Agarwaen

Part Twenty
~Final Confrontations~

The pealing of bells woke him. The pounding, ringing alarum sounded like shards of glass splintering in another room. At first, Haldir thought it was a noise from his dreams as he drifted in the hazy world between sleeping and waking. Then he blinked; the haze vanished but the sound remained: tiny, insistent…frantic. He rubbed his face and the quilt slid off his shoulder and onto the floor.

“Huh? ‘s happening?” Aragorn slurred drowsily as the clacking of the shutters jolted him awake.

Haldir leaned out the window, watching vague shapes hurry past on the dark street below, boots thudding on the cobbles. The inn door beneath them slammed shut.

“Bells.” He closed the shutters, pulled open a low drawer and retrieved a tunic and his satchel. He picked up his saber from the night table as voices surged up from below. Aragorn sat up and passed a hand confusedly through his hair as his friend disappeared momentarily into the other room and came back, tossing a tunic into the still heavy-eyed ranger’s lap.

“Get dressed.”

Carlóme and Zaren were deep in harried conversation when the two came rushing down the steps into the main hallway.

“What’s happened?” Aragorn asked, seeming wide-awake though his dark hair was tousled still and his shirt wasn’t fully buttoned.

“He’s gone,” explained Zaren who was wearing his cloak and out of breath. “Escaped. Just found out. Killed the guards—slit one’s throat open wide with his own knife. You don’t want to know what he did to the other one.”

“How do you know this?” Aragorn asked, exchanging a meaning-laden glance with Haldir. The ranger was the only one who knew Haldir had been at the prison but a few hours ago. But the elf captain’s face gave away nothing.

Zaren jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the porch. “One guard escaped, came running down here to spread the alarm like he was being chased by a pack of—”

Haldir strode past him out the door.

Sitting against one of the railings with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders was the young guard, Petrin who Haldir had met on his first and last visit to the prison. He looked white-faced and dull-eyed but he got right to his feet when the elf halted beside him.

“You…?”

“What happened?” The elf had no time to explain his presence here and time was of the essence.

The boy had already been made to repeat his story to Zaren, Carlóme, the innkeeper and eager hunters who had heard the bells and come to muster up a search so it was with a certain detachment that he spoke, “I offered Warden Aylward my watch tonight. He gets sick when he stays down there all night. He wouldn’t take it so I went up to the guardroom. It was quiet. Grinj was pacing around though, said he had a bad feeling in his bones and kept going around the cells, checking and double-checking locks. He left after a bit and I wanted to wait up for him but… I—I think I must have fallen asleep,” he admitted shame-facedly. “Next thing I knew somebody yelled.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes lost in a nightmare. “I found Grinj on the stairs… he… he was still moving a bit… There was so much blood…He said—he said A—Aylward was dead and the elf gone. But he went quiet before I could ask where. Then I turned around. H—he was standing right behind me with a great, big knife. It was Aylward’s and it was covered in blood,” his voice cracked and he gripped his hair hard, silent tears coursing down his face.

Aragorn who had joined them shook his head and dropped on his haunches beside the boy, squeezing his shoulder though he knew it would do little to erase the horror he had witnessed. “But you escaped, you’re safe now.”

“I thought I was dead,” Petrin choked out, shaking his head over and over again, gripping the hand on his shoulder as though it were a lifeline. “I knew I was dead. I couldn’t even move. But he—he let me go. Just gave me a sort of nod and vanished back down the steps. Like it was nothing.” He fell against the railing and slid down it until he was curled up at the bottom of the steps.

“Why down the steps?” Haldir wondered aloud, looking at Aragorn. “If he’d just come from there?”

Aragorn shrugged.

Carlóme and the rest of her band had strapped on weapons and cloaks over their nightclothes. The former answered him. “There’s a small contingent who patrol the town after sunset. They were coming back when he broke out. The viper must have known he wouldn’t get out through the front door.”

“So what do we do now?” Aragorn asked, still rubbing Petrin’s shoulder comfortingly.

“We go out and find the beast,” snarled Carlóme, her eyes wild despite the pale nightgown cinched about her waist with a leather belt from which hung a long knife. “We go after him and end this.”

Zaren nodded reluctantly. “Most of those hereabouts are rousing up the dogs. He couldn’t have gotten far on foot. We can catch him maybe before he gets into the woods.”

“I will go,” Haldir offered, his grip tightening on his saber hilt.

“Me too.”

“No, Estel. I want you to stay here,” Haldir said and when Aragorn opened his mouth in outrage, he added, “He knows you. He will go after you first—”

“Exactly. We can lure him in.”

“That didn’t work so well last time did it?” the elf captain snapped. “No. I won’t take that chance this time. You’re staying here.”

“You’re not my commanding—”

“Hey!” Carlóme snapped, separating them. “We got enough on our plates without you two squabbling. If he wants to come, elf, let him come. The more eyes the better.”

“I want to come with you too,” Petrin said, throwing the blanket off his shoulders though he was still very white in the face.

“You’ll get in the way, whelp. Stay here. You’ve done enough for one night,” Carlóme said brusquely, already brushing past him. Despite her words, she could see he was at the end of his tether after what had happened tonight.

