Sons of Thunder II: Where the Shadows Lie

by ziggy3

Gondor adjusts to Peace, but there are artefacts in the ruined cities of Mordor and Eregion that are of value to those who are not so pleased about the return of the King. The Fellowship are drawn into the pursuit of one of these artefacts, especially since a body has been discovered, drained of blood. Legolas, Gimli, Pippin, Merry, Gandalf, Aragorn, Elrohir, Elladan.(Slash L/El)

36. Chapter 36 Ravéyön

Special mention for Bluehair, who has been leaving lovely comments on Through a Glass.

Also Nako, who is going to love this!

Just a few points about the medical terminology here…

None of the operations depicted should be tried at home! For a start, modern medicine is far more advanced and more likely to be successful. This uses basic operations but I changed it so it is more medieval or uses a different science that elves have developed over the many centuries of their lives.

quiss- a wide bored needle; it is tubular.

rotä- a catheter-like instrument, but since it is made by Elves and is Elrond's invention, it is very superior! It is used to insert into a bladder, a cavity, etc. and it allows liquid or air to escape from the body.

Crystôl- this was used by Elrohir on Legolas in More Dangerous. It was violent but effective on that occasion.

Chapter 36: Ravéyön

Bearos knew his body was being punished, that his wrists were raw and bleeding, that his body had been kicked and pummeled by those who had captured him, but he no longer felt anything like he would describe as pain. Khamûl had driven him, stretched his body and pulled it, twisted it beyond imagining and so the pain and discomfort inflicted upon him by his gaolers was as nothing. If they had twisted his sinews, or stretched him upon a rack, he had already been racked so his limbs were stretched, joints twisted and sinews cracked beyond anything humanly possible; if they had poured fire over him, he had already burned, incinerated to ash in the heat of Khamûl. If they had inflicted horrors upon him, he had already seen, done more than they could imagine.

Theirs were pin pricks compared with what he had suffered from Khamûl; soft dreams, light pinches. Nothing.

But when Ólorin came, he stood in front of Bearos and unveiled Narya. Then, it was different. The Zigûr wielded Narya like a knife, incising mercilessly, cutting deeply so Bearos writhed and gibbered. Ólorin surgically sliced open Bearos' memories and examined each one for the location of the Elf. Of course, Khamûl had buried that deeply, hidden it beneath the things that Bearos did not want to remember. Ólorin wrenched one memory from Bearos, the mountains with their clear mineral skies, the pebbly scree sliding under feet, the goats bleating and running towards him to be fed; beneath that he found hidden the memory of the pitiful bloody bundle that was the stillborn baby, born in the hard Winter when there was not enough wood to keep them warm or food to feed his pregnant wife.

Bearos no longer cared. And Ólorin did not. For an hour, and another hour, he pressed him, relentlessly excoriating the images in Bearos' wriggling, writhing brain.

'I will never tell you!' Bearos hissed. 'Never!'

And Ólorin came in again, wrenching one memory after another. But to no avail. Bearos would not tell him where the Elf was. Yôzâira. The Gift. For he belonged to Ravéyön, and Khamûl said that Bearos was to make sure that Ravéyön had him.

He was hungry now, and exhausted. Not only by Ólorin's relentless interrogation, but from Khamûl's demanding possession of his body. Bearos wanted, needed blood. He had lost track of how long he had been held here and he was starving, hungry, needed to feed. The Elf's blood had sustained him but he had used a great deal of power in the last few days and he was depleted now, as was Khamûl.

'You will stay here until the end of your miserable days!' Ólorin cried in frustration and anger.

And then Bearos felt it. His fingers prickled and he felt the hair on his neck rise like a storm was coming, like lightning was about to strike. The air became heavier and heavier and the pressure took his breath away. If he strained his neck and looked beyond Ólorin's dazzling brightness, he could just see the sky from the high window, it was edged with crimson and he knew! He knew. Ravéyön was here. He could smell the lightning in the air. He swelled with lust and desire, let his head roll back and lasciviously his tongue lolled from his mouth, stretched and licked his wide mouth.

'I will have you, Ravéyön. I will have you. And your Yôzâira,' he muttered and his jaw clacked and his red tongue lolled from his mouth again and he jerked his hips in horrible parody of sex.

We will all have you.

Ólorin's disgust at Bearos' antics was evident on his face but Bearos laughed harshly, his throat parched and raw. 'You have no idea, old Man,' he sneered. 'No idea at all what is coming! You think you have won, but this has only just started.'

The mental blow from Narya snapped his head back and made his eyes bulge so they felt like they were being forced from their sockets and this time he shrieked. But he thought he should make it blood-curdling so he made it inhuman and let it go on and on and on, even though Ólorin simply stood there and watched contemptuously as Bearos writhed and screamed and screamed and gibbered. Then he spat a great glob of phlegm towards the Zigûr, who recoiled in disgust.

After a few minutes, during which Bearos shrieked as if he were being dissected alive and gibbered as if in agony and terror, there was a cautious tap on the door. Bearos let his jaw clack and gibber. 'They will come now, thinking you have killed me,' he gloated.

'Be thankful that I have not,' snapped the Zigûr. 'Not yet anyway.'

'If you do, you will never find the Yôzâira,' Bearos hissed.

