I must have thrown out a dozen different versions of the first part of this story before stumbling upon one I was content enough with to type up. Getting halfway through a chapter five times then having to start over is not fun I tell you. Which is why you're getting this one: I can't stand to look at it anymore. Thus, it is not as good as it could be. I'd venture to say it's one of my worst chapters yet, but that might just be my antipathy talking. grin Everytime I decide it stinks, you all say it's good. So, shrugs Feel free to point out any inconsistencies or things that just seemed off somehow. I won't be mad at you (at least I won't be by the time I reply back grin). Lol.
Speaking of replies . . . I would like to thank Tychen, Nerfenherder, Grumpy, and Kayla for voting. I'll have to think of something nice to do for all of you. I'm thinking a small story. smiles The rest of you, perhaps I should mention I don't bite. I know there are more of you lurking out there. Ff.net has this wonderful little aurthor alert thing and it just happens to inform the authors how many of you wonderful people there are, so. . . . grins expectantly If it's the only time I ever hear from you, I want you to vote. Please? Will you do it if I beg?
Oh! And I thought of two new story ideas. looks sheepish I didn't mean to. The first came to me while I was watching Yu-Gi-Oh about the time I had intended to post. The second occurred to me only two days ago. And I'm going to add them to your options. So, here goes:
(untitled) Aragorn: age 21. Aragorn meet Legolas fic. Aragorn finds a woman in the woods and saves her from a man. The man curses the ranger. Whenever he saves another person, he feels curiously weaker. He must figure out what is wrong and how to reverse it without forsaking who he is.
(also untitled) Aragorn: age 18-25. This assumes a form of reincarnation, I guess. It takes place millennia after the War of the Ring with another Ring that falls into the hands of Aragorn who must use it to destroy an evil lord threatening their survival (please keep in mind this is a really rough summary that has not completely formed in my mind and will subsequently change as I figure out what I'm doing, but it's a fair idea). It would be the same general idea as LOTR with noticeable differenes, I think.
I think I'll put the whole lot on my bio page, maybe come up with some actual summaries for you too. Know that I am only counting your first choice in this. Second votes will not be included unless a significant amount (in my sole estimation) of you have voted and you still come up short of a single fic with ten votes, then-- depending on my mood-- I may use secondary votes to boost the numbers. Should more than one fic have upwards of ten votes, there will be a vote-off. g You can change your vote by choosing a new title should you decide the one you voted for is not the one you wanted.
I've now managed to forget what I was going to say. Ah, well. Means it's time to get on to the fic. I have high hopes that the next chapter will not take nearly so long to get up. Keep your fingers crossed and review lots. Guilt trips always work. nods solemnly
Wait! One more thing: I beg your forgiveness, but I don't have time to respond to your reviews, but I have read them (and I'm thrilled that all of you loved the twins chasing Estel through the gardens only to be caught by Elrond) and I love every one of them. You all make me blush. I could wait and post later, but this is already a day late because I tried to do that, and I think (hope) you prefer to have the next chapter now than wait until I have enough time to sit and write out your well deserved responses. Then, I imagine you want me to hurry up with the next chapter, where Aragorn and Legolas finally reappear.
g So enjoy. Or try to. The next one will be better. looks anxious
(p.s. Have I mentioned I hate ff.net? They stole my stars! pouts Had forgotten, too, which would have had you reading this without breaks. Fun, right? g Sorry for this delay in your regularly--irregularly--scheduled program. On with the show.)
Chapter 16
Torl sat surrounded by plain gray walls of thick fabric with his legs crossed, his back braced against his cot, and his sword thrown across his lap. His left hand braced the well-worn hilt while his right held a whetting stone.
With practiced ease he drew the stone down the side of the blade, sharpening it and smoothing any pits that might have gouged the weapon's edge. The familiar motions were calming, taking away the jittery unease that had settled over him, letting him lose himself in the simplicity of the task, the moist slide of damp stone on metal foremost in his mind. But it could not stay so. Sharpening blades was not a mentally demanding task. While it gave the hands something to do, it left the mind unoccupied and free to roam.
"Why so quiet, Torl, my dear?"
His gray eyes traveled across the plain cloth that sheltered him from the cold and wind, the snow should it fall, and now the company of his fellow Slyntari.
"The mind is an intricate thing, dearest Nirt. It is best to let it roam where it will."
"Do share with us some of these thoughts."
It was rare that anything having to do with the Slyntari would remain as simple as it should be. A meal, was not just a meal, not even primarily a meal. It was an opportunity for the wolves to come out and play, to ply their teeth against something solid, and worry whatever meat they were able to get their hands on.
"I doubt you would find them to your liking, dearest."
"Nonsense. We all enjoy variety."
He hated mealtimes, especially the ones in the evening, when it was guaranteed all the Slyntari would be present-- all the officers, the only ones who truly deserved the title of Slyntari, the best of the best. He had heard of political infighting that was less dangerous.
"I was wondering if the preparations are ready for the Ranger." Not true, but truth was rarely safe around this bunch. No one ever spoke the truth.
"Worried we won't be able to deal with him?"
Too close. "He escaped the last time."
"That's only because he had the help of a traitor."
A traitor. Kelt had always found those meetings vaguely amusing, a challenge she looked forward to. Unlike him, she was able to turn the conversation back on her opponents. Maybe if he had that skill, he would not have had to retreat to his quarters.
"And what of the help of an Elf?"
Hefting the stone's weight, he brought it back to the haft's base and slid it smoothly towards the tip. It was ironic, he supposed, that the one person he felt he could talk to about the shadows that weighed on his mind was the one person he could not approach.
Nirt did not reply, nor did any of the others, but he feared he had made a mistake. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the shrewd eyes watching him saw more than he cared to reveal. It was time to leave.
He would never dare oppose his lord, nor question his judgment. He had learned over the years that Shirk was a formidable opponent and a capable leader. One did not live as long as he had without becoming proficient at many tasks. But sometimes, in the dark of his own thoughts, he wondered if the elf was not losing his touch.
It was not that Shirk had slowed down. His fighting skills were as sharp as ever, his superiority unchallenged. His mind was still shrewd, his intelligence unquestionable. Yet Torl had the feeling that something was wrong; that despite the fact that the elf was still as dangerous as ever, he was not focusing as he once did. The tales of his emotionless brutality in ensuring his enemies met the fates they deserved were legendary. No one had escaped him in millennia uncounted. Only now two had: one of their own, Kelt, and a Ranger of no renown or consequence.
Torl pressed his lips together in a thin line and drew the stone down metal one last time. He could still hear the grating song echoing in his ears as he tucked the rock away, then ran a soft rag over the blade's length before resheathing it. The metal rang clearly, and he listened to it until the hilt clicked against the top of the scabbard. He stood. Perhaps Shirk was getting too involved. Vengeance for the sake of vengeance was distracting. Or perhaps he, Torl, was imagining things, letting his fears get the best of him.
What if the elves were not so clueless as Shirk believed? What if they had found the trail and were even now riding after the lost sons of Elrond? Facing one elf was one thing; facing more, quite another. Was Shirk prepared to face the entourage Elrond would send to retrieve his sons? It would not be a small company, he was sure. He knew he, Torl, was not prepared. He had seen elves fight. He had no wish for a more personal viewing.
He set his face and went back outside. The canvas flopped closed behind him and he glanced around the camp, taking note of where everyone was. He had no desire to be drawn back into another minefield laden discussion, especially when his thoughts were so near the surface. He set off towards the edge of camp, a safe place near the western edge of mountains where few would venture and he could be alone with his thoughts.
And yet . . . much though he feared facing elves, he knew that was not what was wriggling at the back of his mind, niggling at him, whispering that something was wrong. Something close at hand.
"You have good instincts, Torl. You should listen to them more."
His instincts told him his unease stemmed from the elven twins. Yet how could that be? They were both secured, neither in danger of going anywhere. He had tested those chains, watched others struggle against them, and knew there were few more immovable than the links which bound prisoners in these lands. The only way to escape them was to use a key. Neither dark-haired elf had one.
Or did they?
He frowned, furiously wondering at the advisability of listening to the words of a traitor. Most would consider that suicide. Taking any advice from a Slyntari was widely considered by many in Mordor to be the quick road to death. They had a habit of deliberately trying to get you in trouble and most of the time, Torl even had to admit, he had found it amusing. It was not so funny when he was on the other side. Still, her advice had always been sound. . . .