“I grew up there,” he pressed. “I know nooks and corners you’d never think of looking in. Besides… Aylward was my foster-father. He took me in after my parents were killed by the Wildmen. I owe it to him to find his killer. I’m not brave,” he admitted. “But I’ll do what I can.”

Carlóme was in no mood to argue; time was pressing. “Fine then. Grab a horse; we’re leaving now. Let’s go.”

----------

The prison loomed outside the town sheltered on a hill, away from more respectable citizenry. The stark, grey battlements stabbed like a knifepoint against a backdrop of woods as the company thundered up. To their surprise and disconcertion, the gates were already flung open and they rode in unimpeded.

The weedy courtyard was packed to the brim with soldiers and horses. Obviously, the contingent in the city had wasted no time in organizing search parties. A few of them pointed their way as Carlóme’s band rushed through the gates, scattering soldiers left and right. A tall, brown-haired man who looked both irritated and stern, rode in front of them and held up a hand.

“Halt!”

Carlóme jerked on her reins but did not dismount. “We’re in a hurry, boy. Get out of the way.”

“You are not allowed to be here,” he said in clipped, officious tones, his eyes sneering over the company. “We don’t need any more meddlers coming in and botching things up.”

“Two of your men have already been killed and your most dangerous prisoner escaped. How much more can it be botched up?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We have the situation well under control.” The man’s lips whitened as he glared at the Haradrim woman but he did not move. “You are out-of-bounds. Return to your homes.”

Carlóme rolled her eyes impatiently. “We’re the ones who brought him to you in the first place. We’ve hunted him once already—”

“Get Varnic,” snapped the mounted guard to one of his men who dropped his gear and raced for the stairs.

Neither the guard nor the company looked at each other, enduring the uncomfortable silence for several long minutes with Carlóme muttering oaths under her breath. The guard came running back with another on his heels, a harried-looking man in a long grey coat like the one Aylward had worn.

“I’ve already told your lot once to clear off. We are dealing with it,” he growled, rushing down the stairs to intercept them.

“Varnic, it’s all right. They’re here to help,” Petrin found his voice at last and met the man halfway.

The man sized the younger guard up, already shaking his head. “If he weren’t already dead, Aylward would kill me for letting you go back in there after an escape. No, Petrin, sorry you got to stay here. We don’t even know if he got out of the building yet. We’re still searching.”

“You do not know what you’re dealing with. Your men would not know how to handle what they would find,” Haldir said quietly, his face concealed by his hood though his cloak was unclasped.

The man named Varnic narrowed his eyes. Clearly, he didn’t like being told how to do his job by a faceless man. “Oh? And you do? You have some bright idea you’d like to share with the rest of us? Who are you anyway?”

Haldir pushed back his hood and let his golden hair tumble down his back, his bright eyes and dimly glowing skin making the men surrounding them take a wary pace back. “One who knows all too well what has happened and what will happen if you don’t let us through.”

Varnic gaped. “You’re—”

“Yeah, he’s an elf,” Carlóme said shortly. “Now do you mind getting out of our way, Varnic?” She maneuvered her horse curtly around him and dismounted at the stairs, the others following suit. He stared after them then abruptly shut his mouth and whirled on the soldiers behind him.

“Well, what are you all sitting around gawping for! Start searching! You and you,” he pointed out two of his guards who had just starting to mount up. “Follow them.”

The two guards fell back at the rear of the company as they passed soldiers carrying torches and heard voices echoing up and down passageways yelling out the all-clear.
Petrin and Haldir led the way, going down the same corridor and stairwell they had earlier that very night. The landing of the deep corridor where Fedorian had been held flashed past almost before Haldir realized it and he glanced questioningly over at Petrin as the young guard continued to follow the spiraling stairs down.

“Where are we going?”

“All the way down.” He pointed down at the floor and Haldir, following his indication, saw with a grim lurch that a drop of darkest red glimmered on every other step.

It was dry-smelling and velvety black like obsidian made air as they finally stepped down onto the landing. Aragorn couldn’t even see his hand flexed in front of his face; he couldn’t decide whether it was the silence pressing down around his ears that made it creepy or if the place was simply oppressive, maybe a darker dungeon where worse prisoners suffered a punishment greater than death: eternal silence and darkness. Strange shapes contracted and expanded around him as his eyes played tricks on him. He rubbed them hard. The atmosphere down here seemed heavier than normal, thicker, harder to breathe.

One of the guards at the rear of the company spoke uncomfortably. “We already searched down here…There’s nothing to find.”

“You missed something,” Petrin’s voice said curtly.

“Ouch! That was my foot!” Somebody bumped into Aragorn and he grabbed their sleeve steadyingly.

“Quiet,” Haldir’s voice stilled their complaints and movements. “Petrin, get me something to light will you?”

A spark off to his left made Aragorn blink furiously against the glare as Haldir kindled light from a torch Petrin had retrieved from a wall bracket. Once the flame was lit, the place brightened considerably and Aragorn realized he held Brenn’s sleeve. The youth grinned guiltily at him before slipping out of his grasp and disappearing into the back of the group. Aragorn wondered whether he was supposed to be there or not but he forgot all about telling Carlóme when the light revealed the room they were in.

