Wildest Dreams
Chapter Four
Word Count:
7,520
Rating/Disclaimer/Summary:
Same as chapter 1, really
Author's Note:
So... I think I said before that I'm not good at action scenes and that I hate them and... well, these ones ended up being mostly talking, and I admit I'm not disappointed with them in that respect because I love dialogue and can write it. I can't write action. I did try, but I came far short of what I hoped for with their sparring, and I don't know how to fix it.

This was kind of necessary, though. More or less. It's been a lot harder to get things in motion than I thought it would be.


Dealing in Distractions

It was, Legolas supposed, inevitable that tensions and tempers would flare and erupt into violence, even in Ithilien. He had known that his friends kept the peace for his sake, not out of any kind of friendship or affection for each other. They might have been friends with him, but they were not friends with each other. He did not know that they would ever become that. They were very different people, and it was not race alone that separated them.

He did wish that it was not so easy to provoke the dwarf. Such a comment should not have turned into a battle. That was just the sort of thing that Firyavaryar would say, the way he teased everyone, even those he called friends. How many times had Legolas called him yrch because of a comment like that? It was one of their oldest games, and he still enjoyed it.

Gimli did not, obviously.

Legolas watched as the assassin took out one of the knives Ehtyarion had given him. He started to move forward to stop it. He valued Gimli's skills and his help in battle, but he did not think it was right to let him fight someone with Nostalion's training. The assassin had learned to do one thing—kill—and he did it well. Legolas did not want Gimli harmed. This had to be stopped.

Except Nostalion held the blade out to Firyavaryar. "You."

"Me?" Varyar asked, snorting as he did. "I have not used a blade in centuries."

"Exactly," Nostalion said, smiling. "That makes it almost a fair fight. The dwarf will still lose, but it will not be so pathetic a loss."

"Why you—" Gimli sputtered in anger, raising his axe to have it met by the blade Varyar had taken from Nostalion. Though the axe did not splinter as Mithrandir's staff had done, Legolas could not help remembering that moment when Firyavaryar had betrayed a greater skill with the sword than he had shown before.

It had been years since Legolas had seen Varyar fight, even more than the same centuries that he had claimed had passed since he held a blade. He could not help being a bit excited, even if he knew he should stop this fight. A part of him wanted to see it, always having been curious about his friend's skills. He knew that even when Varyar played at being clumsy, he had been a good match for Legolas in training.

"Do you think, little dwarf, that my only skill was with poison?" Varyar asked, pushing back with the knife. "It is true that I have not used one of these in years, but they are rather simple tools."

"Estel would disagree with you. He is a fine swordsman."

"I do not care about your echil, Legolas," Firyavaryar said, sidestepping the dwarf. He let the blade pass along the edge of the axe until it was free. "It was the dwarf who issued the challenge, and it is the dwarf who must answer it."

"And it is the elf who talks too much instead of fighting."

Varyar laughed. "Do you realize, small one, that you could have been dead several times over during so short a conversation? Were this the sort of battle that Nostalion and I usually fight, he would have dispatched you while I held you in thrall. There is more to killing than a sharp-edged blade."

"You cannot act as a distraction if you are alone," Legolas reminded him. He glanced toward Nostalion. He supposed the assassin rarely left his gwador's side.

"I am not alone. I have an audience."

"Not giving them much of a show, are you, laddie?" Gimli asked, and Varyar gave him a rather dangerous smile.

"Flourishes are the prince's specialty, not mine." Firyavaryar circled the dwarf. "Besides, you are small and tiny and not worth a flourish. I could knock you over with my glove—and I am not wearing any this time."

Gimli snarled, and metal clanged against metal as he swung his axe. Varyar countered with the knife, and Legolas could not see any sign that it had been years since he used a blade. His movements seemed effortless, almost bored with his dance with the dwarf.

"I think you need a real opponent."

"What?" Gimli sputtered. "I'll have you know I'm more than a match for this pointy-eared devil."

Varyar snorted. "I have yet to see you swing that axe with any sort of skill. Perhaps we need a weapon more suited to your size."

The dwarf muttered to himself things Legolas was glad his elven hearing could not catch over the renewed sounds of battle. He grimaced. "Gimli, do not let him do this. He is baiting you. It is what he does. He makes you angry, keeps you that way to make you sloppy and unfocused. It is giving him an unfair advantage."

