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Chapter Five

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The way that Darcyn of the Noldor was a hauntingly identical mirage of the last time Aragorn had seen him chilled the King of Gondor to the bone. The curse of the Eldar. The way their years crawled by. Even they themselves often considered it an undeserved role they served in the destiny of Ilúvatar, to stay utterly unmarred by time as everything around them greyed with change. This Firstborn could boast all he wished of the privilege he claimed his lineage granted him. The curse held him just as it did the rest of his kin.

But this Firstborn was supposed to be dead. He should not still breathe to watch Middle-earth transform into a hopeful and free place of a new age. This Firstborn's body should long ago have disintegrated into the earth that bore him life. He should have rotted like a tree.

But he had not. Despite the way his mind pled desperately with the Valar to reveal whatever treachery or cruel trick of theirs that this was, Aragorn knew that for all of these years he and his family had been deceived, for it was in fact Darcyn of Imladris wrapped in chains before his throne.

He felt sick. Faint. As if he was dreaming, and he wished desperately that he was. There was little rational thought left in his mind as he walked numbly towards the ghost that stared at him, familiar and changed, even more wraithlike now than he had been before, all those years ago. He had been trying since the letter to conjure what words he might say once he'd caught the Elf and still not a single one had come to his mind other than blood. Death.

He stopped ten feet away. Darcyn's eyes seemed to cut through his soul. The guard standing behind the chair moved suddenly forwards to grab the chains, and Darcyn leaned away from the soldier with a look of disgust, his eyes never once leaving the King. Aragorn stared at him. It did not feel real. He waited, and he ignored the urge to wrestle the guard's sword and slit Darcyn's throat. He did not make a sound until finally the Elf opened his mouth to speak. Then he practically snarled a demand; "Where is it?"

Easy, Aragorn. The warning ran through his mind in the voice of every person that he respected and loved. Easy.

Darcyn smiled at him. Aragorn tried desperately to ignore how his hands were slick with sweat, clenched at his sides. He wished he had his sword. He longed for the familiar leather of the hilt; even just the possibility that he might cut the smile from the Elf's face. "You're taller. I never would have thought you'd grow taller."

His voice had not changed. Aragorn felt it send chills down his spine once more even as his face settled into stone. "Tell me. Now."

Darcyn pursed his lips, considering him silently a moment. When he spoke again it was charged and trembling. "Ask me first."

Aragorn clenched his jaw. He did not respond with words; he knew the Elf could read his answer clearly in his eyes.

"Ask me. I'm afraid I have to demand it." Darcyn sat forward, the dull rattle of the chains sounding in time with the two threatening steps he took towards him in return. "Can you believe your eyes?"

"Stop." Aragorn did not recognize the incensed voice that came from his lips, cutting through the hall. "I will kill you. Speak words of the antidote and nothing else. I am not above torture; I will reduce you to whatever is necessary until I have it in my House."

Darcyn's smile glowed, a twisted resemblance of affection. "I believe you."

"How many more do you have working for you? What have you done?"

"I will tell you nothing 'til you ask me."

Aragorn knew exactly what the Elf demanded of him. He demanded he ask how he had survived. How he was not disappeared from the earth. He refused. He would not. And he had but to turn on his heel for Darcyn to relent his childish tantrum. "Oh, please," the Elf said, rolling his eyes. "I truthfully am not quite enjoying this part of it myself, Adan. I do not like this city, and I do not as much like being in your sight as I'd assumed I would. You reek now, just as you did then. You are much easier to plot against from afar."

"You should never have come here." Aragorn brought trembling hands together behind him. "Make this as easy on yourself as you can. Just tell me; here, now. Before I send you."

"Is he vomiting blood yet?"

Before Darcyn could so much as finish the last word Aragorn hit him. Hard. Pain blossomed deep in the King's knuckles as his fist connected sharply with the Elf's jaw. The resounding crack of bone on bone echoed through the hall, and after it everyone was silent, and still. The soldier of Gondor stared in open-mouthed shock at his King as he stepped back and shook out his hand.

Darcyn gave him an affronted look before spitting a mouthful of blood across the white stone of the floor. "Lovely," he muttered. "I suppose I was expecting worse, but still."

Aragorn's arm was already raised to hit him again when Elrohir's clear voice split through the hall. "Enough Elessar."

Although he could hear his brother make no move to approach them, Aragorn heard the warning in the Peredhel's words nonetheless. He forced himself to lower his hand, clenching his jaw and stepping back. Darcyn moved his jaw side to side, wincing as he spoke loudly after. "I ask you again to join us. He was always much tamer when you were around."

There was no answer. Aragorn focused on his breath for a moment. He knew he must cling to his self control as if without it he would perish. "No more dramatic proclamations by letter," he said after a quiet stretch of watching the Elf. "No more smiles, no more self indulgence, no more conversation. First the antidote. Then the account. Of every detail – you will reveal every sickened piece of these lands you have poisoned in this pursuit of me. You will describe how you have threatened my realm and then you will sit in darkness below ground while I decide what shall be done with you."