'You have said that word many times,' Ólorin observed, wiping away the spittle from his robes. 'This is your name for Legolas. Why? Why is he the Gift of Longing? Whose longing? And to whom is he a gift?'

But Bearos would not speak again and when Ólorin approached him, holding Narya before him, Bearos gave another screech, long and blood-curdling.

At last the prison door opened. A Man stood there, craning his neck to see.

'We heard a scream, my lord,' the Man said hesitantly. He glanced nervously at the Zigûr and Bearos groaned and rolled his head as if he were in agony.

'Stop, please. Make him stop,' he moaned, his eyes bright with wickedness and fastened upon the Zigûr.

The Man looked uncomfortable and hesitated and, in that moment, Khamûl eased from Bearos' hand, stretched a finger of suggestion into the Man's thoughts, eased into his ears, his mouth, his nostrils and filled his head with suggestion.

'My lord,' the Man said slowly, his eyes suddenly vacant. 'I will guard this beast while you rest if you wish. The King asks for you.' The Zigûr was busily wiping more phlegm that Bearos had spat upon his pristine white robes, and to Bearos' delight, he did not notice the Man's vacant eyes.

The Zigûr sighed heavily and glared at Bearos. Bearos let his eyes close and head roll so it hung down like he was unconscious, but he watched carefully from beneath his lids and listened intently. The Zigûr paused for a moment as if considering the Man's words. 'The King is awake?'

The Man nodded dully as Khamûl made him.

'Very well. Then guard this fiend, but I warn you, stay outside and do not speak to him or go in there.' Ólorin guided the Man to the door and then stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him.

Bearos waited for a moment and then sent Khamûl out again, searching for the Man and bringing him back to the cell. The Man stood there for a moment in the doorway, hesitating and Bearos felt him fighting Khamûl.

'Fool,' he said softly. 'You will not win. Come as He instructs you.'

Closing the door behind him then, the Man stepped forwards, eyes vacant and face slack. His hands went to the shackles but he did not have the keys and so Bearos forced him to come closer and closer. He stood silent and still as Bearos curled his lips back from his long teeth into a snarling grin and then opened his jaws like a serpent, tilting his head and striking at the Man's throat. He seized it in his wide, fanged mouth and tore, ripped, gnashed so the blood spurted over his face and lips and mouth and he leaned far forwards in his chains and kept the Man upright in his jaws, sucking and swallowing as fast as he could until there was a clattering, shouting upon the stairs beyond the door and he sucked with greater intensity, hard, draining as much blood as he could.

0o0o

Elrohir felt Barakhir faltering, his gait had become uneven and Elrohir knew he had galloped his faithful horse to lameness and he could go on only a little longer. Barakhir was not much better, and though he said nothing, Elladan's face was grim and mouth set.

But the gates of Minas Tirith were ahead of them and they flew over the dusty road in spite of the horses' exhaustion. Elrohir's fear for Aragorn was fanned by his fear too for Legolas. The dread he had been feeling ever since they set foot in Gondor had grown upon him, but when Arwen had collapsed with a cry for Aragorn, Elrohir had not felt the same thrust of agony in his heart. He felt nothing.

Is this because Arwen's bond with Aragorn is deeper, he pondered, or is it because Legolas is in no danger? Or worse…but he would not think on that. He could not bear it. His heart surged with fear that Legolas might be hurt and he threw his senses out, trying to find the threads of green-gold that danced lightly through the air. There was nothing.

Let him not be dead, let him not be dead! He could not bear it if he was. Surely he would know?

They galloped onwards, his brother nearby. Urging Barakhir onwards, stretching the horse out at a flat gallop for miles upon miles until he knew that no other horse could have continued at that pace.

It was late by the time they reached the city gates. A cart was trundling ahead of them, but Elrohir urged his horse on and Barakhir cantered wearily around the cart and in front of it, dangerously close to the shafts of the wagon, and almost battering the guards who stood at the gates. They had no choice but to leap aside and Elrohir charged up the steep streets from one level to the next, feeling his tired horse stumble. Behind him by some way, Baraghur and Elladan followed, as ever.

Legolas stretched in chains, firelight flickering, licking his skin…

Elrohir shoved it away. I am not that man anymore, he told himself. I do not want that!

But those dreadful desires, those images of Legolas pulled taut by chains, firelight on his long, lean body, Elrohir's own hands smearing blood over the pale, inked skin haunted him, drenched him in guilt and love.

This is not who I am. Not anymore.

He could not think how hurting Legolas could ever have been something he wanted. He shoved away those images, he had not wanted that for a long time. Instead he craved the touch of Legolas, submitting to his every will. Every cell in his body thrilled at the thought that in moments, he could have Legolas again in his arms. He kept looking upwards, half expecting to see the Woodelf dancing lightly along the high walls of the city, sunlight glinting on his hair so that even from this distance, Elrohir might see him.

Higher up, from the fourth level onwards, the streets were very quiet and it seemed eerily empty. One or two people were out but they were fearful and scuttled out of Elrohir's way. He turned his head and looked down the narrow street to the House of the Fellowship as they passed, every bit of him yearning to clatter his way down to the house, throw himself from Barakhir and burst into the house, shouting for Legolas and taking him in his arms. But if Aragorn was in mortal danger, then Legolas would be at his side. Unless he was also in danger. But at least he would have news of both if he went straight to the palace, he reasoned.

