Elladan stared at the corsair ships. Their dark sails that had allowed them to sail up the river unnoticed at night were drawn. They were still raining fire and death upon Pelargir.
The ships' primary target had shifted, and where their first volleys had landed on the quay and in the nearby streets, they now concentrated on the boats that lay at anchor. Corsairs had boarded a good many of the vessels, plundering whatever they could from the storerooms of the ships, then setting sails and planks alight, while the ships fired at the harbour to keep possible defenders at bay.
Pelargir was a rich city, and trade was good. Elladan did not doubt that the corsairs would be richly rewarded for their daring attack - if they managed to escape.
He held the bow he had been given tighter, waiting for the agreed upon signal from Aragorn. Behind him, the ten archers Aragorn had been given by the city guard's captain looked at him anxiously. He was aware of their nervousness around him. Doubtlessly none of them had ever seen an elf before, most of them might not even have believed that his kind still remained in Middle Earth.
But he had no time for their pondering, no time to entertain their fears and superstitions and coddle them; and so he ignored the men. Aragorn probably would have inspired them to do their best, he might have spoken to their hearts and thus gained allies of unquestionable loyalty. Elladan had seen him do it before. His littlest brother had a gift for guiding the hearts of men, for understanding their needs and desires, for making them better versions of themselves. He was a gifted leader, a valiant captain, a true king.
The thought was almost enough to make him smile, if it had not reminded him so sharply of Elrohir. His twin had always shown unwavering faith in Aragorn's destiny and his future; he would have relished seeing Aragorn work his magic on the men of Pelargir. All Elladan felt in turn was a painful, overwhelming worry for his twin. Not knowing what had befallen Elrohir was bad enough, but being trapped in this city, over a hundred miles from where he felt he was needed, was unbearable.
He should never have let Elrohir continue their mission in Minas Tirith. He should have known something would happen.
The worry continued to gnaw at his heart, even as his sharp elven eyes were trained on his human brother. Aragorn was guiding his men along the wall's outer edge, trudging through the rough terrain and then shallow water, carrying small boats and a basket filled with bottles.
Elladan had to admit that his little brother's plan was ingenious, and he felt a glow of pride for the resourcefulness of the man he had cared for since he was little more than a babe in his mother's arms. Settling their boats into the shallow water, Aragorn and his men climbed aboard and handed the bottles around. In the bright sun of mid-day, they would be easy to spot, so their only advantage lay in stealth and speed. They would need the element of surprise.
The bottles were filled with a thick dark substance - the pitch Aragorn had requested. Plentiful in a harbor, where the need to waterproof ships and sails was always present, it was also easily set alight. Aragorn had realized the strategic advantage they had quickly, had probably formulated the plan even as he and Elladan had made their way towards the guard captain's station.
"Ready yourselves," he commanded the archers behind him, then lifted his own bow. A small fire burned next to him and he used it now to light the pitch-wrapped linen around the tip of his arrow. At the same time as Aragorn threw a bottle of pitch at the first of the corsair ships, he let fly.
The bottle splintered on the deck of the ship and Elladan's arrow struck true, right into the thick substance now pooling on deck. The flaming tip ignited the pitch instantly, and a high flame shot upward. Another bottle followed, exploding close enough to the first that the fire spread further. Already it was licking at the masts, growing in anger as it was unleashed. Elladan notched another arrow.
Below, the second boat with Aragorn's men had passed into the very middle of the corsair ships. While Aragorn had drawn their attention with the first attack, the second boat was close enough now to attack the remaining five ships. Bottles rained upon the boats, some splashed back into the water harmlessly, while others did not break apart on impact, but enough of them found their mark on the wooden boards of the ships. And Elladan and the city's archers were effective. The others might not have had his eyesight, but they did have experience, and even when their arrows missed the puddles of pitch, the boats were still made from wood, and sail, especially, was quick to burst aflame when hit.
Out on the water, the beat of the corsair drums was changing, the rhythmic pulsing of the attack signal was replaced by frantic beats, signaling, Elladan guessed, retreat.
