Chapter Eleven
But For The Face Of Innocence
Part 1
It's always disorienting to wake up from a nightmare, even in a good place. This, however, was not a good place. And Gimli was not waking up from a nightmare but wide awake and smack-dab in the middle of one.
It was the gloomiest, most depressing place Gimli had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked and spotted stone window ledge was a double set of iron rings for what he could only guess was a place to chain the more unruly. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stub of a torch burning low in it's standard. The doors to the cells were flaking with rust, and one of them was dangling off its hinges. But there was no need for working hinges on any cell door save his own because he was alone here.
/A nice hole in the mountains of the Mordor would have been better,/ he thought, as he hoisted himself up by his fingertips to peek out of his cell window. He would even rather face Helm's Deep again than face this, or this day.
He lowered down and sat on the edge of the cot they had afforded him, though it served little use other than a place to sit – he couldn't sleep if he wanted to. And he did want to, badly. But with the last of his time slipping away like water through his fingers, his mind wouldn't settle enough to drift off. Besides, soon his sleep would be an eternal one. That knowledge was enough to keep anyone awake.
He could see the sky through the cell window lightening to pink. The sunlight spilled through and made a line on the floor...then the line lengthened into a box...then into a trunk...and finally into a coffin, and all the while he could hear the crowd outside growing.
Today was a day of rest for most people, and in Gondor it was no different, except for the odd pickpockets, guards, prison officials, and of course the executioner – whose job had all but been abolished, until today. Ever since Aragorn had taken the crown, driven out the last of Sauron's sickness, and restored law and order to the land, the people of Gondor seemed to have heaved a collective sigh and began to take their first fledgling steps toward the daunting task of rebuilding. But to rebuild, first they needed an accessible workforce. And though in the beginning there had been huge expectations of mass executions, Aragorn, in his wisdom, felt there were far better ways of dealing with the criminal element than by simply executing them – where's the punishment in a quick death? So he had created work details (and work they did, for there was, and still is, plenty of back-breaking work to go around) with the criminals becoming the logical choice for a handy, readymade workforce in an all but devastated land that had seen enough war, suffering, and death, to last ten- thousand lifetimes. But this morning was different, of course. Plans for this day had gone on for the last three. Talk was particularly lively all over Gondor. It was heralded as the event of the season. Anyone who was anyone would be there. There wasn't a person within shouting distance that didn't know what today was. Today was the day that the executioner would once again take up his axe and don his black hood, because today was the day that Gimli – the dwarf who had tried to murder their beloved king in a cave – would be sent to a different type of cave – a tomb.
Gimli heard the crowd start up almost directly beside him through the iron barred window. A few minutes later, the prison warden and several guards entered the long hallway that led from the main offices in the front of the prison to his cell in the back.
The warden spoke in a soft, wondering voice. "It's time, Gimli. On your feet. I hope you've made your peace to whatever Lords you pray to." He was leaning against the bars, peering into the cell; barely contained impatience written on his face like one of Gandalf's fireworks ready to explode. It was not that he relished the spectacle of a public execution, but he did take both pleasure and pride in his small part in the justice system. As he saw it, the dwarf was as guilty as sin and about to get what he'd deserved. Still, he would not add to that misery by mistreatment or insult, no matter what he felt.
Gimli nodded but didn't move, and found himself thinking of Legolas and Aragorn. "Will the king be there?"
"Yes."
Gimli looked at the warden. "Is the executioner good?"
"Yes," the warden said. His voice had a gentle lilt to it, in keeping with the situation. "He's the best. You will not suffer, Gimli."
Gimli nodded and stared at his hands folded in his lap. "Warden?"
"What?"
"I know you don't believe me, but that's not Aragorn. I don't know who that is, but the king of Gondor is midway in the valley with Legolas." He pushed on not waiting for a response; he'd been over this topic countless times already and it was like beating his head against a brick wall. "Where is Arwen?"
The warden looked closely at Gimli. "She has been delayed."
"And Faramir?"
"With her. Protection, at the king's request."
"Watch over them both when they return. They'll know he's an impostor at first sight, and then both their lives will be forfeit."
The warden leaned even further forward as though pondering this for a moment, then he nodded.
The guards unlocked the cell door.
Part 2
The six of them rode hard, each urging their mounts faster and faster in a flat-out race for Minas Tirith. The horses, nearly shoulder to shoulder, thundered across the plains – their manes rippling in the wind, ears pinned to their heads, nostrils flared wide for air, tails streaming out behind them.
Aragorn heard it faintly even through the sound of the wind rushing in his ears - the crowd shouting and jeering in his mind – and his heart sank. He waited, bracing himself for the visual of the premonition to hit him, but this time nothing came.
He urged his winded mount – the third and last of three horses he had taken – faster, his own heart pounding as though keeping time with each galloping hoof beat. Eighteen horses, he noted briefly and worriedly. Six of us. Three horses a-piece. Eighteen now reduced to six. Between the six of them, the number of horses had steadily dwindled as each winded horse, pushed almost beyond it's limit, was traded off for a fresher mount and left loose for the trailing guards to gather on their way back. Legolas and Alflocksom on his right and Aic, Seigen, and Vedt on his left, had done as he had done – showing the true meaning of all-speed by changing horses on the fly rather than stopping to do it. Now all six riders were on their last of three horses each. But would it be enough? Aragorn wondered. The way things stood now, these last were tiring quickly, and with many leagues yet before them, things weren't looking good.
Stride by stride Legolas' horse began falling behind, exhaustion playing it's part to numb the stallion's already overworked muscles. The grey's lungs worked like bellows, sucking for precious air, while white foam lathered his muscular chest, neck...everywhere, known only to the elf and not seen by the others because of his colouring. The elf leaned forward, almost laying on the horse's neck, and spoke directly into it's ear. Beneath him, the stallion's strides began to lengthen out again, slowly, slowly, until finally he pulled up even with Aragorn's stronger mount again as though understanding every word the elf had whispered. The stride seemed to encourage on the others that were also beginning to falter, until soon they were all back to flying shoulder to shoulder once more.
The elf and king exchanged a glance. Legolas gave a worried shake of his head to let Aragorn know that he believed the grey was almost spent and would not make it much further before dropping. He found himself wishing he could drop the grey's tack, but knew any attempt to unsaddle at this pace would be nothing short of suicide. The horse was shaky as it was. A shift of weight now, no matter how slight, could bring him down and in turn bring them all down like a rockslide. The best he could do was to stay leaned over the grey's neck to cut the wind resistance and hope it would be enough.
Aragorn, also leaning, closed his eyes and sent a prayer with all his might: /Please, Lords, please don't let us be too late! Let these last mounts fly as if kings of the wind!/
He sensed no response and felt only the slightest increase in his horse's already breakneck pace. And now the sounds of the crowd were gone. The unwanted premonitions, overwhelmingly strong at first, were now flimsy at best and already beginning to fade as though they'd never existed. But this was one time he truly wanted to see.
Part 3
Waiting, Ridley leaned back in his chair under the canopy impatiently tapping his ring on it's ornate wooden arm. He glanced down and looked the ring over. Silver accented in gold and set with a fiery green gemstone. It had been Aragorn's, but now...
With the Lords blessing him (he had once thought they were cursing him) with a face and body nearly identical to Aragorn's, and with Arwen's Evenstar Pendant against his chest suspended by it's finely crafted elven chain, the Elven brooch pinned to his cloak, and this ring, by all accounts and all eyes, he was Aragorn. It had been a genuine stroke of luck that the king had left the trinkets in his bedchambers, and out in plain sight to boot.
/But had all of this really been a stroke of luck, or was there some higher design at work?/ he wondered.