Barrels staggered against the walls, all full of what looked like a dark, oily liquid. Dried, musty-smelling herbs hung overhead on racks and a large, creaky table commanded the center of the room. Two forms lay on it, draped in old blankets that covered everything but their boots.

Petrin carefully avoided these as he raised the torch a little higher to illuminate the corners of the room. “This is the storehouse and buttery for the guards and prisoners. Not much but commons really,” he commented dully as he dragged burlap sacks of cornmeal and potatoes away from the walls. “I think…I think there’s a hidden door around here…somewhere. But he sounded suddenly unsure of himself.

“I thought you said you knew this place! ‘Nooks and corners you’d never think of looking in,’” Carlóme accused him angrily.

“Well…that’s true,” Petrin replied, edging away from the irate Haradrim woman who looked uncommonly fierce despite her short build. “But I haven’t been allowed down here for years. Some of the tunnels might have collapsed. Aylward…he always used to lecture me on how my duty was guarding not snacking.”

“Yes, well, we might as well start looking,” Saeryn said pragmatically, searching the barrels and testing corners with her knuckles, listening for a hollow sound. “If a door is hidden down here…”

“I am no dwarf stonesmith,” Haldir grumbled. The heavy darkness of the place was making him uncomfortable but he walked around the table nevertheless and ran his hands over the damp, rough-hewn stone, looking for anything: a catch, a crack that shouldn’t be there…anything.

The minutes slipped by like drops of water and urgency screamed at them with every second that slipped past. Thinking hard and gazing around at the perfectly ordinary, solid walls, Aragorn sat on the lowest step, briefly smoothing his hand over the cracks and bumps in the wall. Something caught his eye. There was a patch of granite lighter than the others near the bottom of the last stair. It formed an uneven triangle shape because of the angle of the corner but it was not that that drew the ranger’s attention. Dark, crimson smudges smeared the lighter rock as though something wet and dyed had touched it. He didn’t know what made him do it but he laid his fingers over the four marks and pushed.

The patch of granite depressed with a snick.

Saeryn almost jumped out of her skin as a section of wall right in front of her quivered and with a harsh grate of stone on stone slid open three inches. Aragorn straightened up slowly as the others spun around.

“I think it’s stuck,” Zaren said, fitting his hand through the gap and pushing experimentally. Aragorn got up to help. With Zaren pushing and Aragorn tugging and jostling they wriggled the hidden panel further open, inch by painstaking inch. It glided more smoothly than they could have hoped across the hidden groves in floor and ceiling—as though it had been moved before. With a brief showering of dust on the heads of the searchers, the newly revealed “door” opened just large enough for a human to pass through.

A cold, funereal chill seeped out from the yawning blackness and those nearest shivered. Aragorn wiped his forehead on his sleeve and squinted into the dark.

“This must be it.”

“How do we even know he came this way?” Carlóme asked, swiping a cobweb out of her hair that had blown in when the door opened.

Aragorn caught the silky strand and peeled another off her cloak. He looked up at other cobwebs only a few inches overhead, abandoned by their former occupants. They had left only the dried husks of old insects in the ripped and dangling webs. “Look at the webs: they’re torn and brushed aside. Someone came this way.”

The dark woman’s hand suddenly lashed and snatched Brenn’s collar. The boy had been lurking at the back of the group until curiosity bested him and he crept forward for a closer look. Carlóme shook him like an errant puppy. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay in your room.”

He tugged free of her clasp and jutted his chin out defiantly. “You said the more eyes and ears the better. I want to help.”

For a moment, Aragorn thought the Haradrim woman was going to explode. Then she folded her arms and smiled. It looked rather painful. “All right. You can help.”

She whipped around towards the stairs where the two guards who had followed them stood “You and you. Go back, find Varnic and muster up a few men to follow us down here.” Her hands tightened on Brenn’s shoulders as she thrust him towards the stair. “Brenn, you go with them and make sure they don’t hide under their beds. Why are you still standing here? Go!”

The guards looked too stunned and frightened of the gaping tunnel to question her. They seized Brenn by the shoulders and all but flew up the stairs.

“Now, that that’s got them out from underfoot…” Carlóme took the torch from Zaren. “Shall we?”

Haldir briefly closed his eyes. “It had to be a dark tunnel.”

Aragorn glanced at him sympathetically but he was already stooping after Carlóme whose bobbing torchlight led the way.

If the storeroom had been dark before this, it was nothing compared to the all-consuming blackness that engulfed them now. They could see only the few feet of craggy rock lit up by the torch. They hadn’t gone far before the tunnel broadened and lengthened, open air expanding on either side of them until they could walk two abreast and upright as they felt their way tentatively forward.

Carlóme recoiled with a hastily stifled yelp, bumped into Zaren and dropped the torch which flared but thankfully did not go out. Haldir picked it up and held it out over whatever had surprised her as the woman furiously regained her footing.

