Wildest Dreams
Chapter Three
Word Count: 4,908
Rating: T/PG-13, with discussions of/implied torture and some... death
Disclaimer: Normally I'm wittier, but... I got nothing. I would say I own nothing, but that's not true. I created the original characters that are driving the plot, so... I guess I own something.
Summary: Third following Storms in Middle Earth and Forever Afternoon. Unsettling dreams and unknown threats disturb the peace of Ithilien, forcing Firyavaryar from the place he tried to call home and drawing others into danger once again.
Author's Note: I didn't mean for this to take so long to set up. I was actually expecting a certain elf to leave before this, only a certain other elf reminded me that some other things needed to happen before he left. Plus he was supposed to stay at least until someone else arrived, which did not make it into this chapter. It will be in the next, though.

The Slight Clarity of Morning

"If he comes, we kill him."

Firyavaryar laughed, looking at his gwador and trying to summon a smile. "You make it sound so simple, but even with your skills, I do not believe it will be. He should have died when I bit him. He did not. He should have died when I pushed him over the edge. If he did not, then he will not be easy to kill. Do you not think that were it simple, I would have achieved it when I was still an elfling? Yes, I was small, but I was desperate. I would have done anything to free myself and save my family."

Nostalion grunted. "Desperation makes us clumsy. It is not surprising that he lived."

Varyar shook his head. "It cannot be that alone. I do not care how clumsy that fall was—that should have killed him. It should have killed me. There is no explanation for why it did not. Or for my own survival."

The assassin pulled him to his feet. Another elf might have lost an arm or perhaps a head, meeting with one of Nostalion's blades and a quick death. Those were the fortunate ones. The swiftness of Nostalion's kills was far more merciful than anything Firyavaryar had received.

"Are you suggesting that you owe your survival to Ogol?" Nostalion's voice came out in a low, angry growl. Anger in the assassin terrified most people. Varyar was immune to it, having lost fear for his own life years ago. "Did that thing save your life?"

"I do not know," Firyavaryar heard himself whisper. He pulled himself free of the other elf's hold and turned away. "It is possible. I can only remember a bit of finding my way to you, of telling Ogol that he would not get any of you—I was already moving before I spoke. I knew what I was going to do. I knew as soon as I saw him that I would push him over the edge, but I also knew I lacked the strength to do it without falling myself. I also did not care."

Nostalion did not speak. Firyavaryar had not discussed that day with anyone, not like this. He had said he did not know how he survived, and that was true. He had been dying—he had thought he was—and that would affect anyone's memory. He knew he was weak—when he closed his eyes in the throne room, he had not expected to open them again and rise.

Ogol snarled, yanking Firyavaryar from the throne, dumping him onto the floor. Varyar did not move, not able to, not daring to. He hurt, everywhere, and he knew that he should. It was nothing more than what he deserved. He accepted the pain.

"Do not think that your friend will escape me, pet. I will have him and the others. You were excellent bait, as usual, and now I have many to add to my army, and if you are foolish enough to think death has given you any sort of freedom, you will be disappointed. I will deal with you after I take care of them."

The robes swept away, and Varyar forced his head up from the ground. Ogol would have said that even if the others were long gone, but if they had not gotten away—Legolas was wounded, and the only hope they had of finding him before Ogol did was Nostalion—No. Ogol would not have his gwador. Sérëdhiel needed Nostalion. Nothing Firyavaryar could do would atone for what he had done to Legolas, he knew that, but he had to stop Ogol from recapturing the prince.

Varyar pushed himself up off the ground, stumbling forward. He was more dead than alive, but this time he swore that he would take the monster with him. They would both die here.

"Varyar."

He lifted his head, looking up at Nostalion. "I was only remembering. You do not have to worry."

"You are a fool if you think no one worries. It is not just the memories or the dreams that concern them. It is your willingness to die for them."

"Are you angry with me?" Firyavaryar almost snorted. What right did the assassin have to be angry? "Were you in my position then, you would have chosen to end your life if it meant ending his. It would have been the same decision. We are too alike for you to deny that, and you have always risked your life for your family when they did not even acknowledge your existence. We are not that—"

"You may have called me gwador first, but you know what family means to me." Nostalion's words were laced with a harsh edge, a warning. "It is not and will not be nothing if you die. We acknowledge the risks and are willing to sacrifice, but that does not mean that I want you dead. There are times when you anger me, but you are family."

"I condemned you when I called you gwador," Firyavaryar said. He lowered his head again. "I did not know what I was doing at the time, but I understand now."

