Equinoxium: Chapter 25
by Lisette
Legalese: See Chapter 1 for disclaimers and ratings.
The return from the Gardens to the Houses of Healing blurred in Buffy's mind, her slight weight supported between the two armed guards that escorted her down curving paths and through unfamiliar halls, their stern features solemn and their grips punishing upon her slender arms. Not that this small abuse mattered, for the slayer's thoughts remained fixed upon that wooded path that had been bathed with elvish blood. Legolas' agonized face, Vashnak's dark eyes, Gimli's furious countenance and the betrayal that flared in Aragorn's fiery gaze... all were locked behind her closed eyes as Legolas' tortured screams continued to echo in her mind. It was a scream that never paused for breath, a scream that never lessened in its pained intensity, and a scream that she had initiated when she had forced her blood past Legolas' resisting lips.
She had brought this pain upon the Elf, forcing her blood upon him when he was too injured to resist... but it had been an act of desperation! Angel had once needed her blood in order to heal the poison that coursed through his dead veins, and Buffy had reacted the only way she knew how as she had struck him until the demon came forth and took what it needed. With Legolas dying in her arms, Buffy had once more found herself in that same place, moving without thought as she forced her blood upon another. But this time... this time she hadn't given her blood to a vampire. She had given it to an Elf. She had given her poison to an Elf.
"What have I done?" Buffy murmured as she staggered against one of the guards, her legs feeling impossibly weak as horror and self-loathing caused bitter tears to burn her green eyes, wetting her lashes before they coursed silent trails down her cheeks. "What have I done?" she repeated, the words expelled upon a shaky breath.
Yet such was a question that neither guard seemed willing or able to answer as they stilled before an unfamiliar door. Silently, Buffy watched as one of the men searched through a ring of keys before selecting the one he needed and sliding it into the keyhole. With a heavy clank of metal tumblers, the lock was released and the door pushed open, revealing an impossibly tiny chamber that was illuminated by a small window set high in the wall, a single cot pushed beneath it.
Brow creasing in confusion, Buffy dimly eyed the barren room from the safety of the hall beyond. "What-" she began, her soft question interrupted as the large hands released her bruised arms and shoved her forward, her slippered feet sliding over smooth stone until she banged one knee against the edge of the wooden cot. Wincing at the sharp pain, Buffy turned as the sound of a slamming door echoed behind her. "No, wait," she stammered, her feet carrying her towards the closed door, small hands slapping ineffectually against the smooth wood. "I need to know... I need to know about Legolas!" she shouted, wincing as her shrill voice reverberated off of the small walls and echoed in the high-ceilinged chamber.
Heavy arms falling back to her side, Buffy slowly backed away from the massive door, the tears clouding her vision as she turned to the filtered light from the window behind her.
A window that was fitted with bars.
They had placed her in a prison, Buffy realized as her veins began to fill with ice. A prison that looked far more the part than the spacious chamber that had been hers in the Tower of Tol Brandir. Which meant that despite Legolas' reassurances, she was a captive once more.
Feeling her ragged breath catch in her throat, Buffy looked frantically around the small room, willing the walls to stay where they were and ignoring their press about her slender frame. She was not claustrophobic and she refused to succumb to such a weakness - and yet that brave thought did little to still the overly frantic beat of her heart or help to ease her ragged breathing. The only thing that served to distract her from her growing panic was the soft, steady drip that echoed in the small chamber.
Confused, Buffy looked down to see that her once pristine white dressing gown was filthy, wet and heavy with blood. Some of the crimson stains were splattered across her torso and flecked along her skin - a back spray of Guol's blood. Others were patches that were thick and heavy, causing the material to cling to her skin - and this, she knew, was Legolas' blood. Slowly she lifted one pale hand to her face, her fingers tracing the sticky moisture that lined her lips and trailed down her chin. This, too, was Guol's blood. And yet it wasn't someone else's blood that dripped steadily down, splashing upon the stone floor in a widening pool. No. That was her own, Buffy realized as she finally looked upon her right arm, so very pale and snaked with crimson trails that skimmed down the skin of her hand to drip from her slightly curled fingers to the floor below.
Buffy stood transfixed by the sight of her own blood, Legolas' scream still echoing in her mind. The fair-haired elf hadn't cried out once in battle - not even when Vashnak had twisted the dagger in his side. Legolas had received two mortal wounds, but not once had he given voice to his pain.
It had taken a small taste of her own blood to do that.
Knees buckling, Buffy collapsed upon the stone floor, her legs tucked beneath her as she slowly lifted her bleeding hand to look in horrified wonder upon the sliced wrist. She could feel it throbbing in time with the stampeding beat of her own heart as the blood trails changed direction, now flowing down towards her shoulder. This was her blood, she noted as she held her good hand against her fluttering heart. Such a trivial thing and yet capable of so much destruction.
