Beta: The wonderful Anarithilen- thank you as always😊

Thank you to all the lovely reviewers as well- you keep me writing. Special bit in here for Keekercatt- just to keep you!

BTW- those who PM'd me about The Old Forest, the story is posted. Pointless tree hugger smut tho'. Let me know if you liked it:) 😉

Chapter 13: Revelations

Frodo thought Merry recovered quickly from his adventure and over the last few days he was more himself, although he could still not remember what had happened and how he had lost his blade of Westerness. He became agitated at the mention of it.

'Perhaps you dropped it in all the excitement,' Pippin suggested but Merry shook his head vehemently.

'No, that is not it at all!'

They had been up to the Beacon a couple of times since Merry's return, Pippin had been determined to find the blade but they had found nothing. It bothered Pippin the most and Frodo thought that it had been because it was Pippin who had made sure he found the hilt that was left after it had dissolved on touching Angmar, and it had been Pippin who had asked Gimli to forge a new blade for it.

'Perhaps your Elf friend has it?' Pippin said. 'Did you give it to him?'

Merry fell very quiet. He stared out of the window. 'I do not remember,' he said vaguely troubled. 'Yes. I might…' He frowned. 'There is something important that I try to remember, but when I reach for the memory, it is almost there, in my grasp…'

'Well, do you think he might return it?' Pippin asked insistently for he was determined that Merry should recover his memory and anxious to soothe Merry's heart if it was at all in his power. 'I can try to find him, if you think he will?'

Frodo thought that Merry needed rest and peace rather than another interrogation so he said soothingly, 'Well he rescued you that is certain and perhaps you gave it to him to thank him. He is certainly very shy for an Elf to run off without a proper thank you,' he observed, smiling.

'Yes, that's not like any Elf I know,' Pippin agreed.

'You only know one,' Merry laughed, 'And that is Legolas!'

Frodo was so pleased to hear Merry's laugh that he joined in. 'Not at all like Legolas! He would never miss out on Second Breakfast.'

'No,' said Merry brightly, turning to Frodo. 'It is one of the very best things about him.'

'It is a pity in some ways that Legolas won't be coming to The Shire with Aragorn and Gimli now,' Pippin said a little disappointed. He turned to Sam. 'Your second letter will reach Gimli before they can reach Anglarond presumably?'

'Old Gaffer will have sent a pigeon, yes. Gimli should have got that by now.' Sam rubbed a hand over his eye; from their earlier conversations Frodo knew Sam was secretly wishing he had not been so quick off the mark, but Hildegard had been going to visit Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and it was easy for her to drop Sam's letter for Gimli in on Old Gaffer while she was there. And it would have been unfair not to tell them that Merry was found, safe and well.

'But if Aragorn and Legolas were already on their way, they might have left Anglarond before the second pigeon arrives?' Pippin asked optimistically, and indeed, Frodo secretly hoped so too for he thought that the mysterious happenings in The Shire that seemed so deeply connected with the fires on the Barrow Downs would be better solved by their three friends as well as the Hobbits, rather than the Hobbits alone, no matter how valiant.

Sam thought for a while. 'Well, I suppose they might if they had already left Minas Tirith for some other reason to visit Gimli,' he agreed reluctantly, with unknowing prescience. 'But I don't think we can rely on that,' he added.

Listening, Frodo thought the strange happenings on the Barrow Downs were perhaps something they could not simply ignore and wished that Sam had not sent the second letter either, but he saw Sam watching him carefully and so he said nothing.

0o0o

It didn't help that Frodo dreamed of the Barrow every night since the 'wolf attack,' as Saradoc insisted on calling it.

In his dream, Frodo was clad in white, like a sacrifice, and with a sword across his neck exactly as the four of them had been laid out in the Barrow before Tom Bombadil had arrived to rescue them. But then he dreamed he was standing before the Standing Stones of Tyrn Gorthad on the downs and a great army was assembling around him. Nearby, a groom held a horse with a black mane and tail and its fine head was up and nostrils flared, excited. Somehow Frodo thought it was his. A tall, regal Man stood beside Frodo, his armour gleaming in the dim light and it seemed there was a white star on his brow. He looked like Aragorn but Frodo knew he was not; there was something different, a sternness in the eyes perhaps? A determination to do something he did not wish to do, but felt impelled? The Man reached out and clasped Frodo's hand. His mouth moved, but Frodo could not understand what he said. Then he was giving something to Frodo, but when the Hobbit looked down to see what it was, a mist coiled damply around him then and something wrapped itself over his mouth and nose and eyes, wet silk that was sucked into his mouth and nostrils when he tried to breathe. He could hear voices; a rumble like the creak of the mountain's deep heart and the lighter voice of a Man. They were trying to wake him up out of deep sleep but it was like he was underwater and sinking… And there was something in the depths with him, dragging him down, down until he thought he would die. He thought he saw Legolas' face staring up at him from the deeps, face white and afraid and his hands reaching upwards as if he too was drowning.

