The sun was just rearing its head in Minas Tirith, and this morning, Arwen found herself sitting in the hay at Asfaloth's feet with her head resting against the stall, watching her big grey nose around in his feed bucket, looking for more treats. She had been intending to brush him, but she found herself too tired after the long day yesterday, though she could not sleep. She looked down at the brush she had on her hand and found herself staring into the bristles with no apparent thought.
She had tossed and turned for hours, unable to be comfortable in her bed, and the baby had been wild with motion all night. Arwen had been with the people yesterday since the lunch hour after taking a brief rest following the Three Hunters' departure. Éowyn had also been there with her, but she had stayed even later afterwards, learning about them and their families and playing with their children. She thought that being tired would help her sleep. It did not.
What she could not figure out was why she was so anxious that Aragorn was not around. She was worried sick about Enguina, there was no doubt about that. But she had been without Aragorn at her side for many, many years before they had come together again, and then nearly a year before they were wed. Yes, they had been together for almost seven years now and inseparable, but that was no excuse for not being able to find sleep. She knew the baby had kept her awake as well last night, and nothing she had tried worked to calm him. And breaking down yesterday in front of him…oh, how could she forgive herself for that? She had made things so much worse. She could only blame it on her constant state of emotional flux. It was hard enough being without him; she tried not to think about it.
After spending the last two hours in the sanctuary of the temple praying, she was certain Ilúvatar was a bit tired of her voice. Enguina had been at the forefront of her prayer, then of course came the Hunters, and her baby, and Enguina, and then her relationship with Legolas, and then…it just went on and on over Annî and Faramir and Éowyn's new babe and then the cycle repeated. She was tired, but finding rest was proving difficult.
A huge thump sounded in front of her and she looked up from the brush. Snorting low and long, Asfaloth turned and met her eyes, shaking his long grey mane and peeling back his lip. He had lowered himself into the hay to lie down, and there was a spot beside him that would be quite perfect for her form.
"You are so thoughtful, Asfaloth," she whispered, and she carefully made her way over to him to lie against his belly. His winter coat had grown in thick and deep grey, the dapples darkening into thick patches; she ran her hand through his furry hair, and then laid her head against it, reaching up to stroke his neck and shoulder. She closed her eyes and laid her head against him and his warmth enveloped her. It was peaceful, and it felt good. For a moment, her worries left her.
The first thing Enguina knew when she woke from the dreadfully piecemeal sleep she had been having was that she was laying on her side and her head was pounding. She could feel the nasty pieces of rope cutting into her wrists and ankles, and she could hear sounds of quiet snoring. The air was chilly but smelled of pine and chestnut; quite obviously, she was still in the forest of Ithilien and day was dawning. She could hear distinctly four people breathing—everyone was still asleep but her.
She sneaked a peek at her surroundings. By turning her head only slightly each way, she got a quick view and closed her eyes again. Two men and an elf were on bedrolls near the fire; she did not see the third man. The horses were off to her right; if she could just reach them, very quietly, she could get out of here and find her way home…home to Minas Tirith…home to Legolas. She had no idea how long they had been traveling, how many miles, or even where they were. With my innate sense of direction, I will end up back in the woods of Lothlórien. But I have to try; Ilúvatar! Help me!
She shuffled around on the ground as quietly as she could, searching for something she could—aha! She cut the edges of her fingers upon a sharp rock, but with them asleep…she just might be able to cut her bonds free. Her chance of success was a tiny bit higher, and though not much, the attempt was still worth it. Working hard, she sliced her hands free in a matter of moments, surprising herself at a quickness and ease she did not expect. Leaning forward, she set to work on her feet with the same rock. It felt good just to have her hands free; her wrists ached as the blood began to flow more readily through her hands. She ignored the pain in her back and shoulders; her ribs roared but she shoved that away as well.
Unsure whether to move quickly or more slowly and silently, she decided that stealth was probably a better plan when another elf was involved. Wrists and ankles cut and bleeding made little difference to her as she crept to the horses, but her head was still swimming. It would have been an easy thing, as she neared the horses, to draw a bow and shoot every last one of them in the gullet, but she had never lifted a weapon in defense or attack, and she was not about to kill four men in cold blood. All that mattered to her at the moment was riding as far away as she could get. Her vision blurred as she reached slowly for the nearest rope that was tied onto the horse's bridle and she had to stop a moment and take a few deep breaths.
She made to free the horse that had been carrying her, and Ahadil's horse snorted, waking up the other horses as well. Even this would have been fine, but Calendur's black seemed to think he was going to be left behind and he whinnied loudly.
"Stop there!" came the shout from the fire, and Ahadil leapt to his feet, drawing his sword. Here was the one whose breath had hissed in her ear, whose dagger had sliced her throat, and who had kicked her in the side. A hot burning anger surged through her and she reached up, pulling the bow from Dagnirhir's saddle.
"You little bitch!" cried Dagnirhir from off to her right. So that is where you were!
The man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, reaching for her, and she knew she did not have time to aim the bow—he was too close. Instead, she let out a snarling Elvish curse that would have made her brother proud. As he raced toward her, reaching for her, she grabbed his arm, using his momentum against him and spinning him as if he were not the burly man he was. At the last possible moment, she threw her foot out and he tripped over her, smashing face first into the nearest tree. With a pop and a crack! She heard something break in his face.
That was for Hildanir! The shout of pain that echoed through the glade gave her a vengeful satisfaction that she did not have the time to savor. Her goal was escape, and as she spun back she yanked an arrow from the quiver on Dagnirhir's saddle. Head spinning, she took aim at Ahadil as he bolted towards her with his sword raised. She let loose an arrow at his shoulder and the man fell without a cry.
