-o0o-
'Yet we won it [Osgiliath] back in the days of the youth of Denethor: not to dwell in, but to hold as an outpost, and to rebuild the bridge for the passage of our arms.'
- The Return of the King
-o0o-
Ah, but victory felt sweet.
Denethor savoured the look of disappointment on Thorongil's face as his fellow captain turned around and left the council hall following his father's decision.
The other man had been surprised in the morning when Denethor had supported his father's decision to give Thorongil the chance to speak before the council. Not that he had ever had a chance of convincing Gondor's noblemen - though it had been nice to see him fail. In the end, of course, they had decided against the stranger in their ranks and supported him, the true heir of Gondor, as he had known they would. As surely his father would as well, eventually.
Too long had Thorongil held Ecthelion's ear, too much trust did his father place in the upstart mongrel. But this moment was his.
He let himself be mulled by the support of the council members, Thorongil was hardly worth more than a passing thought right now. This moment was his. Some of the captains of Gondor's army clapped him on the shoulder or shook his hand, volunteering their forces or personally wishing him luck for his campaign.
Suddenly the door opened again and one of the servants rushed in. Hastily scanning the crowd, the young man spotted who he was looking for and made his way over to Denethor's father, then bent to whisper into the old man's ear.
Whatever the message, its effect was instantaneous. Ecthelion stood. "The council is adjourned, thank you, friends, for your guidance today."
He turned to Denethor then, lowering his voice: "Follow me to the throne room, son." He said as he walked towards the doors. "A messenger has arrived."
"A messenger? And you are going to see him now, at this time of the evening?" Denethor hurried to catch up to his father, incredulous.
"Indeed. I do not intend to keep a son of Elrond waiting."
Elrond! This made Denethor hesitate, and he drew to a halt just as he and his father arrived at the doors to the Tower Hall, the large chamber that held both the throne of the long gone kings and the seat of the steward.
What did the lord of Rivendell want from Gondor? Denethor doubted that an elf living in the comfort of the North could offer his father anything of worth. Their strength of arms was non-existent, their lore little more than fancy bedtime stories. The time of the elves had ended long ago, some of them were merely too stubborn to see it.
"Show our guest in," Ecthelion commanded the guards.
The doors opened and the son of Elrond entered. He was raven-haired and grey eyed, his face youthful. It was impossible to tell his age, his features were unmarked by the passage of time. Like the rest of his folk he was granted the eternal youth that had caused the envy and downfall of Denethor's ancestors on Numenor.
"Well met, Ecthelion, son of Turgon, steward of Gondor!" The son of Elrond bowed in front of the steward's throne, one hand to his heart. "I come with a message from my father: a warning and a request."
Of course there would be a request. Denethor sneered, barely containing his annoyance.
"Well met, indeed, Elladan, son of Elrond. It has been too long since we have had word from Rivendell," His father replied. "How are things in the North?"
"The most important matters remain the same, lord Ecthelion, unchanged and unbroken."
A peculiar choice of words, and from the look the elf and his father exchanged, Denethor knew there was more to this statement than idle chatter. But Ecthelion did not let the silence stretch. "What of your father's warning?" he prompted.
Elladan looked grim. "My father senses a surge in the dark forces to the East. Sauron's strength is growing, even now he is increasing his hold on the lands to the South and East. Gondor must not be caught unawares as the enemy's forces take over the land and the sea."
Ecthelion sat back in his chair, silent for a moment. His father was clearly pondering the words, weighing their meaning, paying them heed.
Denethor snorted in disgust - more ambiguous warnings about Mordor's increasing strength by sea, as if Elrond was in league with Thorongil the fool. But he would not stand idly by as an elven lord from the other end of Middle Earth strengthened his rival's position.
"And what would your father know of the affairs of Gondor? Does he have spies in the South that report to him – beasts? Or is it one of the Numenorean heirlooms that he keeps from their rightful place in Gondor that tells him these secrets?" Denethor was satisfied to see the elf bristle at his words. So much for their legendary composure.
