Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all its locations belong to the JRR Tolkien estate. The main characters belong to me and are copyrighted. I do not claim ownership of anything of JRR Tolkien's, and I bow down to him in thanks for his wonderful creations which act as inspirations to us all. *bows solemnly*
A/N: FINALLY, a decent chapter! Ianna... I hope you don't mind me using your name for a character. :)
Driven to Dark DeedsFrom the opposite side of the road, a shadow melted out of the dusky trees. A slim, grey-cloaked figure glided toward him, lithe and gloomy as a rain-spirit. No sound of footsteps broke the stillness. The air seemed strangely liquid and time stretched out fluidly as he watched each step. Then the hooded figure bent down and he found himself looking into an oddly familiar face.
"May I be of assistance?"
*******
Trotter dodged nimbly through the crowd, taking advantage of his small stature to slip quickly past the vehicles and pedestrians peopling the streets. Before him a slender shape glided unconcernedly on, somehow managing to remain untouched by mud and filth.
The woman had named herself Tirwen, taken Beleg from his shocked arms, and commanded him self-assuredly to follow her. He had obeyed, trailing behind her into the maze-like city of Tharbad. The odd feeling of familiarity had not left him, and yet he could not quite decide if he had met this woman before. He was almost certain that no, he had never seen her in his life – but her face, even hidden as it was under a deep hood, tweaked persistently at his memory.
He had been worried at first that it might seem suspicious, a woman supporting an unconscious man. After a few moments in Tharbad, however, he realized that the sight was not uncommon – he had already spotted several other women, dragging their presumably inebriated husbands home. In fact, he himself drew more curious looks than his guide – apparently Hobbits really had become a rare sight in Tharbad.
Trotter started out of his thoughts when Tirwen turned into a narrow alley and knocked lightly on a low door.
"Where are we...?" he began, but she silenced him with a gesture. A moment later the door opened and she ushered him in, following quickly with Beleg.
The first thing Trotter noticed was a powerful smell pervading the air. The room was dark, but even so he could guess that they were in a healer's house. Odours of various herbs, some familiar, some unknown, assaulted his nose. A second later a candle flamed to life, and the shadows leaped back, revealing a small, plainly furnished room crowded with bundles of dried herbs dangling from the ceiling. After lowering Beleg onto a low bed before a fireplace at the far wall, Tirwen turned to peer up a narrow staircase beside the hearth.
"Ianna!" she called, "I've brought you a patient!"
Bare seconds later, an immaculate, grey-clad middle-aged woman sallied down the stairs, a candle brandished in her hand.
"What's this?" she frowned, "Cat out of the alley? This time of night?"
"The sun hasn't set yet, Ianna," Tirwen said with an air of unruffled patience, "This one's got Warg poison in his blood. Can you help him?"
Ianna strode to the bedside and examined Beleg critically. "There should be some wolfsbane around here somewhere," she muttered to herself, "I'll see what I can do." To Trotter's surprise, she did not ask who Beleg was or how he had come to be bitten by a Warg. She took no further notice of Tirwen or Trotter at all, bustling about stoking the fire, heating water in a cauldron, and searching through her bundles of herbs.
Tirwen motioned Trotter to sit at a small table by the door, joining him gracefully.
"Your friend has been sentenced to burn at the stake before the East Court tomorrow at daybreak," she said with no preliminary, ignoring Trotter's surprised start.
"How do you know...?" he asked hastily.
She waved the question away. "I know who you are. We had word of your errand."
Unlikely as he found this, Trotter thought it wiser to accept her explanation for now. Besides, he had other, more pressing issues to deal with.
"How can I stop it?" he asked, surprised at the determination in his voice.
"I doubt you can," she replied with mild sympathy. A moment of silence reigned between them, broken only by Ianna's mutterings in the background. Trotter stared unseeingly at the rough tabletop.
"How did it happen?" he asked finally, quietly.
Tirwen stirred uncomfortably. "I hear only the rumours," she said almost apologetically.
"Tell me," Trotter insisted.
"Last year..." Tirwen began, hesitation heavy in her voice, "It was in the spring, I think. The Greyflood is high in that time, sometimes breaking over its banks. One week the waters flooded the lower city quarters. Many people fled to higher ground, but the Three Lords sent Guardsmen to check the houses and make sure no one of consequence remained trapped there. It was Mathwes, the Commander of the Guard, who found them... in the second story of an emptied inn. The body of a man named Telpedur, brother to the First Lord. He had been stabbed repeatedly with a dagger of Dunlendish make. Beside him Mathwes found your friend, Anna Applethorn, with the murder weapon in hand. Understand," she leaned closer, staring unblinkingly into his eyes, "she did not deny that the deed was hers. In Tharbad, the Lords rule supreme, and to cross them merits severe punishment. To murder a member of a lordly family is unforgivable. The only reason Anna was banished instead of executed immediately was her youth. The sentence stipulated implicitly that should she ever return to Tharbad, no further mercy would be extended toward her."
