Agarwaen

Part Fourteen
~Dark as Drowning~

It was a still dusk, the sun sinking beneath the pines in waves of crimson and blue strips. The bridge shone like a naked rib bent across the water, the grey stone glowing dirty-white through the brake. Aragorn crouched within sight of it, his breath fogging the air and legs tingling from the near-hour he’d spent kneeling on the earth, waiting for an unknown signal while the woodlands slowly lost form and cold shadows crept out of their hiding places. A movement behind him startled him.

It was only Zaren. The rakish thief looked as uneasy as Aragorn felt. Almost on knees and elbows, he stopped every few feet to check the bridge and the road before he made it to the ranger’s side. “Any sign yet?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Nothing. Where are the others?”

Zaren waved vaguely across the road. “Saeryn and Kari say all’s quiet. I left Miren, Yyrin and Narturi back with the horses. They found nothing but a couple of orc-prints—old.”

The older man double-checked the knife secured in his boot for the third time, its edge glinting as he drew it out. He slipped it back in and grumbled, “I hate this waiting.”

“It can’t be much longer now. The sun’s set.” Secretly, Aragorn wondered what they would do if something had already gone wrong. Darting a quick glance both ways, he skirted the road and slid down the bank beside Carlóme who had stationed herself against the dry pillar where bridge met road. She was putting a new edge to her javelin.

“Your elf’s late,”

“He’ll be here.” Aragorn leaned up slightly so he could see the bridge’s farther end. Still nothing.

“You trust him to keep his word?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the needlepoint of her weapon. “You’re sure he’d rather side with us than his friends? He left us fast enough and he wanted you to stay behind too. He doesn’t seem to think you can take care of yourself. Or maybe he just wants you out of the way when he—”

“There he is.”

The flicker came again, a tiny light flashing once, twice, steel reflecting the moon.

Without his grey uniform tunic, Haldir’s face and hands hung disembodied from the night as he met them on the bridge’s further end. He scowled as Carlóme, two steps ahead of Aragorn, ran up with Zaren and the others leading the horses more cautiously behind.

“I said bring two not the whole camp,” he hissed at her.

“None of them were willing to stay behind,” Carlóme shrugged. “You going to show us where Brenn is now or what?”

Haldir ran his eyes over the roughly-armed and white-faced group. They were afraid though few of these proud women would admit it. The only other male in the group besides Zaren and Aragorn, Yyrin, kept looking over his shoulder as though expecting to be attacked any minute. Clearly, thoughts of his butchered friend, Ral, were still fresh in his mind.

Looking at them, the marchwarden had to remind himself these were hunters by trade, not soldiers, not spies or trackers. What he wouldn’t give for a handful of his Galadhrim right now.

He led them hurriedly off the bridge and with his knifepoint sketched a rough outline of the defile in the partially frozen earth. “Now, speed is key but also caution. Even if Fedorian is gone, there is still the danger of later discovery. We don’t want him knowing where we’ve gone. There’s a creek that runs past the defile, we can wade through that to cover our—”

“In the middle of winter? We’ll freeze,” Kari protested, already shivering.

Haldir didn’t raise his head. “Would you rather freeze or Brenn die? It’s neither deep nor for long. A few hundred yards. You’ll live. Now, he’s tied in an oak hollow near the center. It should be easy enough to get in there and get him out.” If Arenath had kept his side of the bargain. “Then ride like the Hounds of Morgoth are on your tail until you reach the inn.”

Carlóme rubbed the plan out with the base of her javelin. “Sounds good.”

“You keep saying ‘you’—are you coming with us?” Saeryn clutched her bow even more tightly.

“I will be going first,” he said with a slight smile as Aragorn passed him his saber.

The going was rough and slow for they were battling through a part of the forest that no one went into any longer. The trees had sprung up to reclaim their territory. There were no clear paths or easy passages. For more than an hour, they slipped, scrambled and fought their way through clinging undergrowth, deep, wet trenches of brambles and coaxed the horses between trees and over fallen branches. Strange sights and sudden noises unnerved the hardiest of the hunters as darkness filled up the hollows. Yyrin’s horse reared with fright when a cobweb caught in its mane and narrowly missed crushing Kari’s head with its lashing hooves. At last, scratched, sweaty and anxious, they arrived at the creek.