Oily patches of greened water flickered in the shivering torchlight, little bubbles and dark spots pocking the surface. Algae had bloomed and withered, leaving its skeletal remains on the surface of a vast underground lake. The darkness was so thick and the lake so immense the further bank could not be seen.

“Where did all this come from?” he wondered aloud, his voice, soft as it was, glided out over the surface of the water which had not heard sound in who knew how many years.

“There must have been a stream that fed this once when it was a fortress and needed the trade,” Aragorn said into the echoing stillness. He pointed towards a blocked drainage culvert a yard or two off to their right which was barely visible just under the lapping surface.

Haldir nodded. The Elvenking’s palace in Mirkwood had a similar set-up. “It must have been dammed when this place burned down.”

“So, is this it? We can’t get through?” Carlóme said, already backing away from the water as though afraid something might ooze out of it and grab her ankle.

“Unless we swim.”

Carlóme bit the inside of her cheek and glanced at the far wall.

Haldir looked at her, an unreadable expression on his half-shadowed face. “You cannot swim can you?”

The dark woman scowled at the water but didn’t say anything.

“We don’t have to swim,” Aragorn had been investigating the walls around the surface of the lake in the faint light. “The banks here aren’t wide but the water level’s low enough—if we’re careful we can edge around most of it.”

Nobody spoke as they went in single file along the ribbed, broken banks that were littered with chunks of fallen rock, jetsam of the lake and long, trailing weed. Greenish black water glinted on one side and high, glistening walls close on the other. None of them said it but all were thinking the same thing. What would happen if they did come upon their quarry in this narrow place? How could they hope to fight? Each and every one of them strained for sounds up ahead: the brush of a footfall, the rustle of a cloak. But they heard nothing except their own labored breathing and the steady lap-lap of the water slapping the sides of the bank.

Curious, thudding sounds rumbled every now and then from up ahead like a giant wakening from slumber and made the company pause uneasily. It wasn’t long before they realized what it was. A boulder cracked and fell from the ceiling. It exploded with an alarming splash into the lake, so close it showered half the company with icy droplets.

“This whole place is going to come down on us,” Petrin said in a half-terrified whisper after Aragorn had yanked him out of the path of the rock that, had it struck its mark, would have split his skull wide open.

Trying not to show the fear those words evoked, Aragorn touched the damp stone and squinted up at the invisible ceiling. “I know where we are.” The ranger’s eyes widened in sudden realization. “We’re under the stream.”

The pressure exerted by the Isen tributary above them was very great and only increased as they went on. Gallons of water overhead sought cracks and joints in the rock and forced them apart, disrupting the ancient, carefully laid stones of the Gondorians. The ceiling dripped steadily onto their heads and the walls were slimed and phosphorescent with strange lichens long missing the sight of the sun.

“I think I see light ahead,” Aragorn said after a quarter of an hour, raising the torch he now held a little way from his face so the flames wouldn’t blind him. A tiny pinprick but growing larger and larger by the minute shone ahead as though guiding them. The air wasn’t so thick and brackish smelling anymore and he thought he heard the sighs of trees.

In his eagerness, he rushed forward. A hump of rock protruding from the earthy floor tripped him and he nearly went sprawling. The torch extinguished with a sputtering hiss as it fell in the shallows and Aragorn stumbled, wind-milling his arms frantically so he might not follow it. Haldir seized him tight round the chest and tugged hard, the force of their reverse momentum hurling both of them into the wall. The soft sandstone cracked as the ranger’s body thudded against it. Slightly dazed, Aragorn shook his head as a damp silt-like substance trickled onto it. Pulling gratefully away from Haldir, he sucked in a sharp breath as he looked up. The crack had widened since he’d first hit it, thrust apart by the terrible water pressure. With a grinding, splitting sound it crawled faster and faster up the length of the wall into darkness. They heard nothing for a terrible three seconds.

Then rocks came flying down upon their heads and spume shot out of the peppered lake as the company fled for their lives towards the trickle of daylight.

A fist-sized stone glanced off his shoulder blade and flung Aragorn sideways into Haldir’s arms. The elf captain grabbed his upper arm and thrust him forward as the mouth of the tunnel trembled. Ducking under the collapsing arch, they hurled themselves into brisk night air and collapsed facedown on the grass. Choking dust rained down on their heads and Aragorn instinctively covered his head with his arms. When the rumbling and clattering behind them finally fell silent, they raised their heads a few inches.

The ranger blinked and shook his head vigorously, white powdering his hair and shoulders like snow. The tunnel’s end had fallen in and sealed the exit. A solid wall of rock faced him where once had been an open path. Haldir too stared at the wall of rock in disbelief. They were alone. Carlóme and the others hadn’t made it out.

“Is everybody all right?” Aragorn called close to the blocked tunnel, hoping beyond hope that the others would hear him—if they still could hear. The thought sent a hard lump dropping into his stomach until Carlóme’s muffled voice answered him.

“Nobody’s dead but we can’t get through. Zaren got knocked out and half-buried under there.”