"My father safeguards the shards of Narsil and the scepter of Annúminas until the return of the rightful heir to the thrones of Arnor and Gondor. The heirlooms belong to no one but the kings of the Dunedain, the heirs of my uncle, Elros Tar-Minyatur. The king will return," the elf finished resolutely.
"The line of kings has long since failed, Gondor has no king." Denethor replied, his voice laced with venom. Nothing but elvish fancies.
"Denethor!" His father's voice cut the air like a knife and Denethor shut his mouth with a snap. There was much he still would say to their so-called guest, but his father seemed intent on humoring the elf. He fell silent, watching Elrond's son with a glower as he turned back to talk to Ecthelion directly.
His father was all too hasty to apologize: "Forgive me, lord Elladan. Your father's warning is most troubling, especially as we are on the eve of battle for Osgiliath. If Umbar is indeed a larger threat than I have wanted to believe then new plans will need to be made. I am afraid we will have to take steps against the corsairs sooner than I had anticipated." He spoke the last part almost as if to himself but Denethor heard him. Did his father truly intend to put this much stock into the vague warning from an elf in the far north?
With effort he calmed himself – things were not lost, not nearly so. The elf's arrival was a wild card, yes, but events had already been set in motion, his plans for Osgiliath, and for Thorongil, were too far gone now to be unmade - even by one of the firstborn.
"You spoke of a request." Denethor turned his attention back to the elf as his father spoke.
Elladan nodded, "Yes, lord steward. I would seek your permission to travel through Gondor and Ithilien to learn more about the strength of Mordor. Dark forces are at work in Minas Morgul again and I would see them for myself to report back to my father."
Ecthelion nodded slowly, "Of course. But I do hope that first you will stay in Minas Tirith for some days as my guest. We shall have a feast tomorrow evening in your honour."
Elladan inclined his head as he accepted the invitation graciously.
-o0o-
"I knew that the strength of Mordor was increasing, I could feel it in the air. A foul taste comes with the East wind when it blows." Aragorn was saying, pacing the room in his agitation, after hearing from Elrohir the warning their father had sent for Ecthelion.
"But there is more, little brother." Elrohir began.
"Aye, I doubt you would have climbed the seven walls of the city if there were not."
Elrohir raised an eyebrow and replied slyly: "Ah, but I did not climb the city walls. Not even I can avoid being seen by quite that many eyes. No, Aragorn, I climbed Mount Mindolluin." Judging by the twinkle in his eyes and the smile on his lips he had enjoyed the challenge.
Aragorn just shook his head in defeat and covered his eyes with his hand, blotting out the smug expression on Elrohir's face. As captain of the citadel, he was supposed to protect the capital, protect especially the citadel, against just such an incursion. And he was sure Elrohir knew this as well - it was most likely half the reason for his brother's amusement.
He sighed as if exasperated, though secretly it was hard to upset. He was glad for his brother's company, for this reminder of a life long left behind - one filled with lighter days. He had missed the familiar company of his brothers more than he had realized. "So what is the reason for your … unconventional arrival?"
The teasing smile left Elrohir's face to be replaced by something darker. "Something is wrong in the city itself. You must have felt it, too - a dark energy perpetuates the walls of the citadel. Father had only an inkling when he sent me and Elladan here, but now that we have arrived - I can feel it clearly. A sinister burden on the mind." His grey eyes studied Aragorn intensely, waiting to hear if he had felt it, too, and Aragorn found himself nodding.
"It comes and goes, more intense at times, then gone for weeks or months. Though more insistent recently." He admitted, nodding slowly. "Did Adar say what is the cause?"
His elven brother shook his head. "No. But that is why we have come, to find out what ancient evil might have been awoken here."
