Chapter 13

The eastern horizon was awash in red flame. The sun was about to rise behind the distant mountains of Umbar from where it would spill over miles and miles of barren desert sand. Anar's arrival would be a spectacle. The strange stars of Umbar above were receding, fading into the brighter sky of the daylight time. He had seen Callon's star charts, necessary for keeping their course on the waters in the south, but the foreign constellations still eluded him. Here was another constant reminder of how far they were from the quiet borders of Imladris, from the beauty and safety of his home. In comparison Umbar was a wild, a desperate and dark place.

The coast behind them was a distant line, slowly lost as the miles they had traveled across the open land ahead of them increased. It had been dusk when they had left the fleet behind and long ago their ships had passed from all but Elrohir's own sight.

Once again he turned to gaze back. He could feel the faint echo of his bond with Elladan, silenced by the increasing distance between them as they once again split up to follow different paths, both fraught with danger.

He only hoped it would end better this time.

A small shudder ran down his spine as he remembered the dungeons of Minas Tirith and the touch of the palantir and then, later, the Nazgûl's attack on the shores of the Harnen. That danger at least had retreated, no lingering shadow of evil had followed them since - the Nazgûl had well and truly fled. But they were ever heading forward, towards new perils.

He continued his march across the plains. The sun rose over the mountains in the east and its glaring light flooded the endless sand ahead of them as the desert stretched into higher dunes, hills made entirely of sand, ever shifting, innately dangerous. Somewhere out there were two other groups such as theirs, hurrying on slightly different paths across the peninsula, aiming to steal ships from the Umbarians themselves to use them against their masters. The desperate strike of a snake against an oliphant. It was all the hope they had.

Elrohir turned back once more, sending the bottles with pitch, stoppered by waxed cork, in his backpack jingling, an open invitation for disaster. But without a fire to light them, they should be quite safe. Behind him Estel and Egrahil were struggling to keep up, making the difficult trek across the soft sands, the young lieutenant taking up the rear - much to Estel's dismay.

Elrohir suppressed a smile. It was a joy to see the loyalty Estel inspired in the men under his command. He had grown from an adventurous child into a formidable leader, still charming those around him as easily as when he had been just a boy.

Turning around to continue their trek towards the sand dunes and, behind them, the harbor of Isigîr, Elrohir allowed himself a rueful smile at the old memory. Those days were long since gone. And Estel was a grown man, a man who had the strength to face the darkness of the world, to face even his own destiny. A man worthy of his sister's love.

He, Elrohir, had been too stubborn to see this, too stubborn once more to accept the forgiveness that his little brother had so freely offered, had closed himself off from Estel instead. One of these days, perhaps, he would accept, would truly comprehend, that Estel was a boy no longer - and that dangers would always follow in his steps. It would not do to be both proud of his brother's achievements and terrified of the dangers he would face to fulfill his calling. All Elrohir could do was to be there, beside his brother, when he faced those dangers. And he would be, he silently swore.

To Umbar, or to the gates of Mordor themselves, Elrohir would be there, at Estel's - at Aragorn's side.

The miles dwindled while the sun completed her path across the heavens, Arien carrying the last fruit of Laurelin on her eternal path, bringing light to Middle Earth. Her bite was stronger here than in Imladris in the north, and the heat of the sun at midday forced them to halt under a hastily erected shelter between the dunes, as the very air turned too hot for their lungs to breathe. It was a short rest before they continued walking, always pushing themselves onward. They would have to reach Isigîr this night, or risk a full day's delay that would spell disaster for their fleet.

Elrohir's thoughts turned to Elladan while they rested, a distant flicker on his conscience, but always present - and clearly annoyed. Elrohir smiled. Even with half the Umbarian peninsula between them he could tell that Elladan raged against the constraints placed upon him by his injury. His twin had never been one to let his brothers or the elves under his command seek danger without him.

