Chapter 12

Elladan reached Minas Tirith with the wind at his back. A sharp gale from the east that brought an uncomfortable chill and a feeling of dark menace. The wind itself seemed to mock him, to whisper words of agony and despair. He lowered his hood deeper, trying to block out the ghostly words, the cloying cold that swept past his cloak and tore straight at his fëa.

The guards at the lower gates recognized him from his arrival three days before. Had it truly only been such a short time? It felt surreal to think how much had happened, how much had gone amiss in such a short period of time.

The sun was moving towards the west as evening rapidly approached. Already the shadows in the streets were lengthening, casting dark ominous shapes onto his path as he hurried to climb higher, following the winding streets of Minas Tirith, ascending through its many gates.

It was only when he reached the final gate, the one that would take him to the citadel itself, that the guards challenged him. There was confusion on their faces, as if they were surprised to see him, though it might have been the absence of Thorongil that made them hesitate. He presented them his brother's broach along with a rapid explanation that he, having a faster horse, had come to warn Ecthelion of Thorongil's and the captain of Pelargir's arrival.

The guards seemed uncertain still, and he thought he could see doubt on their faces, confusion and a deep suspicion. What had happened here? A warning reverberated faintly in his mind, and he felt certain that, somehow, this was linked to whatever had befallen Elrohir. He swallowed thickly as he waited for them to make up their mind, trying to tell himself that he was reading too much into the wary gazes, the barely concealed disdain he thought he saw in them. But his head was too clouded by worry for his twin, his spirit struggling desperately, weakly against a dark evil that seemed to have held sway in his mind ever since the first dark wave of foreboding had hit him on the road. He breathed deeply, willing the sensation to pass, his head to clear and the men to finally see reason.

Elladan's patience was thinning as he fought to cling to hope, to perseverance, to his very sanity. But before it could run out entirely, one of the gatekeepers let him pass, finding ultimately no reason to dispute his claim. Still, unlike on his first arrival two of the men were now following him, keeping a careful but noticeable distance, herding him to make sure that he did in fact reach the tower hall.

He felt their eyes on him for a long while as he crossed the fountain square and made his way around the withered white tree towards the Tower of Ecthelion. Ignoring both the guards and their strange concern was easy. He was driven by an urgency far more pressing than wondering about the newly found suspicion of the citadel's men. Gondor had had little dealings with elves for centuries, some of her soldiers were bound to be suspicious. He hoped that was the only reason for their behavior. But though he feared that it was not, he did not have the time nor the energy to look for alternative explanations.

The only thing that mattered was finding Elrohir.

His feet were taking him closer to the tower almost of their own accord, and as the white structure loomed closer, Elladan tried to figure out what exactly he was about to do next. Speed and desperation had gotten him this far, but what now?

How would he find Elrohir?

Their bond told him that his twin was close, that he was injured and in distress, but it was not a magical map to guide him. Elrohir could be anywhere in the citadel, in any of the hundred rooms of the palace or somewhere within the tower that Ecthelion had been so proud of.

He focused on the bond that bound him to his twin, willing it to reveal more information, anything that might help him now. What he felt instead was darkness.

Elladan gasped at the suddenness of the onslaught, at the waves of bitter cold and bottomless despair that reverberated through their bond. Distantly he was aware of opening the doors to the tower, of all but stumbling inside, grasping at the nearest wall for support. Here, the feeling intensified. Such menace was in the air; he could almost taste it. And he knew with frightening clarity that this evil had touched Elrohir. Their bond was echoing with the darkness of whatever had been done to his twin.

He had been too slow.

Despair clawed at his heart, spreading from his tainted connection with Elrohir and threatening to drown his thoughts, his hopes. He struggled against the pervasive touch, the numbing despondency.

Struggled to remind himself that Elrohir was alive. Whatever else he had suffered, whatever still ailed him, he was alive! Elladan clung to that thought, to that knowledge, as he fought to move forward towards the Tower Hall. His thoughts were frantic, weak and he struggled to assemble a plan: If he brought news of Pelargir, they might grant him help in searching for a missing 'companion' -one that he had reason to believe had entered the city. It was a weak hope, but all he could muster with his mind still reeling from the pervasive shadow, from the faint taste of the terror that had befallen his twin.

