Chapter 7

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who left a review for the last chapter - it is so very encouraging to know that people are enjoying this story. And, whoah, this chapter is long! And so very full of trouble, hehe, enjoy!

-o0o-

Rain was still falling in a steady drizzle, soaking through their clothes despite the heavy cloaks they wore. The sparse light reflected weakly off rain-slick surfaces and the paced dirt of the street turned slowly into heaving mud. They kept off the large roads, winding their way across the outskirts of town, always aiming towards the docks.

Twice already they had had to evade wandering patrols, hurried and alert, far more than could be normal for a routine night watch. Clearly, they were still being hunted.

Aragorn was still trying to piece together what they knew, trying to figure out who was after them. The city guards were involved, though the thugs that had attacked them in the streets themselves had not worn the garb of Pelargir. Who had the power to set the city's men against him, and why?

It was clear now that there had been no attack on Pelargir, no need for him and his men to rush into danger and leave Minas Tirith with such haste. It had been a trap from the very moment that the messenger had requested their assistance. And certainly the fire at the waystation had also been planned, carefully executed when he and his men were approaching, yet too far away to prevent the destruction of the stables.

Again his mind wandered to the one question that he couldn't seem to answer. Who would be behind this, who had both the power and the motivation?

Next to him Elladan lifted a hand, urgently indicating for him to turn back into the shadow of the alleyway they had just emerged from. Just in time, for a group of five men, clothed in the same dark garb that their attackers had worn, came down a side road.

"Blasted rain." The men complained, wiping water out of their eyes with little effect.

"Where did those rats disappear to?"

"Can't we just look fer em tomorrow? When we'r dry."

"What and try to find them between all the inhabitants of the city? No, stupid, we can't. Now eyes sharp and find 'em."

The thugs moved on, blissfully unaware of how close to their quarry they had come.

"They have gone." At Elladan's all-clear, Aragorn hurried forward, clutching Egrahil tighter to his chest to try and shield him from the rain. His lieutenant had not regained consciousness and Aragorn was beginning to worry. In the rain and darkness he could not check if the bleeding had stopped. All he could do was hope that they would find shelter soon.

Another few street crossings saw them to the docks and despite the lateness of the hour this part of town was still abuzz with activity. There were sailors, patrons of various bars in different stages of inebriety, dockworkers trying to load ships that would set out the next morning - and there were the women of the night he was looking for.

Quenching a brief flicker of doubt, Aragorn hurried forward. They had no choice, he reminded himself. For all the time they had spent wandering the streets, he still had not found an alternative. Egrahil needed a place to stay safe.

Aiming for a building with numerous ladies on the veranda, he shoved his way past them and into the dimly lit interior behind.

It was like stepping into a different world.

Not only was it blissfully dry, but a warm waft of scented air hit him. The fragrances were maybe meant to be stimulating, or to cover the smell of the ongoing ... activities, but they did little to soothe him. It was hard to be sure in what little light there was, but the landing they found themselves in seemed empty.

"Ooh!"

Only it wasn't.

The voice came out of the dark, unexpected, lascivious and entirely too close. A tall blonde and, Aragorn noticed, barely clad woman uncurled herself from a recliner positioned against the wall where she had been all but concealed in deep shadows.

"Oh, but we don't get very many of your kind here," she all but purred, as she breezed past Aragorn and went straight for Elladan.

Aragorn blinked.

Then he blinked again.

"I hear ears are not the only thing that's longer with elves." Her gaze dipped down suggestively and Aragorn might have laughed at the expression that passed over Elladan's face.

But his brother regained his composure quickly. "My apologies, fair lady," Elladan clasped her hands that were busy wandering up and down his chest and held them firmly. "But that is not why we are here. We have a request." He indicated Aragorn with a tilt of his head.

The woman looked unbearably put out as she turned her gaze from his brother to look at him instead, her lower lip shoved forward in the tiniest of pouts. "A request?"

"A bed for our companion," Aragorn elaborated. "Just for the night so he may rest out of the rain."

She was suddenly all business as she approached him, her eyes now resting on the still form of Egrahil in his arms. It seemed she had not even noticed him before, or disregarded him as a possible "customer". She hissed as she lifted the cloak Aragorn had draped around his lieutenant, uncovering bandages that were already stained with blood.

