It took me forever to re-read this to make sure it's postable. Well, technically, it's not. I could make it so much better. But, as I'm busy and don't want to make you wait, I will post it as is. When I get the time and the inclination, I may change it, who knows, but this is it, posted for your enjoyment.
Hmmm. I think I may have said I was half-way through chapter 16 last chapter. I meant chapter 17, and I'm finished with it now. It just has to be typed up. I'm working on 18, and depending on how it goes, I may be adding another chapter so that it totals 20. That's long for me. Seriously.
Just a warning: Kelt/Kalya is more the major character in this chapter and the next. That is not to say that Aragorn is not in them nor that he is unimportant, simply that he is . . . Indisposed at the moment and most of the action falls to his companion. *g* But don't worry. He gets his own action before the end. A bit more than he would wish for, too. . . .
Noriel: I'm so glad you like it! My twisting conversations? You mean those exchanges that require serious thought to keep track of? Lol. *smirks* Someone who actually likes my sense of humor, it's a miracle. Hehe.
Nell-Marie: My reading references come through in my writing, I think. I hate short chapters, so I make sure mine are long. *g* Dialogue is so much fun. . . . Yes, fun. . . .
Grumpy: A good cliffie? . . . Is there any such thing as a 'good cliffie'?
Bill the Pony2: Always good to hear from the dead. Strange, but still good. Glad ya liked.
Endril: You're in luck! I'm updating today. Lol. Aragorn angst is my favorite. Then, of course, there are those little moments where Aragorn's angst creates angst for other chacters (namely Legolas), and those are even better. *evil grin*
It's so wonderful to hear from all of you. My newbies and repeaters both. For one thing, I cannot judge my own work. I always think it stinks. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love hearing from all of you.
*huddles slightly* Please don't leave me. *stares at them with wide eyes, horrified that she spoke that out loud, then runs quickly from the room, the door slamming behind her*
*door opens once more and a head peeks out* Enjoy!
Sacrifice
Aragorn watched as Shirk approached Kalya and dragged the tip of the blade he held down the side of her face, drawing a line of blood. He twisted his hands in their bonds and found them secured quite well above his head; he was going no where soon unless it was decided by his . . . host. He could not help her.
The ranger blinked, suddenly realizing the attention had now turned to him. Looking into Shirk's face--ancient eyes wild, pointed ears, fair complexion--he wondered why he had wanted to risk attracting his attention in the first place and how Kalya could stand it. Still, he set his jaw and met the other's gaze evenly.
"You choose the most interesting friends, selde," Shirk told her, an intense fire in his eyes. Aragorn saw his friend tense and twist and just knew the girl would love to strike the elf that taunted her.
Her eyes darkened. "At least my friends don't stab me in the back, leuke," she replied, her voice far calmer than he would have thought by her expression.
The elf before him smiled, the expression far from pleasant, and raked his fingernails down the side of Aragorn's face. "That's what I love about you, Kelt; your fire." A hand beneath his chin forced the ranger's gaze upward. "And this one," he announced, "is more resilient than I would have thought."
The two captives watched as the other walked away and disappeared from sight. Apprehension twisted its way through his gut, tying knots wherever it was able. Aragorn looked over at the girl, who looked sick. "What does that mean?" he asked, for once absolutely positive that he really did not want to know.
"That means you get another dose of Ungwale," she told him, shadowed blue eyes turning to him to gauge his reaction.
The ranger dropped back in his bonds, going limp even as he went numb. What this new bit of information entailed, his mind refused to translate. Everything seemed distant and he thought that only happened after he had that one pain-relieving drug his father was so fond of giving his patients when he--for once--did not want them to sleep. It had never happened spontaneously before, making the phenomenon important. He would have to remember to tell father, he thought. Slightly confused blue-grey eyes looked up at the elf's near silent approach.
Shirk held a small vial in one hand and a knife in the other. A wicked grin pulled his lips away from his teeth, and Aragorn knew from experience that anything that gave one such as him so much pleasure, would only give him just as much pain. He swallowed hard but could do nothing to stop what he knew was coming, even though he still had not processed what exactly that would be.
