Chapter 9
It's been a long, long week...
I only have two exams left now, but had my third to last today, and am now freaking out a bit that I have screwed up some of the questions. I really hope I don't have to retake them. Plus the ASDA (UK equivalent of a Walmart, I guess, but a lot smaller) in the town which my school is in caught fire this morning- a milk lorry caught fire, I think. It wasn't near the school, and nobody is hurt, but still...
In other, way more important and impacting news, if you don't know this already, Christopher Lee, the wonderful man who played Saruman, passed away yesterday. I was really sad to hear this, but he lived what sounds like such a full life. I think I can say for all of us that we are incredibly grateful for what he has given to the Tolkien fandom, and we will not forget him in a hurry.
Anyway, sorry to be a little depressing- I'm just incredibly stressed and tired at the moment, and it's wearing off as I type. Have another chapter to make up for it. It's a little shorter than normal, but again, I had to cut it off at this point to make the chapters work. Belhadron was really interesting to write for this part.
Disclaimer: see Chapter 1
0-o-0-o-0
The sun was streaming through the high windows in Aragorn's study. It landed on the desk, illuminating the scrolls of parchment, the sharp ink lines of the maps. None of the captains noticed it, as their gaze was on Aragorn instead.
Aragorn thought for a moment, before speaking. "I need numbers of men in the city or Osgiliath that will be able to head out to Ithilien, and a list of supplies that will be needed. Assume that you will be in the forests for more than a week." He was not familiar enough with Ithilien to know how well the forests were for living on, or how best to plan a strategy to scour the woods.
The captains nodded, and Aragorn pulled out the largest map of Ithilien, pushing it towards them. "In case Faramir is unable to gain anything from the prisoners, I also want a rough outline of a strategy for sweeping the woods for any remaining Easterlings. You know Ithilien the best here, Mablung. Take the lead on that."
Mablung nodded. "Of course, my Lord," he replied, reaching out and snagging the map. He looked over it, brow furrowed, and muttered something to one of the other captains standing next to him.
"Good," said Aragorn. "Captains, you know Ithilien far better than I can at the moment. This is your task, and we must hurry." The captains all nodded in agreement and began to work. Mablung was bent over a map with two of the other captains, tracing possible routes out over the inked parchment as they began the foundations of a plan. The rest were gathered together with ink and parchment, and Legolas could hear them tossing names back and forth, the list of companies and men steadily growing longer.
Legolas, who had been watching proceedings with a faint smile on his face, leant back in his chair, pulling a rough map of Ithilien towards him. He winced as he jostled his leg, but the fierce flash of pain soon dulled down to a throb. He glanced over at Aragorn.
"You were right, you know," he said softly, quiet enough so that the men in the room couldn't hear anything beyond a murmur of words. Aragorn looked up.
"Right about what?" he asked, slumping slightly in his chair before remembering where he was and sitting up straighter again, adjusting the collar of the leather overcoat he wore.
"What you said," replied Legolas. "The War is still over. This," he said gesturing at the room around them, the maps strewn across the table, the men talking softly to each other about battle strategies and companies. "Doesn't mean we have suddenly lost."
Aragorn frowned. "I know," he said quietly. "After all, I did just say it a minute ago."
Legolas smiled, but there was a touch of sadness to it. "It just seemed like you needed reminding," he murmured.
Aragorn's gaze softened and he smiled. He glanced at the map in Legolas' hand. "Think of anything?" he asked, nodding at the map.
Legolas grinned and shook his head, letting the map fall back to the table. "I know Ithilien even worse than you," he said softly. "I am no help, Aragorn."
"I highly doubt that," said Aragorn with a small smile. "You are a wood-elf, mellon-nin. There is nobody in Gondor who has the knowledge that you and Belhadron have. No matter what my captains manage to plan, I highly doubt that you will not be able to say something."
Legolas still hesitated slightly, and Aragorn sighed. "Don't be a fool," he muttered quietly. "This is your battle now as well."
Legolas tilted his head to the side, a small smile on his face. "When have I been anything else?" he asked softly. "I followed you all the way here, after all." Both of them chuckled at that, and Legolas leant back in his chair, wincing as it jostled his leg.
