Chapter Fourteen
The Most Rare Of Beasts: Men Of Honour
Part 1
After two weeks, Aragorn decided that he'd had enough poking and prodding to last a lifetime. Though two weeks was not enough time to fully recover, two weeks of lying in bed like a lump was about all he could stand. He let the healers rail on unchecked, giving nods at all the appropriate times and grunting no's at all the others (hoping he looked genuine), while he struggled into his robe. Then clutching his still tender side he made his slow way out into the hallway and down the stairs, leaving the healers to rail amongst themselves and the walls.
Legolas was sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard, his face upturned to the sun. As soon as Aragorn stepped one heavy foot out onto the courtyard's stones the elf turned to the sound, then he jumped up and made as though to rush over.
"No. Legolas, it's alright," he said, holding up a hand up to stop him as he descended the small flight of stairs and started down the walk.
As soon as he hit the sunshine, he began to sweat. He needed to start moving again. His muscles were stiff and sore; too used to doing nothing and starting to like doing nothing too much. So were his lungs. He was panting by the time he made the twenty or so feet to the bench. Legolas carefully helped him lower down and Aragorn let himself be helped.
He sat on the bench with sweat from his exertions dampening his face. Though his skin was still too pale and the signs that he had been badly beaten were still clearly visible, he still looked a far cry better to Legolas than he had when he had first bent over him in the meeting chamber. It had been all Legolas could do to try to stop Aragorn's life's blood from leaking out while waiting for the healers. For one terrible moment, the elf had been positive Aragon was dead.
Legolas found himself wishing he could go back and kill Ridley for this, and that led to him to another thought.
"What really happened to Ridley?" he asked. "Did anyone tell you?"
Aragorn shook his head slowly. "No. Everyone's keeping pretty tight- lipped about it all. You've probably heard as much as I have – which isn't much."
Legolas looked at him assessingly, then slowly shook his head. "You look..." Terrible was the word Legolas was going to say, but he held it back and frowned instead. He searched for the right word, and when he found it, a small, wiry smile touched the corners of his mouth. "...better," he finished.
Aragorn grinned. "Liar. But I'll take it."
"Bad?"
"Sore as though I'd been stabbed, thank you very much." Aragorn winced and shifted to get more comfortable, but that was a near impossibility. "But at least it's not like it was." He cocked an eyebrow. "What about you? How are you doing?"
Legolas shrugged, and his thoughts kept returning to the room where Aragorn almost died. His eyes fixed on two sparrows zooming around the courtyard, twittering and chirping happily as they did their wild, mid-air dance. Aragorn noted that Legolas looked strangely sad as he watched them. And there was something else. Hurt? Yes. Aragorn saw the hurt in his eyes. He waited patiently then made a great effort.
"Legolas, I understand, you know. You can talk to me."
/But I don't really understand,/ Aragorn thought. /And I doubt if I ever will. I've come face to face with the darkness that lurks inside you, and even now – knowing all that I do of why it had happened, how it had happened, and knowing the darkness is gone now – it still bothers me. Sitting next to you is like sitting next to a cave some monster came out of. The cave is sealed now and the monster can't get out, you know that, but you still give the cave a nervous look and a wide berth as you pass. And even if Greenleaf never returns, there are still the memories. There's Orome, for instance, who came back knowing he was going to go through the pain of sacrificing himself. But he did it anyway. He did it because of you, Legolas./
But to think any of that wasn't fair, and Aragorn knew it. He just couldn't help it. He couldn't forget the look on Greenleaf's face – the look of hate exclusively for him – and the madness in his eyes.
He wondered if he would ever be able to forget it, and strangely enough, to forgive it.
/No you don't understand,/ Legolas thought. /How could you? You don't understand what I am, and you never really will. I'm not sure I understand, either, but I'm trying to. I felt them. I still feel them; separate, yet now one, if that makes any sense. I am a combination of Legolas and Greenleaf – the light and the darkness – both fighting for control of my soul. There are times even now where I feel like a child of those two fathers, those two saviours and destroyers. Greenleaf might be gone from sight but he is still a part of me. He's half of me. He will always be right here, waiting to get out. Gimli understands that. He's avoiding me like I'm a walking plague. He's frightened of me – of what I was and what I am. And if that's not reason enough, he committed murder because of me – because I didn't tell him to stop Ridley, I told him to kill him...and he did. He'll never forgive me for that. And you...Lord's help me, I almost killed you. How can things ever be the same between you, Gimli, and me after this?/
Legolas drew a deep breath. "Aragorn, I'm sorry for what I did. I could not stop him. And then to ask you to... I'm not a coward. I didn't give up on living for living's sake and I never gave up on you, but I just couldn't see any other way. I shouldn't have asked you to..."
"I know," Aragorn said to Legolas, and put a hesitant hand on the elf's shoulder. When Legolas immediately covered it with his own, Aragorn smiled. "It's alright, Legolas. I know."
/I might not be able to forget,/ Aragorn thought, /but there is nothing to forgive. He's my brother, and he always will be./
Legolas smiled. He remembered how badly he'd wanted to feel that comfort before, and was not surprised at how badly he needed it now. It felt like he'd been holding his breath and waiting for this for years.
Aragorn, perhaps reading his mind, grinned and slung an arm around his friend's shoulders. "Ahh... it looks like we've lived though another adventure," he mused.
"Yes." Legolas glanced at him. "Barely. And speaking of adventures, I seem to recall hearing you say that when you became king our adventures would come to an end."
"I did not," Aragorn said, struggling to try to conceal a smirk and failing miserably.
Legolas frowned. "Yes you did," he said, missing the joke entirely. "Don't you remember that night by the campfire when – "
Aragorn grinned. "I was kidding."
"Oh." Legolas reddened. "I knew that."
Gimli walked out of the palace, spotted them, and trotted over. Stopping in front of them, he puffed out his barrel-chest and folded his arms across it. "You are not supposed to be out of bed," he said to Aragorn in a dry, brisk, administrator's voice. Then he cut an accusing gaze to Legolas. "And you should not have let him."
Legolas raised a placatory hand. "I didn't let him. He let himself."
/Now is as good a time as any to change the subject,/ Aragorn thought, and began, "Gimli..."
The dwarf eyed him tensely. His arms, still folded on his puffed chest, seemed to snug up as though no longer in a defiant posture but in a defensive one.
Aragorn licked his lips, and for a moment Legolas didn't thing he would be able to ask, again. /If you don't, I will,/ Legolas thought...but Aragorn managed, bringing the words out slowly and methodically.
"What really happened to Ridley?" He saw the dwarf stiffen; a bit stunned by the blunt question. Aragorn ignored it and ploughed on, though treading softer down this already well traveled path. "I mean, I was told that Ridley made his way up to the roof, but what really happened up there?" he asked, then waved his hand back and forth between them. "Just between us."
"Well," Gimli said, "if I had killed him, the Lords know he deserved it. After what he did to you and Legolas...not to mention almost taking the crown as well as my head." He paused. "He was evil. No one would have been safe as long as he remained alive, Aragorn – least of all you." He shrugged. "But fate took care of him."
"Fate? But I thought..." Legolas looked a bit stunned. "I mean, I just assumed that..." He paused. Smiled. "You mean, you didn't?"
