After the first warning shot, the soldiers of the White Company ceased their attack, especially since the two elves put up no resistance at all but came to meet them on their own, without reaching for their weapons.

While Glorfindel had long recognized the still quite young captain with the half-length dark hair on his part, Beregond needed a little longer to realize who it was that he'd almost killed there. He stopped his group abruptly when there were only a few feet of distance between them left.

"Milord, by all the stars …" Blindsided, he stared at Glorfindel. The two of them had last met at Aragorn's wedding, and Beregond was surely aware of Glorfindel's efforts regarding a peaceful agreement between Aragorn and Legolas. All the more did it probably surprise him to see Glorfindel in slightly dubious company.

"Forgive me, my eyes were fixed on your companion's clothes. And I can see, they didn't deceive me. Be careful, milord. From all we know, this elf is responsible for the King's death."

"Everything you just said is wrong." No matter how unnerving it had been, having to worm every second sentence out of Erestor, now Glorfindel was glad that he hadn't given in but that after this short ride already, he was probably being better informed about the last few months than anyone else.

To explain all these things clearly to a whole group of Secondborn would have taken a lot more time than he had though; so he saw to things getting done his own way. When the soldiers tried to surround Erestor, he demonstratively steered Asfaloth in front of his friend's horse. "Is your faith in the words of the Stewardaides' leader stronger than the one in the Free Folks, soldiers of Gondor? Then kill for it."

Only now Glorfindel realized how much the last few months had worn him out. So much in fact that he actually felt something like discomfort for a moment when Beregond grabbed the handle of his sword. If orcs fled from your sight in droves, you weren't used to beings that you were fighting for with your life threatening it. One of the first lectures that he had once given his son was never to be certain of anything. He wasn't even wearing some damn armor. If his own arrogance would have him make intimate acquaintance with a blade soon, there would be an interesting conversation with Mandos about mistakes that you should actually learn from.

Maybe Beregond had seen Glorfindel's brief wince. Or his shock about how much this crisis had really damaged the friendship between Men and Elves. In any case, he suddenly looked as if he'd woken up from a bad dream, eying his soldiers' bows being aimed at someone who was an idol for many warriors of Middle-earth, with growing dismay.

"Take down your weapons. Now!" he barked at the men. For a moment, in spite of the many traces that fate had left on his face, he seemed very adolescent and very lost. "By the stars, what has become of us?"

"It is not your fault. We all have been blind for months." Glorfindel allowed himself a quick prayer of thanks for having been forgiven his carelessness, then he drove Asfaloth forward towards Beregond's horse and sealed the insecure peace offering by firmly squeezing the soldier's shoulder. "Emyn Arnen is under the Stewardaides' control. You know that, do you not? Were you not ordered to watch Cair Andros? Instead, you are here."

Beregond lowered his head, like someone who was feeling caught, but Glorfindel's uncompromising support of an elf outlawed as a criminal gave him the strength to stand by his decisions as well. "We've been there for a little while. The elves and I have come to an agreement. A few of my men are protecting and watching the healer elves in the settlement. The others are waiting near Emyn Arnen, together with the rest of the group, until I have found either the Steward or the King and will finally know what by all the Valar is going on here. The elves in the hills have put down all their weapons and are following my substitute's words unconditionally. They are worried about their leader, and my own thoughts keep on revolving around mine. So how could I have denied them their wish?"

"Thanks for your goodwill. Rest assured, one of the best Dúnedain is searching for the King, one who knows these lands like no other. I will have to ask you a different favor."

Glorfindel summarized Erestor's tale from earlier as briefly as possible. "Take these tidings to Minas Tirith before the new flyers can stir up the people. Your trust has been badly shaken by members of my kin, so I am only asking for your help for the sake of Gondor's peace. The Steward needs you."

"Even if I had no other reason to believe a living legend like you, that fact alone would be enough." Beregond agreed surprisingly quickly. "The eyes of the White Company are not blind, Lord Glorfindel. With concern, many of us, too, have watched how the man that we all look up to in admiration was reduced to but a shade. My heart alone desperately wants to believe that there's an explanation for all this. If it is yours, at least there's still hope. We'll meet again in Emyn Arnen soon."

"Until we meet again."

Another quick prayer would actually have been in order that Glorfindel was forced to delay. The Valar would hopefully overlook it. After all, tonight he was already accomplishing far more than it would actually even be his duty in this Age still. How were all these short-sighted beings actually supposed to live on their own once all the elves had left Middle-earth?