"But that doesn't make sense!" Trotter said, brain whirling. Something about the story didn't seem right to him. "It can't be!" he continued, speaking more to himself than to Tirwen, "what about... why was this Telpedur in an evacuated house? What was Anna doing there? And... why would she want to kill him? Anna isn't like that! It doesn't make sense!"
"I might agree with you, if it would make a difference. If there is no motive, there is only too much evidence... she had the dagger in her hand, and she herself was bloody. How can one argue? She did not herself."
"But I can," Trotter persisted.
"You are valiant," Tirwen seemed melancholy for a moment, but then her eyes flared up and her voice strengthened again, "Valiant, but foolish! Much as you care for your friend, you do not have time for this. It is already November. The year draws to its end, and still Arnor stands in peril... you must deliver your message! Leave here tonight, alone. We will care for your companion. Remember, sometimes one must sacrifice to win. One life is nothing beside the horror that will result if the Witch-King has his way! Do you not know it yourself?"
Trotter stared at her apprehensively. "Who are you?" he whispered.
"Merely a woman who speaks when she should be silent!" Tirwen laughed dismissively, "the question is: who are you? What will you choose, Hobbit? The greater or the lesser evil? Think carefully!"
"Neither!" Trotter said stubbornly, "Both Anna and Arnor will live, if I have anything to say about it! Tomorrow the sentence is to be carried out? Where is she now? How can I find her?"
"I would dissuade you from this... but it is never wise to oppose a noble impulse. I would think she is in the East Gaol, on the far side of the river."
No sooner did Tirwen finish than Trotter leaped to his feet, knocking his chair back with a loud clatter. Ianna glared at him from where she stood stirring a bubbling cauldron and muttered something he didn't bother to listen to.
"You will help Beleg?" he asked, only waiting for Tirwen's nod before turning to the door.
"Wait!" she called after him, "How will you...?"
But he was already outside and running down the street, his feet blindly following the path downhill, to the river, to the bridge, to the gaol, to Anna.
*******
Tirwen watched the Hobbit disappear in the thinning evening crowd, delicate lines creasing her brow. "How will you get in?" she muttered, shaking her head.
"That's about done it," Ianna said behind her, sounding very satisfied. Tirwen glanced back to see her older companion filling a cup with light brown, tea-like liquid from the cauldron. The healer knelt at the bedside and, dipping a small cloth into the liquid, began to wash her unconscious patient's face and wounds.
"Will he live?" Tirwen asked.
Ianna nodded peremptorily. "He's in my care now," she said by way of explanation. "But he will always carry the scar..." she added after a moment.
"What brings them to me, like this?" Tirwen whispered as she leaned against the doorframe, barely aware that she was speaking aloud, "and what must I do?"
"If I were you, I'd close that door," Ianna remarked, "the draft won't do much good for this fellow."
Tirwen's lips twitched. "Very well. I will close it behind me."
Ianna glanced up, startled. "You're going out? It's already dark!"
"There's something I have to see to..."
"Young people these days!" Tirwen heard Ianna mutter behind her as she slipped out into the evening.
It took her only a few minutes to find the inn. The winding streets of Tharbad were still mostly strange to her, but everyone knew the Gilded Wasp. Its yellow roof towered above the surrounding buildings like an oversized dandelion. The Wasp might have been elegant in another town, but in the labyrinthine sty of Tharbad it merely came across as pompous and gaudy. This very quality attracted customers like rats, forcing Tirwen to push her way through the noisy crowd in the common room to the counter.
"Innkeep!" she called, leaning against the stained wood and trying to ignore a heavily-bearded and almost certainly intoxicated merchant who was eyeing her rudely.
"What d'you want?" the thin, hairless man behind the counter snapped, his hands busily filling three glasses with ale.
"I'm looking for Lord Falathor."
The innkeeper glared at her suspiciously, his bald head reflecting in the liquor glasses shelved against the wall behind him. Sweat trickled down his skin; it was hot in the common room, despite the chill outside. Tirwen repressed an urge to wrinkle her nose. Instead she fluttered her eyelashes as innocently as she could and smiled prettily.
"What do you want him for?" the innkeeper asked in a slightly more civil tone.
"He sent for me," Tirwen replied in a tone of perfect surprise, "didn't he inform you?"
"No," the innkeeper said, grinning insolently, "though by the looks of you I don't blame him for not wanting to share! Any more like you at home?"
Tirwen was briefly tempted to offer to introduce him to Ianna, but decided the amusement wouldn't be worth the scolding the older woman would give her.
"That depends on whether you mind sharing or not," she said instead.
