*peeks out hesitantly, pulling back almost immediately*
*peeks out again when no rotten fruit flies past* Uh, hi. *waves weakly and steps out from behind the wall* I suppose you might possibly be wondering what has taken so long for this chapter. The simple answer is: I had to rewrite it. Simple. Except I couldn't make myself sit down and write it that first week to save my live. Then, that weekend, when I might have conceivably made progress, I got caught up writing a small fic with Remus, James, and Sirius (which I've decided is crap after four chapters and have abandoned at least temproarily). That next week, I actually managed to write some of it at school, terrible habit, that. But it reached a point when I couldn't get it to work anymore, and I was tired. Can't focus properly when I'm tired. Then I had to study for a Bio test and French test. Memorizing phylums, classes, and orders are a whole lot less fun than writing, but unfortunately a whole lot more important. Now, though, I've actually managed to get out all that had to happen before I could post.
That said, I have a warning. This chapter is not as good as it could be. I know I say that a lot, but this time it's true. At least for a part of it. This chapter has been divided into three sections, and the second section is wrapped up rather more quickly than I would like, but I lack the patience to fix it, and if I don't post now, I'm not sure when I will try again. Please forgive my laziness in that regard. That whole section, originally, did not exist.
Now, a horrible thought occurred to me while I was pondering how to get this uncooperative chapter to work. That was this: My plot feels forced. And it is a horrible thought, to me, at least, even if no one else feels the terror of it. So I must ask, writer to reader: dear outside observer, is my plot forced? Or is there a logical development that can account for the courses of action that have been taken? I absolutely hate stories where there is no reason for the actions, and I simply cannot abide writing a story like that. So I must know.
Back to news on this story: the next chapter must be revised. With luck, I will have it out by next weekend. Sooner, if the fates will. I will, however, be unavailable to work on it Wednesday and Thursday, so it will either be before that, or on the weekend.
On other news: Students at Paxon are no longer able to carry water bottles around to classes. Our administration (our principle, more specifically) believes that we'll get drunk. I have been accepted into FSU (no snide remarks or I shall cease posting *glares darkly*) and now get to stress over a whole new set of issues. Third quarter is done and the home stretch is about to begin. That means Aps. Good Lord save me.
Now, I think that's quite enough talking from me, and I'll let you get on with reading the story. I've made you wait quite long enough as it is. *g* Enjoy.
Responses are at the bottom, and I shall endeavor to never make you wait so long ever again. I loved all of them, and I'm sorry the prod didn't have quite the results you were looking for. I wanted to post, honest. And so here it is.
Chapter 11
The world is spiteful.
That was the only explanation he could come up with. It was the only one that made sense, his mind telling him that in a fair world, people who did their duty as they were supposed to would not be punished for deeds outside their control. Around him, the cold air swirled greedily, sapping warmth from human bodies it could not claim from unfeeling stone. Sand and gravel grated underfoot, warring with each other to see who would be destroyed first. He rather suspected both would outlast him.
Torl had returned to camp only days ago, returned from his meeting on the lifeless plains to see to the completion of his master's plans--he wished he had not. Upon reporting his contact was late, admitting that as the reason for his tardiness, the care and control of their orcs had been delivered into his hands. Fools or lesser men might have taken that for a good thing, a sign of trust or faith in competence. He knew better. He knew much better: it was pittance for failure; it was the equivalent of sticking him on a high and narrow ledge overlooking a steep drop with falling an interminable distance as the only way down and telling him to stay put as winds threatened to pull him off. It was a way of killing him without brandishing a knife or expending effort, and if he did not die right away then something useful was accomplished--no reason he should not be useful until death closed his eyes, after all.
A manic urge to growl reared up inside him, nearly pulling his lips from his teeth before he regained control and settled for scowling darkly at the world in general and living things foolish enough to cross his path in particular. Most were wise enough to stay out of his way, refusing him a satisfying release of temper, a temper that was steadily gaining force and could not be released on any of his subordinates, due to his pride as much as anything external. Damn.
Not only had he had to report and take punishment for a failure not his own upon his return, he, now, also had to report a second failure to his lord in less than a week. It was not his fault those foul beasts were uncouth, that those miserable brutes masquerading as sentient creatures were not to be controlled. But no, they were restless; they were bored! Oh, they wanted to have fun. They wanted flesh, blood! His lips curled in disgust beyond his control. They have both now.
"Only Orcs find contentment in eating the flesh of their own, slain by their own hand," a familiar voice spoke in his mind, the observation floating forward from a conversation long past. In his mind, serious blue eyes turned to look at him. "It is what sets us apart from them. We control our desires."
His scowl deepened. Sometimes he regretted that. Now was one of them. What he desired more than anything was to run straight back to those orcs and rip every last one of them to tiny little strips to be fed to the carrion birds. That was also what he could not do, an impulse he had to control. It was spite, he was sure of it.
Mere hours earlier, the camp's resident orcs had staged a riot. Their rumbles of disquiet, which had persisted for weeks, had suddenly become shrieks of rage. Weapons they deemed too clean, too still, had flashed in the pitiless, cold sun. The mountains had rung and the air had hung heavy with their stench. Orcs had fallen slain along with those too foolish to stay out of their way or lacking the skill to take them down. They had been put down, brought back under control . . . but not soon enough. The casualties were too high. The costs were what he had to report. Damn them.