"Understand this, then. It is time for you to return to the others."

No, Varyar thought, it is time for me to leave them.

Legolas watched the assassin moving back through the trees, uncertain how to react. He had thought that Nostalion would bring Firyavaryar back with him when he returned, but he was alone. That seemed strange to him, but Legolas knew not to question Nostalion. He could ask Varyar if he felt it was necessary, but he was not certain that he did. If Nostalion thought he could leave Firyavaryar where he was, then Legolas would trust that. He figured that the tracker could find Varyar again, though he hoped that they would not need to, that Firyavaryar would return on his own.

If only Varyar were more like Estel. Though he and the king did not always agree, he felt that it was easier to be close to Estel, easier to know how to react, even easier to care. Firyavaryar made things difficult, but Estel was noble, and it was not hard to love the lord of the white tree.

Legolas shook his head. His other friend was busy, and he did not know that he could go to the king with only minor discontentment to speak of, to weigh him down with tales of sea longing and troubled elves. No, while he did not want to trouble him. If he had a better reason to rush off to Minas Tirith, he might have been tempted, but even last night's dream and Varyar's continued absence was not enough to drive him to Estel for aid, as much as he wanted to see his friend.

Still, he could not help thinking that Estel's mere presence would make these troubled times ease.

"I see that I am not the only one having an early morning," Faramir commented, and Legolas turned back to him with a faint smile. "A messenger came out from Minas Tirith as soon as the sun rose. I don't think Lord Aragorn would have liked it if he'd known about it, but they insisted on coming ahead to prepare us for his visit and ensure his safety."

"Estel would hate that," Legolas said, grimacing. He knew his friend did not like having extra guards to watch over him or any unnecessary fuss when he visited Ithilien. It was hard for this place to be a refuge when Estel had to keep an entourage with him.

"I know, but they were insistent. He isn't traveling alone, and I think that scares them more than usual," Faramir said. He shook his head. "He is the finest swordsman in all Middle Earth. It is hard to believe he needs protection."

Legolas laughed. "Oh, if you knew him when he was younger, you would not say that. Our fathers despaired of us, and we were known for returning with enough injuries to make the healers wish we had died—though in some cases, that would have been more merciful than my father's fury when he saw my state."

Faramir smiled. "That sounds like a story I would like to hear someday."

"Have I not annoyed you with all that I have told you so far? I would think that tales of our exploits would become boring by now," Legolas said with a smile. "I swear that was all I spoke of while we worked to found this colony. The other elves sang to shut out the sound of my voice."

"You exaggerate," Faramir said, though he was smiling as well. "I did not mind the tales. Éowyn enjoyed them as well, and I think, for all his grumbling, so did Gimli."

"Have you seen Gimli this morning?"

"No, I have not." Faramir frowned. "I know I heard him threaten to leave when your other friends arrived, but I thought that more of his usual grumpiness, not something that he truly intended to do. He must be here somewhere, and he would not leave if he knew Aragorn was coming."

"You said Aragorn was not coming alone."

"He isn't. Lady Arwen and their son will be with him, but even so, I do not believe that would chase Gimli from your side."

"No, it would not," Legolas agreed. "I suppose he will return from a hunt and tell me I am behind in the count again. I look forward to it."

Faramir glanced at him, and Legolas almost laughed. He knew that his friendship with Gimli was one few understood, same as his friendship with Varyar had been and still was. Even now there were people who did not understand how he was friends with Estel—or why.

"Come," Legolas told the steward. "Let us get ready for our friend's arrival."

"Sérëdhiel said to bring this to you."

Firyavaryar looked up with a frown. Exactly what did his sister think she was doing? She knew not to do this—she was not helping with her interference, only harming—and it was a terrible thing to do to a friend. "I am not hungry. Please go."

"She said I should make you eat it whether you were hungry or not," Eruaistaniel said, a faint color coming into her cheeks. He wondered if that was all his sister had told her when she sent her on this foolish errand. "I do not know how she could expect me to do that. No one makes you do anything that you do not wish to do."

He snorted, knowing that was far from true. Ogol had taken him and tortured him for years, same with Draugminaion, and Meligur had coerced him into going after Turvuin. Indeed, it did not take much to make him do what he did not want to—a threat against any of his family accomplished that. He had been weak to that too many times—Sérëdhiel would say there was a strength to that weakness, but she did not understand how easily he had been manipulated by it. He had not told her.