Elrohir could imagine him at the rudder of the dhow, silently stewing on the unfairness of it all. It was so very like him. Hopefully, the forced rest would mean the wound in his brother's side would heal with comparative ease. He remembered the depth of the vicious stab, the Morgul blade penetrating deep and Estel's operation to remove the splinter that had broken off cutting further still. Elladan needed this time to heal - whether his foolish brother accepted it or not.

They kept walking. The going was rough here, the terrain hard on their feet as shifting treacherous sand switched places with rough rocks, the size of fists with corners sharp enough to puncture leather soles. They drank sparingly of their canteens, aware that the little water they carried might make the difference between failure and success if their trek was to take longer, if their journey was delayed by terrain or by the inhabitants of this hopeless, open land.

So far, by sheer luck or the interference of the Valar, they had remained undetected. The desert was bare of life for miles around them. Even with his elven eyesight he found little signs of life, the only movement came from the sand as it was gathered up and tossed about by the playful wind. Their clothes and the thin scarves they used to cover their hair and faces were full of the small gritty pieces of the desert, an unwanted gift deposited on them without discrimination.

They continued for the rest of the day, slowly crossing the upper Umbarian peninsula and gaining on Isigîr. In the west, where somewhere behind the dunes the wide ocean held their ships and his twin, the sun was setting. Their fleet would reach the fortifications of the Umbarian strait, the towers that had seemed like mere small specks on the old map of Gondor, at dawn the next day. Elrohir tried, unsuccessfully, to keep himself from thinking about that battle, about the dangers Elladan might face, for he doubted that his annoyed twin would stay protected and coddled in the safety of the Shakalzagar's hold.

Instead he focused on his own mission. By morning, Estel, Egrahil and he would have had to have commandeered a ship, one with enough speed and range to engage the larger vessels of the Umbarian fleet, ships geared for war, with hundreds of corsairs; One the mightiest armadas in all Arda.

Their chances of success were slim, Elrohir knew, grimly accepting that truth. The lives of hundreds depended on the success of their mission, on their ability to survive in a town run by the enemy and in a bay crawling with corsair ships.

But he and Elladan had faced impossible odds before. He could do so again.

And as the last hints of the red desert sun faded in the west, as the sky above them turned a true black with only the strange stars of Umbar to light their way, Elrohir saw it. The lights of Isigîr, flickering in the distance, an array of torches and candles, light spilling from round windows in clay huts. And behind it, the reflection of the moon and stars off the waters of the Bay of Umbar.

Success or failure – the time was now.

-o0o-

Elrohir melted into the dark night, silent like only an elf could be. Aragorn lost sight of him after a mere couple of steps, as his brother slowly made his way through the sleeping town and towards the harbor. He had not been happy with his brother going into town alone, facing the risk of discovery by himself. But he had had to acknowledge that it made sense. One person alone could go undetected where three could not, and loathe as he was to admit it, Elrohir was better suited to stealth and silence than either him or Egrahil.

He almost smiled at the realization that he was fretting over the safety of his significantly older brother. Elrohir would be so annoyed if he knew. Aragorn had not realized himself until now, just how much he had grown into a leader, how far he had left the youth he had been in Rivendell behind. Back then, when out hunting with the twins, or on patrol as a very young warrior, he would not have hesitated a second to let his brothers lead, safe in the knowledge that they would keep him safe, that they could do anything.

And it was not just the events in Minas Tirith that had changed this. He had become accustomed to leading men, both in Rohan and Gondor, had grown used to carrying the burden of leadership and responsibility. He was a bit amused to realize that that sentiment now apparently extended to his brothers, too. They had lived for nearly three thousand years, had more experience fighting wars than he would ever wish to gain, and yet…

And yet he was worried for Elrohir's safe return like that of any of his men that he needed to send into danger. The fact that Elohir had volunteered, that he was good at what he was doing, did not lessen the responsibility he felt. Anxious minutes passed as Aragorn glanced at the shadows, listening to every sound in the underbrush around them, waiting for the tell-tale signs that Elrohir had been discovered, that the alarm had been raised.