He smiled grimly as below in the harbour, the corsair ships were turning. Raising sails that were partly aflame they tried to take up speed while burning arrows continued to fall among them. Another one of Elladan's arrows caught the sail of their lead ship and flames licked at the dark cloth, setting it ablaze in moments. The ships left Pelargir's harbour like beaten, burning dogs.
But there would be no pursuit. The city's own fleet had taken too heavy a hit and the harbor was blocked with damaged and burning ships.
What was more, the corsairs would return. Even as some of the pirates jumped from ships they had plundered to dive and swim for their own retreating fleet, Elladan knew that the corsairs would not give up so tasty a treat as the rich harbor cities in Southern Gondor. If their might extended this far then this was only the beginning. The attack on Pelargir was nothing more than a sign of just how boastful Gondor's enemies had become.
Elladan returned to gazing at the waters, following from above the course of his brother's ship as Aragorn returned to shore. He was surrounded by his own men now, but once back on land the city guard would join him and Elladan was not as quick to trust and forget as his brother seemed to be. He could still feel the gnawing ache of Elrohir's injury and if anything it increased his determination to see his second brother protected. He would not risk both of them.
Aragorn reached land and in spite of Elladan's fears, the city guards waiting there broke out in cheers. Shouts of "Thorongil, savior of Pelargir" went up, and Elladan had to admit that, perhaps, the men were no threat. Perhaps Aragorn had been right.
He dismissed his city guard archers regardless and hurried down the city wall alone to join his brother. He was just in time for a messenger from the lord of the city to arrive.
"Hail Thorongil, Eagle of the Star, savior of Pelargir! Lord Cundamir of Pelargir bids you join him in the city hall."
Clearly word travelled fast.
Aragorn looked exhausted, but when their eyes met over the gathering crowd, Aragorn gave a barely perceptible nod, a reassurance that all was well before he answered the messenger: "Lead the way."
Elladan joined Aragorn's side and cheering soldiers fell in behind them, as they made their way across the city, towards the city hall.
-o0o-
Elrohir startled awake. For a brief moment his mind reeled at the complete darkness that engulfed him, that seemed to choke him, but then his mind caught up, providing at last the memory of his capture and his injury.
What had awoken him? His senses were still slow, muddled.
But the sound came again: a heavy footfall, muffled by thick wood. The sound of someone making their way down the steps. A key was turned in the lock of the heavy cell door and Elrohir struggled to his feet. He would not show his captors weakness! His wound protested the movement, screaming at him for his ridiculous pride, but he grit his teeth and ignored his discomfort and managed to stand.
In the next moment, the yellow light of a lantern fell into the small dungeon. The light was bright after the complete darkness and Elrohir raised his hands to ward off the glare, taking a step back instinctively. His back hit the stone wall behind him and the cold set off a violent shudder. A sign of the blood loss he had suffered, his healer's training supplied. He was already feeling the cold more than his elven body should allow.
Despite the pain in his side he struggled to his full height, waiting for whoever was entering the small dungeon.
It was Balsarion.
The man held the lantern over the ground, as if searching for something. "Well, look at that," he noted almost distractedly, "so you do bleed just like the rest of us." He made a small sound of satisfaction before he raised the small light again, stepping closer.
"It's your lucky day," Balsarion continued conversationally. "The city is celebrating the victory at Osgiliath." He dropped something at Elrohir's feet, a wine skin. "Of course," Balsarion continued jovially, "I guess considering what happened in Pelargir, you might be in mourning."
Balsarion gazed at him like a hawk and Elrohir knew that he was being baited, knew that his captor was waiting for a flicker of emotion, wanted him to suffer. He did not give him the satisfaction. Strengthened by his instinctive knowledge that Elladan was alive, that Balsarion was lying, he kept his face carefully neutral. A bigger concern than Balsarion's words was his waning strength. Already he felt lightheaded, the mere act of standing upright sapping his rapidly dwindling energy.
"Nothing? I guess you elves just don't care for family. Or is it just your brother that means nothing to you?" He came closer, uncomfortably close, almost whispering the soft venomous words. He reached out for Elrohir's face, "So little compassion when you look so similar."