The innkeeper laughed uproariously, spilling ale over his hands. He wiped them on his apron, leaving amber streaks behind and making him look almost like a wasp himself. "Good girl!" he grinned, "Go on up... it's room seven!"
With a last teasing wave, Tirwen threaded her way around a group of singing shiploaders ("My ship may be modest, but she's got a big mast!") and hurried up the staircase to the second floor. The hall was empty, as most of the guests were downstairs enjoying themselves.
She paused in front of a door marked with a tarnished number seven and glanced up and down the hall. There was no one to see her if she chose to turn back now... she gazed at the rough door, lined with cracks and splinters, dented were drunken customers had knocked into it in the past. Then, with a sudden, quick movement, she knocked, and without waiting for an answer, walked inside.
The young man hunched over the small table in the middle of the room looked up, startled. When he saw her, his one eye grew round as the moon and his mouth dropped open. He started up, grabbing at the tabletop, a thunderstorm of emotions flickering over his face.
"I...Indithel!" he spluttered, "What in the name of the Valar are you doing here?"
Indithel, regretfully laying aside the persona of Tirwen, rested one stately hand against the doorframe and smiled. "Hello, Falathor. Aren't you glad to see me?"
"Glad?" Falathor choked out, eyes riveted to her face, "I... what... you're supposed to be in Fornost! This city is dangerous! What are you doing here?"
"I followed you, of course," Indithel said artlessly, "I couldn't bear to be parted from you for so long!"
Mastering himself somewhat, Falathor gazed at her doubtfully. "Oh, really? That wasn't the impression I got at our last meeting."
"Oh, that!" Indithel yawned, "I can't believe you still remember that! Now really, it isn't fair to hold a grudge against a friend! I am still your friend, I hope?"
"Yes, of course... " Confusion replaced suspicion once more, and Falathor, red-cheeked, fell silent.
"And friends must visit each other!" Indithel prattered on, "And they may not forsake each other so easily. You didn't think I would let you ride away, just like that? I had to follow you! And I..."
"Indithel," Falathor interrupted quietly, folding his arms, "What is happening here? You didn't follow me. Your father would never allow it. Does he even know you're here?" he finished suspiciously.
"Oh, don't tell him!" Indithel cried, one hand flying to her throat in shock, "I told him I was going with the rest of the ladies to Lindon, where it's safe. You mustn't tell! You see, the truth is..." her voice dropped to a whisper, "I'm here on a mission." She nodded meaningfully.
"I see. What kind of 'mission' is this?"
"It's for Ravenna. The poor thing, she's not as young as she used to be... it's her heart, they say. There's an excellent herb dealer not far from here. I came to ask for something to help Ravenna's condition. The war is already so hard on her, I'm afraid the journey to Lindon might be too much if I don't find something to cure her!"
"And why couldn't you send a servant instead of coming yourself?" Falathor persisted.
"Oh, that wouldn't be proper! That a mere servant should lay hands on a lady's medicines... now, really!"
Falathor sighed and rubbed his temples, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. "'Proper'," he muttered, "Indithel, much as I love you, sometimes you make less sense than my reasons for loving you."
For a moment Indithel had nothing to answer. She swallowed over a lump in her throat and forced herself to continue smiling. "Let's not talk of such sad things!" she said brightly, traipsing into the room and plopping girlishly onto the bed across from the table, "I came for your company, after all. Let's see... I heard the loveliest gossip today... imagine, there's going to be an execution!"
"You call that 'lovely'?" Falathor asked acidly.
"Oh, you know... not lovely for her, of course..."
Falathor frowned. "Her? They're executing a woman?"
"Yes, can you believe it? I would have thought you'd have heard by now... it's all over the streets. They say she's a murderess. Awful, don't you think? She murdered some lord's brother – no, I think it was the brother of the First Lord himself! - and now they're going to burn the poor creature. No doubt it was all out of jealousy or some such thing – love drives people to such extreme measures sometimes! Why, I feel rather sorry for her. I've never seen the unfortunate girl, of course, but she has such a lovely name... Anna Cherrythorn or something like that. It's a real shame, if you ask me... Why, what's the matter?"
Falathor reeled back, nearly tripping over his chair, face a pale mask of shock. "What... what did you say? What was her name?"
"Oh, I don't know exactly," Indithel said uncertainly, "Anna something-or-other. Something about thorns. What's the matter? You look as if you've seen a barrow-wight!"
Falathor stared through her, hands hanging limply at his side. "Anna," he muttered to himself, "They're here. All the time I was searching and it never even occurred to me... that it could be her... that she could be..." He snapped back to reality suddenly, eye flaming with passionate feeling, "Telpedur! Even now you work mischief against Arnor! I won't allow it!" In a fever of motion, he stormed past Indithel into the hall. She started up and grabbed his arm tightly, pulling him back to face her.
