The day was easier for Élnen than for her big brother. A one-year-old elfling could not yet understand what was going on around them, why their parents had been quieter than usual for weeks and were now suddenly hurrying through the guestroom all the more hectically, getting from cabinets and bags what they would need for their respective journeys. And why there was not even time for more than a brief caress every now and then when the little one was once more grimacing and whining. Why no one had a calming word to spare for them.
Finally, the childminder managed to get Élnen to fall asleep in his arms and brought her next door so that she wouldn't have to be there when the mood would become even worse at the imminent goodbye.
That was a moment though that Cyron, who had actually just been taking his midday nap, used now to slip through the door connecting the two chambers. Tarisilya saw him too late from the corners of her eyes to get in his way in time. With the same frightened but resigned expression that Legolas had regarded Tarisilya with earlier, Cyron eyed the huge bag with healing utensils on Tarisilya's side of the bed, the deep silver, brightly polished armor on Legolas' upper body. The quiver filled to the brim already waiting for his father in the corner. The weapon in his hand that he was just busy restringing, so much bigger and more powerful than the bows Legolas used for hunting when Cyron was with him, shining silver and white like the most precious crystal and deadly like sharpened steel.
"Are you going to a fight now too? Like … like uncle Beregond?"
"Ion … come on." Tarisilya took her son on her arm to calm him down but achieved exactly the opposite because he could feel it immediately that she was already wearing her Mithril shirt under her tunic. One of the many that Gimli had given her in the course of the years, constantly worrying about her.
She didn't need to explain to her son first that such clothing, no matter how resilient, wouldn't be of any help when there was an orc blade on her throat. For that, he'd seen far too much, in spite of all safety measures, during this terrible visit of the soldiers with their deadly wounded mate not too long ago.
His hands clenched around the edge of the thin material under Tarisilya's collar. More distraught by the second, he started to struggle, trying to break free. "No! I don't want you to leave!"
"We'll come back, ion. As quickly as possible." Tarisilya went to stand close enough to her husband so that Cyron could wrap his arms around both of them. With tears in her eyes, she lovingly caressed her son's back while he was sobbing against her throat. There were days when the only thing you could do for your child was to smile, even when you had never felt like it less.
"In the meantime, you and your sister will stay with aunt Mini, alright? We need to find out where uncle Eldarion is. He's already been gone for far too long, you know? Mini is very worried about him. You know how clumsy your uncle can be. You remember that day when he fell off his horse? When even Gimli laughed at him?"
"But he said he'd go on a ride with me again soon." Cyron looked back and forth between Legolas and her, grimacing again already when he remembered that beautiful day out there on the meadows of Ithilien when Tarisilya and Legolas had realized for the first time that their little paradise in the treetops wasn't half as safe as they'd thought. "He has to come back, he promised …"
"See? And that's why we'll be gone for a few days so that he can keep that. After all, you need to show him how good you've become. Soon you'll be a better rider than he is. And then we'll all go hunting again together."
Legolas kissed his son's forehead, endlessly tenderly, holding him close, after casting an inviting side glance at Tarisilya. He enjoyed the trustful embrace for long seconds of sadness, with his eyes closed, while she was murmuring a few soothing words in an old Sindarin dialect to Cyron. Words the kind of which she'd often have to search her memory for in the next few days without a doubt.
Not more than two minutes later, Cyron was sleeping deeply and didn't wake up anymore when Legolas put him back in his bed next door either.
"You're not leaving until we're back," he told the minder firmly once more. "Have the servants bring you everything you need. The farthest you go is to the paddock, as long as the soldiers tell you that it's safe. But don't leave the seventh level. The Crown Princess will come here as often as she can. Don't leave them out of sight."
The other elf gave him a brief nod, visibly upset by the developments himself. In his features, which were usually quite soft, reminiscent of the time when he had still had a female body, there was a clear hint of sharpness. Deep green, huge eyes turned towards Tarisilya for a moment, filled with a silent, worried request.
"I'll do what I can." She would have loved to tell him, she would bring Thondrar back to him safely, so that the two of them could finally begin to investigate these feelings smoldering between them alone. But that was a promise she could not even have given to her son earlier. "You do the same."
Instead of an answer, the elf from Eryn Lasgalen bowed deeply and closed the connecting door completely silently, so that the children would not possibly have to see something else they weren't ready for.