Still, whatever the reason, here he was at long, long last. This was as it should be. After all, he had been born with the face of the king. Why shouldn't he have everything that went with it? And the best part is that the Lords seemed to be with him on this one. Twill just happening to work with an alchemist / herb master; Legolas falling into his lap; the liquid working it's magic better than he dared hope for; Gimli rushing back to tell Aragorn; Aragorn faking his own death; Alflocksom blaming Gimli and sending word back to have the dwarf arrested on sight for treason if he dared show his own face in Gondor again; the people in their relief not questioning his supposed return from the dead; Queen Arwen away; the trinkets left in the bedchambers in plain sight; the people of Gondor so good at safeguarding their king that they couldn't tell the real from the fake ... damn, he couldn't have planned this better if he'd tried. But even so, he couldn't shake that anoying feeling that all of this had been far too easy. After all, it's not everyday one can slip into the king's shoes and no one be the wiser.
/Were the Lords just being kind,/ Ridley wondered, /or is this some kind of a huge joke?/
/A test?/ A part of his mind asked. /But if it is a test, who's test is it? Mine? Someone else's? A test of what?/ Then he dismissed the questions. As long as things were gong his way, who really cared? /Well, Aragorn might care, he thought, but to hell with him./
/And speaking of hell, Aragorn should be long in hell by now,/ he thought. /And Greenleaf with him./
The only two who could possibly ruin this for him now were the dwarf and the queen. The dwarf had been easy enough and soon would be of little concern; the captain's orders had seen to that. All Ridley had to do was simulate a few quite believable sighs of regret before pressing the royal seal to wax on Gimli's order of execution. But the queen would take a bit more planning. If he couldn't convince her, he'd kill her and blame it on usurpers.
Usurpers. He hid a smirk into one cupped hand. The only usurper here was him. That was one joke he didn't care to share.
What started out as a bit of fun two years ago had grown into a full-blown obsession. He remembered traveling through the borders of Gondor while hunting a certain target – one of the two-legged variety: unfortunately a boy (he'd had more than a few misgivings about that one, but money is money, and besides, he never did find the boy anyway), and had come across a small group of Gondor's finest. They had taken one look at him and almost passed out, believing that the king had come to evaluate them. He'd played along and spent the night amusing himself by giving stupid orders and watching them scramble to carry them out. Afterward, he had tried his face out on the nearest town. Did it work? You bet it did. And that was the understatement of the year. He hadn't had to pay for a thing – be it the finest room in the finest inn, food, ale, or woman. Not that he'd ever had a problem finding female company or had ever paid, but woman suddenly seemed to crawl out of the woodwork. It's one thing to turn heads with a decent face, but being mistaken for the king had been too good to be true. It seemed to be quite a coup for a woman to bed the king. He liked this new found fame and all that went with it. Grew accustomed to it. Then one day it occurred to him that he could take it all – permanently. Why not? He already had the face and body. Why not the rest? It had been luck-and- the-Lords that had brought him this far; maybe the fates had intended he have it all, all along. He was sick of working for the rich anyway – always close to the gold but never within touching distance. Now, though...
Funny thing was, if he hadn't been tracking that boy when and where he had been, he wouldn't have come across those guards out of nowhere, and it never would have occurred to him to try this. This had all started with that boy. And why that huge, dark haired man wanted a fourteen-year-old boy dead was beyond him. Of course, in his line of work, the less questions, the better. He hadn't asked.
A curse to have the king's face, he had thought at first. Now it was a curse turned golden opportunity. He was no fool. He had grabbed ahold of that opportunity with both hands.
Sheer luck.
Or was it?
Yes or no, it didn't matter now, he supposed.
As long as the people didn't know. Looks aside, the differences in their personalities were astronomical; the major difference being: where Aragorn had misgivings about the death penalty, he did not. Gimli might be the first, but he wouldn't be the last. Blood would flow in the streets of Gondor before he was done. Payback is going to be sweet and deadly, and there were so many to pay back.
But first things first. The dwarf had to go.
The prison warden took his usual place behind the king's chair and waited. With Gimli's warning still nudging his mind, his eyes couldn't help traveling over what little he could see of what he perceived was the side of Aragorn's face. /But is this really Aragorn?/ he wondered.
"Let's get on with it," the king muttered impatiently.
"Yes, sire," he said, rising to his feet and readying to motion the watchful guards to bring the dwarf out. He hesitated. Had a thought. Leaned. "Sire, perhaps we should wait for Faramir. I believe he would like to see this as well."
The king shook his head. "If he wanted to see this he would already be here, wouldn't he?" He glanced up at him. "Just get on with it."
The warden seemed to be stuck in that lean for a moment, stunned utterly speechless and utterly motionless. That was not the answer he'd expected. Not at all.
/Already be here?/ the warden thought. /Faramir had sent word that they were going to be delayed by at least two more weeks. Aragorn knew that. Hell, everyone knew that./
"But sire, Faramir is – " he tried to explain helpfully.
"Just – get – on – with – it, " the king growled hotly, turning and glaring at the warden. "What part of 'Get On With It' don't you understand?"
The warden's eyes lifted to the expectant crowd...the executioner who was gliding a careful thumb along the razor-sharp edge of the axe...the guards who's eyes were fastened on him...and thought: /The dwarf was telling the truth. Good Lords ...what do I do now? They'll think I've lost my mind./
He couldn't think. He forced himself to straighten and at the same time, concentrate. And remember how to breathe. Breathing was important. It wouldn't be a good idea to pass out right now.
/I have to stop this. I can't execute an innocent man...or dwarf. That's murder. I'm a lawman, not an assassin./
A quick plan formed. It wasn't very good but it was the only one he could think of on such short notice. "One moment sire," he said quietly. "The dwarf wasn't finished praying to his Gods yet." He walked past him. "I'll go and check myself. It won't be but a moment."
"Then hurry it up."
He strode back to the prison, almost tripping over his feet in his haste, and motioned to the guards to follow him as he trotted past. Once inside he ordered: "Close that damned door and bar it. No one in or out until I say, understood?" Then without waiting for an answer he hurried back to Gimli's cell. His mind was racing a million miles a second, all roads leading back to the same initial thought: Get the dwarf out of here – fast.
"Gimli, on your feet and follow me. Hurry," he urged, talking so quickly and quietly that he sounded somewhat irrational. He glanced to the four guards stationed in the room. "The rest of you, stay on the dwarf. All sides. Do not ask questions. I have my reasons and I'll explain them later. Just remember: I'm your boss and your orders come from me. Now move." He motioned to the back door.
The plan might have worked, but unfortunately he'd been right the first time – it wasn't very good. And as soon as they opened the back door there was no denying that. A good twenty-odd swords were pointing at them.
"Well, well, well." Ridley stepped through the crowd of guards, stopped in front of them, and shook his head as though terribly disappointed. "I had a feeling you might get a little turned around, warden. Good job we came to help you out." He gave a quick motion of his head and levelled a hard look. "The front door is that way." He paused. His eyes cut to Gimli. "He has a date with the executioner, and since all of you made the crowd wait, I'm going to give them an extra special bonus. The lot of you are going to join him. We're going to kill ten treasonous birds with one stone."
Gimli had been quiet until now, staring in shock at this ... man. The resemblance was uncanny. He honestly couldn't get over it. If he didn't know better, he would have bet everything he had and borrow more that this was Aragorn – body, voice and all – standing before him. He looked every ounce the friend Gimli had known, right down to the scar on his upper lip. His upper body was clad in the traditional dark shirt and black tunic with the sign of the White Tree on his chest, had a ceremonial knife scabbard looped over one shoulder, and Arwen's pendant about his neck. His lower body was clad in black, tight-fitting leather breeches which were tucked into high black boots. Dark hair, smouldering grey eyes, same height, weight, build...everything.