"Lord Elladan?" a soft feminine voice tore through his thoughts and suddenly Finduilas stood before him, as if she had been conjured out of thin air. She looked at him with great concern, one hand hovering inches away from his arm, as if unsure whether her touch would bring him comfort or pain. "Are you hurt?" She looked around, "Have you returned alone? What of Thorongil?"

"No, Lady Finduilas." He straightened with difficulty, noting only now that he had leant heavily against the wall for support, not a step closer to the council chamber. "I am unharmed and Thorongil is but an hour's ride behind me. I need…"

"You need to be seen by a physician." Lady Finduilas interrupted. "Whatever you have come to say can wait for Thorongil's arrival." He tried to interrupt, to protest, but she continued as if unaware. "I will have someone look after you and order a physician." She looked at him earnestly then and he saw true compassion in her eyes. "Rest, I beg you. At least until Thorongil gets here. You look as if you fought the very wights of Mordor."

Without him even noticing she had steered him towards a small room at the side of the corridor and left with gently spoken words of reassurance. The room was but an alcove, cut off from the corridor only by a curtain and holding nothing but a plush couch. It was a fainting room, he realized belatedly. Elrohir would never let him live this down if his twin should ever find out.

His thoughts returned to sharp focus at the thought of his twin. Elrohir. What was he doing? He had to find his brother. Now!

Before he could turn and leave, the curtain behind him rustled again. Elladan turned and recognized the chambermaid that had served him before.

"You escaped!" She clasped a hand over her mouth as soon as the words had left it, but Elladan had noted the surprise in her voice. Yett before he could enquire, she shook her head as if to berate herself and her whole demeanour changed.

"I mean, I…, pardon me, my lord", she curtsied in a hurried fashion, trying desperately to exude a professional air, despite the flush that was spreading to her cheeks after her unseemly slip of the tongue. "Lady Finduilas sent me to look after your well-being."

Her presence was strangely soothing, her earnestness a welcome respite from the intrigue and falsehoods of the court of Minas Tirith, and despite himself, despite the worries and the darkness that still lingered, Elladan smiled. The shadow of the tower seemed to lift a little but what was more, what was so much more important: there was something to her surprise, some clue perhaps to Elrohir's fate.

"Well met, Lady Hwithen." He remembered the name with which Aragorn had identified her and beckoned her closer. "You seem surprised to see me back."

Hwithen hesitated, flushing an even deeper shade of pink at the realization that he knew her name. She began uncertainly, her voice wavering. "Oh, I, that is, it is nothing my lord. Merely my wishful fancy it would seem."

"Tell me," he prodded gently, mustering the most reassuring smile he could. For reasons he could not quite fathom, he felt that there was a story here, some clue as to what had happened to his twin, and he needed to know.

She did eventually take a step closer and said in a low voice. "It is just, my lord, they said the dark spirit was an elf, and I thought I'd seen you rescue me from those men, and earlier on that day when you, or the dark spirit, or, or someone, was looking for entrance to the tower…" Suddenly there was no stopping her. Her words tumbled over themselves as if trying to leave her mouth 'ere she could stop them.

"But you had left before that, with Captain Thorongil. So you couldn't be him, could you? You are not the dark spirit, are you?"

Hwithen seemed almost disappointed when Elladan shook his head no.

"But my brother might be."

"Your brother?" Hwithen's mouth formed a tiny 'o' in her surprise as she looked at him.

Elladan nodded and impulsively reached out to take her hand. "Please, Hwithen, tell me everything. Everything that has happened after I left, everything you thought you saw."

And she did. Elladan listened with bated breath, not doubting for a minute that she had seen Elrohir, and that his brother had been this 'dark spirit' that had caused so much stir amongst guards and servants alike. It took some effort to separate fact from fancy but eventually a clear image of what had happened emerged.

Elladan shook his head slowly. He might have been amused, if the situation were not so grim. Leave it to Elrohir to become infamous when he was meant to be invisible.