But the sixth level gates were heavily guarded and as Elrohir approached, there were many guards milling about and when they saw two riders, they turned and watched suspiciously. Two guards barred the way.

'Hold in the name of the King!' shouted one, leaping up and trying to seize Barakhir's reins and if the horse had not been so exhausted, he would have reared up and evaded the Man. As it was, the horse could only shy and Elrohir shouted to the Man to desist.

'I am the King's brother! I come to his aid and you will not stand in my way!' His eyes flashed and the Man took several steps back.

'Apologies my lord, I did not see that it was you.' The Man looked familiar but Elrohir saw behind him that it looked as though the city was still besieged. A cart was shoved to one side of the gate but it looked blackened as if it had been on fire. Behind him were men leaning against the wall or sitting on a bench outside a house but they looked weary and some had bloody bandages around heads or arms, and two men were limping, leaning on each other as they made their way to the Gatehouse.

'What has happened here?' Elladan called, his beautiful face concerned as pulled up alongside.

'There has been an attempted rebellion, my lords.'

Elladan gasped and the Man continued, 'My lords, we do not know what is happening in the city above but there have been strange goings on since you left. Faramir was arrested and Beregond dismissed... A new captain put in his place - a brutal, greedy man. He sent troops out into the city to keep the people down. They have been demanding money from merchants and pestering the womenfolk. Captain Beregond has sent me to restore order with the Tower Guard, to put back the rule of law. My lords, my name is Cendir.'

Elrohir remembered him now but he could not believe what he was hearing. Faramir arrested and Beregond dismissed? What had Aragorn been thinking? 'So the King has restored Beregond?' Elladan asked anxiously.

Elrohir looked about them while Elladan asked his questions. This must be why Arwen felt that dreadful pain; Aragorn had been beguiled if these were his actions.

'Beregond has been restored,' Cendir replied, a little evasively, thought Elrohir. 'But it seems that the King's advisor, a Man called Bearos, has been plotting all this time. He is the one who persuaded the King to dismiss Beregond. My lords,' Cendir came close now and lowered his voice so that Elladan leaned down to hear but Elrohir could hear him anyway.

'My lord. Bearos has attacked the King. He stabbed him.' Cendir looked around anxiously, it was clear that they were keeping this news secret, to keep the city calm.

'What?' demanded Elladan, aghast. 'Aragorn has been stabbed?' He looked at Elrohir, who was already turning the exhausted Barakhir and urging him onwards. 'We must go to him!'

Cendir was still speaking, calling to them, shouting something as they clattered away and so they did not hear the rest of his news, nor did they see him shaking his head in a gesture of despair.

If they had been in haste before, it was nothing to how they rode now. Barakhir almost stumbled once or twice but did not give up and his great muscles heaved with the effort as Elrohir charged up the last steep slopes and surged into the Square of the Seventh level. Throwing himself from his sweating, blowing horse, Elrohir threw his reins to a groom who came running at the sound of horses clattering up the cobbled streets. Elladan was not far behind him and did likewise, and they ignored the disapproving looks they got from the grooms for the state of the two horses.

The Gatehouse of the Palace was empty, the doors thrown wide and a bench overturned. Elrohir glanced at Elladan in concern and they swept into the Palace. There were clusters of men, and a few ladies gathered in anxious little knots about the great hall.

'Where is the king?' Elladan demanded loudly.

A short fat clerk came hurrying over, wringing his hands and with such worry on his face that Elrohir's heart sank.

'My lords, your timing could not be better. Come with me. I will take you to him.'

The clerk's strides were considerably shorter than the tall Elves and he trotted alongside them talking quickly as they went. 'The healers have done what they can but frankly, my lords, there has been so much going on I would not be surprised if a vestige of sorcery remained within the King. Mithrandir has been with the prisoner, of course, trying to wheedle information out him but the fiend is tight as a clam and will not speak.'

'What happened? He was stabbed with a blade?' Elrohir asked, wanting to ascertain that Cendir had the truth of it, and when the clerk nodded, he fired more questions. 'Has the bleeding stopped?'

The clerk frowned a little and his face fell. 'No, the bleeding will not stop. It is our greatest concern that the King is so weakened with blood loss that he cannot fight any infection.'

Elladan glanced down at the clerk. 'Is there any fluid leaking from the wound? Just blood?'

'There was something else.' The clerk hurried alongside them, panting. 'It smelled awful. The healers say it is black bile. But well, I do not know medicine I am afraid, my lords. But I can find out anything you ask of me.' He paused outside Aragon's chamber, and his face softened. 'Please help him, my lords,' he said simply and Elrohir looked more closely at him for he clearly loved Aragorn.

'Your name, sir clerk?'

'Aradhel, my lords.' He smiled then, a wide generous smile and his eyes were clear and bright and intelligent. He licked his lips and glanced at Elrohir. 'I have been researching this, my lords and I think…well, the healers do not agree, but it does sound as if it might be something like the Black Breath. The symptoms are very similar and that Bearos was certainly involved in sorcery.'