"What are you doing?" she cried.
He glared down at her, but her distress was so real that his face softened slightly. "Don't worry," he said reassuringly, "I have to take care of this, that's all. Some very important facts have come to my attention. Stay here, and I'll come back for you later. Don't worry!" He pulled away from her and ran down the stairs without another glance backward.
Indithel gazed after him for a long while, trying to still her trembling and hoping desperately that she had not just sent him to his death.
*******
"Excuse me..." Trotter said, enunciating each word carefully, "Are you awake?"
The guard looked down at him blearily and mumbled something into his double chin.
"I'd like to a visit a prisoner..." Trotter began. The guard paid no heed, only slumping further against the stone wall of the East Gaol.
Trotter glanced down the street apprehensively. It was empty, from what he could see. Apparently, even the most stubborn of night criminals preferred to do their business somewhere more distant from this symbol of legal authority. A lonely torch flickered above the door engraved with the word 'gaol', revealing only himself and the dozing guard slipping inevitably off his chair.
"Alright, I suppose you won't mind, then," Trotter said, pushing open the creaking door slowly.
Almost immediately, a pair of strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him inside roughly. He yelped and twisted to no avail.
"What do you want, eh?" a voice hissed in his ear, "stop your squirming!"
Trotter ceased struggling and found himself face-to-face with a black-haired, suspicious-eyed young man. A quick glance around placed him in a guardroom; a few chairs and a large shelf lined with locked cupboards constituted the only furniture. Torches burned on either side of a heavy door on the far wall.
"I, uh... I want to visit a prisoner," Trotter stuttered.
The guard grinned. "Don't they all!" he sneered, "I'm afraid that's against the rules, sonny! Why don't you run home where you belong?"
"But you don't understand, this is very important!" Trotter insisted, unable to think of a more cogent argument.
"What do think this is – a museum? It's a prison, boy! No visiting hours!" The guard began pushing him brusquely towards the door again.
"Wait!" Trotter protested, bracing himself, "I... I can pay!"
The guard let go of him suddenly. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" he hissed, "How much you got?"
Trotter was forced to admit to himself that he had no money. The Orcs had taken from him everything of monetary value. He dug through his pockets frantically, searching for something, anything, all the while uncomfortably aware of the guard's growing impatience.
"Well? Out with it, or with you!" the man snapped a second later, reaching for him yet again.
"No, here it is!" Trotter said, pulling a small, hard object out of his pocket. It sparkled fitfully in the torchlight.
His father's brooch.
The Tree and Stars winked up at him trustingly. How many times had he seen them shine on his father's shoulder? How many times had he longed to wear them himself someday? How long had he borne this tiny memory, the last object connecting him to his father? He could almost see Adelard's quiet smile and knowing eyes reflected in the smooth metal...
Swallowing hard, he pressed the brooch into the guard's hand. "It's real silver," he said, "You can sell it... I'm sure it's worth a lot of money."
The guard examined the brooch critically. "Not as much as you think, I'll warrant. Alright, then. I'll give you five minutes." He fished a dangling bundle of keys out of his pocket and led Trotter to the inner door. "Five minutes!" he repeated, pushing the Hobbit into a dim corridor rowed with crowded cells.
The gaol was unflatteringly full, Trotter noted as he tiptoed down the hall. Not all of the inmates were asleep. Some talked aloud, to each other or to themselves. Some called to him with slurred voices, but he ignored them, concentrating on the task at hand. When he had wandered down approximately half the length of the corridor, he stopped and looked around uncertainly.
"Anna?" he called softly, "are you here?"
There was no reply.
"Anna?" he said a bit more loudly, "where are you?"
As if in answer, a thin shadow moved, sliding up against the bars of a cell a few steps ahead of him.
"Trotter...?" a timid whisper reached him.
In a second, he was by the cell and had caught Anna's hand in his own. He could see her face, ashen and drawn, in the smoky light cast by the sparse torches.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She only stared at him as if she couldn't believe her eyes. "You came," she said wonderingly, "you came for me. Why? You heard what Mathwes said."
An uncomfortable silence followed.
"It doesn't matter," Trotter said in a rush, "It doesn't matter what he said, I don't believe it! I know you. What, did you think I'd believe what some strange Man said? I know you're innocent, and I promise I'm going to get you out of here..."
But Anna only shook her head and stared at the ground between her feet. "You don't understand," she mumbled in a choked voice.
"I do! I mean... what do you mean, I don't understand?"
She looked up at him desperately. "Poor, sweet, innocent Trotter, always believing the best about people. To you, everyone is good and decent, aren't they? You're wrong, of course, this time at least... You don't know me. I'm so sorry, Trotter... I should have told you, but I was so happy, I hoped it would all be forgotten and no one would ever know... I didn't know this would happen..."