Haldir got to his feet and swiped away blood starting to drip down his cheek from where a stone had grazed him. For half a minute he stared out into the trees, nightshaded and twisted beyond the tumbled rocks of the tunnel. They could not continue the hunt with most of their party buried and trapped. He sighed and started scooping away loose scree with Aragorn setting in close beside him.

“Start digging. We’ll try to shift some of this rock.”

After a long frustrating half-hour, the elf captain sighed, aggravated, and raked loose strands of hair free of his eyes. “It will take us days to dig through all of this. Whole sections of the roof came in. We need something to shift these larger boulders.”

Aragorn bit his lip and glanced around as though hoping to find some magic solution to this new difficulty that they certainly didn’t need. “I’ll go look for a dead branch. We can use it as a lever.” He headed off towards the trees.

“Estel.”

The ranger glanced over his shoulder quizzically.

Haldir stood on the rocks a few yards above him. “Go carefully. He might still be out there.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” the young human gave him a lopsided smile.

The elf turned back to his work, muttering under his breath. “Why do I not believe you?”

Aragorn didn’t hear him as he struck out into the woods. Somewhere above him an owl whispered by on noiseless wings, occupied on its nighttime hunt. The stars shining brightly overhead gave him just enough light to gain his bearings and seemed a blessing after the tunnel’s pitch blackness. The trees parted a few yards further on and he found himself walking through a wide glade, the grass crunching like icicles under his boots. A curiously exposed feeling rippled down his spine and he increased his pace until he had crossed the open ground and reached the close safety of the trees again.

It didn’t take him long to find one likely-looking branch hanging off an almost dead oak. He wrapped his hands around it, awkward because of his broken fingers and tried to wrench it free.

The trees were whispering and hissing above him. Aragorn straightened, listening to the rustling and creaking all around him. There was no wind. Uneasiness slid cold fingers up his tingling scalp. He had learned in a hard school that the sounds of the woodland often revealed more to attentive ears. The owl hooted restlessly; he could hear its wings flapping and cracking against branches. A chill coursed down his spine. The owl was afraid of something. The trees weren’t whispering in wind, they were whispering in…

“Warning,” the ranger looked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see the murderous dark elf bearing down on him. The glade behind him was empty. Somehow this did not reassure him and his heart took up a galloping pace in his chest as his hand flew to his sword hilt. He drew it with a faint hiss of steel, fervently wishing he hadn’t gone quite so far away from the tunnel. He was in danger, every cell inside his body was screaming. The ground was thick with shadows; the trunks of the trees grew close together here, barely armslengths from one another. Barely armslengths…

The man’s head shot up as the grey shadow dropped. A boot heel slammed into his jaw, knocking him heavily to the ground. Before the man could recover, hard, cold fingers seized his shoulders and thrust him roughly over onto his back. He lay there, stunned, tasting blood and barely able to breathe. Fedorian’s deadly eyes bored into his.

Adrenaline surged through Aragorn’s system and he arched his back, dislodging the hands but before he had raised his shoulders more than a few inches off the ground, a wracking, paralyzing pain erupted through his thigh. Fedorian’s white, furious face obliterated in a spinning whirl of black specks as Aragorn collapsed onto his back, fighting the urge to pass out. Every muscle tensed until he forgot how to breathe as the knife ripped a jagged wound in his leg, through cloth, skin and bit deep into muscle.

Fedorian knew the exact spot to cause the most damage while keeping the man alive, wounding him just enough to leave him powerless. The human stilled beneath him knife, his leg muscle spasming with pain. A moan escaped gritted teeth but the elf waited patiently until the human stopped twitching then jerked his weapon free. Aragorn cried out.

A rush of wet warmth gushed over his leg and the human tried to staunch it awkwardly with his fingers. But a hand stronger than his thrust it away and pinned it against his side with a knee.

“You won’t be running anymore, ranger.” Fedorian gave the man another jab in the leg just for spite, wrenching another soft cry from the man’s lips. “You have cost me a lot of unnecessary trouble I hope you know.”

With a strength frightening in one so thin and ragged, Fedorian lifted him bodily and dropped him at the base of a yew tree on the edge of the glade, making sure to slam his head against the trunk for good measure.

“The—the others are coming,” the ranger panted breathlessly over the pounding in his aching head as Fedorian bound his wrists, pulling on the cords to make sure they were tight. “Haldir is—”

“Haldir?” A wide smile stretched the elf’s wasted features. “My dear boy, who do you think freed me?”

Without taking his eyes off the terrified human’s, he reached into a pouch at his side and produced a green enameled brooch pin crafted in the shape of a mallorn leaf. Aragorn’s stomach plummeted as he recognized it. Haldir’s cloak had not been fastened tonight.

“No…” Aragorn shook his head furiously, immediately regretting it as yellow stars swirled in front of his eyes. “He wouldn’t. You’re lying.”

Fedorian only smiled again, a taut leer more frightening than his previous rage. “No one is coming to help you, little one. Not this time. And most assuredly not Haldir.”

