Chapter 10

The room was spinning.

Despite the darkness that still surrounded him he could see the ground heave, lurch, tumble. He closed his eyes against the sickening sensation but the vertigo did not abate.

When he opened his eyes again, he was not alone.

There were eyes everywhere, hidden in the darkness but there nonetheless, mustering him, leering at him. Yrch!

Elrohir sucked in a sharp breath. He could not see the creatures, not truly, but he could feel their malicious presence, could hear their whispers, their slavering. And they were not the only thing he heard. As if from far away he heard screams, hauntingly familiar. A memory turned nightmare that would never leave him. It had found him once more.

He buried his face in his still bound hands, trying as best as he might to block his ears, heedless of the pain that pulling on his injury caused. Anything to escape the hateful sound. A small part of him told him that what he felt, heard and saw could not be real and he tried to cling to that counsel. He tried to remind himself of the softly spoken reassurances his father or Elladan would offer when he had awoken from the nightmares that had haunted him for centuries after their mother had sailed.

But he was fighting a losing battle.

Already his concentration was slipping. The ground gave a mighty lurch and it was all Elrohir could do not to be violently sick. Clamping his eyes shut and keeping his ears covered, Elrohir did not even notice the door to his dark cell opening. It was only when the bright light of a single lantern burned through his closed eyelids that he realized he had company.

"Up!" Balsarion kicked his foot, to emphasize his command.

Ironically, the captain's voice gave Elrohir a welcome tether to reality. The invisible eyes seemed to recede back into the shadows, scared off by the rough command, and, blessedly, his mother's screams faded. He felt like laughing at the irony of his captor saving him from unseen monsters.

On second thought, maybe he had. A look of discomfort flitted over the second man's face that had entered together with Balsarion ... Denethor, Elrohir's befuddled mind supplied eventually. It was hard to be entirely certain, his eyes had difficulty focusing in the dark.

"What did you give him?" Denethor asked his companion, a silent question but he might have as well shouted for the way the sound cut through the stillness and let pain erupt between his temples.

"Henbane."

Henbane! The small rational part of his mind that Elrohir was so desperately clinging to, seized the offered information like a lifeline.

They had drugged the wine! Drugged him, with henbane, the stinking nightshade. No wonder that the ground seemed to be moving under his feet, that he was seeing things that were not there. The toxic plant caused hallucinations, dilated pupils and vertigo. At high doses, it could paralyze the lungs, causing death by suffocation.

That particular information did not serve to make him feel better, but he clung to it regardless. He recounted every bit of information he could remember on the drug's effects, its uses, the prognosis of intoxication - anything to anchor his straying mind to the here and now.

The touch of the solid stone wall behind him helped as well, and he eventually succeeded in dragging his body up and into a standing position. Sweat beaded his brow but he could not have said if that was from the henbane or the struggle of getting up. His injured body was so desperately weak.

Elrohir tried to fix his eyes on Denethor, tried to imbue his glare with all the condemnation his father could muster so effortlessly on occasion. But his vision remained blurry and he doubted he had as much effect as he hoped.

"And that?" Denethor gestured vaguely in his direction, at his side.

"He was injured when we captured him." Even to Elrohir's drugged ears Balsarion sounded surprisingly defensive, and Denethor harrumphed doubtfully. But he said nothing else.

Instead, the steward's son suddenly stepped forward. He came so close, Elrohir had to fight the urge to step back, to try and melt into the wall behind him. Denethor's face was right in front of his own when the steward's son hissed: "What were you doing in my city?"

Snatching at a barely remembered conversation, Elrohir replied. "Striking down those… who harbour foul thoughts." He had to stop to breathe deeply, forcing air into his lungs against uncooperative muscles. Just how much henbane had they given him?

His head was jerked sharply to the side as Denethor backhanded him hard. He should have seen it coming, yet the blow took him by surprise. Denethor was not much of a man for witty replies. Over the ringing in his ears he thought he could hear Elladan chastising him for not knowing when to stay silent. But the image of his twin soon bled into the darkness behind Denethor's shoulder, leaving a strange emptiness in its wake.