Elrohir slapped his hand away before he could touch him, but Balsarion turned his hand in midair and backhanded him sharply in return. The force of the blow was almost enough to send him to his knees, and Elrohir grabbed onto the wall behind him, desperately searching for a hold, some form of support.
The captain laughed. "Well at least there's still some fight in you. I guess that's more than can be said for your brother." He turned, lamp still in hand, back towards the door.
"My brother lives." Elrohir called after him defiantly, though his voice did not come out as strong as he had hoped. By the Valar, he chastised himself, he knew that Elladan was alive, knew it in a way that did not need confirmation from anyone. Balsarion's words should have no effect. He should have kept silent.
"Yes," Balsarion agreed happily, as if that had never been up for debate, "but for how long?"
He stepped through the door, a lightness to his steps that suggested he was more than happy with the encounter. He took the light with him, leaving Elrohir in darkness once more.
Alone and unobserved, Elrohir leant back heavily against the wall, letting it support him as he slid down the cold, rough stone to sit on the ground once more. Another shiver racked him, but he paid little attention to his own discomfort now.
Almost desperately he searched his mind for the bond he shared with Elladan, the exhaustion and his inner turmoil made it harder than it should have been to find, yet it was there. A steady warmth, reassuring and unwavering. Elladan was alive and unharmed. Just as he had known he would be.
Resting his head back against the reassuringly solid stone behind him, Elrohir softly cursed himself and his impetuousness. He should have been able to deal with this situation so much better, should not have so easily given his captor exactly what he had wanted. And yet, even knowing that Balsarion was just toying with him, he could not stop the seed of doubt from taking root. Elladan was alive, but what if he was captured? Would Elrohir even know?
Elrohir licked chapped lips, noticing again just how parched he was. It was a consequence of the blood loss he knew, his body lacked the water necessary to compensate, so it saved where it could. His palms were dry, too, his lips already splitting. Gingerly he moved his feet out in front of him, searching until they bumped into something soft and squishy – the wine skin.
He raised it to his lips, grimacing at the bitter taste of the cheap, watered down wine. But beggars - and prisoners - could not be choosers and he drank deeply.
-o0o-
Minas Tirith was celebrating. Even from afar the city sparkled like a jewel in the evening sun, the white banners of the stewards flying from every tower and rooftop. Silver trumpets sounded to welcome him and his men home.
He spurred his white horse forward, riding ahead of the charge, in plain view of all the men and women of Minas Tirith who would have gathered to see his return. His triumph.
He rode up through the first gate and the next, climbing the winding street of Minas Tirith to the very top, the citadel.
His father was waiting for him in front of the fountain. The water played like music upon the stones, lending its own voice to his glorious celebration. And beside his father, Finduilas was holding Boromir back from running forward into his arms. She released the boy as soon as Denethor dismounted and he delighted in lifting the boy up and into his arms.
His son would be a great leader of men himself one day, and it was just as well that he shared his father's moment of triumph.
"Father", he inclined his head to Ecthelion, who stepped forward to embrace him.
"Well done, Denethor!" The steward turned around and announced to the other men, women and soldiers assembled in the courtyard. "Denethor has brought Gondor a grand victory! Osgiliath is reclaimed!"
Cheers went up and Denethor took them in, enjoying the boundless admiration that was showered upon him. There was no Thorongil now to steal his glory. Long enough had he been in that man's shadow, but no more! Never again.
"Tonight, we feast!" His father declared to the sound of more cheering and released Denethor.
Finduilas rushed forward to embrace him next. "Oh Denethor," his beautiful wife said. "I thank the Valar that they have returned you unscathed."
He handed Boromir back to her and gave her a swift kiss. "Thank them rather for my victory, Finduilas, I have restored the pride of Gondor today."
Her beautiful face was carefully blank, her expression unreadable, but he did not let that deter him now. Already he was turning back to the attendant noblemen, his father's sycophants. "Excuse me, but I must shower. I shall see you at the feast - tonight we celebrate!"