"Will you just stop? You're driving me crazy."

Thranduil startled when Legolas' voice sounded from the neighboring cell again after half an eternity of silence. He had thought to be moving quietly but the enhanced senses of someone who'd lost his eyesight couldn't be deceived. Which he should actually have known; after all, this wasn't the first bout of this kind that he had to witness his son being plagued by.

Legolas' voice was hoarse from the effects of his bad injury, the intoxication symptoms of the arrowhead stuck in his shoulder. The stench of North Ithilien's infested water that his wound had been bandaged with, was mixed with the acrid smell of sick, too hot blood. His breathing went heavily and erratic. And every of these warning signals grew worse by the minute.

Dully pacing his own cell and philosophizing about how careless he'd been didn't help with that; still, the King didn't manage to stop for even a second. It had been him to quickly realize after the arrest that the Stewardaides tried to get rid at least of Legolas for good behind Faramir's back, but he couldn't change anything about it.

His son hadn't even really noticed at first where exactly the pain had come from. Pressing the hurt shoulder back against the wall for a moment had been enough to confirm Thranduil's suspicion. That tortured scream was still echoing loudly in his head.

At that point, his two cellmates' upset voices had melted into a meaningless murmur.

He'd been busy so intensively since then, wondering when exactly he had taken such a wrong turn during this catastrophe, that he noticed only belatedly that Legolas had asked the other two elves something. Apparently, he was worried about Tauriel.

Tauriel, right, that naive redhaired healer who his son, in his fanaticism, had tried to teach how to properly fight again after she'd already turned her back on that fate decades ago in Eryn Lasgalen. She was indeed being conspicuously silent, but Thranduil didn't expect anything else from a being that had just tasted blood again for the first time in a long while.

"She's just exhausted," the smith answered, quietly enough to not disturb his wife who was looking for some quietness, slumped against his shoulder. "She's been fighting tears the whole time. We still don't know what happened to the others."

The thought of his little daughter waiting for her parents at Cair Andros had irritation creep back into Camhanar's voice immediately. And fear. Faramir had only ordered his soldiers to watch the elves who had managed to escape from Emyn Arnen, not to attack them. But who could say if these people would actually listen to him? Given how many active Stewardaides there seemed to exist in this house alone, they couldn't be certain of anything.

"We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

Again, Thranduil needed a moment to remember that he must have ordered something at some point. Right. Calling for the soldiers in the hallways outside, in case no one would return to the cells, revealing himself to achieve release … If only it would be that easy. With a sigh, he let himself sink against the cell wall and absently fished a small crystal from his hair that he must have forgotten to shed before the rash ride to Emyn Arnen.

Denying it would have been a lie: He hadn't felt that powerless in a long time. Every rational consideration had yielded to a feeling running wild through his head like a Sindar-King being kept for too long in the tightest of spaces. A feeling that usually only rarely found the surface. Like at the beginning of this Age, and then at the start of this millennium. Or at the evening of Gollum's escape. Incidents that had been quickly forgotten, suppressed, filed away as a bad dream. Until the next terrible news of the new war had arrived. Even more battles, countless attacks on elven realms, even more dead – but no life sign of his own son. The stop of communications that they had agreed upon for the protection of their Kingdom back then, had almost driven him insane in some nights.

Back then, it had been easier though. Defending the woods had kept him busy enough to not unleash this animal inside of him. To not admit to himself how much the prospect of losing even the last member of his family now hurt.

Today, they both were being helpless, and he couldn't even blame Legolas for still not writing him any letters from the front. There had been enough letters. No questions about support or advice regarding Ithilien after the first unanswered request anymore, not that. Just bland lines about construction work, a textbook marriage, and a post-war era without significant problems. A cry for help in the shape of a report form.

"Your Majesty!" Camhanar's hefty worker muscles twitched uncontrollably under the sleeves of his tight leather tunic. "You have to call for help! Don't you understand how dangerous the situation is?"

That was indeed true. One single look from a healer – this time from a real healer – at Legolas would have proved to every rational thinking man that some soldiers had acted against the Steward's will earlier.

Men and rational thinking, that was something often mutually exclusive, but it was still a chance. The night had progressed far, and everything that was going on in the dungeon, for now, was the embarrassed silence of elves who had made a fatal mistake. Silence broken only by suppressed noises of pain every now and then that were growing more and more frequent. No one would be entering this wing in the foreseeable future, not without a reason. They had to get someone's attention and hope that whoever would come would not be an enemy again.