Unfastening his saber to keep it clear of the water, Haldir tested the footing first. Stones shifted slimy and unsure underfoot. Ice-grey ripples lapped over his boots and rose up to his shins.

Yyrin froze at the waterside. His face bore a long gouge from a bramble patch and his eyes loomed large even in the darkness. He had been growing increasingly nervous the closer they approached elven territory. His ragged arms trembled wrapped around the slender blade he’d borrowed from Zaren. The man nearly jumped out of his skin when Aragorn touched his shoulder.

The ranger had noticed his unease. “Peace. You need to calm down. Don’t worry. We’re in this together. We’ll protect each other.”

The thin man shoved his arm off and whirled on him. “Like your friend protected Ral?” he hissed, his face close to the ranger’s. “The only way we’re safe is if we’re dead.”

“No one is going to die—if we stay together.”

“We don’t know where he is. He could be watching us right now. What’s to stop him from killing us all? Gutting us like he did Ral,” Yyrin licked dry lips and shook his head. Narturi squeezed his hand and tried to hush him but he threw her off.

“No! You all can go and chase ghosts all you want. I’m not going to stay and get killed.”

Carlóme didn’t pause as she plunged into the water after the elf. “If you want to go back alone fine. We’re not stopping because you’re too much of a coward to go forward.”

“I’m not going to die. It’s not worth it!” He bolted.

“Yyrin!” Narturi sprang for the hem of his cloak but Kari grabbed her and hauled her back.

“Let the coward go!”

Haldir shook his head as the man’s skeletal form vanished into the undergrowth. There was nothing they could do. Fear sometimes won over the bravest hearts and those that weren’t brave suffered worse.

Disheartened by the desertion, one by one the others waded into the creek, leaving double ripples in their wake. Soon all that was left of their passing was the swirling of the water and Yyrin’s abandoned sword on the bank.

----------

Yyrin stopped running after he’d left the creek and his one-time companions far behind him. The branches resisted and tore at him as he tried to escape their closing jaws. A tearing sound rent the air and he left several of his tunic buttons behind on a thorn patch. Bending over his knees, he paused, waiting for his lungs to loosen from the cramped cold. They had never really been friends anyway. Why should he risk his life for them? He was safer by himself anyway. He always had been. Feeling a little more reassured as he rationalized, he decided to wait just long enough to catch his breath. Thoughts of a warm inn and a pint of ale were already cheering his spirits. Let the fools chase ghosts! He was going to live.

Straightening as the stitch faded from his ribs, he struck out into the brush. He found an empty snare and kicked it contemptuously aside as he passed.

Something like a stray leaf smacked his chest. A wet, metallic taste burst beneath his lips, spilled over and soaked his shirtfront. It reminded him of the hot days laboring when Ral, joking, dumped the sheep’s water bucket all over him so water dripped everywhere, down his torso. He looked down at his ruined tunic and saw the black handle growing out of his chest like a miniature sapling, twig lines of some darker substance trailing over the cloth. The dead leaves spun and faded around him as he floated.

A wolf, investigating the scent of fresh blood, crept out of the brush. The feral eyes, dilated with excitement, darted warily from its next meal to the russet-cloaked figure bending over it. A deep warning imprinted in the predator’s mind rang uneasily; and, conceding defeat, the animal backed away.

---------

Aragorn didn’t notice the scarecrow figure at the top of the bank until the orc fired. His horse’s neigh turned into a high-pitched scream as it reared back on its hind legs, the arrow fast in its breast. Aragorn was unprepared for the movement and his shoulder nearly wrenched out of its socket as his hand involuntarily tightened on the reins.

A crushing weight slammed into his chest as Maethor’s heavy bulk bumped his shoulder breaking his hold on the bridle and flinging him headlong into the shallows. Through a watery haze, he thought he heard another twang and hooves flashed in front of his eyes not a foot from his head. A desperate grip latched under his arms and dragged him away from the horse who was thrashing in agony, another arrow sticking out of its throat.

