Please note: I do not like writing actions scenes. Please double note: I am not very good at them. Up until recently, they've been at a fair minimum. With that in mind, along with the fact that upcoming chapters should have a lot of action, please help me get better by 1) telling me what was good, 2) telling me what was bad, and 3) telling me what could have been done better and how. Intensive, I know, but the only way I'll ever get better is with your honest feedback. Seggestions are always welcome.
Thank you all for putting up with me. I know how frustrating it is to have an author disappear for months at a time and how hard it is to keep interest in a story that never seems to get posted. I hope I haven't lost any of you to my tardiness, and I hope following chapters reward your diligence. Hannon le.
Thank you for your reviews. I love and every one. Responses are at the bottom, and I'll not waste anymore of your time with my blabber. Enjoy.
(Agh! First they take away stars, now arrows. . . What am I supposed to mark breaks with!? Grrrr!)
Chapter 18
He floated in an exhaustive pool of semi-darkness. The dim light of the room diffused through his heavy lids as he sought a few moments rest before he and Legolas would need to talk and he would be forced to make yet another decision that tormented his heart. With his eyes closed, his mind set adrift. . . .
"Ranger. . . . Come, Ranger. . . ."
He shifted, turning his head restlessly to the side. He frowned and pressed his eyes tighter shut. He was too tired to come. Too tired to go anywhere.
"You need not make this harder, Ranger."
Make what harder? Cold crept upon him, twisting up his legs like a snake, relentless and slow, chilling him with the knowledge that he could not escape and freezing his breath. It shuddered out of him like a beckon of death, hovering in the air like an icy mist.
He shivered, shuddered, pulling in on himself to fend away the cold, but he could not. His hands caught, jerked. Bonds of ice held him, froze him, sapped his strength. He could not escape. . . .
"I already have you. You can end it all . . . make it all go away. You can save them, Ranger. . . ."
A gasp seared his ears, a quiet whimper of pain. His heart froze in his chest. Dark blue eyes-- empty, broken-- peered at him from the darkness, begged him to make it all end . . . just let it stop. A breath. ". . . estel. . . ."
"They call for you, Ranger. Don't they? They want you to save them. You can. You can make this all just a horrible nightmare, all just a dream. . . ."
Twin pained eyes pleaded with him to make it stop. He gasped in the frigid cold.
"And all you have to do is answer a question. Can you answer a question?"
Yes, he gasped, but there was no sound. Something snapped nearby. A bloodcurdling scream split the air. He wanted to cover his ears. Tears pooled in his eyes. Make it stop.
"Tell me: Who is Isildur's heir?"
Time stilled, warped, twisted around him, and all he could feel was the cold. The tendrils multiplied, covered him, engulfed his legs and continued up his body. Past his knees . . . his hips . . . up to his neck and twisting around his arms. He was drowning, drowning in the cold and all he could hear was their screams. All he could see was their eyes, so cold. So dead.
"You can save them. All you need to do is give me a name."
I can save them. My life for theirs. I can save them. I can save them like they saved me. . . .
"Aragorn."
BAM!
[[[]]]
Abyl jumped. The mug he was holding slipped from his hands and bounced over the counter. Any noise it made was lost to mortal ears as the inn door burst open, slamming into the wall with a crash like thunder. Shocked surprise and dread froze him in place, his hands suspended in mid-motion before him. For a moment, his eyes watched while his mind floundered, unable to comprehend what he saw.
A tall, slender being wearing dark brown breaches and a dark green long-sleeved shirt, an unbuttoned vest hanging open over top, darted through the door. The pale skin seemed nearly white because of the dark colors and dozens of freckles danced across the person's nose just under pale green eyes that sparkled with a light of their own. Pale red hair, lightened with hints of gold topped the image like wisps of cloud.
The building rattled like an angry fist-- walls, floor, and ceiling alike-- before the great wooden door bounced back upon its disturber. The young man jumped back with a small cry, his hands held up before him as if to ward off an attack, his eyes wide. The door hit the frame with another echoing crash.
And Abyl regained his faculties. "Jermy!" he cried, his tone equal parts relief and reproof. He had feared. . . . "What are you doing?"
His friend grimaced sheepishly. "Sorry, Abe," an answered, timidly-- almost as if he expected it to bite him-- pushing the still quivering door closed until it clicked shut, leaving silence in its wake.
"What's going on?" he pressed, his curiosity getting the best of him. While his naive friend was rash and excitable, he rarely tried to break the door down in the middle of the night. What had happened since last morning that had excited him so? On second thought, he really did not want to know-- but the damage had already been done.
Green eyes burned with fervor. "You'll never guess what I found out, Abe!" His voice fairly trembled with ebullience. He perched on the same stool Strider had abandoned earlier. "All our waiting has paid off!"
"What?"
"The Strangers are here!" Jermy shrieked quietly.
"The-- what?" His heart, which had resumed beating after his initial fright, froze in his chest, constricting his breathing. His eyes darted to the stairway across the room impulsively. But surely he could not mean those two. It was two Men they were expecting. . . . It was just coincidence that Jermy announced the strangers were in Caivern when he had two guests in his inn. Coincidence.
"The Strangers!" his friend confirmed happily, blissfully unaware of Abyl's uncomfortable thoughts. "Siirl's seen 'em! Came in on a strange horse, both of 'em together. He's gatherin' his people now, he is. Reckon he's got 'em. Can you believe it? An Elf, here!"
"Elf?" He latched onto the word with a feeling of sinking horror. Oh gods, no.
"I know! I couldn't believe it either!" Jermy prattled, completely misinterpreting his slack expression. "Who'd a thought them beings would come here?"
Abyl licked his suddenly dry lips. "Um, did he say where they were?" His mind was racing in circles, running over the same information without any knew results. His gaze strayed to the stairwell once more.
"No, why--" Jermy followed his gaze. Green eyes widened. "Oh. I didn't wake 'em, did I?"
"I don't see how you couldn't have," he returned wearily, yet neither stranger had appeared at the foot of the stairwell, angry eyes demanding to know why they had been disturbed and seeking retribution. Maybe they were still asleep? Or maybe they had left? Slipped out unnoticed from an upper window?
Impossible, he knew, but the hope was a seductive one. He did not look forward to explaining to Strider and Legolas that the Men of Caivern were hunting them; did not look forward to Siirl knocking on his door demanding he give them up. He had not wanted to be involved in this! He had worked so hard not to get involved. Why him?
"Oh." The boy of Rohan looked back. "But what strange fortune," he said with low energy, his eyes once again alight, "that so many strangers should come on this day."
"So many?" Abyl challenged crossly. "Nay, there are but the two."
"But--" Jermy's eyes widened yet further, his expression strained as he seemed caught between wonder and horror. "Here?"
"Aye, here. I wish you would have told me true at the first so I would've known to send them away."
Confusion, hurt, and innocent earnestness transformed his friend's face in succession, and Abyl nearly groaned; what would it take to wake Jermy up to the reality of life? "But do you not want to meet them? 'Tis not often we ever chance to see one of the Fair Folk."
"I do not wish to be caught in the midst of a fight, Jermy," he countered darkly.
"Nor do we."
Both boys looked up in surprise at the calm, musical voice. Legolas stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed and as alert as if he had just woken from a long, deep sleep. He leaned casually against the doorjamb, not quite standing in the room. Abyl felt like he had been caught out, his hand in the sweets jar when the treats had been forbidden. Jermy's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, but for once, he was speechless, his joy to great to allow words.
"Perhaps you would share with us the reason you expect a fight."
Abyl nodded. It had been phrased as a suggestion, but he was under no illusion that the elf would not force the issue if he refused. Besides, what did he have to lose by telling them the information? It was hardly a secret. "Do you not wish to wait for your friend?" The ranger had not come down yet.
Legolas glanced back up the stairs, but his eyes were foiled. The upper landing was empty. He heard no stirring upstairs. More than anything he wished to wait for Aragorn, wished to venture back up and retrieve him-- especially as the commotion should have bolted the human from the bed-- so that he might know his friend was well. It worried him that the ranger had not shown, yet a strange urgency warned him from seeking the man out. "Nay," he answered finally. "I deem time too precious."
Again, Abyl nodded. His brown eyes were filled with a nameless turmoil. "Weeks ago, Sairen overheard a group of South Men talking of capturing two strangers. You, apparently, though I know not why. The boy went to Siirl, his uncle. Siirl is vindictive and he hates the South Men more than any other. When he learned what they intended, he deemed it necessary to deny them their prize. By . . . killing you." The boy looked at the elf closely, but saw no reaction to his words. "There are those who follow him and more who are desperate. If he commands, they will obey."