"Of course I didn't, you pointy-eared half-wit," Gimli growled indignantly. "The fool slipped. That's all there was to it."
"Really?" Legolas shook his head and gave a tiny sigh of relief. "And here I thought that you...and I wasn't thinking when I said...so I thought you blamed me for telling you to... This is the first time you've spoken of it, so naturally I just assumed..." He rubbed his face in his hands. "Thank the Lords."
"Legolas, hush!" Gimli said huffily. "Get ahold of your tongue. Do you think I'd killed him just because you told me to? I wanted to, alright, but I didn't. Ridley slipped." /But I know who nudged him,/ Gimli thought. /And for his sake, as well as both of yours, I can live with it. And I'll sleep well enough with it, too./
"Slipped," Aragorn repeated doubtfully, and the relieved look tumbled off Legolas' face at once. Aragorn noted this as he turned to Gimli again. "You do know that the councillors plan to investigate this, don't you?"
The dwarf raised a brow. "Yes. What of it?"
"Well they say that you have no alibi at the time of Ridley's death. It doesn't matter what he did, if he was forced to the roof's edge after being taken into custody, it's still murder. If you know anything..."
Gimli shrugged. "He ran up there and slipped off. I can't be held responsible for him taking a misstep."
Legolas turned to Aragorn. "Ridley committed high treason. If his death isn't justified, I don't know what is. It's not like his death should be a questionable – "
Aragorn shook his head to cut him off. "But it is, Legolas. Look, we've been all over this," he said, and indeed they had. Many times. This was getting old, fast. Frustration was starting to creep back into his voice. "I've already explained to you that there are laws, even if it's clear. By law, Ridley should have been brought before of the people of Gondor to stand trial for his crimes. Otherwise, we're no better than he was."
The elf studied Aragorn's face carefully. Then his eyes widened. "How serious is this? Surely not – "
"It's serious, Legolas," he answered gravely. "It's very serious."
All fell silent. Gimli looked down at his boots and cleared his throat.
"Explain it to me again, then," Legolas said, forcing himself to speak in his softest voice. "I would like to hear this law that makes no sense, again, then protest it again. There is no question of Ridley's actions nor of his intentions. He would have been found guilty anyway – true?"
Aragon lowered his forehead into his palm and nodded.
"So what's the difference if he met his end publicly or privately?"
/Great. Another argument,/ Aragorn thought. /Lords, but I'm sick of this./
Last night's row had been about the same thing – again. Both he and Legolas had hounded Gimli to talk about it; Gimli had not. So they had argued. Except for Gimli. Much to Aragorn's chagrin, he refused to join in. He only made comments when questioned directly and then his responses were cryptic.
"There's no question of his guilt, Legolas," Aragorn agreed, "but that's not the point." He looked the elf dead in the eyes. "If he was killed while already in custody, it's murder – hundreds of witnesses or not," he explained, again. Legolas looked at him, gaping and puzzled. "By law, if he was killed while in custody, than whoever did it is also a murderer and has to be held accountable for it."
"But an executioner kills one already in custody. Is he also considered a murderer?" Legolas argued.
"No," Aragorn said.
"See?"
"An executioner follows orders, Legolas. He caries out a sentence after a trial, not before one."
Legolas thought, and thought hard. At last he looked up, his brow furrowed. "If you gave the executioner the order, does that not make you a murderer?"
"No."
Legolas stared down at his folded hands like in a dream, looking at them for a moment as if he didn't know what in the world they were, and then looked back at him, clenching his hands nervously. He willed them open, and they did, for a time. Then, as the weight of what Aragorn was saying hit him, they rolled themselves closed again, the nails digging into his palms. Aragorn could see him working to clear his mind and emotions of the impact this had made. He respected him for it. And he was very glad he had done it.
Legolas brought his eyes up to meet Aragorn's. "You're the king," he said guardedly. "Surely you can do something."
Aragorn looked to the ground and shook his head.
"But you can't leave Gimli to the advisors just so they can save face. It was their mistake to blindly trust Ridley and not know the difference between you and him – not Gimli's. They just want to cover their shame by proving they were right in the first place. You know they're only using him as a scapegoat."
Aragorn nodded. "It's worse than that," he said broodingly, but did not elaborate. Instead he went back to the current subject. "I just found out this morning that the councillors are planning to push this. As far as Gimli is concerned, they..." already think he's guilty, he was going to say, but let the words trail off. "Legolas, I am trying to stop it," he said in a tone of voice that was losing all patience (/And if I ever get a straight answer from Gimli, maybe I'll be able to,/ he thought), then turned his attention back to the dwarf. "Gimli, I ask you again – was Ridley in custody?"
"No."
Aragorn's hands clenched on the tie of his robe. "Then how did he end up on the roof?"
"How should I know?" The dwarf said roughly. "With all the exits guarded, most likely the idiot panicked and ran up there. He slipped. That was all there was to it."
"He had the reflexes of an elf. He didn't really slip, did he," Aragorn added as though to himself. It was not a question, but a statement. A hard statement.
No answer.
"Gimli," Aragorn said, "was Ridley in custody at the time?"
Gimli chewed on his lower lip, taking so long to answer that for a moment Aragorn didn't believed he would. Then finally: "No, Aragorn. He was not. He slipped. That's what happened. And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving man."
Defeated, Aragorn closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
Legolas watched the dwarf...watched the sweat trickle down his temples... watched his eyes shift up and to the left. It was obviously that he was lying through his teeth. But why? Would he...?
Yes. He would.
"Who are you protecting, Gimli?" Legolas asked matter-of-factly.
"No one," the dwarf answered a little too quickly, hoping his lying words sounded more truthful to their ears than they did to his.
Part 2
Above them, Alflocksom slowly backed away from his bedchamber window high above the courtyard and lowered to the edge of his bed. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he raised his hands and placed them over his face. He sat like that for a long, long time, contemplating.
He thought of Ridley, and of the scream that would likely forever haunt his nightmares. He thought of Brysom, his son, and felt the instant and familiar pang of loss. He thought of the councillors, and though he had no proof, knew that they had to have known Ridley wasn't Aragorn and yet had turned a blind eye in favour of personal gain; so determined were they to cover their own tracks that they were now attempting to shift the focus off themselves and onto the innocent dwarf rather than let the people see their true colours. He thought of Caspian and his role in all of this. At the same time he though of his own part in this madness, this...test, and couldn't help wondering what the purpose was behind it all. As he mulled all of this over he felt sick and helpless and angry.
/Wretched is the greed that drives men to unspeakable acts,/ he thought. /They forget that you are born with nothing, and when you die you take nothing with you. There are only two things that are truly valuable in this life: your honour and your word. If Man valued these above all else, none of this would have happened./
Then he thought: /A test. A test of beliefs, of resolve, and of loyalty. A test of worth. The only one not tested in all of this mess, it seemed, was Ridley. He was merely the pawn, the catalyst. This test was for Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and so many more./
How odd that what at first had seemed only to affect one, in reality had affected so many, he reflected. In truth, everyone had been tested in this except Ridley. Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, the prison warden, the people of Gondor...
"...and now me," he whispered "Now it's my test to either pass or fail."