"He'll need a good deal more than just rest," she stated. "We have a healer, but she's expensive."

"We can pay."

"Aye, I figured you might, what with your fancy clothes and all. Of course," she batted her eyelashes coquettishly at Elladan, "you convince your handsome elven friend to stay and we'll take care of your friend for free."

She moved over to Elladan once more, draping her arms around his neck and moved closer, pressing her ample bosom against his chest. But Elladan kept stoic and her face fell.

"No?" she asked with a sigh, a sound of childish disappointment. "Oh very well," she threw her hands up and turned around. "Follow me."

Taken off guard by her mercurial mood swings, Aragorn hurried after her as she crossed the dark room towards a staircase set against the back wall. It led to a landing that stretched across all four walls, running the perimeter of the room. Multiple doors led off to rooms that were clearly not all empty, judging by the sounds that filtered out from within.

"Go fetch Glenda," she commanded a young girl sitting in a chair, half-asleep. She startled to her senses and ran off, and Aragorn found himself hoping that running messages was all she was expected to do. Surely she was too young for any other duties; A shudder ran through him involuntarily as he was reminded again of the nature of the establishment they had sook.

Their guide gestured them toward an open door and Aragorn stepped through wearily. He found himself in a small rectangular room holding nothing but a bed at its center: large, and lavishly decorated with frills and paper roses. It would be better than the cold, hard floor of a guard post or the inside of a cell, but Aragorn still had to suppress his distaste as he gently lowered Egrahil onto the bulky mattress. He was trying hard not to think about how clean it might be, or what it was usually used for.

Behind them the door was locked with a sharp click.

"Easy there, elf boy." Their erstwhile guide stood in front of the closed door, barring their exit. Elladan had already half-drawn his sword, but hesitated to actually attack her. Their chances of getting out of here would be slim if they started a fight, worse for Egrahil.

In a rare display of uncertainty, Elladan glanced at him for guidance, his brother was clearly out of his depth in this unfamiliar environment. Funny, that he would be unflappable in dwarven courts, orc caverns and the camps of the rangers, yet meet his match in a daintily dressed woman half his size.

The woman looked at Aragorn, picking up on the cues that he was in charge. "I don't mean no harm, but I need to know what danger you're bringing here." Her eyes were hard.

Aragorn sighed. She had a right to know, but where to begin? How much did he know about what had happened to them and who was after them?

"We were attacked," he began, carefully monitoring her reaction to his words. "By thugs, possibly city guards as well. But they will be after me and my .. companion." He caught himself before he said 'brother' and indicated Elladan with a tilt of his head. Gesturing back at Egrahil, he continued: "I do not think they will expand resources to find him, so you and your girls should be quite safe."

She seemed to ponder this for a moment. "You are some sort of soldier yourself," she challenged, "is this a power struggle?"

"I do not know," Aragorn replied honestly, hoping his answers would be enough to placate her and gain Egrahil a place to rest as well as access to a healer. "But we intend to find out – far away from here."

She nodded, coming to a decision. "City guard will cost extra."

Aragorn dipped his head in acknowledgement and drew some coins from the pouch at his side. "We will pick him up tomorrow if it is safe. I will pay again this much then, as long as he is looked after."

Faster than the eyes could follow she had taken the coins and stored them somewhere in her tight bodice. A moment later there was a knock at the door. An older woman hustled inside, carrying a bag that seemed to be stuffed with healing supplies. He cast a last look at Egrahil, lying on the bed, unaware of his surroundings. Aragorn could only hope that he was making the right decision by leaving him in the hands of these women. But what choice did he have?

None, he knew. And so, resigned, Aragorn turned around and left the room.

-o0o-

They descended the steps and crossed the dark entry hall of the establishment and opened the door - to total darkness.

Elladan stumbled to a halt.

Darkness surrounded him. Gradually a light grew, a small flicker, as of a torch illuminating a dark corridor stretching ahead into the darkness. Winding and twisting and ever descending, the smooth walls of the dark passage drew him onward and he stumbled in the near dark as he followed the light.