By now, Tarisilya had put the things she'd been searching for in the dressing table, on the windowsill behind her. With a silent gesture of her jaw, she signaled Legolas to sit down on the stool next to it. Her lips touched his forehead for a fleeting but not any less loving moment before she ran her fingertips through his hair, tidying it. Separating a thin strand from his temple, she started to twist it into the first of the warrior braids her husband hadn't been wearing for 20 years.
She had never done that for anyone; and since the end of the war, she'd been hoping every day that it would never become necessary either. Now that it had, she realized that apparently, she had at least had to see this traditional do often enough when the terror of Sauron had still been poisoning every land of these realms. It took her only a few seconds to tie a second strand back behind Legolas' other ear as well. With just as much care and dedication, she started on the thickest braid at the back of his head, while her husband was staring outside equally silently, towards where the first of the soldiers started to gather already, his fingertips slipping up and down on his bowstring absently.
His motionless expression made it hard to tell what was going on in his mind, and he and Tarisilya had probably never had more trouble, focusing on their mental bond.
But by the time she had put the third hair tie where it belonged, Legolas seemed to have made a decision, whatever it was that he had been wrestling with the whole time. After a brief kiss on her hand, he stood up and pushed Tarisilya down by her shoulder, so that she would take his place.
His name was nothing but a choked gasp on her lips that he kissed away before she had taken a full breath, shaking his head.
Yes, I am sure. Come on. We don't have time.
This time, it worked, this time, it had been his voice inside her head. Neither of them could be really happy about that working again for once.
With her hands folded in her lap, as cold and numb as they'd been in the meeting hall earlier, Tarisilya obeyed. The sob of fear, of grief, of the bad conscience she was having because she was torturing her husband with this biggest worry of all which she had always tried to spare him, was burning in her chest as tears failed her.
Legolas went down on his knees behind her after pulling the needles from her thick buns and tamed her almost floor-length strands with a few strokes of a brush. Given its length, that position was the only way for him to do this, a physical feature demanding a lot of effort that Tarisilya had mostly never got rid of again, as she had in the Stewardaides Crisis back then, for her husband's sake.
For a moment, she had wondered earlier if it wouldn't be better, reaching for a pair of scissors again before they would leave. But somehow, this, right here, felt just like it should, all of these few minutes that Legolas' clever fingers needed to braid her hair the same style he was wearing now. It might go against every convention, and every warlord might have thrown his hands up in horror – after all, Tarisilya was a healer, not a fighter … This time, this difference didn't exist.
Besides, Legolas and she had famously never been good at tradition anyway.
Only when Legolas' work was done, Tarisilya turned around on her chair and folded her hands on his neck, resting her forehead against his, searching in despair for the nearness, the warmth, the comfort they had caught each other with, again and again, all those centuries. It wasn't enough, not today. "Come back to me, elwen. Promise me."
It was the one oath she had never asked him to give her either, not once in all their time together. She had married a warrior; she had always known that. She'd always had to live with the fear of possibly having to be without him for a long time at some point.
Maybe today, they had to tell at least each other these words, even though they didn't know if they would be able to be true to them. Exactly because of that. And Legolas said them, choked and rough, but clear.
Only after she'd done the same did he pull her into his arms to kiss her deeply, making her feel all his love for her once more, before they would run out of time for that.
Only now he got up and helped her put her armor on. That was something else, Gimli had personally forged, many years ago already, after her first pregnancy. It fit her perfectly, unlike many pieces that would doubtlessly be used today. It was at least the smallest bit of reassurance that she could give Legolas, that she wouldn't be standing on this battlefield completely helpless.
"Le melin, Ilya." With infinite sadness, he traced the edges of her shoulder plates with his fingertips before putting the deep green and golden cloak around her that would protect her hair from weather, wind, and in the worst case from an enemy's hand grabbing it, too, sporting the embroidered crests of Eryn Lasgalen, the one of Lórien and of his own realm.
"Le melin, elwen." A last, wistful kiss, a caress over her cheek …
Then he left her alone without another word.
But the door didn't close behind him, not yet. The person waiting in the hallway, wearing the more pompous, golden-scaled armor of Imladris, should actually have followed Legolas immediately; their horses were already waiting in the courtyard.
But in spite of her almost palpable fear for her only son, Arwen didn't move before Tarisilya could bring herself to raise her head, to let her hear all the helplessness with a dry sob, her reluctance towards her own decision and the determination to give this her best yet unbroken.