The man glanced up, seeking the steady presence of the stars for answers, and was almost startled to find the sky overcast, the stars hidden from sight by a blanket of steel gray clouds darker than his eyes. He blinked.
They had arrived with nightfall, driven over the land by the cold gusts of dusk, and now floated darkly above. He had heard, once, that the weather sometimes changed to match the moods of the elves. He wondered if that was true, or if that was simply more superstitious nonsense picked up by the ignorant and blown out of proportion, much like the belief of elven invincibility.
He ground his teeth together, listening to them scrape against each other as he considered the space between him and their elven prisoners. He had time, no duties to attend to until well into the night. Realistically, he should be sleeping, but it would not take a genius to realize that was not going to happen. What would it hurt to take a little walk their direction, and maybe stop in and see how they were while he was over there?
Besides, Elves are slippery creatures. It can never hurt to be too sure. And it would put his nerves at ease.
Decided, he began making his way towards the underground cell where the one elf was being held. He would check and see that he was still secure, then go talk to Akin, see how the other one fared. Maybe the gods would have smiled on them and he had talked in his sleep, telling them everything they wished to know. He smiled grimly. He doubted the gods would ever favor them that much.
Elladan stared. There were plenty of times in the nearly three millennia he had been alive that he had been surprised: when the decorative lattice over the gardens had given way beneath him and his brother's weight when they were just thirty; when their father had caught them in the middle of one of their pranks with one of his own a hundred years later; when they were on their first hunt with Glorfindel as elflings and were set upon by wargs, the hairy beasts suddenly jumping at him from nowhere; years later, while on their own, running into the Chieftain of the Dúnadain through a horde of orcs, their crossed blades the only thing between them and his own surprise mirrored back at him from familiar eyes.
Then the still darker surprise of being attacked on the way to Lorien, his mother captured and carried off, too many blocking his path for him to reach her; later, the chill surprise of finding an arrow through Arathorn's eye, a man he had respected and sworn to protect, dead; countless more surprises, the fault of Aragorn, so many that he had thought nothing would surprise him again.
But nothing, not even all of Aragorn's predictably unpredictable antics, had prepared him for this: to wake up, held in the grasp of an enemy, and facing the attack of another.
He thought he should do something-- strike out, yell, retreat-- but his mind was racing too quickly and his body reacting too sluggish; he could do nothing but stare. Wonderful, that his elven strength would fail him now, when he needed it most.
Bereft of the impetus to do anything else, his eyes drifted to the side, seeking the owner of the hand clamped over his mouth. He caught dark hair and the impression of serious eyes before the being moved. Warm breath prickled the hairs by his ear and he tensed.
A soft voice spoke lowly beside him, his racing mind skipping syllables, and he struggled to force the sounds into coherency. Slowly (far too slowly), it worked and deliberately spoken words filtered into his head: ". . . Elf. We're going to be spending some quality time together and we need to get a few things straight. The first thing is this is a private party and you want to keep it that way. Means you need to be quiet. If you can agree to that, I can remove my hand from your mouth. Blink twice if you agree."
Elladan resisted the command in that order and struggled to think. He stared up at the ceiling and willed himself not to blink. This was yet another surprising twist, another thing he had not thought to expect. Was he truly be given the chance to cooperate? But to cooperate with what? To what purpose? He would not be a puppet for his captors. Still . . . it could not hurt to see what was going on first. Could it?
He blinked, twice.
The hand was removed instantly, snatched away like it had been burned. He licked his lips reflexively. "Who are you?" he rasped quickly, his thin voice nearly inaudible to his own ears.
If his visitor heard him, he ignored it. "Next, you will do as I say, when I say without fail or hesitation."
"I will do no such thing," he denied, his voice stronger. "You'll have to kill me."
"No, Master Elf, I will not," the voice hissed close to his ear. He could feel a hand on his arm. "I can leave you here and the Slyntari will do it for me without shedding a tear. Likely, you'll even get to see your brother go first. Now, will you do as I say, when I say it, or should I leave now and save myself some trouble?"
He swallowed, a frown pulling at his lips. "Who are you?" His mind was still racing, making it difficult to focus, and a headache had begun pulsing at the base of his neck threatened to steal what focus he did manage. He wished this being would come right out and say what he wanted instead of hiding in the shadows.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," the voice said, the singsong tone nearly ironic. "Will you cooperate?"
"Tell me your name." He wanted to know who this mysterious being was. He would not go anywhere with someone he did not know.
"You do not need my name."
"If you want my cooperation, tell me your name," he said, putting as much steel in his voice as he could manage through his pain, the dull but persistent aches that made everything uncomfortable.
Silence. Then, reluctantly, "Sierra." The name seemed strange on her tongue, like one she was not used to saying. He supposed most people did not often say their own name. "Will you cooperate?"
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Within reason," he answered hesitantly. "Tell me what you want."
He had the strangest feeling that this "Sierra" was cursing him silently. "What do you want?" The voice was soft, nearly seductive.
He debated the wisdom of voicing his desires. If she was the enemy. . . . But no, if she was one of the Slyntari, it would change nothing. Shirk had to know he wanted to escape, but knowing he wanted it did not mean it would be possible to get. He exhaled his breath in a hiss. "To leave," he whispered. "With my brother, and never come back."
"Then you would do well to listen to me, son of Elrond. That is my purpose, but you must not fight me. It is a small window of opportunity we are trying to sneak through. The Slyntari are vigilant; we must go fast or they will notice something amiss. They are expecting someone else, watching a different quarter, and while they are preoccupied we can sneak away, but that will not happen if you draw their attention. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he breathed, keeping his voice just as soft as hers (at least, he thought she was female now that he had had a better opportunity to hear her speak) had been. If she spoke the truth. . . .
But how could he know for sure? The last strangers they had trusted were responsible for them being here. That betrayal still stung. Those people had seemed kind, their intentions pure, and then they had turned on them. How could he be sure Sierra would not do the same? Could he trust her?
Could he afford not to? That was an uncomfortable thought. He did not want to believe that the life of his brother, and his own, hung on the word of a stranger when it would take so little to betray them all. But surely she would not go to the trouble to free them only to betray them? There was no point to that. Unless there were others who wanted them. But who was there outside of Mordor? It was a thin line on which to base his trust, but he clung to it just the same.
He turned his head, ignoring the way his surroundings warped and swayed around him. He could see now that his rescuer was, indeed, a female. He was not prepared for how young. Valar! She is a child! He was no expert at judging the age of humans, but he would bet all his possessions that she was younger than twenty. Her blue eyes stared at him seriously, older than her years, and he wondered what had happened to bring her here. Was she a captive like him? No, that was not possible. Had she escaped?
"What would you have me do?" he asked, locking gazes with her. Now that he asked, though, he did not feel like doing anything. The thought of moving made his chest hurt, and his head throbbed, pulsing bright spots at the corner of his eyes with every rapid beat of his heart. He could barely discern the separate beats, they came so fast. He felt like he was suffocating.
"Do you have a headache?" she asked suddenly.
That was not the answer he expected. "Yes."
"Blurry vision?"
Almost as if her room was the trigger, the room shifted to a formless blob and he blinked. "Yes."
She rested her hand on his chest above his heart, her eyes going somewhat distant as she concentrated on what she felt beneath her hand. He waited expectantly. She hissed. "Difficulty breathing?"
"No," he said. He could breath just fine; it just did not seem he was able to draw enough of it. His head swam. His shoulders felt tense.
He might have imagined the glare she shot him before moving away. He watched for a moment as she moved to a table set against the far wall with bottles and stuff on it before relaxing back into the bed, his head rolling back towards the ceiling. The solid, uninterrupted gray looked somewhat blurry before him, but he did not mind, retreating inside his head against the pain he felt.
Sierra's questions had shifted his focus to his body from her. While he had been intent on determining who she was and what she wanted, he had been able to ignore the grumblings of his body. Now he could not forget the headache that was trying to split his head open, nor the dryness of his throat. He could feel the bruises on his chest and the stiffness in his shoulders. And if that was not enough, he could suddenly feel the hundred little hooks that had settled in his flesh, hooks that pulled against his skin with every quick breath he took. Unfortunately, he also knew what they were, and that knowledge was almost enough to make him groan.