Somewhat detached, he watched as the other cut open his shirt to find the old arrow wound that had mostly healed. The vial was placed in an easily accessible pocket that looked to the ranger's eyes like it had been placed there for that exact purpose. Then the being used his right hand to probe the wound, none-too-gently before digging into it with the tip of the knife and sending fire racing through his veins. The very small, very distant part of his mind that was still lucid realized the drug had been on the knife, and that same part managed to wonder how he had missed that particular action. His back arched against the pain, finding no relief, and his vision swirled. His muscles tensed, contracting too far, feeling as if they were going to tear in two at any moment. His world funneled down to the pain and he only vaguely noticed the elf before him was still there.
Shirk grinned and looked at the other captive. "Men always react so interestingly to this particular drug, don't you think."
"I think you are insane," Kalya offered in a conversational tone, as if she were merely commenting on the weather though her expression was tense.
Eyes darkened by hatred regarded her for a moment, head cocked slightly to the side. A slow smiled spread across his face, eyes blazing. "It's been far too long since we last played, Kelt. We can't let the Ranger have all the fun, you know. And now," he moved up next to her, his face beside hers as his breath caressed her ear and neck with every exhalation, sending shivers of disgust down her back, "there's no one here to protect you." He stepped back and called two others to him. "Remind Kelt what it means to betray us," he ordered. "Make sure she lives. I want her to see the Ranger fade into shadow."
He walked away, and even before he disappeared, the crack of a whip could be heard, and the whistle of objects moving quickly through the air, followed by either a snap or a swish. Quiet hisses joined the symphony of sound but no cry broke the air. Pain glazed blue eyes stared out, tracking the path Shirk had taken, anguish haunting their depths. From the depths of his pain, Aragorn watched as well, and the shadows deepened.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Kelt took slow, deep breaths in an attempt to distill the pain that coarsed through her system. Her former friends still knew their stuff, she decided as the pounding in her head increased when she tried to move it.
A quiet whimper to her right informed her of Aragorn's presence. The drug must be working again, she mused. With that thought, she finally managed to open her eyes, slowly. Blurry images floated before her and she blinked to try and clear them. It was a long time before they resolved themselves into trees and fauna, but eventually they did, and she was able to look around.
Aside from nature, she could see no sign of their captors. No guard had been left near them and she could hear the sounds of camp that she could not see, far away and around a bend, for she could just make out the soft glow of a fire.
Unwilling to chance their escape yet, she scanned the trees around them as closely as possible, locking onto the most likely places for a hidden watch, and found them empty. The only sounds of breathing she heard came from right beside her, and she was relieved to note they were only slightly labored.
She licked dry lips and thanked whoever might be listening that her fellow Slyntari had underestimated her again. "Hold on, Ranger," she murmured, noting that they had not even bothered to bind her or Aragorn's feet.
Deciding to take advantage of this fact, she braced herself for her body's protestations and pulled herself up so she could reach inside her boot and grab the dagger she kept there. The pain that flared throughout her body, made her breath catch--a good thing since she would have screamed if she could breath, and that would have eliminated any hope they had of getting away. Still, she managed to get to the dagger and grab it despite the pain. She had never before been so glad she could operate on two levels, allowing her to shift the pain to the back of her mind and therefore keep it from interfering in her actions.
She held still as she waited for the pain to release and her breath to come back to a semblance of normalcy and then began to saw at the ropes holding her wrists. The movement was awkward and painful, the ropes rubbing bracingly against her tender skin, but she ignored it, the pain elsewhere so much more intense. Then, finally, the ropes came free with a snap and she stumbled forward, barely managing to catch herself before she hit the ground with a thud and announced to the entire camp that something was wrong. As it was, she held herself perfectly still and begged anyone who was listening to let Shirk not have heard her.