The assembled nobles cheered predictably. Oh, but it was easy to play their favour as long as he brought glory to Gondor. Mewling sycophants that they were, they adored him. And they would support him in his role as steward upon his father's death. Already Ecthelion was nearing the end of his reign, and Denethor had carefully planned his succession, had been gathering his strength, building his network of supporters for a long time. He was ready.
They thought his father wise and strong, had praised his foresight in rebuilding and strengthening Gondor's defenses.
Denethor would show them real strength, true wisdom.
His rule would be unblemished, unquestioned, and remembered eternally. Mordor might grow in strength but Gondor would far eclipse it. Barad-dûr would hold no sway against the power of the White Tower of Minas Tirith once it would be under Denethor's rule.
He hurried past the assembled men and into the palace itself. Balsarion, who had been waiting for him on the top of the stairs, bowed low. They were alone – his captain must have had the corridor carefully emptied of servants and guards. Good.
"The elf?" Denethor asked, sparing no time for pleasantries.
"Prepared."
-o0o-
The streets further from the harbor showed none of the damage of the corsair attack, but injured inhabitants of the city were plentiful in the streets and alleys, seeking shelter. They crowded the alleyways, resting in doorways or anywhere that might provide shade as they waited to be seen by a healer or to hear word of their loved ones.
It was a sobering sight after the cheers that had proclaimed their victory at the harbour, and yet, things could have been so much worse. Aragorn continued on, following the messenger who cleared a path for them through the gathering crowd. The lean men exuded a smug confidence that only those of noble birth could imbue, ignoring those less fortunate to focus only on his own mission, his self-import.
Finally, the city hall came into view. It was a grand building by Pelargir's standards, easily three times the size of the brothel at the harbor, which could have fit into the large reception hall at its base alone.
The lord of the city, Lord Cundamir welcomed them. "Thorongil, Captain of the citadel of Minas Tirith. Proficient were the Valar that sent you to our aid. You have my thanks." Addressing both him, and the curious people of Pelargir that had assembled outside the city hall, he continued: "Tomorrow we rebuild, but tonight we celebrate the Eagle of the Star who rushed from the heavens at our time of need."
Cheers went up, but Aragorn sighed. He drew a weary hand through his hair, both in an attempt to hide his discomfort as well as to hedge for time. What should he say? How would he decline? He had no time for politics. Some of his men were injured, Egrahil would still need to be collected from the brothel and he and Elladan had to return to Minas Tirith with haste. All good reasons to tell Lord Cundamir exactly what he thought of this public display of triumph. Yet, he was also aware that he needed the Lord of Pelargir's goodwill, and that all of them, especially he and Elladan were in dire need of rest. Lord Cundamir was likely to provide everything he asked for, if he managed to handle him with tact.
He raised his hands to ward off the kindly offer without rebuke and spoke apologetically. "Forgive me, my lord, but we cannot impose upon your hospitality. The great men of Pelargir fought hard for their city and they should be rewarded for it, not me. All I would ask is a place to rest for my weary men, and a set of fresh horses so we may be on our way to Minas Tirith before sunrise tomorrow."
The city lord's face fell. "You will not stay? What of the corsairs, what if they return?"
"A good point", Aragorn held out a hand and steered the man back inside the city hall. His brother and men followed behind, as he ruthlessly took control of the situation. His brothers and Halbarad had often told him that he had a gift for leading men, but he was not sure that it was so. He wondered, if not rather men were looking to be led, looking for the chance to put down the mantle of responsibility. It was a dark thought, for with the strength of Sauron waxing, would men have the fortitude to stand in his way? Proudly? Defiantly? Or would they rather succumb to the call of darkness and the simplicity of accepting his rule.
He took the chance now to implore the Lord of Pelargir to prepare for further attacks and to petition Ecthelion in Minas Tirith for support, to ask that Gondor strike against Umbar. He found a willing ear.
His men were shown to rooms where they could wash and rest, and he send Anwion to retrieve Egrahil, with his thanks and the promised pay to the … ladies that had cared for him. Only once his men were seen to, did he allow the personal healers of Lord Cundamir to see to his own injury. His head still ached, but the pain was bearable and he refused the concoction they offered him to dull the pain. There was too much still left to do.
