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Chapter Seven

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Often as a child Faramir had spared with his brother. He'd followed Boromir around as the man faithfully grew into the warrior he had been at the time of his death. Sword sparring, archery fields, even strategy training. But sometimes Boromir would put a lesson aside so that they could fight together in the top levels of the city. Both armed with false blades. Boromir would walk him through every move, manipulate his arms, his wrists, his feet as they needed to go; it was one of the things he loved most about his brother. Always he treated him with respect and as a fellow soldier. He did so when their father did not.

One such memory Faramir knew he would never forget was when they'd arranged a raid on the Citadel. Under the Steward's nose, of course, but Joln had always been a pure friend to them both and had not had to ask his men twice. They'd both been young men at the time. A handful of soldiers stayed with Faramir in defense of the tower; another rode with Boromir as if invading the city. Every man rode, attacked, and defended as if it were a real siege in the city. Those invading had even tied white silk around their silver helms. Faramir would never forget watching them ride up from the street, horses tall and fast and swords glinting in the sun; the electrifying jolt of readying himself to pounce, to fight.

He thought of it now. As he stood, Elladan's dark hair lifted by a small wind and fluttering at the corner of his eye while they watched a line of beautiful Elves pour out of the arch. The familiar chill of watching beings intent on turning him to nothing swept down his spine. Any soldiers that he knew were still alive in front of the raid he'd gathered fairly quickly with the help of the son of Elrond; they were all readied with pre-set commands and knew well their defense expectations. His trust in his men did not quell the absolute terror of watching the swift beings approach, but it did help.

Elladan was the first to spring forward. Faramir had almost felt like he could feel the Elf's fury swelling beside him as the Firstborn came closer; like it had reached a boiling point and snapped him into an attack. He heard Elladan start to cry words out in Elvish as he charged them.

"Stop! Stop this madness – he is — nothing! Why do you follow him?!"

A single Firstborn shouted out a clear reply, "Death."

Faramir's jaw clenched, his anger rushing down into his feet and pushing him forwards, after his friend. They ran fiercely at the Elves, and Elladan killed three of them before Faramir had even reached his first. He settled instinctively into the mind of war – focus on his breath, hands, feet, sword, enemy.

He had no idea how many people were already dead. How many men, women, how many children they might have slaughtered as they made their way through the city. He did not know why they were there nor who they were fighting for. All he knew was that they were there to kill him and his people and he refused to let it happen. They were almost wraithlike as they swarmed around them, tall and pale and all of them set with eyes like coal. The first one that Faramir killed went straight for his head; he only survived because he could tell that the Elf did not expect him to be evasive. Again he had his brother to thank. As he pushed farther into the line of Elves and heard his men colliding into battle behind him, Faramir noticed that Elladan stayed always near him. Whether it was by request of the King or the Elf's own actions, he was inexplicably grateful. He focused on the distant voice of his brother in his mind and the pounding of his heart as he fought his way through the deadly weapons of the Firstborn.

They must not reach the King.

—

There were men and Elves in the courtyard when he finally burst through the doors of the Citadel. It sent violent fear through him as he flew down the stairs; he had prayed they'd be contained below the ramp. A siege could not happen. He forced breath into his lungs as he steadied his grip of his sword and ducked under the blade of the first Elf he met, his practiced arm hardly feeling how he twisted his own sword back and into the enemy's side. Fighting by the sword was alike to breathing for the King of Men. Aragorn had known deftly how to fight since a very young age; trained by both Elves and Men of great valor and skill. He knew well how to fight for his life and for the lives of others. The love he had for his people and for his family filled him with an immovable wave of iron as he locked blades with another vicious foe.

But these were the Eldar. Apart from his first encounter with the demented Elf who had brought them here, Aragorn had never before in his life engaged in battle with the Firstborn. It made him sick now as he listened to the death cries of the furious Elves that he cut down, one after the other. He focused his attack on the spots round the fountain where the largest throngs of them seemed to breech the barrier of his soldiers. His valiant, relentless men. He would take the place of every single one he watched fall.

Suddenly he saw Joln, but he did not have time enough to cry out to him. Pain exploded in the back of his head and he stumbled forward, barely managing to keep ahold of his sword. He sucked in a desperate breath and ignored the black spots dancing in his eyes as he turned sharply, sliding by mere inches past the sword that was thrust towards him and managing to catch the wrists of his opponent. It was instantly obvious that the Elf was much stronger than him and Aragorn thought quickly, letting his legs go and using his arms to stiffen and slide underneath the Firstborn's legs, flipping the warrior over as he went. Twisting his sword hilt in his hand, Aragorn thrust it into the Elf's chest and quickly stood to avoid watching life leave shocked eyes.

When he turned to look for his chief once more, his blood ran cold. It was not Joln his eyes found, but Darcyn. Darcyn, disappearing round the side of the Citadel. Before the Elf Aragorn had caught a swift glimpse of the silver armor the Haradrim wore, and the second he saw them he knew instantly where they were going. His heart twisted with rage and he planted his feet so that he could lock blades with another dead-eyed Elf, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Darcyn!"