Despite Legolas having joined the Quest, having journeyed all across Middle Earth, becoming involved was still something the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen had to consciously make an effort to do. It was ingrained in them to stay out of the way, to look to their own borders and troubles before anyone else's. In their history, becoming involved had rarely done anyone any good.
Aragorn watched the captains for a few moments, before turning back to Legolas. "Will Belhadron want to ride out with Faramir?" he asked softly. "There is no way you are going, but he might be very valuable."
"Probably," said Legolas with a shrug. He knew that he could not go, not with the gash in his leg, but Belhadron's injuries were barely injuries. "He would go a little restless if he remained here, and I know he trusts you enough to go. You aren't going?"
"I am King," said Aragorn with a resigned smile. "And as King, I have other duties which are apparently more important. I cannot just leave whenever I feel like it."
Legolas chuckled. "My father does," he said with a smirk. Aragorn rolled his eyes.
"Yes, of course your father does," he said. "That is because your father can be absolutely terrifying when he wants to be." He had met Thranduil twice now, once when visiting Mirkwood, and once again when handing over Gollum. There was something about the Elvenking that made him feel like a small child when he stood in front of him.
It was probably the ice blue stare that made it feel like your limbs couldn't work properly. Or the voice, like the edge of a cold steel blade that was trying to decide whether or not it was worth taking your head off. Or the feeling that you got standing in front of him that you were so very young compared to him, and so small.
"My father is not that terrifying," said Legolas with a smile. "And I was lying. He barely gets to do anything he wants, at least not when we were still at war. I could evade the councils and meetings. He could not."
Aragorn sighed. "I know the feeling," he muttered. He knew Legolas was speaking the truth, on both accounts. To Legolas, his father was probably not that terrifying. But then Aragorn knew how much Thranduil cared for his son.
To an outsider, it wasn't very obvious. Aragorn knew that most of the time, Thranduil treated Legolas like one of the captains of his army, if a little more familiarly than with some others. When the men and elves had been encamped outside Erebor all those years ago, Bard himself had not realised Legolas was Thranduil's son until after the battle, despite the amount of time the man had spent with Thranduil and all of his captains, including Legolas.
It wasn't very obvious at all, until you were in a position when Thranduil, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm, trusted you enough to let down his guard when you were in the room. Only a select number of people reached that level of trust, mainly a few of Thranduil's most valued commanders, and those who Legolas trusted completely.
Aragorn knew you could probably never catch him when he thought you weren't there, because he was King of a realm at war, after all, and everybody was on his or her guard, or they had been up until recently. But Aragorn liked to think that if Thranduil behaved even slightly more like a father than a King when you were around, it meant you were probably safe from his wrath. For that moment. Maybe.
Legolas glanced over at him, at his friend. "You are doing the right thing, you know," he said softly. "Taking the battle to them." Aragorn shook his head with a wry smile.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "The last thing I want to happen is for more people to lose their lives because of this. That's happened enough already. But I do not exactly have a choice anymore, anyway. People will find out what happened, and then they will demand something be done." In all honesty, it was almost a relief for his hand to be forced, because at least it took a part of the decision away from him.
Legolas sighed slightly, remembering how easy it had been for news to spread through Mirkwood. People, no matter what race, talked. His gaze flickered to where Mablung was writing something down, muttering to two other captains who were looking over his shoulder. "I think Mablung has gotten somewhere," he said. Aragorn looked up and nodded.
"Mablung," he said. "Let's see what we've got."
0-o-0-o-0
Beregond tried to keep his eyes from sliding sideways to the dark haired elf walking silently on the other side of Faramir as they headed down the levels of the city to where the Easterlings were being kept. But every so often he failed, and his gaze flickered over to Belhadron.
One of Belhadron's hands stayed on the hilt of his sword, Beregond noticed. It was a straight blade, a shorter sword than the one that usually hung at his side or Faramir's, the blade about the length of his arm, and Beregond assumed a shorter blade would be more appropriate for fighting in a forest. The hilt looked like ash, carved with flowing writing that Beregond assumed was some form of Elvish. The scabbard, old, worn leather that still looked well looked after, had the same inscription running down the side of it.