The sense of evil around him was almost overwhelming, but he pressed onwards, driven by a need far stronger than any evil could ever hope to stop. Stronger even than his own dread, for he thought he knew what he would find.

He forced his legs forward, down another set of steps and into renewed darkness for the fickle light of the torch was dimming. He entered a dark cavern. No light reached here, no hope, no salvation. A lithe figure was shackled against the wall, blood staining their torn clothes. He rushed forward, though he knew that there was nothing he could do. The light died. Darkness ruled.

"Elladan!"

His eyes suddenly focused on Aragorn, who was holding his arm tightly. There was urgency in his voice, fear almost. "Elladan!", he said again, then when he realized that his brother was with him once more, he sighed in relief. "What happened, what did you see?"

Elladan raised a hand to rub across his eyes, trying to physically dispel the troubling images of his vision. "I do not know," he answered truthfully. He was deeply troubled, his visions, always unexpected, rarely came upon him this abruptly. "The past, I think, our mother …" his words trailed off, for even as he said it he realized that there was something wrong with his vision, something that did not fit with the images forever seared into his memories. But he could not say what.

Frustration surged through him. His visions could show many things, he knew - events of the past, or the future, things happening right now but far away. Yet he rarely saw anything that had already come to pass this often. His visions were not usually this cruel. Idly, Elladan wondered at that, wondered why he would see again the image of his mother, tortured and beaten in the high passes of the Misty Mountains. The only explanation he could think of was, perhaps, the lingering shadow of Minas Tirith. Could it still affect him? Despite the distance? He had thought himself free of its influence after they had left the upper circles of the city behind.

He sighed in frustration. "It is probably nothing," he said, trying to convince Aragorn as much as himself. "We cannot linger. We have to move on." He lifted his head and froze. Looking around sharply, he realized suddenly what he should have seen immediately: the drunkards, the sailors, the hookers' customers, everyone had disappeared.

"We need to leave now!"

Aragorn nodded grimly. He must have come to the same conclusion. He led the way again and Elladan followed. Together they hurried over the cobbled pavement of the pier, still wet although the rain had stopped while they had been inside. The sky was slowly turning grey with the advent of the coming dawn.

They turned a corner, attempting to escape into the shadows and obscurity of the smaller alleys, but that was exactly where their pursuers were waiting for them.

A group of at least six men, weapons drawn, blocked their path. Aragorn cursed. Elladan drew his sword. The adrenalin brought on by his vision still coursed through his veins, lending his thoughts a sharp clarity, his movements additional speed. It was more than welcome after the long day and night they had had.

He attacked.

Fast and precise, he slashed at the first attacker, drawing blood when the man was too slow to lift his own blade in time to deflect the attack. The man stumbled back with a cry, hiding behind two of his comrades, who charged forward, eager for the fight. He deflected their blows, hard pressed to give them no opening. They attacked in concert, but their lack of skill was obvious. These men were not trained city guards, despite their uniform. Or If they were, they would require better training.

Elladan allowed himself a grim smile and pressed forward. Swinging left, right and left again, he pushed both men back, letting the tightness of the alley work in his favour as they had nowhere to move, could not turn to flee. A fast step forward and he embedded his blade up to the hilt in the first man, drawing his dagger even as he spun to block the attack of the other man. The eagerness had left his opponent, replaced with a panic that showed in his erratic moves, attacking again, and again, hoping for a stroke of luck.

Elladan's sword was too far embedded in his opponent to be easily removed and he let it go, drawing instead his second dagger. Fighting with the two shorter blades was easier in the restricted confines of the alley anyway. He blocked the sword of the thug once again with one knife, then stabbed the other straight into the man's throat.

There was no time for remorse, nor even for anger or the dark emotions that overtook him sometimes when fighting orcs. His mind was still numbed from the turmoil unlocked by his vision, tormented by the lingering memory and the unanswered questions. He let training guide his moves, falling onto the familiar patterns of attack and defense without allowing himself to think of anything else.

His next would-be attacker saw the blood explode from the mortal wound of his friend and turned. Not glancing back he fled, pushing the men behind him out of the way or further up the alley, urging them to follow his example.

They ran.