Trotter hardly breathed, horror diggings its cruel claws into his heart. "You don't mean to say..."
"I'm not innocent," Anna whispered, eyes shining, "it's like I said, back there before the Elves found us. I don't deserve your love."
"I don't understand," Trotter said numbly, dropping her hand, "You're admitting it? But why?" His voice sounded far away. "Why did you do it?"
"He asked me to!" Anna cried, her voice ringing with grief and despair, "he begged me! He said if I didn't do it, he'd have me hunted out of town. He frightened me and threatened me and... I didn't know what else to do!"
"Who asked you?"
"Telpedur!" Anna gasped.
"What?" Trotter took a step backwards, "you're telling me a man ordered you to kill him?"
Anna looked as if she had been struck between the eyes by a hammer. "Yes... I... you don't believe me, do you?" she asked bitterly, retreating into the shadows.
"Why would anyone ask someone to kill them?"
"Because he too cowardly to do it himself! I don't know! I only went to the inn because it was empty and out of the water. The orphanage was flooded. Then I went upstairs... he was there, in the room. Alone. He looked like a ghost, all pale and trembling. I tried to leave, but he wouldn't let me... he had a dagger. He put it in my hand and told me to... to..." she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking silently.
"And you did it."
Anna flinched. "He said he would shut down the orphanage and run all of us out of town. He kept talking... his voice was in my ears all the time, whispering and whining. I couldn't escape! I don't know how to use a weapon anyway, I kept missing... he kept saying, I had to kill him now or he would put an end to me. It was him or me, he said. I could hardly see by the end, with the blood and the tears everywhere."
Trotter found he had nothing to say. The story was bizarre, senseless. It couldn't be true. He should walk out now. He had been wrong, that was all, everyone was wrong sometimes... he still had a mission, he had to get to Gondor, he had Beleg with him. There was nothing to hold him here now. Sometimes one had to make a sacrifice. He could leave, and Anna...
"Please," Anna whispered, "please don't hate me, Trotter."
He felt as if a noose were drawing tight around his throat. "I don't hate you."
"I'm frightened. I'm going to die tomorrow."
Trotter made no reply. The silence stretched out painfully.
"No..." he said finally, "No! I'll..."
He broke off as footsteps rung out against the cold floor. He glanced up just in time to see the guard descending on him like a vulture. The man grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away hastily.
"Time's up!" he said, glaring at both of them contemptuously, "I don't think I'd have let you in here if I had know you wanted to talk to this one." He dragged Trotter away from the cell.
"Wait!" Trotter cried, "Wait, no! I - "
"Quiet!" the guard snapped, "It'll be my job if someone knows you've been here! Out!"
"Trotter!" Anna's voice echoed forlornly down the corridor.
Trotter twisted, trying to glance back, but he could not see past the guard's shoulder.
"Trotter! I forgot to tell you – watch out for - !"
The door slammed behind them, cutting off Anna's words. The young guard pushed him outside without bothering to feign gentleness. Trotter tumbled unceremoniously to the ground, landing uncomfortably in the dirt of the street. The other guard slept on undisturbed beside the outer door.
"Our business is finished!" the young man snarled, "Now get going!"
*******
Indithel leaned against the door, reassured by the familiar herbal smells of Ianna's house. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to relax. Shrugging her shoulders to loosen them, she made her way across the dark room, ducking beneath the hanging clusters of dried plants that trailed desiccated tentacles in her loosed hair. She felt her way slowly along the wall to the fireplace, her fingers closing on the candlestick on the mantelpiece.
It took some fumbling to strike a spark, but in a few moments the candlewick caught and a small flame leaped up, casting timid tendrils of light amid the shadows. Indithel glanced down briefly at the wounded Elfit's face. He was sleeping deeply, judging by his slow breathing. She had an urge to pull up the blanket and tuck it under his chin.
"It's dangerous to blunder about in the dark."
Indithel whirled around with a gasp, heart in her mouth. She staggered and half-fell, catching herself against the fireplace. In the candle's shuddering flame, the vague figure of a man sitting at the table gradually became visible.
"Fa...Falathor?" she whispered, "is that you?"
"So eager to have my brother alone in a dark room?"
"Lomin." Her stomach sank to her toes.
"You don't seem happy to see me."
"Why would I be?" Indithel snapped.
The shadow moved indistinctly. "Everyone needs a friend. Someone who truly understands them. You hide yourself so completely, I would think you'd be overjoyed to meet the only person who knows what you really are."
Indithel forced a laugh. "You don't know anything about me," she shook her head.
"Don't I? I know why you're here. I know what you're looking for. What good do you think it will do? It's far too late by now."
"Only you could be so obtuse when your own mother is in question."
"I, obtuse? You know better than that. And I'd be more polite if I were you – after all, I did let you get this far. Don't think it was your own cleverness that brought you safely through the Wild Lands?"