Alflocksom remembered the minutes just before Ridley had emerged from the labyrinth. A voice had come to him as he had watched the warden depart – not one spoken by mouth, but more carried on the wind. It whispered to his mind: What are you willing to sacrifice for Gondor? His eyes had lowered to the bundle in his hands. "Give me a chance and I'll show you," he had murmured. "Just one chance. That's all I ask."
Well, he got that chance, alright. Got it...and used it.
Now remembering it, he told himself: /Ridley's death was justifiable. He had tried to murder the king, had taken the crown, and had deceived everyone in the process. And worse above anything else – he had put Gondor at risk. He had to be stopped. I had to stop him,/ Alflocksom thought, and felt another fresh flash of powerful hate for that creature – Ridley, and all the things he had done.
Now Orome's words came to him again, this time as clearly as though spoken in his ear: What are you willing to sacrifice?
His head raised and his whisper was only a breath of sound. "For what? For myself? Nothing. To save an innocent? To save Gimli from death or a lifetime of misery in a prison?" The knowledge that he'd even thought about the dwarf (and wouldn't have had it been a few weeks earlier) struck him as funny, and he chuckled lightly. "Dwarf or not, I would sacrifice everything..." Then his face hardened as he added: "But I've already sacrificed everything I have, Orome. You have my son. Isn't that enough?"
There was no answer. He didn't expect any.
Brysom. There wasn't a waking moment since Brysom's death that Alflocksom's heart didn't pain with grief and pine for want of him back. Brysom was the apple of his eye, a dream-child-come-true, who had grown to be a highly respected young man with a maturity well beyond his years – so respected, in fact, that he had risen to the lofty rank of captain, like himself, a position never before achieved by one so young. That had been a proud, proud day indeed, and Alflocksom – a bursting-with-pride father.
Alflocksom, an honourable man raised by an honourable man, had nudged Brysom to join the guards – an honourable profession – and join he did, as any honourable young man would. Alflocksom proudly watched Brysom move up through the ranks and became an honourable man – a hero – with so much of life still ahead of him. And now he is dead, moulding in some Lords-awful grave. An honourable death.
/Hang honour. I'd rather have my son back./
He had taught the boy by example – years of trying to be the best so his son would have a proper role model. All the guidance, the training, the encouragement...then in one second of calculated, aware rage, he had disgraced not only himself and all those before him, but his son's memory as well. In that one second on the palace roof he had become what he hated the most – a dishonourable man. And yet in his heart he not only knew it had to be done, but would do it again, if needs be.
But what he was about to do now would not only destroy everything that had taken a lifetime to build, but also tarnish the memory of his son in one fell swoop. Still, he was tired. Tired of all of this. Tired of the pain and grief and loss and guilt at not being there for Brysom the way Aragorn had been there for Legolas, and Legolas, in turn, had been there for Aragorn.
What are you willing to sacrifice? the voice asked him again.
"I would sacrifice my precious honour," Alflocksom said quietly, "but I have none now, so it seems I have nothing left to sacrifice but myself. If you want me, you're welcome to me. I grow weary of this world and it's corruption. I've done my job – Gondor is safe, and now...I'm tired."
There was no answer, but he didn't expect any.
He pulled the letter from inside his tunic. Placing it on the nightstand beside him he spread it open and glanced it over. When satisfied, he refolded it with care and held the candle's flame to the black sealing wax to drip a few decent drops. He pressed his signet ring to it then held it close to the candle, directing the light in a slanting manner over it's surface, and was satisfied the he could make out the ring's impression in the now-hard wax. Everyone knew his ring almost as well as they knew Aragorn's. There would be no question of the note's authenticity. In it was a full, signed confession detailing his part and exonerating the dwarf. The outside was labelled, fittingly: 'For the king's eyes only.' Nodding to himself, he laid it back on the nightstand.
"And this will make sure the councillors give this note their full attention."
Alflocksom, Captain of the guards of Gondor who's bloodline traced back to Orome himself (though he had no way of knowing that) pulled the small, clear-liquid vial from it's leather pouch and stretched out on his bed. He pulled the stopper from it's neck and held it up in a sort of "cheers" fashion.
"I have done my duty and am tired of this life," he whispered. "May the Lords forgive me what I'm about to do."
Alflocksom was raising the vial again, towards his lips. A sparrow came out of nowhere and landed on the back of his upraised hand. Surprised, he froze, the vial stopping less than six inches from his mouth. The bird hopped onto his fingers and turned to look at him. Perching there, it's tiny head tilted first one way then the other as though in question.
"Come for me, have you?" Alflocksom said to it. "Thank y – "
The sparrow pecked him, suddenly and violently, driving it's tiny but dagger-sharp beak deep into the back of his hand and drawing blood. The vial flew from his fingers and shattered on the floor.
"Why?" Alflocksom asked, staring at the tiny harbinger in shocked wonder. "Why did you do that?"
It tilted its head once more, seeming to stare into his eyes as it did. Then it flew out through the open window and disappeared into the day.
As he swung his feet off the bed and sat up, his eyes found the smashed vial; it's contents draining into a space between two of the many stone blocks that made up the floor. He looked at the back of his hand – at the dark droplet of blood pooling in the small hole – and frowned.
"Why?" he asked again.
There was no response, not even in his head this time, but he thought he knew the answer all the same. He thought Orome would have known, too. What had just happened was not of this world. Perhaps the sparrow had been moved by some higher power to forcibly remind him of that.
(They are Harbingers of the dead, Aragorn. No one can control them – at least not for long.)
/What good can come from stopping me?/ he wondered. Then: /Have I not done enough?/
There was no answer. At least, not yet. And there was this – perhaps it can't be answered yet.
Perhaps this test is not over.
Part 3
With the watch over and the arrival of his relief, young Caspian had gone silently, mounting the stairs to the barracks as he had so often, bothered with a mixture of nerves and tension. Though bone-tired, he had a sneaking suspicion that this would be another sleepless night.
And now here he was – his suspicions confirmed – in his bed and still wide awake as the stars paled and the first brighter shades began to colour the new sky. The events of the past few days replayed through his mind in a kind of surreal fantasy, like a enormous wall of cloaked portraits – and the one uncovered with the most persistence was the face of Wren. He thought of how often that face met him in his most pleasant dreams, and smiling to himself, wondered if love could actually drive a man mad. He would never have believed so before. Was hers that beautiful a face? Yes, to him it was. To him there was no sight more beautiful in the whole world.
He tossed and turned from one side of his bed to the other, then rolled onto his back again. Folding his arms behind his head, he looked into the shadows of the room and listened to the first faint stirrings of the city.
Again he thought of Wren...and a terrible thought that he might never see her face after today prompted him to rise.
/Should I go to her?/ he wondered.
Yes, and why not? He would find no sleep in what little remained of this night anyway, he thought. His mind was too active with worry to allow even a moment of rest. The time was coming as surely as the sun would rise, and though he'd never stop it's approach, even if he could, he felt there would be no harm in trying to slow it a little. Besides, if this day went as he expected, this may be his last chance to see her as a free man...or a living one.