And death.
Back when she was a captive of Tol Brandir, the human healer and his village had suffered because of her blood; Mirdan and his two companions had been destroyed; and Legolas... Legolas was dying, if not already dead because of that which ran through her veins and dripped upon the floor. As a slayer, she had lived, breathed, and had distributed death without pause or hesitation. She was a Slayer, and as such, she had been told that death was her gift to give. Yet surely the First Slayer hadn't meant this.
Shaken from her thoughts as the locked tumblers shifted turned, Buffy lifted eyes that were dimmed of their usual fire as the door was pulled open to reveal one of the guards that had brought her to this prison. Her hands falling back into her lap, she watched as the man slowly stepped forward, his eyes shrewdly narrowed upon her before beckoning another to enter. Instantly the silhouette of a young girl emerged from the shadowed hall, her small hands juggling a ceramic bowl as well as a bag of herbs and bandages. She couldn't have been older than eight years old, with pale skin and shining blond hair that was neatly plaited down her slender back. She wore a simple dress of dark green, her fair features creased in concentration with a small tongue peeking between pink lips as she stepped forward, the items precariously balanced in her arms. Pausing upon the room's threshold, the girl finally lifted large eyes of a stormy gray, her features widening in shock as her sharp gaze locked upon the blood that covered Buffy's form.
"Lady, where are you injured?" the girl demanded in a small, scared voice as she hurried the final few steps in the room, hastily placing the full bowl of clean water on the floor before worriedly pawing through her small sac. "I should have brought more bandages," she muttered, more to herself than Buffy as she pulled out a small, clean white cloth and hurriedly dipped it into the warm water.
"The blood isn't mine," Buffy assured, her voice sounding distant as the girl's eyes lifted curiously to her own. "Well, most of it isn't," the slayer amended as she slowly, mechanically lifted her arm to show her bleeding wrist.
Sighing in evident relief, the girl gently took the injured appendage in hand as both guards crowded inside the room with her and her patient, their hands resting upon the pommels of their swords and their eyes warily locked upon the young woman. Frowning, the child ignored the solemn men as she used the cloth to wash away some of the blood, her clear eyes critically assessing the clean cut. "What happened?"
"I..." Buffy murmured, her voice faltering as the girl paused in her work to watch her quizzically. "There was an accident," the slayer finally whispered, forcing a small, brittle smile.
Yet this child wasn't so young as to be blinded by a lie, as evidenced by the skeptical expression upon her face as her gray eyes probed Buffy's. "Mother says that little girls should not play with swords," she murmured, correctly guessing the weapon that had been used to produce such a clean and even cut. "Outside of swordsmanship lessons, of course," she amended as she washed the cloth in the bowl of water that was swiftly turning a cloudy pink.
Intrigued by this admission, Buffy frowned at the little girl. "Who is your mother?"
"Lady owyn, the White Lady of Ithilien," the girl returned as she wiped at the blood that continued to ooze from the deep cut.
Buffy nodded in understanding. "Then your father would be Lord Faramir, the Prince of Ithilien," she stated, easily seeing both the steward and his pregnant wife in the beautiful girl.
"He is," the child affirmed as she placed Buffy's free hand over the damp cloth, forcing the slayer to apply pressure to stem the bleeding as the girl returned to her bag of supplies.
"But that would make you a princess, wouldn't it?"
"I suppose," the girl admitted with a shrug as she retrieved a small jar of herb poultice and began spreading it on the cut.
Ignorant of the sting from the thick, green substance, Buffy smiled at the little girl's bent head. "Then I'm honored to have a princess fixing me up," she returned, her attention fixated on the child that brightened the dark little prison that she had been shoved into. For a moment, Buffy could almost pretend that Vashnak hadn't invaded this sanctuary and spilled elven blood upon its soil. She could almost pretend that everything had not come to pass.
Blushing at Buffy's words, the girl ducked her head, her gaze remaining firmly fixed upon the wound she tended. "I want to be a healer when I am grown," the child admitted with a shy smile. "Mother lets me help around the Houses of Healing whenever we are in Minas Tirith for Father's business, though I am usually not left to tend to the injured alone," she murmured as she finished spreading the poultice and reached for a bandage roll, a small frown worrying her lips. "All of the healers were called to tend to an injury most grievous, and I fear that I was all that remained."
Buffy felt her momentary reprieve shattered by this single comment, her head beginning to swim. "Indeed?" she weakly returned.
"Oh yes," the girl exclaimed as she wrapped the wrist with a studied concentration before tying off the excess. Finished, she critically eyed her work before slowly nodding her head. "Well, my bandage is not nearly as pretty as Mother's, but it will do," she murmured as she lifted her golden head, her smile brightening. "My name is Finduilas."