"I suppose, perhaps, you would do it if you pitied me," Eruaistaniel said, and he turned to her with a frown. He had done some things for Eruaistaniel out of pity, much more out of respect for what she was to his sister, and others because he gave her his protection. He knew, however, that it was not pity Sérëdhiel expected to motivate his actions this time. Eruaistaniel held out the fruit to him. "Please do not send me back to your sister with my task unfulfilled. She would be most cross, and I am so very afraid of her."

"You are not," he said, shaking his head at her clumsy attempt. He was tempted to laugh. She smiled back at him, and he almost winced. He knew what she was not saying, knew what all the small gestures meant, and he wished that he could pretend he did not. He did not enjoy lying—he was a better liar than Legolas, at least—but he would liked to have been able to ignore it. He caused her pain now, more so than he had before, because she knew that he knew. "You have never feared Sérëdhiel, and you would not start now."

"I suppose it would seem foolish to do so here, when we have a home. This land is so peaceful that even Alassë can forget that there are edain nearby, and you know how she hates them," Eruaistaniel said, looking down at the fruit. "Even I can almost forget them here."

"That is good. I am glad this has proved as a refuge for you. I know Legolas would be pleased."

"Legolas is a fine elf, but this food is for you, and I will not take it to him." Eruaistaniel sighed as she studied the food. "It would have been better if I had been able to cook. I could have made your favorite."

"My favorite." He shook his head. He did not care for food other than recognizing it as necessary. Of all of them, it was true that Eruaistaniel cooked the best, but he rarely ate, and she knew this.

She lifted up a piece of the fruit and slipped it between his lips. He almost choked on it, not realizing he had left his mouth open enough for that. She took another for herself, smiling timidly as she ate it. He finished the fruit, swallowing it down with a curse. He did not want to crush her spirit, not when she was bold enough to try that, but it was necessary now. He had to do it.

She stared at him. "Varyar, I am sorry. I did not mean to choke you. I do not even know why I thought I could do that—"

"It is not the fruit," he said, not certain he could continue when he looked at her face, at those wide eyes that had already seen too much pain. "I... You know that when I was still a child, Ogol put a claim upon me, that he marked me as his."

She frowned, her voice hesitant. "I—Yes, I have heard some of that, but I have never known the details. I do not know that it was ever my place to know, and you do not have to tell me now."

He would never speak to anyone of the details of that time, and she was not one he would tell even were he willing to talk about it. "I am not giving you details. I am trying to... clarify. It is necessary for you to know this, or I would not say anything."

She tensed, pulling back and scrambling to her feet. She almost tripped over her skirt in her haste. "I told you that I was sorry I made you eat the fruit. I will go now—"

"Eruaistaniel," he said, and she stopped. He rose, facing her, placing his hands on her arms as gently as he could so that she would not run, trying to ignore that they were not covered by gloves this time. "I need you to listen because this is something you have to understand. When Ogol claimed me, he said I would never be free of him, that I would be the one who led—and even created—his army."

"You would not do that."

"No, I would not, not willingly, and I refused many times, ran and hid... Even with all I did to avoid it or deny it, Ogol never accepted my refusal," Firyavaryar told her. He shook his head. "He expected me to give him my family. I do not mean Idhrenion and Sérëdhiel alone. I have always known that if I had any children, they would be forfeit to him."

Eruaistaniel winced, lowering her head. "He was a monster. To take children..."

Varyar nodded, though she was not hearing what he was trying to tell her. He would have to be more direct, even if it hurt her. "I swore, back when I was an elfling and still his prisoner, that I would not have any children for him to take, that I would not do anything that would put those children at risk. I would not bond with anyone or act without that bond."

"That is... practical. It is even admirable," she said, and then her eyes widened further as she looked up at him. She stepped backward, trying to pull free. "You do not have to do this. I—I have heard enough. You did not have to say anything at all. I knew that such things were—I knew."

He grimaced. He should not have said anything at all. It was not as necessary as he had thought, and all it had done was draw up pain. It had not helped anyone or spared anyone. He let her go, and she turned to leave. She stumbled, and he went to her side.

"Please," she said, righting herself, and he almost flinched when he saw the tears. "I would rather not have your assistance or—I do not want to say it, but I have to—Ogol is dead. He cannot harm your family now. You are cured. If you sought to excuse—"

"This is not an excuse."

She swallowed. "You... believe Ogol lives?"

"I do not know that I can believe Ogol is dead. I am not," Varyar reminded her quietly. "I cannot explain why I am not. Why should he have perished when I did not?"