"Why were you in the tower?" Denethor persisted, and Elrohir dragged his head back to look at the man but remained stoically silent. He could see the anger on Denethor's face and found he did not care. In the face of the darkness in Minas Tirith, Denethor's angered pride was inconsequential. In fact, very little seemed to matter.

His eyes drifted back towards the shadows in the corners of his cell. Beyond the light of the too bright lantern he could not truly see anything, but he knew the eyes were lurking there. Orcs, in numbers uncounted, just waiting for the light to be removed, for him to be alone again. They would come for him then. He swallowed thickly.

The next slap was almost welcome as it snapped him back to reality once more.

"Why did you attack my men?"

Still Elrohir remained silent and Denethor sighed in annoyance, before shoving him back into the stone wall.

"This will not do," he told Balsarion. "You gave him too much of the henbane. Watch him until the effects wear off - and have his wound seen to as well." He added as an afterthought. "I would rather he still be alive tomorrow."

He turned back to Elrohir, "Tomorrow, I will have had word from Pelargir, word of Thorongil's demise. And I will tell you exactly what happened to your brother – every. detail." He seemed to savour the thought letting silence descend before he continued in a low voice, "Because the message you were so desperate to stop? It has long since been delivered, sealing his fate. You failed."

Defiance blossomed in Elrohir's chest, and he mustered his waning strength to look squarely back at Denethor. "You do not know the strength of my brothers. They will come for you."

His words seemed to have little effect on his captors. Already, Denethor and Balsarion were turning to leave, dismissing him with barely a second thought. He should have tried to escape, should have used their apparent disregard and fled, but all he did was sink back to the ground, his strength utterly spent. The darkness seemed to reach out to him, all-encompassing, absolute, irresistible. His last thoughts before he sank into the waiting embrace of dark oblivion once more was the hope that he had been right about his brothers.

They had to be alive!

-o0o-

The wine was stale. Denethor put the glass aside with a look of distaste and reached for the decanter. Had his father been saving on the wine on his day of glory? It would be just like him, still secretly preferring Thorongil over him, never mind the great achievements his own son had performed.

He snorted and Finduilas turned to him questioningly. But she, too, would rather see Thorongil succeed than himself, Denethor knew. How was it that despite his great victory, he could not enjoy himself? He filled a second glass with fresh wine and emptied it in one gulp before refilling it again. He was drawing stares, he knew, but he did not mind.

"To Gondor!" He raised his glass, practically forcing the sycophantic lords of Gondor to copy him and emptied that glass, too.

"Denethor," Finduilas hand was warm on his arm and her voice held only concern, but he shook her off and stood.

"Forgive me my lords, but I am weary from fight and travel." He raised his now empty glass and summoned some of his usual charm with effort. "Luckily the feast will continue for another two days!"

His own laughter sounded strained to his ears, but the assembled noblemen did either not notice or did not care. They joined him heartily, raising their glasses in his honour even as he left the feast hall behind.

It was that accursed elf, he decided. So sure that his brother was still alive. Despite his state, his voice had not wavered, his conviction not faltered - and his lack of doubt had in turn stoked Denethor's own.

What if the other son of Elrond was still alive? What of Thorongil?

He needed to know that his plan had succeeded; he could not hope to enjoy his military success if he had not also rid himself of Thorongil.

And there was another thing that kept him occupied, kept his thoughts from jubilation. A puzzle of sorts. The words of the elf: 'the strength of my brothers… They will come for you.' But the lord of Rivendell only had two sons as far as Gondor's records showed and his own teachers had taught. The twin sons of Elrond, practically identical and otherwise not particularly interesting. Or at least they had not been until one of them had infiltrated his city in secret.

For what purpose?

Denethor was increasingly sure that the sons of Elrond had come for him. He was aware that he had awakened ancient powers that no steward before him had dared to touch, that even the last of the kings had forsaken after the fall of Minas Ithil. Yet he had mastered those powers, had stood toe to toe with Sauron and wrestled command of the seeing stone from him. It responded to his will alone.