"I'm Buffy," the slayer whispered, forcing a brittle smile as she tried to remain focused on the child sitting before her.
"Buffy," the girl mused as she began packing her healing supplies. "Such a strange name."
"So I've been told," the slayer sighed as the door opened, the guards tensing at the sudden intrusion into her small prison. Instantly Buffy felt her muscles tighten as she looked up and into the grave face of the steward himself, his gray eyes, so like his daughter's, quickly landing on the child.
"Finduilas, I would see you return to your sister and brothers now," he stated firmly, his direct gaze piercing the blood-stained slayer.
"But Mother asked me to help Mistress Ioreth today," Finduilas protested as she gathered her supplies in hand, somehow balancing the full bowl on top of the small pile.
Frowning, Faramir stepped quickly into the room and pulled his daughter away from the frozen slayer. "Very well, then, just... just see to your duties and try to stay out of Ioreth and the other healers' way," he directed as he began pushing the child to the door.
Mirroring her father's frown, Finduilas looked questioningly between the steward and her patient, noting the way the young woman's pale features hardened at her father's strange behavior. "As you wish," the girl sighed, taking one last look at the blonde before slipping into the hallway beyond.
For a moment, both Steward and Slayer remained still, contemplating the child's disappearing form. "She's very beautiful," Buffy murmured, breaking the tense silence as she gently cradled her newly wrapped wrist against her chest.
"Our eldest," Faramir returned, his attention turning sharply towards the young woman - obviously assessing whatever threat she posed. "She takes after owyn in appearance, but her spirit is turned more towards the arts of healing than war, such as her grandmother for whom she is named."
"She'll be a good healer someday," Buffy stated as she boldly met the older man's gaze, reading the condemnation in his eyes. For a moment more, they remained locked as such, each challenging the other before Faramir nodded once and turned towards the open door.
"Wait," Buffy called out, her good hand unconsciously stretching towards his retreating back. "Tell me... is Legolas... will he be okay?" she whispered, her voice cracking as she stumbled over her words.
With a heavy sigh, the steward paused on the door's threshold, his jaw tightening in anger as he glared at the floor before him. "I know not," he admitted, the words falling between clenched teeth. "He screams as though something is devouring him."
Immediately Buffy felt the tears burn at her eyes as her thin arms wrapped around her blood-stained dress. "I only wanted to help," she stammered, hating the way that her voice wavered and cracked.
But this time Faramir had no response to her words, and he turned his back to her and left the room with the two silent guards following their lord before slamming the door behind them. Breath catching in her throat, Buffy listened as the lock turned, the sound echoing with a heavy finality as she was once more left alone.
The room was dark and still, with nothing but the light from the waning moon to illuminate the small chamber. Night had fallen hours ago, cloaking the world in her darkness and abandoning Buffy to her thoughts and fears. Since Finduilas' visit, her stay had been in solitude, save for a serving girl that had brought a fresh dressing gown, identical to the last, and a tray of food and a small glass of water. Buffy had changed into the new gown, and while she had used the water and strips of the ruined gown to clean what she could of the blood from her body, the food remained cold and untouched. As did her heart.
Like a pale wraith, a broken shell of her former fire and strength, Buffy sat upon the hard cot, her back pressed against the stone wall that leeched her warmth and left her body cold and leaden. For hours she had remained thus, her bandaged wrist cradled in her lap and her green-eyed gaze vacant and unseeing. Her body may have been locked in this prison, but her thoughts couldn't be contained. She found her mind wandering, her eyes seeing nothing of the dark room, moving instead to the bright flashes of a past she stubbornly clung to. Though filled with loss and sorrow, these memories were all that were left to her in this small prison where the darkness thrived and where the light was spent.
There was her mom, smiling and laughing, filled with so much life as she twirled in her bright dress, so excited about her coming date and the fact that, for the first time in far too long, she felt well again. She would be dead by that time tomorrow.
There was Xander, so full of love and adoration as Buffy returned from death stronger than ever, killing the Master and finally ending the reign of the one who had caused his childhood friend's death. Five years later he would turn from her in disgust upon learning about her affair with a soulless Spike.
There was Dawn, her large eyes glimmering with unshed tears as they said their final goodbyes upon a rickety tower, a connection forged by monks and maintained by familial love burning between them. Five months later that connection had been severed as Heaven lay between them.
There was Angel, his pained features locked in betrayed confusion as she shoved a sword through his chest and sentenced his undeserving soul to Hell. One year later he returned the favor by turning his back on her and walking away from any chance that they may have had together.
There was Willow, her innocence and devotion shining in her green eyes as she comforted a heartbroken slayer that had just learned that Angel intended to leave her forever. Four years later they would shine with malice as the darkness consumed the witch, driving Willow to madness as Tara's blood peppered her white shirt with crimson stains.
