Author's note:

I am truly sorry for the long delay. Real life has been leaving very little time to indulge my Muses.

Thanks Chevy, for the encouragement, Bookwyrm for the nudge, Erunyauve, for seeing Círdan as I do, and Lucideye for the giggles. And thanks everyone else who has read the story whether you've shared your thoughts, or not.

And now without any further ado…

Chapter Six – Strange Bedfellows

"What?!"

"He's gone, my lady. I went to fetch a clean bandage, and when I returned he had disappeared."

Gilthaethil felt the colour drain from her face "But…but that's impossible. He was injured. He could barely walk!"

The healer's features were filled with dismay. "He swore that he was well, and that his injury was of little consequence. Lady, should we have restrained him?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "Nay… nay..." She spun on her heel, and began to pace the chamber, trying to gather her wits. Maeldhuin had been desperate to reach the King, that much was plain, but would his dire need have driven him to such foolhardy action? How had she failed to foresee this?

"My lady?"

Her thoughts in turmoil, Gilthaethil muttered vague thanks to the healer, and sped out the door, only dimly aware of the screeching kestrel she'd startled into flight.

Had she been so easily duped? She had spent the morning in Círdan's study, defending Maeldhuin's cause and character. The Shipwright could not be swayed, however, and had rebutted every argument with cold reason, calmly explaining why he could not, in good conscience, grant the herald the safe passage he begged. Maeldhuin, he assured her, would be treated with the highest degree of courtesy, as befitted an honoured envoy. Until the Council of the Wise pronounced judgement, however, he must remain in Mithlond. Círdan would allow him freedom of the City, and, provided he did nothing to abuse the privilege, he would remain free to wander about unhindered and unguarded. Ha! It had taken him less than three hours to lose that privilege

She should have known all would go ill. She should have known better than to meddle in the dealings of her betters. She should have stayed on her hilltop and let this reckless wind blow over. What folly had thus possessed her? Even now, she was tempted to leave him to whatever welcome Caredhel would have waiting for him. "Devils take him! I care not!"

But soon, the fit of cold rage left her, and she slowed her furious pace. Breathing hard, she paused to study her surroundings, begging the gods for a glimpse of Maeldhuin's brightly emblazoned tabard. Where was he? Where in all of Mithlond would a fugitive seek aid?"

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, frustration gave way to fey satisfaction. With a grim laugh, Gilthaethil turned and sped towards the waterfront.

* * *

Maeldhuin stepped out of the tavern, tightly gripping the pouch at his belt. The pouch was not nearly as full as he had hoped it would be. Here, among the street vendors and back-alley peddlers, Duilin's pendant had fetched far less than its true worth, and only a fraction of what a legitimate merchant might have offered. For although the necklace was of finest Eregion craftsmanship and easily worth at least three times the gold he'd received, Maeldhuin could not have risked recognition, or the questions that would have been asked in the more respectable quarters of the City. And so, paying the price of anonymity, he had settled for the peddler's miserly offer. Fate had left him little choice, and he wept inwardly at having to sell his kinsman's name badge so cheaply. He had to leave Mithlond, the sooner the better, and the price of Duilin's pendant, would be enough, he surmised, to cover the purchase of a simple sword, and perhaps a knife or a dagger, as well. A horse, he could always steal, and provisions? He would worry about provisions later.

Mithlond's twin waterfronts were lively places at most times, but at midday, with crowds of sailors, ferrymen, and merchants of all free races wending their way from the quays to the taverns, inns, and hostelries for the midday meal, the cobbled streets were fairly milling with traffic.

From his vantage point by the tavern door, Maeldhuin searched the crowd. He soon found what he had been looking for. A guard, wearing the silver and blue of the Havens, stood casually beneath an awning several doors away with his back slightly turned, and feigning interest in a fruit monger's wares. Tall, raven-haired, and carrying a gleaming helmet under one arm, he had been following Maeldhuin ever since his flight from the healers. The guard was good, Maeldhuin allowed, for an amateur. He had kept his distance, had not yet done anything to draw attention to himself, melting instead into the shadows whenever the herald had stolen a backwards glance. He stood now, pretending not to have noticed his quarry's exit from the tavern, but Maeldhuin, well-schooled in the art of secrecy and evasion, marked how his posture suddenly stiffened, as if preparing for the chase. "Let him try," he thought. "He may be good…" and the merest hint of a smile touched his lips, "but he is no match for me."