"The guards," Hwithen hesitated in her retelling, biting her lower lip uncertainly. "The guards say they have caught the dark spirit." She finished in a silent, soft whisper. "I'm sorry. I don't know what they might have done to him, whether he is ..."

Elladan nodded, realizing that she held herself partly responsible. Elrohir had helped her and had then been caught. He hurried to reassure the chambermaid. "He is alive. But, Hwithen, I need to find him."

She looked at him, and the adoration and the pity that had been in her face before melted to make way for determination. "If he is alive, then he must be in the dungeons. Let me show you."

She turned around at once. Hesitating only briefly at the chamber's curtain, she checked to see if the corridor was clear, then beckoned him to follow her. Her steps were sure and unhurried, moving with the familiarity of someone who had walked these corridors for years. She took him on smaller passageways, where they were less likely to be discovered, and through a small door at the east side of the tower that opened into a staircase. It was probably the very one Aragorn had spoken of to Elrohir.

"We have to be careful now. There might be guards."

He nodded, wondering briefly if he was placing her in terrible danger. What would happen if she were seen here with him? He was still an official guest of the steward, but did that extend him the right to walk the servants' stairs? And how much damage had Elrohir's capture done to his own status? Finduilas had not seemed alarmed but the guards on the fountain square had been deeply suspicious. Hwithen's story about the dark spirit had at least provided an answer for that puzzle.

For all the good it did him. He still found it hard to focus, to move with the calm and stealth required. Darkness was still leaking into his mind, dropping from his bond with Elrohir like poison from a wound, clouding his senses, his judgement. He felt nothing but an overwhelming despair, and the urge to get out of here, now! To get Elrohir out of here.

He managed to calm himself with difficulty, forced himself to focus on Hwithen's steps, to match her pace. She was prudent to be so careful, the rational part of him knew and he clung to that knowledge, to his training. He shoved his fears and the foreign darkness away, barred behind the powerful calling of his mission. Get to Elrohir. It was all that mattered, all that was allowed to matter and he would not be prevented.

Still, worry for his brother leaked out. It was terrifying to consider how fast his own control was slipping, how much the evil that had touched Elrohir affected him. Elladan knew that he was avoiding to focus on their bond again, to give the echo of that darkness more hold over him, to allow it to take more of his resolve and the strength he would need to free Elrohir. And he was terrified of what he would find when he finally got to his twin's side. If the mere echo of Elrohir's torture brought such unparalleled despair then how was his twin ever to recover?

No! He shook his head to dispel the treacherous thought that was not his own, could not be his own. He knew Elrohir, knew his spirit, his strength. His twin would not be lost to him. Not now. Not ever.

Hwithen stopping jarred him finally, blessedly from the dark spiral of his thoughts. They had climbed down many floors when she hesitated in front of a strong iron-inforced door. She turned to him, biting her lower lip once more. "The dungeons are beyond this door, but I'm not sure how I can…"

"You have done enough," he interrupted, before she could formulate a plan that would get her killed. "If my brother is in these dungeons then I will find him." He could no longer muster a smile, but he took her hand and placed a chaste kiss on it. "You have my thanks, Lady Hwithen."

She blushed again and he turned around, away from her, hoping she would find safety beyond the ramifications of him doing what he knew he must. Whatever waited beyond that door, he would not hesitate, would stop at nothing to have Elrohir returned to him.

-o0o-

The small lamp flickered fitfully, desperately trying to pierce the growing darkness, the evil that pervaded the air of the cell. He could still feel it, could still taste it on his lips, and he was not sure if he would ever be free of it again.

The taint of the darkness that had invaded his mind lingered, and still he imagined he could hear the dreadful voice from the palantir, the evil, bone-chilling hiss. He shuddered.

The cold stone behind him was icy against his back, and he felt as if his own warmth was fleeing into it, abandoning his body to be drawn into the unforgiving stone until all he felt was cold. A dreadful, wearying cold that engulfed his very spirit.

Blood was trickling down his arms from where he had cut his wrists on the sharp metal of his restraints, but he had long since abandoned any attempts at fighting against the iron's unforgiving hold. What point was there now?