Elrohir stared; that was what Cendir had said: that Bearos, the strange Man from the mountains, had been plotting to assassinate Aragorn. But Legolas had always distrusted the Man. How had he allowed this Bearos to get so close? Elrohir opened his mouth to ask about Legolas but Elladan spoke first.

'But the Black Breath was a weapon of the Nazgûl, and they are gone. You are not suggesting that this Bearos has somehow obtained the sorcery of the Nazgûl?'

Aradhel shrugged. 'I am only a lowly clerk my lords. I am sure you know better than I. I just thought it worth the mention…' But he hesitated as if he would say more but then stopped. 'Please. Do not delay on my account. I think only you can heal him now.' He looked like he might say more but then he closed his mouth firmly.

Elrohir gripped Elladan's arm. 'The Nazgûl are gone,' he murmured in alarm. 'How can this be? Has this Bearos discovered their secrets?'

'I do not know, brother…What of the Mirror? Remember Phellanthir.'

'Please, my lords. The king is very sick,' Aradhel urged them, pulled temerously on Elrohir's arm but he did not shake him off. 'I fear he may die.'

Elrohir stared at him in shock for a moment and then urgently threw open the doors to Aragorn's chamber. A fragrance of athelas filled the air as they entered.

The room was dimmed and the drapes pulled close. A number of healers, male and female and robed in soft-brown as was their custom, huddled around the bed. There was no Legolas, but there were no Hobbits or Dwarf either. Great bunches of the golden flowers of the athelas plant were steeping in bowls around the room and it was these that scented the air. Since the War, they had grown it in abundance in the Healing Gardens.

'Thank Illuvatar that you are here!' exclaimed one of the healers in relief, and hurried towards them, hands outstretched in appeal. He seemed to have authority here but Elrohir did not know him. As if he knew Elrohir's thought, the Man inclined his head respectfully and said, 'Hallas, my lord.'

Elrohir nodded briefly. 'Do you know where is the King's friend, Legolas?' he asked Hallas. The Man blinked and looked away for a moment as if thinking. 'I thought he would be here, with the King,' Elrohir explained.

'I know he is dear to you, my lord,' Hallas said hesitantly so that Elrohir thought the Man knew just how close he and Legolas were. He did not care. He just wanted news of Legolas. Hallas seemed nervous for a moment and glanced over to Aragorn's bed. Then, as if he had decided something, the healer said more firmly, 'I believe the Lords Gimli and Mithrandir are recently returned from Umbar. The King's friends have been to meet them I think.' Elrohir did not know why Gimli and Gandalf would have gone to Umbar. It seemed a strange thing to do with civil unrest in the city and Aragorn injured by an assassin's knife. 'I would imagine he is with them,' Hallas continued. He wiped his mouth nervously and looked away. 'Please, my lords, the King. He is very sick.' His eyes skipped away from the weight of Elrohir's gaze but Elrohir knew that some Men found an elven gaze too much to bear and because he spoke of Legolas, he knew his gaze might be heavy.

Instead he nodded, the breath tight in his chest at the thought that Aragorn was so sick.

The healer looked anxiously towards the big canopied bed. 'His breathing is very harsh and he has lost so much blood, my lords. I do not think he can recover.' He clasped their hands in distress and suddenly Elrohir knew that this was very, very serious; if they were to keep their little brother, whom he loved, they would have to save his life now. 'Please. Do what you can. If he does not survive, there will be civil war.' Hallas' eyes were upon them now, pleading though he did not need to for both the sons of Elrond would have given their own lives for Aragorn.

When he saw Aragorn, Elrohir was shocked; his face was very pale, his eyes wide open, staring unseeing and strangely unfocused. He did not seem able to see anyone and when Elrohir reached and took his hand, he clung to it as if it were a lifeline. Sweat gleamed on his face and his hair was damp.

Elladan immediately knelt beside Aragorn and felt his head, his neck, his wrist. 'His pulse is very weak,' he murmured to Elrohir anxiously. 'Almost not there.' He leaned in and watched Aragorn's chest rise and fall erratically. They exchanged a look. They were indeed, almost too late.

Elrohir lifted the corner of the sheet from Aragorn's body and looked at the bandage around his abdomen. It was already heavily blotched with blood but something else too. Dark stains spotted the bandage and he peered closer, leaned close and sniffed. The stink of putrescence filled his nostrils and he seized some surgical shears that were on a table nearby with other gleaming steel implements. Quickly, he snipped away at the bandages and pulled them away, casting them aside angrily for the dressings were already soaked in blood.

The wound in Aragorn's chest was small, and not near enough the heart to kill, but it leaked copious amounts of blood mixed with something else. 'The blade was poisoned,' Elrohir said briefly and Elladan leaned over to see what his brother was seeing. Elrohir lightly pressed down on the edge of the wound. 'See?' A slight press to the skin pushed blood first but then a slide of black liquid bubbled beneath the blood. 'This is stopping the blood from coagulating. It will keep bleeding until he dies.' He glanced around the room, saw the bucket with bloody, soaked bandages, and swallowed. This was Aragorn's blood, he thought, and remembered Arwen's cry of anguish. Would they lose her too, he thought blindly? She had said she would follow.

'We have been using everything we know that coagulates the blood. Nothing stops it,' Hallas said hopelessly.