This wrath in her friend would probably never subside completely. But before they might have to part ways forever this afternoon, she at least gifted Tarisilya with the smile that she had already regarded her with on the day they'd first met, in her father's valley, one last time. Only there was a good trace of sadness resonating from it today. "You look like death, Ilya."
Legolas had told her something similar when the Fellowship of the Ring had looked for refuge in Lórien back then and Tarisilya had thought she would be seeing him for the last time in these realms. In some way, that would have spared her a lot of sorrow. But she had never regretted even a single second by his side, of being in their settlement with their little family; she wouldn't start doing that now.
At least that was a mindset, Arwen could wholeheartedly agree with. "If you should be forced to raise your sword in Mordor after all, then I hope you'll bring death with you, too."
"If they don't leave me a choice, it will find as many as my blade might hit. And I will not regret it." Tarisilya couldn't tell what would happen to her healing abilities if she would indeed have to kill another being for the first time since the day of her miscarriage in Rohan. But if she didn't do her part now to save the realms, that wouldn't make a difference anyway, because there might not even be anything left to heal then.
"If they force me to, I will use my blade for every minute that your son and one of my best friends had to suffer under these animals. For everything they did to Gimli and for every tear that Ranír and her child have shed." Tarisilya put the sword into the scabbard on her belt that at some point in the last few days, Thondrar had adorned with the same symbols for her that her cloak sported, and tucked her helmet under her arm. "Go. We're right behind you."
It was pointless, wondering if it was for time reasons that for once, the enemy hadn't bothered with robbing Eldarion and Éomer of their clear conscience like before the last change of location. Maybe it was just more important to their foes too to get their troops to Mordor as quickly as possible at this point.
No matter the motive, it gave them advantages they hadn't dared to hope for anymore, like being supplied with water and the most necessary nutrients again, though it had become difficult by now to still force any kind of fluid down a swollen throat. They were also spared harassment by needy or bloodthirsty monsters in all this time they spent on the river.
And when the stench of decay and millennia-old blood in the distance could finally no longer be ignored at all and the ship stopped under the protection of dusk, to get rid of its unloved load, in the shadow of the impassable hills towering over the even bleaker landscape of the Dead Marshes … That was when their enemies actually allowed them to be back on their feet again for the first time in many long days.
Éomer wasn't entirely sure how he still managed to come up with enough energy to stumble after the six Dunlendings roughly dragging his mate and him down the plank by their handcuffs, accompanied by disappointed yells from orcs and goblins at their back who apparently felt cheated of their food for the journey.
A lifetime of wielding weapons and serving in scout troops was apparently something, you could not even forget about shortly before your body would succumb to infections and weakness for good. As long as Éomer had no idea what these bastards were planning for them this time, it was still his duty to keep Aragorn's son alive as long as he could.
At the latest when they had to follow their torturers up a steep ascent and through a rocky passage then, he decided that he would never enter a cave again in his whole damn life if, contrary to expectations, he should somehow make it out of this thing after all.
This time, it wasn't comparatively neat accommodations like in Moria waiting for them. They were being pushed into a labyrinth of hallways so low that they had to crawl in more than one of them. The ground was covered by bones, indefinable fluids, and bugs scuttling over Éomer's one functioning hand every now and then when he had to brace himself on it. At least you didn't have to see any of that, because this cave system didn't have any kind of lighting either, except for the few torches the Dunlendings had. The hunting grounds of predators probably; that was where their part in this story should end.
If they were very lucky, the Dunlendings would be stupid enough to let that beast being trouble in this infertile area catch them first, that would without a doubt be very happy about fresh meat, no matter where it came from. Then they would at least no longer have to deal with these just as badly smelling primitives in the last few minutes of their lives.
At this point, Éomer should really know that his luck left much to be desired right now.
"Comfortable, isn't it? That was a good idea of your cousin, my boy."
The leader dropped his torch into a hollow in the rocky wall and, using his whole considerable weight, braced himself against a massive gate made of iron bars that would shield their refuge at the hilltop from the hallways located below.
With a drinking bag with sharply smelling hard liquor at his lips, he let himself drop onto a spheric polished rock in the middle of the accommodation and watched, without much interest, as his mates fastened Éomer's and Eldarion's chains to beams and hooks on the ceiling once more.
The blades of the bystanders were pointed at their unprotected throats the whole time at that so that neither of them could possibly get any stupid ideas when the painful tug backward and upwards on arms long turned numb was being closed around their wrists once more. Not that they would have had the energy to do so.