There was Riley, his arms holding her so tight and his lips pressed against her own as they hid from the government that he had sworn to serve. Less than a year later she would drive him into the arms of a vampire to seek the attention that she couldn't give.
There was Anya, whose tears for Buffy's mother trailed down her cheeks as the vengeance demon wept for a mortal life. Buffy would drive a sword through Anya's heart two years later.
There was Spike, his blue eyes so earnest as he declared his love for her, soul or not, his lips greedily claiming her own as he silenced her protests. A few months later he would try to rape her in her own bathroom to take from her that which she had sought to deny.
There was Giles. Oh God, there was Giles, with his warm brown eyes, his reassuring hand upon her shoulder, the strength and support he always willingly offered to his slayer... the man who had been as a father to her for seven years. How could it be that just a few months past she had closed her door in his face? How could she have so heartlessly told him that he no longer had anything to teach her? She had told him that she didn't need him. She had been so very wrong.
And now... and now she could add Mirdan and Legolas to her list of those that she had loved and hurt in some way over her short life. Mirdan was meant to live forever, and he had been killed by the creature that her blood had created. And Legolas...
Buffy slowly lifted one trembling hand and rubbed it against her aching shoulder. She felt so weak and tired, nauseous, and yet sleep was elusive - something that continued to slip from her weary grasp as she sat in the shadows that had become her life. Perhaps she didn't deserve sleep or rest of any kind. Not after what she had done. Or perhaps sleep would finally come if she only knew what had happened to Legolas. If she only knew if he yet lived or... or if she had killed him with her blood.
Shaking her head at the dark thought, Buffy stubbornly turned from her cradled wrist, her gaze despondently moving over the walls and solid door of her new prison. Whatever bit of healing her body had managed to accomplish these past days seemed to have been erased with the loss of that which her own body desperately needed. Whether that loss was the hope that she had gained by being surrounded by warmth and friendship, or the blood that she had lost, even Buffy wasn't quite certain. Now she felt that familiar weakness plague her weary body, reminding her of its presence with the way her neck ached at holding her head aloft - the way her whole body ached with every breath.
Not that it mattered any longer, Buffy decided as she looked away from the cold food that sat against the closed door, her stomach rolling at the mere sight of the glistening broth and the hunk of dried bread. Nothing mattered outside of the condemning thoughts that continued without end. As those traitorous thoughts liked to remind her, she could play the part of victim and pretend that she had no role in the atrocities that had taken place while she had been a captive of Tol Brandir. In Minas Tirith, however, she had no such flimsy shields or excuses. It had been her choice to ply Legolas with her poison, and it was because of her choice that he suffered... or perhaps he was already dead, and she had merely added to his suffering before the inevitable had come. In the end, none of it mattered save one thing:
It had been her choice.
Shaken from her thoughts by the sound of movement outside of her door, Buffy felt her body tense as she heard a quiet murmuring that was interrupted by a heavy thump that rattled against the door's frame. There were many different scenarios that flitted through her weary mind just then of what was waiting outside of that door. It could be that an axe-wielding Gimli stood without, finally having come to seek his revenge. It could also have been a pregnant owyn, come to lay blame upon the one who had brought pain and death into these Houses. There was even the possibility that it was Thoron that stood outside of her closed doorway, come to finish what he had started so many months before when he had left her bound to a stake in the middle of battle. Tilting her head to the side, the slayer expected all of this as a key was fitted to the lock, the unmistakable sound of shifting tumblers echoing hollowly before the knob was turned and the thick wood pushed open - to reveal the one person she certainly had not expected.
"Finduilas?" Buffy queried. She rose unsteadily to her feet, forcing her trembling legs to support her weight. The child's gray eyes, wide and tear-filled, locked onto her own, and in an instant the girl had rushed forward and clasped Buffy around the waist, burying her face in the skirt of the slayer's long, white dress. Her body quivered, and as Buffy instinctively drew the girl close, her bewildered gaze lifted to the shadowed figure that stood in the open doorway.
"No!" Buffy gasped, her heart skipping erratically as she recoiled, dragging the child with her as the dark-elf slipped into the room and flung the dead body of a guard at her feet. "What are you doing here?" she demanded as she held the frightened girl tighter against her.
"I am following your Legolas' example," Vashnak explained, his voice curt as he hastily wiped the edge of his gleaming sword on the dead man's tunic. "You were his shield when he came to my home, and I found mine wandering the halls of this building."
"Nanny sent me to fetch Father," Finduilas whispered as she clutched the material of Buffy's long dress. "My baby brother, Boromir, is teething and will not stop crying," she hastily explained as her tears began to soak through the thick fabric, wetting Buffy's legs with their warmth. "But he badly hurt all of my escort."
