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Chapter Nine

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As he stalked, low and swift through the foliage, Elladan son of Elrond flipped every moment in his mind through which way his brother might besiege him. His entire form was taunt with the rage and the focus of what he sought, but still he planned for the assault. He had seen plainly the horror spread across Elrohir's face as he'd whispered his horse back into the trees and off of the path so that he could drop into the brush and disappear. He knew Elrohir would follow his mind and know instantly what he planned to do; thus was not a matter of if his twin caught him, but when. He only hoped he might reach his own target first.

His target was Darcyn.

They had been on either side of Joln when they'd first heard the marchers. Elladan first; by mere seconds. As soon as they were able to tell that the army was as massive as it was, Elrohir told the chief of the guard what they knew and bid him reach the King with all speed. With soft and sharp calls Joln had quickly obeyed, calling his scout into a hard ride across the fields. They had already been past the treeline and Elladan knew they would be swift; soon Aragorn would be alerted and able to prepare.

Now, Elladan smelled blood.

He could kill him and escape. Right now; he could slit Darcyn's throat in the forest of Gondor. His fingers itched for it.

Out here, Darcyn was exposed. Even as the Elf had an army, there were trees, also, and trees granted Elladan the privilege of cover. If he waited for Elrohir to catch up and sent his brother back to Gondor first, he could do this – he could make this secluded and deserved attempt on cutting the head off of the snake. Footsteps grew louder in his ears; visions of carrying Darcyn's head to the King flashed through his mind as they marching pounded in rhythm with his heart. He only wished that was how they had killed him the first time. He should never have left it to the gods. It is a decision he would never forgive himself for.

Finally he saw them. Darcyn first; Darcyn and a line of stone-faced Elves on either side. Behind them marched hundreds of Haradrim men. Elladan stared hard at the Noldorian ghost as he approached, crouched there in the leaves of Gondor's forest, running his fingers along the hilt of his longsword

He smelled his brother before anything else. Before strong Elven hands curled like iron around the bones of his arms his nose lifted with Elrohir's familiar scent and he raised one of his arms in the small beginnings of a protest. He quickly ceased said protest and let his brother wrestle him to the ground – with an unnecessary amount of force, but he let Elrohir have it. Vaguely it reminded him of when he'd subdued Aragorn in the Citadel. They were all so predictable, as Darcyn would say. It infuriated him that the presence of the putrid Firstborn bled into his mind just as if these years had never passed between them; these changes and these wars and these ends and these beginnings. It was as if he had Darcyn's pale face above his sword in Imladris all over again. He grit his teeth, his brother's long hair blinding him.

"Elrohir," he forced out.

"Shst."

"Hey." After a few moments of complete still he pinched Elrohir's rib. "Elrohir. Off."

"You are insane. Have I ever told you that you're insane?"

"Yes."

"You are insane."

"Get off me."

"I don't trust you. Lie still."

"Elrohir!"

"What are you doing? What was your plan? To fight legions on your own? You cannot let your anger rule you like –"

"Enough." Elladan could not deny guilt as he wrapped his legs round Elrohir's waist and flipped his twin underneath him. He glared down into Elrohir's furious eyes. "It does not matter now. Whether by your will or my own, my hand is stayed."

"Now we are both stayed." The fire in his brother's gaze doubled in return; Elladan could feel his panic. "Now we must wait here for the entire hold to pass. And even then we must take the mountain path and it will add ages to–"

"Elrohir, you must quiet yourself." Elladan's fingers itched still to draw his blade and cut down the Elf he knew still stalked mere leagues away. He focused on his brother instead, gritting his teeth. "When have we ever been late before?"

His dry attempt at humor only brought grief to Elrohir's eyes. "Brother."

"Trust me." He shook him, and then released his hold. His heart thundered in his chest with the torrent of his guilt and his rage as both of them rolled to the earth and watched the Haradrim march by. "I will make this right."

–

Anim was still trying to catch his breath.