The orc cackled, twanging the black-gut of its bowstring. “Dead horse meat, good meat. Fresh.” Its red irises glittered wildly. “Poor meat. Little meat. Like little boy. Boy good meat too. Men lurking and creeping. Traps everywhere! Traps. Traps for meat.”

“It’s mad,” Zaren hissed, his hand almost painfully digging into Aragorn’s shoulder.

The orc’s famine-hollowed face leered at them as it drifted closer to Maethor lying still in the shallows, an ape-like arm outstretched.

Saeryn’s return arrow pierced its hand right through and it leapt up screeching. Aragorn’s sword silenced it.

The others had scattered away from the dying horse and halted a little further upstream.
He was beginning to shiver in his wet clothes but he only shrugged aside Haldir’s eyes which were boring into him urgently. With a curt nod, the elf took the lead again, faster now that the commotion had ruined any chance of secrecy.

They left the creek and approached the defile from its wooded edge which opened in front of them. The twisted trunks looked more sinister than ever in the stark moonlight stabbing through the umbrage, pooling the ground with darkness. Below, the brazier had gone out save for red ashes. The hollow looked empty.

“Quietly now,” was all Haldir said as he drew his saber out.

“The rest of you stay with the horses. Zaren and I’ll go with him,” Carlóme ordered.

Like shadows, the two followed as he slipped into the hollow. Using every gnarled branch, root and enormous trunk for cover they took an outside course around the defile and circuitously made their way towards the oak that rose like a black beacon in the middle. Motioning Zaren and Carlóme back, Haldir approached first.

Brenn sat right where he had last left him on the little shelf inside the tree. He touched the boy’s elbow first, pulling back a little when he flinched violently, a whimper muffled by the black cloth still audible to his ears.

“Shhh, don’t struggle,” Haldir gently worked the knot at the back of his neck and eased the hood off, peeling away the gag underneath.

As soon as his mouth was free, the boy spat on him. “Demon! You traitor! You hateful b—”

The elf captain clamped a hand over his mouth with a cursory glance at the darkness as he swiped a sleeve calmly over his cheek. “Carlóme and Zaren have come. Now I will release your mouth but do not spit on me again. Is that clear?”

The boy nodded against his palm and swallowed as the elf withdrew it.

Zaren, unable to stand it any longer, rushed towards the boy whose eyes glistened at his appearance.

“You’ve got yourself into a right fix, lad,” he grunted roughly as he severed the ropes around the boy’s wrists and ankles. “You look like a plucked chicken.”

“Yeah, and that new scar on your gizzard is decoration,” Brenn shot back though he winced when the older man put his arms around his shoulders.

“Quiet,” Haldir still had his saber in his hand and was watching the edges of the defile. Something still didn’t feel right. There should have been something… a snare… a trap…Fedorian wouldn’t want his prey to escape.

Gently Zaren scooped the boy up in his arms, his tanned face creased with concern as he hefted the light weight. “Don’t worry, lad. It’s good food and a warm bed for you after this.”

Carlóme crawled out of the brush and with surprising tenderness, ran the back of her fingers over Brenn’s cheek when he met her with a bleary smile. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” She was already halfway back when she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Arenath should be here to meet us,” Haldir did not stop scanning the defile even when Carlóme spun on her heel.

“What? Why?”

“I offered him clemency if he aided in Brenn’s return.”

“You did what?” the dark woman said, lowering her voice hastily.

“You would not have Brenn alive were it not for him.”

“One good deed doesn’t forgive him a lifetime—and more than that—of evil. We’re going. You and I are going to settle some things, elf, when we get back to the inn.”

Haldir’s eyes rested momentarily on the boy who had his face pressed into Zaren’s shoulder before flicking up to Carlóme. “Take him. I will stay a little.”

“Your elf’s a fool,” the dark woman snarled to Aragorn when she and Zaren climbed back up the incline. “Waiting for that other one. He’s going to get himself slain.”

The others were already mounted and waiting, clearly cold and anxious to leave. Narturi especially kept glancing around, her young face sallow with fear.

“You coming with us or what?” Carlóme shifted in her saddle to face the ranger as Zaren settled Brenn in front of him.