"It would seem," Legolas replied after a moment, "that we have worn out our welcome."
"I am sorry." He had not the faintest idea for what he was apologizing; it simply came out.
A gentle smile softened the fair face of the elf. "Worry not. We hold you no ill will. Indeed, it was a welcome distraction to make your acquaintance. You give me hope for future generations of Men, that they may not be mired in hate for other races. Yet now we must be going."
"I will get the supplies I have gathered," Abyl offered, retreating before any refusal could be spoken.
"Thank you," Legolas answered. He looked back to the stairwell and was not surprised to find it empty. Come, my friend, he encouraged silently. We run short on time. He was just about to go up when a voice stopped him.
"You are an Elf?"
The elf prince turned to the fair-haired youth before him. He had never seen such wide eyes on a human before. "I am," he confirmed.
Excited longing made pale green eyes glow, and the young face seemed even younger. "I've always wanted to meet an Elf."
Legolas laughed lightly. "In that case, I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm."
"J-Jermy, son of Jaivis."
"Pleased to meet you, Jermy, son of Jaivis."
Whatever the boy would have replied was interrupted by Abyl's return. "I have not yet gathered everything, and it is but a fraction of what should be yours but-- Master Strider." Brown eyes stared suddenly past Legolas' shoulder, his forward momentum thwarted.
Legolas turned and found his own reason to be startled by his friend's appearance. Though his expression was neutral, he looked haggard, worn beyond what his physical exertions could attest. He looked as if he had fought a war in the time since the elf had closed the ranger's door though it was unlikely the boys noted the change.
Yet despite the startling fatigue, it was the man's eyes which held him speechless: dark and haunted, full of despair, it looked as if a stranger had taken residence in those silver orbs in the short minutes of his absence. Legolas was reminded of Aragorn's appearance in Mirkwood with his anxious twin brothers in tow.
"What has happened?" Aragorn asked, his calm words a jarring slap amid the turmoil of the elf's thoughts. The silver eyes locked on his, the darkness not quite banished behind a mask of calm, consciously pushed aside by the necessity of the moment.
Mentally, Legolas shook his head. They would speak of this later, whether the ranger desired it or not. He answered lightly, "It seems we're more popular than we thought, my friend. We are hunted by two groups. Apparently the villagers wish to kill us because the South Men wish us captured."
"I see," the ranger said. "He did not, really, but he was willing to take his friend's word for it and understand later.
"Here are some of the supplies you asked for," Abyl spoke up, hoisting the bag onto the bar.
Aragorn nodded and accepted the bag silently, leaving a few coins in its wake that Abyl either did not see or did not care about. He slipped past the tables on his way to the door, and Legolas stepped up behind him, his blue eyes worried as they tracked the ranger. If he looked anything like he felt, he was not surprised.
He felt out of place, like he had never woken and this was but a dream or he a wraith passing unseen. In the dark reaches of his mind he could still hear that slow, silky voice, its pleasant tones deceptive to his purpose. He could still hear it, and he knew that voice. He had heard it once before. He knew it, and the knowledge chilled him.
Shirk.
Every time he closed his eyes, he could see dark blue eyes staring at him, familiar eyes, empty of all life or purpose. He could see the desire for death in the dull orbs and his heart rent in two. He could hear their screams. . . .
The door slamming had been a blessing in disguise, jerking him from that cold world he had slipped into when he closed his eyes, but not even that jarring could erase it from his mind. And deep in his heart, he feared it was more than a dream, more than just a shade meant to torment him and rob him of his sleep. He feared it was something far worse.
He feared it was the future. Deep in the very core of his being, he feared his dream was a vision and would come to pass. If it was, every sacrifice his family had ever made was in vain. Every heartache, every sacrifice, was for naught. He had broken, and with his fall went every hope his family had held in him. In that last moment, when he would have told all, he had betrayed himself and his family, the faith his loved ones held in him. The echo of his father's voice, speaking his name in rebuke, filled him with shame. And doubt.
Could he save his brothers? He had hoped so, but now he feared it was a task beyond him. He had faced the Slyntari before and it was not an experience he relished. He had needed his brothers to save him, and Kalya was the only reason they had been able to. How could he ever hope to save them from an enemy he could defeat?
Always he had known he would sacrifice himself to save his brothers, ever since he was just a boy, but he had never imagined he might be the reason they were in danger. How could he have failed to think the enemy would go after his brothers to find the heir of Isildur? How could he have been so foolish? And now, now that they were in the hands of one he could not defeat, how could he save them?
Sauron's servants must never find the heir of Isildur.
You are the Hope of Men, Aragorn. The time has not come for you to reveal yourself to the Dark Lord. You must not reveal yourself until the due time. All will come to darkness if you do.
When you are ready, when the time has come, you will face the test of Isildur and be known to the Enemy, but that time is not yet.
It is not time for Middle-earth to know of Isildur's heir. For your own safety and the safety of others, your name must remain hidden.
For the safety of others. . . .
Yet Elladan and Elrohir were not safe. The ones who had hidden him, protected him, taught him, were not kept safe by their deception. Harboring him had brought them to this. Could he let them suffer for him? His heart screamed no. Yet could he render all their efforts and care moot by giving himself into the hands of the very enemy they had worked so hard to shield him from? Could he stand by and do nothing while they suffered?
From the day he learned of his heritage, he had known his life would never be easy. For a time, he had thought he could run from it, could pretend it did not exist and so escape it, but that time was long past. It kept coming back to haunt him. So he held it close and kept it locked up tight, far away from where others could see it, where even he could not see it, and hid his heart from all but a precious few. How could he now choose between the heritage he does not want and the family he always wished he truly belonged to?
His mind struggled against itself and his very soul ripped in two as he struggled against the two betrayals. Anything he chose, someone would get hurt. He prayed the Valar that he would be the only one to know such heartache, yet he knew in his heart he prayed in vain. That knowledge alone tormented him as much as his dream.
Barely registering the action, Aragorn pulled open the door and stepped outside. He glanced to either side, scanning his surroundings, by force of habit alone and stood beyond the foot of the stairs before his mind registered what his eyes saw. He stopped suddenly.
A great press of bodies formed a semicircle before the Black Stallion Inn with more standing behind them, filling the street in both directions. The torches they had missed on their arrival now jumped nearby, floating spheres of light. Around him, metal gleamed. Sharp eyes catalogued swords, spears, pitchforks, scythes and hoes, all brandished by men who looked about as frightened as angry. His eyes flickered over archers standing across from them and whirled, thinking to warn Legolas back inside.
"Now, don't go!" a voice interrupted, both mocking and challenging. The long-familiar reedy groan of strung bow being pulled stopped him mid-motion as the call had not. "We haven't been introduced yet."
Aragorn sighed but did not face their latest aggressor, instead imperceptibly continuing his original direction to look at Legolas. He was not surprised to see the elf had his bow in hand, but no arrow was strung. He, too, had been caught off-guard. The ranger had no need to wonder why.
Him. He was the reason. He was always the reason. And Halbarad wondered why he preferred to travel alone.
Still perched upon the top step, Legolas met his gaze squarely. In his blue eyes, Aragorn could read his own frustration and resignation, but too, his readiness: Yes, I'm fine. Lead, and I will follow. Sometimes, he wished his friend was not so eager to follow him into danger; usually it was when they no longer had a choice about being there.
He cocked his head questioningly, forcing himself to focus on the present, not the past or future. Legolas shook his head fractionally-- most of his attention was focused beyond the ranger. There were no easy exits, none that could be made quickly.
Aragorn looked past him, his silver eyes lighting on Abyl and his friend. Both had stopped at the Inn's threshold and stood staring out at the mass confrontation on their doorstep. The fair-haired youth looked surprised, but this seemed to be about what Abyl had expected. The lad seemed to feel his gaze for he glanced down. Nearly ten feet separated them, but for an instant, that distance disappeared. Dark brown eyes stared at him from a solemn face. I'm sorry, they said. He could hear it plain as day.
Then the world fell away. The thunder of hooves, at least a dozen strong, pounded against his ears, thrumming inside his head. The youth's eyes faded before him, replaced by dark clad men with flashing swords. Hatred rode before them and Death came in their wake. Screams welled up, a cry. Figures ran, two, scrambling madly before the onset. He flew towards them, above the Death that destroyed everything around him, agonized shrieks echoing death-cries to his ears. The mud ran slick with blood.
One of the figures fell. Slid. It clawed, desperately, at the ground, trying, trying to go forward, but pulled back. The Fell Men rushed forward, smelling victory. The other figure turned.
"NO!"