Except this was not Aragorn. And now it was all starting to make sense.
A little smile touched Gimli's lips. Ridley saw it. A flash of recognition passed between them, but the meaning only went one way. Ridley had seen Gimli leave the elf at the mouth of the mine, but Gimli knew he'd never seen this man in his life. It was the eyes. There was something strange about them. They had the smug look of a hawk that caught the mouse. Gimli could not look away from Ridley for long; his eyes were drawn inescapably back. And he could understand why: this man, this Aragorn, was not only a perfect duplicate – though that in itself was enough to force the dwarf's eyes to light on him again and again – but also he was the only one here that seemed to be finding extreme humour in all of this. Though his face remained utterly passive, his eyes sparkled with inward laughter.
The warden's mouth hung open. "You can't do that."
Ridley smiled cheerfully. "Sure I can. I can do anything I want. I'm the king."
"The void you are! You're no more Aragorn than I bloody-well am!" Gimli shouted venomously, and Ridley hit him across the face. His hand made a sound like a breaking branch.
Gimli's head snapped back; his eyes widened with shock...then fury. He stared at the fake king, then slowly raised his hand to touch the reddening handprint on his cheek. "You fraud!" he whispered. His hands dropped to the hilt of a young guard's sword beside him. The young guard, shaking his head vigorously, tried to put his own hands over it. Gimli pushed them away and tore the sword from it's sheath.
"Gimli!" the warden cried. "No!"
Ridley stepped back and yanked an bolt fitted crossbow from one of his guard's hands. He levelled it, his finger tight on the trigger. His aim was not at the dwarf, however, but dead-centre of the warden's chest.
"Drop it or I'll kill him," Ridley said; his face stern.
For a moment Gimli thought that the fraud was going to do just that, and the warden's life would have ended right here, behind this jailhouse, beneath a cloudless sky with the sun glimmering above them. Then the fraud turned the crossbow toward the young guard; his face as hard as stone. Whoever he was, Gimli knew he had no qualms about killing the lot of them right there and then. That didn't bother the dwarf any – he knew he was going to die anyway – but taking others with him because of his actions? That bothered him. If the fraud wanted them killed, he would have to order it, and in front of the people of Gondor first. Gimli didn't want to meet the Lords in the afterlife and have to explain why he had brought so much company with him. He figured he had enough blood on his hands as it was and would have enough explaining to do already. Reluctantly, the sword fell from his hand.
"Take them," Ridley said through a sneer. "The dwarf dies first."
Part 4
Gimli, his hands bound behind his back, climbed the stairs that led to the platform then stopped short at first sight of the dark-stained wooden block. Some strange expression – disheartened disappointment – was dawning on the dwarf's face. The small expectation which had glimmered in his eyes as he surveyed the crowd winked out, leaving him with a look both grey and bleak. It was the expression of one who has just given up all hope. Aragorn wasn't here. Legolas wasn't here. There would be no reprieve. No 'snatched from the jaws of death' stories to tell others years from now. He was going to die. And that meant Aragorn and Legolas were already dead or they would have been here to stop this. That thought hurt the dwarf more than the thought of his own imminent passing.
A rough hand pushed him forward, almost toppling him into the block. He stared down at it and at the straw basket that sat before it. He was well aware of what the basket was for. He was well aware of what the scooped part on the back of the block was for as well. He was also well aware of what the executioner behind him was doing by the reaction of the crowd. They had begun cheering wildly; whipped into a near-frenzy. He was well aware of everything; he just couldn't believe any of this was happening.
His eyes again lifted to the crowd. Angry faces shouted curses at him. Fists raised. One toothless old woman in the front cackled hoarsely, highly amused by this spectacle. More than one women stared at him, oblivious to the fact that their children had left their sides and were currently squeezing through the crowd so they could get a better view. More than one man stood glaring at him, their arms folded across their chests as though highly pleased. The crowd pressed in tighter to the platform, each jockeying for a better position.
Well placed knuckles between his shoulder blades shoved him forward again, driving him directly in front of the block. The toothless old woman beamed. He had the odd feeling that she was a witch and was readying to be the first to race up the stairs as soon as it was over. /Likely after a lock of my hair or – what?/ he wondered. He shivered with revulsion, not wanting to think about what else she might want to relieve him of afterward. She stroked her chin and then gave another cackle of laughter. /My beard,/ he thought. /The crazy old witch wants my beard!/ He briefly wondered why, but decided to let it go. He didn't want to think about the possibilities.
His eyes came to rest on the canopy-covered platform just beyond the throng of heads and came to settle on the impostor-king, his leg casually thrown over the arm of a chair big enough to be a throne. Gimli's blood boiled, but at the moment he was hardly in any position to act on his feelings.
Prompted by one of the councillors, an old man made his way to the front corner of the platform that he himself – in his role as one of the city councillors – had designed. He cleared his throat loudly, unrolled a scroll, and in a shaky voice that jiggled up and down read aloud the charges and the verdict. He offered up his own prayer (which was too insincere to repeat), then beckoned for the executioner to perform his task.
Gimli barely heard him. His eyes were still fastened on the grinning face just past the sea of heads; the face that was Aragorn's and yet was not; the face of a man who had done something so horrific to Legolas' mind that it had destroyed him.
/If I could just get my hands free for one second,/ he thought, /and wrap them around an axe handle, I'd remove the grin off that face right at the neck./
Gimli was so focused on the fake king and so lost in thought that he didn't notice that the old man stopped reading until a hand suddenly pressed down on his shoulder, driving him to his knees and at the same time shoving him forward into the block. His chin struck the edge, his throat fitting neatly into the scoop. The executioner's shadow stretched long beside him.
The shadow of the axe raised...
The crowd hushed with breathless anticipation.
Innocent, wide-eyed, cherub-cheeked children stared at him. One little boy, no older than three, smiled up at him from the front of the crowd, thinking it a game. He had the face of an seraph – the face of innocence. Gimli wished with all his heart that the child would turn away, but the boy continued to smile up at him, his huge eyes full of wonder and curiosity. The dwarf couldn't help but think that the moment the axe fell the boy would lose his innocence forever.
The old woman smiled gleefully.
The boy continued to smile.
Gimli squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the final blow.
"HOLD!"
Gimli flinched...then chanced a peek through one eye.
All eyes had turned toward the back...to two Aragorns facing each other from opposite sides of the crowd – the fake already on his feet and standing on the platform at the back, and Aragorn (The real Aragorn, Gimli knew), Aic and Vedt with him, standing on the seat of a wagon to the far right – with the majority of the crowd between them.
Gimli felt a knife blade pass between his palms and a moment later the bindings on his wrists fell away. A shadow stretched beside him. A long, lean shadow. A very familiar shadow. Gimli was already beaming from ear to ear before he climbed to his feet. In one heartbeat, he turned, grabbed the elf around the waist and hoisted him up. Then embarrassed, he let go and cleared his throat loudly.
"Could you have been any later, elf?" he growled indignantly, his cheeks still flushed rosy with embarrassment.
Legolas grinned. "If we were, you wouldn't have known."
"'Tis good to see you," he said. Then cupping a hand to half-hide his mouth he whispered, "They almost had my head."
"Another moment and they would have." Legolas playfully swatted Gimli's shoulder and then jerked a thumb at the executioner. "He pulled up in mid- swing." He turned to the executioner, his eyes narrowing as he regarded him. "Of course, if he hadn't, he would have died before his axe fell."
Gimli's chest puffed out indignantly. "A fat lot of good that would have done me. He still might have struck me as he fell."