It had been years since he had last required stitches. The incident itself had been unmemorable, a border patrol culminating in an orc attack that ended with him sporting a six inch long gash in his leg. The gash was nothing compared to the seventy or so stitches he had had to endure for a little more than a week while the skin closed. Feeling those bits of thread pull at already tender skin with every movement he made, stretching it, was one of the single most uncomfortable moments of his life. It did not help that he had been bedridden with the injury for nearly two days lest the stitches break and his father have to "stitch him back up," never mind that he was hale save for the injury. He had hoped it would be longer-- much longer-- before he needed suffer the confounded things again.
And then his mind caught up with him. "Difficulty breathing?" No. He took a breath, testing it, feeling the stitches prickle as his chest expanded. Despite the fact that he still could not seem to get quite enough air and a faint burning assailed him when he tried, he could breathe just fine. Someone had tended his broken ribs. Which also meant he knew why he had the stitches, and why his lungs burned. It could also explain the lack of air. It also meant that, for whatever reason, his captors did not want him to die-- not yet. He was not sure yet if that was a comforting thought.
Elladan blinked as something intruded amid the gray, his gaze drifting back towards where the girl had stood, and he noticed Sierra had returned to his side, a mug (the thing that had intruded) clasped in her hand. She knelt beside him and carefully raised his head. He helped as best he could and drank without question when she tipped the cup against his lips. "This should help with the pain," she murmured.
He had to resist the urge to spit it out. It tasted foul, like refuse from a human town that had festered and rotted in the rain water, with an aftertaste like antiseptic. "Are you sure?" he wheezed, the taste stealing his breath.
She smiled knowingly. "Be happy. Some people drink this stuff for pleasure."
For pleasure? He could not imagine anyone drinking that for enjoyment. He followed her with his eyes as she moved away towards the table to put the cup down. "Sadistic," he murmured, making a face. "What does it do?"
"It numbs pain," the girl answered quietly, her back to him as she manipulated something on the table. "If one consumes enough of it, it warps reality."
Well, then, that explained the attraction in drinking it; men would endure the oddest things to escape their own thoughts. Drinking the pain away, even if it tasted like poison, was a popular option among the human race. "What now? How shall we escape? Especially if the Slyntari are as vigilant as you claim." He wished a drug could ease his short breath.
Sierra held a corked bottle when she turned back around. "By being in the last place they expect," she answered, grim satisfaction in her voice. She knelt beside his bed and tucked the bottle into a bag, pulling out a wad of dark cloth before she stood up. She set the fabric aside at the foot of his bed before turning back to him. "How do you feel?"
Elladan thought about it a minute, cautiously stretching his slim form. The pain he was expecting was dulled, almost like an afterthought. "Better," he admitted.
"Good." The girl perched on the side of the cot and pulled a small object from the folds of her robes. She fitted the iron key into the lock on one of his cuffs and twisted, popping the manacle open with a sharp click. It fell from around his wrist, helped off as he raised his arm, and she placed it gently back on the bed before repeating the procedure with the other three. She spoke before he could push himself up. "Don't move."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because the inside of this tent is brighter than the land out there and while there aren't many with reason to be near this side of the tent, there is not reason to take more chances than need be." She walked back to the table. "We aren't ready to leave yet."
He watched her in silence. What more was there to do? His blue eyes followed her movements closely, but his angle was poor and he could not make out what she was doing. He thought she might be gathering herbs, but he could not imagine why she had not done that when she was getting that bottle ready. Did she wish to waste time, or was there a reason for what she was doing? He wished she would hurry up.
On the ride over here, it had been Elrohir who had been impatient, constantly seething over their captivity, worry for his brother consuming him and driving him to distraction. He had been worried about Elladan's health and wanted nothing more than to escape their captors and go home; battling his pain, Elladan had been unable to share that impatience. Now, with that block gone, he itched with the desire to free his twin from these murderous people. He did not want to wait.
He wished he knew what Sierra was doing. Her motions had changed; it no longer looked like she was reaching for things, but putting them in something, like pockets or a sack. Yet when she turned, she had no bag either in her hands or slung over her shoulder. Several packets of herbs and three flasks were held in her hands. Those she tucked into her pack with the bottle, all but one flask. That she brought over to him and once more helped him drink. The cool liquid was bliss after the foul medicine that put his father's sleeping draughts to shame, and he drank deeply. His mouth no longer felt cottony and his headache even seemed to ease a touch.
She pulled back, tucking the remainder into the pack. "See if you can stand," she ordered.
"Of course I can," he retorted sharply, annoyed at the doubt he saw in her eyes. Annoyed, and afraid. If he could not stand, how could he walk? And if he could not walk, how could he help his brother? Savagely, he pushed those thoughts aside and remembered his stitches just in time to carefully swing his legs over the side of the cot. He rolled onto his elbow instead of simply up, using his arm to lever himself up so as not to pull on his chest muscles more than he had to.
The tent spun nauseatingly as he moved from a horizontal position, and he was forced to clutch the edge of the cot until it steadied. It was slightly easier to breath now that he was no longer laying on his back. Of course, now that he was sitting, he could not imagine actually standing up. He felt weak and shaky, like from a fever-- but elves did not suffer the ailments of men.
Some of his uncertainty must have shown on his face. "Would you like something to help?" Sierra asked delicately. He shook his head. "It will be a long trip."
He looked up, locking gazes with this youth who for some reason wanted to help them. He searched her eyes and could see in them the certainty that he did not have the strength to effect this escape. He could read the long walk and climbing that it would take to secure their freedom, saw the possibility of having to fight his way past guards, and knew that even if he managed to stand up, he would never have the strength to walk from this room, run from this camp. He sighed, then nodded.
Bile rose up in his throat that had nothing to do with the occasional light spinning of his surroundings. He, an elf, had to take a potion so he could walk. It was humiliating-- sickening. He was strong, capable, and a single beating was enough to make him helpless. That it was a single beating after weeks of hard travel at the hands of thoughtless humans and days of starvation made no difference. He still should not be so weak.
"There is no shame in admitting weakness, my son."
His breath stilled as his father's voice echoed inside his head. Deep blue eyes in that wise, well-loved face appeared before him, staring at him, willing him to accept the truth of his words.
"It is a sign of strength to be able to admit when you need help."
Quicker than he had expected, Sierra stood again before him, a mug held out between them. He glared at her as he took it, suspecting rightly that she had known he would need it and prepared it while she was gathering other medicines. His glare became a grimace at the bitter taste of the liquid. Valar, was there no medicine that did not taste vile?
Elladan continued drinking, ignoring the bitterness as best he could and suppressed the shudder that wanted release when he was done. He dropped his head as the girl took the cup, feeling the concoction speed through his veins, bringing warmth with it, and he could not deny that he felt stronger, more energized, though it was still several moments before there was enough of a difference that he could stand.
He pushed himself up slowly, wary of causing himself undue pain and making a fool of himself by falling on his face. But though he swayed unsteadily for a moment, he did not fall, and it was not long before he could stand on his own. That made him feel better.
The girl reached over and snatched the cloth from the foot of the cot, shaking it so it unfolded. He eyed it narrowly, noting the touches of red that interrupted the black in several places. A horrible suspicion tugged at his mind as he stared at the cloak, one that was confirmed when he looked into Sierra's eyes. Was she but taller and broader, with silver eyes instead of blue, he would have sworn he stood before Estel, the boy perfectly confident in the plan he had proposed. And like then, he wished he had a better plan to offer.
Reluctantly, he accepted the proffered garment, slowly swinging it around his shoulders as she pulled on one of her own. The dark fabric was thick, hanging heavily on his shoulders. To him, it felt restrictive, uncomfortable. Sierra did not seem to share his opinion. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening, and he frowned.
She straightened, a new urgency in her eyes. "Come," she ordered and waved him forward.
As he followed, he had the sinking feeling that this had been a bad idea.
He was within sight of the elf's underground cell when it happened. Movement overhead caught his eye, a flash of darker shadow against the gray clouds that hung above him. He followed it as it flashed past him, turning to keep it in view as it circled the camp, gradually working its way lower. He did not need to see the wings to know it was a bird; a hawk, to be more precise. He did not need to see the roll of paper secured to its leg to know it bore a message, and he did not need to see the message to know who it was from.
