Chapter 11

The sun stood high over Minas Tirith, the White Tower glistening in the sunshine. It would be another beautiful day, another day of feast - and it would be the day he finally triumphed over Thorongil. Being a wayward ranger of the North had always been too easy a cover, too unlikely a story to explain his reason for being in Gondor. No, Thorongil was no mere ranger, and Denethor knew his secret.

He would put it to good use.

He had rarely felt such clarity as he did now. Using the palantir had revealed so many things, so many opportunities for him to seize. More than just showing the physical realm, more than just Middle Earth, the palantir had helped him glean insight into Thorongil's secrets, had helped him uncover the very weapon he would need to destroy the captain.

It was almost as if the seeing stone had guided his thoughts, and was now guiding his hands for the benefit of Gondor. For Thorongil had to be overcome, Denethor thought. A man such as him, who consorted with elves, who turned the hearts of men towards himself with such ease, was a danger to the steward's seat - a danger to the entire country.

But Denethor knew his weakness, knew his identity.

Or - suspected at least. But he had convenient access to an elf who would prove his theory right. He allowed himself another smile and bit heartily into his steak. He and his family had broken fast with his warriors today, a well-received sign that he did not hold himself above them, despite his noble birth. And more than reinforcing the loyalty of his men, it had given him the chance to speak to Balsarion. The captain had been in an ill mood, after spending long hours watching over their elven prisoner, but what he had had to report had been valuable beyond measure.

Their elven prisoner had struggled; deeply unconscious, yet still affected by a wave of dark energy that had moved through the tower last night - energy that Denethor knew he had unleashed with his use of the palantir. He knew the timing overlapped Balsarion's account, though the lesser captain himself knew nothing of the mighty weapon Denethor wielded for the good of Gondor, and could describe little more than an inkling of 'wrongness' in the air.

Apparently, Elrond's son had felt the force much more keenly than the men in the tower. And now, a plan had already formed in Denethor's mind of just how he would get their uncooperative prisoner to talk.

"Father," a soft voice interrupted him and he turned to the side to see his son, Boromir, looking at him questioningly. He was holding a fork in one hand and a carved wooden soldier in the other – clearly Finduilas had again failed to dissuade him from bringing his toys to the table.

He should maybe talk to the boy's wet nurse, ask her to teach him some discipline. His wife was too soft of heart to deny her golden boy with his mischievous grin anything. And if he was quite honest with himself, so too was Denethor. Boromir held all his heart. Already his son showed a keen intellect, as far as these things can be measured in a two-year old. His never ending questions spoke of a desire to learn and his play with his toy soldiers was earnest and serious. His favorite figure, of course, was a soldier modeled after Denethor himself, with a white cape billowing behind him as he charged to war on his white horse. A fine figure.

It was not this figure, however, that Boromir had brought to the table this time, and with some distaste Denethor noted it was instead a simple swordsman. A foot soldier.

"Father?" Boromir questioned again and Denethor looked back at his son, gently prompting him to speak. "Is mommy an elf?"

Denethor laughed, "Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?" He glanced over at Finduilas but she had either not heard or did not want to explain where their son might have picked up something like this.

"Elf in the citadel." Boromir answered as if that would explain everything. When his father did not reply, Boromir added, uncertainly, "Elves in Dolamoth?"

Dol Amroth! Ah, that explained what his son was talking about. He had probably been curious after the arrival of the first son of Elrond and had asked about elves. His mother, ever proud of her heritage, must have told him the old fairy-tale about elvish blood running in the family of the princes of Dol Amroth.

He ruffled his son's hair affectionately. "Come here, Boromir." With practiced ease he lifted the boy from his chair and onto his lap, letting him eat from his own plate. More meat would only help him grow to be a strong defender of Gondor.

"The story about the elf maiden that fell in love with the prince of Beleriand is merely a legend, Boromir. The princes of Dol Amroth like to tell it to explain why their daughters and sisters, like your mother," he indicated Finduilas across the table and Boromir smiled at her when she looked up, "are so very beautiful."

Finduilas' soft laughter reached his ears. Such a beautiful sound.