When several minutes had passed and there were no footsteps heading their direction, she finally dared to move. She turned to Aragorn. The Dúnadan looked terrible. His eyes were heavily dilated and glazed, half open and staring blankly at his surroundings. His skin was pale, as best she could tell in the dim light, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his face. She moved near him and placed a hand against his forehead, noting the slight fever he had had for the last couple of days had increased enough to be dangerous if left untended.
The girl shook her head and moved next to him, standing carefully by his right arm and wrapped her left arm carefully around his waist. "Aragorn," she whispered in his ear. "Aragorn, listen to me. We're going to get out of here, but I need your help."
Dazed eyes fixed on her tiredly and he nodded. She looked up at his bound wrists and started working the bindings with the knife. They snapped and the ranger's weight dropped on her. She hissed in pain, unable to stifle the sound, and stumbled as she attempted to balance his weight which was at least twice her own.
"Come on, Ranger," she hissed in his ear. "What would Legolas say if he saw you like this, weak human? Stand up and prove him wrong. Show the world." Something of that must have registered in his mind, for he started helping her bear his weight and they steadied. "That's it, Strider. Now we're going this way," she turned him away from the camp and further into the foliage, "and we're going to put an end to that fever and those nasty images in your head, okay?"
Dazed eyes glanced at her again, and she started walking, leading him into the foliage by the quietest route she could find. She only hoped they could find the right plant before Shirk and company realized they were missing. Once their absence was discovered, they would be hunted, and if they were found, they would never get the chance to escape again.
The shadows in the ranger's eyes deepened and Kelt stepped up the speed, practically pulling him along with her. She searched for the small clearing she knew was nearby, the hidden one that Shirk had never been able to find despite his best attempts and pulled the unsteady young man after her. She laid him down, then quickly masked their tracks so as not to undo all she had done to keep them hidden.
She knelt next to him, fear turning her bright eyes dark. She feared the antidote would come too late to save him, but she had to try. Why this one meant so much to her, she did not know, but she knew her mother had been right: When you find someone of true and noble birth, they are worth suffering anything. Kelt shook her head, then leant close to his ear.
"Dartho, Aragorn. Uume awartha i kala egor vanta i mordo. Uume wanya, il-sii, (Hold on, Aragorn. Do not forsake the light nor walk the shadows. Do not go, not yet.)" she pleaded, hoping the elvish would hold him in a way she could not. Then she jumped to her feet and left the clearing, aware that it would not matter much longer what she did if the drug was not countered, for the shadows would steal him away, and hope would be gone.
Deep down, she feared it was already too late.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
There were colors: dark reds, grays, greens, and others he could not place besides, swirling, coalescing into odd shapes, images that--had he been capable of feeling anything--would have terrified him. Yes, colors . . . and sounds, many sounds. The rustling of many beings echoed loudly in his ears, the clang of metal on metal, the sickening, stomach turning sound of a blade cutting into flesh. Footsteps coming closer. Dripping, he heard dripping, and was floating. He frowned slightly as words sounded, words in a tongue he was sure he knew but could not place. This was not the first time he had heard it, was it not?
"Dartho, Aragorn. Uume awartha i kala egor vanta i mordo. Uume wanya, il-sii."
It seemed to echo inside his mind, bouncing and replaying, overlapping itself until he thought he would scream--
A figure appeared beside him, dark, a shadow, his exact form indistinguishable from his surroundings and yet separate, or so Aragorn thought, or thought he did. He saw eyes, yellow eyes--they are eyes?--that glowed, or seemed to. As he looked at them, they grew brighter and expanded. He was floating in a sea of yellow. He could lose himself, he could, and leave the pain behind. A silly smile crossed his lips. Yes, he could leave. . . .
"Dartho, Aragorn. Uume awartha i kala egor vanta i mordo. Uume wanya, il-sii."
His eyes were drawn unwillingly away from the eyes, pulled away by those sounds, those words that pulled. He looked up. Symbols or letters danced above his head, careening and bouncing into each other, adding more with each repetition of the phrases. Confusing and jumbling, yet he could not look away. He knew them . . . from somewhere. A long time ago. Was it a long time ago? But where? Why?