They never came. Time passed and all he saw was a stray cat looking at him briefly with its unfathomable gaze, possibly pondering whether he was going to feed her. When he made no move to do so she ran off, her tail held high.

And then, in the stillness of the night, there came a soft call as if from a bird, though Aragorn had ever only heard the call of the marsh warbler in Arnor. He lifted his hands to his lips and answered the call, soft and almost imperceptibly. He did not want to chance a curious ornithologist awaking and wondering at the out of place bird.

A shadow to their right moved and solidified into Elrohir's shape, only his pale face visible in the dark as the gray cloak he bore was blending into his surroundings. The fine work of Elrohir's mother's kin in Lothlorien was just another layer of protection that added to his inane stealth.

"The path to the quay is clear," Elrohir reported silently, "I saw no one safe the harbor master guarding either boats or waters, but we should hurry regardless, in case his absence is noted."

Aragorn nodded. He trusted Elrohir's words implicitly. If his brother said the road was clear then it would be. His brother's experience, coupled with the famed eyesight of the elves was an advantage that he would not ignore. Gesturing for Egrahil to follow Elrohir and taking up the rear himself, Aragorn and his small force crossed through the sleeping town. Keeping to the deep shadows of dark houses and small alleys and well away from any area where light still spilled onto the road. Away from houses in which either oil or torch still burnt fitfully in the rolling wind that came down from the sand dunes behind them and drifted out to sea.

Just like that wind, Egrahil, Elrohir and he passed through the small town. A whisper in the streets, not seen, barely heard and gone as suddenly as they had come.

They reached the quay without incident. A small hut stood at the edge of the wide wooden pier, its door slightly ajar, but nothing stirred in the darkness beyond. Aragorn suppressed a small shudder, knowing that whatever Elrohir had done to the harbormaster was unlikely to cause permanent harm, but he had seen his brothers fight and knew that the poor man would not have had an inkling of a warning before Elrohir would have been upon him.

Ahead of him, Elrohir made his way carefully across the long wooden pier, gesturing at a boat on their left. Its build, shape and size were similar to the dhow Elladan had captured from the corsairs. The boat would be familiar, easy to steer and fast. It would serve them well. But to his surprise Egrahil shook his head vehemently, gesturing ahead, further down the pier. There was a twinkle in his eyes like he had been given a rare and wondrous gift. His hand pointed insistently towards a boat at the very end of the gangway.

Bigger than the dhow, though otherwise similar, it looked like a good alternative and, shrugging his shoulders, Aragorn acquiesced. Out of the three of them, Egrahil did have the most experience with boats.

With catlike graze Elrohir jumped onto the deck of the newly selected ship, lowering a plank that allowed Egrahil and Aragorn to board with equal silence, though less style. It couldn't be helped.

Egrahil had barely set foot on deck before he rushed forward, crossing the distance towards the bowsprit. There a thick canvas tarp covered the front end of the ship, and Egrahil pulled it aside with glee, revealing what had had him so excited about this ship.

A strange weapon was tightly anchored to the front of the ship. Its muzzle pointed forward at possible enemy vessels, but its firing mechanism was unlike anything Aragorn had ever seen. It was intricately decorated and stylized to look like a perched dragon, the weapon's muzzle was its jaw, spread wide open. Rubies glinted in indentations that made the eyes of the ferocious beast. There was no string, no notch, no winch, that he could see. Instead, a large tank stood at its base and a thick pipe ran from it to the top of the weapon and through its bore. At its lip was a small contraption, holding two stones as if for making a spark. It was then that Aragorn realized what he was looking at.

And Egrahil, looking like an excited child, confirmed his thoughts. "A seafire weapon," he breathed, reverently.

