Chapter 13

Denethor was already in the Tower Hall when Aragorn and his men entered.

There was something unnerving about the way Ecthelion's son mustered him as he arrived and for a moment he wondered if Denethor was surprised to see him alive; could the steward's heir himself have arranged the trap in Pelargir that had been meant to ensnare him and his brother?

Aragorn dismissed the idea. Denethor was many things, but he was not a killer.

And it was not surprise that he saw in Denethor's gaze, just … something off. Something calculating and unfathomable. Aragorn knew had never been liked by the other man and was well aware of Denethor's thoughts regarding him. The steward's son thought him a rival for his father's esteem, a foreign usurper who had risen in ranks and regard too quickly. Denethor did not deal well with failure or with his own shortcomings and every time that Ecthelion had sided with Aragorn on matters of strategy or counsel, he had slowly and inevitably fed his son's resentment.

It was a pity, for Denethor was strong of mind and will and could be an important ally to all the free folk who would stand together against the enemy.

The door behind them opened and Denethor turned away from him, breaking the connection. Ecthelion had arrived.

"Captain Callon," the steward nodded to the Captain of the Havens of Pelargir. "Throrongil. What message does Lord Cundamir send me?"

"My lord," Callon dropped to one knee, bowing deep before the steward and waited until Ecthelion was seated in the steward's chair. Only then did he stand and speak: "Pelargir has fought off an attack by the Corsairs of Umbar. They came upon our harbor unobserved, at the failing of the night and the first glimpse of dawn and their weapons rained fire and destruction on our town. And though we prevailed and sent them back with heavy loss, we cannot accept this. We will not cower like a small fiefdom on the coast, fearing and lamenting the next attack. We do not need to. We should not need to."

He drew a breath before he continued, his voice imploring: "My lord. Gondor is mighty, its army strong and its navy unconquerable. Let us take the fight to the corsairs. Let us destroy the Havens of Umbar and buy peace for the entire Gondorian coast."

It was a good speech, Thorongil thought, delivered with earnest passion and perhaps it would achieve what his own counsel had not - action. Ecthelion sat silent for a moment, considering, and though he gave little away, he was swayed by the powerful words. If he noticed the disparity between Callon´s account and that of the fake messenger who had arrived only two days prior, he did not show it.

Surprisingly, however, it was Denethor who spoke first. "Thorongil, you have urged us to action before and have now gained a great victory in Pelargir against these corsairs. Perhaps we have been remiss in not seeing the wisdom of your warnings. What is your counsel now? What is your plan for an attack on Umbar?"

Ecthelion turned towards him as well, waiting for his reply. Startled by the unexpected shift in attention, Aragorn needed a moment to collect his thoughts. "A fleet could be made ready at Pelargir on a moment's notice. Many of the boats in harbour suffered damage but those were merchant vessels, not the warships that lie further inland. A fleet of our small and swift caravel could travel along the coast of Southern Gondor and Harad and strike at Umbar fast and without warning. Surprise will be on our side."

He had been harbouring the plan for some time, and voicing it aloud now, outlining it, finally, for the steward and his son, he was confident that it was still the best course of action. He carried on, describing the finer details, the cornerstones of his long-hatched plan. Many nights of planning had gone into its creation and often had he lamented that Ecthelion would not hear of it, would not listen to his warnings about Umbar's increasing strength. Now Denethor, Ecthelion and Callon all listened to him intently, silently, convinced of the soundness of his plan. Finally his moment was at hand.

When he finished, Ecthelion nodded. "We shall do as Captain Thorongil proposed," he declared. Then he turned to Aragorn himself: "Take any men and provisions from the city that you need and bring aid to Pelargir once more."

"The faster you leave the better." Denethor added. "The scurge of Umbar must pay. I suggest you leave this very evening."

Before Aragorn could protest, could point out that most of his men had only just returned from Pelargir and were exhausted and in need of rest, Captain Callon agreed. He added that Pelargir was willing to do its share, that the men of the coast would make Umbar would pay. There was no stopping his enthusiasm. Pelargir, he said, would provide the ships Aragorn needed, the sailors, the provisions, as long as Thorongil would direct the soldiers of Gondor and their attack on the Havens. It was clear that Callon, too, was eager to leave immediately, wishing to protect his city, to avenge it, despite the long ride he had already covered today.