"Darcyn!"

He was vaguely shocked when he heard what seemed to be an enraged echo of himself. Just as he broke free of his enemy's attack and slit his throat, he watched a flash of silver and black, the strong form that was Elrohir sprint from the Citadel stairs towards the path the enemy had long since disappeared down. He could taste blood in his mouth as he fought, twisted and killed his way through the few Elves that were by now behind him and took off in a run after the son of Elrond.

—

"On my life, Adan, you are nearly useless."

His voice was an irritated hiss as he turned, glaring back over his shoulder. He knelt on the ground in the middle of the cove, the mountain rock cool and hard underneath his knees. "What part of make sure he stays alive do you not understand – which words are not translating?"

"I am sorry." The voice of the Haradrim was much clearer than that of the man traveling with him before, though still it lilted hard with their irritatingly beautiful accent. "He is load to carry."

"You have only just begun."

"I adjust," the man muttered. He nudged the shoulder of the unconscious Prince of Greenwood that lay at his feet. "He's alive. He didn't drop far."

Rolling his eyes, he turned away once more, focusing on the bite of stone into his skin. He felt finally as though he was able to breathe real and fulfilling air into his lungs; his entire being thrummed with pride at the complete perfection so far of his plans. Closing his eyes, he reached one hand into the cloak he wore. His fingers brushed cool glass. "I will not tolerate delay. We move on soon."

"Why have we stopped?"

"Quiet." Even he could hear the disgust in his voice. He also heard fear, which annoyed him. He knew that they needed to move on. This was simply too delicious of an opportunity to ignore. Reaching into the folds of his cloak, he slowly drew out a vial of amber liquid. It was small. Half full.

Precious.

He had to bite back a grin as he carefully set the vial on the ground. For a moment he simply stared at it, the faint urge to laugh pressing on his mind. He dismissed the thought and listened to the screams coming from far down below in the court of Minas Tirith, wondering how close to being able to pursue him the King and Elrond's sons had so far managed to draw.

The Easterling's voice suddenly grated against the stillness in his mind. "You just leave it?"

"Yes," he answered, but he did not know why.

"But, he–" Glancing down at the unconscious Elf at his feet, the Haradrim frowned. "You let him die?"

"Do not ask questions – forget not your status in all of this, Adan." Tearing his gaze away from the vial, he stood and turned to fix the man with empty eyes. "You are nothing. Do not presume otherwise. Come."

He knew that the Easterling believed he was doing an admirable job of hiding how strange he thought he was. He was not. But the man obeyed, reaching down to swing the Prince's limp body back up into his arms with a grunt, and as they began their descent of the path leading down from the Hallow, there were no more words.

—

"No."

Please.

"No."

Vaguely, in the back of his tortured mind, he feared he would vomit again.

"Aragorn." Elrohir's voice was quiet. The Elf stood behind him at the edge of the mountain; he could feel his brother's eyes boring holes into his back. "Get it, brother, we will take it to Elrond."

Aragorn ignored him. He just stood there, frozen, staring at the vial lying on the stone in the cove. It was small. Full. Full of a substance that would save Legolas' fading life. A substance that he and his healers and the family of Elrond had tried desperately to recreate for unending, dark, horrible days. Complete, and here, right here in front of him. He had but to step forward and pick it up.

He has him.

It was as if the thought came in the form of physical pain, lancing down through his throat, his chest, his legs. He finally shuddered, bending over and using every shred of his strength to avoid crumpling to the ground. His hands and back were soaked with sweat; his clothes with blood; his legs ached from the brutal fight on and the desperate run up the mountain. All for nothing. Nothing.

He is dying and he has him.

"Estel." Elrohir stepped forward and rested a hand on Aragorn's shoulder, intending, the man knew, to move past him and retrieve the vial himself. Something feral awoke within his grief at the Elf's touch and he surged up, shoving Elrohir behind him and stumbling desperately forwards until he could drop to his knees next to the vial. He ignored how his hand shook as he reached out to grab it, cupping the smooth glass a moment in his fingers before turning around and staring at Elrohir brokenly.

"He will die," he rasped.

Elrohir's eyes flashed with anger at the words. He moved forward and grabbed his wrist, pulling the vial from his hand and sliding it into the folds of his tunic. Aragorn knew that it was for the best. He most likely would have dropped it on the way down.

"You speak that way again, Aragorn, and I might not be able to restrain myself from giving you a second nose." Elrohir's own sorrow simmered behind the spiteful way he said the words. He squeezed the Elf's hand and noticed for the first time that Elrohir's pale skin was spattered with the blood of the four Elves that had tried to thwart them on the mountain. "We did everything we could. I am proud of you. We must return to the Citadel now, alright? They'll have horses; there is nothing left for us to do here."

Aragorn gave a stiff nod, and he did not realize he was speaking until after the words were already past his lips. "Did you recognize any of them?"