He glanced back over his shoulder, glaring futilely at the tents that he could just make out against the rocks and background hint of trees. If one listened carefully, their disgusting cries could still be made out over the whispering swirl of the wind. He did not mind dying, not really; it just disgusted him that he might be forced to flee this world for them. He turned back--and stopped.
Two young men held a girl between them, dragging her forward as she struggled desperately. A rag was shoved into her mouth to keep her quiet. All three froze, like deer in a bright light, upon seeing him. He could now see the girl more clearly. Her dark eyes stared into his fearfully, though because she was afraid of him or what the boys were going to do he could not say, tear tracks blatant on her dirty cheeks. He caught finger-shaped bruises on her arms where they held her, then moved his gaze to her captors.
"Going somewhere, gentlemen?" he inquired, the slightest hint of irony detectable in his cultured tone. It covered the fury that boiled just beneath the surface quite nicely. Score one for him.
The lads shifted uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. Undoubtedly, his presence changed their plans abysmally. "Umm. . . ." His gaze did not waver, though they seemed to have great difficulty accomplishing the same. They settled for looking past him, gazing at something about his shoulder. "Just going for a walk, milord."
"I see." Did they honestly think he would believe that? "And the tag-along?" The girl whimpered pitifully upon his words. He suspected she would have been quite happy to have simply been forgotten. Most of the slaves were happiest with that situation.
"She wanted to come."
His gray eyes flickered automatically to the miserable girl who could not hide her terror. Anyone with eyes could see that statement was a lie. Not that it mattered whether she was willing or not. He refocused on the boys, furiously keeping his fury and disgust at bay and his tone even. "I'm curious who decided it mattered what she wanted."
Somewhat cocky grins answered this and he decided he knew exactly what had made this decision. Idly, indulging his dark mood, he wondered if their intelligence would be improved upon . . . losing something they obviously deemed very important. One of them opened their mouth to reply, probably mistaking his first observation to mean approval. He cut them off, his tone now holding an edge.
"I'm also curious what prompted you imagine it mattered what you wanted." The smiles vanished instantly. Score two. "Last I checked, you were required to abide by the rules and follow orders; that aside from such, you were to have no contact with the slaves. Tell me: who ordered you to take this girl?"
The spokesman's mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. The boy's looked nearly as panicked as the girl. How amusing. This sight nearly made up for his poor mood. Nearly.
"A name, gentlemen," he prompted firmly, his tone nearly disapproving, well aware there was no name. It would be interesting to see if they were smart enough to own up to their folly or if they would try to shift the blame to one of their superiors. He was still in a foul enough mood to hope they tried. Idiocy such as that was fun to punish.
Their brains, though, seemed to have kicked back in now that they were faced with a superior. "There was no order, milord."
"You felt the need to take matters into your own hands, did you?" Really, he did not have time for this.
"Yes, milord."
He studied them a moment, seriously debating providing their punishment himself. Unfortunately, he had to report to his lord, and he had already been delayed. When he spoke, his tone brooked no room for argument. "Return the slave to her post. The rules stand as ordered. Report your disobedience to Nirt. She will deliver your punishment. Do it quickly. I will know if you fail in your trust again. Dismissed."
They snapped quick salutes, bodies painfully rigid, then scampered away quickly, dragging the no longer struggling slave between them back the way they had come. Torl watched them a long moment, taking the opportunity to stuff his frustration back under the covers and shove the whole lot back in the closet at the back of his mind where no one could see, then he turned and resumed his search, reasonably sure they were suitably scared and more than ready to get this report over with.
His gray eyes slid indifferently over the various buildings and tents sprawled over the land, the people that moved around them--some moving smooth and silently as hunters while others stalked around, footsteps heavy with power--and could not keep his gaze from drifting to the mountains and studying their facade until he came upon a dark opening in the impassive strength. A chill shuddered down his spine as he stared at it, wondering why he had had to look. No matter how long he lived near them, he would never be able to simply dismiss the darkness he knew lived within, the darkness that had provided all the materials for nightmares a child would ever need. . . .
"Torl, sweetie. Why so down?"
A supreme act of will was all that kept him from jumping at the intrusion, and he turned to find Nirt, a fetching female with a delightful figure to go with her alluring eyes, standing just behind him. A slightly taunting smile quirked her full lips and her eyes sparkled brightly. He was not, however, so taken with her looks as to think she truly cared one way or another how he was. She would kill him in a heartbeat if it was demanded of her with nary the flick of an eyelash. Any true Slyntari would, and she was one of the most ruthless of the batch. "Two of the babies are coming your way, my dear," he replied sweetly, ignoring her inquiry and matching her tone lilt for lilt. "Dereliction of duty; exploitation of resources not assigned them. The hoodlums had a mind to indulge their own desires. Do punish them well, my dear--doubly well if they lie."
"Of course, sweetie." She was entirely too pleased with this new information, the knowledge that she got to play with her toys again, and sooner than expected. But then, that was why she handled punishments. No one ever forgot a punishment they survived at her hands. She smiled wickedly and continued on her way.