Aragorn was chafing his arms for warmth but his eyes had not left the bottom of the hollow. He didn’t want to leave Haldir alone out here. “I think I’ll sta—” He trailed off and stiffened as he caught a glimpse of dark shapes moving in their direction from the opposite ridge. “Go. Go now.”

Carlóme had seen them too. “Ride.”

As he listened to their hoofbeats fading away, Aragorn’s keen eyes narrowed, trying to discern the shapes slowly but stealthily creeping down towards the forest floor. They wore camouflaged vestments; and there were more than two. A flash of a green-painted face appeared between two trunks and Aragorn knew instantly. He leapt up to warn Haldir but had scarcely opened his mouth before something hit him hard from behind.

Knocked sprawling, Aragorn rolled a few yards down the incline until he was jolted to a stop by a dead trunk. He flipped onto his stomach to lever himself up but a hard weight like a boot ground against his spine, forcing him flat. When the chilling lethalness of a knife bit into his neck, he stopped struggling. His attacker did not speak but kept the blade steady against his jugular.

Arenath’s fair face was creased with a mix of anxiety and apology as he stepped into the ranger’s field of vision, his arrowpoint almost brushing the man’s chin. His blue eyes darted from his shocked face up to the one holding him. He mouthed more than whispered. “I am sorry.”

The hilt of the knife slammed down on the back of the ranger’s skull and the dark came down.

----------

Haldir heard the warning whistle a split second before he realized what it belonged to. Something smashed painfully into his shins and tangled in his legs, the momentum of the bolas throwing him off his feet. Waves of pain radiated upward as he struggled to unlace the weapon’s leather thongs and stones. He groped for his dropped saber lying a yard away.

A scuffed-toed boot planted itself firmly on the weapon, sliding it once more out of his reach. He looked up and into Branock’s smiling face.

“Well, now, I was hoping to find the boy,” the mercenary chuckled darkly. “Looks like I got the better exchange there—I came looking for a sparrow and found a swan instead.”

Ten men including their leader surrounded him. Several had already nocked arrows to their bows, the tips directed straight at the elf’s prone body. They couldn’t miss at this distance.

Branock crouched down until his eyes were level with the elf’s. “Gave us a lot of trouble, your lot did. Almost missed you when you took to the water. Where’d Car go?”

“She is near. With the others.”

Branock made a show of looking around. “I don’t see them now. Fact is, I don’t see anyone at all. Why would they leave you out here by yourself? It’s dangerous, you know. Pretty things get hurt,” the ill-meaning suggestion behind his words was unmistakable. Especially when his smile ripened into a leer.

A sudden rush of adrenaline surged through him. Kicking away the bolas, Haldir knocked Branock away and scooped his saber up in the same fluid movement. The blade arched to life in his hands. Its unsharpened edge cracked one of the archers between the eyes and took him out like a lightning-struck branch.

One of the hunters loosed a shaft with the intent to wound only to find the elf wasn’t where he’d aimed. But next to him. He screeched and fell back, his bowstring severed and two of his fingers lying in the grass. The others fell back, startled by the ferocity of their quarry.

“Get that goblin-cleaver out of his hands, mates!” Branock, like all brave leaders, led from the back, shoving his men in front of him.

Haldir could keep them back for a time but he wouldn’t kill them. He was not willing to stoop to that level yet, still afraid that if he did he would be no better than the murderer they assumed he was. That he thought he was. He held his own bravely but he was tiring, slower than his assailants but tiring nonetheless. They were more numerous than he and kept him occupied dodging arrows and short blades.

Four of them jumped on him. Borne down by sheer weight of numbers, he struggled furiously and suffered curses and jabs for it. Someone wrestled the blade out of his hands and another slipped a greased noose over his head and tugged chokingly tight. Swinging him around, his strangler had a grip on the neck seam of his collar which ripped jaggedly along one side.

As though the sound roused their bloodlust, they fell on him like wolves all at once, kicking and jabbing with whatever they could find. His head slammed into the ground only to be raised up and slammed into it again. A boot swung out of nowhere and connected with his side, making him gasp for air but he didn’t even have a chance to inhale before a fist sank into his stomach, knocking the rest of his breath out of him. Blows were coming from all sides now. It was all he could do to try to curl up to protect his inner body and his face. But the second he tried to do so they jerked cruelly on the noose or pulled his legs out from under him to stretch him out again.