"Like you did not call me a yrch when we fought as elflings."

"I did, but that is because you were tricky and deceitful when we fought. You would make me angry to unbalance me, and I let you more often than I should have," Legolas admitted. "Our games were never played on equal ground."

"Of course not. You are a prince, and royalty always wins," Varyar said. He shook his head. "You are trying to give the dwarf the unfair advantage, talking to me as you do, but I must admit—it will not work. Misdirection is a favorite method of mine, and I am rarely fooled by it after all my time with Ogol."

"You are toying with him, Varyar. It is not right."

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me," Gimli said, though Legolas could see that he heeded some of Legolas' words, slowing down and measuring his opponent, looking for weaknesses and opportunities instead of blindly attacking. Varyar did not permit many, but what advantage Gimli could find, he used, balancing out the fight into something more equitable, as it should have been all along. Gimli was not a poor fighter. He could handle his axe with great skill. It was only Firyavaryar's talent for upsetting his opponents that had caused the imbalance between them. Now that it was more even, Legolas could see some strain and fatigue in his old friend.

"I think we have settled this challenge," Legolas began. "Gimli has skill, that is undeniable, and you can stop goading him about it because I know you were only teasing before. Let this end."

"I wonder—is it the dwarf you worry for? Surely it is not me. I am only a bit fatigued," Varyar said, though Gimli's axe came far too close to his tunic for Legolas' liking. "Either of us should be insulted by your actions. Do you think us so incapable of seeing the match to its finish?"

"I think," Legolas paused for emphasis, "that you are not acting as though this were a real challenge at all. You have taunted and pretended to fight, but it is all you ever do. You have not given Gimli a true opportunity to prove anything, nor have you shown what you are truly capable of."

Varyar stopped. "Were this a true challenge, the dwarf would be dead."

"That is not true. You fought me before without killing me."

Firyavaryar glanced at Nostalion. "I think I understand now. The dwarf issued the challenge, but it is the elf that wants to fight."

"You have said you are not forgiven. Perhaps it is time to settle this in another way," the assassin said, holding out the other knife.

Varyar looked at it and back at Legolas before nodding and accepting the second blade. "Very well, gwador. Your challenge is accepted."


"This was a lot of fuss for one visit to Ithilien," Aragorn said, and Arwen smiled over at him, amused by his grumbling. He supposed he'd done plenty of it on the way over. He did not need this many guards, even with his family beside him, and he did not want all these servants. He missed the days when he had no more than a bedroll and a sword beside him, the days when he knew the freedom that came with being a ranger.

He had responsibilities then, had people that depended upon him, but it was not the same as what he had now. He was a king, and it was part of his duty to be seen. He had to be in his kingdom, had to be there where he could see his people and they could see him. They could not know how their city became a prison, and they did not know he felt that way. He would deny it even to himself if he could have, since he had no desire to feel that way about Minas Tirith or being a king.

"Perhaps the fuss was necessary," Arwen said, pulling him from his thoughts, and he frowned, but a moment later, he caught the same sound her fine ears had already recognized—the clash of blade against blade, the tang of metal as it struggled through battle. Someone was fighting.

"I do not understand," he said. "If Ithilien was under attack, we would know. Stay here."

"Aragorn—"

"You protect her and the boy," Aragorn ordered the guards, moving away from them and toward the fight. He knew they would not care for that command, but he did not care. He did not need their protection. Even Arwen did not, but the boy was still vulnerable, still a child, and he wanted his guards to care for what mattered to him most—his family. If his friends here in Ithilien needed him, he would fight with them, but he wanted Arwen and Eldarion safe first.

He entered deeper into the forest of Ithilien, tracking the sound of the fight to its source deep in the trees. A crowd had already gathered around, blocking much from view, but he could hear voices now that he was closer.

"I thought you left the flourishes to me," Legolas called out, and Aragorn pushed past a few elves to where he could see, coming to a stop beside Gimli.

"Is that what you call that? I thought you slipped," Firyavaryar called back, grinning as he dodged a blade. "Come now, prince. The dwarf gave me a better fight—and he was boring."

"Yrch," Legolas muttered, and Firyavaryar laughed. Aragorn heard Gimli muttering to himself, but his attention was on the two elves. He had seen Legolas fight many times before—he had fought with him and beside him, and he knew his friend's moves well. He could predict where Legolas would step, when he would turn, which blade would strike and which would block.