Elladan said nothing but rested his hand upon Aragorn's forehead and closed his own eyes. Elrohir felt how Elladan's calm blue spread over their little brother's awareness, like moonlight on still pools and for a moment, Aragorn calmed and his breathing eased.

'Have you used Crystôl?' Elrohir asked the healer but he glanced at Elladan as if waiting for protest but there was none. Not this time*.

The Man, Hallas shook his head. 'I do not know Crystôl, my lord, although the King has spoken of it.' He glanced anxiously at Elladan, who said nothing but still knelt beside Aragorn, his hand over his forehead. Hallas gave Elrohir a studied look. 'The King was very insistent that it should not be used except in the direst need.'

Elrohir returned his look irritably and said impatiently, 'Do you not think this is the direst need? Or is there some cure you have not yet tried?'

Hallas looked abashed and shook his head. 'No my lord. We have tried everything. Please…' He stood aside in acquiescence.

Elladan shot a quick annoyed look at Elrohir. 'Crystôl is the most efficient medicine for this. It accelerates coagulation and fights the toxins,' he told the gathered healers reassuringly. 'It must be used sparingly and only in the correct doses and on the correct patients,' he instructed carefully. 'It can have an oppositional effect also if mixed with the wrong drugs.'

Elrohir barely listened. Instead, he rummaged quickly in the pack that he and Elladan always carried with them. His hand cupped a roll of velvet which contained the fine silver and mithril surgical instruments he always carried now, and the suede pouch in which the small, precious bottle was kept. Carefully, he took it from its wrapping for they only had the one vial and it would barely be enough for what he had in mind. He placed it on the table beside other delicate glass vials, each one filled with jewel-coloured liquids, amber ortire, emerald sere-vanda, and golden tincture of athelas. There were a number of small glass dishes for mixing, a mortar and pestle, and delicate glass cups.

Elladan looked up at Elrohir. 'We need it straight into his bloodstream.'

Elrohir nodded and began setting up the cups, the glass vials, swabs, swiftly and with a sense of great urgency now. He glanced at Aragorn's deathly white face, at the bandages that were already soaked.

'Crystôl strengthens the net of cells that make blood red,' Elladan explained quickly to the healers who were busying themselves now with stoking a small fire for sterilizing, another was pouring Ortire into two bowls for further sterilizing and washing hands, but Elrohir was hearing Elrond's patient voice in his own head as Elladan spoke, instructing him the preparation and the use of Crystôl, its dangers.

Elrohir poured one, two, five drops of Crystôl very carefully into a cup with one measure of the emerald sere-vanda, that would calm Aragorn and help him to sleep while the Crystôl took effect. It was kinder to spare him the dreams and hallucinations. Almost unconsciously, he picked up the explanation from Elladan, repeating Elrond's words from that lesson long ago. 'Crystôl is made from plant extracts and chemically altered to enhance its coagulating properties,' he said casually and swirled the Crystôl three times through the emerald sere-vanda, watching the streaks of deep blue-black of the Crystôl blend with the sere-vanda so it became a bruised purple, the colour of nightshade from which it was partly derived. He lifted the glass to the light to judge the strength of the drug. Satisfied, he turned to Elladan and nodded.

'We have used Agrimony to try to stop the bleeding,' piped up one of the healers and Elrohir turned to him, his youthful face anxious to please, awed, worshipping. Encouraged when Elrohir did not silence him, he went on enthusiastically, 'It has had limited success but the heaviest bleeding has reduced, my lord.'

Elrohir pushed away the thought that the copious bleeding he saw now was less than it had been before they arrived, and nodded briefly. They had arrived only in the nick of time. An hour later and it may have been too late.

'Has the poison travelled further than the wound?' he asked briskly and the healers shook their heads.

'No, lord. It is strange,' Hallas answered, cutting the younger Man a quick look that made him look away, abashed. 'It lingers just where the knife cut him. We cannot see how he has not recovered and fear that sorcery keeps him here, on the edge of death.'

'Then if that is the case, we will inject the Crystôl,' Elrohir told Hallas, 'using a rotä for you do not have what we need.' He held up the hollow tube with a mechanism that pushed liquid into a bloodstream, or could equally, extract.

'We will draw the toxins by cupping. It will hasten the Crystôl to the site of the wound. Let us inject it just here,' He pressed a finger on the hot skin of his brother and carefully observed how the skin did not fill again but the indentation of his finger remained and the skin was white where he had pressed. He frowned and the Healer leaned over curiously.

Elrohir glanced at Elladan. His brother's clear grey eyes met his, concerned. It seemed that the poison was spreading albeit very slowly, though the healers had not known it. Without speaking, Elrohir quickly gestured to one of the healers to rub some amber ortire over the skin first to numb it while another assisted Elladan as he lay out glass cups as speedily as he could, filling them with the grey wool that would be used to help draw the poison. There was absolute silence in the room now but for the clink of glass but a sense of urgency pervaded.