From far up the street, lewd and raucous singing was suddenly heard, and before long, a clutch of sailors appeared, stumbling drunkenly as they meandered towards the quay. The guard's gaze shifted briefly to the sailors, and in that moment of distraction, Maeldhuin left his place by the door, and slipped into a dim passageway at the side of the building. There, hidden safely behind a stack of barrels, he wrapped himself in his cloak, watched, waited, and plotted his next move.

Though thoroughly soused, the sailors seemed harmless enough, and the guard quickly returned his gaze to the tavern door. His cheeks paled. His eyes grew wide in alarm. He dropped the apple he'd been about to purchase, and to the fruit monger's cries, he frantically pushed his way through the crowd.

Maeldhuin smiled in the shadows. The guard stood now with a hand pressed to the tavern door, shifting from foot to foot, debating his next move. By now, the sailors had reached the opposite side of the street, where a potter displayed his wares. Maeldhuin picked a stone from the litter at his feet and with keen Elven aim, he let it fly straight at the farthest of the men.

"Oy!" the man cried, and, clutching a hand to his bleeding scalp, he teetered into a tall stack of crockery. Pots, platters, and jars rained down to the pavement, smashing on the cobbles, and scattered all about the roadway. The sailor glanced about him, taking in the scope of the wreckage he'd wrought. He struggled to his feet in an attempt to flee the scene, but the outraged potter caught him about his knees, and both went tumbling into a crock-laden shelf. Before long, the man's companions charged to their friend's defense and the sound of curses and smashing pottery soon filled the quayside.

"Guard! Guard!!"

It was all Maeldhuin could do to avoid laughing out loud. Neighbouring merchants, all in an uproar, were dragging the hapless guard to the potter's stand. Maeldhuin watched a little while longer, until convinced that the guard's attention was suitably diverted. When the disturbance was at its peak, he quickly slipped off his herald's tabard, and stepped out of the alleyway.

"Have you gone mad?"

Fingers of steel gripped his arms, and Maeldhuin could not help but flinch from the iron-hard gaze before him.

"Let go!" He struggled but could not break free.

Gilthaethil's voice was like ice. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses?" She nodded towards the fray at her back. "Your doing?"

"Not here!" Maeldhuin's's eyes darted to the guard's shining helm.

Gilthaethil followed his gaze. "Perhaps I should turn you in, and be rid of you once and for all!"

"Not here," he repeated through gritted teeth. "Please!"

Gilthaethil dragged him to the quayside, hustled him down the seawall stairs, and sat him down on the cold damp sand. "Explain yourself," she spat.

"Me?" The herald's features were livid with rage. "I have told you everything my duty allows." He turned and would have risen to his feet, but Gilthaethil forced him back down. "Save your strength," he said. "There is naught else I would reveal to you, lady, now that I know where your loyalties lie."

"Enough!" Gilthaethil snapped. "I grow weary of your lies."

"Lies?!" Maeldhuin bit his tongue, lest his temper should overbear his reason.

Silence grew heavy between them, and was broken only by the cry of the gulls, and the ringing of ships' bells. In the distance, protests could faintly be heard as the last of the drunken sailors were dragged away to the guardhouse.

At length, she could bear it no longer. "Herald, I know not how, but you have been misled! I sheltered you, tended your injury, drew your enemies away that you may continue your journey. At great cost to myself, I brought you here. And this is how you thank me? Tell me, are all Fëanorians such ingrates?"

"Are all of the Falathrim so duplicitous?"

She waved an arm at the street above them. "None of this was any of my doing!" But her words fell into the leaden space between them. Maeldhuin snorted, and clambering to his feet, he limped up the stairs.

"This is folly," Gilthaethil muttered, and rushed to block his way. She placed a hand on his chest. "How will you manage?"

"I will manage," he said, and, shoved her aside.

"You can barely walk!" Gilthaethil jeered.

"Then I'll crawl!"

"You have no money, no mount, no weapons..."

"I have money," he said stubbornly, swaying at the top of the stairs. He surveyed the street. All was quiet. The mob had dissipated, and only the potter's wife remained, sweeping shards of crockery into the centre channel.

Steeling his resolve, Maeldhuin started across the street. A short distance behind, Gilthaethil followed. "Where will you go?"