The surprise came from Firyavaryar. Aragorn had seen the Avari fight before, but he had done so using no more than the poison he carried within him and perhaps a bit of natural elven agility. To see him armed with a set of knives that matched Legolas' favored weapons and wielding them with nearly the same ease as the wood elf, that was not something he would have expected.

"You warned the dwarf not to fall for my tricks, yet now you are."

"Tricks are all you have. It is only fair to let you use some of them."

Firyavaryar snorted, countering Legolas' strike with a flurry that had the prince backing into a tree by mistake. Legolas ducked the next blow, murmuring an apology to the tree when the other elf struck it, and glaring at his friend.

"That was unnecessary," Legolas said. "We do not have to do this."

"Your ability to resist being baited into anger while you fight has much improved over the centuries. Beridhren and Ehtyarion would be quite proud of you," Firyavaryar told Legolas, circling around him and the tree. "Yet you settle nothing when you ignore that anger. Come now. Admit that I angered you. That you want to hate me. That I have done nothing but disappoint you since the day I left Greenwood."

"That is not true. You are and always have been my gwador," Legolas insisted. He shook his head. "Why bother allowing the anger to motivate me when you are still holding back? You have not attempted to fight me as I know you can. Do you think that getting me to hurt you will somehow change things? I assure you—it will not."

"You do not want me to fight you."

"Truthfully, no, I do not," Legolas agreed. "I have no desire to harm you, and I know you have not rested since your arrival here. You are not speaking of the same thing."

Aragorn thought he would have liked to see Legolas do something to Firyavaryar, even if he had found a way to let go of his frustration and anger regarding Legolas' decision to forgive the Avari. He still had a few lingering resentments, most of which were not helped by the way that Varyar always insulted him when they interacted.

"No, I am not," Firyavaryar said. He glanced toward Nostalion. "You would not fight him because you know his training was intended for death alone. You respect it and do not ask for him to temper that training for a meaningless exercise."

Aragorn frowned. Did Firyavaryar consider his own training the same? How was that possible? No one had trained him as an assassin—he lacked the technique of Nostalion and was not as polished a fighter as Legolas.

"That is how you would fight," Legolas said. "You think it is only to cause death and has no other purpose."

"Will you tell me it does?" Firyavaryar shook his head. "There is defense, yes, and that is noble, but to train as we do was never meant for mere defense. You were raised in a land at war, Legolas, and you bear that burden even now. Your echil does as well."

Aragorn did not know if the elf was aware of his presence, but he did not think anyone was going to interrupt the two of them, not now.

"You were raised for war." Legolas' voice was quiet, so low that Aragorn almost missed it. "That is what Ogol wanted you for."

Firyavaryar nodded, though Aragorn still did not see why the Avari was so valuable to Ogol. He did not seem to have any particular skill. He was not the warrior that his assassin friend was, nor was he equal to Legolas. As commander of an army, Firyavaryar would have been unimpressive.

"Yet it was the path you always turned from."

"No, not always," Firyavaryar disagreed. He lifted the knife in his right hand, turning it around for a moment before leveling it at Legolas. "When he sent the orcs against me, I fought. I fought because I had to if I was going to survive to return to my family. I fought because I did not care how many of them I killed. They were nameless, faceless, and even if I slaughtered every one of them that came after me, I could never be certain that I had killed all those who had a part in what he did to my mother."

"Nor could I," Legolas agreed. "That has always bound us together, that understanding."

"It does not," Firyavaryar spat, going on the attack. He struck out in anger, the kind he had tried to provoke Legolas into not long ago, but where someone else might have become clumsy and sloppy while under a berserker's rage, Firyavaryar used it to add to his blows, coming closer to hurting Legolas and forcing him to struggle to maintain his balance as he backed over tree roots trying to avoid his friend's fury. "You say that as if it could undo all that I have done in the centuries that have passed, that it could change what I am and what you are and it does not. You always gave it more credence than it should have been given."

"No one else understood what it was like, as much as they tried," Legolas disagreed, and Aragorn thought he heard some anger from him now. "No one else knows what it is like to watch a mother die and think it is your fault and to see the horrors that orcs inflict on the bodies of their victims and fear what is coming to you and—"

"And Ogol as much as told me once that he arranged for your mother to die as mine had so that we could bond and I could lead you to him."