Elladan's fingers itched for his bow, for any means to stop their enemy from escaping them once more. They would be back, he knew, as soon as someone with more authority could overrule the fear he had struck into the coward's heart. But there was nothing he could do, he had left his bow in Minas Tirith, and the alleyway would have been too confined for the weapon in any case. The men ran around a corner and disappeared from view. Elladan cursed.

Silence flooded back into the street, Aragorn had just dispatched his own last opponent, and with it came the threat of having to face his heaving emotions. Something was very wrong, something at the edge of his awareness was clawing for attention. If only he could figure out what it was.

But before his deep misgivings could form coherence a new sound echoed off the houses at their sides. A large group of men was approaching.

Barely a moment later a large group of guards turned the corner. Elladan was not sure whether to be frustrated or thankful for the new distraction, but he grabbed his knives tighter and bared his teeth. Let them come.

"There they are!" Elladan's sharp eyes could make out the men in the front. The very same that had fled from their encounter a moment ago, now gleefully pointing at him and his brother, urging the city's guards to deal with them.

Elladan glanced back at Aragorn. It seemed the reinforcements were true city guards, lured by some false pretense perhaps, or willing participants in this mad scheme that targeted his brother. Was Aragorn going to attack, regardless of where the allegiances of these men might lie? He was well aware that as a Captain of Gondor there were more things at play here for his brother, yet a false decision might well claim both their lives.

Before Aragorn could make the decision, however, a dreadful noise filled the air. The torrent of clanging metal tore through the night, the city's bells were ringing on the walls, the watchtowers were alerting its defenders to danger.

The city guard men hesitated and looked up, stunned. He and his brother were momentarily forgotten.

"Corsairs!" A cry from the wall was rapidly taken up by other people in the vicinity and amplified. "The corsairs attack!"

For an incomprehensible second, nobody moved. Time itself seemed to hesitate, until with a thunderous roar and with sudden brightness, a flaming projectile came hurtling from the waters. It barely cleared the masts of the ships in the harbour and fell among the storage houses at the waterfront. Even as it exploded and showered sparks and debris over the docks, a second projectile followed swiftly after, then a third.

And with terrible clarity a vital piece of his puzzle fell into place. His vision of Pelargir! Fire and water and a mortal peril. He turned.

"Aragorn!"

Elladan knew his warning would come too late. The last projectile was already bearing down on them, its heat a searing pain on his skin. Still, he made a last desperate lunge trying to reach his brother, to push him out of the way and to safety.

He never knew if he made contact. The projectile fell and engulfed them both in a thunderous noise and flaming inferno.

He lost sight of Aragorn.

-o0o-

Elrohir blinked against the falling rain, keeping his eyes trained on the horse in the middle of the courtyard. Not far from the fountain and the withered white tree, the animal stood patiently, only the ears that it had flattened against its head spoke of the discomfort caused by standing in the rain.

The fountain guards paid the animal no heed, though its presence was unusual from what Elrohir could gather. Horses were not usually allowed here at the top of the city. This must be the horse of the messenger that would return coin and letter to Pelargir, the messenger who was to relay the instructions of having his brothers murdered. Elrohir felt sure of it.

He gripped the bow he had hastily grabbed on his way down the tower tighter as a fresh surge of anger coursed through him. That message would not leave this courtyard, not if he could prevent it.

Ideally, he would have liked to stop the messenger somewhere in the quieter streets lower in the city, but he could not hope to make it to the lower levels undetected. Already he was running out of time, finding a weapon and a place to conceal himself was all he had managed to do before reaching the courtyard. If he moved again now, he would risk losing the horse on the meandering streets of Minas Tirith, amid the rain and the darkness of night. It was a risk he was not prepared to take. Already, he was gambling his entire mission and his own safety with this desperate ploy. Rationally he knew there would be no return from this choice of action, he could not investigate the darkness in Minas Tirith and stop the message from reaching Pelargir, but his priorities were clear. If forced to choose between the safety of his brothers and the success of this infiltration, there really was no choice to be made.

He was uncomfortably aware of his lack of a plan, his hasty decisions based on anger and a need to act. As he looked at the pale messenger horse in its silent misery, soaking up the rain like his own heavy coat, he could not help but realize the very real possibility that this would all be for naught. Still, he had to do something. He could not, would not, stand idly by while someone sought to bring harm to his brothers. At the very least they would pay.