Denethor had won. Worse, Sauron had won. Won a victory so important, so terrible it did not bear considering. And yet it was all his thoughts could focus on, all that they were circling, spiraling around: He had become an instrument of the enemy. He had revealed his baby brother to the enemy himself.

Despair spread ever deeper into his heart, through his veins, suffocating him from the inside.

The little lamp in his cell gave a last, desperate flicker and died.

Darkness engulfed him.

He welcomed it.

-o0o-

The citadel looked calm and serene in the waning evening sun, a beacon of lingering light. Aragorn had his men and guest ride up to the very courtyard of the fountain. Their business could not wait, and the unease in his heart would not let him delay. He saw no sign of Elladan, but hoped that the older twin had arrived unscathed and was already attempting to find their missing brother. He could only hope that Elladan would be in time.

He did not even want to imagine the consequences if he was not. Brushing his hand lightly over his heart, where he still carried Arwen's letter in his tunic, he drew strength from her message once more. He still had not had the opportunity to read it, but its mere presence was a gentle, constant reminder of her love for him. And as long as he had that, he would have the strength to march to the Black Gates of Mordor themselves.

He would not fail here, in Minas Tirith, a city still under the rule of noble men from Numenor - for a few more years at least; Ecthelion was getting on in age, he silently admitted. For though he did not doubt Denethor's strength and his willingness to see his people protected, he disagreed with Ecthelion's heir about the methods to do so, about the responsibility Gondor carried for the rest of Middle Earth.

Followed by Anwion and Captain Callon, he reached the large doors of the White Tower. The guards greeted him, a practiced, routine gesture. Whatever had befallen amongst the guards in Pelargir, it had not affected Minas Tirith. All looked calm. Nothing seemed amiss.

He beckoned one of the guards at the door forward. "Send a message to Lord Ecthelion and Denethor. I have news from Pelargir that cannot wait."

The man looked uncertain, torn between his wish to obey and the fear of consequences if he disturbed the steward so late in the evening. But Callon stepped forward, an imposing mountain of foreboding. He presented the official seal of Pelargir. "I speak for Lord Cundamir of Pelargir," he intoned. "We demand action from Minas Tirith against the corsairs of Umbar that have burned half our city. I will not wait!"

This at last got the guard moving. He turned on his heels and disappeared inside leaving the doors open in his haste and Aragorn led his guest to follow him into the tower, towards the main hall, where they could await the arrival of Denethor and Ecthelion.

In the corridor, he found himself looking around restlessly, trying to find any sign of Elladan's passing, any proof that he was here, any sign of Elrohir. Surprisingly, it was Denethor's wife, Finduilas who gave him the update he so desperately needed.

"Thorongil!" she had espied him in the corridor and took his arm to pull him off to one side. Her voice was hushed and she glanced at Callon and Anwion as they passed, following Aragorn's sign to proceed without him. Anwion at least knew the way. "Lord Elladan arrived earlier. He said he would wait for you, but now I cannot find him. I hope nothing has happened to him, he looked frightfully pale."

Aragorn, silently grateful for the information, hurried to reassure her. "Perhaps he has laid down to rest. He rode hard to get here first, wanting to prove to us the superiority of elven horses." It was a poor lie, and easily proven false if either his companions overheard or Elladan himself had told Finduilas something else, but it seemed to satisfy her.

"I hope you are right." The concern on her face was unmistakable and Aragorn suppressed a shudder. He could not help but wonder at her words, desperately wanting to know more. What had befallen Elladan? If he had worried Finduilas, things must have been grim indeed, and in his heart he knew that only one thing could have accounted for it - something had happened to Elrohir.

Finduilas left him to return to Anwion and Captain Callon and their path towards the Tower Hall. He could feel their gaze on him, could sense their questions - and their urgency. The report from Pelargir could not wait, and he could not now leave without raising suspicion. All he could do was trust to hope that Elladan would be successful, that Elrohir would be alright. He smiled grimly at the irony, suddenly very keenly aware of the impossibility he had asked of Elladan in Pelargir.

-o0o-

Hwithen's footsteps faded on the stairs behind him.