Frodo struggled to wake up, feeling the heaviness of his limbs weighing him down, sinking, and could not move, could not call out until at last some cry struggled out of him, half formed and desperate.

'Frodo!' Sam shook him awake and Frodo struggled to the surface of sleep, heavy and groggy and unable to speak for the horror of what was in those depths and holding onto him. 'Frodo, wake up. It's a dream, you're safe. We're in Buckland, in the Shire. We're not…. We're not THERE,' he said with a ringing emphasis that could only mean one thing; they were not in Mordor, struggling up the slopes of Mount Doom.

Frodo blinked, breathing hard. At last he looked around, nodding. 'Yes, Sam. It's all right. I know…I am here, with you.' He licked his lips and Sam quickly pushed a glass of water into his hand. Frodo drank steadily; he would never forget how precious water was, or how thirsty he had once been.

Sam watched him carefully and only when Frodo had put the glass down without his hand trembling, did he speak. 'What were you dreaming? Was it Mordor?'

Frodo shook his head. 'No, Sam. No… it was…' He pressed his lips together. 'I can't explain exactly, but I will try… It was like when we were in the Barrow. But then suddenly I wasn't in the Barrow anymore but I think, standing in front of it, and I was leading an army. A Man who looked like Aragorn was there.'

'This is from reading that book,' Sam said, looking accusingly at the old History book. 'It's given you ideas.'

'Sam, I am sorry,' Frodo lifted one heavy arm and struggled up to lean on his elbow. He felt so heavy and weak. He paused frowning, for the dream was escaping, seeping away into the morning light like mist. He shook his head. 'There was something there, something had me… It was dragging me down… And…And there was someone….' He grasped at the dream, a face of someone he loved was staring up at him afraid but it melted away before he could remember. 'It's no good. It's gone.'

Sam sat down on the edge of his bed and gave Frodo a cautious look. 'I think it's a good thing you can't remember,' he said seriously. 'Everything is about the Barrow Downs.' He bit his lip. 'Merry dreamed of Carn Dûm. There was that…thing in the Woods, I am sure it was a Wight and our Elf chased it off. And then there was something in the gardens the other night and it weren't no wolf whatever Saradoc says.' He glanced at Frodo. 'And we've still got those fires on the Downs and no one knows what they're about.'

They were silent for a while and Frodo felt a weight on his heart. 'We are going to have to do something, aren't we?' he said reluctantly. For who else in the Shire would know what to do, or would be brave enough?

'No!' Sam exclaimed quickly. 'No. YOU'RE not going anywhere. No,' he said more softly. 'I was thinking of going to Rivendell to get help, that's what I was thinking. The Road is a lot safer than it was and I think Pippin and I can make good time if we go soon. Tomorrow morning.' He glanced up at the daylight coming through the window. It was far later than Frodo had realised. 'This morning,' Sam amended. 'Elrond will know what to do and he might even send Glorfindel back with us.'

Frodo stared; it had not occurred to him that Rivendell might know how to stop this, and even more, that Sam might go without him. And he suddenly thought how good it would be to see Bilbo, and Elves. The very thought of the Last Homely House filled him with a sense of peace. 'I think I should go too,' he said softly. 'If the road is not dangerous anymore,' he said with a slight challenge.

'I really don't think you should, Frodo. You're not strong enough and what if trolls or orcs should come upon us out there is the Wild?'

'Then it would be much better for a larger company than two Hobbits alone,' Frodo said decisively.

'Where are we going?' It was Pippin. He had a tray in his arms loaded with a large brown teapot and cups, a jug of milk, china plates, and Merry was behind him carrying a basket of fresh rolls and a dish of newly churned butter and a pot of jam. 'A quick morning snack,' Pippin explained happily.

'Bree first and then Rivendell, to get help about all these happenings on the Downs,' Frodo replied to Pippin's first question and then helped himself to a hot roll, burning his fingers.

'That's a very good idea!' said Merry brightly.

Pippin glanced at him anxiously. 'You aren't coming.'

At the same time Sam said to Frodo,' You're staying here.'

Of course, Sam and Pippin did not get their way but at least Dods and Iberic insisted on going with them with great excitement and enthusiasm, and so it was six Hobbits, well-armed and mounted on stout little ponies, that clattered down the road through Buckland and onto the Brandywine Bridge.

