Chapter Six

[Sindarin]

The darkness if his familiar home taunted him. Sweat and tears mingled on his face, and the cold metal of his dagger felt the irregular beatings of his heart beneath it. And all he could see now was his family.

He saw Elrohir, putting the rim of the goblet to his lips and drinking. His horror as the elf went deathly pale and fell to the floor in convulsions. Then the memory of Ilitha, sneaking out of the kitchens with a strange vial in her hand, had sent him running from the dining hall in a fury, before he could tell anyone of his suspicions, hearing only the cries of "Murder! Treason!" from the elf-warriors in the Hall.

Then he had confronted her, but could not bring himself to be the cause of her death. It was Man's weakness, he knew. Even in his fury he could not kill her, because she was innocent, susceptible to the crooked whisperings of the dark powers of the world. Because she was human.

Because he was also human.

She had given him hope, at least. Obviously she thought that it was Elladan who she had poisoned, not Elrohir, and her words had suggested that anyone not the intended victim would survive the poisoning. Elladan's words made him anxious, but perhaps he had left the Hall just as Estel had, and only presumed that their brother was dead by now.

Their brother.

All his life Estel had been acutely aware of his shortcomings, and many elves in his adoptive father's domain took every opportunity to remind him of the frailties of mortality. Yet he had always hoped that as he came into manhood, they would come to accept him. For this reason he had studied and laboured and practiced his weapons, knowing that though he would never fully acquire the elven grace of his brothers, he would at least proudly stand his ground and fight beside them when time came for him to be journeying with the elf-warriors. And in a way, a substantial amount of elves had done so. The warriors under Elladan and Elrohir's commands all knew Estel, and respected him, treating him as one of their younger members. Though getting along with Estel wasn't quite a criteria the brothers chose their warriors with, their wrath at any disrespect for their youngest brother was legendary.

But through all his hard work, all the honing of his skills to perfection, he knew there was one weakness that still lingered in him. The one weakness that many elves scorn Men for, what had turned the Last Alliance into a "fruitless victory", as his father called it. It was his emotions, his inability to prevent his feelings from affecting his judgement. And now it had cost him everything.

Weakling. Human! Are you too weak to even take your own life?

Tears still fell down his face. Yet even in his deteriorating state he was sure-footed amongst the trees he had climbed more times that he could remember. He was on one of the branches of the Bow, where he liked to read scrolls whilst munching on food pilfered from the kitchens. Now he stood under the branches of a large tree, unable to see anything in the sheer darkness, the dagger gleaming in bit of moonlight between the gaps in the leaves.

It was so easy. All he had to do was press down. Just once, and it would be over tonight.

What will? His weary young mind asked.

The pain. The dry voice said. Do you not want to be rid of it? Life has been pain, and will be pain until the day you finally die. Which can be now, if you so wish.

Yes, his mind agreed. Yes, life has been full of pain. But even as he thought this, memories rushed in.

Elrohir giving him his first riding lesson and being more scared about the whole business than Estel was. The dubious looks on Elladan's face as he convinced the elf to teach him the sword when he could barely lift the weapon. Glorfindel putting him atop a tree when he was six summers' old and refusing to let him down again. Catching Erestor discreetly stealing an apple from the pantries.

There was Mother. Ammëë. She had always been there, as far back as he could remember. Gentle but a force not to be trifled with, he thought her as wise as his father, though in a different kind of wisdom. She could tell whenever something was distressing him, and he had learned to heed her advice to the letter. But for some reason he saw her less and less now, and she seemed content to simply fade into the background.

And Ada. A powerful elf-lord, in whose eyes shone the light of the Trees as the children of Eärendil saw in the Silmaril which now lit the night sky, yet kind and compassionate to all, whatever their race. Grief had not hardened his heart, only given him wisdom, and even now Estel was still in awe of the one he had come to call Ada. He could not imagine any other, and for this he sent a silent apology to the man whom his mother still loved and who had given him life. But it was Elrond he remembered; coming into his room after every nightmare, him and Ammëë both. Whose own love of healing helped him discover the joy in growing and creating and cultivating, instead of destroying, as too many did. The one who almost bodily picked up an ambassador from Mirkwood and throw the elf out of a balcony when he commented that "the mortal brat was in his way", not realising who Estel was.

"Yes, life is pain," He said thoughtfully. "But it is joy as well. And love. "

He blinked. The fog in his mind cleared. He suddenly realised that he wasn't sure how everything had come down to this, and why he was standing under a tree in the middle of the woods- the Bow, he recognised now, he was under the Bow- with a knife to his heart.

Then he felt it. Or heard it. It was like a snake hissing, coming from all around him yet far away. It was in his mind, but he felt its breath on his skin. He sensed its malice, its desire for chaos, for pain, for anger. And it frightened him. He also knew with absolute certainty that it was this… thing,,, who was responsible for all that was happening in Rivendell.