He didn’t let a sound escape his lips while they beat him. Not even to defend himself. By this point there was nothing he could say that would stop their frenzy. They weren’t asking for answers; they thought they had them all. Gold was already clinking into their pockets with every deliberate blow. They were careful not to hit his face. For identification purposes he supposed.

Not that he didn’t fight. His hand lashed out, caught an ankle and tugged sharply heaving his weight behind it. His attacker came down on top of him, catching a few blows from his own comrades. Swearing, he threw them off.

“You orc-soured curs! Get him, not me!”

Haldir was already halfway to his feet but his legs threatened to buckle and his ribs felt crushed. He staggered against one of the men who thrust him back and swung a broken-off branch at his head. It clipped him hard enough to spin him around, his ears ringing. He fell to his knees again, jolting his already pained ribs.

“You’re wrong,” he rasped. “I am not the one you seek. I am with—” One of the men kicked him to silence him.

“An elf’s an elf’s an elf. Those idiot drunks in the town aren’t going to know the difference anyway,” Branock motioned for his men to back off. He didn’t want their hard-sought quarry to die before they had a chance to drag him through Merdon in chains—or before they had their bit of fun. “He’s a hot blood. I think we need to cool him off, boys. What do you think?”

Jeering and screeching like hyenas, they grabbed him up. Half-fainting from fighting for breath around the noose, he didn’t resist when they seized him by arms and shoulders and dragged him up out of the defile. He didn’t know where they were taking him until they dropped him.

The shock of the wintry water hit him like a reviving slap. He struggled to get his head up but cruel hands pinioned his arms and shoved him back under until his face scraped painfully against rocks in the shallow creek. Silence and rushing filled his eyes, his ears, his nose and mouth while bubbles escaped in streams.

Briefly, it flickered through his mind that he really had walked into it this time. He had been so concentrated on keeping Aragorn out of trouble, he hadn’t watched where he himself was heading. The sandy stream bottom was beginning to glaze, little riplets of ice crusting the dark gold nimbus floating around his face. He watched the tendrils of his hair with fascination; they wavered and sailed past his vision like dappled sun rays… icy sun rays without warmth. Near-frozen liquid sucked down his throat. He was drowning.

Branock chuckled as he fished out his half-conscious prize like a drowned cat. “Such a dangerous enemy, our elf. Didn’t you lose someone to him, Hooker?”

“Yeah,” the pimply Hooker’s face was sniggering though rigid with agony, his tunic wrapped around the gouting stumps of his severed fingers. “My great auntie’s youngest nephew’s cousin I think it was.”

His leader’s jaundice eyes narrowed with malicious laughter. “In you go then.”

----------

The road rippled cleanly out from the trees as the horses gathered on it. Carlóme glanced once around her group to make sure they were all still with her. “How’s he doing Zaren?”

“Better if it weren’t so cold.”

“Carlóme…we can’t leave them out there,” Saeryn touched her horse’s side with her knees to face her leader.

“They got themselves into it, they can get themselves out,” the tawny woman said, dismissively flicking her reins but her eyes had dropped to the ground.

“That’s not your way,” Saeryn nudged her horse in front of Carlóme’s to block the other woman’s path. “You don’t leave your friends behind.”

“Who said they were friends?” the dark woman shot back as though affronted. “You’re getting too mouthy for your own good, girl. If they want to take more risks, it’s on their own heads. Not ours. My only worry is to get all of us back safe.”

“Yyrin’s not here,” Narturi interrupted quietly.

“Nor is he likely to be,” Glad for the distraction, Carlóme maneuvered her horse around Saeryn’s and pressed into a trot. “Probably already back at the inn guzzling ale and telling his other farm boys how brave he was.”

Saeyrn did not move. Wheeling her horse around, she called at her leader’s back. “I will go back for them even if you won’t.”

Carlóme jerked her reins short and swiveled in her seat to glare at the Gondorian woman who stared back calmly, her chin upraised.