Torl stayed where he was, waiting, listening intently to the sounds around him: the quiet roar of the many fires, the slight clatter of the meal being prepared or put away, the distant murmur of soft voices, the waiting silence of a land about to sleep. He counted out the seconds, timing in his mind's eye how long it would take the bird to find the elf lord and the pause for his superior to read the message. He could imagine the way Shirk's eyes would narrow, the slight tensing of his jaw.
Then the tone sounded, a base rumble that was nearly too low to hear. It overlaid the sounds of night with a barely perceptible energy, calling those who knew to heed its call. Most never even paused. Yet around the camp, the nearly a dozen lieutenants of the Slyntari were dropping what they were doing and heading to Shirk's tent.
He stayed where he was, frozen. A part of him wanted to ignore the summons, wanted to continue on to check on the elf and assuage that strange disquiet that still hummed inside him unabated. The more rational part of him knew that was impossible. Those who ignored the elf lord always lived just long enough to regret it.
Gray eyes sought out the lonely space in the near distance that marked the entrance to the prison, searching the area intently before turning away. Torl did not look back as he headed back across the camp. He would come back when the meeting was over. It would not take long.
Impatience jangled his nerves the entire way.
Elladan had never been fond of hiding from his enemies. He had never had very much patience for hiding among his enemies either, lest it was to spring a trap on them later. But he had also never been afraid of either option. Of course, he could also not remember a time when failure would be so disastrous. He had no illusions about what would happen to them if Shirk discovered they had tried to escape.
He walked nervously behind the slight figure of Sierra, her cloak billowing behind her importantly. The thick fabric glided behind them like an honor guard, and the elf hoped the image it presented was enough to cover his nervousness. Even after he had guessed the plan, he had held out hope that he might be wrong; had hoped that the cloaks were just cover if they were seen. He had not counted on striding straight from the med tent's entrance into the middle of the camp and continuing towards his brother in plain sight of everyone who wanted them dead. He distracted himself by debating if this was actually something Estel would do, and came to the uncomfortable decision that it was. No wonder the boy got into so much trouble.
He grimaced, then prayed that mannerism had not been noticed. Sierra, herself, did not seem worried. Then again, maybe he would not be either if he knew the plan. The only thing he knew for sure was that they were going after his brother. The only instructions she had given him were three: stay close, don't ask questions, and make sure your twin does the same. That he was to follow her instructions went without saying-- he had already agreed to that. But even if they made it to Elrohir, how were they going to get him out?
The girl lead him between two tents as nondescript as the two they had already passed then continued down the new lane as if they had never deviated and, though the tents all looked just the same, he suddenly had the strangest feeling of deja vu-- he had been here before.
His eyes darted from side to side, taking in the tents on either side, marked with colored bands across the top that denoted some message he was unable to read. His heart, still beating impossibly fast, began to beat harder. He swallowed, his dry throat clicking. He had not thought it would effect him so when he had barely remembered the walk as it was. Yet he could feel the dread, the despair, the nearly overwhelming urge to turn and run--
His breath came hard and fast, nearly whistling as it passed clenched teeth. He could not break down. Not here; not now. He tried swallowing again, but his throat was too dry. Somehow, he kept walking, following the cloaked form before him. He felt like he was walking down a tunnel, one that kept growing smaller the further he walked. . . .
Then Sierra stopped, and he was simply standing amid plain, stone colored tents marked with colored bands on an empty path with a fire burning just off the lane and a dark opening in the ground between two of the nearby tents. He could just make out steps before darkness swallowed them, the black impenetrable even to elven eyes. His brother was in there. . . .
Movement near him kept him from dwelling on that thought, and he turned his head, following his companion as she moved over to the fire and lit a torch, the flames latching greedily onto the new piece of wood. Sierra moved it before her, almost like she was pointing at the opening, then moved forward and swept it to the side as she began walking down the steps. Elladan had to pry his own gaze away from the bright yellow-orange flame as he followed her down, the steps even narrower than he remembered. How ever did the humans make it down them, clumsy as they were? He wondered if any had broken their necks attempting it.
A nasty grin threatened to break out on his face and he chased it away, firmly refusing to waste any time on thoughts of these repulsive humans before he knew his brother was well. He would have plenty of time to curse them to all levels of hell once he and Elrohir were far away from this camp, and the opportunity to ensure they reached those levels once his brother and himself were well: he fully intended to return and send them there himself. But first things first.
The last step came sooner than he expected yet had taken far too long to reach. Anxiety had spread through him, fear over what he would find. What if Elrohir was gone? What if he had died? What if they had somehow hurt him so bad that he was no longer the brother he remembered? What if-- but he no longer had time for "what ifs," having finally arrived at his destination.
Blue eyes darted to the right-side wall, bare feet from the stairwell entrance, seeking out his brother's form. Relief washed through him at finding the dark, slumped shape, only now realizing how deeply he had feared his brother would be gone when he arrived. And on further inspection, he could also see he yet breathed. That revelation eased his own breathing considerably and, his immediate fears addressed, he swept his eyes on a more thorough search. The right side of Elrohir's face was bruised, starting about his temple and wrapping around his eye before tapering off at the hinge of his jaw. Yet more bruises marred his chest, from his shoulders down to his slender waist, some continuing around his sides.
Aside from a split lip, bruises (very dark and highly colorful) were all he could see, and Elladan breathed a quiet sigh of relief that their captors had apparently not proceeded with their torture after he had been removed. He could not have stood to know that his brother had suffered while he was gone, even as he would not have been able to prevent it if he had.
He stepped forward quickly, distantly noting that Sierra stayed where she was, apparently having decided to grant the brothers privacy for this first greeting, and was somewhat unsettled when Elrohir did not look up at his approach. The younger twin's head still hung against his chest, as if it was too heavy for him to hold up.
"El," he murmured softly, tenderly reaching out to cup his brother's face. The pale skin was cool to the touch, and he felt a new jolt of fear tingle through him. Gently, he ran his fingers up the sides of Elrohir's face and slowly lifted his head, half ducking his own to get at look at the other's eyes. "Look at me, El."
His breath froze in his chest when he met his twin's eyes.
Torl stared ahead at the meeting place as he threaded through the camp, noting that nearly everyone was present. Nine circled the fire pit, with gaps between them where others should stand. Shirk was nowhere to be seen, but he rarely showed himself before all his lieutenants were present-- unless, of course, he had decided the absent ones were taking too long, then he would start the meeting and those who were not there were in worse trouble than they ever could have imagined.
Gray eyes scanned the surrounding area, looking to see if the other two were nearby. He found Gilith, just moving around a tent into sight, but of the newly promoted Serv he found no trace. He tried to remember where the young man was posted and could not. Perhaps the youth had not heard the summons; It was easy to miss if one was not paying attention. It was a guarantee, though, that one never missed a summons twice. He wondered idly if the lieutenants would be introduced to a new member soon.
Almost unconsciously, he slowed his pace, his gaze still locked onto his fellow Slyntari. Kelt had been the last one to hold that position. She had always found these meetings somewhat superfluous, a means of demonstrating power and control. Disruptive, she had called it. Disruptive. . . .
Without pausing to consider his actions, he grabbed a passing youth's arm, halting him in his tracks and pulling him around. It took him only a moment to recognize the young man. "Avis: I want you to go check on the Elves."
"Sir?"
He could imagine what the boy was thinking. "Make sure they're where they're supposed to be and that only those who are supposed to be there are there."
"But, sir--"
"Now, Avis."
The young man swallowed. "Yes, sir."
Torl did his best to ignore the feeling that he had just made a mistake. What, exactly, the mistake was he could not fathom, but what was done was done. He could no longer delay getting to this meeting. That much he was sure of.
He picked up his pace, striding quickly the three dozen paces and stepping into his place just as the tent flap opened to reveal his lord. He pushed back his hood then followed his companions as they bowed, bringing his right fist over his heart before sweeping it out, palm down, as he rose. A slight wave of Shirk's hand acknowledged their show of respect and gave them permission to stand at ease.
The man looked up, his gaze falling first on the massive black bird that perched on Shirk's shoulder. It's yellow eyes glared malevolently at each and every one of them over a sharp, curved beak. He resisted the urge to look down at the creature's feet, knowing what he would find-- wicked talons on strong feet-- and turned his gaze to his lord.