He crept silently out of the barracks, tacked up the big bay gelding, then rode out of Minas Tirith and headed straight to Wren. Dust clouds, stirred by the bay's pounding hooves, gathered behind them like small whirlwinds. He knew he'd be spotted but he didn't care. He needed to see her, to hold her, and needed her to hold him. He desperately needed to be held, especially now.
Part 4
Alflocksom, Seigen, Vedt, and Aic came out onto the terrace only two minutes after Caspian had passed the city's gates. By then the sun was just peeking over the horizon. For anyone else but the palace kitchen staff the time of day was too early to be up, wide awake, and fully dressed; but to the four captains, it was already late in the morning.
Alflocksom leaned his elbows on the stone escarpment and spotted the billowing dust trail. He watched it until it disappeared over the far rise; and even then continued to watch.
"Who left?" Aic asked. He sounded sullen and sleepy. In truth, he had been troubled by today's coming events all night – so troubled that sleep had completely eluded him, and for the same reason had eluded them all, though none would admit that. It's not like they were trying to out-do one another, but as Vedt had once put it, "We have a certain image to maintain, even amongst ourselves."
"I believe that was our young trainee, Caspian," Alflocksom said mildly, continuing to watch.
"Oh? I wonder where he's off to in such a hurry."
"Good Lords, Aic, how old are you?" Seigen asked, smiling, then clapped Aic on the shoulder. "Don't tell me you can't remember why a young man would go sneaking off? Has it been that long?"
Aic looked at him for a moment, then he also smiled. "No," he said. "I'm not that old."
Alflocksom straightened, stretched, and then they walked across the terrace toward a table. Halfway there, he came to a stop and turned again as though half-expecting to see Caspian returning. Seeing nothing, he gave a small sigh and shook his head. "Guilt," he said in a soft, sad voice, and walked on.
"Guilt?" Seigen repeated surly. "Why would he have guilt? It's not like he did any more than the rest of us were allowed to do."
Alflocksom shrugged as he sat in the chair and let the subject drop. He knew what Caspian was searching for but it was nothing like what Seigen was thinking. Caspian was young. He was desperate for a little comfort, that's all. Simply put, the boy needed a hug. As for how he knew that and how he knew why Caspian needed that, neither were subjects he was willing to discuss right now. Not with any of them. And certainly not with Seigen. There has been a hard edge to Seigen's teasing ever since Ridley's death; the old light-heartedness was now cut with unpleasant bitterness. But Seigen wasn't the only one who'd changed. Vedt – ever the rigid one, now seemed an impenetrable stone wall. Aic – normally reserved and deeper thinker, had all but withdrawn into himself. The king – grim and troubled. The elf seemed at war with himself. The dwarf – distant and often alone. And as for himself? Oh yes, he'd changed, too. It was getting harder and harder to present a calm exterior when he was constantly on edge.
/Damn Ridley,/ Alflocksom thought. /He's still affecting us all...even from his grave./
Part 5
They were the best kisses of Caspian's whole young life: the fragrance of her breath as he breathed in what she breathed out, the softness of her mouth, the feel of her slender arms around his neck. He slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her closer. His other hand went to her hair and combed along the side of it, soft as silk and as dark as a raven's wing. Whoever said, "A kiss can whisper the hearts desire," wasn't kidding. He burned for her like a torch. But kisses would have to be enough. After all, although he was young, he was honourable, or trying to be anyway.
He dropped back to the straw and looked at her. She giggled and bit her lip. When he took her hand and pulled her down into his arms, she did not resist him. They lay with their foreheads touching, and when she slipped a hand beneath his tunic to touch his chest, her fingers found...paper.
"Ah-ha!" she cried, sitting up and waving it over his face. "What's this? A commission? A secret plan? A love letter to another woman?"
"Stop teasing and give it back," he said, more harshly than he meant.
He reached for it. She giggled and drew back. His hand surrounded her wrist. She changed hands and held the paper out of his reach. Wrestling but being careful not to hurt her, they grappled back and forth. The paper flew from her hand and fluttered to the straw behind them. Twisting quickly, he launched for it. When she reached to try and snatch it away from him he held her back with one hand and waved it in the air above her. She tipped her head back and laughed, the sound musical. He loved the sound of it.
"Will you read it to me, then?" she asked though giggles while she crossed her arms over the front of her dress.
"Aye, lady. I will. If you'll let me." Dilemma. He knew if he stuffed it back into his tunic she would think it a love note. If he did read it...well, he just wouldn't. That left him with no other choice than to pretend to read it. As long as he sounded convincing enough she'd believe him, because he knew she couldn't read – not a word. "It's a poem," he lied. And thought: /One I've been wanting to say since the first moment I saw you./
"Oh! For me?" she asked innocently.
"Of course it's for you," he said, grinning. "Who else?"
She leapt up and brushed the front of her apron, to which small bits of straw now clung, then plopped back down beside him and waited.
Rolling onto his stomach he straightened the paper and cleared his throat loudly. He stole a glance up at her, grinned (she grinned back), then began:
"From starlight shaped the Lords a gift, and set amid the fair, to walk among mere mortal man, exquisiteness most rare. Why thee that captures heart and soul would eye this homely man, though plain, would suffer more than death for one touch of your hand.
If under moon love lose her way, shine path for her to see yon Lover's Moon, glow brighter still, and lead her back to me. Pray give my love her fondest wish, waste none to save this ruin, My heart's ensnared and honour bound, fair trial by Lover's Moon."
He waited for a response – his heart pounding furiously in his chest as he did – and heard nothing. After a moment he glanced up and met her eyes.
"Oh Caspian, you wrote that for me?" she said, and for the first time her voice unanchored a little, wavering in her throat. He was alarmed to see that there were tears standing in her eyes. "You...you love me, then? "
"Wren," he whispered, his eyes flittering over her face, "I wanted you to know in case – "
"Hush," she said faintly, touching her fingers to his lips. Her eyes overbrimmed; tears drew two silver lines down her cheeks. "Hush."
"But I did something, Wren," he said, taking her hand. "I did something..."
And I may never see you again, he wanted to say, but he didn't have to say anything. She leaned and stopped his words with soft kisses. At first he just let himself be kissed...and then he kissed her back just as softly, then almost furiously, urgently; sitting up and wrapping his arms around her; needing to be held, and she held him; needing to be kissed, and she kissed him. And these – these were the best kisses of his whole young life.
/Fair trial?/
His eyes snapped open and he let her go. "The trial..." he breathed. "Oh Lords, I'm late!"
He leaned and kissed her quick, then leapt down off the straw mound and raced for his horse while stuffing the paper back inside his tunic.
She watched him swing into the saddle and take up the reins. Cueing the big bay gelding, he turned him and urged him to all-speed. She sat where she was, on the straw pile under the lean-to, watching him ride flat-out with his hair streaming back from his temples and his tunic bellying behind him; willing him to turn and wave to her. Just when she was sure he wouldn't, he did turn in the saddle, and his hand lifted. She waved back. Only when he was just a speck in the distance did she lower her hand. Then she dropped back to the straw and smiled to herself, thinking of his handsome face, of how his mouth felt against hers, of the smell of his skin, the rough stubble on his cheeks. The words of love echoed hauntingly in her head.
"My heart's ensnared and honour bound, fair trial by Lover's Moon," she whispered dreamily.