Elrohir took the bottle of Crystôl mixed with sere-vanda and plunged the hollow needle into it and drew the purple fluid up into its tube. Then he leaned over Aragorn's chest where the Ortire had been applied and searched with his own fingers until he found the artery he was looking for, and jabbed the rotä into the flesh. The needle sank in and he carefully pushed the Crystôl into Aragorn's bloodstream. There was a quiet collective gasp from the watching healers because he had used an artery and not a vein, but none dared challenge him. Quickly he swabbed the site of the wound again and pressed hard over the puncture wound to stop any bleeding. But there was something else beneath his fingers and he pressed again, this time, letting his healing senses uncurl and sink down through his own skin and into Aragorn.

There. A stream of darkness coiled through the blood, tightening its hold over the vascular bundles beneath the skin.

'It is here,' he murmured to Elladan and tapped a point above the wound. 'It makes its way towards his heart.'

Elladan nodded briefly. He held out his hand into which Hallas put one of the small glass cups. Inside the glass, the wool burned brightly and as Elladan took it, he half closed his eyes and the flame went from orange to blue. Swiftly Elladan clamped the glass cup straight over the wound. Aragorn cried out and tried to sit up but Elrohir held him and shushed him, soothing him with soft elven words and stroked his forehead with a cloth handed to him, soaked in athelas and comfrey.

Around him the healers were busy, heating more cups, and passing them to Elladan so that as soon as one cup lost its heat, another was ready. Aragorn's skin was soon marked with circles of red, inflamed skin where the cups had burned. Each time Elladan threw the burned wool into the fire, the flames turned black for an instant and writhed like black worms, and were gone.

Elrohir gave the cloth to one of the young healers and turned away. He flipped open the small roll of velvet which he had drawn from his satchel. Within gleamed a number of tiny knives and small metal implements. He handed a small silver lancet to a young woman who took it silently and carefully washed it in ortire. Elrohir washed his own hands in the other bowl.

When he was ready, she carefully placed the lancet in Elrohir's hand. He held the lancet poised a few inches above the wound where he had found the poison, and then suddenly and swiftly, punctured a deep incision into the skin and with his forefinger and thumb pinched the cut open. Blood oozed from the cut, dark crimson, and laced with a watery black liquid that poured from the wound. Elrohir slapped a glass cup quickly over the incision and the wool burned bright this time, blue, then crimson and then quickly blackened. As he finished with one cup, Hallas was there with another so Elrohir worked on cupping the wound he had made himself, drawing the poison from above the wound, and Elladan worked on the wound itself.

Elrohir had just held out a hand for another cup when the door opened and Gimli hurried in, followed closely by Gandalf. Elrohir glanced up and seeing them, looked beyond them, expecting to see Legolas. When he was not there, Elrohir frowned slightly for he still had no sense of his beloved, still did not hear the song like a running stream over mossy pools and through the beech leaves. Surely he would be with Gimli if the Dwarf had just returned from Umbar and they had not seen each other for a while? Surely if Gimli was here to see how Aragorn was, Legolas would be there too, standing right behind him, peering into the room with his bright, leaf-green eyes?

Elrohir continued holding the cup over the wound, but his attention was no longer entirely focused on Aragorn. Elladan was swabbing the wound for the cupping had done its job and now a thick black stream oozed from the wound. Aragorn thrashed his head from side to side and moaned. But suddenly his breath bubbled in his throat and Elrohir's attention was torn back to his brother.

'Is that pressure building up?' he asked Elladan anxiously. 'Is there blood near the lung? Or air?' He glanced up at the healers briefly, but it was clear they did not have enough knowledge to help.

Elladan's eyes were wide with fear. 'Listen to his breath,' he said in alarm for Aragorn's chest heaved and his breath came in great drowning gulps. Elrohir probed Aragorn's muscled chest with his fingers, listening, watching, feeling for the telltale signs. He watched Aragorn closely.

'Yes, maybe. Pressure in the pleural cavity?' he murmured to Elladan urgently. Elladan immediately pressed the swabs to the wound, indicating to one of the healers to take over, and rose swiftly to his feet, pulling the small roll of velvet towards himself so the silver and mithril surgical instruments clinked. Elrohir probed the area urgently, trying to find the swelling, guessing at the cause. He could hear his brother's fingers picking through the silver instruments, muttering anxiously. And then he stopped and Elrohir heard Elladan say softly to Gimli, 'Is Legolas near? We could do with his help. He can reach Aragorn too.'

But the silence that followed was so heavy, so awkward that Elrohir paused and glanced up.

Gimli was looking at Elladan with an expression of loss and grief and hope. Gandalf had bowed his head as if in despair but just then Pippin appeared in the doorway, and seeing Elladan and Elrohir his whole face brightened.

'At last!' he cried. 'You'll be able to find Legolas! He's been missing for weeks.'

Gimli threw out a hand as if to stop him but too late.

Anything else anyone said was lost.

There was a roaring in Elrohir's ears and he almost fainted with the pressure in his head. He felt Elladan's attention shift too.

'What? Legolas is missing?' he heard Elladan ask for he could not speak. He leaned over Aragorn and blinked hard. Unable to focus on his dearest foster brother, unable to reach him for his own soul was suddenly awry and lost. He did not even notice how the skin beneath his hands crackled warningly.