He watched, and as he watched the shapes multiplied and the yellow grew, and sounds and other images clambered for his attention. Flash of swords. Striking metal. Screaming. Terrified. Rushing water. Pounding drums. Dripping water . . . no, blood. A face. Two, three, bloody, dirty. A scream--"NO!" Why? They swirled faster, coming at him quickly and he could not escape!--
Pain. Indescribable pain appeared between his temples, like hot pokers had been shoved into his head on either side. White lights flashed behind his eyes, in them, around them. He did not know. He did not care. The pain!
Something touched his lips, something cool. Burned! Acid! Pain!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Kelt tumbled through the foliage, doing her best to go for speed and silence, caught painfully by the knowledge that taking too much time would mean Strider's death and that silence at the expense of speed would mean the same, but that getting caught would mean his death just as truly. Frantic eyes scanned the greenery around her, noting and dismissing the various kinds of plants in the blink of an eye yet far too slow for her jangling nerves. She moved on. It was here, she knew, she had seen it only two weeks ago.
Experience with Shirk's machosistic streaks had taught her to be prepared. As a result, she always learned the antidotes to his poisons, what went into them, and made notes on where they could be found everywhere she went. Too often she got to experience the effects of his "experiments" first hand, and she preferred to suffer the least amount of time possible.
She entered a small clearing--why were they always small?--and was promptly caught in a spider's web, which she distractedly brushed away, even as she again scanned the plant life, praying she had finally found what she was seeking. A soft cry escaped her lips and she practically threw herself to the ground beside the purplish-blue plant. Again pulling her dagger, she cut off several of the thick stalks, careful not to squeeze them too hard. She was thankful this was one of the few treatments that did not require boiled water to pull off. Not only did she lack the bowl and the water but a fire would be next to impossible without alerting the Slyntari camp--there was just something about fire that seemed to draw Slyntari no matter how skillfully it was kept.
Running lightly she returned, by the straightest route she could manage, to Aragorn's side, the trip to get there nothing but a blur as instincts took over guiding while fear stole away rational control. Never before had she experienced this, this lack of control. She wondered, vaguely, if this particular human inspired it often; she was pretty sure he did.
However all such thoughts were driven from her mind when she reentered the clearing and again saw the object of her concern. He lay where she had left him, sprawled on the ground, mostly unmoving. Glazed eyes stared up at the leafy canopy in horrified fascination. Briefly, she wondered what he saw . . . then decided she did not want to know.
Kelt dropped to her knees and winced, pain jolting up her legs from the impact as a result of the previous impacts. She ignored it and picked up one of the stalks she had gathered before leaning over the prone man. "Aragorn," she called quietly. "Aragorn, look at me. I need you to swallow this." She placed it against his lips, and received the first reaction--true reaction--anyone had garnered from him since that second dosage of Ungwale.
Aragorn jerked back and twisted his head sideways, kicking out with his legs while he attempted to push away whatever threatened him. The sudden movements knocked Kelt off-balance and she fell painfully onto her elbows, her mind telling her not to land on the plant in her hand and thereby crush it. She further wondered why she had not anticipated this response, already having intimate knowledge of the drug, yet she did not have a chance to dwell on this. In an attempt to keep her balance, she swung out a leg, which connected solidly with a nearby tree, eliciting a yelp of pain and further upset her balance. She fell the rest of the way, landing across the ranger's legs as he had moved and earning a cry from him as well.
The former Slyntari cursed sharply, aware that they had probably gained the attention of their enemies by now, and moved forward to restrain the agitated human. She had known and yet done nothing. It took little effort--far less than it should have--to pin his arms, despite his greater size and weight--his struggles were unfocused as most of the battle was occurring in his mind--and forced the thick liquid down his throat, squeezing it out into his mouth, then holding it shut until he had swallowed. She repeated the process until all the stems were used and she could no longer force anything from them.