"I didn't hurt them, I killed them," Vashnak corrected as he adjusted the overlarge black tunic he had obviously stolen from a guard earlier in the day, his hands running over the shining silver stitching of the White Tree of Gondor.
As the girl's muffled sobs grew louder, Buffy gently ran one shaking hand over her tousled locks. "Shh, it's okay," she soothed awkwardly. "Everything's gonna be okay," she murmured as the girl trembled against her.
"Are you sure you should be so quick to make such a promise? You can barely stand," Vashnak pointed out with a cruel smile as he began edging the door shut. "By the way," he added as it closed with a quiet snick, sealing the three into the small chamber, "how did your golden-haired elf die?"
His words, spoken so casually, cut more deeply than any blade he could have wielded against her. Buffy swayed, one hand reaching back to steady herself against the stone wall. Tensing against her, Finduilas turned her face so that she could watch the dark-elf through one narrowed eye with the fearful look of one who didn't want to hear another word, but was powerless to resist.
"According to the rumors I have been hearing all day," Vashnak continued, "not only did your evil allies try to rescue you, but you also poisoned the Lord of Ithilien with your blood. They say that the blood of the king's friend stains your hands, just as yours stained his lips. Tell me, did you really try sharing our gift with him?" he asked as Buffy began to quiver, her features paling even further.
"Shove it," she growled as Finduilas pulled away, her frightened eyes spilling their tears as she looked to Buffy in confusion and horror - and betrayal. Buffy had only just met this girl hours before, and already she was teaching the child the fine art of betrayal. Releasing her hold on the small child, Buffy tried to show in this small act that she had no reason to fear her.
After all, why should Finduilas fear Buffy when Vashnak was also enclosed in the small chamber?
"You must come with me," the dark-elf hissed, not understanding Buffy's words so much as recognizing the vehemence behind them as he flung a long, dark cloak at the small slayer.
Instinctively catching the heavy material, Buffy looked down upon it and heard a brittle laugh echo in the small room. A brittle laugh that was her own. Snapping her jaw shut, Buffy lifted eyes that were fiery once more as she glared at the elf. "You've got to be kidding me!" she hissed as her hand clenched the rich cloth in her tight grip. "Do you honestly think that I'm just going to walk out of here? With you? You're the one that did this to me!" she cried, trying to ignore the way Finduilas shrank from her, sliding along the wall until she had pressed into the corner. There the girl crouched, as far away from the slayer and Vashnak as possible.
Following her gaze, Vashnak eyed the terrified child with a smile that grew almost tender. "If you do not, the girl's blood will also be on your hands," he promised as Finduilas' buried her face against her knees.
For a moment Buffy remained frozen by Vashnak's threat as she felt her tensed muscles once more begin to shake, this time from the many different emotions that seethed within her. She couldn't go back with him. She wouldn't! There was no way in hell she would permit him to drag her back to that place of horror and despair, where life was reduced to a dull dwindling of time; a gradual, inexorable slide toward death. She had told herself time and time again that she would die before doing so. But how could she refuse when it was no longer her life hanging in the balance?
"If you call for help, the girl will be dead before the guards can reach her," Vashnak warned, misreading Buffy's hesitation and the emotions that flickered across her pale face. Hand tightening on the sword's hilt, Vashnak edged closer to the shaking child. "Come with me or the girl dies."
Buffy's mind raced. She was a slayer and she had to think of the good of the world before anything else. If she went with Vashnak, it wasn't only her own life that she was sacrificing, but potentially hundreds if not thousands more. With her blood, Vashnak would continue his work on building a dark army. She couldn't go with him, no matter the cost... and yet as these thoughts warred within her, Buffy found herself gazing upon the terrified face of a child. A child who looked at her in horror; a child whose life rested in her hands.
Scowling, Buffy angrily turned away from Finduilas' terrified face. Where was the slayer who had been willing to send Angel to hell to prevent the end of the world? Where was the slayer who was willing to fight Willow to prevent the Wiccan from hurting anyone else? Where was the slayer who shoved a sword through Anya's heart when she had become a vengeance demon again? And where was the slayer who had told her friends, her family, and the Potentials alike that she would sacrifice any one of them to make things right?
With an angry sigh, Buffy realized that wherever that slayer was, she apparently hadn't left a forwarding address. That slayer had been replaced by the slayer that had been willing to let the world end if it meant saving her sister. She had been willing to sacrifice the world for just one life. Or perhaps that was the real problem. Maybe they were all the same slayer, and that slayer had only one weakness: innocence. She was willing to sacrifice those who understood the risks and those who were players in the game, but those who were too young to truly be apart were safe - and it was only the world that paid the consequences.
"Did I even have a choice?" Buffy muttered as she lifted the cloak and draped it over her shoulders, her fingers fumbling with the clasp. Stepping away from the wall's support, Buffy wavered only slightly before she found her waning balance - a balance that was quickly offset as Vashnak strode forward and grabbed Finduilas roughly by the arm, propelling the child to her feet and shoving her in Buffy's direction.