The frantic horse-ride across the fields of Pelennor had felt agonizingly long. Paired with the terror clutching his chest in a vice, by the time they'd reached the city he had not breath left in his lungs at all. He was breathing in fumes as he mindlessly made his way to his spot in battle formation, and he had not caught his breath even by the time King Elessar came flying down the street, flanked by Master Haythalm and his personal guard. Swift, angry words were exchanged between Aragorn and Faramir, and then the King began to pace. He paced unceasingly, and as Anim stood rigidly between two of his companions he found himself watching the quick and fluid steps of the King with envy. He wished he could join him. He needed to move, to think, to focus, to breathe.

But there was no room for this now. They must stay their spots and be stout of heart; this they all knew well. They waited. They waited for the dark Elf, and his army.

A hush had fallen over the courtyard the second the soldiers had settled into place. They all stood still and silent. Anim's mind wandered briefly to his wife, but just as her face filled his mind there King Elessar walked to the Great Gates and stopped directly in front of them, catching his eye. Anim imagined that the rage was visible in the lines of his King's back as the man stared, but did not move. Did not speak. The silence continued to wrap them all in a palpable hush.

Suddenly it was broken, loud and sharp from outside the gates.

"Elessar!"

The shout made every man in armor jump. A rattle swept through the courtyard, but silence engulfed them instantly once more. Anim looked quickly back over at his King and saw that the man had not moved except to clench his hands into fists at his sides.

Suddenly Anim realized that he knew the voice that called out to their lord. It sent a jolt of sick fear through his heart just as it rang out over them once more, cutting through the mithril of the gate like it was not there.

It was the Elf.

His voice was fitting for such a being; cold and sharp. It horrified him to hear it shout into the walls of his home, as the dark Elf stood tall outside them with his army.

Oh, that he would live to see such fear returned.

–

"Elessar."

Haythalm could hear the rattle of Aragorn's breath. Could see the pressure of the rage on his friend's face; the utter, torrential weight of how it must press on him as they listened to the disembodied voice croon from outside the wall.

"I know you stand there, Elessar. I can smell you. I smell your despair. Quite a devastating choice you face now, isn't it?"

Choice? Haythalm stiffened, his heart beating even faster inside his breastplate as he realized that he already knew the meaning of the Elf's words even before Darcyn went on.

"Did you see the cart? A wooden one on wheels. More towards the front; just a way back. Did you see it?"

When Aragorn looked over at him a moment, his face was completely white. "What is he talking about?"

Glancing over his shoulder at Faramir, Haythalm grit his teeth when he found the Steward's face was drained equally of color. He gave a sharp nod. Haythalm took a shuddering breath, turning back to the King and meeting Aragorn's wide eyes as he tried to speak to him gently. "My lord, you must listen to me–"

"Adan." Darcyn snapped the word in childlike annoyance. Haythalm fought the urge to bare his teeth at the gate. "Answer me. If I can reach you with my words, you can reach me with yours. You'll wish dearly to know what I intend."

Furious words burst unbidden from Haythalm's chest, the terror in Aragorn's eyes the final cut of his restraint. "We saw it, you coward."

"Whose voice is this, now?" Darcyn laughed, nearly hysterically; it grated against Haythalm's ears as Aragorn reached out and grabbed his arm, gaze brimming now with gratitude. "You speak for your King? Where are the others? Should I cower in fear of a secret plan?"

"Darcyn," Aragorn whispered, but the word was too quiet to be heard.

"The cart is not empty." As Haythalm felt Aragorn's grip on his arm go lax he quickly reached out to catch his hand, squeezing it viciously enough to command horrified eyes. He was able to mouth two words to his King before Darcyn went on.

Ignore him.

"He missed you. Your friend clings to life more furiously than I've ever seen with this toxin."

Aragorn pulled away from him, drawing his sword. Haythalm watched in sorrow as the King held Andúril in a fist of white and turned to the gate, his shoulders taunt with fury. But still he did not respond.

"I want you to think long and hard now. I lay a choice before you. If you come out to me, alone, we shall exchange. The cart will go inside the city, while you stay. I will not kill you. You will leave with us. Be sure that you hear me clearly, Elessar. The Prince will go in to the cure. He will live. I swear my words on pain of death."