That done, the only thing left to do was wait. Heaving a sigh, Kelt sat back on her heels and turned her senses out towards the camp, searching for approaching footsteps. Barely a moment later, she heard them. They were still a ways off but came ever closer with each passing moment. It would not be long ere they found what they sought. Then they would both be doomed. While she could run and hope to escape, Aragorn could not. He, also, was in no shape to fight, and of the two, running was his best bet. Time was what he needed, and that was just what he would not get--not if she did nothing.
There was what it boiled down to: her choice. She could choose to leave, could abandon the ranger. She could run and never look back, good enough that it was likely she could disappear from Shirk's vision, distracted as he would be by the Dúnadain left in his midst. She could run, or she could stay. She could attempt to drag the human with her, but they would be caught long before Aragorn recovered enough to be of any assistance. Or she could reveal her presence, dooming herself but bringing the hope of men more time--time that maybe, just maybe, would be enough to let him escape.
Really, though, there was no choice. Kelt already knew in her heart which she would choose, no matter the myriad options her brain conjured. Just as, days ago and many leagues away, Strider had sacrificed himself to save her, so now would she do the same for him.
She stood, careful to make no sound, and jumped into the trees above her, alighting easily on one of the branches with elf-like grace. Casting one last look back at the man who had irrevocably changed her life, she turned and moved away. She could be nowhere near her friend when she showed herself or all of her efforts would be for naught.
Jumping lightly from branch to branch, she found her familiarity with trees an asset, her light step a necessity, not that either would mean anything if she happened to run into Shirk. He would spot her immediately no matter how well she hid in the trees, for his experience was far greater along with his skill. Which was fine, actually, since she did not want to remain hidden in the trees. All she planned, all she wanted, was to buy time.
Kelt crouched about twenty feet from the closet Slyntari. She glanced around and caught sight of the glade where she had left Aragorn. If she drew them back, it would be away from him, yet it could not be straight back or they would get suspicious, nor could it be too near to his position, as both would also undo everything she had done. Serious eyes contemplated the scene before her, years as a hunter coming into play: patience. She would wait for the right moment to ensnare her prey. . . . They all faced away from her, heading a different direction.
She smiled. Now.
The lithe figure turned, purposely stepping on a branch and fled further into the undergrowth. The hunters on the ground turned at the sound, recognizing it for what it was, but only the quickest caught any sight of what had made it, and then it was only a flash of cloth amid the green plant-life. One of the figures gestured and the company spread out, then quietly, passing as a shadow in the night, headed in the direction of the sound as quickly as was prudent to their minds--which was, actually, a whole lot quicker than was profitable.
Moments after they vanished into the undergrowth, intent on their hunt, a groan could be heard coming from the bushes behind them.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Aragorn blinked rapidly, his eyes refusing to focus on anything in particular for long moments as his eyes watered profusely. Absently, he wiped them away as he pushed himself up with one shaking arm to look around.
Once his eyes finally focused, he was surprised to find himself in a clearing, a small one, alone and unbound. His last distinct memories--well, sort of distinct--were of being tied by his hands to a tree in a much larger area than this and facing mountains with Kalya beside him, and what he was partially sure was an elf with blonde hair and a cruel smile coming towards him, a knife in his hands.
The ranger brought his hand--the one not bracing himself against the ground--up to his forehead as a headache starting pounding through his temples. He had thought his concussion was gone. Oh stop it, the more lucid part of his brain told him, you know why you have a headache. Don't question it, just figure out what's going on. He shook his head slightly and returned his attention to his surroundings, deciding he would try his hand at standing. He thought he was steady enough, his mind clear enough, to attempt such a thing.
Slowly and carefully, moving as if he were an old man with frail bones, he pushed himself up into a standing position--a position he did not keep long. The man cursed vulgarly as his ankle twisted under him when he tried to catch himself. Rubbing the offended limb, he thought he could just make out the sounds of footsteps in the distance. Curious, he lay out flat and pressed his ear to the ground, listening to the tale of the earth. It spoke of several feet which passed quietly over it, hunting something that was elf and yet not. Aragorn had a feeling he knew who that was and felt his blood run cold.