"I knew that this would incense me." Darcyn's eyes were sick with the glow of utter madness. "I trust too blindly in my practice of patience. You are right here, Adan, drowning in front of me. And I cannot touch you yet. Indeed you spoke true; I should never have come here. To watch you parade around these halls as if you have become something. You may have fooled the insignificant creatures that liter these lands, but you are no one. You have killed things, buttered up leaders, gained titles, and married an Elf, yet still you are vermin and that is all you will ever be."

Aragorn stiffened, hoping the alarm he felt did not show on his face as he stared at him a second before saying loudly, "Go."

Without hearing a sound he knew that the sons of Elrond had instantly led the guard away down the hall, leaving for his rooms. He watched as Darcyn struggled to stay firm behind the passive stare he'd sunken into, even as annoyance at speaking the words crawled under his skin.

"How did you know she's still alive?" he quietly asked.

Darcyn shook his head, rolling his eyes away towards the doors. "I don't know what you mean."

"My men have sworn to silence." Aragorn felt a new foreboding push into his mind as the hairs rose on the back of his neck. "All of them. I trust them with my life and the lives of those I love. They would have told no one. How do you know?"

Still Darcyn did not look at him. He gazed thoughtfully now at an effigy far off. "What did it feel like? When you believed her dead? Describe it to me."

Aragorn's entire body trembled with rage; it mixed with bile, clawing up his throat. "I knew you were wretched; destroyed long ago. But this? How could you ever fall this far, Darcyn? How could you ever choose such darkness?"

For the first time since they had beheld each other that day, every shred of glee vanished from the face of the dark-haired Elf. Darcyn stared at him with eyes empty as the pits of Morgoth, nearly stealing what little breath rattled in his lungs. "You brought this darkness to life. It was seeded in you. You have been a stain on so many of my kin that the Valar have cast their judgement, and they have done so through me. I survived for this reason, Adan. The time of your reckoning has come."

Aragorn drowned still in the haze of disbelief, the haunting sight of the Noldorian ghost staring at him from the shadow of Gondor's throne. If it were not for the steady, persistent push of warning digging into the roots of his mind the King knew he would have very likely snapped into untamable rage.

Suddenly Darcyn's face melted back into a smirk. "You haven't even noticed. I almost feel shame for the disparity of this fight. It annoys me."

Now he knew; now he understood why he had felt threatened long before he had even heard the footfalls behind him. He had seen the soldier leave his post; watched him simply stand guard from a different spot and he remembered the thought: he is uncomfortable; so close to such depravity. He knew now that his focused and furious mind had been excusing odd behavior to continue its quest for answers. He berated himself for it now as he listened to the swift approach of a potential killer.

He turned swiftly on his heel and came face to face with a stranger adorned in the armor of his men. His eyes slid quick to a dagger that the man raised with a visibly practiced hand. The movement was not of Gondorian skill, and it solidified his suspicion of this co-conspirator hailing from outside of his realm. He did not have a weapon. He had only recently ceased to carry his own knife, and Aragorn regretted, mourned, and accepted this cruel decision within the span of a single second. He knew that against this enemy he now must trust his hands and his feet for any chance of escaping with his life.

The King rose and took the knife clean through his forearm. His opponent did not expect such a decision and the split moment in which he paused Aragorn slammed the flat of his palm up into the man's nose. It incapacitated the attacker enough for him to be able to kick him; powerfully, once in the gut, sending him stumbling backwards as he clutched his face. Aragorn's pulse quickened in a split moment of triumph that was snuffed quickly by the agility and sure-footedness of this opponent. The knife glinted cold in the stranger's hand as he took two powerful steps and pistoned into a feet-first dive forward. Aragorn jumped over his legs, twisting violently to the side midair and feeling the blade skim the back of his tunic. He did not land as gracefully as his foe; he fell hard to his knees and somehow he knew it was over even before the man had gathered a fistful of his hair and yanked his head to the side. Bright and bizarre visions of the blade sinking deep into the skin of his neck made him shudder, his teeth grinding together in his mouth with fear.

"Behind you, Adan!"

In his mindless panic Darcyn shouted the command in Elvish. Panic of what Aragorn did not know, but his heart lurched in shock as suddenly the hand in his hair went limp and then the man was falling, slumping over him, the knife clattering to the floor. Aragorn shoved the limp form away and leapt to his feet, turning instinctively to make sure that Darcyn was still secure. The Elf sat still and white-faced in his chains. Aragorn felt a sting somewhere past his elbow but could not remember why it would hurt as his eyes focused on an arrow that was now wedged between the shoulder and back plates of the armor his attacker wore. The fletching sparked desperate recognition in his mind, but still for several moments he floundered in incomprehension as he stood there frozen, staring at it. When he looked back up at Darcyn he found him to be staring at something of his own. He numbly followed the Elf's eyes.

There, lowering his bow at the end of the hall; quiver over one shoulder, face grave, and bare feet set firmly apart; stood Legolas.

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TBC

'Darcyn –(dar)-/kɪn/'

A/N: (Guests), thank you so so very much for checking in with me. I'm so glad you're reading and enjoying my old work. Hannon le!

Neb