Legolas stopped. "What?"

Firyavaryar shook his head. "He lied about everything, and I do not know that it was true, but I know that little was impossible with him. He could have done it—he had the orcs to send after your mother—but I have never known if he was telling me the truth or wanting me to blame myself more for what had happened in Greenwood."

"You lied," Legolas said. "All this time, every time you denied your role in saving my life and Beridhren's—that orc was not so wounded that it was easily overcome. You had the skill to do it back then, but you hid it. You were that talented even then."

"Did you think that Ogol wanted me to lead his army only because of the way I look?"

Legolas snorted. "You are not that pretty."

"Ogol thought I was. He bred me to his specifications, and he was not displeased by the way I looked. I was not just supposed to lead the army. I was supposed to create it."

"It would have been an ugly one."

"Yrch."

Legolas laughed. He put his knives away before stepping forward to embrace the other elf. "Torment yourself no longer, gwador. Even if Ogol arranged for my mother's death, it was not your doing or anything you could have stopped. We were both children then."

"Oh, get off of me. You are still a fool," Firyavaryar said, shoving him away. "A loyal one, yes, but nevertheless a fool."

Aragorn grunted. He was almost tempted to agree with that after what he'd just seen, since Legolas seemed willing to forgive Firyavaryar almost anything, but he was right—if Ogol had done that to Legolas' mother, Firyavaryar could not have stopped it. He was only a child then himself.

"Estel!" Legolas cried happily, having noticed him at last. He rushed over to Aragorn's side, smiling, though he winced as he saw the crowd that had gathered. "I was not aware that we had so large or so grand an audience. I knew you were coming, but I had not realized you were already here."

"You were busy," Aragorn told him. He smiled slightly. "Had I known that you had arranged for entertainment, I would have come sooner."

Firyavaryar bowed. "I am glad we pleased you with our wonderful farce, your majesty. I rather fear I was destined to become the court jester in Thranduil's land, and you can see why I was forced to leave before that happened."

"Varyar," Legolas said, frowning even as he struggled not to laugh. "You—"

"I must add that I have no desire to fill the role for the kingdom of Gondor, so if you will excuse me, I have an onod to wake."

Legolas shook his head as he watched Firyavaryar go. "All of this has, I fear, settled nothing at all, though I did not know that I expected it to."

"Bah. All it did was allow that devil to show off," Gimli grumbled.

Legolas reached over to ruffle the dwarf's hair. "You are only annoyed because Nostalion would not fight you."

"Nostalion?" Aragorn asked, frowning. The assassin and the dwarf? What had happened in Ithilien while he was gone?

Legolas smiled. "It is a bit of a story. Come, let us find Arwen, Faramir, and Éowyn so that I do not have to tell it more than once."


"I know that we discussed getting Varyar accustomed to carrying a weapon again, but I do not like the way you did it," Sérëdhiel told her husband, shifting Tirithon in her arms. She had been unable to watch her brother fight for long—and equally unable to turn away from it unless he was harmed. The whole thing made her very angry with both of them, and she did not want to be angry.

"He would not have taken the blades willingly, but they were always meant to be his," Nostalion reminded her, and she grimaced. She thought he wanted to be rid of them because Ehtyarion had given them to him and he still refused to acknowledge the other elf as his uncle. "Now he has used them. They are his."

"And trying to get Legolas to attack him? Will you claim that was wise?"

Nostalion grunted. "If he harbored no resentment, then your brother was not at risk. If he did, then it was best that it was fought out and dealt with. Your brother cannot atone for something if his friend refuses to acknowledge that it exists."

Sérëdhiel sighed. That was true, but she did not like it. "I do not care for your methods, even if I might see some logic in them."

"I did not do it seeking your approval," Nostalion said, wrapping his arm around her waist. "I suppose you are expected to act as hostess now."

"You think it is my role to welcome the king and his family to Ithilien? Why would that duty fall to me when there are many other elves here?"

"You are the one that the prince calls gwathel. That makes the role yours."

She looked up at him. "I am annoyed by your logic. Go and find my brother. If you are so convinced that he will keep the knives, he needs their sheaths. Otherwise he will bury them in the dirt or something equally absurd."

Nostalion touched her face. "Your moods shift quickly these days."