Did Elrond want to take what was rightfully Gondor's? Rightfully his? The elven lord already hoarded the heirlooms of the fallen North kingdom, had he sent his sons to claim those of the South?

Tomorrow, he decided, he would have answers from the elf, no matter the cost. Everybody had a breaking point, and Balsarion seemed rather keen to find that of elves.

Denethor cared little for his captain's methods as long as he would get results, get answers to his questions. In the end, the elf had come to his city unannounced, uninvited and with ill intent. There would be no political ramifications if he failed to return from a city he had never officially entered. Middle Earth was a dangerous place, even for the son of an elven lord.

He turned his thoughts away from the troubling elf and focused instead on what really drove him. He needed an answer about Thorongil's fate, tonight. He needed confirmation.

His hurried steps had brought him back to the top of the tower, and making sure he was alone, he closed the door and moved the book case. He climbed the steep ladder that led him to the hidden chamber at the very top of the tower, windowless and empty save for a pedestal in its center. A heavy satin cloth covered the Palantir that rested there.

Denethor removed the cloth with a hasty sweep, barely controlling now his need to know, to see. The stone seemed to call to him, begging him to make use of it. He placed his hand on the round stone and summoned the power of the relic.

It responded immediately.

'Denethor' the sound was dark but soft, a whisper that caressed him as the Palantir recognized its one true master. When first he had taken to using the seeing stone he had felt the evil intent lurking within, had known then that the lore masters had been correct, that the stone was linked to its counterpart in Minas Morgul.

The assault on his mind had been instantaneous and nigh unbearable, but he had withstood it. He had closed his mind to the threats, the whispers, the promises of Sauron and bent the palantir to his will. The struggle had been long and fierce but he had prevailed, had conquered Sauron and gained an invaluable source of intelligence. A power beyond reckoning. He had made the Palantir show him exactly what he had wanted to see, the strength of the amassing troops in Mordor - the weaknesses.

Denethor had realized what generations of stewards, his father included, had been too cowardly to even contemplate: the palantir was a weapon. A weapon of unequaled might, one that granted knowledge.

And he alone was its master.

No longer did he have to fight the stone. It seemed to read him instinctively, knew his needs for knowledge even before he himself could form the request. It had shown him the strength of the orcs, the mighty new breeds that were being created even now and the strongholds in the Mountains of Shadow, unconquerable, untouchable.

Mordors strength was ever growing.

Sauron's attack on Gondor would come, and Gondor would need Denethor if it was to have any chance of survival. And with the palantir at his command he could defend his country, his people!

Already, his use of the stone had revealed to him the weaknesses in Mordor's defense. Sauron's need to strengthen the south had left Osgiliath exposed. Denthor's victory there was built entirely on his fearless use of the palantir.

And the stone showed him so much more, the weaknesses of all his enemies. It had shown him Thorongil, dallying with the elves, seeking their counsel rather than that of the wise men of Gondor. Thorongil, so obsessed with the threat of Umbar that it had been childsplay to set a trap that would appeal to his 'noble calling'.

Denethor let the thought pass and focused his mind entirely upon the seeing stone. The palantir would see him through his uncertainty now.

He commanded the stone and the image of Pelargir came alive. It formed in his mind, clear and crisp. He recognized the harbor and the glorious town hall from his last visit. But the city was on fire. Dismayed Denethor looked closer, saw harbor buildings destroyed, men and women fighting against smoldering flames as dark black smoke curled towards the heavens.

His seeking gaze came upon the ships on the Anduin then. Black sails, some of them trailing smoke and fire were sailing downstream, more carried by the current then propelled by their burning sails. Corsairs!

Oh but a cruel twist of fate. The very excuse he had given to get Thorongil to Pelargir, to spring a trap miles and miles from Minas Tirith had actually proved true. Corsairs had attacked the city.

But what of Throrongil? Turning the palantir back towards Pelargir, he finally found the man. Talking to the lord of the city. Being showered in gifts and compliments. Impossible! His rage flared with sudden intensity. It could not be! Would he never be rid of that roach?

