Chapter 8
The pain in his side was dulling his senses, slowing his thoughts and Elrohir could find no opening, no chance to escape. He knew that if he stayed in captivity he would not only be at the mercy of the very men who planned his brothers' execution, he would also be a pawn, ready to be used against his brothers, if they returned to the city.
When, he reminded himself - When they returned to the city.
He had not managed to stop the messenger but he had to trust that his brothers would escape whatever trap Denethor had set for them, he could not consider the alternative, could not face the implications. His only comfort was that he had felt no distress from Elladan through their bond. Though dampened by distance, his awareness of Elladan remained a steady beacon at the edge of his mind.
Blood was still running down his side, unchecked now that he could not apply any pressure to the deep cut. Idly, a drifting part of his mind wondered whether he was leaving behind bloody footprints yet, and if the maid he had saved would be the one to clean them. Balsarion shoved him along when his steps slowed, his feet dragging on the stone steps. Always further they went down the steps that led towards the dungeons. Despite Elrohir's injured state Balsarion kept frustratingly out of reach of any attack that he might have attempted. The captain was not careless.
A traitorous voice in his head laughed at the idea of him trying to attack the captain, at his delusion that he could still fight his way out of here, injured and with his hands bound.
He lacked the strength to silence the voice.
It was true. He had little chance of getting out of this particular situation by himself, of avoiding the dungeons of Minas Tirith and whatever fate his captors saw fit to bestow upon him. And Elladan and Estel were over a hundred miles away, well beyond the reach of even a hasty rescue attempt.
His brothers … Even the thought of them carried the heavy weight of failure. He had not stopped the message that was intended to be their death sentence, had instead let himself be captured by the very men who had plotted their death. How could he have been so careless?
The sound of hurried footsteps from the stairs behind them, broke through his self-recrimination.
"Balsarion!" Denethor demanded as he caught up with them. "What is the meaning of this?"
The son of the steward was already dressed for combat. His mail reflected the light of the torches that illuminated the walls down here, and his cloak was the resplendent white of Minas Tirith.
"We have captured the Dark Spirit, my lord." Balsarion pushed Elrohir forward, back up the steps, like a pet on display. "The son of Elrond himself." Elrohir glowered.
Denethor mustered him coldy and a sudden, shudder of dread passed over Elrohir at the intensity of the man's gaze. There was no doubt, whatever dark power had been unleashed in Minas Tirith, Denethor was in league with it. He almost flinched as Denethor smiled at him.
"A son of Elrond," he corrected the captain, "and not the one who is my father's guest."
Denethor's confident statement took Elrohir by surprise. Few were the men that could tell him and Elladan apart, and again he felt sure that there was more to Denethor's discerning gaze, to his seemingly unfathomable knowledge. What secrets were the dark powers in Minas Tirith whispering to the heir of the steward?
"There's more than one?"
"Quite so. The twin sons of Elrond they are. Two of them." Denethor answered matter-of-fact, before he whirled around. "But I have no time now. Store him well for my return, he will have some questions to answer."
And with that, as suddenly as he had come, Denethor left again, climbing the stairs back to the daylight above. Balsarion shoved Elrohir onward in the opposite direction ever deeper into the bowels of the tower of Ecthelion, further away from the light of sun and stars. At the bottom of the stairs they crossed a room, fitfully lit by sputtering torchlight, until they came to another, smaller set of stairs that ended in a heavy wooden door.
Balsarion suddenly whirled on him, pinning Elrohir against the wall with a surprisingly strong grip, his bulk belying the muscles he hid under his guards' uniform. "Here you should be safe until Lord Denethor's return" he said while unlocking the heavy door. Balsarion shoved him the last steps down the stairs, through the open door, and Elrohir's wound protested sharply as he lost his footing, falling more than walking into the dark cell beyond. He hit the stone floor hard.
"Enjoy your stay."
The door closed and Elrohir was swallowed by darkness.
-o0o-
Aragorn opened his eyes to thick smoke and the smell of something burning.
The corsairs!
The thought cut through the fog, lending sudden clarity and he tried to scramble up from his position, leaning against a wooden wall, but strong, gentle hands held him back.
"Calm yourself, little brother." Elladan's soothing voice cut through the last of the haze still clouding his memories and he stilled instinctively. His brother's hands were running along his arms and legs checking for fractures, and now that he gave it some thought, now that he allowed his body to catch up with his frantic mind, Aragorn found that he ached fiercely. He suppressed a groan.