Maeldhuin met her gaze but refused to answer.

"What will you do?"

"My duty."

"I can help you."

Maeldhuin stopped and gave a bitter laugh. "I've had enough of your help." He gritted his teeth and continued on his way, pausing a moment to lean against the pillar of an awning to ease the weight from his foot.

"You're injured."

Maeldhuin gave a bitter laugh. "Aye, and will you strike me again, that I may submit to your kind ministrations?" He turned away, and struggled onward.

Gilthaethil made no move to follow. "I am sorry for that," she called after him.

Something in her voice made Maeldhuin turn around. "And the sentries, and the guards, and the rest, are you sorry for those too?"

"I swear, Maeldhuin, it was not me."

Maeldhuin could go no further. There was an inn nearby, and he hobbled into the common room, where he let himself collapse onto a rough wooden bench. Gilthaethil found him with his head in his hands. She whispered a word to the landlord, who returned shortly bearing a steaming tankard.

"Amends?" she said, and pushed the tankard towards the herald. Maeldhuin regarded it suspiciously, and shoved it back.

Gilthaethil took a sip, and smiled. "Mulled wine." she said, "Naught else, I promise. It will help you relax." He took the tankard with both hands, and emptied it in one long draught, savouring the spreading warmth. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and giving a shuddering sigh, raised his throbbing foot onto the bench.

"Had I suspected that any of this would happen," Gilthaethil continued, "I would have led you directly to the King." Without further thought, she took his foot in her hands. "What became of the splint?"

"The healers took it," he said wearily. "I left ere they could bind it again."

"You are a fool, Maeldhuin of Eregion."

"Mayhap."

"The healers are harmless. They are bound by oath to help any and all who come their way."

"Aye? And what of Caredhel, and the guards he posted at the door?"

"Nay, he would never do that. Never would he dare gainsay Círdan!"

"Do you doubt my word?"

"Círdan distinctly told him not to. He said you were to be treated as an honoured guest."

Maeldhuin laughed sourly.  "'Tis a wonder then, that there are so many travellers here, if this welcome be typical of Falathrim hospitality."

Gilthaethil's thoughts were in turmoil. Could Caredhel have gone against Círdan's orders? Caredhel loved Círdan as a father. Yet, something had been troubling him of late. She struggled with her thoughts until a choked cry drew her back to the present. "I'm sorry," she said, and loosened her grip on Maeldhuin's foot. "I will bind it again," she said, ripping a length of fabric from the hem of her underskirt. "Then I will hire you a horse, and bring you to my own lodgings, where you will rest and heal. By the time I return, you will be fit to march from here to Eregion and back, if that be your choice."

Maeldhuin bolted upright. "Return? Where are you going?"

"Círdan is convening a Council of the Wise. I am to bear the summons to the Lords of the Eldar. Together, they will hear your tale, and discuss a course of action."

"What is there to discuss? My duty is plain."

"They are to discuss whether or not to allow you to continue on your journey."

Maeldhuin's voice grew tight with desperation. "That decision is not theirs to make! Celebrimbor's words are for the King alone, not for Círdan, Elrond, nor any other."

"Aye, but the King is not here."

"Will he be at this council?" Maeldhuin asked, already guessing the answer.

"You know he will not."

"Then the outcome of the Council matters naught."

Gilthaethil made a noise of disgust. She fastened the makeshift bandage about Maeldhuin's foot. The herald's stubborn determination was beyond her reckoning, and in frustration, she began to pace before the table. "Why are you behaving thusly? Can you not trust in Lord Círdan's judgement? He is deemed among the wisest of our people."

"Your people, perhaps. Not mine. He has no love for the heirs of Fëanor. Granted, the fault lies with my forebears. But that was a long age ago, and if neither Círdan nor his courtiers can see beyond the errors of the past, then I will have to find my own way to the King."

"Nay, I cannot believe he would hinder your cause."

"Nor did I before today, yet by his hesitation he would bring further suffering to my people."

Gilthaethil ground her teeth in frustration but said nothing, for each time she spoke, she heard Círdan's words in her own voice. For a long time, she pondered everything Maeldhuin had told her since he had first stumbled into her glade. "You are an obstinate fool, Maeldhuin," she said, finally breaking the silence. "You cannot do this alone, and there is none other in this City who will help you."