Seafire, the most dreadful weapon of their enemy. The corsairs were rumored to have set fire to the forests of all Belfalas, burning the edges of the very walls of Dol Amroth. Eye witnesses told of fire raining from the sky like from a dragon's maw.

He looked again at the muzzle of the weapon, at the wide open jaws of a fire drake. Such fine craftsmanship in so deadly a weapon. He chose not to dwell on the fates of the south Gondorian settlers that had seen this weapon before, and instead looked forward to the chance of turning it on the corsairs with grim satisfaction.

"We should leave." Elrohir's voice was a tight whisper, and Aragorn followed his brother's gaze towards shore where more and more lights appeared in the houses, spilling out onto the cobbled streets. The eastern sky was brightening. Their time was running out.

Aragorn nodded. "Raise the sails!" He turned to Egrahil, "Get the rudder, I will push us off. Let us hurry to the bay to unleash this dragon."

Before the town had time to awaken fully, they had seized the ship and sailed it out onto the bay. Across the waters, almost a hundred miles from Umbar itself, lay the Havens of Umbar, true power and strength of the corsairs, filled to the brim with black-sailed ships-of-the-line. Once word of their caravels reached them, those ships would set sail, would make for the inlet to the Bay of Umbar, and hopefully expose their vulnerable backs to the sharp claws of their newfound dragon.

But for all the determination to see this through, a sharp worry tugged at him as the sun rose, its bright light setting the bay alight, chasing the shadows of night back to the Pits of Angband.

Sunrise. Aragorn looked back at Elrohir but the younger twin's face was unreadable as he gazed at the distant horizon in the west. Somewhere there, their fleet and Elladan would have started the attack on the Umbarian fortifications.

-o0o-

The rising sun was painting the clouds of smoke, debris and ash a vibrant orange. For a moment the reflection of her light on the waters became so strong that he had to close his eyes, blinded by the radiance of Arien's charge. Ballistas fired again, throwing forth giant stones that darkened the sky, blocking the tentative rays once more and Elladan opened his eyes, looking at the battle.

The fight was chaos, explosions, thunder. Their ballistas and the enemy fortifications spewed forth deadly shots, some of them wreathed in fire, to wreak havoc and destruction among either watchtowers or ships. The deck of the Shakalzagar was in mayhem. Sailors were running to and fro, calling for water to extinguish burning wood, for more shot to feed the ballistas or calling warnings before a new barrage was fired. It was an exquisite, intricate dance, despite appearances it was not so much chaos as well-rehearsed moves, performed by men who had trained for this. Now they found themselves even faster in the full face of open warfare.

Another volley was shot, and with a resounding crash, parts of the watch tower on the Umbarian coast splintered apart. Wood and tile was torn asunder, catapulted for hundreds of yards through the air before hitting the ground.

Next to him Captain Callon bellowed out orders, his usually jovial face belying no shred of humor as he focused on his men, on the other ships, on the incoming offenses from shore. Elladan had seen enough generals to know that here was a man truly in command, a man who knew what he was doing.

If only he could say the same for himself.

Right in the middle of the fighting, the center of their command deck, and Elladan felt strangely useless. His side was a constant throb, a sharp reminder of his lingering injury and the reason why he was here now, aboard arguably the safest ship in their fleet, completely superfluous.

He hated it. Hated every moment of the ongoing battle, knowing that men were fighting, were dying right here, with him being nothing more than a spectator. Elrohir's absence and the knowledge that his brothers were out there, somewhere on the Umbarian peninsula only added to his consternation. His fingers itched to do something, anything. If he had had the strength to draw his bow, he would have competed with the ballistas themselves.