The elf looked as lordly as ever, his robes immaculate and his bearing regal, commanding a power that seemed to radiate off him. His long blonde hair was pulled back from his face, ensuring everyone a clear view of those pale blue eyes that easily struck fear into friends and enemies alike; chips of ice that scanned them emotionlessly.
"Our Master calls," Shirk began suddenly, his voice smooth and powerful, for their ears alone. His eyes bore into them. "It is almost time. What we have prepared for. In seven days, we will march. In seven days, we go to insure war. Prepare your groups." The lieutenants bowed. "Torl, Gilith, a word."
The nine other Slyntari filed away, disappearing silently back into the camp, leaving only Torl and Gilith. He tried to ignore the anxiety that rose within him. It was rarely a good thing to be singled out; quite often it meant the soldier's death. He did not move as he waited for his lord to speak, and neither did Gilith, both staring at a place just past the elf's head.
They waited as Shirk placed a small, rolled note into the cylinder attacked to the hawk's leg, then sent it on its way. "I have new orders for you," the elf said casually. "Gilith will assume responsibility for the Orcs and all that entails. He will lead them to opening positions and set them against the Rohirrim. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord," both answered simultaneously. Shirk waved a dismissal and Gilith departed, bowing quickly.
Torl swallowed against the renewed fear that rose within him. The orcs had been his responsibility. It was never a good thing when your duty was striped. Never. He had known this day was coming, had known from the moment he had had to report his failure. He prayed the gods to make it quick.
Shirk idly fingered something in his hand, gazing with an odd distractedness out over the camp. It was a moment before he spoke. "In three days, I will be leaving with a small advance group to meet with the Easterlings," he said calmly. "I am leaving you in charge. Make sure the main group leaves on schedule and that we are not compromised. Appoint a group to remain and watch the slaves."
The elf stepped up beside him, even with his shoulder, looking past him at the camp. "If our guests have not arrived before I depart, I expect you to greet them properly. I suspect Nirt can contrive something suitable. See if you can't learn something from them. If not, no matter."
"What shall I do with them, my lord?" he prompted when the other paused, slightly unsettled. He was in charge?
"Kill them, of course," Shirk replied softly. "If they still refuse to talk when it comes time to leave, you may give them to the sorcerer."
"As you wish, my lord."
"Do not disappoint me, Torl." The ice cold eyes locked on his for the first time since this meeting began.
He swallowed. "No, my lord."
"You are in charge of the prisoners," Shirk continued, that nearly dreamy distraction resurfacing after the quiet menace. "Make sure Nirt does not kill them before it is time. Resume questioning the Elf. It is no longer feasible to wait for the other's recovery."
"My lord? Is he strong enough?"
"He will be, or he will no longer be our concern."
"Yes, my lord," Torl said. Suddenly, he wanted this meeting to be over. He needed to go check on those confounded elves.
Shirk waved his hand in dismissal. The man bowed quickly and turned away. No one approached him as he made purposefully for the elf's cell.
For a moment he was back nearly six hundred years ago, in a cave under a mountain, looking into eyes that had always sparkled with boundless life and happiness, always been a source of joy to others, always comforted him when he was sad, and were now empty, endless pits of despair, the light that had made them shine gone, never to return. Then he was back before his brother, staring into dark blue eyes that had always been a match to his own, his heart breaking inside his chest.
"El," he repeated, tears he refused to shed in this place distorting his voice. Empty orbs stared back at him, bereft of all that had been his brother. Despair watched him, cold and lifeless, a force all its own. "I'm here to get you out, brother. Please. Uuma kelaya amin (Do not leave me)."
The smallest light appeared in the dark eyes, and Elrohir's lips moved soundlessly. Brother? his eyes seemed to say.
Elladan smiled slightly. I'm here, my brother, he returned. I'm here.
Elrohir blinked, and that single movement erased the shadows from his eyes, leaving behind the brother Elladan knew. It was in that moment that the elder twin realized the crushing despair he had felt earlier had not been entirely his own: it had been his twin's. The younger smiled back. "How?"
"Sierra has a plan," the elder answered, briefly glancing back at the girl who still stood a respectful distance away. Elrohir followed the glance. "It's not exactly set in stone, so you're going to need to be flexible."
"You trust her?" Elrohir asked quietly, using elvish to mask the question.
Elladan nodded. "Yes. We'll need to move quickly. Listen closely, brother; this is important: stay close to us and do not ask questions. Got it?" He paused, waiting for his twin to nod his acceptance, and braced himself for the next. He held his brother's eyes. "There's more: I want you to do whatever she tells you."
His brother stiffened, alarm and protest lighting his eyes. Elladan stepped closer before he could speak, into his twin's space so they stood toe to toe. "N'uma, muindor (No, brother). You must do this," he hissed in elvish. "Once we leave, you will not have time to hesitate. You have to agree now! You must listen to her. Do what she says. Promise me, El. Promise me you'll follow her instructions."
"And if she is a traitor?" Elrohir hissed back. "She could kill us!"
"Shirk will kill us!" he countered firmly. "And maybe worse. This is our best chance, El. You must see that."
By the battle in his eyes, Elladan knew he did. His lips tightened into a thin line as he came to a decision he did not like. He nodded sharply, his eyes blazing. "Fine. I promise. But Elbereth help her if she betrays us."
"Fine." The elder twin nodded and squeezed his brother's shoulder in comfort. He stepped back and turned, motioning Sierra forward to release his brother's bonds. But the girl was not looking at him, her head cocked to the side and a look of concentration on her face. He frowned. "Sierra--"
She raised a hand, motioning him to silence. A frown pinched her brow before clearing, her face now set in grim satisfaction. She motioned him over to the wall by the staircase, putting down the torch in the middle of the floor as she moved to take up a position on the other side. He remembered his vow to do as she said and not ask questions just in time, and instead mirrored her position on the opposite side of the stairwell, his back pressed against the wall. Elrohir seemed to be taking his silence as a sign that he should do the same, but his lips were pressed tight in disapproval and he frowned at both of them.
Elladan frowned questioningly at their rescuer, but Sierra was listening again, her head turned marginally his direction and her eyes slightly unfocused. She held herself ready. But ready for what?
He glanced back at his brother, who shook his head minutely, then set himself to listening and caught what must have alerted Sierra: footsteps. They scraped slightly against stone before gaining the echo that said whoever it was was coming down the stairs. Alarmed, he looked at Sierra. She nodded, calm, then motioned him to stay put. He frowned even more at this, but obeyed-- even as every instinct inside him screamed at him to move. He listened as the footsteps drew closer and more light appeared from the stairwell. Elrohir shifted uneasily in his chains.
It occurred to him that now would be an ideal time for the girl to betray them. Elrohir was still chained to the wall and he was trapped. Even if he did decide to leave his brother, he would still have to make it up the stairwell. A single shout would bring the entire camp down on him, and there was only one way to escape. Even if he killed Sierra and whoever was coming down to join them, he would never make it out alive.
Strangely, that thought did not bother him, and as he met the girl's eyes, he found the notion of betrayal fall away. She was in this with them. Once again, she motioned him to stillness.
The footsteps hesitated as they neared the lower landing, then proceeded more slowly. Elladan imagined he had caught sight of the light from their torch. His sharp hearing caught no sound of a weapon being drawn, though, which either meant he already had it out or he did not attribute the light to intruders. If he thought the latter, that would make things much easier.
Elladan held his breath as the visitor reached the last step. He could see the other's torch. Then the being stepped into sight and he could see it was a young man, younger than Estel-- perhaps the same age as the girl-- and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The boy continued forward a couple feet, eyeing the torch with a frown before halting and sweeping his own to either side. He saw Elrohir still chained to the wall and dropped his hand from the sword.
Sierra moved almost before he realized it, silently approaching the man from behind. Five steps put her at his back. An audible crack split the air, then he was falling, and the torch with him. The girl caught him before he hit the ground and dragged him a little to the side, but the torch continued unabated and it sputtered when it struck the stone, nearly going out. It took Elladan a moment to realize the girl had snapped the boy's neck, and by that time both man and torch lay still on the ground.
Sierra stood. "Take off his cloak," she ordered before casually stepping over the youth's outstretched arm as she headed back towards Elrohir. She pulled out a key as she walked, and he moved to do as she bid.