"Falathar, if I can find him…"

"Falathar is lost! Will you accept my help, or will you betray your master's trust for sheer obstinacy?"

Maeldhuin stared blankly across the common room. Gilthaethil thought she saw tears glinting in his eyes, but the herald was too proud to give any sign of weakness. He shook his head, and heaved a great sigh. "A swift horse, a map, and provisions. I would ask naught else of you."

"Have you weapons?"

He shook his head "Caredhel's guards took my sword, my dagger, even my eating knife. I was seeking an armourer when you found me."

"I'll find your weapons, and aught else you may need. Can you ride?

When Maeldhuin nodded, Gilthaethil disappeared briefly. She returned moments later, grinning broadly.

"I've found you a horse. He's the rough-coated roan on the left."

Maeldhuin sat up, and looked out the tavern window. It was no messenger's courser, but it would do. He reached for the pouch at his side.

"Nay, keep your coin. Wait here until sunset, then hie yourself across the river, and wait for me by the gatehouse stables there."

Maeldhuin nodded, and Gilthaethil disappeared. He leaned his head back against the cool stone of the wall and sighed. What madness had he agreed to this time?

* * *

Sunset was gilding the silver waters of the Gulf when Maeldhuin mounted his horse, and began making his way towards the ferry. He felt every eye in Mithlond upon him, and wondered if the alarm had been raised. He hoped he looked like any casual rider, but he drew his hood closer to his face, just in case.

He feared that soldiers might be watching the ferries, but to his great relief, the crossing was unguarded. The ferryman was arguing with a party of dwarves, and, amidst the clamour, took little notice of one silent Elf. He crossed the river without incident, paid the ferryman, and nudged his horse up the northern embankment.

The northern half of the City was more sober than its southern twin, and within a street or two of the bustling harbour, the waterfront establishments gave way to tidy houses and lush gardens. Maeldhuin rode through the quiet streets breathing in the pleasant air of peace and prosperity. On one tree-shaded avenue, music and ringing voices beckoned from a lantern-lit courtyard, and he was sorely tempted to stop and listen, for here dwelt, 'twas said, the finest singers of Middle Earth. Songs and cheer would have to wait for another evening, however, for this mission could afford no further delay.

In the hours since his flight, the watch at the Gates had been strengthened, but whether the heightened vigilance were due to the raising of some silent alarm, or whether it was the norm after nightfall, Maeldhuin had no way of knowing. Whatever the cause, he was forced to reconsider how he would leave the City without attracting attention. He eased his mount to the side of the wall, and turned his gaze outwards, as if casually contemplating the view. Beyond the wall, a single narrow road ran straight through a treeless patchwork of farmlands, to a fringe of woodland several leagues distant. Gazing farther east, Maeldhuin saw the silver shimmer of the great northward bend of the river Lhûn. To the north and west, the sentinel peaks of the Blue Mountains stood out darkly against the star-spattered sky, and in their shadow far below, between the mountains and the firth, one by one, lights were kindled in every cotter's window. For a time, Maeldhuin nearly forgot the darkness that loomed over his homeland, as he lost himself in the tranquil beauty of the evening.

"Pssst!" Maeldhuin spun around. "Over here."

He looked and for a moment could see no one, then slowly made out Gilthaethil's form. He heard a piercing cry, and raising his eyes, he felt his habitual chill of misgiving as he recognized her familiar soaring far above the walls.

Gilthaethil, to his surprise, had shed her peasant garb, and she emerged from the shadows wearing a sumptuous riding habit of the deepest starshot blue, with a hooded mantle of silver.

"Gilthaethil?" He asked, hesitating over the unusual name. "You look..."

She laughed. "I cannot very well present the Lord of the Falathrim dressed in my woodland weeds. Leave your gawking. Come, we must make haste and leave ere they think to look for us together."

"What mean you "we"? I am travelling alone, my lady."

"Don't be foolish! Of course we will travel together. How else do you expect to leave the City?"

"But you have a mission from Lord Círdan."

"Aye, and you may set your mind at ease, I intend to fulfill my task. Our paths, however, run parallel for some distance. I shall see you safely out of the City, and travel with you a while, before seeking out Lord Elrond's stronghold."

Maeldhuin met her dark gaze but said not a word.