"So, let's hope our pursuers won't take too long so we can take them out quickly. It would be a real shame if we'd miss the biggest fun of all in Mordor."
With a combination of restlessness and excitement, Eldarion's bright eyes flickered towards Éomer; his posture was filled with a little bit of life again. It didn't matter if it was the Dwarves or if their own people had learned what had happened to them: In spite of the quick escape from the mines, they had apparently been tracked down by their friends again.
For the first time since they had had to watch how one of their companions had died buried under heavy rocks, Éomer felt a small spark of hope be kindled in him again as well.
If there was one thing always being in the Dunlendings' way, keeping them from reconquering the land that had once been taken from them, in spite of their fighting strength, their street knowledge, a lot of technical skill, and brutal unscrupulousness … It was their arrogance. These primitives did no longer have the support of hundreds of goblins and a full armory now. And thanks to the insufficient cover that a few bars gave, this cave was vulnerable on three sides at once. If these people really thought, they would be able to defeat the soldiers of Gondor or a horde of dwarves in an open fight in here, they might be unpleasantly surprised.
That this wasn't what these bastards had in mind at all though, Éomer understood only when the enemy leader took new clothes from his bag, the filthy but still easily recognizable blue and silver colors of which were only too well known to him.
The man enjoyed the terror slowly filling his eyes for long moments, a half toothless grin on his face before he threw his mates a few tolerably clean cloths.
"Make sure that the birds in our cage won't sing too loudly. And then get the heck out of here and keep guard. If we get attacked from behind once more, I'll gut you first before I'll ghost these King's bastards."
One of the other men just snorted, half offended, half amused, but stomped off unquestioningly, his jagged weapon ready in his hand. "You can hear every step in here from a thousand feet away. Don't be ridiculous. You just want the half-elven spawn for yourself again."
Stretching his legs, the leader started to unlace the fur-covered top covering his chest without hurry. It would be a last foolish illusion for the day, hoping he was only planning to put on these clothes that were not for him to wear in any way.
"You have to take an opportunity when it knocks, never heard of that? Once you're the leader of your own tribe, you can have as many slaves as you want. But we need to get rid of these weaklings in Gondor and Rohan for that first. So get out. I don't want any path around here unwatched."
"Suit yourself." One after the other, the five men left the caves and stomped back down the steep serpentines, once they had done their last job tonight.
Éomer's side which had already been strongly battered anyway was angrily throbbing away once more from the kick the youngest man had given him. His cheekbone, too, wasn't exactly where it belonged after he'd fought the new humiliation of a gag despite better knowledge.
But his hate-filled mind allowed none of these sensations that were paling into insignificance more by the second, to really make it to the surface still. Because this time, he actually had to watch with his own two eyes how the leader of his deadliest enemies approached the helplessly bound body of his fellow captive once more, with his clothes halfway undone.
Eldarion's flaming eyes searched his in a silent plea before they closed.
Therefore, Éomer did the only thing left in his power to do now and turned his gaze away, for the boy's sake.
He didn't need to see it to be haunted by these images in his head for the rest of his life. His only comfort was that said life wouldn't last much longer anyway.
Tarisilya gladly left it to the others to plan the details of the quest; she wouldn't have been of any use for that anyway.
Thondrar was the last member of her group to leave the guesthouse of the King, hurrying towards the cart that the servants had prepared, with his usual golden shield on his arm. It was the same cart that Lord Elrond's sons had used to come to the city back then, and to get the material for their endeavor from Aglarond to Gondor.
"We're good to go. The King is only waiting for the rest of Faramir's Rangers and the White Company to gather in South Ithilien now, and for the group of warriors from Imladris that the scouts have spotted in the distance. We'll drive ahead just far enough for inconspicuousness to offer us more protection than having a whole army at our back."
"I'm ready."
Tarisilya stepped away from her mare, and from Elladan's horse, who had already been harnessed for far too many long minutes. But she had to reach for Manyala's reins again immediately because the stubborn Mearh would almost have reared up. "Sedho! I know." Ignoring how Elladan clicked his tongue impatiently, she rested her cheek against Manyala's precious head, tenderly caressing her velvety nose. "I don't want to go east either. You hear me? That's the very last place I ever wanted to go in my life. But we need to protect our children, sweetie, both of us. For our future, until our time in these realms comes to an end. We owe it to them."
