Langhour was getting more irritated by the hour.
Such a distracting emotion was very hindering for his current job; he didn't need an admonishment from his former mate with the Dúnedain, the new King, to know that. You were never supposed to perform an arduous search with anger in your stomach, not when the target themselves had once been trained as a Ranger. But after several days of an unsuccessful hunt, under high time pressure and with three elves by his side who broadly ignored him, he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't really being of any use.
After all the time that he'd already spent with the rest of his folk in the impassable, unfriendly lands of Arnor, at Aragorn's wish, he was extremely allergic to this sensation. If they wanted to waste his skills, he could just as well have gone back to the North and tried to help Men there with reconstruction who had already had turned away from Gondor and its efforts to strengthen the old bonds again long before the war.
People there had probably only accepted the beginning reign of Elessar back then so willingly because he still was one of their own, and also because his work concerned them only extremely peripherally in their own lands, so far away from here. Resistance against the return of the King would have meant more effort for the people of Arnor than their losses in the war and the continuous issues afterward would have allowed them to come up with.
The truth was that Langhour would actually long have been needed back at all these crisis areas in the North, and if this hunt would shatter any more of his nerves, it might very well happen that he would turn on his heel and rather dedicate himself to them again. In the foreseeable future, he probably wouldn't have been able to make any more difference in Arnor than on this search for Aragorn's worst enemy since the end of the war; but at least the company would have been much better as it was mostly non-existent.
After his current companions and he had separately followed dividing tracks once more and had by now basically covered the whole Entwade – as good as dried-up, fortunately, because of the hot summer –, they met without results achieved once more at the area's topmost mouth of a river, nearby the elven realms.
That was when Langhour was losing it at last. "I thought you were being so certain?" he asked Erestor, actually not even expecting an answer.
Except for short instructions about which direction to take next, the black-haired Noldo had been stubbornly silent the whole time, at least when Langhour had been around.
"I said, I know which routes Barhit prefers, and there's more than one of them." More out of breath after the last short gallop than one would expect a Firstborn to be, given their supernatural condition, Erestor jumped to the ground. He just let the horse that Faramir had been nice enough to borrow him run free for the moment though the animal did by far not have the same trust in him that Asfaloth or Thondrar's mare had in their riders. Erestor radiated far too much aggression for that, far too many suppressed emotions.
"There are many possible roads. If we split up more effectively …"
"No," Thondrar cut him off. He made no move to dismount though a break would doubtlessly have done him good as well. It couldn't have been long since Glorfindel's son had been so badly injured in the course of that crisis in Gondor that only the impressive Golden Shield of Gondolin by his side had been able to substitute for the former combat power of his now completely paralyzed right arm since then. The efforts of the last few days made this still very weakly muscled side of his body tremble again and again.
But there was simply no time for rest. "We assured the King that we'd supervise you. You will not ride off alone. So if that's your plan, come up with a tactic that doesn't delay us any longer."
"Ion, please." Glorfindel, too, looked more tired than Langhour had ever seen him be, even on their long common journeys back then, all those years ago. His usually so splendid golden curls stuck in strings to his strong neck; the usual well-balanced levity was missing. The conflict with Erestor bothered him very much, especially because Thondrar just didn't get tired of reminding them that the eccentric librarian hadn't exactly proven himself trustworthy. "Why should he flee? He has nowhere to go."
"I think he didn't tell us everything he knows." It wasn't that easy to calm Thondrar down. "He probably wants to corner Barhit alone, just like he wanted to the whole time. And someone forgot to make him realize, he only makes everything worse this way because he's no match for that bastard." He regarded his father with a look that spoke volumes.
"You should stop talking about things you don't know anything about." Not even a possible punishment in Gondor or Imladris had been able to rid Erestor of his arrogance. "Your father and I already went to battle together when you were still hiding in exile together with your mother. In a duel between the two of us, I wouldn't take my chances right now if I were you."
Just like Langhour, Glorfindel saw immediately how Thondrar's healthy hand started to dangerously shaking, that he was already about to reach for the Golden Sword of Gondolin on his belt that his father must also have given to him back then to forward reconciliation; Glorfindel quickly steered Asfaloth between the arguing parties.
