A/N: Just a warning, this chapter is rather dark and violent- I'm considering upping the rating for it and for following chapters. This chapter was extremely difficult to write, too.

Chapter 29

Erin and her small company of guards made their way up the track that lead upland towards the golden city of Edoras. At the foot of the walled hill they passed beneath the shadows of many mounts, high and covered with green grass, too perfectly shaped for the hand of nature. In a hushed and reverent voice, Bardhelm told Erin of the great kings who slept eternally within the barrows, the sires of Theoden, Lord of the Mark. White flowers like stars covered the western sides like drifts of snow in the grass, and Barhelm called them simbelmyne, that blossomed in all seasons and grew over any place where dead men rested. Erin bowed her head respectfully, and then they were again in the sunlight, and going up the winding way up the hill to the last wind-swept walls and the gates of Edoras.

But before they reached them, a company of riders came out to meet them. The two groups halted, and the riders from the city arrayed themselves in a shining line. Erin looked sharply at Bardhelm's face--the young man was frowning as though worried. She looked back at line of men before them, counting. Ten...fifteen. Fifteen to their three, and herself. They did not look pleased to see the riders of Eomer's eored. Bardhelm spoke in their own tongue, and his voice was sharp-edged.

The captain answered, and his voice was harsh. Erin did not like it. He seemed to be challenging Bardhelm, and Erin heard Eomer's name. And then the captain looked at her, and a sneer entered his tone. Bardhelm nudged his horse with his heels, setting himself between the strange captain and Erin. His answer was cold and angry. Erin wished she knew what was being said.

There was a pause.

And then the line of riders leapt forward, surrounding them. Bardhelm and his fellows had their swords in hand in a moment, but there was little they could do. Erin, in the center of it all, was helpless to do anything as her guards were overpowered. The bridle of her horse was seized and rough hands grabbed her from behind, pulling her from the saddle. Erin cried out and struggled, her mind flashing back to the horror of being captive to the orcs, but a cold blade was pressed to her throat and she stilled.

The strange captain bent over her pale face and spoke. Seeing that she did not understand he smiled cruelly. "Take her to Wormtongue," he said in Common. The last Erin saw before the darkness took her was young Bardhelm, fighting against his bonds, his face twisted with anger.

She woke in darkness. Erin groaned and rolled over onto her hands and knees. The aches in her body that had begun to fade had returned, making her feel weak and sick. The half-healed gash on her forehead, when she felt for it gingerly, had broken open again, the blood just beginning to form a soft, gummy new scab. She winced, and dragged herself in to a sitting position. She was a prisoner again. Erin suppressed a shudder and stiffened her back. Concentrate. Who was her captor? Wormtongue, the strange captain had said. Bardhelm and the others had said that name a few times in their speech together, always softly, and always with distaste. Bardhelm had spat afterwards, as if it were sour. So Wormtongue was an enemy of Eomer. Eomer was the king's nephew, but apparently Wormtongue's power exceeded his.

Something was very wrong. Erin's hands were unbound, and she begin to feel carefully around her. Close beside her she found a wall, and followed it three steps to a turn. Keeping her left hand flat against the stone, she turned right and followed the wall another three steps. Then another turn. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. She must have passed the place she started from- Erin crouched on the ground and felt along the floor. Yes. The stones were still a little warm from her body heat. So, four walls of stone, each three steps long. No windows. No door. Erin stiffened again to keep from shivering convulsively. She went back down to her hands and knees and began to feel across the floor, following the wall. Nothing. She moved over a step and went back, without a wall to guide her, and hoped she was still going straight. Nothing again. She moved over another step, sweeping her hands over the floor carefully- there. A soft bundle of cloth. Erin groped at it, and it unwound, spilling something in to her lap. She felt carefully. Bread, a little stale loaf the size of her palm. She wrapped it in the cloth again and tucked it in to her tunic, then went forward, still feeling. Her searching fingers collided with something wooden, knocking it over with a clatter. A bucket.

Erin pushed the bucket in to the corner, where she could find it again, and then retreated back around the perimeter of the cell to where she had stared. It seemed as good a place as any. She took out the bread and pulled off small bites. How long was it intended to last her? How long since she had been captured? Erin ate half, then tucked the rest back in to her tunic.