“You always think you can save everyone.” The Haradrim woman looked at Zaren who unnecessarily adjusted the cloak wrapped around Brenn’s shoulders. He looked up when his leader addressed him as she wheeled her horse around.

“Zaren, get them back to the inn.”

----------

They forced him under over and over and over again until he lay limp and unresponsive in the ice and bank mud. They’d kept him under so long last time he was still coughing up red-tinged wavelets. Haldir didn’t realize he was blacking out until he found himself lying on his back with a rain of stinging blows being aimed at his face to bring him round again.

“Wake up, there,” Branock cuffed him twice more until he opened his eyes blearily. “That’s better. Want you awake for this—for a bit longer anyway.”

The elf’s cheeks were hot from the blood-raising slaps, his golden hair drenched and plastered over his shoulders. His chest heaved with a weak cough, water spilling from between his lips.

Hooker was standing back a little and cradling the elf’s saber with his unmaimed hand. He’d gotten blood on it and was trying to polish it off. “Bet these lockets are gold. Bit of cleanin’…it’ll make a nice addition to my collection.”

One of his companions eyed the fine weapon and shoved him, forcing him to drop it. “And who says you get to decide who gets what?”

“Shut up! Both of you!” Branock growled. “We’ll sort that out later. Pile it up on the bank here. I’ll decide who gets what.” Kneeling beside his captive, he slid his hands over the elf’s torso and loosened the leather belt. His fingers touched the longknife. His horrible grin stretched the boundaries of his face. “But I’ll get to taste the best prize first.”

He ripped off the belt and added the knife too.

“Any fight left in you?” The lecherous human cupped the strong chin and drew it up so he could look into those eyes, eyes he had once thought so frightening, so probing. They were mere slits now, dulled and detached. There was nothing in them. “Didn’t think so. But just in case…”

“Pass me my belt,” he ordered one of his men without taking his eyes off the elf’s. The snakeskin whispered over his palm as he sorted through the pouches and drew out a stained rag and a frighteningly familiar vial. Harsari. The man saw recognition flash in his captive’s eyes and shook the green bottle lightly.

“Car really should watch where she keeps her dark juices.” He poured a measure over the cloth. “You won’t be able to thank her for this, but I’ll make sure I do personally for you—after I’m done with you that is.”

He clamped the rank-smelling cloth over his prisoner’s mouth and nose. Haldir held his breath and struggled wildly. But others grabbed his arms firmly and an unseen blow hit him square in the midsection, crushing the air out of him once more. Automatically he inhaled. The world lurched almost instantly into brownness. The pain was not as intense as when Carlóme had first mistaken him for Fedorian and stabbed him with a poisoned needle but inhaling it obliterated all sense of awareness.

His sense of smell was the first to return; the bitterness of the drug and the earthy, moist one of grass and mud tasting at the back of his throat. Disorientation rattled him as he tried to gather his jumbled bearings. He knew he couldn’t have been out for longer than a minute or two because he could still hear the men talking and moving around above him.

“—no fun if he’s asleep.”

“Shouldn’t be long.”

“I want to go first.”

“You’ll go when I tell you.”

He was lying on his stomach, his hands wrenched back and corded behind him. Rough hands touched his bruised ribs. A thrill of panic shook him fully awake. Rolling over, he lashed up like a snake, ignoring the burn that raced up his chest at the movement. Branock caught the elf’s forehead right in the center of his face; the audible crack of bone dwarfed by his roar of agony.

They punished him mercilessly for that act of self-preservation and by the end of the next bout he was bleeding from nose and chin, cut and reeling from punches he knew he would feel tomorrow. If he lived long enough that is. This was not a way he would have chosen to die. But if he had to seek Mandos’ Halls now, he would do so fighting for all he was worth and prayed the Lord of the Dead would ease his passing, free his spirit before the worst came.

A glow lit in his eyes. Branock caught sight of it and for the first time looked unsure as he pressed a grimy hand to his nose. “Hooker, Macon, make sure those binds are tight will you. Don’t want him getting uppity again.”

“He might break more than your face next time,” Hooker chortled, earning himself a sharp clout across the ear.

“Just for that, you’re not touching him.”