A swoosh came to her ears; she recognized the sound as an arrow from another bow. She flipped the stolen bow on its side, desperate to block the arrow she assumed flew from Calendur's bow. The arrow arching for her heart snapped Dagnirhir's bow in two, splitting it down the center. Lunging toward the horse, dropping the bow, she grabbed for the saddle.
She had not known there was a second arrow until the impact of it knocked her clear off her feet and threw her back from the horse and into the snow, pain firing through her ribcage. Dagnirhir's horse, screaming, reared and fell sideways into the other horses, shoving them all over into the trees, and she made a desperate attempt to roll onto her side; pain tore through her and she collapsed back, hardly breathing, her hands now wrapped around the arrow's shaft. Her hands began shaking so badly she could not pull it out. Belegore ran towards the horses as they panicked, trying to soothe them.
Gasping in pain, and trying to stay out of the way of trampling hooves, Enguina tried again to roll but once again, the pain was too great. The arrow had embedded between her ribs and every breath was agony. Her hands were wet and the wound was deep. She heard the snow crunching, but lightly, and she knew it had to be Calendur. She opened her eyes, groaning, and met the elf's as he looked down on her, bow still in hand.
"That was very…very unwise," he said menacingly, fingering the feathered end of the arrow that protruded from her side. She gasped, tightening her jaw against the pain and tried to breathe lightly. Her eyes were full of hate as she looked at him, not fear. "I never expected a woman like you to have this much…fight. I am…impressed," he admitted. "The expectation on this journey was not to hurt you, but…I warned you. I gave you a chance to obey…I warned you that you would be punished severely if you tried to escape again; now, a bit of punishment is in order." He turned his head to look over his right shoulder. "Belegore! See to Ahadil."
"Calendur…" Belegore replied softly, and the elf turned his head completely to look at the man. He shook his head gently, his fingers on the man's throat. "Ahadil is dead."
"Then leave him and see to Dagnirhir," he snapped. "Do not just stand there, Belegore." The younger man quickly moved to the bleeding man; Dagnirhir was still lying at the base of the tree, holding his face.
She had killed someone; tears filled her eyes as she looked up at the elf. "I…I did not mean—"
Her voice cut off suddenly as he reached forward and grabbed the arrow's shaft above her hand. Her features tightened, her teeth clenched, and then he gave her a swift smile. "Death is a part of life, Enguina…and so is pain."
With that smile intact, he clamped a hand over her mouth and gave the arrow a twist. She screamed in agony, her hands trying to prevent him from turning it as her eyes slammed shut in desperation. Blood spurted between her fingers, and her scream rose to a fever pitch as he twisted it back and yanked the arrow free, slicing fresh wounds into her hands as well. He threw the arrow to the ground next to her as the blood flowed freely over her fingers from the open wound, spilling into the snow. She tried not to gasp for breath, each one sounding like a pained wheeze. He reached down and slapped her maliciously across the face; the pain was so great that tears pooled in her eyes.
"Perhaps I should have Dagnirhir teach you a real lesson," he whispered to her as he leaned over her. "Being assaulted, violated…yes, that would teach you a nice lesson." That very real threat, on top of the pain, was too much. She gasped, her tears spilling over.
"No…nnno please," she moaned, and she weakly dropped her head back into the snow.
"Belegore," Calendur said, rising and moving away from her, "attend to her. Dagnirhir, get over here and help me pack up. We need to move out as soon as possible. We have lost enough time."
"What of—"
"Belegore, now! Leave Ahadil's body; we gain nothing from its burial, and we will move more quickly without him. Get the girl and get her on that horse." He sneered back at her. "And make sure she is tied up well this time."
Enguina heard crunching in the snow beside her head, and she could hear Dagnirhir muttering about his nose; clearly she had broken it. "Sweet Eru," she heard Belegore muttering, kneeling down beside her in the snow, and he let out a string of curses that at any other time might have made her blush.
"Do not touch me," she whispered, and she tried to turn away, but the pain left her just as she was, unable to turn aside.
"If I do not, you will bleed to death," he said gruffly, tugging her hands away from the wound. She heard him uncap a flask of some kind and pour some of the liquid over the wound. She was suddenly crying out and writhing underneath his hands as he held her arms away from it. "Hold still!" he shouted at her, but she could not; her body moved on its own, trying to get away from the pain. The whiskey assaulted her senses and her vision swam. He got a strip of bandage wrapped around her and tied it tight. "It will do," he grumbled, as he pulled her bloody hands back together, lashing them together with a short rope.
"Belegore, we must go!"
"Coming!" he called back to Calendur. He reached down and tugged her to her feet, half-dragging her to the horse she had been trying to reach only a short while ago. Calendur helped him get her on it. He glared at her, shoving her shoulder. "Sit up," he growled.
Her face was full of pain when she looked down at him, her breathing labored; she was nearly doubled over in the saddle as it was. "I…I cannot..."
In the end, he had to lash her to the saddle this time as she was hardly keeping herself upright. Belegore glared at their leader as he made to mount his own horse.
"You had to—"
"It was necessary. She will be no more trouble."
"See?" Dagnirhir said nasally from beneath his hand. "Told ya we should've taught her a lesson days ago." Belegore mounted and took the rope for Enguina's horse; he could hear Dagnirhir still muttering, "And Ahadil wouldn't be dead right now if you'd just left her to me."