His words more than anything seemed to sway Ecthelion and the old steward looked at Aragorn expectantly, hoping that he would agree, that he would see to these matters and protect Gondor anew. Aragorn's own thoughts were reeling, unsettled by the sudden haste, the swift way in which the tide had turned. Something was amiss - and above all, there was still no word of his brothers. But without a true alternative, without an explanation that would explain his reticence to finally act, Aragorn found himself nodding. He hastily sketched half a bow. "As you wish my lords. I will ready my men and collect the provisions."

He motioned Anwion forward and relayed his orders, instructing him to gather the men, to gather all of them, including those previously left in Minas Tirith and to prepare wagons and horses. He made his orders clear and succinct, trusting his lieutenant to see them through. But through it all his mind was still occupied with other matters. Even as he sent Anwion off, his gaze lingered on Denethor, his mind still ran with unanswered questions.

What had prompted the steward's son's sudden change of heart? Denethor had long been a stalwart opponent of any attack on Umbar, seeking rather to close off and defend the borders of Gondor than taking the fight into enemy territory. Yet now he praised Aragorn's words as wisdom and urged him to leave immediately.

Again his thoughts turned to the trap that had awaited him in Pelargir. He had forsaken the thought before, but what if Denethor had had something to do with those events? What if he now had a reason to want Thorongil gone from Minas Tirith? Aragorn knew that his thoughts were circling a dark suspicion that he did not want to name, did not want to consider - but could it be? Was Denethor involved with whatever had befallen Elrohir?

As Anwion hurried from the hall, Denethor turned as well and Aragorn hurried after him with barely conscious thought. Urged forward by fears and concern for his brother, he ignored the warnings of the more rational part of him that counseled caution, that told him not to confront Denethor.

He caught up with the steward's son in a long corridor. It was empty apart from them, though Aragorn could see some of Denethor's guards with their white coats at the end of the hallway.

"Denethor!" he demanded and the man halted in his steps.

Turning languidly to meet him, Denethor returned the greeting. "Thorongil." There was something in his cold voice, but again Aragorn could not put a name to the emotion, nor explain the sudden shudder of dread that raced down his spine.

Something about Denethor's manner had changed. It was subtle, but it was unmistakable.

And Aragorn found that now that he had confronted Denethor, he was suddenly at a loss for words. How did he go about accusing his lord's son of treason, or of doing something to an elf that was not supposed to be in the city in the first place?

The moment of silence stretched and Denethor smiled. A cold, mocking smile as if he knew exactly what Aragorn had come to say. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them.

"Lost for words?" he mocked, and lowering his words to a soft hiss, barely perceptible, he challenged. "You, who would be king?"

Aragorn's blood ran cold and he could not keep the shock off his face as he realized what Denethor had said. What he knew.

"Did you think you could keep the secret forever, prancing around the very city you seek to rule?" Denethor mustered him again, with that same intense stare that had been on his face in the Tower Hall. "Or do you seek it? Do you truly believe that you can raise above the rubble of your ancestors, above the disorganized, scattered wild men of the North? Do you think any in the city would back your claim, even if you could prove it?"

The words cut deeper than Aragorn expected. They confronted him with the very thoughts he had been avoiding, the questions he had not dared ask of himself.

He had set out from Rivendell to learn the hearts of men, to understand their desires and motivations. The rangers of the North were honest, hardworking folk, loyal and true and he was grateful for their acceptance, their support. They were his kin and still he was humbled to be their chieftain, to have them follow his rule. The Rohirrim were similar, earnest and simple folk. Trained for war and yet more interested in house and horse than power or intrigue. Aragorn had found much that he had in common with them.

But Gondor was very different. Politics, schemes, intrigues, ruled his daily life here. There were honourable men as well, but Denethor was right: None would back his claim for the throne even if he would make it. The crown of Gondor was far beyond his reach. Perhaps it would forever be. It was not a thought he liked to entertain too often.

But Aragorn had never had any intention of declaring himself king just yet, least of all over a people he did not even know deserved his kinship. These were not questions he should ask himself right now. Much more pressing matters vied for his attention.

How? How did Denethor know? His feeling of dread intensified.

"No. I thought not." Denethor whispered, answering his own question when Aragorn failed to reply.

But Aragorn was barely listening as the pieces finally fell into place. He had been right - Denethor had been involved in whatever had befallen Elrohir. The air suddenly seemed too thin to draw a proper breath as he contemplated the implications. What had Denethor done to his brother?