Everything became a terrifyingly clear. He remembered the glazed look in Ilitha's eyes when he first found her. He remembered the feeling of unrest in his stomach, yet he couldn't quite concentrate enough to pinpoint what it was. Now he could feel the residue of the barrier that had been in his mind, the presence that prevented him from suspecting anything was wrong, whispering to him as it constantly reminded him of the pain and loneliness of his childhood.

It laughed at him now. So, you have a stronger mind than I thought, human.

It startled Estel that it was addressing him directly. There was arrogance there, of one who did not expect to fail, and was not used to failure. Who are you? What do you seek from us?

It chuckled, and a chilling suspicion descended on Estel. It said nothing for a moment, then answered with a victorious note. He does not even trust you, does he? But who would? A mortal is a weak thing, and could easily fall prey to lesser powers than me.

Not need to ask who 'he' was. Enough, snake! You will not turn be against my own family, no matter how hard you try. So tell me what it is you seek or be gone! He was furious now. This was the one who wanted to kill Elladan, and obviously felt that he had succeeded. But there was also something else, something that such a one had gone to great lengths to obtain. What could Imladris have that his father hadn't told him?

Or what? It jeered at him. But as you asked ever so nicely, I shall tell you. I seek Vilya, the Ring of Sapphire, one of the Three that my Master covets nearly as much as the One. I have reason to believe that your father has it in his possession.

A Ring of Power? But… Estel's mind raced through his lessons in the history of Middle-Earth. Yes, his father had told him about the Rings of Power that Celebrimbor made in Eregion, though Elrond did not seem to be willing to speak too much of them. It was entirely possible that he bore one himself, and Estel didn't begrudge his father for hiding it even from his own son. I know not what you speak, snake, and I have lived here all my life. I know not of such a Ring in Imladris.

With that he turned to leave. Or tried to. But he couldn't move. His senses still worked, telling him that the night was cold, dark, and that a very sharp dagger was at that moment pointing down to his chest. But his muscles wouldn't obey him, flexing with a will of their own- or someone else's. Terrified, Estel felt the dagger pressing down harder, cutting the first layer of his cloth. He struggled against the invisible barrier in his mind, not really knowing what he was struggling against, but he was trapped.

Not so easy, is it, said the voice leisurely. Can't have you running back and telling your dear father. Not that it would change much. You have been kind enough to let my pawn into your homes, and have given me ample time to strengthen my hold on your minds. Even for one such as Elrond, my control is as total as it is in you.

The dagger pressed down.

~*~

[Sindarin]

Gilraen was frustrated, confused and terrified. This didn't make a very pleasant combination in the Dùnadan, and anything that got in her way, living or otherwise, suffered the result.

Several pieces of broken furniture later, she decided that she was calm enough for coherent thoughts. It worried her a little that her temper had gotten the better of her, as it had not done in many years, but at the moment she knew that more things were at stake than her sanity. She had not missed Estel's quick departure, followed by Elladan, and Elrohir being carted off to the Healing Halls by Elrond's healers. What had truly frightened her was the rage plainly written on his face, the elf lord whose infallibility was legendary. At the head of the table in the Dining Hall, he had stood and shouted "Treason! Death to any and all who took part in this! Search the grounds, and find the assassin. Death to any and all, I announce with my right as Lord of this realm! Treason!"

That had gone too far. But before her long strides could take her near the elf lord, he had disappeared down one corridor flanked by his guards. Elrond, who threatened to shave bald any guard who attempted to 'protect' him without his permission. Elrond, allowing other healers to tend to his son, lying pale and unmoving on the litter. Thus Gilraen could only reach a seemingly impossible but only reasonable conclusion: Elrond was not himself.

Another time she would have questioned her sanity for even considering the possibility that something could… possess someone, especially if that someone was Elrond son of Eärendil. But upon hearing Elrond's proclamation, she had been taken by a rage so great it had frightened her into retreating into her empty chambers to calm down. Experience had taught her that putting an Elrond and a Gilraen in the same room together with both temperaments high would probably result on a large crater on this side of the Misty Mountains. Now, relatively calmer, she was faced with the challenge of freeing the Lord of Imladris from whatever dark sorcery he had been put under.

Foresight, as her people and the elves call it, was for Gilraen a random, unpleasant and generally unwelcomed experience. And it struck just as the she felt her calm center take control again. A very brief sequence of images flashed before her eyes. She had been getting them more often recently, and had acquired the ability to tell which ones were definite, unchangeable events, which ones were possible outcomes, and consequently the order in which the events must happen in order to get the desired result.

Hitching up the skirt of her dress, she resolutely headed for her balcony. She knew where Elrond would be, and predicted that in his condition he would have locked the door. Years of exposure to the Peredhil twins had taught her many useful skills, as well as a very thorough knowledge of the hundred or so balconies of the House, and navigating from the outside.

Her mind thinking back over what she had been able to learn of Elves in the piles of scrollsin the library of Rivendell, she headed towards Elrond's study.

~*~*~