"I—If Ogol is alive, is anyone here safe from him? What of Thenidriel and Tirithon? You fear he will take them? Varyar, what will you do?"

"I have to find some way of proving whether or not he lives."

She winced. "You mean you are leaving. You will use yourself to bait him."

"Eruaistaniel—"

"I will not tell the others, if that is what you were about to say," she told him, speaking with the composure she had been trained to have. She was stiff and formal, and it made him want to shake her, even if he knew that would not help. He did not want to scare her, but he hated when she retreated into the formalities she was raised with. "I would not try to stop you, either."

He snorted, speaking without any thought at all. "As if you could."

She shook her head. "There are others you would stay for if they asked. I do not fool myself into thinking I would ever be one of them."

He blinked, going over what he had said and her words. He could have debated them, could have attempted some sort of apology, but he did not think an apology was wise, even if he could see how much damage he had already done.

"Excuse me. Please," she said, not waiting for him to respond before she as much as fled from him. He lowered his head. He had not wanted to do that, had not wanted to hurt her, but now he had another reason to leave.

"That was not one of your smarter ideas," Nostalion observed, and Sérëdhiel looked up at him, shifting Tirithon in her arms as she did. She needed more to understand his mood, but she could tell that something had changed from when they spoke in the night to now, and she would have tried to relax the tension from his body if she were not holding onto the gwinig.

"You think I should have prevented you from finding Varyar somehow? What am I, an infinitely powerful sorceress? Even Galadriel could not prevent you from finding him," Sérëdhiel said, and Nostalion's eyes narrowed at her.

"That is a poor evasion," he said, shaking his head. "You know what I mean. You sent Eruaistaniel to him. That was a mistake."

Sérëdhiel sighed. "If he was quarreling with you, then why would he listen to me if I told him to eat? I could have stood there, resolute and stubborn, until he did eat something, but I would have wasted more than half the day on it. He has trouble saying no to her, though, so why should I not send her this time?"

"You know why," Nostalion said, lifting Tirithon out of her arms. "It only hurts her to be near him when she feels as she does."

"And am I to tell her to avoid him for all the rest of their long days? She cannot."

Nostalion grunted. He studied Tirithon for a long moment, as though he needed to memorize the way his son looked, and Sérëdhiel's stomach twisted. He was preparing to leave. She could tell. She did not like it, but she knew the signs.

"What did Varyar tell you?"

Nostalion looked at her over their son's head, and she could tell how little he wanted to tell her. She put a hand on his arm, and he pulled her against him.

"Tell me that is not possible. Tell me Ogol is dead. That monster will not take our child."

"He would never get close," Nostalion said. She tried to believe that, but she knew that every time they had thought they were safe before, it had not lasted. Now she had Tirithon to worry over, and she did not want to think about the possibility of another. "I will not let anything happen to our son. I told you this."

She forced herself to nod. "I know that, but Ogol is not an ordinary enemy. He is the monster that has pursued us since childhood, who has tormented my brother and taken us all before. He is a nightmare we have never managed to wake up from, and Varyar has told me enough to know that he would want our son, that he would consider it his right to have Tirithon and Thenidriel and—"

"Your brother is half-insane," Nostalion said, and she glared at him. "I am not saying that to dismiss his concerns or belittle him. Even he cannot know if it is only his paranoia that is causing this. He cannot prove that Ogol is dead, so he fears he must be alive. He has not slept, and that makes this paranoia worse."

Sérëdhiel pulled away from her husband, needing to pace out some of her own tension. "That does not make him wrong. I want him to be. I do not want Ogol to be alive. Still, Varyar could be right."

"It is possible."

"Possible," she agreed, stopping with a shudder. "There may be no way of proving that Ogol is dead even if he is and has been since that fall. We only know that Saruman was not Ogol. We do not know why Varyar survived or how. Without that, it is impossible to know if Ogol did."

"True."

Sérëdhiel let out a breath. "Then what are we to do? Use the sleeping herbs on him every night until he lets go of this fear? Let him succumb fully to the madness and conviction that this monster lives?"

"Or allow him to go looking for proof."

"There is none."

Tirithon started to cry, and Sérëdhiel winced as she crossed to take the child from Nostalion. She supposed someone was hungry, but she did not want to feed him yet. She needed to finish this conversation without the vulnerability that came with feeding a gwinig.