There was a lot of traffic on the East Road to Bree and it felt very different from the last journey they had made to Rivendell when they had the Nazgul tracking them, sniffing them out and pursuing them through the night. This was an altogether jollier affair for Dods was a mine of good stories, mostly far-fetched but good humoured, and Iberic gave cheerful additions and commented upon Dods' recollection of events, which seemed to be particularly faulty and skewed. Although they had a deadly serious task, the early morning was bright and frosty and the air crisp. The ponies trotted as brightly as their riders at the prospect of adventure and a visit to Rivendell.

0o0o

Baranor was quiet, not sullen but miserable, Elrohir realised, but still he said nothing. He had buried the Palantír in his saddlebags, wrapped in a spare shirt and the bags shoved at the back of the cave. Night had fallen by the time they returned and there was no moon. The sky was clouded and heavy like it might rain all night. Neither felt like travelling now but Elrohir almost left anyway; he felt a strange prickle of discomfort at Baranor's proximity but shoved it away.

It is my own guilt and lies, he thought honestly, not looking at the Man sitting silently on the opposite side of the fire. We have shared the toil and he has none of the reward.

'Here,' he said, holding out lembas and hard cheese. 'There is nothing else,' he said with a shrug.

Baranor gave him a quick look and took it. The small fire crackled between them for it was cold in spite of the time of year. Kindling glowed orange and shifted as the wood collapsed in the fire and Elrohir stared into it, eyes unblinking and chewing slowly on the lembas.

They did not speak much; there seemed nothing to say. It was very quiet, only the crackle of the fire and the quiet breath, the occasional snort from the two horses standing nose to nose in better harmony than their riders.

'I will take watch,' Elrohir said at last. 'Rest. You have worked tirelessly,' he added and it was not grudging but honestly given appreciation.

'No. I will take my turn,' said Baranor. 'You can take the first though if you will, and wake me at the hour.'

Elrohir nodded and Baranor pulled his blanket over one shoulder, but before he turned to sleep, the Man said abruptly, 'Why was it left there, do you think? The Stone from Amon Sûl was the cause of the dispute between the three realms of Arnor. Arthedain had two Palantíri and Cardolan and Rhudaur had none. Why did they abandon such a thing so easily?'

Remembering the images painted on the Palantír's secret chamber, Elrohir said,' I do not think it was.' He glanced at Baranor. 'You saw the images painted on the chamber walls, did you not? Did you see them all?'

Baranor frowned. 'I saw Elendil, and Amon Sûl raised. There was a great army, the Last Alliance I think, for there was Isildur's fall after it. But the tunnel was dark and I could not see much,' he admitted. 'There may have been the dividing of the three realms perhaps.' He frowned in concentration and then shook his head. 'There was something I could just see that might have been Angmar rising in the North, and a skirmish or battle. But I could not see much more than that.' He looked again at Elrohir, an eagerness in his eyes now and curiosity. 'Did you see more?'

Elrohir nodded. He saw no danger in telling Baranor what he had seen on the walls of the chamber for most of the tale was well documented and he felt he owed Baranor this, and so he described what he had seen; the coming of Angmar painted as a dark shadow over the hills, and the figures of the Kings of Arnor standing against him; the gathering of forces representing, as he thought, Cardolan and Arveleg. And then with a breath, he added, 'There was something else, something that I have not heard of.' And he described the stranger who had seemingly watched the slaughter and then returned the Palantír to the secret chamber. 'So, I believe that Arveleg had decided to remove it from Amon Sûl but then he was slain and his courier was unable to take it to safety and so returned it to its secret chamber.'

'I did not see those images on the wall,' Baranor said, a note of regret, jealousy too perhaps, in his voice. 'And now the Stone, the tunnel, all that history is lost. Who was the courier that bore the Stone do you think?' he asked with interest, leaning forwards and watching Elrohir.

Elrohir shrugged. 'There was nothing to signify his rank or family, and it is unlikely that he survived. I imagine he managed to smuggle the stone back just before Amon Sûl was taken and destroyed.'

'So, the tale of its return must have been passed on to another,' Baranor surmised.

Elrohir hummed agreement and threw more kindling onto the fire. The small sticks caught and flames leapt cheerfully. The firelight glowed warmly on Baranor's skin and Elrohir tried not to see how the light picked up and deepened the gold in the Man's hair. It was not that he desired Baranor or even found him attractive; it was simply that there were things that reminded Elrohir of Legolas and suddenly he missed Legolas with a yearning that was like pain, like something had been wrenched away from him. He embraced the pain for surely, he deserved it.