Tbc...
The Most Rare Of Beasts: Men Of Honour
Part 1
After two weeks, Aragorn decided that he'd had enough poking and prodding to last a lifetime. Though two weeks was not enough time to fully recover, two weeks of lying in bed like a lump was about all he could stand. He let the healers rail on unchecked, giving nods at all the appropriate times and grunting no's at all the others (hoping he looked genuine), while he struggled into his robe. Then clutching his still tender side he made his slow way out into the hallway and down the stairs, leaving the healers to rail amongst themselves and the walls.
Legolas was sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard, his face upturned to the sun. As soon as Aragorn stepped one heavy foot out onto the courtyard's stones the elf turned to the sound, then he jumped up and made as though to rush over.
"No. Legolas, it's alright," he said, holding up a hand up to stop him as he descended the small flight of stairs and started down the walk.
As soon as he hit the sunshine, he began to sweat. He needed to start moving again. His muscles were stiff and sore; too used to doing nothing and starting to like doing nothing too much. So were his lungs. He was panting by the time he made the twenty or so feet to the bench. Legolas carefully helped him lower down and Aragorn let himself be helped.
He sat on the bench with sweat from his exertions dampening his face. Though his skin was still too pale and the signs that he had been badly beaten were still clearly visible, he still looked a far cry better to Legolas than he had when he had first bent over him in the meeting chamber. It had been all Legolas could do to try to stop Aragorn's life's blood from leaking out while waiting for the healers. For one terrible moment, the elf had been positive Aragon was dead.
Legolas found himself wishing he could go back and kill Ridley for this, and that led to him to another thought.
"What really happened to Ridley?" he asked. "Did anyone tell you?"
Aragorn shook his head slowly. "No. Everyone's keeping pretty tight- lipped about it all. You've probably heard as much as I have – which isn't much."
Legolas looked at him assessingly, then slowly shook his head. "You look..." Terrible was the word Legolas was going to say, but he held it back and frowned instead. He searched for the right word, and when he found it, a small, wiry smile touched the corners of his mouth. "...better," he finished.
Aragorn grinned. "Liar. But I'll take it."
"Bad?"
"Sore as though I'd been stabbed, thank you very much." Aragorn winced and shifted to get more comfortable, but that was a near impossibility. "But at least it's not like it was." He cocked an eyebrow. "What about you? How are you doing?"
Legolas shrugged, and his thoughts kept returning to the room where Aragorn almost died. His eyes fixed on two sparrows zooming around the courtyard, twittering and chirping happily as they did their wild, mid-air dance. Aragorn noted that Legolas looked strangely sad as he watched them. And there was something else. Hurt? Yes. Aragorn saw the hurt in his eyes. He waited patiently then made a great effort.
"Legolas, I understand, you know. You can talk to me."
/But I don't really understand,/ Aragorn thought. /And I doubt if I ever will. I've come face to face with the darkness that lurks inside you, and even now – knowing all that I do of why it had happened, how it had happened, and knowing the darkness is gone now – it still bothers me. Sitting next to you is like sitting next to a cave some monster came out of. The cave is sealed now and the monster can't get out, you know that, but you still give the cave a nervous look and a wide berth as you pass. And even if Greenleaf never returns, there are still the memories. There's Orome, for instance, who came back knowing he was going to go through the pain of sacrificing himself. But he did it anyway. He did it because of you, Legolas./
But to think any of that wasn't fair, and Aragorn knew it. He just couldn't help it. He couldn't forget the look on Greenleaf's face – the look of hate exclusively for him – and the madness in his eyes.
He wondered if he would ever be able to forget it, and strangely enough, to forgive it.
/No you don't understand,/ Legolas thought. /How could you? You don't understand what I am, and you never really will. I'm not sure I understand, either, but I'm trying to. I felt them. I still feel them; separate, yet now one, if that makes any sense. I am a combination of Legolas and Greenleaf – the light and the darkness – both fighting for control of my soul. There are times even now where I feel like a child of those two fathers, those two saviours and destroyers. Greenleaf might be gone from sight but he is still a part of me. He's half of me. He will always be right here, waiting to get out. Gimli understands that. He's avoiding me like I'm a walking plague. He's frightened of me – of what I was and what I am. And if that's not reason enough, he committed murder because of me – because I didn't tell him to stop Ridley, I told him to kill him...and he did. He'll never forgive me for that. And you...Lord's help me, I almost killed you. How can things ever be the same between you, Gimli, and me after this?/
Legolas drew a deep breath. "Aragorn, I'm sorry for what I did. I could not stop him. And then to ask you to... I'm not a coward. I didn't give up on living for living's sake and I never gave up on you, but I just couldn't see any other way. I shouldn't have asked you to..."
"I know," Aragorn said to Legolas, and put a hesitant hand on the elf's shoulder. When Legolas immediately covered it with his own, Aragorn smiled. "It's alright, Legolas. I know."
/I might not be able to forget,/ Aragorn thought, /but there is nothing to forgive. He's my brother, and he always will be./
Legolas smiled. He remembered how badly he'd wanted to feel that comfort before, and was not surprised at how badly he needed it now. It felt like he'd been holding his breath and waiting for this for years.
Aragorn, perhaps reading his mind, grinned and slung an arm around his friend's shoulders. "Ahh... it looks like we've lived though another adventure," he mused.
"Yes." Legolas glanced at him. "Barely. And speaking of adventures, I seem to recall hearing you say that when you became king our adventures would come to an end."
"I did not," Aragorn said, struggling to try to conceal a smirk and failing miserably.
Legolas frowned. "Yes you did," he said, missing the joke entirely. "Don't you remember that night by the campfire when – "
Aragorn grinned. "I was kidding."
"Oh." Legolas reddened. "I knew that."
Gimli walked out of the palace, spotted them, and trotted over. Stopping in front of them, he puffed out his barrel-chest and folded his arms across it. "You are not supposed to be out of bed," he said to Aragorn in a dry, brisk, administrator's voice. Then he cut an accusing gaze to Legolas. "And you should not have let him."
Legolas raised a placatory hand. "I didn't let him. He let himself."
/Now is as good a time as any to change the subject,/ Aragorn thought, and began, "Gimli..."
The dwarf eyed him tensely. His arms, still folded on his puffed chest, seemed to snug up as though no longer in a defiant posture but in a defensive one.
Aragorn licked his lips, and for a moment Legolas didn't thing he would be able to ask, again. /If you don't, I will,/ Legolas thought...but Aragorn managed, bringing the words out slowly and methodically.
"What really happened to Ridley?" He saw the dwarf stiffen; a bit stunned by the blunt question. Aragorn ignored it and ploughed on, though treading softer down this already well traveled path. "I mean, I was told that Ridley made his way up to the roof, but what really happened up there?" he asked, then waved his hand back and forth between them. "Just between us."
"Well," Gimli said, "if I had killed him, the Lords know he deserved it. After what he did to you and Legolas...not to mention almost taking the crown as well as my head." He paused. "He was evil. No one would have been safe as long as he remained alive, Aragorn – least of all you." He shrugged. "But fate took care of him."
"Fate? But I thought..." Legolas looked a bit stunned. "I mean, I just assumed that..." He paused. Smiled. "You mean, you didn't?"