Not willing to dwell on her ways, he brushed her from his mind and went back to searching the grounds, this time firmly ignoring the imposing mountain peaks at his back. The one person he needed to see was nowhere to be had. A sigh forced itself from his lips as he turned and retraced his steps to move towards his lord's tent. He would have preferred not to do this in there.
It took entirely too little time for him to arrive before the elf's tent. Hesitating only the briefest moment (maybe his lord would send him away?), he drew a deep breath and pushed the curtain aside. It flopped closed with a wet kind of slap and left Torl alone, face-to-face with his lord. A feeble-looking desk, a chair, and a cot--all well-furnished with wools and pelts--were the only objects present. Two feet inside, he stopped and waited to be acknowledged.
His lord did not so much as twitch to show that his arrival had been noted, but that meant nothing. The elf never twitched. His head was bowed over parchment, a quill moving gracefully over it, and his light golden hair hung perfectly, flowing easily with every movement. Torl forced himself not to fidget at the lack of attention, his feet firmly planted with his hands clasped at the small of his back. He picked a spot on the far wall and stared at it even as his mind raced with useless facts and observations.
It was a disconcerting, nerve-wrecking habit his lord had--leaving his subordinates hanging in suspense--that his lord was quite fond of. It was a tactic that never failed to make the guilty more guilty, the nervous more nervous, the fearful downright terrified, and the serene with nothing at all to worry about anxious, which made it impossibly easy for his lord to have someone he did not like executed (not that the elf did simple executions; he had more creative ways of dealing with those he did not like). Many a person had entered the tent and been dragged out, never to be seen again after angering their lord. Kelt had been the only one brave or stupid enough to comment. And now she was gone, dead or soon to be, so it mattered little.
"I trust this is important."
The soft words cut through the silence, easily heard, but it was a moment before his brain translated the sounds into words and gave the words meaning. "My lord," he acknowledged, inclining his head. "The Orcs started a brawl that was not easily put down. Aside from slaying forty of their own number, they also managed to kill ten of the Guard. The bloodshed calmed them somewhat, but they are still anxious for more. I fear we will not be able to keep them in check as things stand. What would you have me do, lord?"
Piercing, chilling ice blue eyes rose to stare into his eyes and Torl stared back, Death staring at him from those cold orbs and every instinct inside him screamed to run and never look back. Somehow, he managed to look impassive despite the bitter cold that suddenly enveloped him.
The elf looked down coolly, seeming to dismiss the information as an expected annoyance. "Very well. Remove the Orcs to the Caves and set guards at the entrances. That should placate them until we're ready to move."
"Yes, milord," he answered immediately, hiding his surprise from expression though he was nearly positive it was seen anyway. He saluted. A slender hand waved carelessly, and the Slyntari exited as quickly as was feasible, shuddering from more than just the cold.
The Caves. . . .
*~*~*~*~*
The ground was packed firm, unyielding and holding few footprints despite the evidence that people had passed through here recently. The firepit Aragorn currently crouched before was old, only soot and ash and long cool. Two weeks, he judged, was the last time this place had seen sentience, lest they (like him) had simply passed through on their way to a different location.
Sharp silver eyes flickered to the post he had found, the kind travelers across plains would use to tether horses not well enough trained to stay put. He studied it carefully, taking perhaps more note than was necessary. Perhaps two feet long it was made of shaped oak and boasted two inches in diameter. If it was made right, it would take more than just a good tug to remove it from the ground but not so much work as to require a lot of time. It looked innocent enough, but his instincts told him there was something wrong, something missing.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was not needed with all the trees nearby to tether horses, placed more conveniently for the task. Perhaps it was the fact that there was so little evidence when it was obvious people had been here--recently, in the scheme of things. Really, though, what disturbed him was that despite the post's presence, there was no evidence of a horse nearby. Not a single print marred the soil save the slightest of impressions, and none of those were made by horses.
He waited a moment longer, poised near the firepit, running the information he had (disturbingly little) over in his mind and trying not to paint a picture that did not exist. There was so much he did not know! How was he supposed to know if his worst fear and greatest hope were true? What if he did not make the right choice? What if he did?
The ranger suddenly dropped the soil he had been sifting through his hand and stood. He brushed the dirt off and moved closer to Legolas, halting about two feet away so the elf would know he was there without interrupting his concentration. A slight shift his direction, a half glance, was the only response to his presence as Legolas listened closely to the whispers of the trees. Aragorn waited. The young man had gotten quite good at it over the years.
He stared off into the distance, wondering if what he thought he read had any merit, or if he was simply seeing what he wanted to see. That was the Tracker's Folly, and it was easily fallen into if one was not careful. It was frustrating to only hold half the pieces. If that, the ranger thought to himself. He had no way to know if the camp had anything to do with his brothers, but it was a thought he could not shake. Every time he thought he was getting closer to Elladan and Elrohir, had found a clue that would lead to them, something happened to pull him further away. If only he could find some proof-positive, a direction. . . .