Aragorn barely heard Denethor's next words, and hardly cared. A terrible fear had settled in his bones.

"Take your men to Umbar and rid us of the corsair threat, but, Thorongil, do not return. You will no longer find welcome in Minas Tirith." Denethor's voice was a low rumble, a barely concealed threat.

"What have you done to him?" Aragorn's own voice was low, hoarse, as he fought to control the rage and fear that burned in his chest.

Denethor carried on as if he hadn't spoken, a wicked smile on his lips. "Of course you will not find Minas Tirith much to your liking any longer, I'd wager. The city in which your so-called 'brother' died."

-o0o-

Elladan was dismayed. The firelight of the lit brazier flooded the small cell and illuminated its single occupant.

It was not Elrohir.

And even as he came to that realization the man suddenly sprang up. Seeing the open door he lunged for it, for freedom. Pushing Elladan roughly to the side he hurried forward. Centuries of finely honed reflexes kicked in and Elladan quickly regained his balance. He jumped after the fleeing prisoner, not sure about the man's crimes but unwilling to let him run free regardless.

He realized he was applying a double standard. He had come to save his brother from the dungeons but was unwilling to give this prisoner the benefit of the doubt. What if this man was innocent? What if he was just another ploy in a game for power in Minas Tirith?

Elladan did not care. All that mattered was Elrohir.

He struggled with the prisoner when he suddenly became aware of a new problem. Agitated shouts came from the central hall of the basement. More guards had arrived.

Elladan cursed.

Swiftly knocking the prisoner unconscious, he stole over to the door. It had mercifully almost closed behind him and might not instantly alert the guards. Looking through the gap now, he saw a guard kneeling over the man who had been guarding the cell, checking for signs of life.

"Alive as well." He informed someone that Elladan could not see. "Go, get reinforcements and a medic."

He could not be sure how many other guards there might be, but Elladan knew he needed to act now. He stepped from the cell and approached the guard, his dagger in hand. He hesitated to knock the man unconscious like the others, realizing that his presence might in fact have been a stroke of luck. He needed help finding Elrohir.

The man turned - and gasped. "The dark spirit," he whispered, again using the same name that one of the other guards had muttered. Elrohir had certainly left an impression. The man shrank back, almost toppling over his unconscious companion in his need to get away. He was clearly terrified.

Good.

"Where is my brother?" Elladan demanded, his voice cold.

"Brother? … You are not him?" Somehow the guard's terrified mind made the connection and he lifted a shaking hand, willing to do anything to deter Elladan's attention away from himself. "Downstairs, but ..."

Elladan followed the direction the man was pointing with his eyes. There, in another shadowed corner of the room, was a stone staircase leading even deeper underground. He shuddered as he realized just how deep within the mountain they must already be. He could practically feel the weight of the dense rock above them, the distance that lay between this place and the light of sun and stars.

And they had kept his brother there.

Anger surged through him, stoking violent flames of hatred, calling for vengeance, but he smothered the dark emotions. Rescuing Elrohir took precedence over seeking retribution for what these men had done to him.

He was close now, so close.

Not bothering further with the petrified guard, Elladan turned and hurried down the indicated stairs. At their bottom was a heavy door, partly open, darkness seeping from it like an open wound.

And as he drew closer he could hear a voice from inside.

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

His blood ran cold, but the fire of rage burned all the hotter. And where just a second ago he had suppressed the anger, he unleashed it now. He did not hesitate, did not think. Elladan tore through the open door with enough force that it ricocheted off the far wall with a bang even as he buried his dagger up to the hilt in the back of the man threatening his brother. The man never even had the chance to look around, to see who had come for him. He fell with a heavy thud.

And even as he fell, the vision, the nightmare that had been plaguing Elladan, took dreadful shape. Elrohir looked terrible. His arms were stretched above his head, his wrists encased in irons set directly into the stone wall. His shirt was torn, exposing bare skin and a stark white bandage that wrapped around his midsection. Elladan already knew what lay beneath. He had seen the injury in his vision and could still feel the faint echo of pain coming through his weakened bond with Elrohir.

His twin lifted his head with difficulty, his strength clearly very nearly spent.

"Dan." Elrohir's voice was a hoarse whisper, but Elladan could have wept with relief at hearing it again.