Elladan waited a moment longer, wishing to make sure that she would be well out of harm's way and far enough away to avoid suspicion, before he opened the door. The moment of delay tore at him, but he had to make sure that he did not needlessly risk her life. As it was, she might have already saved Elrohir just by showing him the way to this door.

The door that loomed before him now, dark and foreboding. Crafted of unforgiving wood and reinforced with metal bars, impossible to overcome. Elladan shook his head. The darkness that clung to his bond with Elrohir was affecting him still, trying to dissuade him from action, to make him waver and hesitate.

He steeled his mind and moved on. Like a shadow, he moved up to the door, and, finding it unlocked, he opened it an inch with nary a sound. He looked inside.

The door led into a brightly lit stone hall. Like a cellar, with arching stone walls, that met in the shape of a star to form a low ceiling. Fires from lit braziers flickered fitfully in the stale air and cast deep shadows into the alcoves at the side while the center of the room was brightly lit.

There were guards. Three that he could see. Close to the door and engrossed in deep conversation. They were at ease, probably not used to much activity as they discussed things of house and hearth, interspersed with rowdy jokes and companionable silence.

Elladan was between them before they had time to notice the door opening fully. With a swift strike to the side of the head he felled the first of the guards, then turned and brought down the next before he could react.

The third gasped. "The dark spirit!"

But Elladan whirled around and caught him by the throat before he could raise a real alarm. He raised his dagger and, using the pommel, struck the man over the head as well, knocking him unconscious like his companions.

Despite his speed and silence, the commotion had drawn the attention of more guards. From one of the alcoves that lay at the edges of the room, a new guard appeared.

"What?..." He raised his weapon, but Elladan was in front of him in the blink of an eye. He easily deflected the clumsy swing of the sword in the confined space. Whirling around and behind the guard, he slid his arm around the man's throat, applying careful pressure until he stopped fighting and grew limp. He let him slide gently to the ground. A brief check of his pulse point confirmed that the guard was still alive. Good. He would avoid unnecessarily killing men that were doing only their jobs.

Elladan looked up and around. The alcove the last guard had stepped from turned out to be an antechamber of sorts. A single bench stood here next to a lit brazier - and a heavy wooden door was set into the wall. A cell.

A brief look back at the main room confirmed that the other alcoves were similar niches, guard stations in front of separate prison cells. But this one was the only one that had been guarded, the only one with a lit brazier. His heart beat faster as he stepped forward towards the door, this had to be where they kept Elrohir.

The door was locked, of course, and Elladan chided himself for his folly in not expecting the obvious. He dropped back to the guard's side and found a ring of keys on his belt. Making quick work of finding the right key he finally turned it in the lock and opened the door.

-o0o-

Elrohir was not sure how much time had passed when eventually a sound reached his ears, cutting through the darkness and the soft dark whispers of his own despair. Footsteps, making their way down the stairs outside his cell. He almost did not care. But somewhere deep inside, a rebellious thought remained, a memory of his lofty pride, his misguided hopes.

It was better than the darkness that seemed to suffocate his spirit and so he focused on it, clung to it like the drowning man he was. Mustering what strength he had left he stood up straighter, readying himself to face whatever new ploy Denethor might have come up with.

As he embraced his defiance, he found a new spark of energy. Denethor might have won, but Elrohir, son of Elrond, would not concede the battle against the darkness, not yet. Drawing on the bond he shared with Elladan, though but a trickle, he let his twin's unwavering strength bolster his own failing reserves.

The door opened.

It was Balsarion, alone this time. For better or for worse, there was no sign of Denethor or any of the other guards. The captain drew a dagger, languidly, slowly, a perverse satisfaction on his face. As he stepped closer he waved the blade from side to side, making its sharp edges catch the light from the hallway beyond, making sure he had Elrohir's attention. There was little doubt as to his intentions.

"It seems you have outlived your usefulness, elf."

-o0o-

A/N: I am sorry I missed last week's update, but I caught a stomach bug and I was feeling rather like Elrohir after drinking his henbane wine - not a pleasant experience. But here it is, a shiny new chapter and more angst. Just for you. Thank you for your continued support and for the lovely reviews, they really mean so much to me.