Elrohir watched her approach, stunned, his mind still catching up with what he had just seen. "You could have just knocked him out," he observed darkly, somewhat unnerved by the ease with which she had killed the boy. To his mind, it simply meant she would have no qualms about killing them; and in his mind, the dark haired lad looked impossibly like Estel, his vibrant eyes going glassy as his neck snapped. "He hadn't seen anything."
"It was kinder to kill him," she answered. She grabbed the cuff that bound his right hand and jabbed the key into the opening. Elrohir held back a wince. "Shirk would have tortured him first and still killed him."
"You know this for certain?" Elladan demanded. He had gotten the cloak off and now held it gingerly in his hands. He never would have thought the death of an enemy would disturb him so badly, but it was hard to see the boy as an enemy when his pale, glassy eyes looked so innocent and his sword had never raised against himself or his brother.
"Yes," Sierra replied curtly, sticking the key in the second lock. It popped free and she turned, repocketing the key. Beside her, Elrohir rubbed his wrists, wincing slightly. They were raw and bloody. "Had he been earlier or later, he would have been fine, but Shirk would never let him live after letting you escape. Give him the cloak," she added, motioning Elladan to give it to Elrohir. "His life has made our exit easier."
Elladan frowned at her as he handed the cloak to his brother. Her casual acceptance of the lad's death irked him. He held the dark fabric after Elrohir slipped his first arm in so he could more easily reach the second. "What do you mean by that?"
"Three in, three out," she answered impatiently as she picked up both torches. "It won't matter if we leave at the same time and head in the same direction."
"Why would it matter anyway?" Elladan persisted, remembering the deserted lane before their descent. "Nobody saw us come down."
"No less than five people saw us enter this cell," Sierra countered coldly. "Just because the all-seeing, all-knowing Elf did not see them does not mean they were not there. Do you really think Shirk would leave his prisons unguarded?"
Truthfully, no, but. . . "If he thought escape impossible."
"He is not an Orc. He does not take security for granted, even in his own lands."
Elladan met her gaze squarely, staring unflinchingly into her coldly sparkling eyes. He read nothing but dead certainty there, certainty born of experience. . . . He nodded shortly. They still had little time. There was no telling when someone would come looking for the boy and he intended to be long gone by the time they did. He could puzzle out this girl's past later. Elrohir seemed to be of the same opinion.
Wordlessly, she passed one of the torches to Elrohir, who accepted it with a brief nod, his face expressionless. He nodded too when the girl's gaze turned to him. He was ready, more than ready, to leave this place far behind. When she pulled her hood over her head, they followed suit.
It did not take long for them to climb the stairs and reemerge under the dark night sky. An icy breeze cut through them as they stepped into the open. Sierra stepped immediately over to the fire and dropped her torch among the other fiery brands, and Elrohir once more followed suit. Then, with a somewhat irritated gesture to follow, Sierra stalked back the way they had come, the twins right behind her.
Feeling both more and less at ease than he had before, Elladan walked steadily beside his twin as they followed the girl. Getting Elrohir, he suspected, had been the easy part of this operation, especially if they were being watched. While two healers (at least, he assumed that was what they were thought to be) and a random guard could walk between the med tent and the prison cell unquestioned, he doubted they could simply leave the camp without alerting everyone in it that something was wrong. Of course, that presumed they were being followed. He wished he knew what their helper had in mind. Instead, all he could do was follow and hope that Sierra's plans turn out better than Estel's.
The tents were just as nondescript from this direction as they had been the other direction, but he had (almost unconsciously) counted the number of tents they passed, so it came as something of a surprise when Sierra did not lead them back between the fourth and fifth tent on the left. Instead, they walked straight past it. Another couple of tents and they had passed the med tent completely. She was not taking them straight to the mountains, was she? He eyed them uneasily.
But Sierra stopped, four past the med tent, and walked to a tent on the right. Holding the flap open, she gestured imperiously for them to go inside. Had he not known better, he would have thought them in trouble and about to get the coldest dressing-down of their life. Perhaps that was the point.
Elladan lead the way inside, with Elrohir ducking in behind him. The girl came last, never once looking to see who was watching. The twins watched her, waiting for some indication about what was going on. She put back her hood.
The elder relaxed. He pushed back his own hood. "What now?" he asked quietly.
"Tend your brother," she replied, handing him the bag before moving further into the tent.
"Whose is this?" Elrohir questioned looking around. He slipped out of the cloak without protest and sat to let his brother tend him.
The girl shifted something slightly before moving it back, the motion idle and pointless. She seemed to be looking for something. "No one's," she answered after a pause. "It's last owner died and it has yet to be reassigned. Until then, everyone's free to use it."
Elrohir nodded as if satisfied. He looked at his brother and grinned roguishly. Impossibly, it felt like they were elflings again, sneaking around in the dead of night determined not to get caught by any of the adults. But instead of getting a lecture and being sent to bed upon discovery, this time they would be tortured and eventually killed. Elladan shook his head, a faint grin on his lips, and focused on binding his brother's wrists.
"I'd thought I lost you," the younger murmured into the silence, his words once again concealed in elvish. "When I woke and you were gone. After what we had just gone through, I could not imagine any other reason for why you would not be there. I felt terrible and I imagined the worst."
Elladan swallowed hard. "I was taken to the healer," he explained in kind. "One of my ribs had punctured my lung. Apparently, they weren't quite ready to lose one of their prisoners--"
"Both," Elrohir interrupted grimly.
"--and had to take steps to rectify the mistake."
"I'm glad they did."
"So am I," Elladan agreed quietly. "How do you feel? Do you want anything for the pain?"
"I am well." Aside from the bruises, he looked well, his eyes bright. "Just a little sore. The headache and stuff are mostly worn off now."
"Are you sure?"
"His system's had time to clear more of the toxin they used when beating you because he hasn't been given any others," Sierra spoke up quietly from where she sat near the foot of the bed. "He'll tire quicker than usual for the next couple of days, though. Speak up if it becomes a problem."
Elrohir nodded. "What are you doing?"
She had cleared away an inch of sand from a half-foot wide square and was determinedly prying along an edge of it. Then-- even as they watched-- part of it came up, revealing a small hole in the solid floor. She pulled something out of it they could not see and quickly tucked it away inside her robes before resealing the hole and shifting the sand back over the top.
She stood. "Ready?"
Both nodded and they quickly walked back out into the camp. A few others were walking about now, and Elladan's hand twitched toward his waist. But he did not have a weapon, and if they were discovered now, they would be in serious trouble. None of the robed figures, however, paid them any mind, and they passed among them, mixing, and made their way to another tent, this one set somewhat apart from the others near the edge.
Sierra stopped them just short of it, and they hovered nearby, pretending to be in conversation. The girl indicated something to their right and Elladan glanced briefly in that direction before nodding. At that moment, three people emerged from the tent she was keeping a surreptitious eye on. They walked past them unconcernedly (Elladan heard one of them say "Blimey, it's cold out," and another "I'm starved. Let's see what kinda chow they got" before the trio moved out of earshot.
That, apparently, was what Sierra had been waiting for, for she now lead them around the tent, keeping to the shadows as she moved them slowly away from the camp. Elladan could see where the guards stood a little more than two dozen steps away until a twisted outcropping blocked them from sight. Here, she motioned them to stop. Stay here followed, and both twins exchanged glances as she moved away from them.
Footsteps, more than just their rescuer's, reached their ears moments later. They seemed to be approaching and were too cautious to simply be late-night strollers. Elladan exchanged another glance with Elrohir, the same question in his brother's eyes. What should we do?
I don't know. They waited in tense silence, listening intently for some sign of where this new group was going while trying to keep tabs on Sierra. The former was easy as the men, while walking quietly, were not actively trying to keep them from hearing them, but the latter proved impossible. Nearly as soon as she had left their sight, the girl's footsteps had vanished.
Elladan peered into the darkness, trying to pierce the shadows without moving from the shelter of their outcropping. Giving themselves away by being careless was not a thought the elder relished, yet his desire to know what was going on objected fiercely to staying still. Then there was the question of what Sierra was doing. Assuming she had continued the same way she had been going, she would intercept with the people they could hear coming. That was almost certainly bad. Thoughts of betrayal tried to creep back into his thoughts as he considered that she could be meeting with this new group, and she was with them alone.
Then the footsteps stopped. There was a scuffle, like more than one person tried to move quickly. A thud followed, then more scuffling, and then there was silence. Elladan and Elrohir exchanged another glance. They shifted uncomfortably.