Most of the pain seemed to stem from the relentless pounding in his head, bolstered by the rhythmic hammering of war drums coming from the harbour. The corsair attack was still underway.
A bit off to the right, he saw the still flickering remnants of a fire, surrounded by bits of clay. The corsairs had launched firebombs at the city. Looking up he saw more smoke curling up into the brightening sky, though he could not see the fires themselves. The sun had fully risen, he noted, which meant that he must have lost consciousness for half an hour at least.
"You got lucky, little brother." Elladan said and moved back to help him up. "Apart from the hit to your head, you have suffered only bruises."
Aragorn reached up a hand to gingerly touch his head and met the soft touch of linen wrapped around his head. It seemed Elladan had seen to that injury already. "What about you?" he asked, surprised at the raspiness in his own voice.
Half of Elladan's face was covered in soot, as were most of his clothes and he favoured his left side. But his elven brother shook his head. "I am not injured," he said.
Aragorn snorted in disbelief. It seemed Elladan still refused to willingly admit to injuries – some things would never change. "What of your side then?" he pressed.
A shadow passed over Elladan's face, a brief look of grave concern. "That injury is not mine." The admission was so silent Aragorn almost did not catch it. And Elladan did not say anything else, did not elaborate. But then, he did not need to.
Elrohir! Aragorn knew of the strange ways the twins' bond could manifest itself, including an unnatural ability to sense each other's strongest emotions and injuries. Apparently it was little diminished, even with a hundred miles between them.
"What…" he began.
Elladan shook his head, forestalling the question and Aragorn could almost feel his brother's frustration. "He is injured. I know nothing more." Barely controlled anger swang in his voice, directed at whoever was to blame for his twin's injury - and at his own inability to come to Elrohir's aid. As if to corroborate that thought, Elladan continued: "And there is nothing we can do. The city is still under attack."
On the outside Elladan seemed in control, seemed to be the calm collected leader, the captain of Imladris that Aragorn had idolized since he was a little boy. But now Aragorn was older and he saw more. He recognized the attempt to focus on something that he could influence, something that he could control. And Aragorn saw the fear that lingered just beneath the surface. Elladan was terrified.
But Elladan was also right - the only thing they could control, had to focus on now, was the city burning all around them.
"The guards that came after us?"
"All fled, when the fire started falling. Some of them were injured", he gestured behind them, where three men were lying at the side of the road, sheltered as best as could be, their backs against the walls of houses that lined the alley. "I did what I could for them."
Aragorn nodded. "Help me up." He raised his hand and Elladan hauled him to his feet with a swift move. His head protested the movement, but the ground was reassuringly steady. No vertigo. Good.
Looking down the road towards the docks he saw that much of the harbour was on fire. Boats were burning, still moored to the quay, and many of the wooden storehouses were trailing smoke into the heavens. There was wild activity. People were trying to douse the fires, throwing bucket after bucket of harbour water at flaming walls and boats, everyone trying to save what was most precious to himself. He fervently hoped that the whorehouse where they had left Egrahil had been spared.
"We need to rally the city guards, attempt a coordinated counterattack."
Elladan looked at him doubtfully. "The guards were the ones to attack us," he reminded his brother.
"I doubt they knew why." Aragorn replied tentatively, hoping he was right. "They will listen to us - if only to save their city."
His older brother still looked doubtful, but Aragorn knew that he was right. He knew the men of Gondor, even if led astray by the lure of coin, in their hearts they were loyal to their country, their city.
Beyond that, it was the only way, their only choice. He and Elladan had come here to save the city and he would at the very least attempt to do so.
-o0o-
White banners flew in the afternoon sun. The battle was won. Victory was his!
Denethor looked down along the streets of West Osgiliath, all teeming with his men, raising their swords and banners in celebration. Most were still waiting to be transferred to the other side of the Anduin on the barges they had brought, but even there, on the Eastern shore, shouts of triumph went up and the banner of the stewards flew high and proud.
According to the reports, his men had met little resistance and had quickly and effectively dispatched the orc squatters and sluggers that had been left to guard the city. It had been exactly as he had foreseen.