Aragorn stood and collected their glasses for a refill. The words of his brother hung ominously in the air and he roamed through his memories, trying to align his feelings of misgivings in recent months with what Elrohir had described. Their father's warnings, though not always precise were rarely wrong. They would need to investigate this matter. And since it directly pertained to the very heart of the capital of Gondor, the citadel of Minas Tirith, secrecy would be required. That explained why Elladan had traveled to the city "alone", giving Elrohir the possibility to investigate the citadel of Minas Tirith in ... less overt ways.
He returned to his brother's side and handed him the wine. "So how come Elladan was the one to ride through the gates of the city while you scaled the mountain?"
A brief look of discomfort flitted over Elrohir's face and he avoided Aragorn's eyes, suddenly very intrigued with his wine. His brother may be skilled in many things, but lying was not among them. "We reached a mutual agreement," Elrohir hedged carefully.
"He lost an archery competition." Both Aragorn and Elrohir spun around to find Elladan standing in the doorway, a smug smile on his face.
Aragorn got up to greet him and embraced his brother tightly. "Elrohir lost an archery contest?" he asked in disbelief, "against you?"
Elladan shoved him playfully, "Thank you for the confidence, littlest brother. It has been known to happen, you know."
"Once every yen or so," Elrohir admitted generously.
"Maybe I just wait until the stakes are worth the effort." Elladan gave back. "Did you enjoy your climb, brother?"
"The view was stunning."
Aragorn held up his hand in a futile effort to stop the twins from continuing their well-meant teasing.
"Not as stunning as the guest rooms, I wager. Mine is larger than the council chamber back home. And the chambermaid practically fell over her own feet in her hurry to bring me "the finest treats of all Gondor"". Elladan was clearly quoting the poor chambermaid.
"I might not be able to compete with the finest treats in all of Gondor", Aragorn interjected smoothly and pressed a glass of wine into his oldest brother's hand, "but at least we have wine."
Elladan took the glass and, blessedly, the banter ceased.
They sat around the fireplace with its dancing light that made up for the rapidly dwindling sunlight outside. It kept out the chill of evening, drenching the space in orange light and a comfortable warmth. They shared stories of the recent years spent apart, and of the time before that when Aragorn had still dwelled in Rivendell. Those memories held a warmth of their own.
Still it was not long before they returned to the reason for the twins' presence in Minas Tirith, the stirring of vile forces in the East, the feeling of something off within Minas Tirith.
Elladan relayed to them his audience with Ecthelion and the barely constrained hostility of Denethor that did little to surprise Aragorn. The older twin continued with a recount of how he had slipped out of the lavish room he had been provided with for his stay in Minas Tirith. He could not help but point out to Elrohir that Ecthelion had planned a feast in his honour. Unfazed, the younger twin had replied that such a diversion would help him attend to their actual mission while Elladan would be too busy merrymaking.
Yes, Aragorn decided, even as he set out to help his brother infiltrate the White Tower of Ecthelion, the center of governance in the very city he was supposed to protect - he had missed this. He had missed the companionship, the easy familiarity and the unconditional love of his family. And even the foolhardy adventures they would embark upon.
As Thorongil he was respected and admired. Both the common folk and the men under his command looked to him for guidance and inspiration. But Minas Tirith was ripe with strife, with intrigue, and jealousy. Denethor's animosity towards Elladan was just a small taste of it. Far too often had Aragorn himself felt the ire of Denethor, had been the perceived hurdle to the heir's ambition.
For a moment, Aragorn allowed himself to wish for a simpler life, like the one he had had back in Rivendell or among the Dunedain of the North. A life in which he could put his trust into any of his comrades in arms, without reservation or fear of betrayal. He had no such privilege in Minas Tirith. But then, was not that part of the reason he had left the North in the first place? He had set out to discover the hearts of men. If he were to lead the men and women of Gondor one day he would need to know their fears and hopes, the ambitions and dreams of his citizens, would need to know how to gain the loyalty of his men.
His thoughts stuttered to a sudden halt as the room darkened, the fire hissing and spluttering. An evil force seemed to pervade the very air. He heard Elrohir gasp at the intensity of the feeling and saw Elladan raising his hand to his head as if to stave off a pressing headache. It was a curling, writhing evil, stretching, seeking...