"It is better for you to wait somewhere else for a moment. Safer."
"Gladly." With a shrug, Erestor let himself sink back against a fallen tree a few feet apart, without really sitting down, a posture matching his tight black clothes and the constant tension in his body perfectly. The lethargy in that elf that had bothered Langhour so much at their last meeting was gone. It wasn't hard to see that he was really being clueless.
"Lórien has been warned." Glorfindel noticeably forced himself to focus on Langhour. "Barhit cannot approach that area unseen unless we are overlooking something crucial. Suggestions?"
The Dúnadan knelt down in the only slightly sodden riverside of one of the Entwade's branches and grabbed one of the small twigs lying around. "We're here." He started to scratch a rough map into the soil.
"The river runs here, in the North, passing Lórien. If we ignore the clues of our Stewardaides-expert for a moment: The fastest and easiest way would lead along the Anduin's east side. That way, Barhit would avoid the Entwade and the detour that crossing the river in the west would mean. He would get to Rauros on the right of the river, could cross it there and carry on. Then he'd have more than a day's lead right now. The traces in this area here could have fooled us. I don't know how he did that. Maybe he had a helper nearby. I had a feeling that we were going wrong from the start. But no one wanted to listen to …"
He was interrupted mid-sentence.
"What's this lunatic doing now?" Thondrar hadn't let Erestor out of his sight for even a second and was now staring at the librarian uncomprehendingly once more.
"Looking up information. I'm getting a little sick of being accused of withholding it." After he'd got rid of his cloak, Erestor pulled down his breeches too, as if they were somewhere alone inside, not at an easily accessible riverbank. Before the others could continue to wonder, the sight of pale skin largely covered by scars left them speechless.
What could be mistaken for a random pattern of cuts and burns at first sight, at a closer look turned out to be elvish letters. Spidery but edged deeply into the flesh again and again so that everything was readable. "When almost everything that you write down is being controlled, you need to get imaginative." The shadow of a smile curled on Erestor's lips when he saw Glorfindel's face, terrified, but with a good hint of respect on it as well. "It's mostly names and dates. The Stewardaides have stopped many letters since the beginning of the year. I didn't always see them do it, or where the messages had come from. I could only put down the days and a few scraps of conversation I've caught."
He bunched up his sleeves too, raising his right arm for a moment that was adorned with countless paling numbers, just like the leg on the same side. "Maybe there was one among them that told Barhit too much. He's made manipulating people with writings his specialty when his face started to scare them. If a feigned message has possibly reached Lórien, they might have made a fatal decision there in the last few days. And then we've indeed been searching in the wrong place the whole time."
Glorfindel stepped closer to him, noticeably trying not to let his disconcertment show too much when he eyed the scars thoroughly; then he looked at Thondrar with a short nod.
"The period I feared. It is probably enough already if one of your messages reached them instead of Her Highness. With a little bit of skill, he didn't even need to write much himself."
"Yes. A few words on a shredded parchment can upset an already agitated mind even further. And our seal isn't exactly hard to repair, ada. Can you put some clothes on already, librarian?"
Unlike his father, Thondrar wasn't horribly impressed by Erestor's odd approach. With an expression of loathing on his face, he turned away.
Erestor buried his nails in a badly healed scar, uncontrolled, so hard that it opened again. Not even a short startle revealed any sign of him feeling pain. Pacing ceaselessly while he tugged his clothes back where they belonged, his eyes fell upon Langhours' drawing. "If Ilya really … The fastest way from Lórien to Cair Andros is sailing the Anduin. He probably took a boat before we even left Emyn Arnen."
Shocked about so much deceit that he hadn't seen coming in spite of his long time as a spy with the Stewardaides, Erestor stared down at the now blood-smeared mark on his arm. "I should have known there's even more that he has up his sleeve."
"Could we please plan who will ride where first before we lose ourselves in self-pity again? The Princess might already be on her way south if we're right." By now, Langhour knew these beings well enough to be aware that Erestor – and Thondrar, too – had to be reminded to focus from time to time.
Glorfindel, fortunately, did not. "Go to Lórien." His order to Thondrar was so brief and final that there was no doubt what he would think about an objection.