But the voice was distant, coming from a world away even as it reverberated in his heart. The world spun, wheeled. Suddenly, he was there, amid the blood soaked earth, thunder engulfing him, the very air sucked from his lungs. He could not breathe, could not move-- suspended among the horror. Squelching mud mingled with shrill despair. His eyes focused on the fallen figure.
More than anything else, he knew he did not want to see, did not want to know, but he could not move. The Horse Men advanced, drawing all life to them, sucking up everything pure and fresh. The figure resisted, struggled. Its hood fell back.
Legolas.
"Help." A whisper. A plea. Breathless.
Then the Men rode past. He was swallowed in darkness.
No cry passed his lips, though they opened. No breath found his lungs, though they ached. His heart stopped. Loss ripped through him, keen as the screams that whipped about him but strangely distant.
He did naught but stared as the same fate rushed to claim him. He felt strangely empty as the distance shrank from twenty yards . . . twelve yards . . . Ten . . . Five. Two.
Then they morphed, twisting upon themselves and winging around him like a dark and powerful cyclone. The wind of their passage pulled at his clothes and hair, sucked at his very soul, picked him up and twirled him, spun him, and left him . . .
Amid trees; dry, dead trees. They creaked and moaned. A body hung before his eyes, naked from the waist up-- bruised, bloody. Dead. Glassy blue eyes stared at him. Condemning. Then it doubled, stretched and blurred like a mirror being swung out, the body now two, the eyes four. All still. All motionless. All covered in blood.
Sword hilts stuck from their guts, terribly familiar. Writing scrawled elegantly across their chests. ONE MAN TO DOOM THEM ALL. . . .
A whisper. . . .
"Your fault. Your fate."
A sword flashed, stabbed for his gut--
"It's rude not to look at someone when they address you, Stranger."
He found himself staring at brown eyes no longer fixed on his own, Legolas still standing near him, and those eerie trees nowhere to be seen, wooden buildings in his vision as far as he could see. He blinked.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Aragorn pushed everything away and cautiously turned to face the ringleader of their most recent trouble. The man had the same red hair of his kin worn long and pulled back in a low tail. His was the look of a powerfully built man gone to seed. Muscles that had once been well defined were now swathed in fat. A stomach that had once been lean now bulged. Something in the air around him, the way he carried himself, suggested he spent much of his time drowning in a bottle.
The ranger met the fierce gaze evenly and held his hands in plain view by his side. "We have no quarrel with you, good sir. Kindly step aside and let us pass."
"Let you pass?" the man interrupted, darkly incredulous. "I don't know how people run things where you come from, Stranger, but 'round here, we don't let murderers and thieves run free."
Briefly, Aragorn wondered if it would do any good to argue. He thought not. "What makes you think we're murderers or thieves?" he inquired calmly, his voice as soothing as he could make it in the hope of talking the man to a diffusion. Maybe they could get out of this without loss of life. The hard glimmer in the man's eyes mocked his hope.
"Anyone who has business with the South Men can't possibly be anything else." His lip curled at the very mention of the people.
"We claim no business with these South Men."
"They claim business with you," the man answered. "That is enough."
A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd like an angry wind. He knew not what these people had endured, nor what horrors they had faced, but it was obvious to him they had been stirred up for this purpose: ensuring he and Legolas never made it out of Caivern.
Aragorn stared into the mob leader's dark eyes. "What do you propose?"
The other smiled, whether in triumph of amusement, the dúnadan could not tell, but the man's bearing relaxed slightly. If he thought he had won, his celebration was premature. "Why, putting an end to all this trouble, of course."
"And how would we accomplish that?" Aragorn pressed, determined to hear what he already knew from this man. To what purpose, even he could not fathom.
"We kill you."
He blinked, nonplused. After how delicately this man had lead up to the declaration, he had not expected it to be stately so bluntly. "I see," he managed.
"They aren't criminals, Siirl!" Abyl's friend burst out suddenly, drawing a startled "Jermy!" from the dark-haired youth. "They're nothing like them foul. . . ."
"Quiet, Jerm--"
". . . beast you compare 'em to! They're nice--"
"SHUT UP YOU STUPID BOY!" The crowd fell silent. Siirl continued with the full attention of the crowd fixed on him, his voice low and dangerous, filled with dark fury. "Don't talk about what you don't understand."
"But--"
"Quiet, Jermy," Abyl hissed, overriding his friend's protest. Aragorn was still watching Siirl closely, but he heard the clunk of boots that signaled Abyl had pulled the other back. "Now's not the time. You'll just make it worse."
"They're gonna kill 'em, Abe. How can it get worse than that?"
A foolish question, Aragorn knew. Unfortunately (or fortunately, if one so deemed), as an experienced ranger, he had plenty of answers. He grieved that Abyl obviously had enough experience to provide a few himself, but he stopped listening as Siirl stirred himself to talk.
"Now, listen here, Stranger. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but we're not letting you leave."
"You mean we can walking willingly to our deaths at your hands or fight back and possibly achieve the same end through more honorable means," the ranger replied, his tone somewhere between wry and disgusted.
"That's right," Siirl agreed nastily. "What's it going to be?"
He scanned the crowd, judging what he saw in their eyes, reading their resolve and mind set. He heard Legolas shift behind him and knew without having to look that the elf was ready to act, that he expected to act. It was unthinkable to him that they should submit. Aragorn wished it were so clear-cut to him.
Yet the ranger could not help but see how many were arrayed against them; could not shake the knowledge that if they fought, many of these men would die. There was simply no way they could escape without paving that way in blood, and he could not bring himself to declare the necessity of taking innocent lives. The villagers wanted to kill them, but they had done him no wrong. It was not wrong to want to protect one's family, one's home.
Legolas shifted again behind him, impatient with the delay. If he was to die, he wanted to fight. Aragorn licked his lips and resisted the rather strong urge to simply run and never look back. His brothers claimed he did not know when to keep his mouth shut. He was going to prove it now.
He let his eyes drift over the gathered crowd. "I can see you are all ready to fight," he commented. The group shifted uneasily, unsure of his purpose. He looked at Siirl. "But how many of you are prepared to abandon your families this night?"
Siirl's eyes narrowed. A rustle went through the crowd. For an endless moment the two leaders stared at each other-- one an exiled king of men, the other a disgruntled barkeeper-- both on equal footing. Then Siirl shouted.
"SHOOT THEM!" he bellowed.
The words had barely registered in his ears, the meaning yet far away, when something landed on his back. Hands grasped his shoulders, pulling him to the side and down, twisting him as he fell. Elf and ranger spun to the ground and rolled before gaining their feet, their momentum nearly taking them into the right-most ranks of the mob.
The men fell back, surprised by their action, and the companions took advantage, drawing their weapons and continuing forward before the others could find their bearings. They drove straight through the throng, forcing their way past three rows before the villagers regained their nerve. Then their plan (if plan it was) fell apart.
Surrounded, they were stymied. Aragorn blocked a blow high, shoving backwards to knock the blade away, then turned and sliced through the wooden handle of a scythe a farmer had tried to bring down on his head. The curved blade continued down, the ranger hastily jumping clear, straight into the elbow of another.
He bounced away, off-balance, swinging his sword in a wide arc as he spun to discourage anyone from coming too close. The villagers back up, shifting away from his sword when he turned on them, apparently as unwilling to impale themselves on the iron as he was to impale them, but came back the moment his back was turned. It did not take a genius to figure out that sooner or later they would be overrun, and unless they wanted to die, Aragorn knew they only had two choices: kill the villagers, or surrender.
The thought of surrendering was a sour taste in his mouth, such a thing going against every fiber of his being. And what of his brothers? How could he possibly save them if he was killed at the hands of these villagers twisted whims? Neither death nor surrender could help them, unless. . . .
"Wait! WAIT!" he yelled, struggling to be heard over the great mass. "Wait!" The villagers paused, backing up slightly, their weapons still held warily before them. Aragorn kept his sword ready, but made no move to strike. He studiously refrained from glancing at Legolas; he did not want to see his friend's face when the elf understood what he was doing. "We never made our choice."
A murmur rippled through the gathered. "You made your choice when you drew your sword, Stranger," Siirl's dark voice growled from nearby. Aragorn turned his head and saw the man striding toward him. "Prepare to die."
"You attacked us first," the ranger reminded him steadily. He could feel Legolas' eyes on the back of his head. "We had no choice."
"Sure you did. You could have stood there and died like Men. Now you will just die."
"What would the Black Stallion's Keeper have to say about you committing murder on his front step?" he pressed. "So everyone who came by henceforth would be forced to walk through another man's blood."
"I care not," Siirl declared, but it was obvious from the discontented whispers of his followers that the rest of the small town did.