"Of course I didn't, you pointy-eared half-wit," Gimli growled indignantly. "The fool slipped. That's all there was to it."
"Really?" Legolas shook his head and gave a tiny sigh of relief. "And here I thought that you...and I wasn't thinking when I said...so I thought you blamed me for telling you to... This is the first time you've spoken of it, so naturally I just assumed..." He rubbed his face in his hands. "Thank the Lords."
"Legolas, hush!" Gimli said huffily. "Get ahold of your tongue. Do you think I'd killed him just because you told me to? I wanted to, alright, but I didn't. Ridley slipped." /But I know who nudged him,/ Gimli thought. /And for his sake, as well as both of yours, I can live with it. And I'll sleep well enough with it, too./
"Slipped," Aragorn repeated doubtfully, and the relieved look tumbled off Legolas' face at once. Aragorn noted this as he turned to Gimli again. "You do know that the councillors plan to investigate this, don't you?"
The dwarf raised a brow. "Yes. What of it?"
"Well they say that you have no alibi at the time of Ridley's death. It doesn't matter what he did, if he was forced to the roof's edge after being taken into custody, it's still murder. If you know anything..."
Gimli shrugged. "He ran up there and slipped off. I can't be held responsible for him taking a misstep."
Legolas turned to Aragorn. "Ridley committed high treason. If his death isn't justified, I don't know what is. It's not like his death should be a questionable – "
Aragorn shook his head to cut him off. "But it is, Legolas. Look, we've been all over this," he said, and indeed they had. Many times. This was getting old, fast. Frustration was starting to creep back into his voice. "I've already explained to you that there are laws, even if it's clear. By law, Ridley should have been brought before of the people of Gondor to stand trial for his crimes. Otherwise, we're no better than he was."
The elf studied Aragorn's face carefully. Then his eyes widened. "How serious is this? Surely not – "
"It's serious, Legolas," he answered gravely. "It's very serious."
All fell silent. Gimli looked down at his boots and cleared his throat.
"Explain it to me again, then," Legolas said, forcing himself to speak in his softest voice. "I would like to hear this law that makes no sense, again, then protest it again. There is no question of Ridley's actions nor of his intentions. He would have been found guilty anyway – true?"
Aragon lowered his forehead into his palm and nodded.
"So what's the difference if he met his end publicly or privately?"
/Great. Another argument,/ Aragorn thought. /Lords, but I'm sick of this./
Last night's row had been about the same thing – again. Both he and Legolas had hounded Gimli to talk about it; Gimli had not. So they had argued. Except for Gimli. Much to Aragorn's chagrin, he refused to join in. He only made comments when questioned directly and then his responses were cryptic.
"There's no question of his guilt, Legolas," Aragorn agreed, "but that's not the point." He looked the elf dead in the eyes. "If he was killed while already in custody, it's murder – hundreds of witnesses or not," he explained, again. Legolas looked at him, gaping and puzzled. "By law, if he was killed while in custody, than whoever did it is also a murderer and has to be held accountable for it."
"But an executioner kills one already in custody. Is he also considered a murderer?" Legolas argued.
"No," Aragorn said.
"See?"
"An executioner follows orders, Legolas. He caries out a sentence after a trial, not before one."
Legolas thought, and thought hard. At last he looked up, his brow furrowed. "If you gave the executioner the order, does that not make you a murderer?"
"No."
Legolas stared down at his folded hands like in a dream, looking at them for a moment as if he didn't know what in the world they were, and then looked back at him, clenching his hands nervously. He willed them open, and they did, for a time. Then, as the weight of what Aragorn was saying hit him, they rolled themselves closed again, the nails digging into his palms. Aragorn could see him working to clear his mind and emotions of the impact this had made. He respected him for it. And he was very glad he had done it.
Legolas brought his eyes up to meet Aragorn's. "You're the king," he said guardedly. "Surely you can do something."
Aragorn looked to the ground and shook his head.
"But you can't leave Gimli to the advisors just so they can save face. It was their mistake to blindly trust Ridley and not know the difference between you and him – not Gimli's. They just want to cover their shame by proving they were right in the first place. You know they're only using him as a scapegoat."
Aragorn nodded. "It's worse than that," he said broodingly, but did not elaborate. Instead he went back to the current subject. "I just found out this morning that the councillors are planning to push this. As far as Gimli is concerned, they..." already think he's guilty, he was going to say, but let the words trail off. "Legolas, I am trying to stop it," he said in a tone of voice that was losing all patience (/And if I ever get a straight answer from Gimli, maybe I'll be able to,/ he thought), then turned his attention back to the dwarf. "Gimli, I ask you again – was Ridley in custody?"
"No."
Aragorn's hands clenched on the tie of his robe. "Then how did he end up on the roof?"
"How should I know?" The dwarf said roughly. "With all the exits guarded, most likely the idiot panicked and ran up there. He slipped. That was all there was to it."
"He had the reflexes of an elf. He didn't really slip, did he," Aragorn added as though to himself. It was not a question, but a statement. A hard statement.
No answer.
"Gimli," Aragorn said, "was Ridley in custody at the time?"
Gimli chewed on his lower lip, taking so long to answer that for a moment Aragorn didn't believed he would. Then finally: "No, Aragorn. He was not. He slipped. That's what happened. And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving man."
Defeated, Aragorn closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
Legolas watched the dwarf...watched the sweat trickle down his temples... watched his eyes shift up and to the left. It was obviously that he was lying through his teeth. But why? Would he...?
Yes. He would.
"Who are you protecting, Gimli?" Legolas asked matter-of-factly.
"No one," the dwarf answered a little too quickly, hoping his lying words sounded more truthful to their ears than they did to his.
Part 2
Above them, Alflocksom slowly backed away from his bedchamber window high above the courtyard and lowered to the edge of his bed. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he raised his hands and placed them over his face. He sat like that for a long, long time, contemplating.
He thought of Ridley, and of the scream that would likely forever haunt his nightmares. He thought of Brysom, his son, and felt the instant and familiar pang of loss. He thought of the councillors, and though he had no proof, knew that they had to have known Ridley wasn't Aragorn and yet had turned a blind eye in favour of personal gain; so determined were they to cover their own tracks that they were now attempting to shift the focus off themselves and onto the innocent dwarf rather than let the people see their true colours. He thought of Caspian and his role in all of this. At the same time he though of his own part in this madness, this...test, and couldn't help wondering what the purpose was behind it all. As he mulled all of this over he felt sick and helpless and angry.
/Wretched is the greed that drives men to unspeakable acts,/ he thought. /They forget that you are born with nothing, and when you die you take nothing with you. There are only two things that are truly valuable in this life: your honour and your word. If Man valued these above all else, none of this would have happened./
Then he thought: /A test. A test of beliefs, of resolve, and of loyalty. A test of worth. The only one not tested in all of this mess, it seemed, was Ridley. He was merely the pawn, the catalyst. This test was for Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and so many more./
How odd that what at first had seemed only to affect one, in reality had affected so many, he reflected. In truth, everyone had been tested in this except Ridley. Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, the prison warden, the people of Gondor...
"...and now me," he whispered "Now it's my test to either pass or fail."