"Why..." Indithel bit her lip. It never paid to give Lomin an opening.
"Why am I here? Or why did I allow you to travel here peacefully?" Lomin leaned forward into the candlelight, a smile illuminating his face. "Excellent questions. I can answer both at once. My dear, I have a business proposal for you."
"I don't deal with traitors."
Lomin frowned, shadows drawing deep lines around his mouth. "That was rash. Don't refuse before you know what you're refusing. I think, once you hear what I have to say, you may change your mind."
Keeping her face smooth, Indithel glided as haughtily as she could to the table and looked down at her unwelcome visitor. "What do you have that could possibly interest me?" she asked lightly.
"I have precisely the thing you've been looking for," Lomin replied, "The thing you travelled all those long leagues to get. In return I merely ask something that is mine away."
Indithel's lip curled unwillingly. "You... you're a viper!"
Lomin laughed, his teeth flashing in the candlelight. He ran a hand through his hair and smirked up at her. "How odd that you say that," he murmured, "when in this case it is you who are destroying and I who am saving."
"I act only for the good of Arnor."
"You really believe that?" Lomin's eyes sparkled up at her, dancing with wicked amusement. "Arnor is dead. It expired years ago. The death knells sounded when Fíriel came to Fornost, and since then it has only been a matter of time. The process began before you were born... your efforts are futile. The Witch-King's most dangerous weapons are far more subtle and far more deadly than armies."
Indithel leaned down until they were eye-to-eye, the candle illuminating both their faces from beneath. The dark pressed close around the two of them, thick, living.
"You would know, wouldn't you?" she said tartly, "I'm curious – what did they pay you? I used to admire you so. And now it turns out that any passing war-lord can buy the great Lominelen's services for a bit of gold."
Lomin's eyes flashed, but his voice remained calm. "You are charmingly ignorant," he said dryly.
Indithel fumed silently.
"I wonder..." Lomin continued idly, "What would it take to buy you, my dear? I could offer you treasures beyond your most secret dreams. No," he said, laying a finger on Indithel's lips to still her protest, "not money, I know that doesn't interest you. What does a princess need with money? Ah, I know the fears and desires in that fierce, trapped heart of yours. You're in a dangerous situation, my girl, and no one knows it but you and me. Lonely, isn't it, all that time in Arvedui's drafty castle, pretending to be some limpid, empty-headed ornament? Always afraid that someone will notice – and put an end to you, like they did to your mother? Wouldn't it be nice to be free for once, to be with someone who appreciates what you are? To be able to show everyone what you're capable of? Not to have to work in the shadows?"
"And I suppose the Witch-King works in the light?" Indithel asked scathingly.
Lomin shrugged. "Some are driven to dark deeds. We all do what we have to. Even me." He grinned. "Maybe someday our shadowy paths will converge for a while."
"No, Lomin," Indithel said with a shiver of disgust, "I will never walk down that path."
"Even the seers never say 'never'..."
"Never," Indithel emphasized, "You haven't said anything that interests me in the least. I won't do any kind of business with you. You might as well leave now!"
"Ah, but I have one more card to play. I'm sure you put up quite an impressive spectacle for Falathor today, but I doubt you know what you have set in motion."
An icy hand gripped Indithel's heart. "What do you mean?" she whispered, hating the fear that crept into her voice.
Lomin smiled faintly. "Why don't you sit down, and we can talk about it?"
Indithel sat down slowly, her mind numbed. As Lomin continued to speak in his sleek, unhurried voice, a feeling of growing panic clamoured ever louder in her breast.
*******
There were voices in his dream. Beleg tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy as boulders. Soft, fuzzy darkness rotated slowly in his head. Images flashed by too quickly to see, whispering and rustling like leaves in the wind. He was hot; his skin was burning and his bones ached. He was staring down a long tunnel with a star at the end. The star grew and grew, filling his vision until he wanted to close his eyes to block out the light. But his eyes were already closed.
The star rushed passed him, searing him silently, and the voices came with it, growing louder and louder until he felt they were speaking in his very ears.
The voices were loud, but he could not understand them. There were two, indistinct, humming as if the wind had brought them down the tunnel from far, far away. One was familiar; it made him tremble with anger. The other belonged to a stranger. They were speaking in urgent, hurried tones, but most of the words eluded him. What he heard made him strain to move, but his muscles resisted his efforts as if turned to lead.
He grasped after the voices, but they receded, fading ever further into the blackness until nothing remained except the endless dark before his eyes. The black moment stretched out into eternity as he languished in watchful sleep, forgetting the world, forgetting time itself. He slept, but could not rest. Something called to him silently, recalling him to consciousness...