"There are other questions he might resolve instead," Nostalion told her, and she frowned. "The echil and Legolas both spoke of an elleth that survived a torture Varyar believes killed her. Supposedly he bargained with Ogol to free her, but he says he could not have. If she could tell him what that bargain was or he could see for himself that she did live, that could be some relief for him."

"Would it be?" Sérëdhiel asked, causing Nostalion to frown this time. "If that elleth did not survive, it would bring him only grief. And if she did survive, perhaps he was not the one that bargained with Ogol. Perhaps she did."

"You think she fooled Galadriel and all Lórien and is working for Ogol? Why?"

"I do not know. I do not like the idea of him going anywhere. He may have been cured of the poison, and that saved his life, but we are none of us fools—we can all see how lost he is now. His survival still remains a curse, and he no longer carries a weapon."

"That can change."

"I think I'm looking at one spoiled little princeling," Gimli said when he found Legolas sitting on a tree root. He didn't know what appealed to the elf about this place, but he seemed happy here. He wanted to be here. Gimli didn't understand it, but then Legolas did not understand his love for the glittering caves, either. "Overslept, did you?"

"On the contrary," Legolas answered, rubbing his neck. "I did not sleep much at all, and I have only just stopped this moment to pause before seeing to more details for an upcoming visit."

"Bah. I know you. You're just lazy." Gimli said, sitting down next to him. "I've already got two for my count, and even if we had a whole king's company coming, we could feed them."

Legolas smiled. "I suppose we should send you out every morning to ensure we have enough food even though there are plenty of elven hunters here to see to that task. In fact, if you would like to take that duty sometime, Nostalion, you can."

Gimli frowned. He had not heard anyone else approaching, but the assassin stood behind them, glowering like usual.

"So you imagine yourself a hunter," the dark elf said, and Gimli almost rose, tempted to grab his axe. That one might have been a friend of his friend, but that did not mean that he trusted either one of them. Legolas was about the only one trusted Firyavaryar, and it was Varyar who trusted Nostalion. That one was a threat, and Gimli knew it.

He watched the elf warily. "What makes you say that?"

"You count your kills," Nostalion said. "You think this makes you some kind of hunter? One that can claim his kills with pride?"

"It's no shame to be proud of one's skill as a warrior. We dwarves are not ashamed to wield our blades. Nothing wrong with that." Gimli would not be bullied into shame, not by this or any elf. He had been fighting all his life. It was what dwarves did. "Unless you're ashamed of what you do?"

Nostalion's expression darkened, but it was a different elf who spoke.

Legolas shook his head. "It is not about shame. There is a difference between pride and acknowledgment of our own capabilities. Nostalion knows what he is capable of, but he does not feel a need to boast of it."

"Indeed. Nostalion's kills are quick, clean, and efficient. They are so quiet even they do not speak for themselves. Some of them would go without any notice at all, and that, dwarf, is where pride would lie—if Nostalion chose to take pride in them," Firyavaryar said, and Legolas smiled when he looked up to find his friend in the tree.

"I thought you were not fond of trees."

"And I thought you were more sensitive to nature," Firyavaryar said. He tapped the branch. "This is not a tree. This is our resident onod. He has fallen asleep again, but he should be recognizable as himself despite that."

Gimli grunted. As far as he could tell, the ent was more of a tree than an ent, and it was impossible to tell the difference. "Are you both here to insult us?"

"I believe you said the first insult, and no," Nostalion answered. He looked up at the elf in the tree. Firyavaryar did not speak, neither of them did for a moment, but he did nod. He slid down out of the tree, landing on the ground. "You may continue your conversation about hunters without us."

Gimli frowned. "You have a problem with hunters?"

"No, he has a problem with self-important dwarves who think overmuch of their prowess in battle," Firyavaryar said, and Legolas frowned at him.

"Self-important? Think overmuch of my prowess?" Gimli demanded. He had been patient enough with these elves, but he thought it was time they all moved on from Ithilien. He stepped in front of Nostalion, blocking the assassin's path. "You think so little of my skill? What about yours? I challenge you to prove it."

"You wish to display your skill?"

Gimli nodded. "Why not? It's been too long since I had a good fight."

"Very well," Nostalion agreed, withdrawing the set of knives that matched the set Legolas wore.

Firyavaryar shook his head at the same time as Legolas. "That is far from fair, gwador. The dwarf would not survive against you even were he the most talented of all dwarves. You cannot fight him."

"Not me." The assassin said. He held the knife out to Firyavaryar. "You."

"Me? I have not used a blade in centuries."

"Exactly," Nostalion said with a smile. "That makes it almost a fair fight."