So. Now what. Erin curled up against the chill of the stone and thought. No doors, no windows. The air in the room was stale. No light, not even the faintest bit filtering through some crack. She hated this, she hated the dark, she hated small places, she hated- Erin fought down a rising tide of panic. Stop it. You made it through Moria all right. What would Rhian think of you gave in to claustrophobia now?

What would Legolas think? Legolas. She had been carefully not-thinking about him ever since she had woken up at the feet of an orc to be rescued by the Riders of the Mark. Where was he? Not captured, unless they would have taken him elsewhere. Not dead- Erin bit her lip and shook her head violently, causing pain to throb in her temples and neck. It distracted her from the sheer terror of the thought. No, not dead. But somewhere far away. Only Eomer knew where she was gone, and if her guesses were right he was in danger himself. There was no hope of rescue, none at all.

A low moan escaped her at last, echoed off the walls of the tiny cell. Trapped in the dark, with no way out, and no one coming to her aid. Erin sagged to the floor and curled in on herself. She was too tired. Too tired to stop the frightened sobs that tore through her. Her whole body shuddered with them, and it hurt.. Erin pressed an arm against her stomach, feeling as though she would be shaken apart.

A hard shape beneath her tunic pressed in to her wrist. She froze, barely breathing. Slowly she slid her hand beneath the layers of clothing, feeling at her waist for the slender white dagger she had bound there so long ago. Erin drew it out, and even though there was no light the tracings of silver flowers over the blade and hilts seemed to glow. Thank you, Lady Galadriel, she thought. She slipped the dagger back in to its sheath, but kept it in her hands- the pearly horn was warm from her skin, and she ran her fingers over the raised lines of silver wire.

Erin must have slept again, because she was curled on the floor with the dagger clutched against her breast when the sound of scraping and dull thuds came from above, bringing her up to her feet. Above. Of course. A trap door. The sounds became louder, and she pressed back against the wall of her cell. The dagger in her hand seemed suddenly hot, drawing itself to her attention, and she tucked it back beneath her tunic, out of sight. So far, it seemed, she had not been worth searching.

***

Erin squinted against the brilliance of the torchlight, but resisted the urge to shrink back against the wall. The man who carried the fire set it in a bracket on the wall behind him, leaving him a dull, dark outline. Erin had been goaded up a ladder out of her cell by two of the coarse men who had attacked Bardhelm, then left in the equally bare room above. The trap door gaped open near her foot, and a heavy chest stood in the corner, but that was all.

"My lady, I must crave your pardon," the shadow said. Something about the voice made Erin's spine prickle. "My men are rough, uncultured creatures, and didn't wait for my orders. Had I known," he stepped closer, and Erin moved backwards, "I would have had you freed sooner." He took another step closer, and Erin ran up against the wall. The light fell on his face now- pale and pasty, with heavy-lidded eyes that glinted with an odd, twisted light. Erin said nothing.

The man paused. "I hope you have taken no lasting harm, lady," he said, stepping forward once more, so that he stood very close. His breath was foul. She stayed silent, and he lifted his hand towards her face. Erin struck it away, dodging to the side.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. She knew who this must be. His name suited him.

Wormtongue straightened up, drawing his robes around him. "So," he said coldly. "The lady is too high to be grateful to her rescuer." His gurgling cackle sent chills down her spine, enough that she didn't move in time to evade his blow. The back of his hand struck her cheek, knocking her against the wall. A ring gouged her skin, leaving a deep scratch that oozed blood. His other hand seized the torn neck of her tunic, yanking. Dirty nails raked the skin of her breast as she twisted away, thrusting him back from her. Wormtongue doubled over and Erin made to dodge around him, but she had forgotten the trap door.

The ground disappeared beneath her feet, her shoulder striking the side of the opening, her ankle twisting. Erin struck the floor of the cell and rolled, curling her body around her bruised side. She pressed back against the wall, holding the front of her tunic together. Wormtongue's livid face appeared in the opening above her, his pasty skin discolored. "Little bitch-" he hissed, but he was cut off by pounding at the door. He snarled at her, but turned away. The trap door swung shut, cutting off the light.