The dark Galadhel waited for that sentiment to sink in before he spoke his final words to the human. “I do not have as much time for you as I would have liked. But this will do… it is enough just to watch your blood spill…” He brushed his thumb against the corner of Estel’s broken lip, smearing blood along his chin. He brought the bloodied finger up to his lips and the pale, pointed tip of his tongue appeared.

Aragorn did not let the icy fear brimming in his veins show on his face. If he had to die he would die as befitted the nobility of his blood and his house, unflinching. His leg sent waves of splintering agony up his spine and every frenetic jump of his heart flushed more blood out of the wound until he felt dizzy and his chest grew tight. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Everything around him seemed to have slowed down to a crawl.

Fedorian’s non-blade hand crept up and cradled his chin. He forced the man’s pale face to one side to expose the pulsing jugular vein in his throat, ready for his hungry knife.

----------

Progress had been going very slowly back at the tunnel. Haldir’s hands and shoulders were raw and sore. He straightened his aching back and peered over his shoulder at the dark trees, hoping to discern the rangy shape of his human friend walking out of the gloom, preferably with a large branch around his shoulders, or a damn good excuse on why he hadn’t found one.

Where is he?

Something prickled in the back of his mind. Aragorn had said he would be a few minutes. It had been longer than that. Far longer. He had had more than enough time. It was winter; there was dead wood everywhere. Something was wrong. Instincts honed by years of constant vigilance and an awareness of ever-present danger sparked at the back of his mind. He knew better than to dismiss them.

“Keep digging,” he called through to Carlóme and the others. “I’ll return.”

The human’s passage was more difficult to follow than any other man’s. Aragorn’s own skill as a ranger and his upbringing among elves meant he stepped lighter than others. Still with the starlight overhead to aid him, Haldir kept determinedly on the trail. A glade opened ahead of him and he suddenly he heard—a soft, venomous voice, one he recognized with chilling certainty, and another, quieter one murmuring words he couldn’t quite hear. A pained cry cut the air. He drew his saber.

Fedorian was rather enjoying taunting the human with his impending death. He could smell the fear rolling off him like beads of sweat though the man tried to meet his eyes with an impassive glare. He was not very good at pretending. But the dark elf also knew he could not linger here. He had already risked much by staying close to the escape tunnel. Many would be scouring the woods for him and he had no intention of waiting around for them. The knife glittered in his hand as he pressed it against the man’s throat for the killing blow.

A gleaming saber twitched under his jaw, the razor edge burning slightly as it scraped the tender skin of his neck. Fedorian gritted his teeth against it, breathing in deeply through his nostrils. “I will kill him.”

“And I will kill you,” Haldir’s voice was shockingly steady but the sword tip even more so as he glanced at Aragorn, white-faced, sprawled against the trunk.

Fedorian twisted still crouched, the saber biting so hard into his throat a trickle of blood ran down into his collar. He looked almost amused as though he wished Haldir would follow through with his threat. “Will you really?”

“Lay the knife down and step away from him.”

Fedorian’s lip curled above his teeth. “You had decided this from the very beginning. You did not need the woman’s oath to give you an excuse to kill me.”

“You mistake me,” Haldir refuted him quietly without relaxing his grip an inch. “You have lived in darkness and bloodlust so long you cannot fathom the thoughts of others. Thoughts that are very different from yours. Lay the knife down. I will not ask you again.”

“You used to think like me,” Fedorian’s eyes glittered. He did not obey. “When the bloodlust becomes too much…It will happen again. The darkness in your heart will grow as it once did…It only takes once…”

“Don’t listen to him, Haldir!” Aragorn ground out, clutching his leg as he tried to drag himself out from under the elf’s murderous knife. “He’s—”

“Shut up, Estel.” snarled Haldir. The last thing he wanted was Fedorian’s attention drawn back to the human. He wanted Fedorian to forget Aragorn altogether. He couldn’t do that if the ranger kept on talking. His grip tightened on his saber hilt, his gaze never wavering from the other elf. “You cannot run, Fedorian.”

“I have no need of running. Not anymore.” Fedorian’s eyes flickered, noting the unmistakable challenge in the threat of the saber and the long stare. His face hardened like molten steel plunged in cold water. Without warning, he hurtled at the elf captain.

Haldir was ready.

For the briefest of instances, memory flashed through his mind’s eye. Sparring matches with his captain —and there had been many while he was still young and a warden-in-training—had seldom left him unmarked even then. Only this time, it was no sparring match, no friendly competition. This battle would let blood before it was over and leave one or both of them on the grass.

His saber glittered as it swung up to parry his former captain’s strike, knocking away the knife as it slashed for his chest. Fedorian employed centuries-honed skills and a deftness of eye and hand that had made him one of the fiercest Galadhrim fighters in Lothlórien. But Haldir was his match with the saber; and the length of the long sword outstripped his deadly blades. Still, he kept Haldir busy dodging sharp inward slashes and retreating to retain the reach of his weapon.

He tried to keep the dark elf on the tip of his blade, never allowing him close enough to use his knives but Fedorian had long ago learned to compensate for short reach. With a powerful sweeping blow, he struck the saber’s lunging slash aside and spun inward, the knife tucked up close to his chest. On the cusp of his spin, he lashed out in a half-circle. Haldir pulled swiftly backward, feeling the blade swish the air within millimeters of his face. He touched the thin cut on his cheekbone as he stumbled back and glanced at his crimson-tinged fingertips.