"That is hardly the time to doubt my abilities." Anger again, this time directed at his father. Someone who used to know Thondrar as one of Imladris' most successful warriors, couldn't help but realize that the crisis in Ithilien had changed him, too. "That's ridiculous. You need me."
"If we are wrong, your Lady needs you. We will no longer rely on assumptions. It is bad enough that we have in the last few days."
Glorfindel cut another protest off with an impatient gesture. "Go!"
It was bubbling in Thondrar. With his jaw thrust forward, he looked at Erestor, then at Langhour who could have done this job just as well. At least, if the Galadhrim hadn't been so selective about who was allowed to enter their realm. Glorfindel or he, one of them had to take this trip for better or worse, and his father obviously didn't think him capable of working together with Erestor without him.
Since unfortunately, he wasn't completely wrong about that, Thondrar finally resigned himself to his fate and wordlessly galloped away towards the northwest.
Langhour wiped the map away, out of the habit of destroying his tracks alone. "The Princess won't ride. In her condition, that would be much too dangerous. The best way might indeed be going by water. If Barhit does the same, there's only one spot where he can get to her."
"To the Rauros." Grim determination sounded in Glorfindel's melodic voice that Langhour answered to with an encouraging grin.
Time was working against them but the Dúnadan could live with that. He had a destination now and finally knew what to look out for. This nerve-wracking hunt finally had a real meaning after all.
They only waited for Erestor to recapture his horse, then they mounted in a haste. You didn't need to know the elf as long as Glorfindel had to notice that a storm of wrath and hate was raging in him.
This was no longer about following Barhit quietly. Now it was only about who would be faster.
"Noble Lady, may I disturb you for a moment?"
Tarisilya needed a second too long to realize that these heavy steps and this scratchy voice couldn't belong to an elf. She had almost another irritated remark for the Galadhrim on her lips that their exaggerated impoliteness was endangering her cover.
She tried to talk even deeper than fortunately, she already did by nature. "You must mistake me for someone else, goodman." She just meant to take a fleeting look back over her shoulder but spun around abruptly then.
This was a new face; the passenger could only have boarded at the last stop. Though the Galadhrim who were standing around by the railing and the stairs leading below deck in small groups kept a sharp eye on the man, Tarisilya doubted that he posed a threat. He could hardly stay on his feet. The left half of his face was disfigured by fresh burns that no one really seemed to have taken care of. The skin was red, bloody, festering, covered by huge blisters, even at the scalp where much of the flaxen hair was gone. The eye on this side was so swollen that you could hardly make out the grey iris anymore. With a deep sigh, the man dropped onto a small bench on the ship's side. The short walk had visibly drained him a lot.
"Forgive the disturbance, please. I'm sure you have a reason for hiding your face. But I knew immediately, such a lovely face can't belong to a warrior. I have to ask King Elessar for help. A disaster; our village has almost burned to the ground. They say the healers in Minas Tirith have much better skills than ours. I thought I'd make it there alone, but …" He raised a trembling hand to his face and dropped it again with a moan. "It's getting worse by the hour. I spotted your people and thought … I heard that many she-elves are masters of healing …"
He paused when his words became a stutter, hardly daring to look at Tarisilya. He was a proud man, tall, unusually strong-built. Maybe a former warrior himself who apparently had a hard time, calling on a stranger for help. "It's not for me." Embarrassed, he tried to get up again.
"Stay."
Tarisilya gently pushed him down by his shoulder, signaling her companions that it was alright and knelt down in front of the bench. "Bring me the bag with my healing utensils."
"Yes, Captain." The Galadhel critically eyed the injured again but obeyed then.
"You should have seen one of your healers after all, instead of departing in such a haste." Tarisilya checked the wounds worriedly. No matter what she did, these would leave some nasty scars, and the man was actually lucky as only a comparatively small body area was being affected. Tarisilya had lost more than one patient to such wounds, a young boy of Minas Tirith being among them, who'd perished after a Stewardaides attack at Aragorn's coronation and whom she was still grieving in many nights of lying awake.