"No," Elrohir instantly said. His eyes flashed; hard and cold. "They are as if of the shadows now. I knew not a single face."

Aragorn's nod was impassioned this time as he moved quickly forward, wrapping his free arm around his brother's shoulders and clinging to the Elf as he turned them both towards the path down the mountain. "Come on."

—

He could hear only the cries of the dying from the court once the Citadel was close enough for him to see each of its individual stones. Almost as if on cue both he and Elrohir broke into a sprint, coming round the side of the tower to the familiar, grueling sight of the aftercare of battle. Most of the bodies were still; those that were not were being seen to.

The surviving Gondorian men who were not needed stood at silent attention across the grass. Aragorn's heart swelled with pride at the sight of them; he met the eyes of several and each man bowed when he did. It made him feel sick. He knew he did not deserve the fealty of a single one.

Soon he saw Faramir, Joln, Haythalm, Elladan. They were gathered next to the fountain; he felt the familiar tremor of relief in his knees at seeing all of them alive after the battle. Faramir was the one speaking, quietly but urgently, the rest of them standing somber and unblinking as they listened to the Steward. As Aragorn's steps towards them quickened he held out his bloody sword to one of the soldiers he passed and the young man bore it away just as Elladan noticed their approach. The Elf's eyes grew wide and he pushed through the men, running forward and gathering Aragorn into a tight embrace. Elrohir spoke to his brother quickly over the man's head. "They left the antidote on the mountain. We have it, Elladan; I think it's real."

Aragorn felt the Peredhel stiffen in his arms before Elladan pulled away, staring down at him in shock. He didn't meet his brother's eyes as he pushed past him and met Faramir halfway when the other man noticed his leading look and jogged forward. "My lord, I – there is shocking news."

He stared warily at his Steward as they met. "Good news?"

Faramir gave a sharp nod. "They killed no one. Until they met us in battle they did not take a single life within the walls. We've had scouts report from every level and come back with no causualties."

Aragorn's heart thundered in his chest as he turned to Elladan and Elrohir once they were close. They stared back at him in equal shock.

"Why would he lie?" Elladan murmured.

"Because he is a snake," Aragorn softly replied. "Has anyone been sent to Arwen?"

"Yes my lord."

"Did any of them survive?"

"No, my lord." He met Faramir's heartbroken eyes. "Many of our men did. None of the enemy."

"I am not surprised at the strength of Gondor." Aragorn felt hollow saying the words. "Any news from the fields?"

"Nothing." Joln stepped up beside Faramir and gave a distracted bow, his armor coated with blood. "I've set a sufficiently increased guard at the Gate and every man has been briefed on the threat. We await your next orders, my King."

"Legolas?" Haythalm quietly asked.

The small, terrified way his friend said the Elf's name brought tears to Aragorn's eyes. He quickly shook his head and Haythalm's gaze shone with grief as he reached out to grab his arm.

"I have sent word to my company," Faramir said. "Beregond and his men will come within the hour. We are not alone, my lord."

Taking as deep a breath as he could force down, Aragorn ignored the way his body was beginning to

shake with pain as his adrenaline left him and tried to use his sleeve to wipe sweat from his eyes. It only made the sting of it worse. "I want every single watch report change relayed to me by word of mouth. Keep eyes everywhere. No one enters and no one leaves. If there is any type of disagreement, altercation – anything that makes anyone uncomfortable–"

"We've had volunteers offering to post guard on every street corner in the city." Haythalm's soft voice had a magnificent way of always cutting across any and everything. All of them were secretly grateful when he spoke gently over the disheivled King. Even the King himself. "I've already set and recorded groups of them. I can show you the plans once you've been seen to."

Aragorn blinked. "Excuse me?"

Haythalm raised his eyebrows, staring him down.

"Stop it," Elladan said, rolling his eyes as he stepped forward to grab Aragorn's shoulders and give him a leading push towards the Citadel. "Go find one of your healers and have them look at your arm."

"You'll do no one any good if you're weak from blood loss," he heard Haythalm say loudly as he walked reluctantly away. He turned back to see his friend grab and shake Faramir's shoulder before turning to follow him. Their eyes met; Haythalm pretended to scowl at him once more and he knew that never in his lifetime would he be able to repay his friend for what the captain of men was doing for him in those horrible moments. As he walked through the dead and dying bodies of deluded Elves and innocent men and imagined unceasingly the stiff and bloated corpse of the Prince of Greenwood, flung across the back of a horse. He knew that Haythalm was trying to reach out for him through this darkness; to reach out and help him feel sane. It was an unpayable debt.

"When are you going to tell me who he is?" Haythalm asked him a few moments later, as another of their people tied off the final stitch in his arm. Aragorn grit his teeth and it was not from pain as he roughly pulled his sleeve down and turned away.

"After we are done with those who passed on and have given those who survived everything they need. He told us that there are more. We prepare for more."

—

TBC