As if on strings, Thranduil approached the cell door where he'd have the biggest chance to be heard. If you had no choice but to admit defeat, why wait?

"No." Again, it was Legolas' voice that had him startle. This time because of desperation suddenly filling it. Legolas never showed weakness in public; Thranduil had taught him better. Revealing his emotions just like that, he had to be doing worse than suspected.

Which was actually another good reason to call the guards immediately, but something in this one word brought Thranduil back to the dividing wall instead. Since the torch in the hallway had burned down, he could hardly make out Legolas' silhouette where it was chained to the wall anymore; still, he thought to see something glistening there briefly, like a lonely tear on the far too pale, round cheek of an elfling who couldn't understand it yet that his mother would never stand up from her bed again.

"We have no choice." That sounded hollow, anything but convinced.

"There's always a choice. At least you … always told me that." Legolas couldn't get out more than a few words without letting it show what the pain from the infections did to his shoulder, at a spot of all places that had already been marred by such a bad wound once. "You know exactly how your subjects would react if they learned that the Steward took you prisoner."

"I can deal with a few rebellious marchwardens. Ask your old friend here …"

It was the first time in a long while that Legolas made it to cut him off. Where, by the stars, was the strength in his voice? Too much stuffy air in here, and too many herbs in too short a time, obviously.

"I will not let you be the cause for a war breaking out here, ada."

"I think, His Majesty initially came to Ithilien to tell you the same," Camhanar let out from the side.

"Silence." The answer came from both of them and it wasn't awfully polite but at least they could finally agree on something again for a change.

"What do you expect me to do, Legolas?" Anger, now that felt much better. It helped to swallow the treacherous tremble in his voice. "That I'll be watching you die because of a small risk?"

"As small as the risk of … cornering the Stewardaides in Emyn Arnen?" A clank of the chains drowned out the last sarcastic word, and a scream that had Tauriel jump up immediately, in spite of all her worrying about her child.

"Legolas?" They tried to make out in vain what it was that had suddenly made the situation so much worse; for seconds, there was no answer though, not even a breath.

"Your Majesty, you need to …"

"I said no." Legolas suddenly sounded surprisingly lucid, as if arching his back hard for a moment had made all the pain disappear. "It's bad enough that the Stewardaides are trying to provoke civil war. I will no longer be their pawn. You and your husband have your orders, Tauriel."

Just a few hours ago, Tauriel would have defiantly told him that no one could order her around when it came to her patients. Now she was being too shocked for it. As a healer, you knew when there wasn't much left for you to repair. "You don't feel your arm anymore, do you?"

"I still got one left to wipe out these bastards. But that is between Barhit and me alone."

That was it. Legolas rather focused the last of his strength solely on what was maybe the most important argument, Thranduil and he had ever had. And this time, it didn't help to part in anger and frustration and not talk to each other for a few years. This time, there had to be a winner.

"Your Majesty?"

It would have been easy to accept Legolas' wish without objection. There still was time to save him.

Thranduil should have been relieved that his son finally saw reason, understanding the danger he had got his people in by ordering that attack on Emyn Arnen and that he was now refusing to cause even more. But Legolas' attitude towards the Stewardaides had not improved the slightest bit. That he didn't want to be part of their game anymore, didn't mean, he would give up on his own.

Besides, Thranduil was shocked that Legolas did seriously think – even if it was the fever talking –, he would allow his only child to sacrifice himself for such a cause. Instead of wrath about how little Legolas seemed to know him filling him, there was only the sensation of coldness inside, just like in that moment when he had needed Legolas' wife first to tell him that there would almost have been another grandchild before. There was nothing real between Legolas and him; maybe there had never been anything since Legolas' mother had died. It hurt, realizing for how long you could pretend to lead a somewhat intact life.

It's not too late yet.

In the last few days, the occasions were becoming more frequent when Thranduil thought to hear his wife's voice in his head as if there wasn't just a window to this world somewhere in the Halls of Mandos that she was sitting by, watching him, but as if she was also able to talk to him from over there. Probably with that sad smile, just like back then when Thranduil had shaken his head about his son in annoyance and turned back to his reports.

He wasn't ready to lose Legolas in a prison wing built by men; that was not going to happen. But if he ignored his demands now, their relationship might never recover again. He had to show him that he respected him, and especially his decisions, too.