"Have you not done enough?" he snapped at the man. "You are only giving her more reason to fight, and she is only going to be more trouble, never mind!" He snorted, tugging her horse into motion.
Every movement of the horse sent a spur of agony through her side, the rope digging into both her wrists and her sides; even her ankles were tied to the stirrups. There was no way she would be able to escape now…and she was not sure she could even if she had not been so strapped down. Right ribs cracked, a terrible wound on her left, shoulder aching, head pounding…yes, she had paid for trying to escape. Tears fell on her face as her head lolled to the left and right, her chin hanging to her chest.
Legolas…Legolas…help me, please…
Legolas reached up and clenched his hand around his chest, his heart aching, head suddenly pounding. The pain arced through him and he nearly doubled over in the saddle, his heart full of sudden longing. Gasping, dropping a hand onto Brethil's neck to keep himself upright in the saddle, he was glad he was at the back of their party.
There it was again…Enguina's voice talking to his heart, in his head. He knew nothing about such a thing. It was not possible! Had he not known that it had just been something strange he had felt the first time? This was nothing, nothing! It had to be nothing! It was not possible!
"Legolas? You all right, elf?" called Gimli back to him, and he waved a hand at him.
They had found the slaughtered Rangers just a bit before they had been forced to camp; Aragorn had said that Enguina had tried to escape again, and he was proud of her. At every turn she was fighting her captors, but…now her voice in his head again… He had just told Gimli he was fine. Sure…he was fine. He had no idea what was going on in his head, but he was fine. He had never felt such a thing, such a calling, such a tug on his heart. She was in pain…and was calling for him. It made him angry; it made him terrified; it made him want to ride even harder and faster. Brethil snorted and began to pick up speed, running astride with Lómë as the two of them sought to catch Brego in another few feet.
"You sure you're all right?" Gimli said again. "You look as if you've seen a ghost, lad!"
Legolas shook his head, realizing he still had a hand over his heart. "I…we need to hurry. We have to find her," he called back.
"We are gaining on them," Aragorn exclaimed from up ahead.
Legolas could only hope that he was right.
"Ho! Ho, Glosbrethil," Legolas called, patting the grey's sweaty neck soothingly. He turned back to where Gimli and Aragorn had stopped. "A man is dead."
"Yes, some sort of battle took place here," agreed Aragorn, and he and Legolas dismounted. Gimli chose to remain on Lómë's back, but he kept a very close watch on the two of them.
Legolas moved close to the body lying in the snow, shaking his head. "He has been shot with an arrow through the neck." Aragorn leaned down near the man, examining his features.
"He has not been dead four hours." Legolas moved away and spotted the supplies. He began to rifle through them. "They left many of their supplies," he said softly. "They were trying to travel light."
Aragorn frowned at the dead man. "This must be Ahadil; the man matches Hildanir's description of the one who held the knife on Enguina in the stable. They must have camped here; though why they killed one of their own…" he shook his head, "I cannot guess." He moved about as Legolas rummaged through what they had left behind. There were flat spaces in the snow around a burned out campfire where bedrolls had been laid out, though one bedroll remained—that of the dead man. He crouched down by them, and he could tell by the imprints where the other two men and the elf had slept. He rose and looked about again. A few feet away, there lay a rope covered with blood near a sharp stone covered with the same. He felt the imprint of space left behind—the light press on the grass…Enguina.
"Enguina lay here," he said softly, touching the snow.
"What?" Legolas said suddenly, and even Gimli moved Lómë closer so that he could see what Aragorn was talking about.
"She lay here, dragged here…and she set herself free. She tried to escape," the man said, rising, staring at the snow. "And…"
Following where her gentle footsteps had fallen and where the horse droppings were, he was able to piece together a bit of what may have happened. Against the tree that was nearest where the horses had been, he found blood and at the base of it, the imprint of a large man, probably Dagnirhir then. Aragorn looked about on the ground, following his footsteps, and then he found a broken bow. He went to it and picked it up, seeing that it was snapped in half and there was an arrow protruding just to the left of the crack. He looked towards the dead man—he had been shot from this spot, and with fair aim. If the man had died at that instant, he could not have fired a return shot with a bow and none had been near the body. Someone else had made the shot, breaking the bow in the hand of the dead man's shooter.
Legolas watched him, as transfixed as he had been when Aragorn had trailed the hobbits into Fangorn forest. Gimli looked as if he was proud of the work his friend carried out. Aragorn looked a little further nearer the tree, and it only took him a moment to find the blood sprays staining the snow and an arrow nearby. It would not even take a guess for him to assume who might have fallen here; obviously, the one who held the broken bow. He ran his hands over the spot, feeling the length of it and its impressions. He took a handful of grass from beneath the snow and brought it to his nose. He was sure.
"Aragorn, you are killing me," Legolas begged, coming to his side. As the man turned, his eyes caught the bloodstain upon the snow. "Ilúvatar," he whispered, and Aragorn held the grass out to him. He did not even have to get close to it as the wind carried the scent of Enguina to him. "Enguina…" he whispered, and Aragorn nodded.
"She's not dead!" cried Gimli, seeing the blood for himself from astride Lómë.
"No, but she is sorely wounded. She lay over there, tied up by hand and foot to the tree as the three men and an elf slept nearby in that circle, probably hoping to rest for an hour. They did not intend for her to wake. She did, and cut her own bonds on a sharp rock. She came here, to take a horse and escape into the woods." He hefted the bow and nodded to the trees. "The horses were tied here and she took this bow from the saddle on the nearest one. There is blood on that tree behind you, Legolas. My guess is that Enguina forced Dagnirhir into it; the body was too big to be Belegore. She then fired an arrow at Ahadil.