"No time." Talking hurt the man visibly. He wiped the healthy side of his forehead, again and again, that was sweat-covered, just like his hands. His shirt, sooty and holey, was also sweat-soaked. A smell almost acrid to elvish noses raised the suspicion that he'd not come into contact with water for a few days already. "The others are relying on me, you know?"
"The King will surely send help immediately." Tarisilya should actually have taken her patient under the deck where the air was cleaner. But the day was about to break; the other fellow travelers were waking up. Healing abilities were not something one expected from an elvish warrior. Here at the rear, there were the least disturbances. She didn't need yet another confidant.
"Your flattery is appreciated, but how did you really know?" She pulled her hood back a little to be able to see better.
"Some might mistake the elegant features of your kin's men for a woman's, but I've always had an eye for special beauty." The man did his best to smile. "Don't worry, your little secret is safe with me." He tried to wink next which took a lot of effort as well. "I also couldn't imagine a captain surrounding himself with pets."
Struck with sudden suspicion, Tarisilya took a look around and spotted Conuiril on a barrel with groceries stored back here.
Her cat was bathing in the rising sun, seemingly of the opinion, she'd done nothing wrong, though Tarisilya had left her in the care of the soldiers on purpose. These people had been defending their borders from whole orc armies for millennia but were obviously at a loss about how to guard a small animal.
"I can't talk about it," Tarisilya said defensively when she noticed the man's questioning glance. The other's slightly forced smile started to irritate her; she finally wanted to get on with the treatment. The nearness of a man who surely meant well but was a little too curious for her taste was too much for her already weary condition.
"That's alright." The smile widened, revealing a row of teeth unusually neat for that otherwise neglected appearance. "I know where you're going, Princess."
"How …?" Tarisilya's heart skipped a beat. No matter how observant, this, a stranger could never have guessed.
There were only a few people who called her this at all; so far, regardless of the title her father-in-law had freely given her after the wedding, there were no royal duties for her. And she'd still seen nothing but a few trees of Eryn Lasgalen itself. For her friends, she was still the child of the moon, for her patients, Her Highness. For her loved ones, there were no formalities. Even a stranger who might know her as the wife of the Crown Prince could impossibly have guessed who was hiding under this disguise … unless he'd been looking for her in particular. And who but a possible enemy should have a reason for that?
After the first moment of shock, Tarisilya wanted to straighten up, grab her dagger, call the Galadhrim, all at once, but then her eyes fell on the man's seemingly harmlessly folded hands. A blade protruded from between his knuckles.
"Don't move." The man had guessed her plan of course. Every friendliness had left his voice. Now his tone was just a suppressed hiss that the other elves could hear but no longer understand in detail. Again, Tarisilya noticed how unpleasant this voice was, like a piece of metal scratching a rough surface, just as piercing as the man's eyes that were now filled with sadistic pleasure about her growing fear.
"Barhit." Without any explanation, all of a sudden she knew who this could only be, sitting right there, who the only person was that would act with such malice. Just like Legolas had described it to her, something that she couldn't even really have believed so far. Now she knew better.
That injury had surely not been an accident. The man had disfigured himself to prevent people from recognizing him by his conspicuous scar. And judging by his smug chuckle, he was actually proud of it.
"Don't get any funny ideas. A weapon like this can easily slip. We don't want a mess here, do we?" Very well aware of the Galadhrim watching him, Barhit didn't lose his smile for even a second. While he was still saying his words very neutrally, every single one of them expressed pure scorn. "Given you've already lost a child …"
The letters.
The fear turned to anger, to hate deeper than Tarisilya had ever thought to be able to feel it. Thranduil and Celeborn had already had warned her, but knowing for certain now that this man of all people who was responsible for so many deaths, knew many of her most intimate secrets, gave her strength.
She should probably actually thank Barhit for that. That energy was far better than this coldness inside that didn't only try to make her feel hopeless but endangered the child, too. No matter what happened, she wouldn't surrender to this bastard. "What do you want?"
"Can't you tell? And I thought elves were so smart." In spite of Barhit lowering his voice more and more, every sentence cut into her like a rusty, jagged sword. "After freeing Gondor from its incompetent rulers and your treacherous friends at Cair Andros, it will be a huge pleasure to continue my work with you. Get up. Slowly."