Legolas wasn't listening to him anymore. He wasn't even looking at Gimli nor at the executioner. He was now fixed on Aragorn and Ridley, his attention drawn by the low exchange of words and threats, their words scarcely above the startled mutterings of the confused crowd. Aragorn was keeping his voice down and barely moving his lips, knowing full well that the people's eyes would be trained on his face, and the fitting belief that the sneer that threatened to pull at his lips would give the people give more reason to question who he was. After all, Ridley was the one who had the clothes and ring, not him. Legolas' eyes shifted from one to the other. From this distance Ridley and Aragorn were as identical as a man and his mirror image. It was disturbing to say the least; the only real difference separating the two was their clothes. Still, he knew full well the real from the fake, kingly-clothes or ranger's. The question was: would the people know?
As if in answer to his silent question, one spectator called: "But which is which?"
Aragorn spotted the laundress in the crowd and pointed at his clothes. "Madame," he called, "do you recognize these?"
Her mouth dropped open, her hand covering it. "Oh my lords, the king..." she muttered through her fingers. Then she pointed at Aragorn and yelled at the top of her high voice: "The king dons those lords-awful ranger's clothes again!" She fanned her face with a hand, growing pale as though about to faint. The rest of the crowd heaved a collective gasp.
"And what of this ring and this pendant?" Ridley called out, not to be undone so easily.
Aragorn pulled a string from around his neck and held it up. Suspended from it was the silver key. "This fits the trunk in my bedchambers," he called. "It's the only one in Gondor that does. The ring and pendant are mine, Ridley. I left them on my nightstand. You found them. That makes you nothing more than a common thief, not a king."
When Aragorn began to speak, half the people were gazing at him with suspicion; perhaps a quarter looked a little troubled; an the rest had downcast and anxious faces. But the poised confidence radiating from Aragorn changed all that; and as they moved closer to him, there were less than five who looked uncertain – the others might have been going to a celebration.
Aragorn sprang from the wagon's seat and was on the move toward the platform, the two guards flanking him. Ridley leapt off the platform and was on the move toward Aragorn. The distance between them was lessening very fast. Second after second; not minute after minute. The crowd quickly drew back from both, and Aragorn and Ridley were racing to meet in the middle as though they meant to do battle among them. There was total silence as every person rushed backward out of the way and every grounds guard stood waiting for an order – an order that didn't come.
Legolas was off the platform and shoving his way straight up through the middle of the crowd in a matter of seconds. He had a look on his face that none had seen before – something beyond fury ... something that would have made even Greenleaf take a step or two backward. Most he pushed past saw it out of the corners of their eyes and drew even further back. Ridley didn't see it. Gimli couldn't see it, not from behind the elf. Aragorn? No. Alflocksom? Definitely. He was shoving his way through from the far left toward the middle with Seigen behind him, and for a moment he was glad the elf wasn't aiming that look at him. But there was no madness in Legolas' eyes. Only clarity. He knew what he was doing and what he wanted to do. He wanted to murder Ridley, and he didn't care about witnesses.
Ridley made the middle first, and that's when Legolas saw it – something... some weight in his sleeve...
"Aragorn! Knife!" Legolas shouted, just breaking through the crowd.
But Aragorn's attention was momentarily diverted by a small, petrified-to- paralysis child cowering directly in front of him, and Ridley wasted no time in taking full advantage of it. By the time Aragorn's mind had commanded his body to react, Ridley had wrapped an arm around the child's waist and swept him up against his chest. The knife hidden up his sleeve was out, in his right hand, and pressed against the boy's left jugular before the elf could take another step. Ridley shot the elf a look of pure, sick hate over boy's shoulder. Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli, Alflocksom, Aic, Seigen, and Vedt stopped stone-dead. The intention was clear. The threat, obvious. One move and Ridley wouldn't hesitate to slit the terrified, cherub-cheeked child's throat from ear to ear.
"I can take him from here," whispered Seigen from behind Alflocksom, lifting his knee and slipping a knife from the top of his boot. "If you drop down, I'll have a clear shot."
"No," Alflocksom said quietly without turning. "Put it away." Though he had no doubt that Seigen could hit the mark with deadly accuracy, he also had no doubt that when he did, Ridley would jerk, causing the knife to slit the boy's throat. Thwarted, he glanced over at Legolas and read the same frustration on the elf's face as his own likely held; both drawing the same conclusion at the same time and both hating it.
Every face turned to Aragorn. His expression was dreadfully hard. His eyes darted from the sobbing child to Ridley. The knife tightened as if in answer to the question of his intent. Another few moments and the child would certainly lose his life. The crowd was in danger. The little boy was in greater danger. These considerations and many others, including the knowledge of the extreme intensity of the eyes directed towards him, a recollection of the viciousness of what Ridley had done to Legolas without regard what-so-ever for the elf's life, the status of the boy squirming in panic, seconds away from death, flew through his racing mind before his stopped breath began to flow again.
There was no decision to be made.
Aragorn raised a placatory hand. He slowly, slowly, pulled his sword free from its sheath and lowered the weapon inch by inch down to his heels to place it on the ground before him. With both hands raised and fingers splayed to show he was now weaponless, he straightened slowly, slowly.
"Everyone else, back – off!" Ridley said harshly, his eyes fixed on Aragorn's. "King Elessar, to me."
Aragorn, both hands still raised, did as he was told.
Ridley dropped the child and at the same moment spun Aragorn around by the shoulder, grabbed a fistful of hair, and wrenched his head back to expose his throat. The knife pressed tight to Aragorn's jugular until he barely dared to breath. At the same time he was pulled backwards. They retreated that way through the crowd opposite from where Legolas and Gimli stood; Gimli now right beside the elf, holding the executioner's axe. Legolas again considered loosing his knives (his bow and quiver having been taken by Gimli and not yet retrieved) but he saw how set the knife was and quickly quashed the thought. Any reflexive jerk of Ridley's hand, any twitch, would cause the artery to be slit wide open, and Aragorn would bleed to death before anyone could reach him. Though he was loath to stand down (Lords he wished he was behind Ridley with a knife to his neck. He'd all but decapitate him) he knew there was nothing left to do but wait and hope for another opportunity.
Aragorn could feel Ridley's breath puffing against his ear in hot little pants. Worse, he could hear the voice that sounded so much like his own hiss: "You should have stayed dead, your majesty. Now I'll have to do this the hard way."
Legolas watched as Ridley half-dragged Aragorn backwards toward the palace. He waited tensely; his fingers flexing nervously – the tips of each finger singly tapping the tips of his thumbs (an old habit from archery training); his eyes so fixed and focused he could see his friend's pupils dilate from the bright sunlight to the dimmer torchlight as they burst backwards through the palace's heavy double doors. The very instant Ridley and Aragorn were out of sight, the elf and the dwarf peeled off to the right – the elf leading the way – pushing through the stunned, tight-packed crowd.
"GET OUT!" Ridley shrieked at sight of the startled entry guards as he dragged Aragorn backwards through the doors. He slammed Aragorn sideways into the stone archway that lead to the throne room, carefully keeping him between himself and the guards, and screamed to those inside: "GET OUT, NOW! EVERYONE OUT!"
Their heads snapped up. Looked from one to the other. Hesitated – all caught totally unaware.
"Go. Leave now." Aragorn said at once, realizing how bleak his options were as things now stood. A cornered animal is apt to do something rash, and at the moment he didn't need Ridley more nervous than he already was. He raised his voice and went on, "And tell Legolas to stay out of this. Unfortunately, this is no game."
The guards left, although grudgingly, and only because both had ordered the same thing.
And then they were alone.