When Beleg opened his eyes, the room was empty. A candle flickered feebly on the mantelpiece above him. He stared up at a ceiling that looked like an upside-down forest, wondering if he were still dreaming. He was in a bed, that much was obvious. His clothes had been changed and he felt clean and cool. But... was that troll-leaf, there above his head? If he was dreaming, he resented his subconscious playing such demeaning tricks on him.
Beleg sat up slowly, feeling weaker than ever before in his life. The plain room around him remained empty. Where was Trotter? Where was Anna? He recalled flashes of the fight: the fur and the fangs, the sword arcing to his rescue, a lancing pain in his shoulder, air refusing to fill his lungs...
He tried to climb out of the bed and fell with an aching crash to the floor. A stack of wood beside the fireplace toppled over noisily, bits of kindling rolling over the floor. One came to a halt in front of his nose. His eyes focused on it as he gasped, trying to catch his rebellious breath. His shoulder felt numb.
Brisk footsteps tramped suddenly down the stairs beside the hearth, making the wood floor vibrate faintly beneath him.
"Well, of all the...! What are you doing up?"
Beleg groaned and twisted his head to stare up at an elderly woman dressed in a stern night-gown and lace night-cap. She was glaring down at him as if he had personally offended her by trying to stand on his own two feet.
"Trotter...?" he mumbled, "Where's Trotter?"
"Your friend left hours ago," the woman said, pulling him up more gently than her brusque demeanour belied and steering him back to the bed. He sat but did not lie down, shaking his head to clear the last cobwebs of unconsciousness.
"Where?" he asked again.
The woman frowned. "On the other side of the river, I should think." Her tone suggested that anyone who spent their time on 'the other side' was unworthy of notice.
"Have to find him..." Beleg muttered, pulling away from her blearily. He wobbled on his feet, steadying himself with a hand against the wall.
"Now wait a minute! You're not going anywhere, child! You are my patient, and..."
"And I will come and go as I please!" Beleg snapped, the old fire returning to his eyes for a moment. The woman fell silent suddenly. Beleg took a shuddering breath and tried to calm himself. "I mean no disrespect," he said, unable to banish the irony from his tone entirely, "but I must find Trotter. I must tell him..." his eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "Wait... Who are you? What house is this? How many other shady guests are you entertaining?"
The woman snapped after air like a fish on land. "Shameful!" she scolded, "how dare you! My name is Ianna and this is my house! I am a healer, not an innkeeper, and you and your friend are the only guests here at present – though that state of affairs will change speedily if you keep on like this!"
Her outrage was so real that Beleg could not make himself doubt her. "My apologies," he said, trying to sound conciliatory, "but I heard... well, never mind. Now then, Lady Ianna, I am in need of your aid."
"You have already had more of my aid than you deserve," Ianna sniffed self-righteously.
"Then I will act without your aid," Beleg replied obstinately, pulling together his composure and striding as steadily as he could towards the door, which seemed torturously far away. The floor dipped and bucked beneath his feet like a ship on a stormy sea, but he stubbornly refused to give any sign of discomfort. He rested for a minute by the door before reaching for the knob.
"Wait!" Ianna called suddenly. He looked back expectantly.
The woman glowered fiercely and muttered under her breath. "At least take a cloak!" she ordered, handing him one with a look that dared him to make a saucy comment. He held his tongue.
"Thank you," Beleg nodded, throwing the garment around his shoulders with well-concealed relief, "where can I find Trotter?"
Still scowling, Ianna nodded curtly to the right. "Follow the road downhill. You'll come to a bridge. On the other side you will find the courthouse and gaol. That's where he said he was going." A fleeting ray of worry broke through her thundercloud face. "Hours ago," she added, "He hasn't come back. Nor do I know where Tirwen is..."
Beleg had no idea who this Tirwen was, but he remembered the unknown voice in his dream and repressed a grimace. "I'll keep an eye out," he promised, despite the fact that he did not know who to look for.
Ianna nodded silently. He made his way tiredly into the street, keeping one hand against the wall for support.
If only, if only he could find Trotter first...
*******
"Trotter, wake up!"
A sense of urgency nudged at him persistently, making him mumble in protest. It was too early... he didn't want to awake... it was better to sleep, to dream, to forget...
A hand shook him weakly. The dust of sleep began to clear from his mind, and he realized that he was cold, and the ground beneath him was hard. He groaned, trying to push away the intruder in his solitude.
"Trotter! Are you a Hobbit or a... well, I guess you are a Hobbit. Come on, wake up!"
"Leave me alone," Trotter muttered, slitting his eyes blearily and trying to glare fiercely at his unwelcome visitor. A familiar face swam into clarity before him, robbing him of words and leaving him staring dumbly in shock.
"I will not leave you alone," Beleg said coldly, face grey in the dawn light, "If I tramped all the way out here to find you, the least you could do is wake up!"