Unaware, Baranor said, 'The stone was not lost in Forochel though the truth was kept secret amongst only the Chieftains and their close kin.'

Elrohir didn't speak; he still wondered who the courier had been. And why was the recovery of the Palantír somehow the herald of the return of Arnor? Was it truly mere superstition or was there something more? Some hidden or unknown power that the Stone had? Perhaps that was why the three realms had disputed over it, enough to drive them apart and for Angmar to insert the wedge between them that led to their destruction.

Baranor was talking, animated, sitting up now and his eyes were alight with interest. 'It has been told only amongst the family of the Chieftains that the Stone of Amon Sûl was still here, somewhere, hidden as you say.' He shrugged. 'I have never been one of those searchers. I used to think it was a stupid fool's errand.' He glanced up at Elrohir. 'I was clearly wrong,' he said with a grin that was mischievous and suddenly attractive.

Ignoring it, Elrohir said impassively, 'Your father, Halbarad, was Aragorn's cousin. He will have known as much as there was to know.' He leaned back on one elbow and stretched out his long legs, clad in black leather breeches, long black boots. Unconscious of his own grace, of his own long, lean muscularity, the nobility and beauty of his sculpted face, high cheekbones and the sweep of his brows, his full mouth and grey eyes.

'We could not risk Angmar hearing of it,' Baranor explained unnecessarily. 'He would have torn the hill apart if he knew it was hidden there. The Stone was why he wanted Amon Sûl in the first place, and of course it was strategically important.'

Elrohir said nothing to this; he remembered the Orthanc Stone again, corrupted by Saruman's lust for power, his greed. Denethor too had been driven to madness and despair by the Palantír. Elrohir wondered how much damage the Amon Sûl stone had done, perhaps driven its owner to jealousy and possessiveness against the kingdom of Cardolan and Rhudaur. Perhaps it had been the Stone that had driven the three realms apart?

'I do not see the value of such stones,' he said. 'They have done much damage in the South.'

Baranor looked shocked at this heresy. He shifted and sat more erect. 'The King of Arnor held the Stone of Amon Sûl. It is like the Sceptre of Annúminas, or the Ring of Barahir.'

Jerking his chin upwards slightly, in a slightly sardonic agreement, Elrohir said, 'So it is a symbol.'

Baranor became tight-lipped at that. 'You do not understand,' he said. 'For the Elves, things do not have that same significance. They are not invested in symbolic power.'

Carefully, Elrohir thought about this. 'Have you heard the tale of the Silmarils?' he said acerbically and when Baranor grunted a reply, he said nothing more.

Baranor looked up and Elrohir saw the fine bones, the intelligence in his eyes and thought of Legolas again, although the Man did not truly look like Legolas. But there was something about him and a sudden longing pierced Elrohir and he wanted to be able to reach out and touch Legolas with all his heart.

For a brief moment, he almost thought he heard it, Legolas' Song, the green-gold of newly unfurled beech leaves, the scent of Spring grass and the chuckle of the forest river over mossy stones and pooling amongst the ferns. His heart leapt as if Legolas himself were standing there.

Baranor was still speaking and now he wondered aloud, 'Perhaps the Stone has special qualities or powers?'

Elrohir caught himself glancing towards his saddlebags where the stone was stored and swung his gaze quickly back to Baranor. Baranor had followed his gaze instinctively and now flicked back again to meet Elrohir's eyes.

Elrohir shrugged. 'I am no scholar of this Stone,' he said untruthfully, for he had plundered the libraries of Imladris for clues of its whereabouts, for the secrets it held, at Aragorn's request. 'There is little enough,' he said nonchalantly. 'It is only in Malbeth's Prophesies that it is even referred to. It is not supposed to have any properties that the other Palantíri do not have.' He turned again as if dismissing the conversation. That was the way of it and it was his fault, Elrohir thought; he had been churlish and off hand and could hardly blame Baranor for disliking him. What would he think if he knew that Elrohir had the Palantír hidden in his saddlebag? And he still could not account for why he had done so.

He frowned and stared into the fire.

It was clear to him now that Argeleb's intention, if it was indeed Argeleb who had been the King portrayed on the walls of the Palantír's chamber, to remove the Palantír from its chamber and so it had been taken by the mysterious messenger who had watched the slaughter and then returned the stone to Amon Sûl.

There were two reasons why it might have been removed in the first place; to take it to safety in Fornost which the war had prevented, or that Argeleb had intended to give it to Cardolan and been prevented by their defeat.

Elrohir hoped it had been to give it to Cardolan.