And it came from close by. Aragorn wondered how he had not noticed this before, had not instantly connected a feeling like this with what Elrohir had described – was the evil growing stronger or had his father's warning made him more aware of it?
Like an evil miasma the dark feeling lingered, whispering in his ear stories of the downfall of Numenor, of the weakness of Isildur. A weakness that was running through his very veins. How could he hope to become king of Arnor and Gondor? How could he even dream of winning the hand of Arwen, Lord Elrond's own daughter, so far beyond his reach? Under the pressing force Aragorn felt cornered, observed, studied. It was as if a dark will was focusing its gaze upon him, invading his every thought, his very soul.
No! He was not going to let himself be torn apart under this hateful gaze.
Steeling his mind against the onslaught he closed whatever connection there had been and forcefully redirected his thoughts. He studied his room instead, observed the flames in the fireplace that suddenly seemed to burn without warmth, the empty wine glasses on the table, sitting forlorn and forgotten. He analyzed the pattern in the wood on the table and felt, finally, the devious onslaught lessen, felt how the searching gaze lost its focus and withdrew. By the time it abated completely, sweat stood on his brow and he was breathing heavily. Looking at his brothers he saw that they had fared little better.
The three sons of Elrond looked up and exchanged a glance - there was no mistaking the dark intent of whatever force had been unleashed.
"It is worse than I feared," Elladan said.
Elrohir nodded. "The Úlairi?", he suggested.
"Or even Sauron himself."
Aragorn was still trying to rub the warmth back into his hands, as Elrohir made to get up. "Then we cannot delay, we need to find the source of the hold the enemy has on Minas Tirith." Yet even as he got up he faltered and had to grab the table for support.
"Elrohir!" Elladan had grabbed his brother's arm to help study the younger twin, though he himself looked little better. Both of his brothers, Aragorn noticed, were pale. And as another shiver ran through him, he was sure that he looked just as bad.
"Perhaps we should wait until the morning, as agreed. You have had a long journey and I feel this evil will not seek to hide itself in the coming days. This was the most intense I have ever felt it," Aragorn said. "I still feel its shadow lingering." He shuddered.
"Aye," Elladan agreed. His hand still held onto his twin's arm in a sign of silent support. Ever the overprotective older brother, Elladan seemed unwilling to leave Elrohir's side.
Remembering how, in the middle of the oppressive attack, he had thought to hear whispers, to see images of the ruin of Numenor, he could not help but wonder what his brothers had encountered. The twins shared a special connection that ran deeper than any man could ever hope to fully understand. What one of them had suffered, the other was sure to have shared.
"Would you rather spend the night in the room at the citadel?" Elladan asked his twin quietly, but Elrohir shook his head before sliding his arm out from under Elladan's hold.
"What and eat all your treats? No, thank you brother." Despite the teasing tone he was perhaps aiming for, there was a note of true gratitude in Elrohir's voice. "I will continue to inconvenience our poor Estel. After all, I would not want to deprive you of the attentions of that chambermaid. She would forget about you as soon as she laid eyes on me."
Elladan rolled his eyes but played along with the familiar banter. "It is probably for the best, one more treat and you will have trouble fitting into your clothes." He easily dodged his twin's half-hearted attempt at hitting him in retribution for his comment, and his clear laughter helped clear some of the lingering shadow.
Shaking his head at the antics of his brothers, Aragorn got up to retrieve two bed rolls to spread on his floor. Despite Elladan's words, he knew that he would have two guests this night to "inconvenience" him – and he would not have had it any other way.
-o0o-
In the grey twilight before dawn, the city was ashen and pale, very dissimilar to the white beacon it appeared in the gleaming mid-day sun. With the feeling of dread from last night still lingering on his mind, Elladan felt reminded of a shroud for the dead covering the city, cloaking it, suffocating it.