"But Boromir, your mother is as human as the rest of the good folk in Gondor. No one," and irritatingly his thoughts drifted to Thorongil, "can have dealings with an elf and remain unchanged. The elves seek to control us, to guide our paths when they are for no one else to choose than us, ourselves. They are leaving Middle Earth to escape their own failure, abandoning us to the consequences of their mistakes, or worse, leading us to ruin as well. No, Boromir," he finished solemnly, "elves and men are not meant to interact."

Boromir looked at him for a while with his large, intelligent eyes, taking in his words. Then he nodded as if he had understood every word his father had said and declared proudly. "Yes."

He continued to eat, even as Denethor chuckled. If only everything were as easy as the world must seem to his young son. If only everyone were as eager to listen to him, to accept his words so readily.

He knew he was right. Unfortunately, others seemed to need assurances, signs, proof. He would get them those. He would make sure that distant lords and phantoms of the past would hold no sway in Gondor. Without Thorongil, even his father would not listen to the warnings of distant elven lords or give wandering sorcerers like Gandalf the Grey access to their great library, their great treasures and heirlooms. For centuries, the men of the west had slaved to create Gondor as it now was, as it had been in its days of glory, what help had elves or wizards ever given them?

What help were they now that Mordor's strength was waxing while their own decreased? No, the time of elves and magic had passed. Men would see to the end of Sauron, men like himself who had the strength of heart and character not to quail before the terror, not to forsake the people of Middle Earth. Elves and men like Throrongil could not hope to match him in this. He had done battle with the spirit of Sauron itself and had persevered.

He placed Boromir back in the boy's own chair and rose from the table. It was time to take that battle to the elves. If he could best Sauron, and glean his secrets, dealing with an elf would be child's play. His questions, his suspicion about Thorongil were clamouring for attention. He needed answers, he needed certainty.

Denethor excused himself and made his way first to the very top of the tower, then its very bottom. The steps were many but his determination drove him and with the palantir in his hand he did not feel fatigued. This was it. The moment he had been waiting for, though he had not known it until the palantir had revealed it to him yesterday. It had come nonetheless.

Finally he would prove Thorongil's true motives, would uncover his secrets, and would gain the key to destroy him once and for all. As he passed the guards on the upper level of the dungeons, he bade them join him.

They made short work of restraining the elf and tying his arms to the shackles on the walls. The effect of the henbane would have worn off by now, and though the elf was injured Denethor did not intend to give him the chance of fighting his way out of the hold of the palantir.

He dismissed the guards and stepped forward. "Well then, elf, now you will tell me what I want to know."

-o0o-

Elrohir listened to the sounds coming from outside. Something was happening, a barrage of footsteps were hurrying down the stairs and there was the quick harsh speech of someone giving orders. It was the first real sound he had heard since he had woken from his drug induced sleep, his haunting nightmares.

Woken to another day in captivity – if it was another day. After being drugged and unconscious, it was impossible to tell just how much time had passed. Too much, certainly. He longed to feel the fresh air on his face, to see the light of the sun and stars. Its absence seemed to sap his strength as easily as the cold, unfeeling rock at his back sapped his warmth. It surrounded him, seemed to press in on him from all sides, its strata heavily saturated with the sense of evil that pervaded the entire city. Shivers still racked his frame, yet he did not have the strength to move away from the wall. It was the only thing that kept him upright. The effect of the henbane had worn off, but it had left him with a fierce headache, pounding behind his eyelids like an enraged mountain troll.

At least he had light now. Either by oversight or as a small sign of pity from his captors, he had awoken to find a small lamp still burning in the cell. It did not give much warmth, but it dispelled the darkness that lurked in the corners of the room, and whatever the reason for its being here, Elrohir was grateful for the light it provided.

They had bound his wound as well, his makeshift bandage torn from his own shirt was gone, replaced by stark white linen. From what he could see it had not bled through either, suggesting that they had probably stitched the deep cut. That would also explain the sharp pain that emanated from the wound with every move he made - it had been cleaned and treated, and while better than it had been, every movement still stung.