"Not right, steppin' on another man's business," someone near at hand murmured. Agreement spread through the crowd like wildfire. No one wanted the strangers killed before their shops, the dead forever haunting their storefront, their livelihoods tainted by foul blood. Not a one would stand by and let another to the same to their friends and neighbors. Similar sentiments drifted forth.
Siirl looked like he had swallowed a lemon, a particularly sour lemon, but now the idea had caught and the man could not deny the will of the people, especially as it was by their will-- their willingness to obey-- that he held power. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, pushing forward to stand right next to Aragorn. "We'll take 'em to be judged." The villagers cheered. "Assuming that is your choice," he continued wickedly. "Assuming you hand over your weapons."
He met the man's feral gaze unflinchingly. Without a word, he twisted the sword in his grip and held it up, hilt first. Siirl snatched it from his grasp, and Aragorn held back a wince as the blade drew a line of blood down his palm. He hoped he had not made a mistake.
The other stepped before Legolas. "And you?" he demanded, closer than was advisable.
Aragorn looked over at his friend for the first time since this whole thing started. He was the only one who saw how close the elf prince was to simply running Siirl through and being done with it. Blue eyes fixed on his and he struggled not to look away, the mixture of emotions he saw demanding an answer he could give without words. The only thing he could do was beg his friend to trust him, if only one last time, and hope.
What ultimately convinced the elf, Aragorn could not say, but Legolas spun his knives and presented them in stony silence, his face a mask of furious calm. Siirl reached out to take them, but Legolas caught the blades firm, jerking them to a halt, and drawing the man's gaze to his own. Something passed between them, then the man jerked back, quickly stepping out of reach and ordering the other to take the rest of their weapons.
The man who took Legolas' bow and quiver looked even more terrified than Siirl had; the ginger way he held the prided weapons suggested he knew a slow and painful death awaited him if he so much as scratched the beloved bow. Aragorn barely noticed as his own bow and quiver were taken from him, so intent was he on watching Legolas, and only registered the loss when his hands were pulled before him and bound tightly with rope. He watched a moment, then looked at his friend, and was not sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Legolas had decided to trust him after all.
An honor guard of the unmistakably best soldiers the town could boast-- career hunters, Aragorn thought-- surrounded them: two in front and in back with two on either side. The two behind them were archers, their bows out and ready should either elf or ranger try something. The rest of the villagers followed behind, their quiet murmuring nothing but a low, distorted roar.
Carefully, Legolas drifted closer to him and murmured softly in elvish, "I hope you know what you are doing, Strider."
"So do I," he murmured back. His friend frowned at him, but he offered nothing more.
Ill at ease, Legolas returned his attention to their surroundings and left Aragorn with his own thoughts. There was just so much he did not know. What if he found no opening? What if he had just condemned his best friend to death? What if they could have escaped the other way? What if, by giving in, there was no escape? His plan-- it was not a sure thing.
"Nothing is," a serene voice answered from long ago. "Everything path has its own rules and consequences. You can reason the choice, but you cannot know it until it is made. You cannot feel its effects until it is past. Do not look for certainty in the future, my son. It will always disappoint."
A pang went through him at the memory of his father's words, cold and bitter. He did not deserve Elrond, did not deserve the love and care he had been given, the time. Mere months ago, he had despaired of that love, goaded into thinking no one loved him by an insidious poison. It had whispered that his family lied, that they did not care and thought him weak, hopeless, but it had lied. He had broke its hold. But now he saw.
It was not that his family did not love him. He did not love himself. The shadow lived in him. It fed off him, his despair of his heritage. After all that had happened, all the pain he had caused, he could have stopped it at any time. He could have and did not because he was too busy wallowing in his own pain to see the cure before him. Truly, how did his family manage to love him, encourage him, support him? How could they stand to let him make his own decisions? Why did his father not lock him in his room, never to leave the house again? Why--
"Don't."
"What?" Aragorn startled, looking quickly at Legolas, disturbed from his tortured thoughts.
"I don't know," the elf replied. "But don't. I have seen that look before and nothing good has come from it yet." Troubled blue eyes matched him. "Do not trouble yourself with 'what ifs,' mellon nin. Those aren't the problems we have to solve."
For a minute, the ranger just stared at him. The he looked away and all he could think was that he must be an idiot. "You're right, my friend," he agreed softly. "As always."
The old jibe brought a brief smile to both faces, but neither was inclined towards levity. "You should talk about it."
"Yes, but not now."
"Not now," Legolas agreed readily. "But how about a plan?"
Aragorn looked back at his friend. "I thought it was the all-knowing Elf's job to come up with the plan," he teased.
His companion shook his head. "My plan was to fight. Cloak and dagger games are for Rangers."
"Stop talking, you two," Siirl grumbled suddenly, sounding even angrier than before. "It's bad enough we have to suffer your company without having to listen your voices, too."
A retort hovered on the tip of his tongue, but the sense Elladan and Elrohir had despaired of him possessing silenced reply and he settled for calling the man ugly names in his head while he studied the city.
They had left the main road, which was all shops as far as he could tell, and now traveled on a smaller north-south lane. More roads branched off, running parallel to the main, and these were bordered by houses, small tracts of land (brown in winter's chill) spread before them like welcome mats. Some even had low fences, decorative instead of useful. Every so often, a door would open and a worried face would poke out, take in their procession, and disappear back inside. Occasionally, one of the men would break away from the crowd and disappear inside one of the houses; he never saw if they came back. The turned down many lanes.
Aragorn felt something drip from his finger and glanced down. Blood streaked his hand and gathered at the tip of his little finger, another bead of deep red falling even as he watched. Immediately, he fumbled with the tail of his shirt, struggling with his bound hands to surreptitiously get enough material over his palm to clasp his hands together and staunch the bleeding.
He succeeded and looked back up just as they turned onto yet another road. Suspicion curled through him. The town was not large and it seemed to him they had been led on a veritable tour of it, down every path though each looked the same and no one called out the locations. But why? He could not imagine the impatient Siirl willingly delaying their execution, nor did he think these people would want them so familiar with their homes.
But you're going to die, so what does it matter?
"Strider?"
"Hm?" he answered. The ranger struggled not to look like Legolas had startled him. Again.
"I do not believe all our friends are still with us," the elf answered quietly, the elvish words ghosting between them.
"What do you mean?" he pressed, quietly urgent.
Legolas watched Siirl closely, alert for any sign that he was aware of them talking again. "I hear fewer Men behind us. It was a large crowd, but now . . . maybe half. Maybe less."
"Where did they go?"
"I don't know. Home, possibly," the elf prince answered. He sounded no more certain than Aragorn had felt earlier about his plan.
The ranger watched the portly man a moment, studying his mannerisms as his suspicions pulled forth details and put them in their place, crystallizing what was happening in his mind. "He sent them home," he said slowly. Legolas glanced at him sharply, then looked away just as quickly. "I made it necessary when I showed him I could turn his people against him. They altered his plan and he couldn't risk they might demand we be let go."
"I can't believe they'd let him dictate their actions like that." The elf shook his head. "But when. . . ?"
"Siirl did not order them," Aragorn contradicted. "Siirl didn't even suggest it. At least not to anyone he wanted to leave. His friend did. His friends, back walking with the others, no different from their fellow neighbors. 'It's late; gotta get up early tomorrow, take care of the family.' 'Hope this won't take long.' 'You don't need to stay, you know. Strangers're caught. Siirl'll take care of 'em.' 'He would at that. Morning comes mighty early these days.' And here we go, walking right past their houses. . . ." It was so simple. Why had he not seen it from the start?
"So now there's less of them," Legolas summarized, "but they're more willing to simply kill us and we're not armed."
"And don't know where we're going," Aragorn finished.
"Perfect," Legolas whispered darkly, then he switched to common and asked, "How do you like the scenery?"
Alerted by the change in his friend's tone more than the change of language, the ranger was suddenly alert. He scanned the are with keen, experienced eyes, searching for something useful. They needed to find an escape. Nothing presented itself. "Not the sort of place I would want to live," he replied easily.
"Aye," his friend agreed. "There's not enough trees."
Silver eyes rose to scan the rooftops. "Legolas, there are no trees."
"I would plant some."
"Here?"
"Nay, over there."
Aragorn followed where he indicated. No grown man would be able to follow. Their path would take them right past it. "A fine choice," he approved. His gaze swept away and lit on an open doorway more or less right across the street from Legolas' chosen path. It did not appear to lead to a house. "With a cave just across the street." He could not help the amusement that crept into his voice.