“First blood is mine, Haldir,” crowed Fedorian, dancing out of reach of a retaliatory blow.

Haldir did not reply except to wipe the cut on his cheek with his sleeve, his grip firming around the saber’s leather guard as he circled towards his antagonist, keeping one eye on Estel who was still slumped against the tree bole; the man had awkwardly wrapped a rag around his bleeding thigh. Fedorian’s stab hadn’t hit an artery but the ranger was already more white than was good.

Fedorian followed his circling movement, flicking his wrist and letting another concealed blade as long as his forearm drop into his palm. Electricity crackled in the air between them, their long golden hair ruffling in a bitter wind. This time, Haldir closed first, leaping at the other elf with his saber lashing out as fluid as a whip.

Aragorn watched with wide horrified eyes. He had never seen anything like it. To his knowledge, not since the days of Fëanor and the terrible Kinslaying had Elf fought Elf. It was terrible but beautiful in a very strange, unearthly way: their sheer economy of movement, the rippling grace and unbelievable lethalness as they slashed, parried, reposted and weaved together—a fatal dance of elven steel and holistic skill.

Slash for stab, prick for cut, gash for scratch, blood soon spattered the grass and strips of cloth hung in sheds as they moved with eye-blurring speed, so fast Aragorn had trouble distinguishing who was who at times and could only watch the golden blur as the two fighters battled. They matched each other well with neither seeming able to gain the upper hand. For all his emaciated appearance, Fedorian held his own though the arrow wound in his shoulder had reopened and begun to bleed again. Haldir too was losing breath, his still unhealed rib causing more problems than was useful in a battle where the cost was his life.

Fedorian caught the saber tip on one knife edge, the other sweeping low and striking near the hilt on the other side. Metal shrieked in protest and sparks flew into the night air from the force of the blow, winking out slowly. Both elves winced at the sound but neither loosened their grip on their weapon. With a ringing screech, Fedorian’s black knives began to slide down the length of Haldir’s saber and caught on the hilt and raised spur that served as a crossguard, threatening to wrench the sword from his grasp or irreparably damage his fingers. Haldir stepped swiftly backward, spinning his saber to dislodge the knives.

Fedorian’s blades crossed swiftly to catch the next overhead strike that would have cleaved him in half. “I thought you did not wish to see me killed, Haldir. Now where is your famed compassion?” he panted almost gleefully.

“You forfeited the right to my compassion the instant you tried to kill Estel,” Haldir growled, disengaging his blade with a movement so sharp it forced Fedorian back three full paces. He pressed his advantage while he could, forcing the dark elf back and back, further away from Aragorn.

Pinning him back against a pine’s spiky boughs, he cut Fedorian’s wrist, forcing him to drop one of his knives and his next swipe opened a shallow gash across his chest making the other elf flinch.

“Looks like second blood belongs to me,” Haldir said grimly.

Fedorian rolled with his right shoulder and the branch his weight had held back, snapped forward, catching Haldir across the face. Temporarily blinded, Haldir stumbled, trying to swipe the stinging needles out of his face as Fedorian scooped up his weapon.

Haldir saw the blade coming through a greenish haze but couldn’t bring his saber up in time. Automatically, his free hand lashed out and caught the sharp edge of the blade to protect his vulnerable throat. Ignoring the icy serration as it bit ever deeper into his palm, he swung his saber awkwardly sideways and struck Fedorian in the shoulder with the heavy hilt. A hot, thin stream of blood snaked down the marchwarden’s wrist as the knife slipped and raked down the fleshy part of his forearm, opening up his sleeve from wrist to elbow and leaving a deepening gash in its wake.

A crimson blush spread alarmingly quickly over his sleeve as Haldir flexed his pained hand, forcing it to close around his saber hilt again.

Pine needles scattered underfoot as they fought for purchase on the smooth, frozen ground. Ducking Haldir’s next swing, Fedorian stepped in close, too close for the saber to reach. Haldir knew he was dead. But Fedorian instead of sinking his knives straight into his opponent’s undefended chest flipped them until he held them by the tips and lashed out twice.

One pommel sank into Haldir’s midsection, winding him and the second cracked into his chin. The marchwarden landed hard on his injured side. Gasping for breath and nursing his ribs, he rolled over and got his knees under him as Fedorian kicked his saber out of reach. Realization struck him in that moment. He looked up into his mentor’s wild eyes and understood. Fedorian was going to draw this out for as long as he could.

He lunged straight from the ground and barreled into his attacker’s shins, leading with his shoulder. The unexpected maneuver caught Fedorian by surprise and he lost his hold on one of his knives as both he and Haldir crashed into the ground. Haldir had the advantage, pinning the other elf down with his legs. He applied more weight to the pressure point of Fedorian’s thin wrist until his adversary released his other knife with a cry of frustration. But his other hand wrenched out of Haldir’s grip and collided smartly with the side of Haldir’s head, cuffing his ear so hard it rang and a buzzing noise filled his head. The distraction was enough.