"If you are suggesting that Alassë is once again correct and that I carry another child, you might want to consider running to find my brother," Sérëdhiel told him. She would rather wait until Tirithon was older to have a second child, and she did not want one now, not if Varyar was right and Ogol lived. She would not accept that she was pregnant again until its signs were undeniable, and right now, they were not. She had one child, and she would protect him with all she had.

Nostalion kissed her forehead, and she tried to calm herself as he walked away. She did not want to act as hostess. She could not keep herself from anger and fear when her family was threatened.

"Would you like me to take him for a while?" Eruaistaniel offered, and Sérëdhiel turned to her with a frown. "If you are to welcome the others, it would be easier if you did not have Tirithon to carry."

"It would, but it is difficult to let him out of my arms now."

"You fear it, too," Eruaistaniel whispered. "You believe Ogol lives and will come for the children."

Sérëdhiel tightened her hold on her son. "I do not want to believe it, but I would rather be alert and protect him than deny it and pay for ignorance with my son's life."

Eruaistaniel nodded. "None of us want anything to happen to the children."

"Yet something has happened to you, Eruaistaniel," Sérëdhiel said, aware of her friend's distress. "What is it?"

"There is a certain sense of cruelty to your brother's kindness," Eruaistaniel said. "No, it is best not discussed, and please do not ask me to speak of it. This foolishness hurts almost to where it feels like real pain."

"It is no less real because it is not a physical injury," Sérëdhiel said. "I did not mean for you to come to harm when I sent you with food for him. I am sorry."

"This is not your doing, nor is it even his." Eruaistaniel put a hand to her head, sighing. "Will you—I do not wish to be in anyone's company for a while. You will make my excuses to them? I think it is no lie to claim I am unwell."

"Eruaistaniel—"

"Excuse me. I thought I could help with Tirithon, but I see I cannot. I will lie down for a while until this passes."

Sérëdhiel nodded, letting her friend go. She did not know how to help her even if Eruaistaniel had been willing to stay. Few things healed such a pain—time and love were all Sérëdhiel knew of—but if Ogol lived, then none of them had time. He would come, and he would destroy them all.


"Was it true?"

"What part?" Firyavaryar asked, not looking back at Nostalion. He leaned against the tree, more exhausted than he had dared admit during the fight with the dwarf or Legolas. He did not know how he had stayed on his feet for as long as he had. He should never have done that, but the dwarf annoyed him and he owed Legolas.

"The part about Ogol claiming to have killed his mother to allow you two to bond."

"As I told him, I do not know how true it was," Varyar said, grimacing. He should never have mentioned it to Legolas. He had not intended to. His weakness during the fight had allowed it, but it was a secret not meant to be told, not ever. "If you are asking if he did actually say it, then yes. He did. That is true. He did make that claim. He said many things to try and break my mind, and some of them worked. Some of them did not."

Nostalion grunted. "Taking away the one friend you had would be an effective tactic. Making that friendship a lie and a part of his plan all along would have done much to destroy you."

Varyar nodded. "Yes, that is why the claim was made."

"And how much damage did it do?"

Varyar considered that. "How insane would you say I was when we first met?"

Nostalion studied him. "I had never seen a lunatic half as functional as you. Most others were incapable of acting at all rational. You were different. You had lucid moments."

"As I do now," Firyavaryar agreed. "I suppose that owes in part to my inability prove or disprove the accuracy of anything Ogol said. This claim about Legolas' mother... Even if one said it could not be true because Legolas' mother died before mine, that is a fallacy. He could have killed her and then ensured that my mother shared the same fate. Also, I am not certain how great the time difference was between our mothers' deaths. I do not know who died first. I cannot say how much time passed between when my mother died and when I was able to go free. I was badly traumatized, and it felt like years, but it could not have been because my siblings would have faded before I returned to them if it had been."

The assassin nodded. "Torture is good at distorting time, yet you did not meet Legolas until after your mother was dead and you were free. When did Ogol claim this freedom and friendship was arranged?"

"I believe I was about a century old when he managed to find me again. That time he held me for much longer and did the worst of his damage. Or was that two separate times?" Firyavaryar rubbed at his head and looked at his gwador. "My memories are confused. Sérëdhiel would know if I was gone more than the once. You should ask her. I can no longer say or trust what I know."