"The Elven man stood right over there and fired two arrows at Enguina. I say Elven because there are barely prints in the snow, and he knew just where to hit her. She raised the bow like this," he said, demonstrating, "blocking the first one—the bow snapped, rendering her incapable of deflecting the next shot." He turned and looked back at the stain of blood on the ground.
"She was hit by the second?" asked Gimli.
"She fell here," Aragorn said softly, and he knelt down. "He hit her in the side, and the other sets of prints here indicate either a man or the elf took the arrow out, and pulled her to her feet. She is not dead." He sighed. "But we must hurry…a wound like this…" he did not finish, and Legolas's stomach churned. "We are only hours behind them."
"They will wish they had never been born," Legolas said smoothly, his voice deathly quiet. No one questioned him. He turned and stalked back to Glosbrethil.
Gimli looked to Ahadil. "He was a soldier of Gondor, like the others. Should we bury the dead?"
"On the return journey," Aragorn replied, shaking his head. "If there was time, I would spare it, but we do not have it." He swallowed. "Even less now than we did when we found the Rangers."
Those words struck fear into Legolas's heart; Enguina was in grave danger.
"Good evening, my Lady." Arwen heard Faramir's voice as he entered into the House. The night had been long without their company. Éowyn had not been feeling well and had stayed at home with Annî; Arwen had forced Faramir to remain with her, but he could not go to sleep without checking on the Queen. He came into the sitting room's doorway and leaned against it. She smiled up at him as she looked up from her chair by the fire. "Is there anything I can do for you tonight? You seem so quiet in here—"
Arwen laughed. "Stop that, Faramir!" she chided. "Do not be so formal." Faramir blushed and smiled as he came towards her and took a seat in one of the chairs. "How is Éowyn feeling?"
"Oh, she is better," Faramir replied and then smiled. "She is putting Annî down to sleep as we speak. I will be back in just enough time for a silly story about a horse and a fox and a hound." He laughed and she smiled. He tilted his head at her. "You look lovely tonight, Arwen. Not that there is a moment in which you are unlovely, but there is something about you tonight that seems to fill you." He shook his head, a bit embarrassed. "I cannot explain myself."
She held up what she had been sewing moments before he entered. It was a small garment for sleep for a young child. "It is for our child when she, or he, is born. But thank you; that is very kind of you to say."
"Well, you do look lovely, and that gown looks very nice. I wish you could teach Éowyn to sew as well!" he joked, and she raised her eyebrows.
"You shall be in so much trouble when I tell her that you said such a thing!"
Faramir's eyes widened. "You would not tell her! You like me more than that, do you not?" She raised an eyebrow at him, and he swallowed. "Arwen?"
She laughed suddenly and reached out to cover his hand with her own. "Dear Faramir, although it would be very amusing to watch Éowyn sort you out, I think I will keep that one to myself." He grinned at her and then nodded toward the window.
"Before I entered, you were watching outside. Anything of interest?"
She slowly shook her head. "No, indeed, there is not."
He sighed softly, and then squeezed her hand. "He will return soon, Arwen. You need not worry for his safety…or for Enguina."
"I…" she shook her head, "I do not know what is bothering me. I have been finding it difficult to sleep these past two evenings. I am worried that Enguina has been sorely hurt, and I am worried for the Three Hunters, but that would not keep me up at night." She frowned. "Something else draws near...I can feel something changing."
"I assure you that they will find her and return her to us safely and more likely even sooner than we think or know. Legolas believed it would be within the week, and that is an encouraging thought. They have fast horses that are willing to run…and Aragorn has a reason to make a very speedy return," he said with a smile, "for what man can deny their child or the mother of such a child? Certainly not Aragorn!" he laughed and exclaimed, "Look what he did to mine! He let her hold on to his hair and now she continues to grab my own! It drives me mad! I shall become bald before my time!"
Arwen laughed with him, but she was thinking of what Aragorn had told her while she had been holding onto his hair. "I am sure he did not mean to teach this motion to your child, Faramir, though I was under the impression that she had been doing it previous to the party. Besides, Éowyn shall still love you…even if you are bald."
He looked at her very seriously. "Please do not mention that to her," he cried, rolling his eyes, "or I shall never hear the end of it! She shall be teasing me for ages that my daughter wishes me to be bald! I assure you that the scoundrel in Aragorn meant it."
"The scoundrel in Aragorn?" she quoted him, laughing. "As if there was such a thing!"
"No, I speak the truth!" he cried. "See, after your wedding, we had discussed what would happen if we ever had children and all the bad things he said that he would do to mine to irritate me. I regret to inform you that this was on his list. When he returns, I am going to kill him myself."
"I had no idea any such thing was going on at our wedding! Aragorn has never spoken of this to me, but that is fairly amusing."
"Amusing to whom?" he questioned and then laughed himself. "Well, I suppose Aragorn and I are even in any case. He probably never told you of all the nasty things I told him that I would teach your child as well." They both laughed.
"How was Annî today? Did Éowyn keep her busy even while resting?"
"Annî is so very alive; I can tell you that," he smiled.
"Please, do not let me hinder you; return to your family, Faramir, and give my love to all three of them." She released his hand.
"You sure you have no need for anything?"
"I am very sure, Faramir, but I thank you."
"Then I shall return to my wife." He blushed a little. "I did not want you to be lonely. Surely it must be somewhat lonely to be seated here without a friend."