His hands were left unbound, but to himself Elrohir admitted that that would do him little good, he doubted he could even lift his arms if he had to. He had tried to rest, to gather his strength but in truth it felt like his energy was ever waning, depleting further with every moment he spent in this cell.

Still, he clung to the hope that, given time and chance, he would have enough energy to attempt an escape. He knew Elladan would come for him, was likely already on the way, but Elrohir hated having to be rescued, hated even more the thought that his brother would put himself in danger on his account. Though he knew that when their roles were reversed he unerringly did the same for Elladan, knew that neither of them would hesitate to face danger to save the other, his helplessness still grated him.

Elladan had felt the need to be the 'big brother', to be his own personal protector since the time when they had been elflings. And while Elrohir had arranged himself with his fate, he did not particularly enjoy being mothered by his marginally older twin. And Elladan could be so very foolhardy when one of his siblings was in danger. It would not be the first time that he blindly rushed into harm's way, forgoing his own safety and wellbeing entirely in the attempt to save him. It was this more than anything that filled Elrohir with dread.

The voices outside amplified and Elrohir tensed, readying himself for the need to fight, the need to defend himself. The number of guards that seemed to be approaching could not be a sign of anything good to come. His headache amplified the echoing sound of trampling feet on the stone steps outside and the bloodloss had left him lightheaded, yet he made a valiant effort of surging to his feet when the door was thrown open. Still he had little chance against the four guards that suddenly swarmed into the cell. As if expecting his resistance they grabbed hold of his arms before he had fully risen, dragging him backwards.

The world spun dangerously as his head protested and to his shame Elrohir realized he would have fallen if not for the rough hands grabbing his arms, holding him upright. They hauled him backwards, back against the wall, and he barely mustered the weakest of struggles. His wound ached fiercely as they wrestled his arms up and over his head, into metal braces embedded deep into the rock from which this dungeon was carved. The cold metal closed around his wrists with a sense of finality and Elrohir knew it would be pointless to struggle against its cold grip. He tried anyway.

The men who had bound him stepped back, making room for Denethor who calmly entered the cell behind them. He held a parcel wrapped in thick cloth under one arm.

After dismissing his guards, he turned to Elrohir. "Well then, elf, now you will tell me what I wish to know."

Elrohir mustered him with his best stare, trying to betray nothing of the discomfort and pain he still felt. His head was pounding fiercely, and though the world had stopped spinning, he still wrestled with the nausea the short struggle had brought. Not trusting his voice to speak, he merely made a disparaging sound. It enraged Denethor more than any witty comment he might have come up with.

"Your pride will be your downfall, elf!" the man hissed lowly. He drew back the thick velvety cloth from the parcel he bore and revealed a perfect round stone beneath, its surface polished and smooth like glass, but dark and opaque. Except ... before his eyes the inside of the stone suddenly seemed to change, to swirl and brighten, as if a light of its own was coalescing inside the stone.

Dread curled in Elrohir's stomach. He had read about the seeing stones of the Dunedain, the mighty palantiri. Great devices that hailed from Numenor itself. There had once been seven, but all of them, save the one in Elostirion, were now deemed lost, either destroyed or in the hands of Sauron. At least that is what he had believed. Yet here, indisputably, was one of the seeing stones of old.

Denethor stepped closer and with him came a wave of evil from the stone, so strong Elrohir could feel its pervading touch on his skin, in his hair, could taste it on his lips. The stones were connected, he recalled, each to the other – if only one of them had fallen into the enemy's hand they all would be corrupted. And there was no doubt that Sauron held control over this stone.

"Don't!" he implored Denethor. The plea came out as barely a whisper, his lips too dry to form the words properly. He swallowed thickly against the dryness and his sudden fear, "Denethor, do not use the stone!"

"Are you afraid, elf lord?" Denethor mocked. He brought the stone up and ever closer until it was all Elrohir could see, and to his horror he found he could not drag his gaze away from the swirling shapes inside it. It shone with an inner light, dancing, captivating, coalescing as if it was to form images, then dispersing just before they could take shape. Yet above it all hung an evil aura unlike anything he had faced before, a will so mighty he quailed before it.