Determined, the Dúnadan crawled over to a tree and used its steady influence to gain his feet. He managed to keep them this time, since when the world began to spin, he was able to simply hold on tighter and wait for the spell to pass.
Once the world stopped spinning, he looked around again, trying to judge the best way to go, then set out slowly, making his way carefully by a path that took him close to the greatest number of trees. He still felt quite unsteady and did not want to come in closer contact with the ground than was necessary.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A group of horses raced across the plains near the mountains. Their riders neither paused nor looked from side to side, intent upon one goal. The leader, golden haired with piercing eyes and a noble bearing, looked out across the lands, using one hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He prayed they would arrive in time. If not, then the race of men was doomed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Kelt peered out from behind a tree-trunk, watching her fellows search for her. They worked in pairs, one watching the ground looking for tracks--stupidity in itself since she had used the trees to travel--and the other scanning their surroundings in case she was nearby. Those were the ones she had to be careful of lest she be found too soon.
She tossed a stone to her right and darted off to her left, using the thick greenery to conceal her passage. Reaching her next hiding place, she again peered out to check the positions of her pursuers. None were near.
She frowned. This was far too easy. Either the skill of the Slyntari had fallen off more than she knew in the past few years, or they were playing with her as well. She pursed her lips and tilted her head downward without moving her eyes from where they were focused, considering this new piece of information. She had been told once, by her mother, that it was dangerous to underestimate the skills and designs of your enemy, but that it could be just as dangerous to overestimate them. Now, the girl wondered which would prove less dangerous, and on which side of the coin she desired to get caught if the one she chose proved wrong.
Her fingers dug lightly into the dirt beneath her fingertips, curling in frustration as she could not decide which to believe, aware that sometimes her perceptions were off and that things beyond her comprehension occurred. Still, she had a hard time believing the skill of her brethren was not up to the level she had believed. Which left her with a conclusion she liked even less: they knew where she was and were playing with her. Anger burned within her, though she could not place the source.
Annoyed, both with herself and her fellows, she looked up, then leapt into the branches of the tree that sheltered her from view. The lithe figure quickly ascended the many branches, moving up beyond the sight of her pursuers, for most of them were men, and choosing a suitable branch, sat to think. She was missing something, a link that was singularly important, one that should have occurred to her by now. Indeed, she had the feeling it should have occurred to her long ago.
Dark eyes followed the progress of one of her former captors, Dwin, as he slowly combed through the underbrush, bright eyes seeking out any clues. He seemed to be marking a trail, yet Kelt could place nothing he could be following since her path did not follow with that which he watched. The young man paused, frowning down at a rock no more than two feet from her launch point, and scratched his head, looking up to cast a glance at his surroundings. He looked, to her eyes, to be about the same age as Aragorn, and yet she was sure the ranger would not have missed her trail--she had done nothing to conceal it, merely choosing a not easily followed path, and yet . . . no one had locked onto it yet. Shirk--
Blue eyes widened. Shirk. Indeed had she overlooked an important matter, for she had failed to consider the elf, her former captain. Where was he? That one, even more than herself, had the tendency to show up exactly where you least expected and least wanted him to be. In fact, she would not have been truly surprised to turn and find him behind her; dismayed, but not surprised.
So thinking, she turned quickly, fearing to see sadistically glowing eyes regarding her with malicious amusement, and saw nothing behind her. Strangely enough, the truth of his absence did nothing to calm her. Panic was slowly edging its way into her thoughts, paranoia working its way past her trained calm, and with that portion of her brain which always seemed to be the last to lose rational thought, she realized what was happening. He's trying to psyche me out.
Beautiful eyes narrowed at that, and a deadly calm that had nothing to do with ease about her surroundings settled over her mind, stilling all but the steady rise and fall of her chest with every breath. She refused to be led. Anger had frozen into a fierce resolve and nothing would shift its focus. She and Shirk would fight, the traitor elf would see to that, but not on his terms alone. No, when they fought, he would not go into battle with a psychological victory.