"What are you doing? Leave her alone!" the slayer snapped as the girl once more clung to her skirts, evidently deciding that Buffy was still far more stable and safe than the dark-haired elf that had killed the soldiers who had been her escort.
"Come now. We both know that this only works if she comes as well," Vashnak returned as he grabbed the child's hood and flipped it over her teary features, turning to do the same so that Buffy's long blonde hair was hidden by the dark material. Silently, he then adjusted his own cloak - a different cloak than the one he had been wearing earlier. The one that had once belonged to Mirdan.
Closing her eyes as though this physical act could somehow dampen the grief that surged anew through her veins, Buffy found herself leaning heavily upon Finduilas' small shoulders. Mirdan had been so kind to her during their travels south, always curious and willing to laugh at her stupid mistakes. And now he was dead.
Thinking of all that the kind-hearted elf had been forced to endure before he had been killed filled Buffy with a burning anger that temporarily pushed the grief aside as Vashnak stepped to Finduilas' other side, his long arm wrapping around both of them, with the child pressed between the slayer and elf. As one unit they moved towards the closed door, Buffy absently helping the girl step over the guard's bloody body as they slipped into the dark and silent hallway, Vashnak confidently navigating them through the twisting labyrinth.
The slayer had never been anywhere in all of Minas Tirith aside from the chamber that she had awoken in and the winding halls that had somehow led her into the protected Gardens. Thus, it was no surprise when she became lost and disoriented in a matter of minutes as Vashnak guided them through the twisting maze - and yet even Buffy was able to recognize the grand foyer of the Houses of Healing for what it was as they finally reached the closed front doors. Breath hissing between clenched teeth, Buffy allowed Vashnak to pull them forward - when one familiar voice called out, stilling their movements with just one word.
"Finduilas?"
Instinctively the small child turned at her father's call, her large eyes locked upon the steward as he stepped into the foyer from an adjacent hall. "Finduilas, what in all of Arda are you doing here at this time of night? Did Nanny send for-" the steward continued, his words faltering as he finally noted his daughter's terrified, tear-stained features. "Finduilas?" he murmured, his features creasing in concern as he started towards his daughter, only to have his steps falter as the guard that accompanied her pulled the child against him, his gleaming sword lifting to her small, pale neck.
Freezing as Finduilas' terrified whimper echoed in the empty foyer, Faramir quickly regarded the shadowed guard, unable to see anything past the hood that masked the man's features. Yet even if he was unable to recognize the man holding his daughter, the short figure that suddenly sagged against a far wall was unmistakable. And in that moment, everything became swiftly clear.
"You are Vashnak," Faramir stated, turning to regard the tall figure. While Aragorn had been ensconced in the Houses of Healing, the steward had taken control of the Royal Guard that continued to search for one elusive elven opponent, even as he sorted through the gory mess that had been left in the enclosed gardens, trying to determine what had happened to shed so much elven blood upon the beautiful grounds. After Gimli had revealed Buffy's treachery, the steward told himself that he couldn't trust whatever information he could learn from the small slayer, even if a part of him whispered that the real reason he didn't approach the young woman was for fear of what he would do to her in his anger. Legolas had been his friend and comrade for over nine years now, and it was because of this young woman that his friend had been so mortally wounded.
Thus, after finding his daughter binding Buffy's incriminating wound, Faramir had forgone interrogating the prisoner and instead pried Thoron away from Legolas' side long enough to learn that the older elf had not recognized the two dead elves that bore the crest of Ithilien. Elrohir, on the other hand, most certainly did.
The younger elf had been hurrying past the room that held the dead elves when his glance had fallen upon one of their pale faces. The dark-haired twin had nearly dropped the satchel of herbs he had been carrying in his surprise, and had quickly explained that these were not Elves. They were Mornedhel. Which meant that his Men were not searching for one of the Eldar, but rather a dark-elf - or more likely, the dark-elf that had begun this mess. The dark-elf that now held his trembling daughter against him, his blood-stained sword pressed against her neck.
"I am," the elf returned with a voice that was as beautiful as any of the Eldar, breaking Faramir from his chaotic thoughts. It defied all reason that their enemy had not only avoided capture, but had somehow found his firstborn child, recaptured his prisoner, and now brandished both before the wearied steward.
"Then release my daughter, for she has naught to do with any of this," Faramir continued, his voice hard as he took a slow, measured step closer.
Yet instead of doing as commanded, Vashnak held the girl closer as he curiously eyed the approaching man. "Who are you? What is your station here?"