So when the frantic calls rose up, when the warning shouts about boarding parties resounded across deck, Elladan was actually relieved. He drew his sword and, not waiting for Callon's comment, jumped off the raised command deck and onto the main deck. Amid the frenzied sailors, he made for the gunwale. The first of the corsairs had not even cleared the last beam when Elladan brought his sword down sharply on the rope he was climbing, severing it from its grappling hook. The dismayed cries of the corsairs as their hold gave out and they fell into the sea was a welcome sound amid the barrage of their ballistas unleashed, of the damage wrought by their heavy shots.

More shouts rose from somewhere close. Off to the left and behind him sailors' warnings mixed with cries of pain. Another boarding party had gained the deck and was making for the firing crews, their curved scimitars cutting through petrified sailors to strike at the men loading balls into the ballistas or those working the winch to pull back its string.

One of the torches had fallen, dropped from the limp hands of a Gondorian sailor. Elladan rushed forward, his own sword raised to parry the blow of a scimitar as it aimed for another man's neck. The blades rang together and pain tugged at his side but Elladan did not slow. Twisting his sword around for a second strike, the scimitar broke under the second hit off the mithril blade, its edge much more keen than that of his opponent. The pirate stepped back, bravery fleeing in the face of Elladan's appearance and the breaking of his own weapon. He was toppled by three Gondorians in an instant, as the sailors rushed to the defense of their beleaguered firing crew.

Elladan turned and faced the next Umbarian. He ducked the incoming swipe of his blade, then retaliated with a vicious stab to the man's exposed belly, careful to offer no openings himself. The corsairs were crude fighters, more used to attacking sailors than warriors, and they found themselves hopelessly outmatched against him. It gave Elladan no satisfaction to defeat them, and, fortunately, cost little effort. He kept his motions carefully controlled, his movements minimal to reduce the strain on his healing injury. Elrohir would not be pleased if he tore his stitches.

He turned again, catching an incoming scimitar with the crossguard of his own sword and twisted, interlocking the blades as he forced both weapons up and between him and his would-be attacker. The man had no choice but to retreat as Elladan stepped forward, pressing the man back towards the gunwale with brute force alone. He untwisted their swords a mere moment before giving one last push and the corsair dropped over the side of the ship, hitting the water with a resounding splash.

The sound of a horn blowing on shore made him redirect his gaze up and higher. Horses were leaving the complex of the great watch tower in haste, even as more small boats like those that had brought the boarding parties to their side were made ready. But these new vessels did not seek to attack the fleet and instead they swarmed this way and that, without pattern or reason in a mad dash to get away from the fight, to escape the onset of the Gondorians, to call for aid from Umbar.

Elladan watched them with grim satisfaction. The horns were sounding a retreat. Gondor had won and this part of their plan at least had come to completion.

The watchtowers burned and the corsairs would reel. He looked up and east over the wide expanse of the Bay of Umbar, its distant waters still calm and free of the frenzy that had overtaken the inlet. Somewhere there in the distance he could feel an inkling of his bond with his twin. He knew Elrohir was out there, waiting - and most likely worrying. Elladan smirked.

He made his way back towards the command deck slowly. Callon stood unchanged, still bellowing orders, still directing his men in their efforts to sink fleeing ships and to secure the inlet. The remainder of their battle would not last long. As soon as the risk of more boarding parties had passed they would head into the bay itself. There they would wait to face the wrath of Umbar, the corsairs' retaliation.

Only then would they see whether their desperate plan would prove successful or if false bravery had doomed them all.

-o0o-

A/N: Oh wow, a long and timely update - sometimes I amaze myself :D And what is more - everything seems to be going well so far, Elladan did not even tear his stitches. I guess they deserve a break every once in a while... All joking aside though, I did enjoy this chapter and the chance for introspection. Elrohir is perhaps actually getting closure and accepting his brothers forgiveness. He might even start calling Estel Aragorn - though I wouldn't count on it ;) Aragorn gets to marvel at his own growth and Elladan gets to stab something, happiness all around.

I hope this was as much fun to read as it was to write and as always I would love to hear your thoughts, comments, or a simple 'I liked it'. Thank you!