Kelt looked around once more, her thoughts calm and her mind clear as her mother had taught. The whispers of the trees echoed vaguely in her mind, speaking of moving creatures and times long past. The wind whistled through the leaves, caressing everything it came in contact with before moving on. Footsteps echoed through her awareness, ten pairs--too few. She frowned slightly, noting a spot of quiet and calm. Anyone who did not know better, would have retreated there, thinking it to be an escape. However, she was not just anyone, and she was well aware that Shirk was still missing. She slipped through the trees away from the island of calm, towards the largest area of activity.
They had moved far enough away from where she had left that ranger that there was no reason to keep the same heading. Moving back the way she had come would confuse them--or at least she hoped it would. It would be well to unsettle them the way they had attempted to unsettle her. Again, she purposely snapped a twig, then changed direction, moving sharply to the left, yet still keeping her distance from the silent area in the forest. It would do no good to place herself in Shirk's hands too soon; the girl again came to a stop and sat to watch the activity below her.
One of the men, she could not immediately tell which for most were the same height, stood still in the middle of the group, his eyes surveying the surrounding area. She thought he might be one of the Black Numenoreans, and desperately hoped not, for if he saw Aragorn, it was likely he would recognize him for what he was. There were four among the Slyntari, and Kelt found it little wonder they would seek to hunt their kin and take joy from it, just as the orcs took great delight in the hunting and desecration of the elves as they were of similar descent, just twisted in much the same fashion by darkness. He turned and the man's gaze brushed over her position, sending a shiver down her spine though she was sure he did not see her. Yes, he was one of them. Perhaps it was time she did some hunting of her own.
With that in mind, she moved away, maneuvering closer to her kin. She moved slowly and with great care, well aware of the consequences of failure and of how difficult it would be to subdue one of her fellows unarmed. She possessed more skill than most, but that did not mean they were not equally skilled at deflecting such attempts. Then there was an added care: it had to be soundless. Any mistake, be it failure or the simple fact that her target managed to cry out before she silenced him, would alert the rest, and then she would be lost . . . and then they could concentrate on Aragorn.
Keen eyes regarded her intended victim, then swept to take in their surroundings. She needed to get him away from the others to take him out. The quandary: how to draw his focus without gaining the attention of the rest of the Slyntari. Pondering this dilemma for a moment, a smile slowly spread across her face.
He was a man, after all.
Without another hesitation, Kelt silently removed a lace from the clothes she was wearing and hung it on a nearby plant like it had been caught. She rustled the branch, then ducked back behind cover.
Her target looked up, his eyes scanning the area carefully even as he slowly walked forward. He was almost upon the plant when he finally noticed the strip of cloth and picked it up to get a better look at it. Curious, he continued on and found another piece. He picked that one up as well and continued to follow the trail as the articles became more interesting. . . .
Kelt rolled her eyes as the man continued to approach, not the least bit deterred by how easy the clues were to follow, completely taken in by the articles that made up said trail. It's a good thing I'm not particularly modest, she thought, and also a good thing that she did not need to draw the man too far away. The girl waited behind the tree not far from her last hint and waited for her chosen target to appear. He did shortly, and a dagger quickly flashed out, cutting his throat. Surprise marked his features, and a hand drifted up to his throat mere moments before his legs gave way beneath him and he started to fall to the floor.
The rogue Slyntari caught him before he hit the ground and eased him the rest of the way down, insuring his death remained silent. Once he was down, she turned, ready for her next victim.
Aragorn crept through the trees, even more unsteady than he cared to admit. What was in that stuff? He shook his head and reached for the tree beside him as the world tilted alarmingly. The man did not remember being quite this dizzy before. In fact, were it not for the fact that he knew he had not drunk any alcohol, he might have sworn he was drunk.
Leaning against the tree, the Dúnadan waited for the world to assume it's natural order, and again considered his situation. Once he had been able to think clearly, he had decided Kalya had given him the antidote and split. Now, though, he wondered why. Was it because she still wanted to kill him? He frowned. Yes, Aragorn, that makes sense, he berated himself. To protect him? Of course, that did not quite make sense either. How did ditching him while he was unconscious protect him? The answer: it did not. Yet he could not bring himself to believe she had meant ill. But then, perhaps that was because he was not thinking clearly.