Tarisilya didn't even really hear that last order. There were only a few scraps of conversation stuck in her mind, immediately paralyzing her, even trying to drown out the anger. The voice within was too quiet that whispered to her that a message like the death of the royal couple would long have reached all mankind and the Elves and that there was still this vague certainty deep inside of her that Legolas hadn't perished … But could she be sure of that? Or was it only her panic, fooling her?
Tears blurred her sight so much that she noticed only belated, from the corner of her eyes, that a blazing fast hand with the half-hidden knife in it approached her unprotected neck.
"I said, get up."
Out of pure instinct, Tarisilya straightened up, to escape the attack alone. The blade scraped across the leather of her top and the metal underneath, across her belly. The crunching noise and the short fear before she remembered the mithril again that she was wearing on her body, easily sufficed to dismiss every escape attempt for now, without even the need for a threat. As long as the guy had this knife, he could hurt her, even lethally, no matter how quickly she'd try to turn. If she waited for the right moment, her chances to get away would be bigger.
"Send this … creature and his friends away." Visibly satisfied, Barhit lowered his hand so that it looked as if he was crossing his arms on his knees; but Tarisilya had now seen how fast he was and knew how quickly that blade would pierce her leg if she made a wrong move.
Her wildly beating heart had not allowed her to hear right away that the Galadhel with her bag was finally returning. And Barhit's next order, too, she once more caught only as something very quiet, something very far away.
Too many cruel images of death and violence wanted to form in her mind before she could even be sure that the man wasn't only trying to intimidate her. "You're lying."
Since the blade was coming close to her again, she had no choice. Reluctantly, she looked at the soldier, reaching out her hand to him. She hoped badly that the Galadhel would realize by himself, something was wrong, at least from her fleeting eyes, when she told him to withdraw a little together with the others.
"Are you sure, Captain?" Frowning, the elf looked back and forth between her and the injured who was presenting his prettiest suffering face again, letting out a quiet moan from time to time.
"I don't need anyone for this."
The guard should actually have noticed how much her voice was trembling, that she had a hard time, producing words at all, but after another moment of hesitation, the elf turned away and waved the others along.
While the group was still within sight now, they couldn't hear anymore what their charge and the alleged patient were talking about, not to mention intervene. Tarisilya quickly understood that the soldiers thought, she was feeling so badly because of the man's condition, or because of the pressure from the last few days when she had indeed hardly acted any different from now. The elves had seen her be a nervous wreck too often to consider a threat immediately.
Her eyes lingered on the ship's bow for a moment, on the river and the huge King's statues there that came closer and closer. The Argonath. She had seen them last on her journeys through Middle-earth together with her family and had paused in unbridled amazement for several days, admiring Men's skills of erecting such an impressive memorial in their past's honor. Today, the two stone warriors with their parrying gestures felt like an admonishment that she had done everything wrong.
It just couldn't be … Nothing could have happened to Legolas …
But what about Thondrar's message? Had that been a last cry for help before Barhit had delivered his devastating blow? Or was she allowed to cling to the illusion that the Stewardaides had used lies and intrigues from the beginning? What difference did it make that this last small hope might soon be destroyed? There wouldn't be anything left then anyway to save her mind from the darkness. She wanted to protect her child at any cost; she might just as well fool herself into maybe seeing the monuments back there as a symbol, a reminder that Gondor had a King now once more, one who had withstood all other trials so far and who wouldn't allow the Stewardaides to win.
"You're lying", she repeated, far calmer now, turning her head back towards her enemy. She didn't even mind Barhit's scornful grin anymore. A strange kind of calmness had seized hold of her, stemming from nothing but the determination to not let herself go so much that it would endanger her baby.
"I can see you're not as easily fooled as your husband," Barhit answered to her surprise, his knife openly kept at hand again now. "Given you were so eager to react to my message to your old home, I didn't expect that."
The upset realization about the deception openly written on Tarisilya's face for a moment made him laugh. "Don't be mad, Princess. After all, you'll die before your husband will, so you're gonna be spared watching him go. When I left him behind, he was still putting up a fight, you're right about that. Really amazing for someone in his condition, I might add."