Tbc...
But For The Face Of Innocence
Part 1
It's always disorienting to wake up from a nightmare, even in a good place. This, however, was not a good place. And Gimli was not waking up from a nightmare but wide awake and smack-dab in the middle of one.
It was the gloomiest, most depressing place Gimli had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked and spotted stone window ledge was a double set of iron rings for what he could only guess was a place to chain the more unruly. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stub of a torch burning low in it's standard. The doors to the cells were flaking with rust, and one of them was dangling off its hinges. But there was no need for working hinges on any cell door save his own because he was alone here.
/A nice hole in the mountains of the Mordor would have been better,/ he thought, as he hoisted himself up by his fingertips to peek out of his cell window. He would even rather face Helm's Deep again than face this, or this day.
He lowered down and sat on the edge of the cot they had afforded him, though it served little use other than a place to sit – he couldn't sleep if he wanted to. And he did want to, badly. But with the last of his time slipping away like water through his fingers, his mind wouldn't settle enough to drift off. Besides, soon his sleep would be an eternal one. That knowledge was enough to keep anyone awake.
He could see the sky through the cell window lightening to pink. The sunlight spilled through and made a line on the floor...then the line lengthened into a box...then into a trunk...and finally into a coffin, and all the while he could hear the crowd outside growing.
Today was a day of rest for most people, and in Gondor it was no different, except for the odd pickpockets, guards, prison officials, and of course the executioner – whose job had all but been abolished, until today. Ever since Aragorn had taken the crown, driven out the last of Sauron's sickness, and restored law and order to the land, the people of Gondor seemed to have heaved a collective sigh and began to take their first fledgling steps toward the daunting task of rebuilding. But to rebuild, first they needed an accessible workforce. And though in the beginning there had been huge expectations of mass executions, Aragorn, in his wisdom, felt there were far better ways of dealing with the criminal element than by simply executing them – where's the punishment in a quick death? So he had created work details (and work they did, for there was, and still is, plenty of back-breaking work to go around) with the criminals becoming the logical choice for a handy, readymade workforce in an all but devastated land that had seen enough war, suffering, and death, to last ten- thousand lifetimes. But this morning was different, of course. Plans for this day had gone on for the last three. Talk was particularly lively all over Gondor. It was heralded as the event of the season. Anyone who was anyone would be there. There wasn't a person within shouting distance that didn't know what today was. Today was the day that the executioner would once again take up his axe and don his black hood, because today was the day that Gimli – the dwarf who had tried to murder their beloved king in a cave – would be sent to a different type of cave – a tomb.
Gimli heard the crowd start up almost directly beside him through the iron barred window. A few minutes later, the prison warden and several guards entered the long hallway that led from the main offices in the front of the prison to his cell in the back.
The warden spoke in a soft, wondering voice. "It's time, Gimli. On your feet. I hope you've made your peace to whatever Lords you pray to." He was leaning against the bars, peering into the cell; barely contained impatience written on his face like one of Gandalf's fireworks ready to explode. It was not that he relished the spectacle of a public execution, but he did take both pleasure and pride in his small part in the justice system. As he saw it, the dwarf was as guilty as sin and about to get what he'd deserved. Still, he would not add to that misery by mistreatment or insult, no matter what he felt.
Gimli nodded but didn't move, and found himself thinking of Legolas and Aragorn. "Will the king be there?"
"Yes."
Gimli looked at the warden. "Is the executioner good?"
"Yes," the warden said. His voice had a gentle lilt to it, in keeping with the situation. "He's the best. You will not suffer, Gimli."
Gimli nodded and stared at his hands folded in his lap. "Warden?"
"What?"
"I know you don't believe me, but that's not Aragorn. I don't know who that is, but the king of Gondor is midway in the valley with Legolas." He pushed on not waiting for a response; he'd been over this topic countless times already and it was like beating his head against a brick wall. "Where is Arwen?"
The warden looked closely at Gimli. "She has been delayed."
"And Faramir?"
"With her. Protection, at the king's request."
"Watch over them both when they return. They'll know he's an impostor at first sight, and then both their lives will be forfeit."
The warden leaned even further forward as though pondering this for a moment, then he nodded.
The guards unlocked the cell door.
Part 2
The six of them rode hard, each urging their mounts faster and faster in a flat-out race for Minas Tirith. The horses, nearly shoulder to shoulder, thundered across the plains – their manes rippling in the wind, ears pinned to their heads, nostrils flared wide for air, tails streaming out behind them.
Aragorn heard it faintly even through the sound of the wind rushing in his ears - the crowd shouting and jeering in his mind – and his heart sank. He waited, bracing himself for the visual of the premonition to hit him, but this time nothing came.
He urged his winded mount – the third and last of three horses he had taken – faster, his own heart pounding as though keeping time with each galloping hoof beat. Eighteen horses, he noted briefly and worriedly. Six of us. Three horses a-piece. Eighteen now reduced to six. Between the six of them, the number of horses had steadily dwindled as each winded horse, pushed almost beyond it's limit, was traded off for a fresher mount and left loose for the trailing guards to gather on their way back. Legolas and Alflocksom on his right and Aic, Seigen, and Vedt on his left, had done as he had done – showing the true meaning of all-speed by changing horses on the fly rather than stopping to do it. Now all six riders were on their last of three horses each. But would it be enough? Aragorn wondered. The way things stood now, these last were tiring quickly, and with many leagues yet before them, things weren't looking good.
Stride by stride Legolas' horse began falling behind, exhaustion playing it's part to numb the stallion's already overworked muscles. The grey's lungs worked like bellows, sucking for precious air, while white foam lathered his muscular chest, neck...everywhere, known only to the elf and not seen by the others because of his colouring. The elf leaned forward, almost laying on the horse's neck, and spoke directly into it's ear. Beneath him, the stallion's strides began to lengthen out again, slowly, slowly, until finally he pulled up even with Aragorn's stronger mount again as though understanding every word the elf had whispered. The stride seemed to encourage on the others that were also beginning to falter, until soon they were all back to flying shoulder to shoulder once more.
The elf and king exchanged a glance. Legolas gave a worried shake of his head to let Aragorn know that he believed the grey was almost spent and would not make it much further before dropping. He found himself wishing he could drop the grey's tack, but knew any attempt to unsaddle at this pace would be nothing short of suicide. The horse was shaky as it was. A shift of weight now, no matter how slight, could bring him down and in turn bring them all down like a rockslide. The best he could do was to stay leaned over the grey's neck to cut the wind resistance and hope it would be enough.
Aragorn, also leaning, closed his eyes and sent a prayer with all his might: /Please, Lords, please don't let us be too late! Let these last mounts fly as if kings of the wind!/
He sensed no response and felt only the slightest increase in his horse's already breakneck pace. And now the sounds of the crowd were gone. The unwanted premonitions, overwhelmingly strong at first, were now flimsy at best and already beginning to fade as though they'd never existed. But this was one time he truly wanted to see.
Part 3
Waiting, Ridley leaned back in his chair under the canopy impatiently tapping his ring on it's ornate wooden arm. He glanced down and looked the ring over. Silver accented in gold and set with a fiery green gemstone. It had been Aragorn's, but now...
With the Lords blessing him (he had once thought they were cursing him) with a face and body nearly identical to Aragorn's, and with Arwen's Evenstar Pendant against his chest suspended by it's finely crafted elven chain, the Elven brooch pinned to his cloak, and this ring, by all accounts and all eyes, he was Aragorn. It had been a genuine stroke of luck that the king had left the trinkets in his bedchambers, and out in plain sight to boot.
/But had all of this really been a stroke of luck, or was there some higher design at work?/ he wondered.