Denethor grasped the thick veil that had covered the palantir and flung it towards the corner, barely preventing himself from hurling the stone itself.

Thorongil! Valar-forsaken elf-friend! Would that man's luck never run dry?

Minutes passed and Denethor stewed in the flames of his anger, the agony of his failure. He had liberated Osgiliath, but Throrongil had protected Pelargir from a corsair attack. What is more, Thorongil had evidently escaped his trap. He would be smart enough to figure out who had engineered it in the first if Denthor's messenger had reached the city, he would be powerless to go against the newfound hero of the men of Pelargir. His chance had passed.

Denethor needed a new plan and soon, a way to rid himself forever off the nuisance that was Thorongil. Preferably, without having to reveal that he had had a hand in it. As he contemplated new ways, new endeavours, his mind strayed to the elf in his dungeons. Could he be used?

Thorongil had been seen with the other son of Elrond and had volunteered to be his guide. The palantir itself had shown him Thorongil conversing with the son of Elrond in his own quarters when the elf had first arrived in the city. There might be something there, an old acquaintance perhaps, maybe shared history…

But how far would Thorongil's loyalty to the elves extend? How deep ran his betrayal of Gondorian beliefs? Contemplatively, Denethor turned back to the palantir. Its guidance might serve him well also here.

He sent his mind again to Pelargir, across its streets and through the walls of the town hall. The images came fast now, eager, almost as if the palantir itself wanted to reveal Throrongil's secret to him. And there he was, tall and with that insufferable noble bearing not becoming a random wanderer from the North. He was talking to the other son of Elrond – he too had survived, just like his stubborn twin had claimed.

Denethor huffed, almost breaking off the connection, yet the palantir resisted his withdrawal. It brought him closer, wanting him to see, to understand. Thorongil and the elf were close, more so than a chance meeting in Minas Tirith could explain. There was more to the acquaintance.

Almost unbidden the words of his captive came to his mind, not in the voice of the elf but in the dark whisper of the palantir. 'My brothers'

The palantir wanted him to know. And at last he understood.

He let go of the seeing stone. The world reasserted itself and Denethor stood in the dark tower room once more. Slowly, he allowed himself to smile.

-o0o-

The wind tore at Elladan's hair and cloak as he rode across the South Road. They were making good speed. Aragorn and his men had been given some of the finest horses in Pelargir, their own followed behind unburdened, ready for a change later on the road. They would not need to think of rest af delay. And yet, he feared they would be too slow.

Aragorn, true to his words, had awoken him early, long before the sun had crested the horizon and they had left immediately, with few words spoken between them and little thanks offered to their host. The Lord of the city had sent one of his captains to accompany Aragorn to Minas Tirith, to formally petition Ecthelion to send aid to Pelargir, and to attack Umbar. The man was riding just behind him, but Elladan cared little for Gondorian politics right now.

He was driven by the single overwhelming need to reach Minas Tirith, to get to Elrohir. His twin was still alive, he knew, but for how long? He cursed the distance that still lay between him and his twin, cursed the Valar-forsaken visions that had misled him once again, but most of all he cursed himself for not seeing what should have been obvious.

It was always thus. Unreadable and unclear, his visions rarely granted him the details he would need to act; to prevent what he had seen. Yet in hindsight, when things inevitably came to pass, he could only berate himself for not being better at deciphering their meaning.

His father had warned him of starting down that path, had counseled him to accept that what he saw in his visions was not meant to be prevented. That the glimpses of past, present or future were meant to guide what came after, to counsel, yet Elladan found he could not accept this. Could not reconcile the notion with the sense of failure he felt every time he misinterpreted a vision only to see it come to pass, unhindered.

And if the vision had meant to guide him, should it not have at least kept him in Minas Tirith, closer to where Elrohir needed him to be?

The road continued on in front of him. The land was flat next to the river and miles and miles of unchanging terrain opened up in front of him. The White Mountains were still so distant, still so far away, all too far. Mount Mindolluin, into the slopes of which Minas Tirith was carved, was but a distant beacon shining a light on his despair.