'My lords? You did not know? The lord Legolas has been missing for weeks.' One of the younger women healers spoke now. Her voice was high and urgent and upset. Elrohir heard Gandalf's voice rumble as if in protest but he did not listen, did not hear. Legolas was missing? No wonder he could not sense him. Suddenly all those prescient feelings, those images of Legolas came flooding back and he knew then that it was not imagined but real. He had known Legolas was in danger! He had felt it but delayed, done nothing!

He turned his head towards Hallas accusingly, remembering the Man's hesitation, his nervousness when Elrohir had asked him where Legolas was. 'You knew!'

'Forgive me, lord,' Hallas held up his hands in terror and misery. 'It was for the King. I thought he would die. Only you can save him. He needs you now and we do not know where the Lord Legolas is! He has indeed been missing for weeks and I thought…I thought another hour would make no difference but it would save the King's life.'

But Elrohir was on his feet and within two strides, had the collar of Hallas' robes twisted round his fists. He was so much taller, broader and stronger than the Man, and he heard his own voice, harsh and dry. 'Tell me.'

It was Gimli who replied. 'Elrohir! Hallas is not to blame. That lies elsewhere.' His deep rich voice like the rumbling of the earth, like the Mountains. 'And this will not help Legolas!'

'Tell me!' Elrohir repeated, he ground out the words through teeth clenched so tightly they might break. He knew his eyes were dark with fury and he wanted to explode. He shook Hallas because he was there and had lied!

'Bearos has him,' said Gimli solemnly.

Elrohir stared at him, uncomprehendingly. 'But he is your prisoner, is he not? How can he have Legolas if you have him?' He felt like he was choking on the words.

'Bearos will not speak or tell where he has put Legolas…And we fear the worst.' Gimli sighed deeply and shook his head in despair. 'We believe Legolas saw the Ghoul and pursued it over into the Hallows since that is where the Ghoul seems to have chased his victims. But Legolas has not been seen since.' There was a pause and Elrohir thought he would never breath again for the fear had taken it from him.

Ghoul? What ghoul? Victims? Suddenly he wanted to run from this place, tear the city apart if he needed to! He released Hallas but only so he could stride towards Gimli, a storm in his heart. But somehow the Dwarf did not seem smaller than he. He knew he was shouting but could not help it. There was only one kind of ghoul that Elrohir had ever known; the Nazgûl.

This was Angmar. Somehow he knew it.

'I have tried to make him speak, but he will not yield for all my efforts,' Gandalf was saying and Elrohir whirled round, wanting to strike the Wizard for giving up! He could barely see for the red rage that had come over him. He could not feel anything but a blind panic and fear that left him shaking and furious.

'Then your efforts are not enough,' he spat and took a stride towards Gandalf now, but a hand caught at him. He stared down at the hand that held him in a steel-like grip and blinked finally. It was Elladan who held him.

'And what of Aragorn?' Elladan said sombrely. 'What of Estel? Would you leave him teetering on the brink of death?'

Elrohir himself teetered on the brink for a moment and then he looked at Elladan. 'Yes!' he cried. 'Yes. I will leave him! You do not need me if you have Gandalf.'

Elladan closed his eyes. 'Elrohir,' he said softly. 'You know that I need you here for this. I need you. Gandalf cannot heal him.'

'No!' Elrohir cried and took a step towards the door but at that moment, Aragorn gave a heaving, panting gulp as if he were drowning.

'They have done this on purpose,' Gandalf's voice came from somewhere behind him. 'This is an unbearable choice!' and even his voice quavered.

'My lords!' Hallas cried. 'My lords, the King!'

As one, all heads turned back to Aragorn. On the feather coverlet, Aragorn's hands spasmed, clutching at the cloth like claws. His head pressed back into the soft pillows and his chest heaved with the effort of breathing. But it was the swelling of the veins in his neck that alarmed both Elladan and Elrohir. The pressure they had found earlier in the pleural cavity had built rapidly and suddenly.

Elladan threw himself on his knees beside Aragorn.

Elrohir clenched his fists. He could not bear it!

But he dragged himself back to the table and flipped open the roll of velvet, seizing a wide-bored quiss, and the precious rotä that were only made in Imladris. He plunged both into a bowl of Ortire and stared at Elladan, who met his furious, hurt gaze steadily.

Elladan bent his head then, pressing gently upon Aragorn's chest. The skin crackled under his fingers like dried parchment and he paused, looking up at Elrohir.

Elrohir caught his gaze in bitter resignation. He had no choice. He washed his own hands in Ortire almost carelessly, splashing the amber liquid over the dark wood of the table. Then he bent over Aragorn, his dark head beside Elladan's and felt for the ribs with one hand and the quiss in the other. He found the swelling in the pleural cavity and swiftly, forcefully plunged the wide needle into Aragorn's chest. Behind them, as the onlookers saw what they did, there was a cry of outrage and anger. He heard Pippin's shocked gasp and knew somewhere that Gimli was holding him back and the Hobbit was sobbing in furious loss.

There was a hiss of air as it escaped from Aragorn's chest and the brothers glanced at each other in relief.

Elrohir held on as Elladan fastened the rotä onto the quiss and carefully withdrew the quiss leaving the rotä in place. Elrohir kept his hands pressed hard on the wound and swabbed the dark blood as it spurted out of the hole and over his hands. He wept as he did, felt tears streaming down his face as felt the pressure in Aragorn's chest give and although the blood pumped over his hands, his breathing became less laboured.