He fought. Tearing his gaze at last from the stone, he looked at Denethor again, "Saes, please," he begged, not caring for his pride. He could not hope to face the darkness in the stone, not in his current state. "Control over the stone is not in mortal hands. Least of all in yours."

The slap as Denethor backhanded him harshly sent his tortured head spinning, his ears ringing. Denethor was beyond reason. "Fool!" he roared. "I command the stone. And I command you! Tell me: What were you doing in the tower?"

Denethor raised the stone higher and its dark power exploded outward, an assault on his mind, an unrelenting force, probing deeper, crashing through his mental defences as if they were made of paper, laying bare all his fears, his doubts. He was being unmade in front of the might of Sauron, and the light in the palantir coalesced at last, growing brighter and more powerful, forming a single eye, wreathed in flame. Elrohir flinched.

Denethor recoiled, dismayed, it seemed, by the confirmation of Elrohir's warning. He looked intensely at the stone and the orb turned black, but the evil did not lessen.

"ORC HUNTER"

The voice was all around him, in the air, the stones, inside his head. An evil hiss that made his skin crawl as it spoke the greeting of sorts. It was entirely evil, stirring memories long forgotten, long buried, yet so very easily brought back. The words reduced him to the years of pain and misery after their mother had sailed. The years of hatred that had been marked by little more than the search for revenge, the demand for retribution. Years that had been counted in blood spilled and orc lives erased with little regard for anything else.

Least of all for the suffering he and Elladan had fought so hard to ignore. Their own suffering that they drowned in the cries and blood of orcs, their sister's suffering as she fled to the tranquility of the Golden Wood, their father's suffering as he fell deeper and deeper into despair; Convinced then that he would lose the rest of his family as he had lost his wife.

Images formed in the palantir, called up by the dark force that was invading his mind. Glimpses of those years. He and Elladan in the accursed orc tunnels. Him, carrying their mother to safety even as Elladan held off the pursuing orcs, bringing death to those that had dared lay hands on her. Her ship leaving the White Havens. Arwen's face, tearstained as she had come to him for comfort that he had not been able to give. Elladan and him, returning to the passes to search for any orcs left alive, wielding death and destruction without compassion, without hope.

Tears tracked down his face as he was forced to relive those moments, as he fought, in vain, to stop the onslaught of his own memories. Dimly he was aware of Denethor staring at the palantir, transfixed by what he was seeing, Elrohir's deepest pain and disgrace laid bare.

Yet that was not what Denethor wanted.

"My tower!" he repeated, "Why were you in my tower?"

The images shifted and the dark hiss came again:

"DARK SPIRIT"

It was mocking this time, as if teasing him with the newly acquired nickname that had been given to him in Minas Tirith. But again it conjured up fresh images, tore them from his mind and the harder he tried to hold on to them, the easier they slipped through his fingers.

The palantir swirled.

He saw himself and Elladan standing in front of their father, saying their farewells before embarking on the trip to Minas Tirith. Saw himself and Elladan in Estel's rooms, talking about the infiltration of the tower.

"Thorongil," Denethor's voice was low and icy, as he recognized Estel. The images shifted and Elrohir saw himself, striking down the guards that had molested the chambermaid, then shooting an arrow at the messenger that was to deliver the order to have his brothers killed.

At last the image shifted again, reflecting the very scene in the dungeon right now. Denethor holding the palantir in front of him, ironically revealing to him the very thing he had been looking for in the first place.

For all the good it did he had found the source of the evil in Minas Tirith.

Denethor lowered the stone and for a blessed moment, the onslaught on Elrohir's mind lessened. He sagged against the bonds still holding him, grateful for the reprieve and weary beyond imagination.

"So you have come for the palantir. How ironic." Denethor echoed Elrohir's own thoughts, seeming thoughtful. Elrohir could not be sure, but he thought he sensed hesitation in the steward's son, the glimpse of Sauron's all-seeing eye had perhaps shaken him more than he let on.