His mind strayed back to the morning of the day before last, when he had enjoyed sugared treats in the citadel of Minas Tirith to chase away the sullen taste of his visions. Had that been where he had gone wrong? He had forced himself away from a second vision then, convinced, as he had been again in Pelargir, that what he was seeing was but a phantom from the past, triggered by the darkness in Minas Tirith. Yet, knowing as he did now, that it was not his mother, shackled in the dark to the rough stone wall, but his brother, would he have stayed behind?

Would he have let Aragorn ride into Pelargir by himself when he had clearly known that danger lurked at the harbor for his adopted brother. That vision at least had been clear.

Elladan sighed as he admitted to himself that he would not. The vision of Elrohir had been too vague, bare of hints towards a place or time. And even more, if he had had the chance to discuss the matter with his twin, he knew Elrohir would never have let him abandon Aragorn to the danger he had foreseen.

Strangely, he felt lighter as he accepted these facts, accepted that Elrohir would have wanted him to go with Aragorn. And he knew that he would have listened to his twin's counsel - while he rarely admitted it, he knew that Elrohir was capable of looking after himself. Most of the time.

Once this was over, he would not let Elrohir out of his sight for a yen at the least. Perhaps longer, if his foolish twin insisted on getting himself into trouble like this again.

Belroch was outpacing the human horses again, sensing the urgency of its rider, and Elladan forced himself to slow him down, to fall back to ride at Aragorn's side. In the bright light of the midday sun, the bandage around his human brother's head showed starkly against his dark hair, and Elladan felt a pang of guilt.

In his haste to get to Elrohir, he had ignored the needs of his second brother. Though he knew that the cut beneath the white linen was not deep and that Aragorn had suffered no concussion, the hard ride would do him little good.

Yet Aragorn did not complain. Instead he threw his elven brother a grim smile. "It is not as far as it may seem, the Erui is close," he shouted over the wind.

Elladan looked ahead and saw that his brother was right. Already the river crossing was coming into view, the remains of the way station that had been built right next to it, a grim burned-out marker. A few more hours would see them to Minas Tirith, to Elrohir.

"We should rest the horses there," Aragorn continued from beside him. "A few moments, nothing more."

Elladan was about to acquiesce when a wave of dread hit him so suddenly and with such force that it seemed the sun itself was blotched out by its passing shadow. The world withdrew. The sky grew dark. Time stopped.

Elladan gasped.

The first thing he noticed when the world snapped back into focus was Aragorn's desperate grip on his arm, presumably to make sure that he wouldn't topple off his horse. Whatever had just happened, it had affected him badly. Aragorn's face showed open fear.

But it had been a clear message.

Time was running out.

"I cannot delay." He pressed through gritted teeth, answering the question that stood in Aragorn's gaze.

His youngest brother did not ask for further explanations. He nodded. "Belroch will be faster than any of our horses," he stated, but he still held him by his arm, preventing him from riding off immediately. With a beseeching look on his face, he added: "Elladan, take care - and take this."

Aragorn handed him the star-like jewel from his coat. It was alike to the one embedded in his and Elrohir's circlets back home in Rivendell, the mark of the children of Elrond. But to the men of Gondor it would be the mark of Thorongil, the jewel that had earned him his name in the south – Eagle of the Star.

"It will gain you entrance to Minas Tirith, should any seek to question you," Aragorn said and finally released him. "Go!"

Elladan could see in his face the same worry for their missing brother, the same plaguing uncertainty. He spurred Belroch forward, and the elven horse burst ahead, opening a gap to the Gondorian soldiers in moments. The ground flew by, the trail, the plains, everything faded in the rush of Belroch's speed, but they still had a long way to go. Desperately, Elladan sent a prayer to the Valar, asking them to look over his twin until he could reach him.

-o0o-

tbc...

A/N: I am sorry for the delay. I had a major deadline last week and could not find time to focus on the struggles of our heroes (and villain). I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter - let me know if you do :)