A group of soldiers passed close by, bowing low to Faramir, and Beregond noticed the way Belhadron's hand tightened momentarily on the hilt of his sword, and how a tiny sliver of the steel blade became visible above the scabbard.
He would have thought a bit more of it if he did not know that his hand had also crept towards his sword when unfamiliar people came just that bit too close to Faramir for his comfort. Soldiers were fine, soldiers Beregond trusted, because he knew all of them loved Faramir and wouldn't do anything to harm him, but there were others in this city besides soldiers, and he did not know them.
A part of him was looking forwards to leaving the city with his sons and going out to Ithilien with Faramir. There were a lot of ghosts haunting Minas Tirith.
The three of them made their way down to the lower levels of the city without incident, and Faramir led them to the prisons of Minas Tirith. Faramir wrinkled his nose slightly as he ducked under the low door inside, nodding at the guards who suddenly stood to attention. The prisons always did set him on edge slightly, even more so now Faramir could smell the coppery tang of blood from those Easterlings who had been injured.
He made his way to the guard in charge, Beregond and Belhadron behind him. Faramir could visibly see the reaction of the Easterlings who had seen them walk in, and he knew that most of them had their gaze fixed on Belhadron.
"My Lord," said the guard, standing and bowing to Faramir. Beregond had hung back, speaking to one of the guards on the door, and Belhadron was standing still, watching the cells with an unreadable gaze. Faramir nodded to the guard.
"Anything that I need to know of?" he asked, glancing down to where the Easterlings were being held. The guard shook his head.
"Nothing I can think of, my Lord," he said. "They've all been pretty quiet, and we've been careful to make sure they don't talk too much. The seriously wounded have been tended to, but we got your message about leaving the minor injuries for now." The guard's face tightened slightly. "Is there any news of those injured yesterday?"
"They are doing well," said Faramir with a little sympathy in his voice. He recognised the man's face as someone worried over a friend, and knew instantly that the guard had a friend up in the Houses of Healing. "None of them are in serious danger, though it may be a month of two before a few can return to active duty."
The guard nodded, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, my Lord," he said. He gestured at the prisoners. "The one we believe to be their leader is in the first one of the left. He is relatively unhurt, but has been causing a bit of trouble, so we left the shackles on his hands."
As Faramir stood talking to the guard, Belhadron moved towards the cell. The Easterling looked up, and upon seeing the elf, spat at him from the back of the cell, muttering something unintelligible. Belhadron merely tilted his head to one side and allowed the smallest of smiles to play across his face, the corners of his lips turning up.
It had the effect he had been going for. The Easterling snarled at Belhadron, making an aborted move to go towards him. The shackles on his hands clinked on the stone floor, and the man settled back against the wall of the cell, glaring at Belhadron.
Belhadron glanced over as Faramir and Beregond joined him, standing outside the cell. "He is a captain," murmured Belhadron, quiet enough so that the Easterling couldn't hear him. Beregond nodded in agreement, noticing how he was dressed was similar, if he remembered correctly, to the clothing of the captains of the Easterlings a little over a year ago.
"That makes things harder," Faramir said softly. "I doubt he will give up much information freely." It was almost admirable, if it wasn't so frustrating at the same time. Loyalty was loyalty, no matter the side you were fighting on.
"We have to try," murmured Beregond. He nodded at the guard, who handed over a ring of keys. Beregond opened the cell door, swinging it smoothly on well-oiled hinges. The Easterling watched from under tangled hair as, after a brief muttered conversation between the two men and the elf, they stepped into the cell.
0-o-0-o-0
Belhadron stepped in first, well aware of the strumming tension in the Easterling as he stepped closer. He turned around to face Faramir, translating the question he was about to ask in his head into Westron. Faramir stepped into the cell, followed by Beregond, and Belhadron took a few steps back to give them room.
His ears picked up the swish of cloth behind him, and the sound of sudden movement, and instinctively Belhadron began to turn. He heard the clink of metal, and then there was a chain flying up over his head, driven by shackled hands as the Easterling launched himself up.