She smiled at him. "You are so very thoughtful, Faramir, and Éowyn is lucky to have you." The man blushed a little more.
"Indeed, thank you…so she tells me often."
"And well she should. I bid you go to her now," she laughed. "Good night!" He rose, bowed to her, and kissed her hand.
"Sleep well, Arwen; I pray you will have sweet dreams. Aragorn will return soon, and all will be well again. Good night."
"Good night, Faramir," she replied, and in another moment she heard the door shut, and he was gone.
Arwen sighed softly, returning her eyes to the window and laying her head against the back of the chair. She knew in her heart that Aragorn was safe, but that did not mean she would stop worrying about him. He would be gone almost three days tomorrow and they were bound to catch the attackers soon. They would all return safe and uninjured, and she would race out to hold him in her arms and tell him once again how much she loved him.
She smiled at that thought. At any given moment she could conceive a picture of him in her mind that would touch down to her soul. The tenderness in the touch of his hand, the strength in his arms when they wrapped around her, the peace in his face as he looked on the sunset, and the passion in his eyes as they made love. His simple smile was like a hug to her heart, and she smiled at the images that came to her; they warmed her spirit.
She yawned, and then decided she might as well try to go to sleep. Intending to change her clothes, she stood and moved into the other room to gather her things for bed. As she glanced over at the bed, she could almost see him there waiting for her, and she nearly laughed at her imagination. Instead, she dressed into her nightgown. Lifting Hadhafang from the bed, she placed the sword against the wall within arm's reach; Aragorn had warned her to be careful, so she was doing what he asked. She lay down on the bed and placed the sheet over her, hoping that tonight would be filled with pleasant dreams of her beloved.
She laid a hand over her womb, closing her eyes and feeling the baby begin to move within her. Shaking her head, she sighed. It might turn out to be another restless night.
The journey was becoming increasingly difficult as they continued across the plain and sparse woodlands, pushing their unwilling horses to run even faster. There was no stopping Calendur; the horses were tripping in their exhaustion. Dagnirhir's pain had vanished, but his horse was sluggish and irritated by the rough riding; Belegore's horse was tired of dragging the horse behind it that tripped every few steps. They had ridden all day and through most of the night as it had been clear, but the horses were giving their last. It was about three hours from dawn.
Enguina, mounted on the angry beast that walked behind Belegore, had never known such agony. Her hands were still tied at the wrist in front of her and the rope cut into the deep slices that were already present there from hours of being in the saddle. The wound in her side had begun to bleed again over an hour ago, and she found it difficult to breathe; every step from the horse was pure torment. Each jolt of his stride cut so sharply into her side that she needed to gasp for air. Pain flowed through her, into her back and down into her stomach. She was freezing, and she had not been cold in her entire life. Never feeling this way, she did not know what was happening, what was coming over her. She could not lift her aching head, and everything ached.
She wished…she prayed for a miracle. She prayed, right at that moment, that the touch of Legolas' arms would surround her, that all would be well. In her mind's eye, she could see him riding hard and fast, searching for her. She could almost hear his voice in her head, whispering words of love. That he was coming…he was coming for her.
It had been nearly a day since her injury and though her pain was terrible, the illness she knew nothing about was worse. She had never felt so badly all her life, and she was beginning to lose her senses. There were moments she could not hear what the men said to each other as she drifted in and out of consciousness, and her eyesight had lessened; things would grow dark and then return to normal. She tried desperately to ignore the agony she was feeling, but as they were moving through another heavily forested area, she was at the point where she could no longer sit upon the horse without a major effort of strength, strength she knew she no longer had.
Sweat poured from her brow, and the heat in her head had risen to the point where she could no longer fight it…and she did not wish to. She wanted more than anything to get off of the horse and lie down. The pain in her side, back, and stomach was constant, and her tunic was slick with blood for the cloth was no longer able to contain it. Her eyes were tightly closed while her breath came in short gasps that could not be heard over the thumping of the horse's hooves in the soft dirt. Her body's defenses had failed…and she was losing the battle within herself. Her strength and will to fight had broken.
Her horse stepped over a branch and tripped, going down onto his front knees and towing the rope nearly out of Belegore's hand and dragging his horse to a halt. The horse righted himself, but Enguina could not keep her balance; she hung, half out of the saddle by her ankles and wrists, her body falling to the side painfully, every muscle yanking. She was still, hanging off the left side of the horse who stood still, the saddle uncomfortably pulling to the left.
"Ho!" said Belegore, yanking back on the reins of his horse, and the stallion tossed his head at the sharp tug. Belegore whispered a short sorry, and the horse stopped willingly, dropping his head almost to the ground. The man leapt from his back and the horse stood exactly where he had stopped, grateful for the rest, and he hurried back to her, drawing out his knife. Not one of them had been paying her any mind; they had not even stopped to eat or rest themselves. Belegore cursed as he righted her swiftly, and began cutting her loose. Moving to her right side, he cut that rope, too, and the one holding her hands, dropping the knife as she came at him, she fell off the horse and into his arms. He lowered her quickly to the ground, noticing how labored her breathing was and slow. Her whole body was trembling, and her face was beaded with sweat. He cursed again, touching her forehead. She was very ill, and he had not even noticed for his own weariness. The moonlight glistened off her face. He looked up when Calendur's horse moved up next to him, the horse's head hanging low as the elf scowled down at them both.
"Get her up," he stated, sitting tall and not fatigued in the saddle of a beast which needed great rest. Belegore met his gaze unflinchingly.
"She is deathly ill, and pale," he stated, shaking his head. "She can go no further."