"The claim about Legolas was made the same time as this elleth was supposedly Ogol's prisoner?"

Gagging at the image that came with the mention of the elleth, Varyar turned away. "He had one that he tortured. She might not have been the one in Lórien, but she was there. I saw her blood; I felt it splatter my face. She existed. She should be dead, but even if she is not, that is something I am certain of—she was there."

"You would know her if you saw her again."

"Yes." Firyavaryar watched him. Was Nostalion thinking that he should go after that elleth in Lórien? Did he know that Varyar had been considering it?

The assassin removed the straps that held the sheaths against his back. He slid them off and held them out to Firyavaryar. "These belong to the ones you carry."

"Did my sister tell you to make sure I put them away? I suppose she thought I would bury them."

"She did suggest it, yes."

Varyar smiled. He had forgotten how well Sérëdhiel knew him. "I do not plan on destroying any more weapons. The ones that the poison took are the end of it."

"Are they?"

"As deluded as it might be, I cannot help feeling that if I did anything to those blades, Thranduil would know and come after me," Firyavaryar said, picking up a knife and placing it in the sheath. "You need not watch over me. I am fatigued after that display, and I think I will sleep here under the watchful snores of my personal onod tree."

Nostalion snorted. "You are not asleep, and I have no interest in fraternizing with the edain."

Varyar leaned back against Lothanlass. "You fought with Sérëdhiel, did you? You would not be so eager to stay and leave her in the hands of the men. Even the presence of Arwen Undómiel would not be enough to comfort you."

"And it is enough to comfort you?"

"I did not suffer as much at the hands of edain as you, Eruaistaniel, Turvuin, and Alassë did," Firyavaryar reminded him. "And I do not need to trust them—I trust Legolas. That is all I need. I am certain you will know when I wake up from my next nightmare whether you watch over me or not, so you do not need to stay. You can, if you want—at least I do not snore like Idhrenion—but I do not recommend it as there are better uses for your time."

Nostalion grunted. "No, there are not, but then I have no intention of watching you sleep."

Varyar smiled, settling against the onod. He did not know how long Nostalion would remain, and he did not care. His gwador did not need to stay, but Firyavaryar was too tired to move. He would rest here for as long as the dreams would let him.


"Sit, sit, my lord. We will bring you everything you need."

Aragorn grimaced at the servant's words, not needing anything at all right now. He had taken Legolas back to explain to the guards that it was only a practice session and not anything to worry over, but he did not think that they believed that. He could see them in the distance, warily watching over the whole company, and he hated it.

Arwen touched his arm, and he smiled at her, though he knew she understood his discomfort. He had told her before how little he cared for being watched over and having servants stumble about to give him anything he thought of, whether he truly wanted it or not.

"We could always see to it that they become lost in the forest," Legolas offered, and Aragorn laughed. "No, truly, Estel. It would be easily done. The trees move here, and even some elves can be fooled by it."

"The trees move?"

"One 'tree' in particular, though he is not entirely teasing," Sérëdhiel said, carrying her son into their circle. "My brother woke an onod that follows him almost everywhere. He has taken to sleeping next to it, but he never sleeps in the same spot, so the trees have moved around here."

"Even a certain pointy-eared prince fell for it earlier."

Legolas flushed a bit at Gimli's words. "I was distracted. I did not realize I had had sat next to Lothanlass. He is easy to confuse with a regular tree when he sleeps."

Aragorn smiled. Already he felt more at ease than he had in the past weeks at Minas Tirith. He had needed his friends—Arwen was right about that. "How does Firyavaryar tell the difference? He did claim not to have much connection to nature."

"It is not difficult when the tree is following him," Alassë said, shaking her head. "Now if Varyar missed that, it would be pathetic, but that thing actually likes his singing. I do not understand that because Idhrenion snores with more rhythm—"

"Alassë," Sérëdhiel began in warning, and Alassë looked at her, undisturbed.

"What? It is no secret that Varyar cannot sing or that Idhrenion snores." Alassë said. "It is not as though the edain are children for me me to corrupt with false stories."

"You corrupt the children without assistance," Idhrenion told her, shaking his head. "Ask her what Thenidriel said to me this morning. Go ahead and ask. Not only are the insults worse than usual, but she is getting our daughter to say them, too."

"Insults?"