Movement in the distance caught his eye and he focused in that direction, marking figures moving stealthily through the brush. Multiple beings were all heading in the same direction. He squinted at them, tilting his head to the side as he struggled to bring some kind of coherency to what he was seeing. Where would they be going? Who were they?
Deciding there was only one way to find out, he started moving slowly in their direction.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Kelt crept towards the unsuspecting man, fully intent on taking him out.
She never got close. Before she was fewer than ten steps away, the point of a blade slid under her chin, halting her progress and forcing her head up. Silently, and with great expression, she cursed, her eyes closing for a brief moment, before fixing on the man in front of her, who was now smirking openly. In her eyes it was an obscene expression that should be eliminated as quickly as possible. Lucky for him, she dared not move.
"Gonna get it now, deary," the man before her sneered.
Her eyes darkened visibly, almost seeming to shift color. "You're 'gonna get it', scum, ere you live much longer, be it by my hand or another. Mark my words."
"Tsk, tsk," a silky voice behind her reprimanded, and she felt the pressure on the knife shift slightly as it's owner moved around in front of her. "Such talk from one so young." The musical lilt in his voice made the words seem almost whimsical, but the flash in the being's eyes eliminated any sense of well-being the listener might have been inclined to feel.
Kelt, certainly, felt no such inclination, but she had long ago learned to parley words in like fashion. "Oh, pardon, I was unaware a certain decor was required when being held at knife point," she declaimed lightly.
A tight smile crept onto Shirk's face. "Perhaps I should instruct you, then."
"Oh, sure," Kelt agreed sarcastically. "You did so well the first time."
The knife bit a little deeper into her skin, drawing blood, and Kelt thought that perhaps it would be a good idea not to antagonize the elf so long as he held a blade against her neck. That would be what common sense would dictate.
"Your mother should have taught you to respect higher beings, Kelt," Shirk offered, his voice just a shade too dark to be considered conversational.
Never one to let common sense rule her, Kelt replied, "I'm still waiting to be addressed by a higher being."
The bite of the knife was sharp as it dug into her skin at the juncture between her head and neck, though it was the being's eyes that held her interest. Fire had seemed to blaze in them before freezing and becoming expressionless, the blue as pale as ice. His voice was dead when he spoke. "I am going to enjoy teaching you your lesson . . . slowly."
A chill worked its way down her spine, and she fought the impulse to fidget and straightened her posture, leveling a steady gaze at the elf before her. She could not go down without a fight. "But you have not earned it," she objected, her tone regal.
Shirk raised an eyebrow, emphasizing the knife at her throat whose pressure had yet to be released.
She smiled coldly. "Surely it would be more . . . fun, if we enjoyed a slight contest first," she said, just enough of a lilt in her voice that it could be taken as a question.
Silence followed. Kelt met Shirk's piercing gaze unflinching, knowing that showing any sign of weakness would doom her before she ever had the chance to fail in mortal combat. His expression did not change, but he suddenly dropped the knife. "Bring her blades," he commanded.
Two men stepped up on either side of her and grabbed her arms, leading her to a different location, Shirk walking before her. She knew she could escape their grasp, but she would never escape the elf: her skills were not up to the challenge. Besides, she had issued a challenge; informally, perhaps, but a challenge just the same. She would see it through.
They emerged into a fair sized clearing consisting mainly of a ground of hard stone. A high rock edged one side and she realized they were a lot closer to the tunnel entrances than she had originally believed. Nirt walked over, carrying her twin blades, and the girl pulled them, her expression set.
Time, she needed to buy time. Blue eyes fixed on the fair being across the way from her.
He smiled, the expression terrible in its lack of friendliness, exactly the opposite of what you would expect from one of his kind. "You have no hope," he intoned. "But death will not be your reward. Nor that of your friend."