The fight had been longer than it had been bloody, at least on Gondor's side. His men had taken no prisoners, had instead delighted in cleansing the streets and the homes of their forefathers, of Gondor, from the filth of Mordor. The streets still ran black in places with dark orc blood.
It was all the same to him. In time, the glory of Osgiliath might be restored, but until then his own glory would shine the brighter. Osgiliath might have been a jewel once, now it was but a pawn. A pawn that would gain him the power he deserved - and Gondor the defense it needed.
Mordor's shadow was ever spreading. Its bastions and strongholds were ever watchful. But he would not bend, would not bow to the might of Sauron. With him, Gondor would withstand any assault, any test.
He had come to accept that this would be his fate, his challenge: Mordor would attack in his lifetime. But he had sparred with Sauron himself and withstood his onslaught. And just as his mind was mightier than that of his enemy, so would Gondor prevail if he led it.
No one but him would be able to bear this burden, but he took it willingly, proudly. For Gondor he would never falter, never hesitate - never compromise.
If only his father could see the depth of his conviction and the power of his mind instead of indulging Throrongil and the Grey Pilgrim. Swindlers and drifters, both of them! Without a home to call their own, they came and went as they pleased, ingratiating themselves with those that would rely upon their strength, only to abandon them at the hour of need.
Oh no, Throrongil would not stand against Mordor. If he would have seen what Denethor had, he would have quivered and fled. The northern mongrel could not possibly stand against Sauron, and he could not be allowed to try and fail!
He loosened his grip on the crumbling stone railing in front of him, only now noticing his rage. Denethor forced himself to breathe deeply to calm his rampant emotions. He need not worry - Throrongil would be dealt with. The guards in Pelargir had been informed of their duties, and though some of them might hesitate, he had made sure there were enough men capable to do what was needed. And once his messenger arrived, the doubters, too, would join his cause.
"My lord!" Denethor was interrupted by an aide at his side, who had come to confirm what he had already seen from his watch point on the tower. "The city is ours."
He nodded, letting his gaze wander once more over the ruined city. Once it had been a marvel, the ruins of its formerly bright and high buildings now but skeletal reminders of the past. The great bridge was broken, only its mighty footings remained, the Hall of Stars was gone entirely. But Gondor had no need for a palace for kings that would never return. And while the throne room might have been lost, the foundations of the bridge had endured - a fitting metaphor: the true strength of Gondor lay in the endurance of its people, its stewards not its kings.
"Send a messenger to my father and have him send stonemasons and builders. We will rebuild the bridge." He turned to his lieutenant, "Split the company as planned, one third should be enough to hold the city. The rangers may return to Ithilien and hunt for any orcs that escaped the city. The rest will leave in an hour for Minas Tirith." He turned back again to the plaza overlooked by the tower he stood on and raised his sword.
"We return victorious!" he shouted and his shout was taken up by the men below, cheering their victory, cheering the man who had led them to it - the heir of their steward!
Osgiliath was reclaimed. Throrongil would be dealt with. And another pawn awaited his return in the dungeons. He knew not yet which purpose the elf would serve him, but one way or the other, he would be useful.
Yes, he allowed himself a smile; Victory was his!
-o0o-
Elrohir awoke to darkness.
Darkness and a sharp pain in his side. Instinctively, he curled around the injury, burying his side and face against the cold stone of the floor beneath, futilely tugging at the bonds that bound his hands behind his back. The rope did not give and he struggled to move his bound hands in front of him, to give him the leeway to press down on the wound in his side to stop the flow of blood.
He hissed at the sharp pain the action brought but knew that he could not relent. The wound was still bleeding sluggishly, spending his lifeblood with each beat of his heart.
He did not know how long he had been unconscious, but his side and the floor were soaked in blood, suggesting that it had been longer than he could afford. Forcing his frantic thoughts into a semblance of order, he fought himself into a sitting position, keeping pressure on the wound as good as he could. The darkness was still absolute and he groped around carefully, scooting backwards until he hit the wall and allowed himself to all but collapse against it.
He was growing lightheaded already. Even this little exertion had left bright stars dancing across his vision, and he forced himself to breathe deeply, to calm his racing heart. He could not afford to lose consciousness again.
His healer's instincts were screaming at him to tend to the wound immediately, but Elrohir struggled to even lift his hand. The wound itself was not life-threatening, but the blood loss very well would be if he could not put an end to it. Elrohir leant his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. In the darkness it didn't make much difference, but he found that it calmed him, centered him as he searched for his awareness of his twin.