"There is joy," Legolas suddenly interrupted in his quiet voice. "And sadness. The trees celebrate creatures in their presence and mourn their loss, but whether they were Human, Elf, or Ent, they do not say--or do not know. I do, however, think it was a fairly large company that passed through. Whoever they were, they are no longer in these woods, and have not been for some time."
Aragorn nodded slowly, considering this information carefully for a moment, then felt inclined to clarify the already clear information. "Then you don't know if there were any Elves in this group?"
Legolas seemed to understand. "No." Then the elf cocked his head and looked at the human shrewdly. The man felt the sudden strange urge to duck. "Though I can't imagine them being this happy because of a group of Men."
The ranger pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes (mostly to hide his amusement) and growled, "Watch it, Elf." Legolas chuckled softly, but the humor faded quickly, their situation reasserting itself, and Aragorn turned back to the camp with a sigh, his sharp eyes scanning the land once more. If only he had missed something that would point them in the right direction, something he had missed earlier. . . .
"Did you find anything?" Legolas asked quietly. Only one who knew him well would hear the anxiety in his voice.
"Some," he grunted. "A firepit two weeks old, shallow prints worthy of the Elves in mud but definitely made by Men, and a traveling post for tying horses with no tracks around it though the horses were the only travelers to leave definite tracks."
"A riddle," Legolas observed lightly, more to himself than the ranger. "But for the post, I would say nothing was amiss. This ground is hard as stone. Yet it could be nothing. Mayhap they dropped it as they were leaving." He paused, as if going over his words in his mind, then asked, "What do you make of it, Strider?"
The young man did not answer immediately, still running over his thoughts and his friend's words. Slowly, he agreed, "Aye, that was my thought also. Yet it is spoken against, too. Their camp is too clean for them to be careless. They knew what they were doing. It is possible it was dropped, but would it have stuck a foot deep into such tightly packed earth without being driven in? For argument's sake, let's say they would and it would, but if they were a large group, maybe only a dozen strong, would they not have a rearguard, and would that rearguard not check that the camp was clear?
"But the post would not have stuck so deep simply falling from a careless packing job. It's possible it was driven into the ground and then not needed, but why leave it? It's of good make and would not take long to remove. I see no signs of haste, so what made them leave it? Could they have forgotten it? But then there is the rearguard again."
"A pretty riddle," the elf remarked wryly, trying to wrap his mind around the different possibilities. He had to admit the human was much better at this sort of thing than an elf. They were, somehow, more capable of the kind of jumps in logic required to conjure events that might have no rational cause. Things that happened in the wilderness of Middle-earth were not always clear cut, and the ordered thoughts of elves hindered such creative thinking.
"Then," Aragorn continued, apparently not finished, "we must question why. To what purpose did they place a post that went unused. Unless it was used. What if it was left here on purpose. What if it was not used for horses, and what if we were meant to find it?" That, truly, was the thought that had been nagging at the back of his mind since he had found it.
Silence drifted back into the clearing as the last hint of his voice faded away. Legolas made no immediate move to fill it, and the ranger simply stared into the distance. It was a horrible chill that crept tauntingly up the elf's spine as the implications of that resolved themselves in his mind, bursting into shocking awareness. The elf prince blinked. "What do you think, my friend?"
Again, the young man hesitated in giving a response. "I think I dare not say," he finally said. "If I said wrong. . . ."
"What does your heart tell you?" Legolas interrupted, staring intently at the human, willing him to keep hold of his confidence. Afraid of failure, it was all too easy to get caught up in "what ifs."
"That this was not innocent," Aragorn replied softly, every word clear in the still air.
Then the air changed, the very earth seemed to resonate beneath them like the ringing of a low bell, a sad note that mourns the dead. The weight of their certainty settled around them, pressing their shoulders toward the ground with a force that could not be denied. Blue eyes locked with silver.
Neither got the chance to speak.
Suddenly, their was a crash, the whipping crash of thin limbs snapped back and released and the crackle of too dry leaves stamped under careless foot. Elf and ranger whirled to face the intruder, hands reaching for weapons even as they turned.
Aragorn never drew his weapon. His eyes widened in surprise, his hand frozen in mid-motion. Of all the sights he had hoped to see! This was surely--but there was no rider. Whatever hope the sight of Falshov brought him, it was short-lived. Horror replaced it, a sinking dread, and the blood from his face followed it past the pit of his stomach, leaving his face pale as the white linen sheets in Rivendell.
"Falshov," he breathed, moving forward before he even realized it. It whinnied softly as he rubbed its nose, dipping its head and nudging his shoulder. "Where is Elladan, boy?"
Dimly, he heard Legolas step up behind him, but he trusted the elf and paid no mind to his surroundings as he studied the horse that had appeared before them. There was no sign of Elladan or Elrohir anywhere, but he had not really expected to see them--hoped with all his heart, but not expected. His hands drifted up and traced down the beast's neck, feeling the bones that were just beginning to show through the too-thin neck. His eyes followed down and back, a frown creasing his brows at the state of his adopted brother's horse.
Dirt, layers of dust, coated the creature's sides and legs, clinging to matted fir. Red marks, cuts, some deep some shallow, some like as not from branches slapping against the thick hide, others unmistakably from swords, oozed thickly. Some were partially healed, others still bled like they were fresh. Infection made them tender and hot to the touch. His hands trembled with suppressed rage as they felt the bones of Falshov's ribs and saw his hip bones.