Still, whatever the reason, here he was at long, long last. This was as it should be. After all, he had been born with the face of the king. Why shouldn't he have everything that went with it? And the best part is that the Lords seemed to be with him on this one. Twill just happening to work with an alchemist / herb master; Legolas falling into his lap; the liquid working it's magic better than he dared hope for; Gimli rushing back to tell Aragorn; Aragorn faking his own death; Alflocksom blaming Gimli and sending word back to have the dwarf arrested on sight for treason if he dared show his own face in Gondor again; the people in their relief not questioning his supposed return from the dead; Queen Arwen away; the trinkets left in the bedchambers in plain sight; the people of Gondor so good at safeguarding their king that they couldn't tell the real from the fake ... damn, he couldn't have planned this better if he'd tried. But even so, he couldn't shake that anoying feeling that all of this had been far too easy. After all, it's not everyday one can slip into the king's shoes and no one be the wiser.
/Were the Lords just being kind,/ Ridley wondered, /or is this some kind of a huge joke?/
/A test?/ A part of his mind asked. /But if it is a test, who's test is it? Mine? Someone else's? A test of what?/ Then he dismissed the questions. As long as things were gong his way, who really cared? /Well, Aragorn might care, he thought, but to hell with him./
/And speaking of hell, Aragorn should be long in hell by now,/ he thought. /And Greenleaf with him./
The only two who could possibly ruin this for him now were the dwarf and the queen. The dwarf had been easy enough and soon would be of little concern; the captain's orders had seen to that. All Ridley had to do was simulate a few quite believable sighs of regret before pressing the royal seal to wax on Gimli's order of execution. But the queen would take a bit more planning. If he couldn't convince her, he'd kill her and blame it on usurpers.
Usurpers. He hid a smirk into one cupped hand. The only usurper here was him. That was one joke he didn't care to share.
What started out as a bit of fun two years ago had grown into a full-blown obsession. He remembered traveling through the borders of Gondor while hunting a certain target – one of the two-legged variety: unfortunately a boy (he'd had more than a few misgivings about that one, but money is money, and besides, he never did find the boy anyway), and had come across a small group of Gondor's finest. They had taken one look at him and almost passed out, believing that the king had come to evaluate them. He'd played along and spent the night amusing himself by giving stupid orders and watching them scramble to carry them out. Afterward, he had tried his face out on the nearest town. Did it work? You bet it did. And that was the understatement of the year. He hadn't had to pay for a thing – be it the finest room in the finest inn, food, ale, or woman. Not that he'd ever had a problem finding female company or had ever paid, but woman suddenly seemed to crawl out of the woodwork. It's one thing to turn heads with a decent face, but being mistaken for the king had been too good to be true. It seemed to be quite a coup for a woman to bed the king. He liked this new found fame and all that went with it. Grew accustomed to it. Then one day it occurred to him that he could take it all – permanently. Why not? He already had the face and body. Why not the rest? It had been luck-and- the-Lords that had brought him this far; maybe the fates had intended he have it all, all along. He was sick of working for the rich anyway – always close to the gold but never within touching distance. Now, though...
Funny thing was, if he hadn't been tracking that boy when and where he had been, he wouldn't have come across those guards out of nowhere, and it never would have occurred to him to try this. This had all started with that boy. And why that huge, dark haired man wanted a fourteen-year-old boy dead was beyond him. Of course, in his line of work, the less questions, the better. He hadn't asked.
A curse to have the king's face, he had thought at first. Now it was a curse turned golden opportunity. He was no fool. He had grabbed ahold of that opportunity with both hands.
Sheer luck.
Or was it?
Yes or no, it didn't matter now, he supposed.
As long as the people didn't know. Looks aside, the differences in their personalities were astronomical; the major difference being: where Aragorn had misgivings about the death penalty, he did not. Gimli might be the first, but he wouldn't be the last. Blood would flow in the streets of Gondor before he was done. Payback is going to be sweet and deadly, and there were so many to pay back.
But first things first. The dwarf had to go.
The prison warden took his usual place behind the king's chair and waited. With Gimli's warning still nudging his mind, his eyes couldn't help traveling over what little he could see of what he perceived was the side of Aragorn's face. /But is this really Aragorn?/ he wondered.
"Let's get on with it," the king muttered impatiently.
"Yes, sire," he said, rising to his feet and readying to motion the watchful guards to bring the dwarf out. He hesitated. Had a thought. Leaned. "Sire, perhaps we should wait for Faramir. I believe he would like to see this as well."
The king shook his head. "If he wanted to see this he would already be here, wouldn't he?" He glanced up at him. "Just get on with it."
The warden seemed to be stuck in that lean for a moment, stunned utterly speechless and utterly motionless. That was not the answer he'd expected. Not at all.
/Already be here?/ the warden thought. /Faramir had sent word that they were going to be delayed by at least two more weeks. Aragorn knew that. Hell, everyone knew that./
"But sire, Faramir is – " he tried to explain helpfully.
"Just – get – on – with – it, " the king growled hotly, turning and glaring at the warden. "What part of 'Get On With It' don't you understand?"
The warden's eyes lifted to the expectant crowd...the executioner who was gliding a careful thumb along the razor-sharp edge of the axe...the guards who's eyes were fastened on him...and thought: /The dwarf was telling the truth. Good Lords ...what do I do now? They'll think I've lost my mind./
He couldn't think. He forced himself to straighten and at the same time, concentrate. And remember how to breathe. Breathing was important. It wouldn't be a good idea to pass out right now.
/I have to stop this. I can't execute an innocent man...or dwarf. That's murder. I'm a lawman, not an assassin./
A quick plan formed. It wasn't very good but it was the only one he could think of on such short notice. "One moment sire," he said quietly. "The dwarf wasn't finished praying to his Gods yet." He walked past him. "I'll go and check myself. It won't be but a moment."
"Then hurry it up."
He strode back to the prison, almost tripping over his feet in his haste, and motioned to the guards to follow him as he trotted past. Once inside he ordered: "Close that damned door and bar it. No one in or out until I say, understood?" Then without waiting for an answer he hurried back to Gimli's cell. His mind was racing a million miles a second, all roads leading back to the same initial thought: Get the dwarf out of here – fast.
"Gimli, on your feet and follow me. Hurry," he urged, talking so quickly and quietly that he sounded somewhat irrational. He glanced to the four guards stationed in the room. "The rest of you, stay on the dwarf. All sides. Do not ask questions. I have my reasons and I'll explain them later. Just remember: I'm your boss and your orders come from me. Now move." He motioned to the back door.
The plan might have worked, but unfortunately he'd been right the first time – it wasn't very good. And as soon as they opened the back door there was no denying that. A good twenty-odd swords were pointing at them.
"Well, well, well." Ridley stepped through the crowd of guards, stopped in front of them, and shook his head as though terribly disappointed. "I had a feeling you might get a little turned around, warden. Good job we came to help you out." He gave a quick motion of his head and levelled a hard look. "The front door is that way." He paused. His eyes cut to Gimli. "He has a date with the executioner, and since all of you made the crowd wait, I'm going to give them an extra special bonus. The lot of you are going to join him. We're going to kill ten treasonous birds with one stone."
Gimli had been quiet until now, staring in shock at this ... man. The resemblance was uncanny. He honestly couldn't get over it. If he didn't know better, he would have bet everything he had and borrow more that this was Aragorn – body, voice and all – standing before him. He looked every ounce the friend Gimli had known, right down to the scar on his upper lip. His upper body was clad in the traditional dark shirt and black tunic with the sign of the White Tree on his chest, had a ceremonial knife scabbard looped over one shoulder, and Arwen's pendant about his neck. His lower body was clad in black, tight-fitting leather breeches which were tucked into high black boots. Dark hair, smouldering grey eyes, same height, weight, build...everything.