Looking deeply into her mare's wise, deep black eyes that were so unbelievably sad, an unmistakable suspicion overcame Tarisilya like a blade hitting her chest plate.
Even if the two of them would survive this … For Manyala and her, this would be the last trip. Her mare had already given this world everything that she could have. She had made sure that the blood of black Mearas would never be associated with superstition in Rohan ever again and that there would be many more of her kind, carrying the Kings and high nobles of these lands on their backs. And she had saved Tarisilya's life, more than once.
It was about high time for her to return the favor.
"I need to ask you for your help just one last time, sweetie. I need your fast legs and your strength more than ever this time. Let's put an end to this, alright?"
Manyala snorted once more, audibly unnerved, but then she lowered her head and pushed it against Tarisilya's armor so rudely that she would almost have toppled over.
"You think, you look any better?" She gave the animal an ironic slap on its shining metal head guard and then stepped back again tentatively. This time, Manyala didn't bolt.
"Be good. Elladan will be very careful with the reins. At least unless he wants me to beat him with my sword on the way at some point."
"Enough small talk." Rolling his eyes, Elrond's son led her to the rear hatch and offered her his arm so that she could climb the cargo area that was protected by several high tarpaulins.
Half a dozen soldiers and a certain Gondolindrim had already sat down between dozens of pipes, tubes, and vessels of clear, thick fluid. They respectfully nodded at their leader who was of elfkind today.
By now, Elladan had at least found some armor that actually really fit him. But with his hip-length, jet-black hair firmly tied back, his haggard features just stood out from under his high helmet even more. He was just as worried about his nephew as all of them.
And just like Tarisilya, he was only too aware of how unbelievably difficult the job was that the two of them and Thondrar wanted to do soon. Not least because, unlike they'd assumed in the beginning, they had no idea if Elrohir would join them in time at all to support their efforts.
So much had already gone wrong with this thing; there was so much more at stake than they'd imagined even in their worst nightmares … And still, none of them had lost hope or would do so now. Not while their King, despite his worries for his child, called his soldiers to arms, strong and unwavering with his sword and bow at hand, to defend this land that they all loved so much. This was their curse, their blessing, their duty in these realms; this, right here was the reason, the three of them, in particular, had stayed when almost every other elf had left. And nobody said, keeping the lighthouse going would always be a picnic.
Therefore, Tarisilya put her fingertips against Elladan's lips when they tried to form an apology for what he was asking of her today, for the first and the last time in this whole crisis. This decision had been hers to make.
The horn of Gondor, the fanfare of Imladris, and finally, the hymn of the elves of Cair Andros echoed through the rings one by one when Elladan swung himself on the coachbox and spurred the two Mearas on to a trot towards the city gate.
But this time, the streets weren't filled with men running from their houses to say goodbye to the soldiers or to take pleasure in the sight of one of the last elves in these realms. The citizens were filled with fear, insecurity, and wrath because men had been asked to fight once again, so shortly after the last war. And yet, none of them had raised a protest when the call had been sounded from the Citadel. Just like Rohan, Gondor had long learned when you had to fight for your freedom and security and to make sacrifices.
Taking a look back at the Citadel through the small gap between the tarpaulins, Tarisilya spotted, without any surprise, Ranír and her daughter amidst the soldiers who were just climbing horses, completely ignoring the doubtful and partly completely uncomprehending looks of the men that were aimed at the King, too.
Aragorn didn't even address the two court ladies. Instead, he pulled their cinches tight again once they were safely seated at last. He just let his hand rest on Ranír's sword handle for a long moment of sadness and stepped back when she shook her head silently.
Before Aragorn, too, would reach for Brego's reins, his way led him to the middle of the Citadel last where the Crown Princess struck up the hymn of Gondor on her flute.
With her head held high, Minuial was standing on that very bench that she had spent so many beautiful hours together with Tarisilya, Legolas, and their children on in the last few years, with books and drawings, and games. Her tight corset dress had the color of the blossoms of the tree of hope. Her silver-white circlet glistened palely in the spring sunlight. Her cheeks were tear-stained.
As it turned out, Tarisilya wasn't done with crying for the day either. By the time they had passed Osgiliath, she had probably now ruined Thondrar's healthy hand that he had on her shoulder, too, from how firmly she was holding on to it.
But the thought of turning around at the last moment didn't enter her mind a single time, not even once.