Legolas called his name, and he turned his head but did not look at the elf. His eyes had just caught something more important, and he finished tracing his path down to the creature's haunches, his questing fingers lighting on a wooden shaft protruding from the abused flesh. Black fletchings tipped in red shifted as he ran his fingers across them. He knew these arrows, but his traitorous mind would not cooperate. The knowledge of who had harmed his brother's horse danced just outside his reach, tauntingly drawing him forward even as something inside him recoiled sharply, wanting to pull away.
A presence appeared at his elbow. The elf prince leaned closer. "There's no one else near us. Falshov seems to have come alone."
"He seems to have been alone for awhile," the ranger replied, studying the cuts again, picking out the ones made by steel. "These deliberate strokes are more than a week old. The rest were likely made crashing through the brush." He fell silent as he studied the arrow more closely, then announced, "We need to remove this arrow. It's been too long already."
Legolas nodded and began walking back to camp. Aragorn followed, gently leading the steed to where Ardevui waited looking on anxiously. Legolas had the necessary supplies ready by the time the ranger guided him to a halt. It did not take long to start a fire, and neither talked as they worked. The area around the wound was gently cleaned, water boiled, and a dagger sterilized. The arrow was too deep to be simply pulled out. He would have to cut it out.
With the experience of too many years, Aragorn kept his emotions locked away while he worked, forcefully halting any images of revenge against the ones who had done this. Legolas watched him solemnly from his position by Falshov's head, his hands gently holding him still as he murmured soothing words in his ear, calming him against the pain.
The arrow came out easily, and the ranger studied the tip crossly before dropping it on the ground. He ignored it as he closed the wound then moved on to cleaning the lesser injuries. Legolas took the opportunity to study the arrow himself, but while the human had recognized it, however vaguely, the elf did not. He had never seen the design before. He frowned and twirled it idly in his hands.
Blue eyes drifted up to lock on his friend. He could see frustration and anger hovering just beneath the surface of his friend's temperament, nearly covering the fear. "Aragorn," he called. The human did not look up, but the elf could tell he was listening. It was in the subtle shift of his shoulders. "Do you think the ones who did this have the twins?"
Aragorn did not answer immediately. When he did, the pain shone through. "It is the only circumstance I want to consider." The others all had Elladan and Elrohir dead. At least if they had been taken there was a chance. . . .
Legolas looked back down at the arrow. "Then perhaps we are on the right track. Do you recognize these fletchings?"
"Yes." Silver eyes appeared, staring at the little piece of wood as if it held all the answers and could be made to tell him if he just looked long enough. Then he frowned, and returned to his work. "I should know them, but I cannot remember from where. It is important, I feel."
"You will remember," the elf prince assured, his fingers once more tracing the fletchings.
He found himself looking into silver eyes once more, dark from concern. "But will it be in time?"
Legolas had no answer. He wished by the Valar that he had.
Aragorn turned back to the injured horse and finished treating the last of his cuts. Then he gave the wounded creature food and water from their stores, taking as much care as he had when treating Hodoer. As with his care of Hodoer, it struck Legolas that the ranger cared for those at hand to soothe his worry for those beyond his reach. When the young man turned, though, he looked torn, and the elf was curious about what was going through his friend's mind. The human spoke as he packed up their supplies. "The day wanes. If these men were the ones we seek, they have a firm lead on us and the trail goes cold. We must go on."
"And we can't take Falshov with us," Legolas finished knowingly.
The human stared at his mournfully. "I would see him back to Rivendell, but just as we can not return for supplies, we cannot return to see him to safety. He is in no immediate danger, but it seems wrong to simply abandon him, especially injured. He is Elladan's, a gift from Lord Elrond."
Anyone who said humans were not compassionate had never come across a human with a pet, or a young one who had stumbled upon a wounded animal in the woods and decided to nurse it back to health. That was what Aragorn reminded him of right now, a child who had found a creature wounded in the woods. There were times when he sounded so very young. It was easy to forget his age sometimes, and undeniably impossible at others. He smiled softly and gently replied, "Falshov knows the way home, Strider. He will be well."
Hesitantly, the ranger nodded. But while both had been speaking of the horse, Legolas suspected it was not the gentle beast that had held the human's thoughts. Then Aragorn moved quickly, his agreement galvanizing him to action. He whispered elvish to the distraught horse and patted his neck. Easily, he swung up behind Legolas and watched as Falshov made his way through the brush towards Rivendell. Both watched until the gentle creature disappeared from sight, sounds of his passage lost in the throes of nature. Then Aragorn turned to the elf.
"Let us go."
*~*~*~*~*
He was swimming. The world was dark, nothing more than shifting shadows, and sound bubbled around him in indecipherable bursts that touched his ears with great reluctance. Strange, as his ears had been particularly sharp of late. That was not what he found most curious, however, for one expected sound to move strangely underwater. Most curious was that he could breathe--as if he were not underwater at all! Yet here he was, even if he could not remember how he got here--wherever here was.