They had not spoken much last night about what they had felt, though he and his twin were convinced that the dark powers of the enemy were at work. The sense of evil had been unmistakable and all too familiar.
He refused now to look back at what he had seen, what he had heard last night. Dark memories had been disturbed that he could not allow himself to dwell on, would not allow to rise up once more and drag him into the shadows as they already had once before.
Resolutely ignoring the feeling that the tight corridors in the citadel at twilight seemed to morph to barely lit tunnels in the mountains in front of his eyes, he made his way back to the room he had been assigned. His bed lay still undisturbed and Elladan sat down heavily on the mattress, reaching absentmindedly for the bowl on the nightstand beside him that contained an assortment of sugared almonds and fine marzipan treats.
He would have to attend the citadel breakfast soon, but for now he allowed himself a moment to rest, to let the sweet flavour of his candied treats chase away the stale taste of dust and blood that his mind was still conjuring. Whatever the source of the evil that pervaded Minas Tirith they would have to find it and, if possible, destroy it. Too large where the risks to all of Middle Earth, should Gondor itself become corrupted, the last stronghold of the men of the west. Only they kept Mordor contained.
Not for the first time he wished that the powers of the elves were still stronger, that the firstborn would choose to fight before leaving for the Undying Lands, leaving behind a freed Middle Earth rather than abandoning their allies to an ever increasing danger.
He knew that Elrohir shared his thoughts. Together with the Dunedain rangers of the North they had tried to keep the North of Middle Earth free from the orcs, trolls and other spawn of Morgoth that would otherwise overrun the free lands, enslaving its people. Yet despite their efforts, orcs in the Misty Mountains continued to multiply. All their hardships and trials were too easily made void by the sheer overwhelming numbers of their enemy.
With a sigh, Elladan stood. There was no point in resting when his mind refused. Instead, he drew himself a bath in the adjourning bathroom – another perk of winning the archery contest that he must be sure to point out to Elrohir. The warm water washed away the dust and weariness from traveling, and refreshed and dressed in a new set of robes, he felt ready to face Ecthelion II. Maybe he could even deal with his obnoxious son.
He turned back to the bath to release the water, but even as he gazed at it he felt himself drawn towards the swirling waters. Before his eyes, the simple undisturbed water turned to dark, heaving waves, foam capped and breaking upon the piers of a harbor. Small boats appeared as if from a mist – no, from a screen of smoke.
The city was burning. Dark shapes of ships with black sails lingered in the waters. They should not be here! And yet they were, blocking the harbour, raining death and fire upon the city. He turned around, frantic, trying to find his companion.
There! He spotted the familiar dark, wavy hair of his adopted brother and ran forward, but he was too late. A fraction too late, as always, as fire dropped on them. With a mighty roar, flame and ash shot towards the heavens as it fell between him and Estel, blocking out his last vision of his brother.
Blackness filled his vision for a moment before it shifted once more. Instead of flaming streets he suddenly found himself in a dark corridor. Its smooth walls guiding him deeper into the darkness, into the maze of tunnels, all cloaked in a suffocating haze of evil.
Elladan shuddered, recognizing the scene. He had been here before; had walked this path and knew what he would find. With great effort he dragged himself back from this vision of the past, shaken still from the first vision of water and fire. One was enough. He would not willingly relive the second.
He sat back and forced himself to take slow even breaths to slow his frantic heartbeat, trying to make sense of what he had seen.
Was Aragorn in peril? He felt sure that he had recognized his brother in the first vision, an unusually clear detail that he was not often granted. But where and, more importantly, when, would Aragorn face this danger?
Elladan did not allow himself to linger on what else he had seen. It was the same images that he had been forced to relive the previous night, enthralled by whatever dark force was at work in Minas Tirith. But reliving the horror of finding and freeing his mother would not serve him now. He knew that the memory would never fade, the wound never heal, but he had learned, over centuries, to accept the pain and carry on regardless.
He needed to do so now. Aragorn was in danger.
-o0o-
tbc