"How did you get here?" Trotter blurted out, sitting up suddenly. He looked around slowly as memory began to return. He had stumbled away from the gaol, heartsick and despairing, to the riverbank. He remembered sinking down on a dirty terrace, watching the dark water glumly. It had seemed so bluntly appropriate, the cold river, flowing on without paying the slightest heed to where it was going, tearing up trees on its way, flooding houses, drowning people and animals, indiscriminate, uncaring... He had been exhausted after days with little or no rest. He must have fallen asleep.
"I walked," Beleg replied dryly, "all night, for that matter. Listen..."
"What?" Trotter interrupted, feeling his heart twist suddenly, "All night? You walked all night?"
"Yes, tragic, isn't it? But, Trotter..."
Ignoring him, Trotter staggered to his feet, hoping blindly that it wasn't true, that he was still asleep, dreaming perhaps.
Glancing off the rooftops, the sun's early rays stabbed at him triumphantly.
"No!" he cried.
Shadows stretched long before him, laying a black road under his feet as the sun, winning its daily battle, climbed to claim another dark victim.
"No!" He clenched his fists helplessly, shaking his head in hopeless denial. "No!"
"Trotter!" Beleg said, grabbing his arm, "what's..." He fell silent at the look on Trotter's face.
"They're going to kill her," the Hobbit said flatly, "now, in the fire, with the sun."
"Who...?" It wasn't a question. Beleg's face, pale as snow, begged him to take back the words, to refute what he knew must be truth.
"Anna." The word was a bare whisper.
"What?" Beleg's fingers dug into Trotter's arms, "why? Why, Trotter? What happened here?" Desperation enchained the Elfit's voice: desperation, disbelief, and heart-break.
Instead of replying, Trotter pulled his friend with him into a stumbling run. The two of them dashed frenziedly through the streets, their ringing footsteps sounding like accusations to Trotter's ears. You, each pound said pitilessly, abandoned. Her. Abandoned. Her. You. Abandoned. Her.
The East Court was already full when they arrived. Trotter could not see through the crowd. He fell to his knees, crawling through the legs that barred his way. He knew without looking that Beleg was behind him, all his pride forgotten, creeping through the dirt to cast a last glance on the thing that mattered most to him in the world.
The forest of legs thinned and he looked up, finding himself in the front row. Before him an area had been roped off, guards placed around it to keep back the mob. The inhabitants of Tharbad shrieked and hissed, tearing the quiet morning air with ghost-like howls of bloodthirsty pleasure as they leered at their victim.
A platform had been hastily erected before the courthouse. A tall wooden stake reared up, spearing the innocent sky. Wood lay piled around it, ready for the bonfire. It was all wood, all dark brown like a pile of mud torn from the river bottom and tossed carelessly amid the houses – all except for the faint spark, the golden star pressed against the stake that was Anna.
Her eyes were closed, her face upturned to the sun. She gave no sign that she heard the jeers of the crowd or felt the bonds holding her prisoner. Still, calm as her face was, Trotter could see the slight trembling of her limbs. He wanted to call to her, but found he had nothing to say. A lump in his throat choked him, and his eyes burned.
On the far side of the platform a pavilion had been erected, open to the bonfire and the crowd. Three exquisitely-dressed Men sat on elaborate chairs, watching the spectacle calmly. The Three Lords of Tharbad, Trotter guessed. One of them was smiling openly – Telpedur's brother, obviously. The First Lord was not young, but he looked thin and cruel, dangerous and heartless as the skeleton of a blade.
The First Lord gestured briefly to a guard who stood at his side, torch in hand. The guard nodded and bowed deeply, then turned and, with measured steps, made his way to the base of the pile of wood. He bent deliberately...
Trotter felt Beleg tense at his side, ready to leap, empty-handed, to defend Anna against all of Tharbad, against all the world if necessary.
"Stop!"
The guard hesitated, hand frozen a bare handful of inches from the dry wood, and looked up in confusion. The crowd fell silent as suddenly as if a dark sorcerer had stolen their voices. Trotter stared around wildly, searching for the speaker.
Murmurs rose from the assembled citizens, and a path began to open between them. Trotter peered around the people surrounding him, trying to get a clear look.
A Man emerged from the mob and, tossing his cloak carelessly over his shoulder, leaped nimbly onto the platform. In a few steps he was at the guard's side. He tore the torch out of the other Man's grasp and hurled it violently as far from the waiting bonfire as he could. Shrieks of surprise rose from the crowd as they dodged the flaming brand.
The Man, turning so that he could face both the pavilion and the crowd, glared down at both grimly.
"This execution is unjustified. Anna Applethorn is not responsible for Telpedur's death," Falathor said calmly, the sun sparking off his unruly red hair.
"I am."
*******
A/N: Eep! Falathor, what have you done? Only the next chapter can answer that...