Legolas glanced at him and quickly caught what he was looking at. "Elves were not made for caves," he protested.
"Neither were Men," he countered, glancing sideways at his friend. "But that does not stop us."
The elf nodded fractionally to his unspoken question. "No, just proves you lack wisdom," Legolas answered haughtily, "something the Firstborn have in abundance."
Aragorn snorted. "Deluded, too," he murmured to himself, then continued more to Legolas, "But I suppose that one's not really your fault. I expect anyone would have a big head after talking to trees all day, everyday, for a millennia."
"At least we don't smell like. . . ." Legolas sniffed at the ranger's clothes, his face a mask of distaste. "What is that smell?"
The dark-haired man frowned and sniffed at his clothes. He could not smell anything (he had only been wearing the clothes a few hours, after all) but that was not really the point. He glared at the elf. "It's me," he snapped, going for indignant and sounding more insulted. "What is it with you people?"
"You people?" the elf challenged. "At least my people don't ignore the benefits of good hygiene."
"And my people do, huh?"
"That's what I said."
"At least we're not all stuck-up, haughty, tree-huggers," Aragorn spat.
"As opposed to filthy, squalling pigs?" Legolas demanded hotly. "A fine trade, I think. Who would want to be anything like your kind? You stupid, greedy, foul little mig--"
Without warning, Aragorn launched himself bodily at Legolas, slamming into the elf and cutting of his denunciation before he could say anything more. Blue eyes went wide, and the ranger twisted around and brought his fists across the other's face. His friend stumbled back, tripped, and fell. A savage roar slipped his lips and he followed the other down, throwing himself atop him. Aragorn's next blow stuck the elf's upraised hands. The next battered through to reach his face and knocked the hair-haired head into the ground. Then hands were pulling at him.
He struggled even harder, striking out at anything resisting him, fighting to get back at Legolas with no care what he had to break to achieve his goal. And the harder he fought, then more they resisted. Hands multiplied, grabbing him. Pulling him. Still he struggled forward, clawing, fighting, forcing them to focus solely on him. He heard yells. Then he was flying backwards.
His feet flew out from beneath him. His stomach jumped. He grunted as he hit the ground, hundreds of pounds of human flesh landing on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs. Smothering him. He barely remembered to continue struggling. He barely had enough strength to try, but he kicked and squirmed, forcing their attention to remain on him. He stopped only when he could no longer breathe, when he was in danger of passing out.
The men noticed when he stopped struggling, but did not immediately react, only one by one pulling back with the air of beings who questioned if such was the right action. Many of them sported bruises. All kept their eyes on him, wary of his strength. For his part, all Aragorn did was breath, greedily sucking down air into his tortured lungs, waiting for his strength to return.
Siirl stalked up to him, a sneer curling his lips. "You're all the same, filthy animals. Can't even respect your own. Get him up. Now--" He turned as his men complied, dragging the subdued man up, and looked for the elf.
Aragorn followed the heavyset man with his eyes as he was set on his feet. Silently, he gathered himself, waiting for the explosion. . . .
"FIND THAT ELF!" Siirl bellowed into the dark, his face red with his fury. Immediately, most of the men rushed off to comply, including most of the guards. The leader turned back to him and punched the restrained man as hard as he could. Aragorn gasped as he struggled to breathe, struggled for the air that had just been forced from his lungs by the other's fists. "You won't be alone long," Siirl hissed in his face.
A cry went up. "Over here. He's over here! Help!"
"Come!" Siirl and several of the remaining troupe, including one of the archers, hurried away to answer the call, practically disappearing into the night. Before long the ranger was alone with a few guards. None of them were watching him.
Aragorn let Siirl get well our of sight. Quickly, he elbowed one of the men in the gut, doubling him over and breaking his grip. He stepped back and over, pulling the other guard around and placing him between himself and the archer. A quick jab knocked the guard's head back. He yanked his arm free, then swung his elbow and clipped the man's jaw hard, stumbling him back. The archer moved to try and get a clear shot. The first guard straightened.
Aragorn ran the short distance between them and threw his full weight into his shove. The man bounced away and collided head-on with the archer. Both fell. The ranger turned, already moving towards the open doorway and came face-to-face with the other guard. He swung by reflex and smashed the other's face. The man flew backwards, bouncing as he hit the ground before laying still.
Aragorn paused long enough to grab the man's sword. Then he ran.
[[[]]]
Legolas heard the shouts and picked up his pace. He wanted to draw the men's attention, after all, not get captured. He turned the corner well ahead of his pursuers and bolted down the narrow lane, halting only when he reached a good place to climb back atop the rooftops. Pausing only to hear how far back they were, the elf scrambled up the side of the building and onto the roof, quickly disappearing over the edge.
The others turned the corner seconds later and ran for the other end, stopping only when the path divided. Legolas watched them argue about what direction to go and idly rubbed his jaw where Aragorn had struck him. He could tell there would be a bruise there later, but the plan seemed to have worked. He just hoped Aragorn did not have more trouble getting free than he expected or their success would be short-lived because, suicidal or no, he would never leave his friend in their hands.
His eyes narrowed as the humans split up, a nearly equal number of them taking each path. They did not plan to do that at each division, did they? They would run out of men long before they ran out of streets. He stared after than a moment, then shrugged. No matter.
A cry went up from the direction he had left Aragorn in. He could not make out the words, but the tone was definitely aggravated. Guess that meant the ranger had escaped. Good.
He stood easily and carefully made his way across the roof before jumping nimbly to the next, then the next. He moved as quickly as he could while remaining silent and kept his eyes open for anyone who might see him and raise an alarm. When he deemed he was far enough away from the main body of the search that would be raised for them, had moved sufficiently far away that nobody would think to be looking for him here, he changed direction and risked traveling back towards where they had begun. He needed to find Ardevui. She had not been present when they left the Inn, which meant those men had moved her. Valar help them if they had harmed her.
Legolas reached the roof's edge and crouched. Having just escaped these people, the last thing he wanted to do was jump into their waiting arms. Tired, desperate, angry men were not exactly known to be reasonable-- especially when it came to elves and escaped criminals; and as he happened to be both, he preferred to err on the side of caution rather than ending up sorry and dead. He peered over the edge cautiously, sweeping the streets as thoroughly as possible from a distance. His eyes confirmed what his ears had claimed: there was no one nearby. Not as relieved as he felt he should have been, he nevertheless jumped to the ground.
The elf landed easily in a crouch and paused to make sure there were still no humans nearby; then he stood and quickly made his way through the darkened streets, sticking to the shadows and pausing whenever men passed by. None of them saw him. He was more than just a little relieved at that.
As a wood-elf, he was used to moving stealthily and blending with his surroundings. With the evil that had fallen over Greenwood, it was necessary. But it was different to move through a city instead of trees, different to hide from men instead of orcs or spiders, different to be the hunted instead of the hunter. In times like these, he mussed the safety and security of the trees. He missed their soothing whispers and quiet joy at his presence. No matter where he went, he knew he would always feel at home in the trees. And that was a comfort in itself.
He stepped around a corner, and jerked back, a whiplash of surprise curling around his stomach. The boy before him did the same thing, startled fear in his eyes as he opened his mouth to scream. Legolas lunged quickly and covered the other's mouth firmly with his hand.
"Sh, it's just me," the elf prince whispered when Abyl resisted. Recognition flared in the boy's eyes and he relaxed. "What are you doing out here?"
"Looking for Jermy," the dark-haired youth answered when Legolas removed his hand, his brown eyes flashing with irritation as he looked towards the street. "He ran out when my back was turned. Disappeared before I could drag him back."
"Maybe he went home," the elf offered.
Abyl shook his head. "That's too sensible for him. Besides, I already checked his home. He's not there. I've gotta find him! I just know he's gonna do something stupid and wind up killed."
The elf prince did not respond immediately, letting Abyl's bitter, worried words play through his mind as he stared out into the street. It was not lost on him that the boy's last statement made it all but impossible for him to send the youth home; he felt strongly he should do just that. He sighed and finally looked at the boy. Concern shone in the brown eyes; concern mixed with a tormented understanding of the situation.
He nodded slightly. "I I see him, I'll send him to the Inn."
"For all the good it'll do," Abyl replied, but Legolas could read his gratitude in his eyes. Quickly, the boy slipped away, exiting the alley without looking back.
The elf watched two men pass seconds behind him, neither glancing his direction, then turned and went the other way. It would do no good to get it into Siirl's mind that the lad was helping them. Men like him could be unpredictable in their cruelty; he had learned that the hard way.
He ran into no one else as he carefully made his way back to the Black Stallion. The wide street was strangely deserted, its great expanse desolate with the quiet shops its only companions. The only immediate sign of human occupation was the torches that burned at lonely intervals along the way.