Alflocksom remembered the minutes just before Ridley had emerged from the labyrinth. A voice had come to him as he had watched the warden depart – not one spoken by mouth, but more carried on the wind. It whispered to his mind: What are you willing to sacrifice for Gondor? His eyes had lowered to the bundle in his hands. "Give me a chance and I'll show you," he had murmured. "Just one chance. That's all I ask."
Well, he got that chance, alright. Got it...and used it.
Now remembering it, he told himself: /Ridley's death was justifiable. He had tried to murder the king, had taken the crown, and had deceived everyone in the process. And worse above anything else – he had put Gondor at risk. He had to be stopped. I had to stop him,/ Alflocksom thought, and felt another fresh flash of powerful hate for that creature – Ridley, and all the things he had done.
Now Orome's words came to him again, this time as clearly as though spoken in his ear: What are you willing to sacrifice?
His head raised and his whisper was only a breath of sound. "For what? For myself? Nothing. To save an innocent? To save Gimli from death or a lifetime of misery in a prison?" The knowledge that he'd even thought about the dwarf (and wouldn't have had it been a few weeks earlier) struck him as funny, and he chuckled lightly. "Dwarf or not, I would sacrifice everything..." Then his face hardened as he added: "But I've already sacrificed everything I have, Orome. You have my son. Isn't that enough?"
There was no answer. He didn't expect any.
Brysom. There wasn't a waking moment since Brysom's death that Alflocksom's heart didn't pain with grief and pine for want of him back. Brysom was the apple of his eye, a dream-child-come-true, who had grown to be a highly respected young man with a maturity well beyond his years – so respected, in fact, that he had risen to the lofty rank of captain, like himself, a position never before achieved by one so young. That had been a proud, proud day indeed, and Alflocksom – a bursting-with-pride father.
Alflocksom, an honourable man raised by an honourable man, had nudged Brysom to join the guards – an honourable profession – and join he did, as any honourable young man would. Alflocksom proudly watched Brysom move up through the ranks and became an honourable man – a hero – with so much of life still ahead of him. And now he is dead, moulding in some Lords-awful grave. An honourable death.
/Hang honour. I'd rather have my son back./
He had taught the boy by example – years of trying to be the best so his son would have a proper role model. All the guidance, the training, the encouragement...then in one second of calculated, aware rage, he had disgraced not only himself and all those before him, but his son's memory as well. In that one second on the palace roof he had become what he hated the most – a dishonourable man. And yet in his heart he not only knew it had to be done, but would do it again, if needs be.
But what he was about to do now would not only destroy everything that had taken a lifetime to build, but also tarnish the memory of his son in one fell swoop. Still, he was tired. Tired of all of this. Tired of the pain and grief and loss and guilt at not being there for Brysom the way Aragorn had been there for Legolas, and Legolas, in turn, had been there for Aragorn.
What are you willing to sacrifice? the voice asked him again.
"I would sacrifice my precious honour," Alflocksom said quietly, "but I have none now, so it seems I have nothing left to sacrifice but myself. If you want me, you're welcome to me. I grow weary of this world and it's corruption. I've done my job – Gondor is safe, and now...I'm tired."
There was no answer, but he didn't expect any.
He pulled the letter from inside his tunic. Placing it on the nightstand beside him he spread it open and glanced it over. When satisfied, he refolded it with care and held the candle's flame to the black sealing wax to drip a few decent drops. He pressed his signet ring to it then held it close to the candle, directing the light in a slanting manner over it's surface, and was satisfied the he could make out the ring's impression in the now-hard wax. Everyone knew his ring almost as well as they knew Aragorn's. There would be no question of the note's authenticity. In it was a full, signed confession detailing his part and exonerating the dwarf. The outside was labelled, fittingly: 'For the king's eyes only.' Nodding to himself, he laid it back on the nightstand.
"And this will make sure the councillors give this note their full attention."
Alflocksom, Captain of the guards of Gondor who's bloodline traced back to Orome himself (though he had no way of knowing that) pulled the small, clear-liquid vial from it's leather pouch and stretched out on his bed. He pulled the stopper from it's neck and held it up in a sort of "cheers" fashion.
"I have done my duty and am tired of this life," he whispered. "May the Lords forgive me what I'm about to do."
Alflocksom was raising the vial again, towards his lips. A sparrow came out of nowhere and landed on the back of his upraised hand. Surprised, he froze, the vial stopping less than six inches from his mouth. The bird hopped onto his fingers and turned to look at him. Perching there, it's tiny head tilted first one way then the other as though in question.
"Come for me, have you?" Alflocksom said to it. "Thank y – "
The sparrow pecked him, suddenly and violently, driving it's tiny but dagger-sharp beak deep into the back of his hand and drawing blood. The vial flew from his fingers and shattered on the floor.
"Why?" Alflocksom asked, staring at the tiny harbinger in shocked wonder. "Why did you do that?"
It tilted its head once more, seeming to stare into his eyes as it did. Then it flew out through the open window and disappeared into the day.
As he swung his feet off the bed and sat up, his eyes found the smashed vial; it's contents draining into a space between two of the many stone blocks that made up the floor. He looked at the back of his hand – at the dark droplet of blood pooling in the small hole – and frowned.
"Why?" he asked again.
There was no response, not even in his head this time, but he thought he knew the answer all the same. He thought Orome would have known, too. What had just happened was not of this world. Perhaps the sparrow had been moved by some higher power to forcibly remind him of that.
(They are Harbingers of the dead, Aragorn. No one can control them – at least not for long.)
/What good can come from stopping me?/ he wondered. Then: /Have I not done enough?/
There was no answer. At least, not yet. And there was this – perhaps it can't be answered yet.
Perhaps this test is not over.
Part 3
With the watch over and the arrival of his relief, young Caspian had gone silently, mounting the stairs to the barracks as he had so often, bothered with a mixture of nerves and tension. Though bone-tired, he had a sneaking suspicion that this would be another sleepless night.
And now here he was – his suspicions confirmed – in his bed and still wide awake as the stars paled and the first brighter shades began to colour the new sky. The events of the past few days replayed through his mind in a kind of surreal fantasy, like a enormous wall of cloaked portraits – and the one uncovered with the most persistence was the face of Wren. He thought of how often that face met him in his most pleasant dreams, and smiling to himself, wondered if love could actually drive a man mad. He would never have believed so before. Was hers that beautiful a face? Yes, to him it was. To him there was no sight more beautiful in the whole world.
He tossed and turned from one side of his bed to the other, then rolled onto his back again. Folding his arms behind his head, he looked into the shadows of the room and listened to the first faint stirrings of the city.
Again he thought of Wren...and a terrible thought that he might never see her face after today prompted him to rise.
/Should I go to her?/ he wondered.
Yes, and why not? He would find no sleep in what little remained of this night anyway, he thought. His mind was too active with worry to allow even a moment of rest. The time was coming as surely as the sun would rise, and though he'd never stop it's approach, even if he could, he felt there would be no harm in trying to slow it a little. Besides, if this day went as he expected, this may be his last chance to see her as a free man...or a living one.