Except this was not Aragorn. And now it was all starting to make sense.
A little smile touched Gimli's lips. Ridley saw it. A flash of recognition passed between them, but the meaning only went one way. Ridley had seen Gimli leave the elf at the mouth of the mine, but Gimli knew he'd never seen this man in his life. It was the eyes. There was something strange about them. They had the smug look of a hawk that caught the mouse. Gimli could not look away from Ridley for long; his eyes were drawn inescapably back. And he could understand why: this man, this Aragorn, was not only a perfect duplicate – though that in itself was enough to force the dwarf's eyes to light on him again and again – but also he was the only one here that seemed to be finding extreme humour in all of this. Though his face remained utterly passive, his eyes sparkled with inward laughter.
The warden's mouth hung open. "You can't do that."
Ridley smiled cheerfully. "Sure I can. I can do anything I want. I'm the king."
"The void you are! You're no more Aragorn than I bloody-well am!" Gimli shouted venomously, and Ridley hit him across the face. His hand made a sound like a breaking branch.
Gimli's head snapped back; his eyes widened with shock...then fury. He stared at the fake king, then slowly raised his hand to touch the reddening handprint on his cheek. "You fraud!" he whispered. His hands dropped to the hilt of a young guard's sword beside him. The young guard, shaking his head vigorously, tried to put his own hands over it. Gimli pushed them away and tore the sword from it's sheath.
"Gimli!" the warden cried. "No!"
Ridley stepped back and yanked an bolt fitted crossbow from one of his guard's hands. He levelled it, his finger tight on the trigger. His aim was not at the dwarf, however, but dead-centre of the warden's chest.
"Drop it or I'll kill him," Ridley said; his face stern.
For a moment Gimli thought that the fraud was going to do just that, and the warden's life would have ended right here, behind this jailhouse, beneath a cloudless sky with the sun glimmering above them. Then the fraud turned the crossbow toward the young guard; his face as hard as stone. Whoever he was, Gimli knew he had no qualms about killing the lot of them right there and then. That didn't bother the dwarf any – he knew he was going to die anyway – but taking others with him because of his actions? That bothered him. If the fraud wanted them killed, he would have to order it, and in front of the people of Gondor first. Gimli didn't want to meet the Lords in the afterlife and have to explain why he had brought so much company with him. He figured he had enough blood on his hands as it was and would have enough explaining to do already. Reluctantly, the sword fell from his hand.
"Take them," Ridley said through a sneer. "The dwarf dies first."
Part 4
Gimli, his hands bound behind his back, climbed the stairs that led to the platform then stopped short at first sight of the dark-stained wooden block. Some strange expression – disheartened disappointment – was dawning on the dwarf's face. The small expectation which had glimmered in his eyes as he surveyed the crowd winked out, leaving him with a look both grey and bleak. It was the expression of one who has just given up all hope. Aragorn wasn't here. Legolas wasn't here. There would be no reprieve. No 'snatched from the jaws of death' stories to tell others years from now. He was going to die. And that meant Aragorn and Legolas were already dead or they would have been here to stop this. That thought hurt the dwarf more than the thought of his own imminent passing.
A rough hand pushed him forward, almost toppling him into the block. He stared down at it and at the straw basket that sat before it. He was well aware of what the basket was for. He was well aware of what the scooped part on the back of the block was for as well. He was also well aware of what the executioner behind him was doing by the reaction of the crowd. They had begun cheering wildly; whipped into a near-frenzy. He was well aware of everything; he just couldn't believe any of this was happening.
His eyes again lifted to the crowd. Angry faces shouted curses at him. Fists raised. One toothless old woman in the front cackled hoarsely, highly amused by this spectacle. More than one women stared at him, oblivious to the fact that their children had left their sides and were currently squeezing through the crowd so they could get a better view. More than one man stood glaring at him, their arms folded across their chests as though highly pleased. The crowd pressed in tighter to the platform, each jockeying for a better position.
Well placed knuckles between his shoulder blades shoved him forward again, driving him directly in front of the block. The toothless old woman beamed. He had the odd feeling that she was a witch and was readying to be the first to race up the stairs as soon as it was over. /Likely after a lock of my hair or – what?/ he wondered. He shivered with revulsion, not wanting to think about what else she might want to relieve him of afterward. She stroked her chin and then gave another cackle of laughter. /My beard,/ he thought. /The crazy old witch wants my beard!/ He briefly wondered why, but decided to let it go. He didn't want to think about the possibilities.
His eyes came to rest on the canopy-covered platform just beyond the throng of heads and came to settle on the impostor-king, his leg casually thrown over the arm of a chair big enough to be a throne. Gimli's blood boiled, but at the moment he was hardly in any position to act on his feelings.
Prompted by one of the councillors, an old man made his way to the front corner of the platform that he himself – in his role as one of the city councillors – had designed. He cleared his throat loudly, unrolled a scroll, and in a shaky voice that jiggled up and down read aloud the charges and the verdict. He offered up his own prayer (which was too insincere to repeat), then beckoned for the executioner to perform his task.
Gimli barely heard him. His eyes were still fastened on the grinning face just past the sea of heads; the face that was Aragorn's and yet was not; the face of a man who had done something so horrific to Legolas' mind that it had destroyed him.
/If I could just get my hands free for one second,/ he thought, /and wrap them around an axe handle, I'd remove the grin off that face right at the neck./
Gimli was so focused on the fake king and so lost in thought that he didn't notice that the old man stopped reading until a hand suddenly pressed down on his shoulder, driving him to his knees and at the same time shoving him forward into the block. His chin struck the edge, his throat fitting neatly into the scoop. The executioner's shadow stretched long beside him.
The shadow of the axe raised...
The crowd hushed with breathless anticipation.
Innocent, wide-eyed, cherub-cheeked children stared at him. One little boy, no older than three, smiled up at him from the front of the crowd, thinking it a game. He had the face of an seraph – the face of innocence. Gimli wished with all his heart that the child would turn away, but the boy continued to smile up at him, his huge eyes full of wonder and curiosity. The dwarf couldn't help but think that the moment the axe fell the boy would lose his innocence forever.
The old woman smiled gleefully.
The boy continued to smile.
Gimli squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the final blow.
"HOLD!"
Gimli flinched...then chanced a peek through one eye.
All eyes had turned toward the back...to two Aragorns facing each other from opposite sides of the crowd – the fake already on his feet and standing on the platform at the back, and Aragorn (The real Aragorn, Gimli knew), Aic and Vedt with him, standing on the seat of a wagon to the far right – with the majority of the crowd between them.
Gimli felt a knife blade pass between his palms and a moment later the bindings on his wrists fell away. A shadow stretched beside him. A long, lean shadow. A very familiar shadow. Gimli was already beaming from ear to ear before he climbed to his feet. In one heartbeat, he turned, grabbed the elf around the waist and hoisted him up. Then embarrassed, he let go and cleared his throat loudly.
"Could you have been any later, elf?" he growled indignantly, his cheeks still flushed rosy with embarrassment.
Legolas grinned. "If we were, you wouldn't have known."
"'Tis good to see you," he said. Then cupping a hand to half-hide his mouth he whispered, "They almost had my head."
"Another moment and they would have." Legolas playfully swatted Gimli's shoulder and then jerked a thumb at the executioner. "He pulled up in mid- swing." He turned to the executioner, his eyes narrowing as he regarded him. "Of course, if he hadn't, he would have died before his axe fell."
Gimli's chest puffed out indignantly. "A fat lot of good that would have done me. He still might have struck me as he fell."