It disturbed him that there would be torches along an uninhabited street without the masters present. His eyes danced among the shadows, but he could not penetrate their depths. He hovered uncertainly at the road's edge before back away further into shadows. It did not feel right. He knew not if it was a trap, but he wanted to know it a whole lot better before he walked into it.
Ghost-like, he retraced his path and turned on to a smaller road that paralleled the main road. He bypassed four intersections (pausing to listen carefully at each one for human activity) before taking another road back towards his destination. He carefully repeated his previous examination from the street's edge, concealed in shadow, and came up with the same results. That meant it either was not a trap, or the villagers could just hide better than he could discern in their own homes.
He knew which one he would choose. And he blamed it on Aragorn.
Stubbornly restraining a vexed hiss, Legolas eased back for a different approach. One more look could not hurt. Besides, maybe he would find out where all the men had disappeared to. He hoped their absence did not mean Aragorn was in trouble.
He feared it did.
[[[]]]
The shout rang in his ears as he darted through the open doorway. His footsteps thudded sharply on the hard-packed floor and echoed back to him faintly. Entering the building was like having a veil thrown over his eyes, the inside much darker than even the night, but he did not slow. How long it would take his captors to rally to the guard's call, he did not know; but he intended to be well hidden before they found him.
His eyes darted back and forth as he ran, struggling to pierce the darkness and see what manner of building he had entered. At first, he saw nothing, and his mind struggled with his feet lest he trip over what he could not see; then shadows emerged, darker black as his eyes adjusted, and he could trace low walls lining either side of the building, each divided into parts: a stable. He could smell the hay.
Suddenly, the floor was not where it was supposed to be and his foot caught. He pitched forward, the darkness rushing towards him smothering, and tried to catch his feet. Metal clattered, and skittered, but he could not see it. He tried to use his hands, but they bound, and he fell. The tip of the sword struck the ground and caught, ripping the hilt from his grasp. It struck his chest as he slipped to his knees, a sharp blow, and overwhelmed the pain in his legs. He gasped for breath and leaned sideways, trying to curl forward around the blade, feeling like he had just run headlong into a wall.
It hurt to breathe; yet he could not rest. Footsteps sounded behind him and heralded the approach of light. He could just make out the edge of its glow against the wood around him, even that weak light bright after such deep darkness, and knew pursuit was nearby.
He caught sight of what had tripped him as he clambered awkwardly to his feet and vaguely wondered what stable boy would have caught the whip for leaving a box of horseshoes in the middle of the stable had he not fallen over them. Still trying to breathe, he tucked the blade under his right arm, pressed against his side in a bid not to kill himself if he tripped again. Oh, he ached. . . .
The ranger forced his feet to carry him before he could dwell any further on his pain knowing it would only hinder him to linger on it. No bones were broken and bruises would fade in time, but not he was caught. So while it was even more awkward to run with his bound hands anchored to trapped sword, he did not let it stop him. He gained the exit as they arrived at the entrance. Their exclamations were lost to his ears, but their presence was not.
Aragorn glanced quickly to either side, then went right. Perhaps two dozen feet took him to the road that stood perpendicular to the one he had escaped. He turned left, increasing the distance between himself and where he had left the guards. And, since the men had seen him turn towards the road, hoping they would believe he sought to leave. Or go the wrong way entirely. For that, though, he needed to get off the road, and quickly.
He glimpsed a narrow crevice between two houses and darted into it. At the last second he saw it was too narrow to accommodate him and skipped sideways, releasing the sword from under his arm and drawing it close to his chest with the tips down. His back scratched the wall behind him, catching his shirt and biting at his flesh, but he did not stop and only eased forward a bit to relieve the friction. He stopped before he emerged from the other side.
Slowly, he eased forward to peer around the corner. Few were on the street, but those who were, were knocking at doors and rousing their fellows. Whatever advantage they had gained with the smaller numbers was about to disappear, and the ranger doubted the villagers would have any qualms about kill them where they stood now that they had been captured once and escaped. Succeed or die, Aragorn mused distantly. The story of my life.
A rush of sound whipped his head around the other way in time for him to glimpse eight-- maybe-- men rush past. They continued past him without pausing, and the ranger looked back at the still calm street where men were just beginning to gather. For the moment, it appeared he was safe. Now was as good a time as any.
Cautiously, so as not to attract any unwanted attention, Aragorn eased back into surer shadows. Once there, he dropped the tip of his borrowed sword into the ground and pushed it down several inches. Then, mindful of the close space, he set about freeing his hands. It did not take long, but it gave him a moment to think.
He knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he could not remain here. It would only be a matter of time before someone found him and simply hiding accomplished nothing. He still needed to find his brothers, and he had a suspicion that the South Men would be able to help-- preferably indirectly. Before that, though, he needed to find Legolas. Which meant what? Where would the elf go once he evaded pursuit?
The ropes snapped, finally releasing him to move his hands independently, and he straightened. Sharps spots of pain caused by his earlier encounter with horseshoes reminded him of another question: where was Ardevui? He knew when he found the answer to that question, he would find his friend. He just hoped the villagers did not think of it, too.
He peered into the street. Fifty meters to his right, two hunting groups met.
"Have you found the Ranger?"
"Does it look like it?"
"Well, he can't have gotten far. Dorir and Javis would've found 'im. Make sure you search all the side streets. Tanner! Set up guards on every street! We don't want 'em sneaking by while our backs are turned."
The ranger pulled back. A handful were heading his direction and the last thing he wanted to do was get caught here. Moving quickly, he retrieved the sword and tucked it in his belt, then quickly shifted over several feet and looked up. It was a good thing these buildings were not tall.
He pushed his hands against the building before him, forcing his back against the wall behind him, and used the tension to lift his feet from the floor without dropping him to the ground. In the moment before he shifted his weight to his legs, he thought this climb would be painful. Once he had one foot secured against one wall and the other foot against the other wall, he knew it was going to be painful. And awkward.
In truth, the sides of the buildings were a touch too close together for any stretch of the word "comfortable," but he had no time to dwell on such difficulties. It would be a miracle in itself if he had enough time to complete the climb even if he did not borrow more trouble. So he merely grit his teeth and pushed upward.
People do this for fun? was the first thought to cross his mind. His wrists felt like they were going to break, and he could hardly bring his legs up far enough to make the motion worthwhile. The top edge seemed to loom over him, impossibly far away, and the men's footsteps were too fast. He could fee his heart racing in his chest and just kept on, inching up bit by bit, praying something would distract their search until he reached the top.
If I can just get high enough, maybe they won't see me. It was a slim hope, but he was willing to cling to whatever he could find because it made the task just that much easier. What he really wanted was to change positions. Too bad his shoulders were too broad to allow it.
He could hear their voices, muffled by the wood that stood between them. The words were lost to him, but he could tell they were getting closer. He tried to move faster. Up. Brace. Up Brace. Over and over, faster and faster. But he could only go so fast. This method had never been meant for speed climbing; safety, but not speed.
The ledge hovered three feet above his head. He kept his eyes locked on it, as if his eyes could reach out from his head and latch onto the edge like another set of hands. Closer . . . closer. . . . He dared not even think as the men approached his crevice, their steps now audible to his ears. Six feet away, he judged them, but unless some miracle occurred, he would still be visible by the time they moved within sight.
Still he kept moving. Maybe they would not peek into this crack, deeming it too small. Maybe they would not think to look so high to find him. Or maybe, if they did, they would not be able to make him out against the dark sky. Or maybe I'll sprout wings and fly away, he thought derisively. The only thing he was currently sure of was that he would make it to the roof before anyone who followed him.
Unless they shoot me down, was his next happy thought. Yet now the roof was in reach. Just a little further . . . push, brace, push! He stretched his hands up and caught the top corner. He had made it!
"Do you see him?"
Aragorn froze, his elation quickly fading, and glanced hesitantly towards the voice. A head was poked into the tight space, and the ranger held his breath. He was not worried about someone catching him before he could get up; he was worried about how he would ever hope to get back down if they knew where he was. On the rooftops, he would be trapped. Silently, he urged the man-- boy?-- to go away.
"What are you looking in there for?" a third voice demanded. The young man looked at him. "Only a child could hid in there. Search someplace useful."
"Yes, sir."
The ranger dared to breathe a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived.
As the young man pulled back, he glanced once more down the narrow alley, remembering when he used to play there as a boy. He and his friends would race each other to the top to see who could climb fastest. Idly, his eyes traced the path he had climbed so often and stopped just before the top. His brow furrowed as he squinted to make out what he saw, then he gasped.