"I-"
"He's just a healer," Buffy interrupted from where she leaned against a stone wall, her voice sharp. "He's Ioreth's assistant," she added as the steward's piercing glare raked over her form. "He's not important, and neither is the girl. If you just leave them alone I'll go with you," the slayer continued, her voice filled with a futile hope as Vashnak's narrowed eyes dismissed her before returning to Faramir.
"You lie," he stated, his voice flat as he tightened his hold on the squirming child. "The girl came from the seventh circle with an armed escort, and no healer would wear such finery," he added as he nodded towards Faramir's rich clothing. "Who are you?" he repeated as he pushed the sharp blade against Finduilas' neck, breaking the skin as a small drop of blood glistened in the shadowed light.
As his daughter's terrified whimper pierced straight through his heart, Faramir shot the small slayer a cold glare, daring her to contradict him. "I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor," he answered without hesitation, his stormy eyes shining with all of the authority granted to him in his position.
"The steward," Vashnak returned, his gaze becoming thoughtful as he spared a brief smile for the weakened slayer. "It seems as though our exit has just become that much easier," he stated as he lowered the sword a fraction from the girl's throat.
Nodding slowly, his heart hammering in his chest, Faramir edged another step closer. "Release my daughter and I will-"
"What?" Vashnak interrupted with a curt shake of his head, his dark eyes, so like those of every other of the firstborn that Faramir had ever met, piercing him with their sharp edges. "Allow us to go free?" he continued, his melodious voice now mocking as he glared at the tall man. "I am not some feeble-minded orc, and it is time you realize this. If I let the child go I lose my only bargaining chip with both you and her," he continued as he nodded towards the slayer. "No, your daughter shall be joining us in our travels to the Main Gate."
"No, she will not," Faramir countered, his face flushing with anger as he glared at Vashnak. "If you do not release her I will-"
"Call for your guards and see her dead before they arrive?" Vashnak questioned with a tired sigh as he nodded his head towards Buffy. "We have already had this discussion and have gone through all of the different possibilities and have already come to the same conclusions. Thus, let us skip that part and move on to the understanding that you, like her, are powerless to do aught but whatever I say," he stated as he released the child long enough to pull a small dagger from his belt, replacing his sword in its sheath in one fluid motion. "You can start by ensuring that she," he added with a vague wave towards Buffy, "makes it to the gates before disgracing herself with her weakness," he finished as he wrapped his arm around Finduilas' slender waist, turning to the side to illustrate that the blade was still pressed dangerously against the child's side.
For a brief moment, Faramir hesitated as his eyes slid down to meet his daughter's terrified gaze, trying to instill as much comfort, confidence and love in that single glance. And then that moment was shattered as Vashnak dug the tip of the blade into Finduilas' side, causing the young girl to cry out in surprise and pain. Features hardening, Faramir glared at the dark-elf before turning and crossing the empty foyer to Buffy's side in a few long strides. Reaching out, he pulled the silent woman away from the wall, his arm wrapping around her waist in a grip that was much tighter than it needed to be, his features stony.
"Then let us get this over with, shall we?" Faramir bit out as he dragged Buffy towards the doors to the Houses of Healing and into the cool night beyond. His back was against the proverbial wall, and Faramir knew this as he led their little party towards the heavily guarded sixth gate, Vashnak and Finduilas following a few feet behind him and Buffy. Silently they moved down the deserted street, the armed guards murmuring their greetings and bowing to their Steward as they hastily opened one gate after another, allowing them to move unmolested ever lower through the circles of the city. Yet such a passage took time - time in which Faramir soon began to support more and more of Buffy's weight as his mind frantically turned in circles, desperately searching for some way to end this without harming his daughter.
After all, though his father, Lord Denethor, had boasted many things of his brother, Boromir, and little of himself, even the proud steward had to admit that he had raised no fool in his youngest son. Faramir knew that once they cleared the final gate, Vashnak would have no further use for him and his daughter. The dark-elf would kill them both without hesitation, and yet as the quartet cleared the third gate and began moving through the wide streets of the second circle, the black-garbed guards none the wiser to the dagger that was pressed against his daughter's side nor to their steward's plight, Faramir began to realize that for the first time in many years, there was nothing he could do to keep those he loved safe from harm.
Steps unconsciously slowing, Faramir tightened his grip around Buffy's waist, forcing the slayer to remain on her feet as he once more tore his gaze away from where his daughter shuffled behind him, his vacant gaze locking upon the stone street before him. He couldn't alert the guards, for one misstep and his daughter's life would be forfeit. Yet he couldn't allow them to pass through the Main Gate, for without they would be far from help and once more, his daughter's life would be spent. Either option spelled death for his eldest, and yet his increasingly frantic thoughts couldn't look past these to find a solution.