Almost casually, he ran the knife tip over Tarisilya's tight grey breeches, enjoying it when she startled. "The poison in his body is eating him alive while we speak. First, he's going to lose his arm, then at some point, his heart will stop beating. I've been told, he's also become blind. I wonder what that feels like, having to enter afterlife without one's eyesight." Satisfied with the growing terror in Tarisilya's expression, he leaned back against the wall.
A second infallible realization had struck her – that at least in this regard, Barhit was telling the truth. How else was he supposed to know about this blindness torturing Legolas again and again since that fight with those Haradrim back then? That sickness that Tarisilya had already been fearing for months to come back? And it had done so at the worst moment no less. Feigned message or not, Legolas did indeed need her.
She suppressed the urge to just run away, to call the others, to do anything with all she had. Barhit didn't have anything to lose. He wouldn't have a problem, overpowering her before the guards would be able to hurry towards them. She had to wait for the right moment, as difficult as it was.
The fear for her husband hardly allowed these rational thoughts to surface through that swirl inside of her though. She had to brace herself on the railing, her knees went weak. She tried in vain to bite back tears when the image that Barhit's words created, formed clearer and clearer inside her mind.
"Start working already." Barhit pointed harshly at the bag on the floor. "And no tricks. I don't need to break your armor to kill you."
Tarisilya didn't even get a chance for an attack on her own anyway because Barhit kept a sharp eye on her and also seemed to know quite well what kind of medicine she would be using. He'd probably learned a lot thanks to all that poison making in the last few months, Tarisilya thought bitterly as she sank down next to the man mechanically. Resistance would only have brought her even more threats, maybe even some acts of violence.
"Oh, so you can be rational. Good. At Rauros, make sure your watchdogs will leave the ship before we do." In an unbearable casual posture, Barhit braced one leg on the bench, visibly enjoying it to the fullest, having this shaking excuse of a she-elf completely in his hand who'd stood so upright earlier.
"In case you didn't notice, these people aren't supposed to leave my side."
When Tarisilya was looking for a cloth at the bottom of her bag, her fingertips grazed something cool. An extremely sharp knife, the blade of which she was often needing for cleaning infected wounds … If she could grab it unnoticed …
Her hand was closing around the handle already when a short pain in her thigh had her gasp, more in surprise than in pain. Blood ran over her skin, in a harmless thin trickle, yet enough to give up on her plan immediately.
Barhit could interpret her posture and her expressions better than her own husband had managed to at their last meeting. And with his hand resting so allegedly harmlessly on his leg, he would stab her a lot faster than she could even consider the most effective way to neutralize him.
"And what a great job they're doing! You're a clever girl, you'll come up with something."
Barhit seemed to be tired of the conversation and endured the following treatment without a comment. Tarisilya being anything but gentle with him, the guy was in that same bad condition again soon enough that only the sweet triumph of victory had been able to numb for a little while. A condition in which he was still being highly dangerous, as long as he had his weapon.
But it was soothing that even someone whose emotional world must long have withered could still feel something as mundane as pain. It assured Tarisilya that her enemy was vulnerable despite everything and that things might still be alright in the end.
For a moment, her thoughts turned away from the constant worry about Legolas, searching for a very different face in her memory, the only person she knew who could block out physical pain completely. She wouldn't have thought that she could ever come into a situation that she'd even have been alright with Erestor as support by her side in, even if he'd just been there to tell her what had really happened in Gondor.
Maybe the librarian wasn't even alive anymore. In spite of all blindness, Erestor would never have let Barhit do this. He'd surely rather have given up this incompetent game of hide and seek with the Stewardaides.
"Fascinating. You're a born fighter, just like your husband. It could all be over really quickly, but you prefer to suffer. Or do you think someone will come to save you, Princess? No one knows that the two of us are here. I will enjoy it, taking my time with you." This time, it was murderous glance wandering over Tarisilya's body. "Your husband is dying, she-elf, slowly and agonizingly, and so will you."
Tarisilya saw no reason to answer. Somehow, she even managed not to show any more weakness by starting to cry again. But no matter how often she tried to tell herself that she would find a way out of her unfortunate position, at this moment, part of her was giving up.