Aragorn looked directly into the young one's eyes. With desperate strength, he hauled himself onto the roof, kicking off with his legs to get enough height.
"He's here! He's here! He's on the roof!"
One of the men rushed to the boy's side in time to see the ranger's legs disappear from view. "He's on the roof!" the man agreed.
"Get up there! Guard the street! Don't let him escape!"
Aragorn scrambled to his feet, ignoring his aches and pains, and took off across the wooden beams. His steps thumped loudly, pounding across the slats like a great drum. No one who lived inside any of the buildings would be able to miss his presence.
He did not pause as he reached the end of the roof, jumping easily to the next barely three feet away. Quickly coming to the next gap, he did the same. Five more separated him from the next large intersection, a gap of at least eight feet. He could hear others clambering up behind him, making it impossible to turn back.
He headed straight for the ledge and ran harder, his eyes focused on where he would place his final step. The distance disappeared impossibly fast, scrolling by like it was racing him to the finish. He could just hear several men behind him, duplicating his jumping run, over the wind whistling past his ears. He hit it and cleared the jump easily, quickly resuming his pace on the other side. The next intersection was eleven houses away. Three intersections after that, the town ended. He did not think he would be able to run that far unhindered. He needed a plan; one that involved more than just him running.
Word of his location spread rapidly. It was not long before men were spilling onto the roofs before him as well as behind, drastically cutting his time in half and limiting his options. More and more, it was looking like he would need to fight them. And he was running out of resolve not to as surely as he was running out of roof.
Desperately, he cast his eyes over his surroundings, searching . . . searching . . . but nothing came to him. Bare, hard-packed streets were even more dangerous than increasingly crowded rooftops and just as free of inspiration for how he could get out of this without harming his fellow men. He should never have come here. I should have listened to Legolas.
Legolas.
A star-burst of worry shot through him, tempered only by the knowledge that if he was helpless to help himself, he was certainly helpless to help his missing friend. And even that was tempered by a somewhat amused thought: at least with the town hunting me, Legolas will not have to worry about discovery. I live to serve, he thought wryly, though perhaps not for much longer. He was out of time.
Aragorn made one final leap, then drew his borrowed sword and swung it sharply at the first body to come within range. The lad ducked so hard, he fell, hitting the ground like he had been thrown. The ranger continued past him without breaking stride, but the next in line had his weapon ready in hand and met the stranger head-on, checking the outsider's blow and grinding his momentum to a halt. A third stepped up and swung his sword like a club, a blow easily ducked, and holding his blade like a lit firecracker.
Choosing to save the last attacker from himself and immediately neutralize an opponent, Aragorn momentarily ignored his more skilled opponent and quickly moved into the other's defenses, knocking his blade aside and delivering a hard blow to the man's face. His sword clattered to the roof as the man fell backwards. Aragorn kicked the dropped weapon over the side of the roof as he skip-jumped sideways to avoid a jab at his chest.
He parried the next blow, slowly easing backwards, and swung his blade around to meet the follow-up. Iron clashed one-two-three-four times as the man walked him backwards, never once coming close to penetrating the ranger's defenses. Aragorn had to admit the man was good-- good in the way of a student who has learned his craft well but not yet challenged the techniques in a true battle where the other's blood is the prize. Which was not to say his skill could not be deadly.
Aragorn parried a low-high sweep with a downward cut and a little hop backwards, catching the blade and moving him out of range. The wood thumped as he landed, but too loudly to be from his own jump. The vibrations came from behind him, and he did not need to look to know he had company. Had he not already known, he would have guessed by the way his opponent's eyes flickered past him on his next strike, the blows still coming as quickly and skillfully as ever.
He was not interested in double-teams when he was down one of his own players.
The ranger took another step back under the assault, moving closer to the trap, then check-thrust the next blow. It knocked the Rohirrim guard back and Aragorn quickly ducked the hurried blow from behind him, whirling around it its wake and slapping his sword, broadside, against the man's wrist. The sword clattered immediately to the roof, chased by a pained exclamation.
Aragorn brushed past the man, got a small running start, and jumped the four-foot gap between his roof and the next. For the moment, no one stood near enough to challenge him, and he gladly took the opportunity to breathe and look at his surroundings. A glance the way he had come showed more than a dozen armed men approaching him in a group, and at least as many more converging from the opposite direction. When they reached him, he was no longer going to be able to play nice; he was going to have to play for keeps.
He turned to face his closest adversaries, prepared to end it here and now if they pressed the attack, and caught a voice on the wind:
"Get him! Bring 'im down! Filthy murderer! He don't deserve to live!"
Siirl. More important, though (at least to Aragorn), was the sound he caught beneath the heavyset leader's voice: hoof beats. Siirl was riding a horse. Too long used to sitting on his rear all day consuming spirits, Siirl had foundered. Running after fleet-footed elves and stubborn rangers was too much for the man's failing health, and he had turned to his faithful steed to make up the lack in his own stamina. The first glimmerings of a plan tickled the edges of his mind.
Seeing that his attackers were staying put and waiting for the rest of their friends to catch up, Aragorn cautiously eased closer to the street-edge and peered at the scene below. At least a third of the number that had greeted the strangers outside the Black Stallion had arrayed themselves on the streets below, most of them very young or very old. The rest were either on their roof with him or (presumable) still hunting Legolas. Amid the ground crew, rode Siirl, whirling his steed around in a fairly consistent circle and shouting mixed instructions and encouragement.
With his eyes, Aragorn measure the distance, judge the time. He picked out a path and was fervently grateful that neither his brothers nor Legolas were here to see this. He had a feeling none of them would approve. But what else was he to do? He had already tried everything he could think of. And maybe, just maybe, if he failed he would not have to face Legolas nor his brothers or father and explain what he had been trying to do. But if the Valar love him (or pitied him) enough to do that much, maybe they would simply help him actually succeed.
The ranger flexed the hand gripping his sword and waited for the right moment. when Siirl reached the trigger in his circuit, Aragorn looked up-- straight at the waiting Rohirrim-- and charged.
They tensed and stood their ground as he jumped the gap, prepared to meet him but not approaching. Good. He followed the path he had drawn in his mind and turned towards the roof's edge, approaching it quickly. Without looking to see if the man was in the right place, nor pausing for second thoughts, Aragorn jumped.
He looked down only when there was no turning back and caught the surprised stared of many of the gathered. But not Siirl. He had not noticed his men were standing, staring, and he was in just the right spot, his back to the ranger. Just as Aragorn had intended.
The dark-haired man made no sound as he fell, and landed on the horses back with a sharp jolt, his arms immediately encircling the angry Rohirrim. The horse reared, surprised, voicing her protest at the added weight to the night. Somehow, both men stayed on, Siirl's reflexes up to the task of making sure he was not thrown off his steed's back.
The moment the front feet touched down, Aragorn bashed the sword hilt into the other's head. The man jerked but held on stubbornly, and the ranger hit him again, this time continuing the push and shoving the man sideways off his mount. By that time, the shock of him jumping from the roof had worn off, and the people charged, screaming warm cries to the night.
Quickly, Aragorn shifted forward into the saddle and took up the reins. He pulled them around hard and kicked sharply at the mare's belly. Already distressed, the horse bolted obediently, bearing the ranger away on her back.
The charge faltered in the face of the rushing horse, the war cries shifting to startled cries of dismay while they jumped out of the way. Calls to mount followed the man, more horses adding their cries to the din. Aragorn never paused. He rode to find Legolas, ignoring the pain that wanted to consume his whole body and trying not to think that he had just given them a whole new set of problems.
[[[]]]
It did not take long for Legolas to determine the street was as empty as it appeared. No one peeked out the doors; no one called out an alarm; no one moved to intercept him. The only company he had as he searched the ground for tracks was the cold, lonely wind and the flickering torches. Far from being reassuring, it heightened his unease.
It did not take him long to find Ardevui's tracks, either, despite the confusion of so many tracks where he was searching. The villagers had made no effort to hid the tracks, and he was able to pick them out easily once he passed the concentration of human footsteps that confused even one another. The single set of fresh unshod prints, easily recognizable to him now, stood out amid the older bustle of life, placed atop shod hoof prints.
From there, it did not take him long to find Ardevui herself. The tracks lead to a small stable on the western side, two blocks south of the northern Main. There was no more appearance of human life here than there had been on the main road; but while he knew that emptiness to be genuine (however unfathomable), he sensed this one was not. The footsteps that went in never came out.
Legolas studied the entrance a moment, eyeing the many prints that marched in and out of the opening. To his eyes, there seemed to be a lot of them for so small a stable. Six horses, he deemed, could be quartered here. But how many men per horse? One for all six? One to each? More?