At some point, there would have to be a loyal soldier patrolling the dungeons again, right? As long as Legolas' condition was stable, Thranduil was ready to cling to this hope.

"We'll wait."

I don't think that's a good idea, Éowyn. Right now, I need all of my men in Ithilien.

The White Company can deal with the Stewardaides alone, can they not? But you need Rangers to track down the last scattered enemies from the war. You would only have to do without them for a few months, Faramir. My brother would be very angry if we refuse this request. He needs your help.

Why was no one actually ever listening to him? After climbing a steep ascent, Faramir stopped for a moment to catch his breath, his thought still with that conversation with his wife a few months ago. It had been an exceptionally stupid idea, sending all of these men to Rohan, he had known it from the start. Soldiers were useful when it came to open battle, but here, in this conflict full of turmoil and lies, he would have needed his old group more than ever.

Many people of Minas Tirith had been looking for the royals in vain for days. They had covered Lossarnach sufficiently. That hideout was apparently a place known not even by the country's most experienced scouts. Therefore, all that was left to do was reading tracks.

And that exactly was a challenge if you didn't know which ones to follow, who were the good guys and who the bad guys. If the obvious could be just as wrong as pondering about who was on Faramir's side for too long.

The most logical thing at this point seemed to backtrack Barhit's path. No matter if the man was saying the truth or not, there was no way he wasn't involved in this matter at all. What Faramir had failed to consider regarding that unbelievably genius idea though, was that he had personally schooled his former friend about certain things. Barhit had been one of his best Rangers. Someone like that knew how to wipe out prints.

In the end, Faramir found himself being drawn to Osgiliath. The only way for the kidnappers to have smuggled the royals past Emyn Arnen could actually have been in the mountains' protection. It wouldn't be the first time for the Stewardaides to endanger their victims by getting them close to Mordor. Faramir had meant to get an overview of the surroundings from a high hill at the foot of the mountains; getting up here had cost him more strength than expected though.

He almost had to force himself to get back on his horse. A headache that had been annoying him for hours, turned into an unbearable throbbing behind his temple. He was being so much out of breath as if he'd just marched for a day. In fact, it was so bad that it turned into nausea. This was ridiculous … He rubbed his far too hot, sweat-covered forehead. He hadn't had much training since the war, but that was no reason for such a short trip to exhaust him like that. Shaking his head, he reached for his drinking bag to freshen up, but the water in it wasn't any good for anything but getting rid of a disgusting taste in his mouth. He didn't manage to swallow a single sip. Maybe he should mix a dash of wine into it next …

The thought entered his mind so much out of the blue that Faramir realized only belatedly that he'd just found his explanation. He wiped his eyes once more, with a deep sigh. There he had just gone and told Éowyn that he would leave his hands off alcohol from now on … Apparently, he should have long done that already. His body demanded to have some of that damn stuff. It was time for a long hike through the most unpleasant areas of Middle-earth; those quickly made you forget such mundane weaknesses.

The realization didn't help to fight the symptoms. When he spurred his mare on to a quick trot, he was suddenly feeling dizzy. At the next moment, his stomach rebelled. He made it just in time to lean aside before he had to throw up. A bright shimmer danced at the edges of his vision; he almost slipped from the saddle. Faramir quickly splashed some water on his face to get awake again. He let his horse find the way for a few feet, trying to get himself together again, with his eyes closed. Which resulted in the fog before them getting ever thicker. More and more colors started to mix into it, frighteningly beautiful to watch, like the sun's reflection in the waterfall of Henneth Annûn.

He realized too late that he was busy staring at that picture with so much fascination that one by one, all other impressions of his surroundings stopped properly tickling his senses and the control over his own body waned. His mare bolted in protest when he toppled to the side. His far too slow, far too weak attempt of pulling himself upright again instead of sliding both feet out of the stirrups, as they were teaching every rider in the very beginning, had the horse decide that it had put up with its rider long enough at last; it sidestepped quickly.

Pain flashed through Faramir's left leg when he hit the ground and his knee was twisted hard before the stirrup's leather strap tore. Further agony exploded in his side when the horse, in its fear, kicked him with its back hoof unintentionally before storming off. His mind registered even those two sensations only vaguely; the darkness wiping out every thought, making everything unimportant, was already far too strong – everything except for the certainty that he had failed. Instead of saving the King, he now was being in trouble himself, possibly in quite big one, too, if the wrong people came by here.

Without a leader, Gondor was now at the mercy of the intrigues of its enemies – whoever they really were.