Alassë grimaced. "Children repeat what they hear, and do not act as though I am the only one who causes her to say things she should not say. Just because you say things out of books that most people do not comprehend does not make them any better than what I said."

"Most mothers do not say that they would gladly remove parts of the father's anatomy in front of the children," Idhrenion hissed at her, and Alassë glared back at him.

"You will have to excuse them," Sérëdhiel said, clearly uncomfortable. "They have been arguing more than usual since Alassë realized she was carrying a second child."

"Not all of us are able to maintain a sense of calm and perfection during our pregnancies."

Sérëdhiel shook her head. "I was never perfect while I carried Tirithon, and I do not think that anyone cares to hear us continue this argument. We should discuss other things."

"I have heard much of your talent for diplomacy, Sérëdhiel, and I see that, at least, is true of what my brothers have told me. I am glad to meet you at last," Arwen said, shifting Eladrion in her arms as she greeted the elleth with a smile. "Elladan and Elrohir have such fascinating stories about you. I have enjoyed hearing them, and I hope you will forgive me for that, since I do not know how much of them I should have believed."

"Knowing your brothers, none of them," Sérëdhiel said, and Arwen laughed. Aragorn watched her, smiling himself. He should not be so pleased to see her charmed by Firyavaryar's sister. That made her dangerous, but Arwen did not have many friends in Minas Tirith. She was respected and loved by the people of Gondor, but she was also apart from them. She would likely enjoy the company of another elleth. Even her friendship with Éowyn was not the same as one with another elf-maiden would be.

"We can tell you equally misleading tales of the exploits of Elladan and Elrohir," Aragorn said, knowing his wife would enjoy telling stories of her brothers. Legolas elbowed him, and Aragorn looked at him with a frown.

"That is perhaps unwise. They are twins, and when Alassë first saw them, she was very upset," Legolas reminded him in a low voice. Looking over at her, Aragorn could see the tension in her, but he had not thought she had such trouble with his brothers after that first meeting. "I imagine reminders of that during Alassë's current pregnancy would not be welcome."

Aragorn nodded. He could see that now, watching Idhrenion whisper in his wife's ear and soothe her with circles turned over her stomach. Even if it was not the twins that had upset her, a distraction was more than necessary before the obviously volatile Alassë heard the subject of their conversation.

The distraction came in the form of an elven assassin. He came over to his wife, taking their child from her. "He is resting next to the onod. He put the knives away."

Sérëdhiel smiled back at him, pulling him close for a kiss. "Thank you for checking on him."

Nostalion sat down next to her, giving her forehead a second kiss as she leaned against him. Aragorn tried not to think about how strange it was to see him being gentle with her and the baby, especially when he started combing his fingers through her long hair. "Where is Eruaistaniel?"

"She is lying down. She does not feel well."

"Is it something I can help with?" Aragorn asked. He knew he'd hesitated in offering help before and that had caused resentment and anger among their group, even though he had only been trying to be practical about how to treat Firyavaryar.

"No, it is—she is troubled by the old wounds in her spirit again," Sérëdhiel answered. "Thank you, but you cannot heal that. I fear nothing can."

"Varyar could."

"Alassë," Sérëdhiel said, and the other elleth just shook her head. Aragorn did not know that anyone needed that conversation to continue, either.

"You did not say what brought you here, Estel," Legolas began, distracting everyone at once. "We are glad to have you, of course, but it is sudden."

"Aragorn has been restless," Arwen answered. "I thought he should come here either for respite or the answer to what is bothering him."

Aragorn looked at her. She smiled serenely, and he found it hard to be angry with her though he did not want her to tell everyone his secrets.

"Aye, laddie," Gimli said. "There's nothing like the company of friends to cheer you up, and I've already seen to the hunt so we'll have a feast tonight. You'll forget all about anything bothering you by then—or you would if any of these elves knew how to make a decent ale."

"Oh, no, Gimli," Idhrenion said, sounding much like his brother. "It is not that elves do not know how to make a decent ale. It is that you dwarves do not recognize it when you taste it because you have spent all your lives poisoned by the kind you think is good."

"Why you—" Gimli began and then he stopped, shaking his head. "You're just baiting me, like your brother would."

Idhrenion smiled. Legolas shook his head. "I fear I have been setting a poor example for the ones who come here. They do not understand that you are far more than entertainment to us, Gimli."