After his men made sure the bonds were nearly cutting off the elf’s circulation, the mercenary approached again, kneeling astride him so he was pinned firmly to the grassy floor. He hadn’t bothered to stop the blood flowing from his nose. It dribbled over his lips and onto the elf’s neck and collar. This was the culmination of the hunt for him; and he hadn’t had the pleasure of a quarry this exciting for some time.

“You took every blow we gave you.” The man brushed back the long tendrils letting them slide between his fingers like sifting gold. His breath was coming faster now, whistling in and out through a collapsed nostril. “I always heard the Firstborn were beyond fair. I didn’t know it was this powerful. I wonder if you’ll last a few days.” He wandered down the exposed throat now, not squeezing. His other fingers tangled in the golden hair and twisted it around his wrist, yanking the supple neck back.

“Since we need only your head, they’re not gonna care what we do with the rest of you.”

One of the men was looking doubtful and fidgety as he watched his chief work the catches on their bounty’s tunic one-handedly. His eyes kept passing over the trees. “Bran, come on. Not here. Didn’t one of Car’s band say there was more than one of them?”

“If he was going to show up, he would have by now. He would’ve protected his friend,” Branock’s face grew ugly and dark as he deliberately gave the noose a sharp tweak. “Isn’t that right? Your friend’s not going to show up. His loss, he’s going to miss out on the fun.” The green-painted dye had begun to run with sweat streaks.

Haldir closed his eyes, releasing his mind to drift over the stream. He felt surprisingly detached from what was happening as though it were happening to someone else, someone he couldn’t see or hear. He didn’t feel his arms going numb beneath him or taste the blood in his throat. The coarse laughter of the men didn’t register in his mind. He was already half gone. The harsari made it easier to float.

A sudden murmur rose among the men like the humming of bees. The weight left his legs. Hooker who had been sneaking towards the bounty pile passed in front of Branock, and fell, an arrow through his throat. Haldir only saw him topple out of the corner of his eye. Everything else was chaos. He heard the whine of an arrow and another cry. Something glinted bright in his vision before a heavy weight tripped over him and fell across his chest. Branock gaped, his face frozen in a permanent, agonizing leer. His body convulsed and rolled off the elf as Carlóme jerked her javelin free.

The dark woman’s face was beyond wrathful as she brandished it at the men who had leapt away from her ferocious charge. “Who wants to die with him?”

Saeryn knelt a few yards behind her, an arrow grimly set to her bow. She took aim at first one man than the other. They weren’t going to wait around for her to fire and took to their heels, splashing through the creek and up the further bank, leaving their slain companions and leader on the bank.

It took Haldir a while for his mind to absorb back into his raddled body. His various bruises, cuts and aches bled into the edges of his sharpening consciousness. Everything seemed too bright and hard. Vibrations pulsed under his ear from the sound of the men’s retreat, receding until all he heard was lapping water. Pressing his cheek to the cool, flattened grass, he found himself staring into Branock’s vacant gaze, the glittering eyes smooth and empty as carapaces.

A sharp sawing motion against his wrists made his head swing back up. Carlóme cut him free and tossed the ropes into the water. She leaned over him as blood surged back into his fingertips and pried off the stiff noose still wound tight; the wire had left a gleaming ligature all around his throat.

“Can you walk?”

His eyes snapped open. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Her question was slow to filter through his numbed mind and when he figured out what she was asking, he considered it carefully. He was too tired to move but somehow without knowing how he got to his feet under him. The vertical position made his head swim and he nearly buckled. It stung to breathe. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a hoarse croak and a little more water.

Saeryn stared at the arrow that had gone a full half-length into Hooker and pinned him to the earth. “I did not loose this,” she whispered, touching the spiral-fletched shaft. Her gaze spanned across the water.

“You’re lucky we got here when we did,” Carlóme prodded Branock’s limp corpse into the creek and talked to avoid looking at him. “Thought we’d run into Strider first but he must have gone after Zaren and the rest...”

“He’s shaky, Carlóme,” Saeryn rested a tentative hand on the elf’s arm. His face was smoothly bland and he still hadn’t said anything. He flinched a little when she took his arm and drew it over her shoulders. The Gondorian woman’s usually serene face was utterly sober as she let him settle his weight on her. Months of hard labor in the South had strengthened the lithe muscles in her back.