By the time the healers released him, Anwion had returned with Egrahil. His lieutenant was far from fit to ride back to Minas Tirith, but he had awoken and made his way back to the city hall under his own strength. What was more, he had complained about the indignity of his hiding place - repeatedly. Aragorn took it as a good sign and with good humor.
Finally, after refreshing himself, he crossed the house towards the room Elladan had been given. Not surprisingly, he found his brother pacing, restless now that the fighting was over and he was confronted with his own thoughts and fears.
"We must leave now," his brother said without preamble. "We cannot delay." His worry for Elrohir was palpable, a dark sense of dread that seemed to fill the room like a suffocating smoke.
"How is he?" Aragorn asked.
Elladan threw up his hands in disgust. "Unchanged," he spat, frustration coloring his words. He probably guessed what Aragorn would say next. What he had to say.
For even though his concern for Elrohir was no less than that of Elladan he also knew that he needed to point out the obvious. Elladan would move the heavens to save his twin, but he was likely to forget his own limits in the attempt - he clearly already had.
Choosing his words carefully, Aragorn began. "Neither of us has slept these last two days. We will not reach Minas Tirith today even if we were to leave now." Taking his brother's silence as a good sign he dared to push further. "And once we arrived we would not have the strength to free Elrohir from whatever danger he has uncovered. Let us trust to hope that he will hold on until we can get to him - rested and with the strength necessary to do whatever we must to save him."
"Hope?" Elladan demanded, grabbing Aragorn by the shoulders. "You would have me trust to hope, when I know my brother, my twin, is injured and alone? Abandoned in a city whose evil permeates the very air?"
Aragorn remained calm, waiting for his eldest brother to regain his composure. Elladan usually kept a much tighter control on his emotions, a consequence of the centuries in which he and his twin had let the grief for their mother turn to anger and hate. Centuries in which they had let dark emotions guide their actions and their weapons as they hunted relentlessly for orcs and other vile creatures, bringing death and destruction to the scions of Morgoth that had taken and abused their mother.
Elladan's anger, once unleashed, tended to be terrible to behold, but short lived. And just as he had expected, the fight left Elladan with a shudder, replaced instead with a deep despair. As his brother's hands went slack on Aragorn's shoulder, he lifted his own to rest them atop Elladan's.
"Yes," he answered the angry question patiently. "And if you cannot trust to hope then trust in Elrohir. He will wait for you to come for him. You know this."
He was not entirely sure who he was trying to convince, for his own heart was in turmoil as well, overwhelmed with worry for the younger twin. He knew how hard it must be for Elladan, how unbearable. Yet their situation could not be changed; a hundred and forty miles lay between them and Minas Tirith, between them and Elrohir.
Elladan sank heavily onto the bed in the room. "I will find no rest even if we stay," he said. "The shadow is growing. The visions are intensifying."
"The visions? Of Celebrian?"
Elladan shook his head, forlorn. "Not her after all. It was Elrohir all along… I should never have left… I should…" he drifted off into silence. Now that he had accepted that they would not leave at once it seemed all energy had left him. Seeing Elladan so void of fight and hope filled Aragorn with a dread far more potent than his brother's anger ever could.
He prayed to the One that he was making the right choice, though he knew that there was no alternative. Still, Elladan's palpable despair was difficult to behold. Aragorn reached for a goblet of wine from the small shelf next to the bed and the valerian root from his own pouch of healing supplies.
"Then drink this. It will guarantee a dreamless sleep and I will wake you 'ere the sun rises tomorrow."
His fear only spiked when Elladan accepted the glass without argument.
-o0o-
tbc...
A/N: And thus we have two cities saved and two very different celebrations and in the midst of it all, one very unlucky peredhel twin. I would love to hear what you thought of this chapter and would like to express my deepest thanks to the people who have taken the time to review the last chapter! Your words left me humbled and more motivated than ever to continue this story. A shout out to MistressOfImladris, the Cinderninja and Pyo-Kiyo - thank you for your continued support! And many thanks to the guests that left reviews - I cannot reply to you directly but thank you so much!