You cannot go, Estel! You will not leave like this!

In the darkness, softly wrapping itself about him, it seemed coils of darkness wrapped about his feet, his knees, pored and slithered over him, about him and he was wading through coils of some huge serpent.

In his hand was not dark Aícanaro, but a blade of white light. Crystôl. Wielding it like a sword, he slashed down into the darkness. The coils writhed and thrashed in fury and pain but they slid and slithered away from him with repulsive speed as he plunged the white blade into its coils.

And then he saw where it was going; there, ahead of him, was Estel. A boy. He was running away from the serpent, which rose up over him and opened its jaws with a look of gleeful delight and malice. It did not look serpentine then but like some ghoulish face, white and haggard with bulging eyes. It stared down at Estel and its jaw dropped open, dislocated like a snake's so it could swallow him. It reared up and hovered over the boy as if enjoying his terror.

Estel was standing, staring up in abject fear at the serpent's maw that opened above him.

Estel! Elrohir shouted with all his being. Estel!

Estel looked back over his shoulder towards Elrohir, his face streaked with the same tears that streaked Elrohir's.

You came for me, Elrohir! Estel cried with astonished joy. Even here.

I promised, Elrohir said, striding through the serpent's coils. He lifted the white blade and slashed at the sinuous, dense body, directing the drug against the terrible poison. The serpent's awful head plunged down over him, and Elrohir raised the sword and pierced the serpent's horrid soft throat. It let out a dreadful screech and thrashed and hissed. But Elrohir leaned down and scooped up the child who pressed his face against Elrohir's shoulder.

I thought you had forgotten me, Estel sobbed and Elrohir smoothed his hand over his soft hair. Never, he said though his face was wet with tears. Never. I will always find you until the day our paths no longer run together.

Does that mean you will not take the Paths of Men? It was Aragorn now who walked beside him, but he was old and though he still stood straight, he walked slowly and leaned on Elrohir's arm. You will leave me at the last? His voice was quiet, sad.

I am sorry.

They walked slowly towards the gates that stood open and light poured through. It was silver, like moonlight on still pools and he knew that Elladan was guiding them back.

When he opened his eyes, Aragorn's face was turned into his shoulder like the child he had carried, and his face was wet with tears. He blinked slowly. Aragorn's skin was still pale but there was the soft flush of sleep and not fever. He was warm to the touch and not the horrible clammy heat of the fever.

He felt a hand gently on his shoulder and knew it was Elladan. 'Go,' he said simply.

Elrohir turned his head only towards Gimli and said over his shoulder in a flat voice, 'Where is Bearos being kept.'

'The Tower of Ecthelion, my lord.' Gimli's voice was strange, he chewed the end of his beard and his feet seemed restless. Then he added, 'I will come with you.'

Elrohir fled. He barely recalled his flight. His feet flew over the polished stones and marble inlaid floor.

He flung open the doors, one after another, striding through the chambers, ignoring the scuttling servants, the clerks, the guards who made way for him for they knew him and thought they knew his purpose would be to avenge himself upon Bearos for Aragorn's stabbing.

But he would not wait and he would not stop. His long strides outpaced everyone easily and his cloak billowed about him but it felt like it slowed him down, so one-handed, he unclasped it and cast it upon the polished stone floor. Ahead of him were the arched stone doorways of the Tower of Ecthelion, and two guards straightened as he approached like a storm. He heard the quick sharp steps of Gimli following, and Mithrandir's slower, longer steps. But he did not care who followed him; no one would stop him now.

The guards saw his face, serious, relentless, seemingly impassive as stone but that was not how he felt in his heart. Legolas was missing. He had been for weeks. And somehow, this Bearos was responsible.

The guards stood aside for him and he raced up the steps, two, three, four at a time until he reached the upper level where the cells were. His long stride took him past empty cells, peering in through the grilles to see only empty stone cells, single wooden beds and chains. One cell had signs of recent occupation. A think blanket cast over the low bed. A desk and chair pushed back. Empty.

Then he heard something.

A mewl. A whimper.

It came from further down the stone passageway, where it was darker, gloomier. A drift of mist seemed to linger.

There were guards sitting playing cards at a rickety table and they stood up, shoving chairs back as he approached. 'Where is he? 'Elrohir demanded and they gestured to the last cell.

'Taquil is in there with him, feeding him I think, my lord. Mithrandir was here but the King called for him some time ago.'

Elrohir barely acknowledged them.

He strode towards the last cell. A glimmer of light came from within, torchlight gleaming on the walls. He leaned towards the heavy door, expecting it to be locked but when he put his hand on the latch, it was open and the door swung open easily.

0o0o

There was a great clamour and the sound of feet running up the stone steps towards Bearos' cell. He felt the approach like wildfire, a crimson burning and his mouth stretched into a horrible grimacing smile.

The door was flung open at the moment he let the Man drop to the floor, wriggling weakly and mewling like a kitten. Blood soaked Bearos' mouth and his eyes bulged, red and sore and mad.

'Ahhhhhhh,' the longest sigh. Khamûl reached out with long fingers of lust and desire. 'At last.' Khamûl bowed low, sank to his knees.

Elrohir Ravéyön was here.

At last.