"Belegore, we are traveling now. Get her back in the saddle."
"No," he said firmly, "I will not, Calendur. The horses are exhausted and will not take another step without resting. We should camp here and take some sleep while we still can. They are not so close that we cannot rest for the night…we have traveled far and in great haste. The wound you inflicted on her is taking its toll; we must rest here."
"Forget the horses," added Dagnirhir, "we're tired." He was not only physically tired; he was also tired of running. Dagnirhir did not run from battle, he yearned for it. He would gladly stop running for a chance that the King might catch them. He wanted to meet him in battle.
Calendur looked to the south, the way they had come…he heard nothing that would indicate that riders were near, though he did not know how soon they had been sent out or when they had been discovered. Belegore was right, no matter how much he did not wish to admit it. The horses were weary and would refuse to carry them farther now that they had stopped. He did not reply, but he did dismount.
In moments, camp was set, and as the moon drew overhead Calendur lay down to rest. Dagnirhir was drinking from his last flask near the fire, singing in a drunken stupor to himself. Belegore gave him a disgusted look, but envied Calendur's ability to block out all noise so that he would sleep fully. Belegore darkly promised himself that if he could not sleep because of the man's singing, he would not hesitate to seriously punish him. He smiled grimly to himself; yes, he was in a foul mood tonight.
He took the water he had heated over the fire and moved slowly to the wounded elf who now lay shivering on the outside of their camp. Calendur had staked her tied hands to the ground above her head so that she could not move even if she had the strength, and he had gagged her so she could not make noise. Her eyes were tightly closed, but she was clearly not asleep as she kept twitching; he doubted the fever would allow her. Her senses so diminished, she did not hear him approach or kneel down beside her.
He reached forward and as he began undoing the buttons on the tunic she wore, her eyes sliced open. The pain drained from her face and terror came to her eyes. She tried to pull away, desperately, and though he saw pure suffering rake through her gaze, she did not stop trying to get away from him. He pulled his hand back and held them up for her to see as sweat burned her eyes.
"I am not going to harm you, Enguina," he said, using her name for the first time on the journey. "I need to see the wound; you are very ill."
She could not possibly keep up the strength required to stay focused on him, and he watched her eyes roll back into her head. If he was not going to harm her, than she was done. Her breathing harsh and painful, she closed her eyes and dropped her head back against the snow, losing more strength by the moment. He assumed she knew that she did not have much choice and that at the moment it probably did not matter to her what he did. The last few buttons of the bloodied tunic undone, he untied and removed the blood-soaked bandage. His eyes fell on the wound and he grimaced for it was as bad as he had feared. It was already grotesquely infected, which accounted for the illness she was suffering.
"How did this get so awful so quickly?" Belegore muttered, shaking his head. He was no healer by any means. Soaking the cleanest rag he had in the hot water, he brought it close to her. "This is going to hurt," he whispered, "but there is nothing else I know to do for you." Carefully, he began to wash the wound, but no amount of carefulness would have taken away the pain of what he was doing. She whimpered, biting down hard on the cloth Calendur had wrapped tightly across her mouth. She passed out and regained consciousness several times as he worked, her fingers digging into the soft earth beneath her hands. Tears of agony rolled down her face, and she tried not to feel the cold as it pressed in all around her. Her head felt so hot, but her limbs were freezing. Her breathing was ragged as he replaced the bandage with a new one, and re-buttoned the tunic.
"I cannot do more for you," he said softly, taking pity on her.
He was grieved, and it struck him as he watched the tears form in her eyes and fall that she was a victim, totally undeserving of any punishment. Guilt filled his heart as he saw what they had done—what he had done—and he thought of the woman that they intended to inflict pain on…how much more would there be for her? The elf before him was not even supposed to have been injured; she was a diversion! The unfairness of the situation came down upon him at once; what had they done to deserve such pain? What had the King done? He had restored life to Gondor; had saved them all from death in Mordor, and now he was to lose all he had won. And what of the Queen? The first time he had seen her, she was giving flowers to a little child, filled with laughter. What of the night near the wall, when she had smiled so kindly and had held the King's arm so lovingly? And then at the celebration when she had spun about the dance-floor with his own grandfather. She had only ever sought to heal the people, to help them. And this woman, the elf who lay now in front of him, probably dying, what had she done? Why did she not deserve happiness?
Overwhelming shame tore at his heart. Who was he to take this away from her, from any of them? What sort of anger was in his heart to be so evil, so full of malice and hatred to those who more than anyone deserved to have a good life? What right did he have to take these things away from them? And it was even worse than he had feared!
He remembered the words in the stable that the King had spoken to him that morning. He remembered the look in the man's eyes as he told of the horrors he had seen. He knew that he had tried to block those words out, but as he had seen the terror in Enguina's eyes and her great pain, he knew that the words were truth indeed; that it was his duty, as Aragorn had said, to protect the innocent and take care of those who could not do so themselves. This elf…she was a victim…and he had helped them. Helped them!
Belegore stood. He could not be beside her anymore, to feel the guilt. He walked to the camp and tossed himself down upon his bedroll, rolling over and wrapping his arms across his chest. He had done wrong…he had done a grievous wrong. The only thing worse than what he had done would be to kill either of them or the child himself.
There would never be a way to set it right.
Enguina tried to relieve the pressure on her torn shoulder by tugging herself towards the knife that held her to the ground, but she had never felt so weak. She could not even lift her head; she coughed hard. She had never been cold before, yet she was freezing, her body shaking so bad she could barely control herself. Her physical pain was inconceivable, and she cried out in her heart, over and over for Legolas to rescue her. Oh, if he could hear her or the words that she cried to him! She wrapped his love around her like a shield from the cold, but she could not even wrap her arms around herself.