A frown crept slowly onto his face, teasing the corners of his mouth and cautiously painting furrows upon his brow. Yes, this was quite odd. He always knew where and how he was where he was. With the world growing dark, it was unwise to travel anywhere unknowing, after all, and ada would have a fit if he knew Elrohir had so forgotten himself. Maybe Elladan would know where they were. But no matter how far he twisted, he could catch no sight of his dark-haired mirror-image. Sluggish surprise coursed through him. Where was Elladan?
He paddled his arms, trying to turn around for another look behind him, but he could not get his arms to work. They caught and pulled, restrained behind his back. Unthinking panic shot through him. Help! He floundered, twisting, desperate, his feet proving just as encumbered as his hands. The water slowed his movements, holding him captive. He wanted out!
Suddenly, something clamped around his arm and jerked him painfully from the dark water--to find himself standing in the dark. Hard voices, clear and sharp with command carried to his ears, and memory slammed back into him: he was trapped, with Elladan, and they were being taken somewhere (they still had not found out the location). He had a feeling they were nearing their destination, though. The thought brought him no comfort.
After weeks of forced travel on horseback across the lands of Middle-earth (the temperature did not seem to change much, so that's what he assumed was happening), he was filthy. Unable to see, he could still feel the dirt that had accumulated on his face, coated and grimed his clothes from sleeping on the ground without a sleep-mat. His hair hung against his neck, matted and mixed with oil and dirt that only served to make him feel even dirtier, itching about his neck, creating that peculiar urge to put it up; and he could do nothing about it. His legs felt permanently bowed and occasionally ached, but most of the time he could no longer tell they were there. His lower back had taken to spasming at odd intervals--likely a result of trying to keep his balance atop a horse without being able to see where the pitfalls lay, forcing him to constantly jerk one way or the other.
Then there were his wrists which, despite all his efforts to the contrary, had been rubbed raw, and his shoulders which ached constantly, nothing he was capable of assuaging the tight, painful burn that came from forcing them to hold the same uncomfortable position day after day. But as bad as he felt, and as much as he hoped his twin fared better, he knew otherwise. Knew, in fact, that Elladan fared worse.
If bound hands were a painful nuisance to him, then they were agony for Elladan. Both had received a beating upon being recaptured from their escape attempt, but Elladan had taken the brunt of it--perhaps because their captors perceived the elder twin to be the leader. His bruises had been deeper and lingered longer, and his ribs had broken under the assault. For the past couple of days, Elrohir had lain awake, listening as his brother struggled to breathe, terrified that at any moment the task might prove too much and the efforts cease. Yet even the nights were nothing compared to the days.
Elrohir clenched his jaw, building the pressure until white flashed before his eyes and his teeth felt like they would explode. His own pain was a poor outlet for the fury that burned through him, but it was all he had. It was an impotent fury.
The hand on his own disappeared and a sharp force struck between his shoulder blades. Fire lanced up to the base of his skull and he stumbled before being grabbed and manhandled, jerked about more than necessary to keep him off-balance, to perch atop his horse. Moments later, Elladan was helped before him. They spent more time on the elder elf, and Elrohir struggled to make out what they were doing, but they were not speaking and the sounds were not helpful. He was left reeling in the darkness.
A grunt of pain made him start forward. A hand struck the back of his head. "Be still, Elf. We'll take out anything you do on your brother." The words rang oddly, taking a moment to register as his head swam in disconcerting darkness. Indignation shot through him, tempered by the meaning of the words, and he tensed.
Elrohir waited apprehensively, bowstring tense, for them to move away so he could ask what they had done. The younger twin just hoped it was nothing Elladan would wish to hide from him. He thought he would go crazy if Elladan kept it from him. Worry would drive him out of his mind.
An eternity later, the sounds faded and footsteps stepped away, the familiar scratching slid or coarse riding outfits sliding alone leather harnesses telling him their captors had mounted their horses. Seconds later, they were moving. Somehow, it always felt like they started off going backwards, a curious feeling, and he had learned to concentrate on Talme in these early moments. Concentrating on the horse's movements also gave him a distraction from the train of his thoughts because no matter how much he wanted to know what was going on, he had to wait until the men who held them were suitably distracted or he would not only not learn anything, he would also cause his brother more pain.
So he waited, listened and waited. Time slipped away, and it was with a nervous sort of impatience that he realized they were not losing interest as quickly as they normally did. In the past week, they had only paid close attention to the elven pair during the initial fifteen minutes of the journey. Then their attention would turn outward to their surroundings with periodic checks on the twins. He wondered what had changed in the night that would keep their attention still focused inward after an hour of travel and what it boded for him and Elladan. He had a feeling it could not be good.
Elrohir turned his head, habit prompting him to try and glance at those around him. It was a wonder two weeks was not long enough to break him of it. But the action also served to fling his attention outward, away from his brother and his concern, and it was with that motion that he caught something that he should have caught earlier: the air had changed.
It was a subtle change, something maybe only an elf would notice, but to him it was poignant. It was like a stench that had been released in a large room and slowly drifted to permeate the entire room. Yet the change had nothing to do with smell. It was more like . . . like the air was dead, unmoving. It possessed a stale quality he had never experience in the outdoors before. Uneasily, he wondered how long it had been changing before he realized it. An uncomfortable tingle of fear shot up his spine though he knew not what he feared.