Yet after a moment, Denethor shook his head and raised the palantir again. There was cold determination on his face.

"I have one more question, elf: Who is Thorongil?"

No! Not that. Finding new strength that surprised himself, Elrohir struggled anew against the shackles holding him. He had to escape their hold, had to avoid this question. He must not answer! The sharp edges of the metal bit into his wrists as he fought against them, desperate.

But it was a futile attempt.

"HERALD OF DEATH"

"No!" His denial was voiced aloud this time. A weak rasp, an impotent gesture of defiance against an overwhelming force.

Elrohir abandoned his physical struggles and tried to steal his mind, trying to keep out the searching grasp of the palantir, the very will of Sauron himself.

Still the palantir swirled and Elrohir knew what it would show.

Arathorn.

Elrohir's blood ran cold as he recognized the face of his dear friend. He was dressed for battle, for a hunt. The image shifted, and Elrohir squeezed his eyes shut. Anything to escape the images, escape his own memories. Yet it seemed that even now he could still see the picture forming, could feel it being ripped from his mind.

Arathorn, dead in his arms. Killed instantly by an errant orc arrow through his eye. Elladan breaking the news to Gilraen, her overwhelming grief, and Estel – only two years old.

Estel. His brother in all but blood. Destined to be hunted by the forces of evil from birth until he or they were defeated. Elrohir would not reveal him to the enemy! He refused!

And instead of trying to fight the invasive force of the palantir, Elrohir conjured up images by himself. Casting his mind to safe memories, to happier times. He offered freely what the palantir would have taken anyway. Careful to keep Estel's true name and heritage hidden, he focused instead on memories of his brother's childhood.

Estel's laughter, filling the empty corridors of Rivendell as he tried to hide from Erestor, unwilling to attend his lessons. Estel, watching him and Elladan on the training range, concerned that their sparring match meant that they were actually angry with each other. Estel, helping his mother do the laundry, all the while talking to her about the great adventures he would one day have.

Elrohir, lifting him onto a pony, watching with pride as his little brother was riding for the first time, while Estel chattered happily, promising his pony all treats imaginable.

He could feel the rage emanating from the palantir, the cold hatred towards all life and joy. Elrohir smiled.

And suddenly, he was free. The onslaught on his mind stopped. Denethor lowered the palantir and cloaked it once more with the heavy cloth. Elrohir's breath was a silent sigh of relief.

But Denethor was not yet done.

He mustered Elrohir for a long time, his gaze calculating. "Fostered in the house of Elrond," he said, as if recalling something from a book once read or confirming something to himself.

Fear gripped Elrohir's heart. Denethor knew.

His gaze darted to the palantir, but it was mercifully covered. Yet, even if Sauron did not share the knowledge Denethor had, how long would it be before he would find out? Especially with Denethor using the corrupted seeing stone so carelessly?

The vastness of his failure, his defeat came crashing down on him and Elrohir sank forwards in his bounds. His energy and defiance evaporated. His spirit shook with the ramification of what had just happened.

He had failed Estel. This secret had been his to guard and he had squandered it, had revealed his brother's identity to Denethor, had practically delivered his brother into the waiting arms of Mordor.

Estel's life had always been ripe with danger, but now he would be hunted openly, relentlessly pursued. Never safe. And it was his fault! Despair clung to every fiber of his being, smothering his spirit. What had he done?

"You have given me much to think about." Denethor's voice was blank, unreadable, as he turned around and left without a backward glance. Elrohir barely heard him, barely noticed when the door fell shut.

A dreadful cold had taken hold of Elrohir, stemming straight from his heart.

-o0o-

tbc...

A/N: Whoah, this was hard to write, but also so important for the story. And I am now, after many edits, quite happy with how it turned out. Poor Elrohir, bad, bad Denethor!Tell me what you thought? Your continued support really keeps me going. You are the best!

"[L]ater, when all was made clear, many believed that Denethor, who was subtle in mind and looked further and deeper than other men of his day, had discovered who this stranger Thorongil in truth was, and suspected that he and Mithrandir designed to supplant him" - Appendix A, The Stewards