“Take his other side won’t you?”

The dark woman hesitated. Obviously, she didn’t think much of the idea and kept looking at him blankly as though this sudden loss of strength on his part disturbed her. Then with astonishing indifference, she switched her javelin to her other hand and bolstered him up awkwardly with her unoccupied arm. She was several inches taller than Saeryn and he more so than both of them.

Haldir couldn’t even mentally scold himself for needing the support he was so worn out. They led him back towards the path. It was an indescribably long journey. Dark fatigue seeped out of the frozen earth and twined around his ankles, sneaking up his calves and into his chest, soaking into his mind until his body felt like lead. His bruises stiffened and made breathing even more difficult. They walked for what seemed like forever while his steps grew more and more faltering, almost all of his weight now balanced between the two women on either side of him.

In the dark haze between semi-consciousness and not, he surfaced briefly.

“Where’s…Strider?”

----------

Aragorn awoke in the dark with head pounding as though his brain was trying to break out of his skull. This was the second time in three days that he’d been knocked unconscious. He was lying on the frozen earth on his side, his cheek pressed against a bony root. He cut back a groan clawing up his throat though he knew his captor already had sensed his reawakening. Aragorn’s skin crawled as a razor-sharp blade slid up his ribs just brushing the skin without leaving a mark. The warning, however, was unmistakable. Aragorn kept carefully still though his arms were aching from the awkward position they’d been wrenched into. Dried blood caked above his left eyebrow.

His kidnapper made no other move towards him though. He was, oddly, staring at the stars, his head thrown back as he searched the vault of heaven. But no starlight shone on this night, even the moon was swathed in cloud. A quiet voice sighed, a soft exhale of breath that fogged in the chilly air.

“Elbereth…is not here tonight. But why should She be?” he offered the young man a smile that might have passed for rueful on any other face. “I have no right to invoke that name do I? There is no starlight in my life.”

Aragorn had to strain his head up to watch him, not daring to take his eyes off the shadowed figure though it made the side of his head ache even more.

“Did he tell you he was innocent, little one? Haldir.”

The ropes binding the man’s hands behind his back creaked audibly but his captor made no move to check them, as though he knew the young man could not escape.

“He has killed before, make no mistake.”

“He is not like you,” despite his danger, Aragorn could not help the defiant words ripping out of his mouth. His muscles automatically clenched, awaiting a blow.

It didn’t come. Instead, the most shocking sound the ranger had heard all night erupted from his captor’s lips.

Laughter. Like crystalline icicles, it prickled the ranger’s skin and made fearful beads of sweat stand out on his brow and drip into his matted hair. The young man shivered as cold fingertips slid up his jaw to his temples in an odd sort of caress, like a blind man seeking a picture of a face.

“Oh, so young. So innocent. You really have no idea do you?”

Aragorn tried to think as those cold fingers pressed on his hammering temples. “He is a soldier. His actions have reasons.”

“So do mine. Reasons, perhaps, that you cannot understand. But that is not what you are saying is it? You are saying, I lack reason. I am reasonless. Therefore, I am mad.” Another, odd little chuckle as the hands released him and grasped his chin instead, forcing the young man to meet his eyes.

“If you are not mad, then what are your reasons? Why did you…why did you do …things…to those men?” Aragorn almost choked on the question, the reality of his own predicament painfully realized in the cords around his wrists and ankles. Nevertheless the still-rational part of his mind that had not shut down from fear reasoned the longer he kept the other talking, the longer he would survive. He could give Haldir time…

His captor cast him a sardonically condescending glance as though he knew every thought that passed through the ranger’s blurry consciousness. “He never forgave them for what they did to him, did he? Did he ever tell you?”

Aragorn shook his head.

Eyes glittered without moonlight to reflect in them as a thin hiss revealed the knife unsheathed again. “I am beyond forgiveness. Which makes what I’m going to do to you perfectly within my limits.”

As the shadow released his chin, Aragorn let it drop back to the ground, shuddering with desperate horror. He knew exactly what his captor was going to do to him.

Now all he needed to know was how long he was going to suffer before the other granted him the mercy of death.