With a movement sinuous enough to shame a snake, Fedorian wriggled out from under him and stretched out a hand for one of his dropped weapons but recoiled with a yowl as his other blade pierced the back of his hand right through. Abandoning his weapons Fedorian leapt lightly to his feet, his wounded hand against his lips. Pulling another blade with a serrated edge from his boot, he spun unexpectedly and at the very edge of the circular movement threw it.

With split-second reflexes, Haldir caught it on the spin and hurled it right back, forcing Fedorian to dodge sharply aside to avoid his own weapon as Haldir lunged for his saber lying on the ground some ten feet away.

Fedorian was closer. He seized the saber and now Haldir had to leap aside to avoid his own sword cleaving him in half. Casting about for anything to defend himself, his eyes alighted on Fedorian’s abandoned knives. The dark elf saw where he was going. He lunged. But his hand was unaccustomed to the heavy weight of the saber and his stroke missed, going wide. Haldir’s fingers closed desperately around the black-handled knives.

He smacked the seeking saber blade away and reversed the grip of one of the knives. The hilt slammed into Fedorian’s temple, knocking the stunned elf to the ground. With a kick, Haldir sent his saber into the air and caught it deftly by the hilt with his uninjured hand, dropping the other knife in the grass. Fedorian still lay where Haldir had flung him only slowly rising from his prone position. Haldir didn’t strike him but circled warily.

Sharp, panting breaths fogged the sparkling air as each waited on the other. Leaning over his knees, Fedorian laughed, his breath coming faster.

“You are more like me than you know, Haldir. You…are just as ruthless, just as…hateful. But you hide it better. Though not always. I know you, Haldir. I know what you have suffered—and will suffer if you continue down this road. You still flinch when he touches you don’t you?”

Again Haldir chose not to answer. He knew Fedorian was trying to goad him into making a foolish mistake but he was too old and clever to let personal taunts break his concentration. His ribs were really beginning to sting now. Another cut stung above his eyebrow and leaked blood into his eyes. Haldir blinked rapidly to clear his reddening vision, glancing at the slash across his arm. No tendons had been severed that he could feel and the blood was already slowing as his body reacted to the increased adrenaline and need for strength. But Fedorian’s voice wormed into his head.

“You are weak, Haldir. You think you have put this behind you, you haven’t. I see it in your eyes. You still fear what they think of you,” Fedorian hissed, jerking his head in Aragorn’s direction even as his fingers crept towards the knife hilt pointed toward him on the grass. “Murderer and recreant, you hide your sins behind your vaunted pride and well-cultivated self-righteousness. You are one to speak so to me of wrong and bloodlust. For what were the men of Gondor? The boy, Tergon? What were they except unarmed and defenseless when you slaughtered them in their sleep?”

A prickle of anger ruffled Haldir’s otherwise smooth composure. He curled his hand into a fist, blood dripping slowly between his fingers. He was letting Fedorian’s words get to him without realizing it. But, of course, like the skilled marksman he was, Fedorian knew just how to throw his darts so they would hit the right target, draw the most blood.

Fedorian’s hand closed around the hilt as he bounded to his feet. The whistling saber bypassed him by a hairsbreadth as he grabbed Haldir’s sword wrist and twisted his arm sharply behind his back. He applied pressure, almost wrenching Haldir’s shoulder out of its socket. Caught off balance by the pain, Haldir dropped forward and down at the same time Fedorian flicked his left hand up, the knife gripped in his fist. There was no way he could free himself in time.

Haldir felt slick, piercing coldness as the knife slipped between two of his ribs, nicked a third and twisted inward, seeking his spine. Haldir torqued his torso desperately, crying out as the knife dug in deeper but missed the vital aim of his lungs.

Pain, bright and intense, washed over his humming consciousness and the cords in his neck stood out, red spots dimming his vision. He barely noticed Fedorian’s slackened grip on his wrist. A long slow smile flitted across Fedorian’s face as he tugged maliciously upward. Haldir didn’t have any breath left to scream as his broken rib grated against another which snapped ominously. Bone was no match against steel.

Desperate, half-paralyzed with agony, Haldir did the only thing he could think of. Instead of pulling away as Fedorian expected, he leaned forward, forcing the knife even deeper into his side, and lashed backward like a releasing bow, butting the other elf hard in the forehead with the back of his head. The risky move worked. It thrust Fedorian back a pace and made him lose his grip on the knife. Haldir barely managed to stagger to his feet and touched the wooden hilt growing out of his side. He didn’t dare remove it, knowing the imminent blood loss could very well send him over the brink into unconsciousness. Every breath was painful and he could feel the length of steel quiver inside him. The moment he spent recovering was a moment too long.

Fedorian’s second knife slammed into his mouth and he tasted blood. But a jolt of panic washed all thought of his bitten cheek away as a tremor ran through the knife in his side. Fedorian’s long fingers had closed around the wooden hilt. Haldir looked up at him. There was no pity in the dead gaze. He was going to finish this. One way or the other.