elf had even touched the ground.

“You have just returned home. I was not going to burden—”

“No,” Aragorn cut him off. “Not telling me how you felt burdens me. Watching you drown in guilt and pain—” he gestured at his friend’s forearm. “That burdens me.You are not a burden, Haldir, no matter how you like to wrap that shroud around yourself. You are my friend. Or at least I would still have your friendship even if you will not have mine.”

Haldir was still staring narrowly at him but Aragorn sensed a slight give, if such could be said of the captain’s forbidding expression and decided to press forward. “I have been hunted all my life. Your presence will not change the minds of the hunters though it might change how long I live or whether I live.”

“Or die.”

Aragorn shook his head, a twitching smile threatening the corner of his lips as he firmly clasped his arms around the broad shoulders. With his lips close to the elf’s ear, he said, “If entreaty or offer of friendship does not move you, then what of debts? You owe me your life and it would be churlish of me if I did not allow you the opportunity to pay that back someday. Safe travel, Haldir.”

The marchwarden pulled slowly back from the embrace with a scowl more fond than seriously annoyed but he still chucked the ranger under the chin hard enough to make his jaw ache. “Then I will see my debt repaid. Now, I would like to reach the passes before spring if I may.” He beckoned his patrol forward.

“I knew Estel would win,” RĂşmil said as he rode up with the rest of the company. When his elder brother fired a scorching look in his direction, he held up his hands. “He’s the only one who can, Captain!”

Though rubbing his jaw gingerly, Aragorn managed a brilliant grin and briefly clasped his friend’s shoulder. “I will look for you soon then.”

Haldir nodded shortly and led his company forward at a brisk trot up the sloping path. Soon, the boundaries of the Last Homely House dropped behind and the wilderness of Hollin stretched to the hazy foothills of the snow-ridged mountains. Every now and again, Gilas’ attention wandered from the stark scenery to his captain’s face. A hand resting idly on the hilt of the saber strapped to his side, he was staring resolutely forward but there something else in his eyes and on his lips that made the young warrior’s eyes linger.

It might have been the shadow of a smile.

The End

Notes:

Adar—Father

IlĂşvatar—Eru, the One. Tolkien’s version of God

Galenas—pipeweed (Gondorian)

Mellon nin—my friend

Daro—halt!
Final Author’s Notes: My dearest readers, another story lies behind us—a little overdue—and yet surprisingly appropriate considering it is the end of another year.

A great, very heartfelt “Thank you” extends to all of you and a special one to Noelnoel though it hardly seems enough. He put up with a lot from me including many delays and a lot of whining.

For those of you wondering, what is next for Haldir and Aragorn, I have several works in the making and a plethora of ideas though regretfully no confirmed title or preview.

However there will be a longer-than-usual delay between this story and the next. This winter and spring I have finally determined to do some prolonged and intensive work on an original novel. As this project will very likely consume a great deal of my time and energy, I must ask you not to expect anything very much from me (save perhaps the odd short story) for some months. I have not, by any means, abandoned Haldir and Aragorn. They still have a long journey ahead of them but I feel the need to sit by the wayside and catch my breath for a little.

I shall miss you. Your comments were ever a delight and source of renewed purpose to me especially when I struggled. Don’t hesitate to send emails my way bugging me every now and again.

Until the marchwarden and DĂşnadan meet again, I remain very fondly yours,

The Lady of Light
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