"You swear them?" Haythalm's heart swelled with pride at the strength in Aragorn's sudden shout.

Darcyn's own voice filtered back to them filled with glee. "I swear them, Adan. Come on."

"Part of me fears that you actually believe I would open these gates to you."

"You would let Legolas suffocate outside your walls instead?"

"And my people?"

"Your people could not matter less to me. Call the set up for a sac a mere practice of intimidation." Darcyn's tone turned nauseatingly dry. "It does not have to be as bloody as our numbers may make it appear. I am telling you that I will stay them if you agree to what I ask."

Haythalm's fists clenched even tighter at his belt, numbing his fingers now. He felt grief choke him as he watched Andúril disappear down at Aragorn's side; watched his friend press against the gate. "What you ask. You wish for me to stroll out to you like after that everyone will walk away with their lives."

"No." A bark of amusement. "I will not lie. You will not survive this. You will die. Without question."

Out of the corner of his eye Haythalm saw Beregond put out a swift hand when Faramir stepped quickly forwards. Aragorn had not moved; his forehead seemed now pressed almost to the mithril, his words whispered for no one's ears but his beloved friend's. "I'm sorry. Legolas, if you are there, please, my friend, please forgive me."

"He takes your place." Fury burst forth into Darcyn's voice when only silence followed his words; the fury that Haythalm knew had simmered just below the surface of the way the Elf taunted them all. "This time he will not be there to keep me from you. Do you wish him to live, or do you not?"

Suddenly Aragorn turned his head and met his eyes. There was a new and cold light dancing there, hollow as the King's voice as the man shouted, "You will not enter Minas Tirith."

There was the clinking of armor and weapons through the company as spears dropped, men clasped shoulders, and swords lowered. All of the sounds made the hair on the back of Haythalm's neck raise as he moved quickly forward and ignored how Aragorn tried to turn away from him – he knew his King was in agony, but he knew he needed to hear his words.

"My lord, forget not – if we hold the city I believe allies can reach us before–"

Darcyn interrupted him, his voice rolling through the gate like a flood. "Sii! Ndnengina!"

Haythalm did not know the Elvish language fluently. But he had learned common words – common words concerning military commands, on behalf of his new King and the new age. He did not understand the entirety of Darcyn's order, but he heard clearly the words, 'Kill! Now!'

The outer ring of men broke away from the rest – nine, no more – and began a uniformed sprint for the gates. The soldiers of Gondor now found themselves watching in confusion as their companions moved forward in what seemed to be confusion of an order. Haythalm was not so easily fooled. Betrayal had run as thick as blood in the city as of late, and though no other non-citizens of Gondor had been found residing in the city during their sweep of it, it seemed Darcyn's deceit held sway over even the sons of Minas Tirith.

As soon as he saw these men break away from the rest the captain knew that the supposed soldiers were not of Gondor. His feet catapulted him into action; he shouted for Faramir to cut them down and lurched forwards, grabbing Aragorn's arm and yanking him away, towards the street. His heart was in his throat as for an absolutely horrifying moment he feared that they would be overrun. He did not know what he would do if he had to watch Aragorn be cut down in front of him. He shoved the pushing and shouting King into the closest building as there came a distant guttural cry, "Fair one, now; now!"

Haythalm's attempts to hide his friend were futile. Aragorn managed to meet his eyes in the midst of their brief scuffle and nearly snarled at him; "Move."

They were side by side as they sprinted back onto the street, only to watch the courtyard flood with the Haradrim; Easterlings pouring through the open gate. Haythalm instantly saw Faramir already encased in a ring of them round the other side of the fountain. He knew Aragorn was making his way towards the Steward and stayed at the King's two-step, drawing his sword. "The Elves will come soon," he told Aragorn breathlessly. "Remember; two rows back."

He saw Aragorn's sharp nod before the King leapt viciously at a hooded and screaming man.

It had begun.

–

TBC

Literal Elvish translations:

"Sii! Ndnengina!" — 'Now! Kill!'