He crept silently out of the barracks, tacked up the big bay gelding, then rode out of Minas Tirith and headed straight to Wren. Dust clouds, stirred by the bay's pounding hooves, gathered behind them like small whirlwinds. He knew he'd be spotted but he didn't care. He needed to see her, to hold her, and needed her to hold him. He desperately needed to be held, especially now.
Part 4
Alflocksom, Seigen, Vedt, and Aic came out onto the terrace only two minutes after Caspian had passed the city's gates. By then the sun was just peeking over the horizon. For anyone else but the palace kitchen staff the time of day was too early to be up, wide awake, and fully dressed; but to the four captains, it was already late in the morning.
Alflocksom leaned his elbows on the stone escarpment and spotted the billowing dust trail. He watched it until it disappeared over the far rise; and even then continued to watch.
"Who left?" Aic asked. He sounded sullen and sleepy. In truth, he had been troubled by today's coming events all night – so troubled that sleep had completely eluded him, and for the same reason had eluded them all, though none would admit that. It's not like they were trying to out-do one another, but as Vedt had once put it, "We have a certain image to maintain, even amongst ourselves."
"I believe that was our young trainee, Caspian," Alflocksom said mildly, continuing to watch.
"Oh? I wonder where he's off to in such a hurry."
"Good Lords, Aic, how old are you?" Seigen asked, smiling, then clapped Aic on the shoulder. "Don't tell me you can't remember why a young man would go sneaking off? Has it been that long?"
Aic looked at him for a moment, then he also smiled. "No," he said. "I'm not that old."
Alflocksom straightened, stretched, and then they walked across the terrace toward a table. Halfway there, he came to a stop and turned again as though half-expecting to see Caspian returning. Seeing nothing, he gave a small sigh and shook his head. "Guilt," he said in a soft, sad voice, and walked on.
"Guilt?" Seigen repeated surly. "Why would he have guilt? It's not like he did any more than the rest of us were allowed to do."
Alflocksom shrugged as he sat in the chair and let the subject drop. He knew what Caspian was searching for but it was nothing like what Seigen was thinking. Caspian was young. He was desperate for a little comfort, that's all. Simply put, the boy needed a hug. As for how he knew that and how he knew why Caspian needed that, neither were subjects he was willing to discuss right now. Not with any of them. And certainly not with Seigen. There has been a hard edge to Seigen's teasing ever since Ridley's death; the old light-heartedness was now cut with unpleasant bitterness. But Seigen wasn't the only one who'd changed. Vedt – ever the rigid one, now seemed an impenetrable stone wall. Aic – normally reserved and deeper thinker, had all but withdrawn into himself. The king – grim and troubled. The elf seemed at war with himself. The dwarf – distant and often alone. And as for himself? Oh yes, he'd changed, too. It was getting harder and harder to present a calm exterior when he was constantly on edge.
/Damn Ridley,/ Alflocksom thought. /He's still affecting us all...even from his grave./
Part 5
They were the best kisses of Caspian's whole young life: the fragrance of her breath as he breathed in what she breathed out, the softness of her mouth, the feel of her slender arms around his neck. He slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her closer. His other hand went to her hair and combed along the side of it, soft as silk and as dark as a raven's wing. Whoever said, "A kiss can whisper the hearts desire," wasn't kidding. He burned for her like a torch. But kisses would have to be enough. After all, although he was young, he was honourable, or trying to be anyway.
He dropped back to the straw and looked at her. She giggled and bit her lip. When he took her hand and pulled her down into his arms, she did not resist him. They lay with their foreheads touching, and when she slipped a hand beneath his tunic to touch his chest, her fingers found...paper.
"Ah-ha!" she cried, sitting up and waving it over his face. "What's this? A commission? A secret plan? A love letter to another woman?"
"Stop teasing and give it back," he said, more harshly than he meant.
He reached for it. She giggled and drew back. His hand surrounded her wrist. She changed hands and held the paper out of his reach. Wrestling but being careful not to hurt her, they grappled back and forth. The paper flew from her hand and fluttered to the straw behind them. Twisting quickly, he launched for it. When she reached to try and snatch it away from him he held her back with one hand and waved it in the air above her. She tipped her head back and laughed, the sound musical. He loved the sound of it.
"Will you read it to me, then?" she asked though giggles while she crossed her arms over the front of her dress.
"Aye, lady. I will. If you'll let me." Dilemma. He knew if he stuffed it back into his tunic she would think it a love note. If he did read it...well, he just wouldn't. That left him with no other choice than to pretend to read it. As long as he sounded convincing enough she'd believe him, because he knew she couldn't read – not a word. "It's a poem," he lied. And thought: /One I've been wanting to say since the first moment I saw you./
"Oh! For me?" she asked innocently.
"Of course it's for you," he said, grinning. "Who else?"
She leapt up and brushed the front of her apron, to which small bits of straw now clung, then plopped back down beside him and waited.
Rolling onto his stomach he straightened the paper and cleared his throat loudly. He stole a glance up at her, grinned (she grinned back), then began:
"From starlight shaped the Lords a gift, and set amid the fair, to walk among mere mortal man, exquisiteness most rare. Why thee that captures heart and soul would eye this homely man, though plain, would suffer more than death for one touch of your hand.
If under moon love lose her way, shine path for her to see yon Lover's Moon, glow brighter still, and lead her back to me. Pray give my love her fondest wish, waste none to save this ruin, My heart's ensnared and honour bound, fair trial by Lover's Moon."
He waited for a response – his heart pounding furiously in his chest as he did – and heard nothing. After a moment he glanced up and met her eyes.
"Oh Caspian, you wrote that for me?" she said, and for the first time her voice unanchored a little, wavering in her throat. He was alarmed to see that there were tears standing in her eyes. "You...you love me, then? "
"Wren," he whispered, his eyes flittering over her face, "I wanted you to know in case – "
"Hush," she said faintly, touching her fingers to his lips. Her eyes overbrimmed; tears drew two silver lines down her cheeks. "Hush."
"But I did something, Wren," he said, taking her hand. "I did something..."
And I may never see you again, he wanted to say, but he didn't have to say anything. She leaned and stopped his words with soft kisses. At first he just let himself be kissed...and then he kissed her back just as softly, then almost furiously, urgently; sitting up and wrapping his arms around her; needing to be held, and she held him; needing to be kissed, and she kissed him. And these – these were the best kisses of his whole young life.
/Fair trial?/
His eyes snapped open and he let her go. "The trial..." he breathed. "Oh Lords, I'm late!"
He leaned and kissed her quick, then leapt down off the straw mound and raced for his horse while stuffing the paper back inside his tunic.
She watched him swing into the saddle and take up the reins. Cueing the big bay gelding, he turned him and urged him to all-speed. She sat where she was, on the straw pile under the lean-to, watching him ride flat-out with his hair streaming back from his temples and his tunic bellying behind him; willing him to turn and wave to her. Just when she was sure he wouldn't, he did turn in the saddle, and his hand lifted. She waved back. Only when he was just a speck in the distance did she lower her hand. Then she dropped back to the straw and smiled to herself, thinking of his handsome face, of how his mouth felt against hers, of the smell of his skin, the rough stubble on his cheeks. The words of love echoed hauntingly in her head.
"My heart's ensnared and honour bound, fair trial by Lover's Moon," she whispered dreamily.
Tbc...