"Elrohir?"
He jerked slightly as the hissed name drifted to his ears, belatedly realizing it was his. "Elladan?"
"No, there's someone else sitting before you who would call your name," the elder twin replied dryly, his voice a barely-there whisper that barely reached even elven ears. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong?" He wondered if that sounded as panicked as he imagined. "Nothing's wrong."
A beat of silence passed. If he knew his brother at all, it was an effort to keep his temper in check. It was common knowledge among the residents of Rivendell that Elrohir was the more impulsive of the two, with Elladan being the more rational of the pair, but the elder made up for it with his temper, which burned all the hotter for that it was harder to start. "Don't lie to me, brother. What's wrong?"
There were those who also claimed Elladan was the more intuitive of the two, and Elrohir frowned as he silently cursed every last person who had ever said that regardless that his twin's insight had nothing to do with them. "Likely it's nothing," he could not help but dismiss.
"You want to make this more difficult."
"I'm not the one being difficult!" he shot back. "You're the one--"
"Elrohir, if you know something, I need to know what it is, just like you need to know what I know. That's the only hope we have of surviving this. And I felt you tense, so you can stop pretending everything's fine."
That was that, then. He sighed. "Have you felt anything change?"
There was another pause. "I . . . don't recall, no."
"I didn't notice anything until just a moment before, obviously. But I reckon we've about reached our destination."
"Yes," Elladan agreed soberly, an unsurprised note in his voice that disturbed Elrohir. He wished he could see his brother's face. "Their behavior says as much."
That . . . hadn't occurred to him; though, looking back, he supposed it should have. Subordinates are always more precise and attentive when they are near enough their superiors that they can get into trouble for slacking. Before he could comment, though, he rocked forward, bumping into his brother, then was nearly thrown off backwards as the horse suddenly leaped. It's hooves clacked sharply against stone, a rapid tattoo that rung in his ears; he weaved slightly as the path they now took meandered before getting some manner of rhythm that allowed him to move more or less with the horse. Inwardly, he growled. Stone. More for them to hurt us with.
Then his thoughts caught up with him. Stone. Where were they? They were obviously not in a cave or he would not be able to see the sun. But, then, where? The only other stone structures that he could think of were cities, but there were no other people and the cities big enough to have stone streets were highly populated, especially during the day.
"A mountain?" Elladan murmured from before him, sounding just as perplexed as he felt. The realization that his twin was right hit him like a bolt of lightning. Mountain. Of course. His mind whirled as he tried to figure out what mountain they might be climbing--not that knowing his location helped him all that much. He was still stuck.
"Not a single mountain," Elrohir answered, not completely sure why he felt he needed to make the distinction. "A mountain chain."
"Duh, brother. But where?"
"The Ered Nimrais?" Those were the only mountains he could think of that lay to the east other than the Misty Mountains. Actually, there was one other set of mountains further east, but he did not even want to consider that they could be taken there.
"Perhap--"
"Shut up!" a voice snapped suddenly from just behind his ear, drowning out the rest of whatever Elladan had been going to say. A solid blow to the back of his head knocked him forward, and a white light flashed before his eyes as his head impacted with something hard. Dazed, he wavered, nearly slipping off to the left, only to be yanked back up by a sharp pull to the rope holding his arm. He hissed as the cords dug into already abused skin. He felt like bashing their heads together.
Instead, he grit his teeth together and focused on the movement of the horse, the breathing of his twin, and the rhythmic click-clack of horse hooves against rock. If he focused on anything else he was sure he would do something incredibly stupid (he classified incredibly stupid as "failing to accomplish anything while causing harm"). Lashing out at his captors, while likely to be intrinsically satisfying, would definitely do nothing but cause more harm for himself and his brother. These humans did not need another reason to visit their destructive tendencies on their elven captors.
The path they traveled was difficult and steep, requiring the horses to strain as they climbed with burdens upon their backs. Talme had it the worst, bearing two upon his back, light though the were. Neither elf could offer much help.
Rocks scrabbled down the incline and hooves slipped on too steep slopes, nearly following the stones that gravity defeated. More than once, Elrohir nearly fell off and had to be yanked back up by the ropes. Hisses from before him suggested a similar fate for his brother. Neither had the chance to talk, though, to assure each other that they fared well because of the attention of their guards. Any attempts to speak were cut off, warnings enhanced with the snap of a whip.
Hours seemed to pass in a kind of haze filled with stumbling, cursing, and anger. He was too busy holding on for dear life to focus upon it, but it never left him.
Then there was a pause, like the deep breath before the plunge, and fear hit him like a blow to the chest. His breath left him in a whoosh, leaving him gasping for breath that would not come in the thin air. A cold breeze, like a skeletal hand, wrapped around him, squeezing him tightly before moving on.
"Valar," he heard, breathed quietly, and he could not agree more. Had he the breath, he would have said the same thing. Then they were moving again, heading down, and he had to focus on staying put again, this time leaning backwards instead of forwards.