With one hand, Belhadron reached up, and his fingers tightened on the metal links. Ducking down and to the side, he wrapped one hand in the chain and pulled, spinning the man off balance and onto the floor as his other hand went to the small of his back.
In a heartbeat the Easterling was sprawled on the floor, his hands pulled painfully behind his back by one of Belhadron's hands, tangled in the shackles. Belhadron's knife, the one with the ash handle, was pressing ever so gently into the man's throat.
Faramir watched, seemingly uninterested, as Belhadron jerked the man's head back, a feral snarl coming from the elf's clenched teeth. The Easterling struggled and the knife pressed just that little bit more into the skin of his throat.
Belhadron could feel the rage rolling off of the man at being restrained at knifepoint by an elf, so he shifted slightly to move closer, digging the knife in a little bit more, and pressing one knee down on the back of the man's leg. "Do you think me a fool?" Belhadron hissed, his voice low, every syllable perfectly spoken in a chilly voice in the Easterling's ear.
Despite what Legolas sometimes thought, Belhadron wasn't a complete idiot. He had known perfectly well what would happen if he turned his back on the man. That had sort of been the point. Belhadron had guessed, correctly, that given the opportunity the Easterling would at least attempt to injure him in some way. The man really didn't like elves that much.
The man struggled in Belhadron's grip, and Belhadron pulled him up into more of a sitting position, the knife still at the Easterling's throat. He glanced up at Faramir and nodded.
"Give him a reason, and he will," said Faramir. Playing on the man's hatred and possible fear of elves was not something he overly enjoyed doing, but it was necessary, and probably far kinder than their alternative option.
Belhadron shifted and pulled the man to his feet, slowly taking his knife away from the Easterling's throat. Faramir stepped forwards slightly and nodded at Belhadron, who relinquished his grip and stepped away from the Easterling captain. With exaggerated care he put his knife away in the sheath at the small of his back, and moved away behind Faramir. The man watched as Belhadron, with a small grin, leant back against the bars of the cell.
Belhadron let a small smile play over his lips as he watched the Easterling. A little antagonistic, probably, but then that was the reason he was here. It had been a good idea of Faramir's. Hold a knife to a man's throat and he will just be thinking of how to overcome you. Allow the man to attack first, and then defeat him, and half of your battle will be won before you have really started. Not to mention that Belhadron could see his presence was making the Easterling uneasier by the minute.
"Can you speak Westron?" asked Faramir, and Belhadron's attention flicked back to the Steward. It would be a little bit of a waste if it turned out that none of the men here could speak a language they understood.
"Course I speak Westron," snarled the Easterling. He made a move to step forwards but stopped abruptly when Belhadron straightened from where he was leaning against the cell bars. The Easterling's gaze flickered to where Belhadron's hand had gone behind his back, and he stepped back.
"Would be a bloody fool who didn't learn the tongue of their enemy," said the man with a sneer. "One of our enemies, at least." His eyes flickered back to Belhadron, who grinned at him. The man abruptly looked away.
Faramir nodded. That certainly made things a little easier. He looked back at Beregond and nodded, and Beregond in turn slipped out of the door of the cell, heading for the table where the guards were sat. One of them handed him a rolled up piece of parchment, and they exchanged a few words.
"We'll start small," said Faramir, turning back to the man. "But you will tell us everything you know, one way or another." The Easterling grimaced at Faramir, who merely stared back before speaking again.
"Something simple, at first. What is your name?"
To Be Continued...
Legolas not getting involved much with the planning is my way of sort of trying to explain why, in the books, Legolas and Gimli do not take part in the Last Debate- the gathering of captains and commanders with Aragorn and Gandalf in Minas Tirith, after the Battle of Pelennor Fields and before they marched to the Black Gate. Partially because I'd imagine neither of them have a huge amount of understanding of fighting on open plains (Legolas mainly fights in Mirkwood, amongst trees, and Erebor isn't at open war), but also partially because they feel that maybe it isn't their fight.
Anyway, the next chapter will be on Tuesday. Hope everyone is having a good time. You guys really can cheer me up sometimes- thanks so much.