Suddenly, Sierra reappeared among the stones. She motioned them forward. They wove among the rock formations that made up this section and emerged on a well-traveled path. Three bodies lay unmoving in the middle of it. Elladan could not tell if they were dead or not. The girl motioned to him, then one of the bodies and muttered, "Quickly." It took him only a moment to discern what she meant. He had only to look at the cloaks to figure it out.
Only one was of the style she wore, his a match for hers. The other two wore the somewhat simpler one that Elrohir had donned. He imagined the difference denoted rank, but he still could not determine what the significance was. Layers upon layers, he imagined, but he pushed those thoughts aside for the moment and simply shed his cloak and deftly stripped one of the two simple ones from the nearest body. It, too, appeared to have suffered a broken neck. He decided not think just yet on where this child had gotten so good at such a task.
He slipped it on quickly with Elrohir's help and raised the hood. Sierra was staring back at the camp. A tone, something like the ringing of a bell but too clear, sounded briefly.
She turned. "Come," she ordered, a note of urgency in her voice. She strode away quickly. Elrohir moved up next to him and handed him a sword and scabbard, another already secured about his waist. Elladan took it and followed, idly wondering if something had finally gone wrong.
Torl approached the elf's underground cell quickly. He scanned the area closely for Avis but did not see the boy anywhere. More than half an hour had passed since he sent him on his way; even if the boy had walked leisurely-- Torl knew he had not-- he still would have made it here, had time to check at the med tent, and arrived back here by now. Avis had been around long enough to know Torl would want to talk to him. The lad either should have found him by now or been waiting outside the cell for his arrival. That neither was the case troubled him.
One of the Watchers noticed his glances and must have thought Torl was looking for him for he hurried out and met him before he could reach the cell. "My lord," he greeted respectfully.
The gray-eyed man looked at him, trying to place a name. He had never had must to do with the Watchers, but Kelt had always been interested in them. . . . Ah. "Dirrick, has Avis been here?"
"Ah . . . yes, lord Torl," the other replied after pausing to check his memory. Torl almost winced at the title. "He went in shortly after the Healers and all three left soon after."
"Healers?" he questioned.
"The lady Akin and her helper, Dane, I believe."
"And they left together?"
"Yes, my lord," the man replied. If he saw any purpose to these questions, he did not let on.
Torl stared at him, fighting hard against jumping to conclusions. He persisted, "Did anyone see their faces?"
"No, lord. They had their hoods up." Torl could almost feel his urge to continue and say that was not uncommon, but he had obviously had enough experience with the Slyntari elite-- Shirk-- to know it was better to hold his tongue unless specifically asked for extraneous information. The elf lord was less likely to kill you for not talking than for wasting his time.
He nodded. He had expected as much. "Stay here," he ordered sharply.
The Watcher stared uncertainly as Torl strode away, his cloak billowing behind him. He grabbed a torch in passing, barely pausing as he pulled the flaming brand from the fire, and continued down the stairs, his steps a rapid tattoo that sounded like an almost constant hum. (He would have taken them two or three at a time, but it was a bad idea to miss any of these steps-- you usually missed the one you were aiming for, too.) The jumping light of the torch flared out before him, illuminating the shadow just off the foot of the stairs easily.
Torl skipped the last four steps entirely, touching down on the hard stone floor and letting his momentum carry him the remaining three strides to the dark heap before him. He crouched next to it, and pushed it slightly. Balanced precariously on its side, the still form rolled immediately onto its back, the head of dark hair rolling limply before coming to a halt, the sightless eyes pointed at the ceiling.
The man went very still, his hand hovering where it was as he stared blankly at the boy before him. Pale green eyes, so pale they looked almost gray, sparkled in the light from the flame. From the lad's expression, he probably never know what hit him. His attacker had killed him before he even realized they were there-- He did not need to look to know the elf was gone.
Torl looked anyway. The empty cuffs hung before him accusingly.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Three had left, Akin and her helper and the elf-- but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Akin was no traitor-- taciturn and bitter, but no traitor-- which meant there was a good possibility that Dane had not been here either. That left only the question of whether or not Akin and Dane were dead. He thought it likely considering Avis's condition, especially if the intruders had come through the med tent. All three left soon after. . . .
Spinning on his heel, Torl charged back up the stairs. He emerged at the top to find Dirrick waiting exactly where he had left him, both more and less anxious than when he had first started questioning him. "You're sure they came from the med tent?" he demanded before he had even reached the other's side. He carelessly tossed the torch towards the fire-- someone else would ensure it did not catch anything else on its hungry flames. "Someone saw them leave?"
"Yes, my lord," the young Watcher reported. "Kelin reported it, sir."
Torl nodded. He had expected as much. "Sound the alert. The Elf has escaped. Send someone to the med to see if the other Elf is there. Report back to me immediately. MOVE!"
Dirrick jumped as if he had been burned, then motioned frantically to someone out of sight. Another young man, possibly even younger than Avis, emerged from one of the nearby tents at a run. Torl watched him, but he already knew what the youth would find. A clear tone, made with a special horn, sounded through the camp. All around them people began lowering their hoods. He paid them no mind.
The man brushed his hair irritably from his face. He had just been put in charge of the prisoners and already he had lost them! "Search the grounds," he snapped. "Find out where they went."
"Yes, sir," Dirrick saluted. He disappeared so quickly an elf would have had a hard time marking him. Not that Torl cared.
The dark-haired human barely glanced at him, instead trying to focus, figure out if there was anything else he needed to do. Nothing came to mind. Nothing . . . which meant it was time to report to Shirk. Every emotion locked from his face, he once more began winding through the camp in search of his lord.
In the back of his mind, he kept asking how this could have happened; how someone could have snuck into their camp, stolen two prisoners, and snuck right back out without anyone being the wiser. He kept running over the facts he knew, again and again, trying to find the answer.
Only one came to mind-- Kelt.
She moved quickly over the rocky terrain. Planting a false trail when the Slyntari would probably not pay it any attention was only so much wasted effort, but as there was nothing more she could do except wait while the one elf tended the other, it was time spent well enough.
They had had to stop barely half a mile out from the camp when the injured elf-- the more injured elf, anyway-- fell, twisting his ankle and nearly bursting his stitches. Tremors, similar to the ones suffered after a fright, had wracked his form and she was hard-pressed to identify what was causing it. He had been subjected to a fairly lethal combination of drugs, after all. The elf's brother was treating him, having refused to let her anywhere near him, and she had disappeared to give them a few moments of peace and solitude. She had a feeling all their efforts would be in vain anyway.
Kalya paused, braced against a flinty outcropping and glanced back at Camp Death. Dozens of people moved about within it, nearly three dozen of them disappearing inside tents for a few moments before reemerging and moving on. Standard search after an alert, she knew. It would not be long before that alert was upgraded to an alarm and the searchers were directed to expand their search. From there, it would not take long for them to be found. They were not nearly far enough away and their adversaries could move more quickly than they could.
She sighed and continued walking. The elf was strong, but after what he had suffered he was not nearly strong enough. Anyone could see that Stitches was not capable of running from the Slyntari, even his brother, though the dark-haired elf denied it most fiercely. They would both go or neither would. That determination could be clearly seen in his eyes; the desire that he would leave visible in his brother's, along with the resignation that it would never happen.
Before the end of this night, she was sure she would be forced to watch as she failed again-- only this time, that failure would cost two lives and maybe more. That Shirk would enjoy torturing the twin sons of Elrond just for the fun of it, just to make his old adversary pay, was a given. He hated the Lord of Imladris enough that the pain it would give the other elf would be more than reason enough to kidnap the two and torture them. But she was sure there had to be another reason: why go to all the effort if personal satisfaction was all that was gained?
But what else? Inciting the elves to abandon their passive regard of the affairs of men was hardly something Sauron wanted. A fading people they may be, but his plans were not yet advanced enough that the elves could not destroy them if they were incited to fight with men once more. And if she was right in her belief that the Slyntari were preparing to mobilize-- but mobilize what? The Slyntari did not go to war. They only started them. Who was to fight?