She was in despair and she was desperate. She had never felt such agony; she wanted to go home…she was freezing, wet, miserable. There was not a bit of kindness anywhere to be found, except in Belegore. He, at least, had tried to see to her wound and he had defended her even when there had been no need. She wondered how long he would continue to protect her before—
There was crunching in the snow very near to her head, and she weakly forced her eyes to open, expecting to see Belegore, come back again. She had no idea how long it had been since he had left her. It was not Belegore.
"Well, well, lovely lady…it's just you and me now."
Enguina screamed in her head. Immediately, she tried to back away, tried to wrench herself away from his searching hands but she was too weak and in too much pain. Dagnirhir had sneaked to her side; now they were alone. She whimpered; her eyes flooded with terror as he leered at her.
"Now, that's proper respect," he said to her, grinning like a madman, "A bit of fear is good for a woman, healthy, even." He reached down, laying one hand directly on her breast as she tried to writhe away, and the other on her face. Her sides were heaving in fear and pain, and she squealed through the gag, desperate for freedom. Dagnirhir slapped her hard across the face, and she grunted with the impact—he hit so hard.
"I like it when they scream," he said with a laugh, leaning over her body and drawing close to her cheek. His hand squeezed tight, causing her to wince, and then it wandered over from her breast towards the center of her chest. Please, Ilúvatar, please is there no mercy? Her eyes were wide with dread, her whole body shaking beneath him. His fingers began to split open the buttons on her tunic in quick succession, exposing her chest to the freezing air. Terror swept over her; she tried to scream again but no sound came out of her throat.
"Looks like Ahadil cracked a few ribs when his foot found you," he muttered, running his fingers across the bruising on her skin even as she tried again to tug away. Her breath squeaked out of her lungs when his hand found her breast; skin-to-skin, her stomach churned and she tried to call for Belegore through the gag. This time, he back-handed her, bruising her face even more than it had been.
"It feels good when you scream," he teased her, "gives me a rise. But you've got to be quiet now, lovely. You need a lesson in proper respect for a man, and I'm going to give it to you." He reached down to undo his belt and she threw every last ounce of her strength into kicking him in the shoulder, her wound blazing with agony. He caught her knee and laughed at her feeble attempt before shoving it aside and pressing his fingers into the junction between her thighs. She squealed, so sick she was going to be violently ill, trying to thrash but unable to get any leverage, his fingers pushing against her.
"Still some fight, huh?" he laughed, and he drew back a fist and slammed it down square between her breasts, causing her to cough and choke into the gag. "You're my bitch now; I'll show you what happens when you struggle!" She did not even have time to catch her breath before he had yanked off his belt and reared it back in his fist, aiming for sensitive skin. He snapped it down hard across her stomach, raising a welt almost immediately as she screamed into the gag.
"I said quiet. Do as I say!" he snarled, furious as he brought down the belt against her chest and across her left breast, while his fingers hurt—when he was suddenly yanked backward away from her. The agony of the strike, her fear about what had been about to happen, spun her stomach.
"You son of a whore!" shouted Belegore, beginning to pummel him in the face with his fists. "You bastard! What the hell did you think!? Get away from her! Get away!" The younger man was hitting any area he could reach as Dagnirhir scrambled back from him; Belegore kicked him in the ass as he crawled away, and he whirled about towards Enguina.
She was vomiting; he could tell by the way her stomach was moving. Quickly, before she choked to death, he drew his dagger, reached down quickly, and sliced the gag from her mouth. His hands were shaking so badly from his fury that he cut her cheek slicing the soaked gag from her mouth. He yanked the dagger out of the ground that had pinned her hands and turned her on her side in the snow. She was still heaving; but before he could do anything else, he heard a sound behind him.
He whirled again, this time, back towards Dagnirhir who was running at him from two paces away, his face furiously angry. Belegore sheathed the dagger and slugged the bigger man square in the center of his face, snapping his nose for sure. Screaming, Dagnirhir went down to one knee, where Belegore hit him in the side of the head. "How do you like it!?" he roared and the man fell back from him, dragging himself backwards and away from Belegore.
"What in the name of Morgoth are you two yelling about?" Calendur cried, leaping to his feet near the fire. "I thought someone was attacking us!"
"Belegore attacked me!" cried Dagnirhir, holding his face. No patience left and snarling like a dozen ravenous wolves, Belegore launched himself at the big man, cuffing him round the head three, even four times before Dagnirhir punched him in the gut and shoved him back. Calendur shot to his feet and finally separated both of them, shoving Dagnirhir toward the fire where he stumbled and fell onto his mat; the elf held out a hand toward Belegore who had his hand in the air, pointing at him.
"He was going to violate her!" Belegore spat, his eyes sharp as daggers. "Right here! Right here on the ground, that filthy animal!" Calendur turned and kicked Dagnirhir himself.
"Stop thinking with your manhood!" he hissed.
"I will kill him!" Belegore continued to snarl. "If he touches her again, I will break him in a hundred places, tie his carcass to a horse, and drag him to the mountain of fire myself and throw him into it!"
"Enough bickering!" Calendur shouted, equally angry, turning to Dagnirhir. "If you try one more time," he snapped, "I will cut your manhood from you myself! Do I make myself clear?" The drunk man had no choice but he nod. "Go to sleep, you huan." The elf turned back and saw Belegore breathing hard, anger clear on his face. "And you, enough brawling; get back to sleep! We only need to rest the horses another few hours and we can be on our way. We are almost to the place where I planned to abandon her, and they will be catching up soon. We should be far enough ahead of them for another half-a-day or so, and when they find her, they shall be so busy they will not have time to hunt us."