The loud clanging of a single bell suddenly broke the silence, startling the steward from his circuitous thoughts as it rang discordantly off the stone walls of the city. Faramir stumbled to an abrupt halt as the tolling was quickly taken up by other bells scattered throughout Minas Tirith. With a sharp intake of breath Vashnak spun toward him. "What does this mean?" the dark-elf hissed as he drew alongside the steward and slayer, one pale hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword while the other pressed the knife against Finduilas' side.
"The King has ordered the city to be locked down," Faramir breathed, unsure whether this news spoke well or ill for his increasingly frantic situation. "Your treachery has been discovered," he continued as he cast his narrowed gaze upon the dark-haired elf.
"Then we best move faster," Vashnak returned, his voice icy as Finduilas' whimpered softly at the prick of steel against the sensitive flesh that separated the dagger from the edge of her ribs.
Pushed forward by his daughter's small cry of pain, Faramir hefted Buffy against him as he hurried down the stone street, refusing to allow the slayer's stumbling gait to slow their passage. As the alarm continued to sound throughout the city, lights began to appear in the homes above the shops they passed, curtains parting to allow fearful faces to peek through, desperate eyes searching for the danger that had once more come to their city. It felt like hours passed as the steward led them through the wide avenue, even though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before the second gate finally came into sight - a gate that, unlike the barriers before, did not swing open as he neared the finely crafted portal.
"Open the gate," Faramir ordered as he paused abreast of the large barrier, his gray eyes flashing to one of the six guards that stood before his post, dozens of other men posted along top of the high wall.
"I am sorry, my Lord, but I cannot," the man quickly stammered with an awkward bow, the other guards shifting nervously beside their comrade.
"I said to open the gate!" the steward growled, undaunted by the man's hesitation as Vashnak shifted ominously behind him.
"Terribly sorry, my Lord, but I cannot open the gate unless ordered by the King-"
"I am your Steward, and as such you will obey my command!" Faramir cut in, his sharp tone causing the men to draw back in surprise. He had never before raised his voice to any soldier, but with each passing moment, the steward felt Vashnak's patience wane - a fact that was proven as Finduilas muffled a cry of pain, her ragged breathing echoing loudly behind him.
"Of course, my Lord, but I cannot-"
"Just open the damn gate!" Buffy interrupted, surprising everyone with her scalding demand as Finduilas' terrified whimpers turned into soft sobs.
"But my Lady," the guard began, his mouth falling slack in shock at the petite young woman that had dared to speak so.
Panic consuming him, Faramir took a threatening step towards the quivering guard. "I SAID TO OPEN THIS GATE!" he roared.
"HOLD YOUR POSITION!"
Quickly turning, Faramir found himself rooted in place as a whole contingent of guards filled the street behind them - guards that had not been there a moment before. Stunned, the steward couldn't help but wonder how they had missed their approach, even as the soldiers parted to allow Gimli, Thoron, and Aragorn himself to move to the front of the thriving mass. For a moment, Faramir held his friend's silver-eyed gaze before he slowly, deliberately turned his back to his king. "Open the gate," he rasped, feeling his veins fill with ice as Finduilas' cries became more pronounced.
"Soldier, do not open that gate!" Aragorn ordered, his clear voice ringing in the stone street as the king held his magnificent sword before him.
Breath whistling angrily between his teeth, Faramir turned once more, his eyes glittering in the dark night. "Aragorn, let us go," he hissed as he tightened his hold around Buffy's waist, noting as the guards slowly dispersed until there was naught but an unmovable gate standing at their backs.
"I will not," Aragorn countered, his cold, calm voice a stark contrast against Faramir's frantic arguments.
"But you must!" Faramir countered, his words shrill. Logic, the steward's usual companion, had abandoned him the moment that Finduilas' life had been threatened. He couldn't think past the fact that his daughter would be killed if they were not allowed through the closed gate, and with this in mind, he released his tight hold on Buffy and stalked towards his king. Yet the moment that he stepped clear of both Buffy and Vashnak, the soldiers that had been guarding the second gate rushed forward at some unseen signal, their hands tangling in his fine robes as they manhandled their steward into the relative safety of the soldiers that formed a line between their king and their prey. Frantic, Faramir struggled against the men that held him back, his desperate eyes locked upon Finduilas' terrified, tear-stained features as Vashnak slowly backed against the closed gate, his fair features impassive despite the many swords and arrows that were leveled at him and his captive.
"Release the child," the king ordered, his gaze stern.
Laughing softly at this command, Vashnak pressed the dagger even further into the girl's side, causing her sharp cry of pain to speak his thoughts more clearly than words would have allowed.
Gaze narrowing at this display, Aragorn's features hardened. "Release the girl," he repeated, his voice a deadly command as his eyes slowly, deliberately turned past the dark-elf to rest upon the slayer that stood forgotten beside him. "Release the girl or we kill your prize," he stated as the trained arrows moved as one until every single shaft was aimed at Buffy's heart.