Somehow, this trip was shorter. Perhaps because they were going downhill; perhaps because they were finally at their destination. Perhaps it was the pain and fear that sent dread skittering down his spine which convinced him the trip was far too short. Perhaps it was simply, now that he was here, he knew this was the last place he wanted to be. He wished he could talk to Elladan, wished he could confide in his brother.
With a last jolt, Talme was pulled to a halt, and hands suddenly appeared to pull him down. The commotion around him made it impossible to detect individual intentions, and he lost track of who was where, each step seeming a different individual and at the same time one of the same. His feet hit the ground with a sharp jolt and sand scraped under his feet, rasping against stone. His shoulders cried out, his feet threatened to give way beneath him, and his head swam, but he forced himself to move, to follow the forceful pulls under his own power, his pride balking at the idea of a human carrying him.
Distantly, almost as an aside, he could hear his brother being led behind him, the sliding footsteps slower than his own. Relief coursed through him to know that his brother was well enough to move over his own power, and this knowledge was such that he could summon a bit of gratitude for his captors to know that they were letting him proceed at his own pace.
Any such feelings were short-lived, though, as he noticed the commotion around him and his twin die, all sounds fading away into an eerie silence broken only by the lonely howling of the wind.
He was pulled to a halt, and he felt the warm presence of his twin appear beside him. Elrohir had the sudden feeling that he was about to be judged, that sinking feeling that someone else was about to lay eyes upon his and decide his worthiness. That he was likely to be found lacking, a fear of his, was countermanded by the knowledge that he did not care for this person's--whoever he was--opinion. Strangely, that did not stop the fear.
A cool voice broke into his considerations. "Yet they are not undamaged," it said, and it was only then that Elrohir realized their captors had been speaking.
"No, my lord," one of the men answered. He thought it might have been Conyc, but it had been so long since he had heard his voice, he could not quite be sure. "They are willful and resourceful. We underestimated them and were required to take measures that would ensure it would not happen again."
A brief silence followed, and it was the weightiest silence he had ever heard. "I see," the cool voice said again, filled with a quiet menace that promised pain. A shudder passed up his spine. "Remove the blindfolds."
The black cloth disappeared. The first thing Elrohir noticed was the cool brush of the wind around his eyes, how hot his face had been, which only preceded the realization of how bright the sun was by a split second, the fiery orb stabbing needles heated in fire into his eyes. They watered terribly, blurring his vision, and he blinked quickly to clear his vision, trying to clear the tears and get his eyes to focus correctly. When they did, he could only stare in surprise.
"YOU!"
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Review Responses:
Red Tigress: *sticks tongue out* Hmph. Well, now I'm not tired either. So there. Hehe. Glad you liked. I hope this one is just as enjoyable.
NaughtyNat: Oh, I've done that. Review days after I read the chapter, I mean. Of course, now I've gotten used to you reviewing last, so you reviewing second is a bit off-putting. *g* Well, I wrote the chapters one after another without rereading them. Then, when I go back and change something at the beginning, the rest of it changes slightly--that has nothing to do with the chapters that are crap. Good thing is that I can usually simply rewrite those with basically the same stuff in them and make them better. Lol. No, Caivern is definitely a made-up place. I don't have the patience to look any little towns Tolkien might have created, so unless its in the trilogy, I dont' know it exists. Thus, I must create them. Convincing, huh? *g* Father would be a term of respect for an elder; nothing more, nothing less. Lol. Good thing you're not attached to Lily, not that I'm having all that much writing the story. I'm currently attempting to write the prologue for the third time. *sigh* Our own version? Well, yeah, for the first one or two, at least. Then I heard they simply compromised on the terms or something. But no American (at least not that I've ever met) calls anyone a 'git' or a 'prat' or says 'blimey' or 'wotcher.' What's wotcher mean, anyway? *looks confused* Um, yeah. I can ramble when I feel like. Really, this could be longer, but I figure I should save some for later. *g* lol.
Nefcairiel: I'm glad you enjoyed it! I think it's safe to say you will never have to wait so long for an update again. Please don't give up! *gives puppy dog eyes*
Deana: Erm, yes. . . . Soon. . . . Hehe.
Grumpy: lol. I can assure you very strange riddle talking man is not a bad guy. He can even be viewed as a good guy. Not that it matters, as you will never see him again. Mm, the river. Right. *looks innocent* I feel for you. Luckily, I got a picture. *g*
Nerfenherder: hehe. I enjoyed my dialogue, too. I had to stiffle giggles while writing it. Lol. Foreshadowing? Eh, maybe symbolism? *raises eyebrows* Super extra credit points if you figure out what the symbolism is. *wide grin* Hm, well, I don't think the twins will be in any shape to tell you their story for a while. They're sort of tied up. Pun not intended. Lol. I can just see his expression! Omg! Lol. *g* Ah, gotta loathe Shakespeare. Lol. I promise not to abandon you for HP muses. They're just more talkative than my LOTR muses at the moment. Ironically, they're a lot more disagreeable, too. Nevertheless, I think I've prodded them into motion again. *g*
Rangergirl: *looks wide eyed* Multiple times? Wow. *snorts* I guess he is. You'll just have to see what happens next, though. *g*