Figures approached the fountain, heads bowed against the steady drizzle of falling rain, but Elrohir recognized the embroidered raven on Balsarion's cloak. The other man next to him was smaller and wiry, probably the messenger. Disgust curled in Elrohir's stomach, remembering the words Balsarion had been sent to speak to Denethor, the demand for money, the blatant disregard that they plotted treason and murder. Elrohir drew a deep breath and fitted arrow to string, drawing the bow back as far as it would go. Then he waited.

The man jumped up onto his horse's back and leaned down towards Balsarion, taking something from the other man that he stored quickly beneath his own rain-soaked cloak. His horse had barely taken a step when Elrohir loosed his arrow. It flew true, embedding itself deeply in the man's side, pushing him off the horse with its momentum. The messenger fell with a choked scream.

Shouts of alarm went up from the fountain guards. One of them, voice laced with fear, distinctly called: "The Dark Spirit!"

But Elrohir did not stay to listen, he used the guards' distraction, their disarray at being attacked so suddenly and moved. Already Balsarion was shouting his men to order and sent them in the direction the arrow had come from. They would come for him.

Elrohir kept to the shadows and the perimeter of the citadel, close to the seventh wall of the city. He had to keep moving, he knew, or risk discovery. Only his sharp ears saved him from running headlong into reinforcements that hurried up the stairs from the lower level just ahead of him and he threw himself behind an outcropping of the wall, using what little protection it provided. With distaste he realized that their coats bore the emblem of a silver eagle - Estel's men.

He had not expected the guards to react quite this quickly and realized with distaste that he was effectively cut off from his only viable escape route. He drew another arrow, for all the good it would do, and sent a quick prayer to the Valar to let the guards move on, to give him access to the stairs.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Balsarion in the center of the courtyard. Elrohir cursed silently. Balsarion had caught the agitated horse of the messenger and was already thrusting its reins at one of his men. "You ride to Pelargir, deliver the contents of the satchel to Gwarth of the city guard. Do not delay!"

Elrohir had hoped the horse would sppok, would abandon the top levels of the citadel and escape into the streets below. But he had no such luck. Balsarion's man did not hesitate. He grabbed the outheld satchel and mounted the horse.

There was nothing for it, he would need to be stopped as well. Drawing back the string of his bow, Elrohir sighted down the length of the arrow...

"The dark spirit! There he is!"

He had been found.

The distraction of the shouts cost him dearly. Elrohir loosed the arrow, but it missed the rider just as he ducked beneath the archway, riding the horse through the gate and into the lower levels of the city, carrying both messenger and message beyond his reach.

With another curse Elrohir dropped the bow he still held and drew his dagger. It was a woefully inadequate defense against the guards that were already rushing at him, swords drawn.

He blocked the first sword that came at him, then quickly spun to evade the next, but some of the guards were Estel's men, all of them were probably unaware of the contents of the message that had just escaped his desperate grasp. He could not bring himself to use deadly force against them.

His mind was racing as he parried blow after blow, trying to reach an escape, any passage or stairwell that might allow him to turn and flee, to disappear into the rain and night. If he had to leave Minas Tirith entirely so be it.

But the guards were careful, they were wary of attacking him outright, of pressing too close. They stayed just out of reach of his dagger, trusting into the superior length of their swords as they tested his defenses. They seemed to have no intent of forcing a lethal conflict, content instead to keep him from fleeing, to herd him in front of them. Elrohir's back hit the cold, unforgiving stone of the city wall.

They had him exactly where they wanted him. There was no escape.

Six of the citadel guards formed a half circle around him, cutting off his escape, their swords pointed at his throat. Elrohir kept his dagger raised, wary. His thoughts were racing, desperately searching for options of escape, discarding them faster than he could think of alternatives. The men did not move, did not rush forward to attack him and without their attack he could not hope to cause enough of a distraction to slip away. To initiate the attack himself would be suicide.

The guards kept a steady grip on their swords, their hard eyes never straying from the weapon in his hand, the posture of his body. There was not a move he could make that they would not see coming.