Why the surviving Dúnedain had let it be known that it had reached Fornost was easy enough; no one would want the Witchking to know it was still in Amon Sûl. He would, as Baranor had said, have torn the hill apart searching for it and found it. And the secret had been passed down amongst a tiny few of the Dúnedain, the leaders amongst them; Aragorn, Halbarad, his son, Baranor.

He thought again of the lines of the prophesy he had uncovered, and pondered over them as he kept watch.

0o0o

Baranor lay silent and Elrohir was alone with his thoughts; he dismissed the riddle of the Palantír and dwelt instead upon Legolas. Of his long limbs, wound about by the rich coloured inks on his skin, the symbols of the house, his name on each wrist and ankle, the dragon that curled about him like a benediction, peering knowingly over Legolas' shoulder like some sleepy guardian spirit. Elrohir thought about the face he loved so well, the long green eyes opening sleepily, widening in desire. Generous mouth opening for him, under him…he found himself stiff and needy and yearning with an intensity that hurt.

Here in the cave with Baranor, he considered his own stupidity and meanness. In Ithilien, Legolas had said things that Elrohir thought he deserved, but he had not responded, had walked away when that was not what Legolas had wanted; he had wanted to fight, to fuck. He had been angry and usually they resolved it this way. But Elrohir's submission, his meekness, had made Legolas savage and the last time they had made love, it had not been love, but something more primal. But the memory of Legolas demanding, impatient, aggressive, had made him reel with desire too.

Elrohir sipped at the tin cup that Baranor had given him before the Man had pulled his blanket over his shoulder and laid down on the other side of the fire. It was some sort of tea. The bitter liquid scalded his mouth but not unpleasantly.

He had written to Legolas as soon as he had arrived, sitting at his old desk in his rooms. All his own hurt and anger had smoothed away with travel and distance, and the letter he wrote was gentle and loving, apologetic. He imagined Legolas opening it, sitting in the tall tree where his flet was, looking out towards the West, the wind teasing back his long hair and his long green eyes gone distant.

The fire crackled and he blinked slowly, staring into the orange flames. He knew Baranor was not yet asleep and wondered what the Man was thinking to keep him so awake. The horses were quiet. Barakhir flicked his tail as if he knew Elrohir had noticed him.

Tomorrow he would ride with Baranor as far as Bree and there they would part, he assumed, Baranor to go North to Fornost, he had told Elrohir, and Elrohir had not asked why the Ranger went to that abandoned and ruined city, for he himself would travel the Greenway and then cut south to Gondor. He wondered if he should go to Imladris and then by the Angle but he knew that would delay his journey and Elladan was not there for he had travelled with Erestor North he thought. On another fool's errand.

His thumb stroked over the stump of his ring finger, where Legolas had cut the Ring, Khamûl, from his hand for he could not take it off. It throbbed a little but it was bearable and little penance for his sins. He smiled; Legolas would scold him to hear him talk so, he thought fondly and looked longingly forwards to when he would be back with his impossible Woodelf.

'I cannot sleep,' Baranor said suddenly, throwing off his blanket and sitting upright. 'I may as well take the watch and you sleep. It is pointless my lying here wide awake.' He rubbed a hand over his hair, tousling it.

Elrohir would not waste the opportunity for tomorrow he would be on his own and would have no one else to share the watch so he turned his shoulder against the fire and pulled his cloak over himself and slept.

0o0o

Next morning, he awoke to the sound of birdsong and the thin morning light. Blinking he looked about and saw Barakhir standing alone in the mouth of the cave, tail switching slightly at an imaginary fly. Baranor's horse was not with Barakhir and Baranor's bedroll and pack were gone.

Instantly awake, Elrohir leapt to his feet and lunged towards his saddlebags, the flap was wide and gaping and the Palantír was gone.

The tin cup lay on its side in the embers of the fire and he knew then; cursed himself for not guessing. The tea must have been tinged with something he had not recognized and made him sleep for he would never have slept through the Man's departure, no matter how quiet.

Throwing the saddle over a startled Barakhir, he grabbed his saddlebags, stuffed everything into them and led Barakhir into the morning light. He knelt at the mouth of the cave, and saw how careful Baranor had been to disguise his tracks. Cursing, he realized this would take him longer and Baranor be long gone. Surely, he would make his way to the Road and then it was either East or West? West to Bree and either Fornost as he had said, or South to…where? West would take him to Imladris or the Angle and Elrohir knew what sort of welcome he would have there if they knew he had the Palantír that all would believe rightly belonged to Aragorn.

Mounting Barakhir, he cantered towards the Road and then when he reached it, gave Barakhir his head and they fled towards Bree.

0o0o