She sucked her teeth in frustration. There were only two kingdoms of men in opposition to Sauron that were worthy of notice: Gondor and Rohan. The old kingdom was busy rebuilding, strengthening its walls, consolidating its power under the Stewardship of Ecthelion. Would Sauron want that to go forth? An attack on Gondor, this time from the west. . . . But no, that would be folly. Any attack on Gondor from the west would be sure to draw the attention of Rohan, and then he would simply be facing a unified kingdom of men. The Dark Lord was not so foolish as to do that.
An attack on Rohan, then. Gondor was not likely to be able to send aid even if it was asked for unless she misjudged the beleaguered kingdom's strength. She doubted Sauron did. But where did the elven twins come into an attack on Rohan? No trickery on the part of the Dark Lord would convince the horselords to attack the elves, nor the elves to attack the horselords. Information, perhaps? But what information could elves who resided in Rivendell and rode with the rangers of the north have of a kingdom so far south of where they dwelt? Unless the information Shirk wanted did not pertain to the coming attack at all.
They resided in Rivendell. Long had the descendants of Isildur been sheltered in that elven haven. Did he perhaps seek to discover the identity of the last heir? It was a thought she had not previously considered, but it was possible. Knowing what she did, she could not imagine either elf giving up their foster brother to Shirk so she could not imagine how he hoped to gain their cooperation if that was indeed his aim. Unless he misjudged their stubbornness and hoped to use each against the other?
Kalya frowned, and was still frowning when she came back into sight of the elven twins. They were in the same spots that they had occupied when she left, one braced against a nearby stone and the other facing him; Stitches looked even worse, somehow, than when she had left, an open water flask braced in his lap. They whispered together and did not seem to notice her approach.
Taking advantage of their distraction, she chose a rock some feet from them and settled herself against it where she could watch them and their surroundings both, especially as it seemed neither twin was paying over much attention to their surroundings. Curse Shirk to whatever dark hell would torment him most-- perhaps a small room of stark white; The light would drive him bonkers.
Stitches noticed her fist. His somewhat glazed eyes fixed on her intently from beneath half-closed lids. "Were your efforts fruitful?" he inquired softly. His brother looked up quickly to see who he was talking to and did not quite relax upon seeing her. She had a feeling he did not like that she could sneak up on him.
"I do not think they will find our trail," she answered. She did not add that she doubted they would need to follow it in the first place to find them. If either of her companions thought the same, they did not voice it. Silence fell over the trio.
The wind howled eerily around them as it forced its way around and through the various rock formations they crept through. The first trees-- pale, unhealthy looking things-- were still several miles off. They grew sparsely for around a mile until they reached the river, then grew more closely, close and numerous enough to offer shelter. She had hoped to make it there, where it was easier to lose or neutralize their opponents. There was not a hope of that now.
She glanced back at the elves. "Perhaps as you know my name I might be granted the honor of yours," she said, more to break the silence than anything else.
"You do not know who we are?" the hovering one asked sharply, his suspicion heightened. Whatever bothered him about her, her question seemed to have exacerbated it.
Smothering her irritation as best she could (those damned posturing sessions over dinner among the Slyntari finally coming in handy), she answered lightly. "I know you are the twin sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, but that does not mean I know your names."
Stitches chuckled (possibly at his brother's expression) and lightly brushed his chest with his first two fingers. "I am Elladan. My brother" --indicating his scowling mirror image-- "is Elrohir."
"Well met," she murmured, inwardly comparing what she had heard of them to what she was confronted with. Had she guessed, she would have reversed them.
"Then you have only heard of us," Elrohir spoke up suddenly. "It is rare for one to risk one's life for a stranger."
Really? was her first reaction. Does Aragorn know that? But she refrained from saying it. That would only lead to uncomfortable questions she did not wish to answer, and regardless what Aragorn may or may not have told them she doubted revealing who she was would put the younger twin at ease.
Instead, she said evenly, "You mean to say I have an ulterior motive for rescuing you."
"I doubt you risked the wrath of the Slyntari simply out of the goodness of your own heart."
"No," she agreed calmly, catching the dark glance Elladan sent his brother though Elrohir himself seemed to have missed it. "But I will not betray you."
"Then why did you help us?" He persisted, ignoring her last comment, and also ignoring his twin, who despite the rather pointed nudge he had just administered looked rather like he desired to hit him.
She smiled blithely. "Enemy of an enemy or friend of a friend, which ever makes you happy." She stood. "Shall we?"
Elladan nodded, pushing himself to his feet. Elrohir helped him silently, still glaring, but it was a more reserved kind of glare found mostly in his eyes, which were dark and mistrustful. He ignored her to help guide his twin along the somewhat treacherous path she had indicated earlier.
Elves, Kalya sighed. She bent down to pick up pack before following them, tucking the water bottle back in as she went. Already she could tell this was going to be a simply marvelous experience, the sarcasm of her own thoughts rivaling the younger twin's opinion of her "goodness."
Barely ten minutes later, the alarm sounded.
". . . sent to check the med tent. A search has been organized for the eastern quadrant. We should hear back something soon," Torl finished. He kept to himself the belief that the search would do no good. He watched the activity before him critically, overly aware of the elf standing beside him doing the same.
"Yes," Shirk agreed easily, his voice ending on a hiss.
Bare moments passed, with twenty-three people entering twenty-three separate tents and fourteen leaving others, before anyone approached the aloof pair standing outside the action. The lad, perhaps seventeen with lots of freckles and pale skin, had obviously been running, and was panting despite his efforts to control his breathing as he stopped before them. "My lords," he bowed.
"What did you find?" Torl prompted, a glance at his lord revealing that the other would say nothing. He was in charge of the prisoners and, thus, in charge of conducting their recovery.
"The Elf is gone, my lord," the other said with an anxious flicker-glance to Shirk. Apparently, he had decided to start with the worst news and work his way up. His hands picked nervously at the hem of his cloak. "Both Akin and Dane are dead. The reserve healer--" (the reserve of the reserve, actually, as Kelt had been the reserve) "--estimates they have been dead for more than two hours. No one has entered or left since the ersatz Akin and Dane." He opened his mouth like he would say more, but closed it again without saying a word. Probably for the best as it nearly certainly would have started with "I think," and that was always dangerous among the young.
Torl nodded. He had been right, then. "Very well," he responded gravely. "Sound the alarm." He watched the other leave trying not to think about what this meant.
"You seem disturbed, lieutenant," Shirk observed calmly, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Yes, sir," he replied in the clipped military tones that gave nothing away. Lying was out of the question, but there was no reason to give the elf more to work with than necessary. Maybe he would even miss something. . . .
"Their escape bothers you," the fair-haired being prompted.
Inwardly, Torl sighed. It was not often that the lord of the Slyntari wanted to hear his lieutenant's thoughts, but when he did it was almost always when the man did not want to share them. Elves seemed to be able to pick those moments with remarkable ease.
"Yes, my lord," he answered. "Their escape could conceivably ruin our plans. If the Lord of Rivendell ever--"
"The Lord of Rivendell will never discover our plans until it is already too late and the only thing he can do is watch," Shirk interrupted him imperiously, dismissing the notion. More importantly to Torl, he had been distracted. "Even if the sons of Elrond were to make it all the way back to Imladris to report to their father, nothing would change that. Regardless, you need not worry on it. Neither Elf will so much as cross the mountains."
"As you say, my lord." He nearly winced as the words passed his mouth. If his lord was in a bad mood. . . .
But the response was mild, almost indulgent, like a parent speaking to a precocious child who thought only he knew best. "You do not believe me."
Yes or no would never do. He took a deep breath. "There are rumors of Elven strength and resilience, my lord. I find it difficult to believe bruises would slow them down. And even the one's broken ribs and pierced lung should not do much to hinder them, I think, especially as that was well on its way to recovery."
"On their own, they would not. A mild nuisance, nothing more. But you are forgetting the drugs that still run in their veins. One, I believe, will find it very difficult to go anywhere at all." Cruel amusement trickled through Shirk's words. His visage was set in darkly satisfied lines.
"You think the drugs will keep them from escaping?" Torl could not resist prompting.
Shirk's face set. "On the contrary, Torl: I know it. They will not make the Lefnui, and by the end of this night we will have gained a fair prize."
Prudence warned him not to ask, but an odd dread loosened his tongue. "My lord?" he posed, keeping his tone curious, questioning. Perhaps his luck would hold. . . .
Shirk seemed to barely register his presence. "Come morning," he continued softly, lethally, "the Elven twins will be ours. And we will no longer need to search for one who left our company too soon."