He had no options, he realized, an uncomfortable weight settling in his stomach, and then he heard them whisper to each other: "It's that elf lord."

"Hasn't he left with Thorongil?"

"What is he doing here?"

They had recognized him. Or, mistaken him for Elladan at least, could that work in his favour? There was a chance that they would hesitate to kill a son of Elrond, kill a guest, right in the heart of Minas Tirith, within earshot of their steward. If he could explain himself to Ecthelion, he could plead his case, could try to explain his presence in the city - and his need to attack the messenger.

But as he saw the soldiers making way for their captain, Balsarion, he knew that there would be no trial. He would not be allowed to see Ecthelion, he probably would not see another dawn.

The captain's face was dark with anger, but his rage paled in comparison with Elrohir's own surging hatred for the man. He could still recall the words Balsarion had spoken, his delight at the prospect of murdering Elladan, of seeing Estel dead. Reflexively, Elrohir gripped his dagger tighter, the thought of yielding to the guards evaporating in a heartbeat. He would never surrender to the likes of Balsarion.

"What are you waiting for", the captain roared, "attack him." He shoved one of the guards - one of Estel's men - forward, his sword still raised. Off balance by the push, the guard's attack was easy enough to side step, but it was only the beginning of the new rush. His colleagues joined the effort and it was all Elrohir could do to raise his dagger and deflect another stroke, ducking under a third, all in an attempt to get to the opening, the break in their line that Balsarion had caused. Another guard came at him and Elrohir caught his wrist in his bare hand and pulled - drawing the man off balance and into the line of his comrades behind him. He was close now, so close to escaping their circle. Another step to the side, another parried stroke and he -

Elrohir gasped as a sudden, blinding pain erupted in his side. He could feel the nauseating sensation of steel being drawn from his wound, and he dropped his dagger as his hands reflexively curled around the injury. Blood ran over his fingers, soaking his shirt and trousers despite his best efforts to slow it. A wave of vertigo hit him as he turned around, trying to find who had attacked him, and he sank to one knee even as Balsarion lifted his sword for another blow. Of course, he had not taken the burly captain into account, had not seen the sword hidden beneath the thick black guard coat, but Balsarion had gambled on his near escape the entire time. He had only waited for his opportunity to strike from the shadows.

Yet before Balsarion could finish his attack another guard was suddenly there. Elrohir gasped as his arms were wrestled away from the wound and behind his back, the sudden renewed pain set the world spinning.

Over the ringing in his ears he could hear the guard's even voice. "We have him secured, Captain."

There was something tight in his voice, a challenge almost and Elrohir fought to raise his head, to look at Balsarion. The Captain was heaving with rage. His sword shook in the tight grip he had at it, but he had lowered the weapon and Elrohir realized that the guard who had taken him captive had most likely saved his life.

The moment stretched. Eventually the guard spoke again. "Captain?"

"Bind him!" Balsarion commanded, his voice rough.

More men rushed forward to secure Elrohir's hands, binding them behind his back with rough rope that cut into his wrists. The world tilted dangerously to the side as they hauled him to his feet and his injured side erupted in agony. He stifled a gasp as he was pushed forward, clinging to his stubborn refusal to grant Balsarion the satisfaction of seeing him suffer. Instead he fixed his eyes on the captain's face, willing the dark man to see his hatred, challenging, unyielding.

But now that he had gained control over his own emotions, the captain ignored him. "Return to your posts," he commanded the guards. "I will report the capture of this 'Dark Spirit' - for that is all he is. A trespasser and a threat." His voice brooked no room for argument and he seemed to be mustering the men from Estel's company especially.

When no response was forthcoming he turned to one of his own men. "Fetch Lord Denethor, let him be the first to see this 'Dark Spirit'."

On the far horizon, under the heavy clouds of rain that hung over the city, dawn was lightening the sky as Balsarion led Elrohir back towards the Tower of Ecthelion - towards the dungeons. The wound in his side protested his every step, a searing pain was shooting up and down his side but Balsarion's pace was unforgiving. Sweat stood on Elrohir's brow before they even reached the tower and as they passed inside he looked up at the sky one last time, drinking in the faint light before the darkness swallowed him.

-o0o-

tbc...