Dwimmerlaik

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 Dúnedain 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 Dúnedain 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 Dúnedain 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 Úlaire.”

“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 Úlaire, 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 Úlaire. 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 Dúnedain. 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 Dúnedain 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