-o0o-

No! His first reaction was denial and he clung to it firmly. Denethor was lying, had to be lying. He would not accept his words, would not believe them.

Elrohir could not be dead!

For if he were… No! Aragorn stopped the thought. He would not allow himself to think about what Elrohir's death would mean, what it would do to his family, to Elladan, to himself. Elrohir had to be alive, he simply had to!

Denethor smiled coldly and gestured down the corridor behind Aragorn. "It seems your presence is required, Captain!" The title was mocking, but Aragorn barely heard him, barely paid attention as Denethor turned around and left, his white coat flapping behind him. His mind was still reeling.

"Captain Thorongil? Are you alright?"

It was Anwion. His lieutenant looked concerned and hesitated to speak, but Aragorn gestured for him to continue. He had to cling to the distraction, cling to his sworn duty to Gondor. Anything to avoid having to confront his own thoughts, his fears, right now. Until he had actual proof, he would not accept Denethor's lies. Elladan had arrived in Minas Tirith before him and had rescued Elrohir. He must have had.

He must.

-o0o-

Elladan stepped forward, the joy over having found his brother chasing away the dark rage that clung to him still. But there was a shadow in his brother's eyes, an echo of the same darkness he could feel tainting their bond. His brother's injuries were not merely physical.

He closed the distance between them and, resting a hand on the back of Elrohir's neck, brought his twin's forehead forward to rest against his own. He relished the physical contact, the confirmation, at last, that Elrohir was alive.

"What have they done to you, little brother? You are ice cold."

Elrohir shook his head, pushing the question aside. "Denethor…," he rasped. "Denethor is using the Arnor stone."

A palantir. That would explain the foreboding their father had felt concerning Minas Tirith. This was what he had sent them to investigate.

Denethor was a fool. Too many of the palantiri were lost, and none could tell how many of them were in enemy hands. The stones were connected. In the same way the Seven Rings of Men were bound to the Master Ring, the seeing stones, too, were bound to each other. If one was corrupted, all of them were.

"Shhh, little brother, you can tell me later what you have uncovered. First we need to get you out of here." He reached for the ring of keys he had taken from the guard earlier and unlocked the shackles still holding Elrohir.

Elrohir all but collapsed into his arms, now bereft of the support of the chains holding him up. Alarmed, Elladan registered the feeling of clammy skin under his fingers, the absence of warmth. Elrohir was deathly cold.

But his twin was not finished. With surprising strength, Elrohir grasped him by the shoulders, shaking his head again, vehemently. "There is no time. Elladan! Denethor knows who Estel is!"

"What?" Worry lent a sharp edge to Elladan's voice and his twin flinched as if struck. Whatever had happened, Elrohir held himself responsible. Elladan cursed inwardly.

Still his twin did not relent. "We must warn him!" Elrohir persisted.

Elladan nodded, if only to placate Elrohir, but his momentary surprise was already replaced by a much more pressing need. He had to get his twin out of here. Everything else had to come second, even warning Estel.

Slinging an arm around his brother, mindful of his injury, he gently steered him towards the door. Elrohir was silent now that he had said what he had felt he must and Elladan noted with growing concern how sluggish his brother's steps were becoming. His eyes were firmly fixed on his feet, focused only on moving forward - and he would not meet Elladan's gaze.

Worse, Elladan could feel his brother withdraw ever further from their bond, slowly drifting from his grasp despite being right by his side. He needed to hurry!

By the time they reached the top of the stairs the guards' reinforcements had arrived – seven men were looking at him, wary, but with their weapons at the ready.

Elladan hesitated. He had no time for this. Elrohir had no time for this. He needed to get his twin to the open air, to somewhere where he could tend to his injuries and talk some sense into him. These men would not delay him, would not stop him from saving his twin.

He drew his own sword, and, still supporting Elrohir, drew himself up to his full height. Channeling all the authority of their father Elladan lifted his sword and pointed it at the guards.

"We are leaving", he said. "Do not seek to stop us."

They let him pass.

-o0o-

A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! These regular updates really make the new week all that much more exciting - or is that just me? This week Denethor finally plays his hand, the twins finally get reunited and Elrohir finally gets to leave his cell. And ... not even a real cliffie at the end - aren't I nice? :D

As always many thanks to everyone who left a review or a fave - you are the best!