"'Tis settled." She swept back her cloak, revealing two sword belts. One, she unbuckled, and held to her companion. He smiled in relief, and quickly fastened the belt about his waist. His fingers were closing about the familiar hilts, when she handed him a dagger, and a short-bladed knife. "These too are yours, are they not?"

"How did …"

"I have my ways," she answered cryptically. She turned and reached into her saddlebags, drawing out a bundle of rags. "Here," she said, and tossed them at him. "Put these on."

Maeldhuin and disappeared into a stall. When he stepped out again, Gilthaethil nodded her approval. "Now rub some dirt in your hair and muddy your face." .

Aghast, Maeldhuin scratched at the stable's earthen floor, until he had a small quantity of soil in his hands.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. You're nearly as bad as Caredhel." Gilthaethil grabbed a handful of dirt, spit into her hands, and rub the mess onto Maeldhuin's tunic, and face. She slipped her knife from its sheath, and with a deft flick of her wrist, sliced the thong that held back the herald's locks. For a brief time, she toyed with the idea of giving him a quick haircut, but reconsidered when confronted with a frigid grey glare. She contented herself with running her muddy hands through his once-gleaming mane instead.

By the time she was done, the courier resembled the most lumpen of peasants. "All that remains is for you to shed that look of disgust." Maeldhuin gave her an unconvincing and lopsided grin. "Aye, you will do very well indeed. Now do not speak until we are well beyond the city gates. Understood?"

Maeldhuin nodded, and Gilthaethil mounted, the kestrel alighting gracefully upon her pommel. Maeldhuin, feeling self-conscious in his borrowed rags, followed at a respectable distance.

They had ridden but a few paces, when the sentry barked his challenge. Gilthaethil reined in her mount. "I travel bearing messages from the Lord of the Havens. Will you hinder my passage?"

"My lady, we have orders to question all who would leave the City."

"Do you know who I am?" she answered in glacial tones. "How dare you bar my way!"

The guard raised is lantern to light her face, and blanched when he recognized the rider. The sentries whispered amongst themselves for a moment, before addressing her again. "We are sorry, Lady Gilthaethil," he began uncomfortably, "We did not recognize you in your courtly attire. A thousand pardons."

Gilthaethil sniffed and turned her horse's head towards the gate. Maeldhuin was making to follow, when the guard dropped his halberd between them, barring the way. "Who are you and what is your business beyond our walls?"

Maeldhuin's heart was pounding in his chest, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He tried to summon his wits and phrase a suitable answer, but Gilthaethil was quicker. Having caught his panicked gaze, she wheeled her horse about. "He is my groom, and a simpleton. He cannot speak beyond a few meaningless grunts."

"My lady, I am sorry, but we have orders to …"

"Orders! I'll show you what I think of your orders! 'Twere better to guard our City against the foreign-born ruffians who mass here, and shatter our peace with their intemperate behaviour, than to bar honest citizens from journeying abroad. Why only today, I heard tell of a mob of drunken Mannish sailors rampaging through the harbour!" The chill in the air was palpable, but while the guards flinched under the lash of her reproofs, they made no move to open the way.

Gilthaethil's tone dropped a few degrees more. "By whose orders do you dare harass us so?"

"The Lord High Constable, lady. The Lord Caredhel, … my lady?" the sentry replied, looking none to sure of himself.

Gilthaethil laughed. The sound might have shattered glass. "Caredhel? And his authority should supersede mine?" The guards shuffled uncomfortably. "Have no doubt, the Lord Círdan will hear of this. What is your name, churl?" she asked indicating the nearest of the sentries.

The guards stumbled over each other in their apologies. The look on Gilthaethil's face never softened once, as she turned her horse's head towards the plain. She glanced over her shoulder at Maeldhuin. "Come, boy."

Maeldhuin followed in silent, slack-jawed awe, half-convinced in himself, that he was, indeed, an imbecile.

The night was clear, the moon, a bright sliver surrounded by the light of a thousand jewels. Beneath that spectacle, Maeldhuin and Gilthaethil passed into the night as a shimmering wave of moonlight. To the lonely figure standing in sullen watch high above the city gates, the dwindling shapes shone clearly through the darkness. And with each step that carried them towards the distant fringe of trees, Caredhel, High Constable of Mithlond, felt a growing tightness in his heart, and the bitter pull of revenge drawing him in their wake.

* * *

To be continued