And found it. Elladan was a calm and steady presence at the back of his mind, and despite the distance and the stonewalls that lay between them, the connection gave him new strength. A beacon of light in the darkness of his cell.
He opened his eyes and set to work. With his teeth and bound hands he managed to tear a strip of fabric from the hem of his shirt. The work was not quick and it was painful, but eventually he managed to tie a makeshift bandage around his wound. Panting, he leant back against the wall again, and closed his eyes against the raging pain and his overbearing weariness. He allowed himself to doze off, knowing that he would have lacked the strength to fight the call of sleep regardless.
-o0o-
Luck, it seems, was finally on their side. Elladan and he had made their way back towards the city gates. From there they would be able to retrace their steps towards the guard house that they had never entered the night before. They reached the archway to the sounds of approaching hoof falls, as a group of riders rushed through the unmanned gates. Pelargir's soldiers must have rushed to the harbour or guard stations when the corsairs attacked, leaving their posts.
"Captain!" The voice was music to Aragorn's ears, an unexpected gift from the Valar.
"Anwion," he greeted his lieutenant. He and his men must have left the waystation early, before sunrise, to arrive at Pelargir already, and Aragorn thanked the One for the fortuity of their choice.
"What happened?" Anwion asked, looking at the bandage around Aragon's head with concern. But Aragorn waved his worry aside.
"The city is under attack. We have to rally the guards."
His men asked no further question. Someone brought up spare horses for himself and Elladan and, within mere moments, they set off toward the guard house.
They found it in disarray.
Men were standing outside, frozen in indecision either without orders or still waiting to receive them. More were joining them at a steady rate and the line outside grew. A whole score of soldiers and guards stood in indecision while they were desperately needed elsewhere.
From inside the guard house shouts and discussions carried onto the road. Pelargir's guards were meant to protect the gates and secure the streets. A true naval assault had not happened in over a century, and the walls, rebuilt and strengthened by Ecthelion himself, had lulled them into a false sense of security. They were outmatched now, and unprepared, dangerously so.
Someone had to take charge.
Without waiting for permission, Aragorn dismounted and shoved his way past the frozen guards and into the station itself. The inside looked little better than it had sounded.
"Who is in charge here?" His loud question at least garnered a quick response. Men whirled around to look at him, and some, he noted, reached for their weapons.
"Thorongil," he heard his name whispered amongst them. At least they knew who he was.
"Your city is burning," he said, his voice like a whip, "Who is in charge?"
His tone got him the response he needed. As one the men snapped to attention. Gazes turned and one man was singled out. Judging by his rank insignia he was a captain, and by the lost look on his face he was dearly regretting his high rank.
Aragorn did not even ask his permission to take command.
"We have to arrange the men. Assemble groups of twenty and send them to the walls. The southern wall extends to the breakwater - that will be closest to the river. Send men there to fortify it against a ground attack should the corsairs decide to land."
The man nodded, overwhelmed but listening, and Aragorn continued. "I will need archers, and pitch, as much as the harbour master can get me." Send the remaining men to put out the fires before they spread further. There is no time to waste."
The assembled men sprang into action. Like a lifeline, they clung to his commands, grateful that he had restored order, had given them something to do. Forgotten where their questionable allegiances, for just as Aragorn had predicted, they responded to the overbearing need to save their own city.
He got all that he had asked for and more. Lieutenants and captains rushed to take their soldiers to the harbour, the breakwater, the streets. They left to fight fires or corsairs, to protect their city.
His own men Aragorn took to the breakwater, accompanied by one of the city guard lieutenants who found the harbour master and the pitch he had required for him. He also took the city's archers.
Taking up position along the top of the wall, Aragorn looked at his men. "Here is how we will defeat the corsairs."
-o0o-
tbc...
A/N: Ah, sweet sweet angst. I mean, "don't split up" is the first rule in all horror movies for a reason, right? Can't blame the author for taking advantage of bad choices ... :D . Anyway, I do hope you are still enjoying the story, a word of encouragement would mean the world to me! And special thanks to MistressofImladris for leaving a review on the last chapter!
"Denethor became more grim and silent than before, and would sit long alone in his tower deep in thought, foreseeing that the assault of Mordor would come in his time."
-The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion: The Stewards