"Why you—" Gimli said, but this time he saw the prince's smile and started laughing, leading others to join in with him.


"She is rather beautiful when she screams, isn't she?" Ogol asked, and Firyavaryar pulled against the band on his neck, struggling to breathe with that thing holding him in place. He knew he had brought this upon himself, trying to get to the elleth across the room. If he had not tried to reach her, he would still have a length of the chain to move about on, but he had tried to help. Now he could not breathe.

Ogol breathed too much, hissing into his ear. "I had not thought much of her when you brought her here, but she has improved. Do you not agree?"

"Are you suggesting that your butchery is somehow—"

"Butchery?" Ogol asked, yanking Varyar up by the chain. "You are the one who tried to defy me, remember? You brought this creature here—"

"I did not bring her to you. I did not even know her. Your orcs grabbed her, but she is nothing to me. She is some stranger that you are hurting only because you are a monster—"

Ogol struck him, and Firyavaryar knew his own blood had mixed with the elleth's still staining his cheek. "You lie. You have always lied, pet, but you have made a grave mistake this time. She is not for you. I told you when it was time for it, I will select your mate. I chose your father's, and he was pleased by my choice."

"You said my father was weak."

"So he was. Your mother had the spirit, and she was the right choice," Ogol said. He cupped Varyar's chin in his hand. "You are a fool. This choice you made for yourself is a pitiful one."

"I do not know her! I did not choose her! I would not choose anyone knowing what you would do to them. Let her go. You do not want her, so let her go."

"No." Ogol shook his head. "She must pay for your defiance, and I do like hearing her scream."

Firyavaryar looked over at the elleth. Huddled against the wall, she seemed smaller than Sérëdhiel was as an elfling, and if that had been his sister—he shook his head. "Please. Let her go. You do not need her. You have me."

Ogol smiled, patting his cheek."Oh, pet. You are so weak in spite of what I have done for you. You should be stronger than this by now. What is her suffering to you? If she is nothing to you, then why would you beg me for her sake?"

"Because I am not a monster like you."

"You will be," Ogol promised him, and Varyar shuddered, flinching away from the words and the voice. He should have been able to kill all those orcs that came after him. If he had been stronger, he would have escaped them and this elleth would not suffer now. Ogol was right—Firyavaryar was weak. He had not fought hard enough before he was captured, not enough to save himself or this stranger.

"Let her go."

"Why should I?" Ogol asked, studying him. "If you do not care for her, why do you want her free? She is nothing to you, pet. Ignore her. I shall play with her as I wish, and you cannot stop it."

Firyavaryar met the elleth's eyes, seeing the plea in them. She opened her mouth, trying to speak, but she collapsed, and he thought he saw blood coming out of her lips. He turned to Ogol. "She is dying anyway. Release her. Let her die with her people."

"Tell me," Ogol began, twisting the chain in his hands. "Would you trade your family for her?"

Varyar was glad she was not looking at him now. "No."

"I did not hear you. What did you say?"

"No," Firyavaryar repeated. He could not bring himself to do that. He had promised to protect his family, and he would not give them to Ogol, not even for this innocent elleth. He could not trade their lives for hers. He did not have any way to save her.

"Yet you want her free," Ogol said, pulling him closer. "Tell me what you will do if I let her go."

Varyar's eyes opened, and he scrambled away from the onod, sucking in air as he did. He shuddered though there was no chill in the midday sun. He looked up at it and shook his head, trying to make the images fade. He rubbed at his cheek even though he knew he had long ago washed that blood off his face.

He shook his head. He had not helped anyone then. He could not have. His only hope had been that if he continued to distract Ogol, the monster would not find his family, would not even search for them. He could not have saved that elleth.

His hand touched the sheath for the knives Thranduil had offered him centuries ago, and he grimaced. Nostalion had tricked him into taking them and keeping them, but Varyar did not care. He pulled them onto his back and grabbed his cloak off the onod.

Nostalion would protect the others. Firyavaryar trusted him to do it, trusted Legolas to want to help, and he had to believe those two would keep his family safe in his absence. He knew he had to leave if he was going to be of any use to them. If he waited for nightfall, he would be harder for normal elves to track and they would be less likely to consider coming after him, but he did not believe he could wait. He had already stayed in Ithilien too long.

If Ogol was coming for him, he would not find him here.