Legolas wasn't listening to him anymore. He wasn't even looking at Gimli nor at the executioner. He was now fixed on Aragorn and Ridley, his attention drawn by the low exchange of words and threats, their words scarcely above the startled mutterings of the confused crowd. Aragorn was keeping his voice down and barely moving his lips, knowing full well that the people's eyes would be trained on his face, and the fitting belief that the sneer that threatened to pull at his lips would give the people give more reason to question who he was. After all, Ridley was the one who had the clothes and ring, not him. Legolas' eyes shifted from one to the other. From this distance Ridley and Aragorn were as identical as a man and his mirror image. It was disturbing to say the least; the only real difference separating the two was their clothes. Still, he knew full well the real from the fake, kingly-clothes or ranger's. The question was: would the people know?
As if in answer to his silent question, one spectator called: "But which is which?"
Aragorn spotted the laundress in the crowd and pointed at his clothes. "Madame," he called, "do you recognize these?"
Her mouth dropped open, her hand covering it. "Oh my lords, the king..." she muttered through her fingers. Then she pointed at Aragorn and yelled at the top of her high voice: "The king dons those lords-awful ranger's clothes again!" She fanned her face with a hand, growing pale as though about to faint. The rest of the crowd heaved a collective gasp.
"And what of this ring and this pendant?" Ridley called out, not to be undone so easily.
Aragorn pulled a string from around his neck and held it up. Suspended from it was the silver key. "This fits the trunk in my bedchambers," he called. "It's the only one in Gondor that does. The ring and pendant are mine, Ridley. I left them on my nightstand. You found them. That makes you nothing more than a common thief, not a king."
When Aragorn began to speak, half the people were gazing at him with suspicion; perhaps a quarter looked a little troubled; an the rest had downcast and anxious faces. But the poised confidence radiating from Aragorn changed all that; and as they moved closer to him, there were less than five who looked uncertain – the others might have been going to a celebration.
Aragorn sprang from the wagon's seat and was on the move toward the platform, the two guards flanking him. Ridley leapt off the platform and was on the move toward Aragorn. The distance between them was lessening very fast. Second after second; not minute after minute. The crowd quickly drew back from both, and Aragorn and Ridley were racing to meet in the middle as though they meant to do battle among them. There was total silence as every person rushed backward out of the way and every grounds guard stood waiting for an order – an order that didn't come.
Legolas was off the platform and shoving his way straight up through the middle of the crowd in a matter of seconds. He had a look on his face that none had seen before – something beyond fury ... something that would have made even Greenleaf take a step or two backward. Most he pushed past saw it out of the corners of their eyes and drew even further back. Ridley didn't see it. Gimli couldn't see it, not from behind the elf. Aragorn? No. Alflocksom? Definitely. He was shoving his way through from the far left toward the middle with Seigen behind him, and for a moment he was glad the elf wasn't aiming that look at him. But there was no madness in Legolas' eyes. Only clarity. He knew what he was doing and what he wanted to do. He wanted to murder Ridley, and he didn't care about witnesses.
Ridley made the middle first, and that's when Legolas saw it – something... some weight in his sleeve...
"Aragorn! Knife!" Legolas shouted, just breaking through the crowd.
But Aragorn's attention was momentarily diverted by a small, petrified-to- paralysis child cowering directly in front of him, and Ridley wasted no time in taking full advantage of it. By the time Aragorn's mind had commanded his body to react, Ridley had wrapped an arm around the child's waist and swept him up against his chest. The knife hidden up his sleeve was out, in his right hand, and pressed against the boy's left jugular before the elf could take another step. Ridley shot the elf a look of pure, sick hate over boy's shoulder. Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli, Alflocksom, Aic, Seigen, and Vedt stopped stone-dead. The intention was clear. The threat, obvious. One move and Ridley wouldn't hesitate to slit the terrified, cherub-cheeked child's throat from ear to ear.
"I can take him from here," whispered Seigen from behind Alflocksom, lifting his knee and slipping a knife from the top of his boot. "If you drop down, I'll have a clear shot."
"No," Alflocksom said quietly without turning. "Put it away." Though he had no doubt that Seigen could hit the mark with deadly accuracy, he also had no doubt that when he did, Ridley would jerk, causing the knife to slit the boy's throat. Thwarted, he glanced over at Legolas and read the same frustration on the elf's face as his own likely held; both drawing the same conclusion at the same time and both hating it.
Every face turned to Aragorn. His expression was dreadfully hard. His eyes darted from the sobbing child to Ridley. The knife tightened as if in answer to the question of his intent. Another few moments and the child would certainly lose his life. The crowd was in danger. The little boy was in greater danger. These considerations and many others, including the knowledge of the extreme intensity of the eyes directed towards him, a recollection of the viciousness of what Ridley had done to Legolas without regard what-so-ever for the elf's life, the status of the boy squirming in panic, seconds away from death, flew through his racing mind before his stopped breath began to flow again.
There was no decision to be made.
Aragorn raised a placatory hand. He slowly, slowly, pulled his sword free from its sheath and lowered the weapon inch by inch down to his heels to place it on the ground before him. With both hands raised and fingers splayed to show he was now weaponless, he straightened slowly, slowly.
"Everyone else, back – off!" Ridley said harshly, his eyes fixed on Aragorn's. "King Elessar, to me."
Aragorn, both hands still raised, did as he was told.
Ridley dropped the child and at the same moment spun Aragorn around by the shoulder, grabbed a fistful of hair, and wrenched his head back to expose his throat. The knife pressed tight to Aragorn's jugular until he barely dared to breath. At the same time he was pulled backwards. They retreated that way through the crowd opposite from where Legolas and Gimli stood; Gimli now right beside the elf, holding the executioner's axe. Legolas again considered loosing his knives (his bow and quiver having been taken by Gimli and not yet retrieved) but he saw how set the knife was and quickly quashed the thought. Any reflexive jerk of Ridley's hand, any twitch, would cause the artery to be slit wide open, and Aragorn would bleed to death before anyone could reach him. Though he was loath to stand down (Lords he wished he was behind Ridley with a knife to his neck. He'd all but decapitate him) he knew there was nothing left to do but wait and hope for another opportunity.
Aragorn could feel Ridley's breath puffing against his ear in hot little pants. Worse, he could hear the voice that sounded so much like his own hiss: "You should have stayed dead, your majesty. Now I'll have to do this the hard way."
Legolas watched as Ridley half-dragged Aragorn backwards toward the palace. He waited tensely; his fingers flexing nervously – the tips of each finger singly tapping the tips of his thumbs (an old habit from archery training); his eyes so fixed and focused he could see his friend's pupils dilate from the bright sunlight to the dimmer torchlight as they burst backwards through the palace's heavy double doors. The very instant Ridley and Aragorn were out of sight, the elf and the dwarf peeled off to the right – the elf leading the way – pushing through the stunned, tight-packed crowd.
"GET OUT!" Ridley shrieked at sight of the startled entry guards as he dragged Aragorn backwards through the doors. He slammed Aragorn sideways into the stone archway that lead to the throne room, carefully keeping him between himself and the guards, and screamed to those inside: "GET OUT, NOW! EVERYONE OUT!"
Their heads snapped up. Looked from one to the other. Hesitated – all caught totally unaware.
"Go. Leave now." Aragorn said at once, realizing how bleak his options were as things now stood. A cornered animal is apt to do something rash, and at the moment he didn't need Ridley more nervous than he already was. He raised his voice and went on, "And tell Legolas to stay out of this. Unfortunately, this is no game."
The guards left, although grudgingly, and only because both had ordered the same thing.
And then they were alone.
Tbc...