Calendur readied his blankets as Belegore stared at him in surprise; he lay back down after being sure Dagnirhir was nearly out cold already. The younger man appeared confused. "A…abandon her?"
"What? Did you think we were going to allow them to catch us with the woman? No!" he replied, laughing. "No, they will find her, and we will have escaped them. They will never suspect a thing; now, get some sleep."
Belegore stared at him as he rolled over; Dagnirhir stayed right where he fell. Collecting himself and flexing his fingers lest they remain in fists the rest of the evening, Belegore headed back over to Enguina whose body was shaking so hard with terror that he was stricken with grief, tears pouring down her face, her forehead pressed to the ground. She could not even turn herself over.
Kneeling down, he reached out and took one of her shoulders in his hand, eager to move her away from where she had been heaving. Enguina flinched so hard and so suddenly that her stomach muscles clenched again, though there was nothing left in her stomach to get rid of.
"It is Belegore," he said, and he did tug her back then, where he could wipe off her mouth and face. "I will kill him," he muttered to himself as he carefully buttoned her tunic over the bruises and welts now forming on the front of her body. "I will kill him if he touches you again." He shook his head, touching his fingers to her forehead even as she flinched away again. "I swear I will not hurt you, just let me…" His hand finally reached her forehead and he muttered, "God, you are burning up…and freezing." Yanking off his cloak, he bundled it around her. "It is not much, but it will be better than the cold." He frowned at her, looking at the way her eyes tightly shut, the way she was shaking; mostly from fear, but not all—she was so sick. If she made it longer than another day, he would be shocked.
Dagnirhir's very actions made him sick. He knew that the man was disgusting, but now every bit of him loathed the man. He could not convince himself to go and lay back down by the fire. No…he would have to stay awake and make certain he did not touch her, and that she did not run off into the dark. He shook his head at his own thoughts; that was not even possible now. But…what was possible was waking in the morning and finding they were surrounded by soldiers. At this point, he did not care what happened to him; she did not deserve to die like this. Calendur had never told him of the plan to abandon her out here in the Wilds of Mordor; what if there was no confrontation with the King after all? After that explosion, was it possible that they had not even come for her? Was there any way, any way at all that she might be saved from this nightmare?
Faramir woke with a start, the nightmare pouring out of his mind as quickly as it had entered. He did not remember most of it now, but he rolled over in bed, reaching over to wrap his arm more tightly around his wife. He hated dreams, even good ones; he always felt they had a hidden message for him. Resting his head against hers, he thought about the last time he had spoken with Aragorn, how he had warned him the mission to rescue Enguina was a trap. He had been dreading that he had been right, and now, he had a dream about it. Typical.
It was that moment in which all hell suddenly broke loose. The warning bell began clanging and there were shouts and yells of pain from outside the house. Annî began screaming from the other room, and he and Éowyn launched themselves from the bed just as the shouting outside grew louder and there was pounding upon the door.
"Elf! Mommy!" screamed Annî, crying and pointing at the window as Éowyn gathered her up into her arms. She gripped Éowyn around the neck as she clutched her, trying to soothe her and stare wildly out the window at the same time. There was nothing there.
"Shh, shh, little lamb," she whispered.
"Prince Faramir!" The cries from outside were heard again, and Faramir only stopped long enough for Éowyn to follow him out into the hall as he fumbled with his sword belt. Snatching his quiver and bow from the front room, he raced towards the door.
"Prince Faramir! My Lord!" Reaching the front door within a matter of seconds, he yanked it open, nearly pulling it from its hinges. "There are…men! Men…in the…in the garden and in the Citadel!" The poor man was completely out of breath, but Faramir grabbed his shoulder.
"Men? What—" Faramir began, but Éowyn's scream caught him off guard and he reacted, shoving the guard aside as he brought his bow up, firing an arrow into the throat of a stranger with a bow behind the man. "Go!" he shouted to the guard, stepping out the front door and aiming his longbow about. "Stay inside!" His words were to Éowyn as he threw himself down off the porch, whirling about and taking aim at another lithe figure running across the roof of his own house. Annî was screaming at the top of her lungs, just adding more to the chaos as the figure dropped to the ground before Faramir. He snatched his sword off his belt and plunged it into the attacker's chest, making certain he was dead.
His face was all astonishment when he saw who the attacker was. "An elf?" he said, and he bent down. "An elf?" he exclaimed.
"Elf!" Annî screamed, and Faramir realized what she had seen out her window.
"Faramir!" Éowyn yelled, and he had no time to react. Switching Annî to her left arm, she snatched the frozen guard's dagger from its sheath and whipped it into another attacker's throat. Covering Annî's face at the spray of blood, she raced off the front porch to her husband, who stood staring down at the man Éowyn had just killed. If she had been a second later, he would have been headless. The guard was at her heels.
"I told you to stay in the house," he said, and then grabbed her arm, dragging her to him as he kissed her roughly on the mouth. He pulled back and drew another arrow. "I love you, but stay with Annî now. Get inside. You, come with me," he said to the guard and he kissed Annî on the forehead, even as she was crying.
Éowyn wanted, more than anything, to fight at his side…but she had not one but two little ones who needed her. She backed onto the porch as she watched Faramir race toward the courtyard, where several figures with bows could be seen.
War had returned to Minas Tirith.