Not yet willing to get closer, the elf prince circled the stable while he thought, searching out another entrance to the modest structure. He was no ranger; his tracking skills were in no way comparable to his friend's outside the familiarity of the forest. It was beyond his skill to tell if all the ones who had entered through the front door were as they seemed. He knew not enough about the horselords to even guess if there was duplicity afoot, but he was also no fool.
When in doubt, plan for the worst. He had forgotten who said it, but a faint memory suggested it was one of the twins. And was almost certain something like "When with Aragorn, plan for the worst anyway," had followed, and since he had not said it, that meant it had to be one of the twins. No one else teased the young man so mercilessly.
The rear entrance was smaller and located on a back lane no more than six feet wide. No lights were lit and no fixtures were set up to accommodate them. There was an air about the place that said it was never used or, at the least, never seen. The air was close. The elf's sharp eyes caught no sign of any attempt to make this place livable, but he did see something else. Footprints. Many of them, crossing and overlapping each other so few were whole and it was difficult to tell which way they were going, light or no light, skill or no skill. What he could tell, was that there were no hoof prints mixed in with the shoe shaped indentations, which meant no horses had been lead out this way.
Blue eyes drifted up from the prints to the doors they disappeared behind. If he had not known where to look, he would have missed them entirely, so well did they blend with the rest of the structure. A simple metal brace seemed to be the handle, but unless he was mistaken, the door was bolted from the inside.
"Wonderful," he murmured. He looked back to the tracks. How many people had entered? How many had left? And when? How many were still waiting inside? "What do you think, Strider?" he asked rhetorically to empty air. Only the wind answered.
Quietly, he worked his way back to the front and crouched near the door, his back to the wall. He listened carefully, but the uneasy stomping of a horse made it difficult to hear anything. He thought he could hear footsteps but could not be sure. Cautiously, he whistled a low, slow note not easy to pick up, and waited to see the response.
Nearly immediately, a loud whinny punctuated the quiet, somehow sounding both relieved and frustrated. He could almost hear the unspoken words of the greeting: "Legolas, you're here! Bless Eru! Get me away from these dung-brain humans. Quickly." A smile crept onto his face, but his amusement was short-lived.
"Quiet, you," a man ordered from inside, banging a stick against the pen in an effort to force the animal back. He could hear the click of it hitting wood. The only thing that saved the man from the prince's wrath was the fact that he heard nothing to suggest the stick had struck his horse.
"Why've we gotta keep 'er here anyway?" a young-sounding voice asked as Ardevui fell silent, her imperious snorts speaking eloquently about the extent of her patience.
"Never you mind, boy. Just do as you're told."
"Hold your tongue, lad," a third interrupted, his voice deeper than the last. "Both of you. We may have company."
Legolas pursed his lips irritably. So either the man had heard him or he had been tipped off to his presence by Ardevui's reaction, and now at least three people would be waiting for him with only one way in. Fine, he would go fast. Distantly, he heard Ardevui snuffling, the snorting gusts almost rhythmic. He shifted his back, studying what he could see of the inside and trying to decide how bog or what risk he wanted to take.
Straight in might take them enough by surprise that he would be able to take them all out. But it could also get him killed outright. If one of the men was an archer and stood ready, him rushing straight through the front door would definitely be enough to get him shot. Ducking in might counter that, but that would leave his position known to his adversaries and him without a weapon. He would have to rely on superior skill and speed both ways, but where did he want to come from? He wished he had his bow.
Settling, he tensed in preparation to run.
"What's that?"
He frowned. The kid could not have heard him, could he?
"What's what, boy?"
"Don't you hear anything?"
"What, now you're hearin--"
"Quiet, Dirno. Our job's to take care of the horses. Nothing more."
"But I hear something!"
Alerted, his attention redirected to the vague sound in the distance, Legolas heard it, too. Or rather, he finally took note of it. He had ignored it, thinking it little more than his imagination or a normal occurrence this far south, a distraction he did not need. Now, though, he wondered. Listening, he thought it sounded like many raised voices: yelling.
"What do you think it is, boy?" the third man asked, apparently more willing to take the youth's word than their companion."
"Don't know. Yellin' maybe." Legolas could hear the frown in his voice. "Say, you don't think they caught them strangers, do you?"
His heart almost stopped. But no-- he could not think like that. Aragorn was a skilled ranger and a grown man (strange though it was to think that), and he was more than capable of taking care of himself, even if he was occasionally reckless. Legolas had never before met a man so skilled at disappearing as Strider, so it should not be a stretch that he could disappear here just as well, in a place he understood better than Legolas himself. Yet why else would there be yelling?
It was all too easy to picture Aragorn caught and bound, tied and placed before an executioner. It was all too easy to imagine the cruelties even such a simple people could be driven to in their rage and fear. What would they do to Strider if they caught him? Would they use the ranger to catch him? As his fear built, it was only by reminding himself he could do the human no good unarmed and on foot that he managed to stay where he was. Strider would survive until he was able to help him. He had to.
Legolas breathed out slowly, forcing himself to relax and focus on the moment. He listened, poised, waiting for his opportunity, the moment when their attention would be diverted enough to let him enter. Patience, he cautioned himself. The time will come.
"Reckon we'll find out, sure enough."
"Once all the fun is over," Dirno added sullenly.
"But if they've got the Strangers, there's no need for us to be here, is there?"
"Sit down, boy," Dirno ordered. "We're to keep the horses whether we want to or not."
"But what if they need help?"
"Not from the like of you, they won't," Dirno scoffed, and was overridden by the elder.
"You don't need to be worryin' 'bout 'ifs,' Traven. Them horses are right there before you, and there's no 'ifs' in 'em."
"But, Jay--"
"Cut your whining, boy!" Dirno snapped suddenly. "You ain't goin' nowhere and that's that."
He could hear the youth slump dejectedly onto a bench and knew the lad to be to the left, more or less where he had intended to go, if a little further in. But where were the other two? His sharp ears caught the boy's reply and he could not help but smile. "Bet they'll be real glad we stayed put when they come back for their horse after killin' everyone else."
"Glad enough to eat you, I reckon," Dirno quipped darkly, having also heard.
"No one's gettin' eaten," Jay cautioned. "You hear that?"
Legolas did. By the silence that followed, Dirno and Traven did, too. The thunder of hooves.
"They're mounting up," the boy breathed, whether in awe or fear, the elf could not tell.
"Reckon they're horse thieves, too?" Dirno posed. Three pairs of footsteps crept towards the open street. Silently, Legolas faded back into shadow. If the others were mounting, that meant they did not yet have Strider. It also meant they would need to leave quickly, before they could be cornered on these criss-crossing streets, and he needed to get Ardevui before they could try.
Three men stepped from the stable into his line of sight, all listening intently. The youngest could not be more than seventeen (Legolas would have bet fifteen), and Dirno looked to be about Aragorn's age, thought probably a year or two younger. Jay was harder to place but it was obvious he was older than the other two. There was a calmness about him that only came with age and experience. All had the same red-gold hair, and but for their different ages, he would never have been able to tell them apart by looks alone.
Seconds later, another villager ran into view. He headed straight for a small building, little more than a shed, without once looking around. "Hail!" Dirno cried. "What news?"
The man turned. "Oy! Fiend stole Siirl's horse! Made chase it is! No one can catch 'im!"
"I could!" Traven said to his companions as the other disappeared.
"You'll not! Mind the horses, boy!" Dirno ordered, already running off. This is man's work." The other man emerged leading a chestnut mare.
"Jay--"
"No, my boy. There's till one left. He may yet want his horse."
Legolas watched the old man walk back inside, leaving Traven to stare after a dream he was denied. Somehow, the boy reminded him of Aragorn, though he had not known the ranger at such a young age. But something pulled at the elf-- perhaps his eagerness to prove himself-- sparking a memory, and he marveled at the innocence of youth. An innocence that had long been absent from his friend's gaze.
His eyes locked on the motionless youth, the elf prince silently crept up to the entryway and ease inside. Tearing his eyes away, he quickly scanned the interior to find where his ears said the man was, and found three sets of wide horse-eyes staring straight at him, their eyes sparkling dark pools in the faint light cast from the rear of the stable. Jay's shadow bobbed from somewhere near the light, and it was only with his sharp eyes that he made out the old man's figure among the jumble. He was sorting through something on the floor.
Moving over toward Ardevui, he inwardly debated simply trying to take Ardevui or knocking the man out first. The second option won out. He greatly preferred handing the man a headache to possibly having to inflict worse if leaving proved more difficult than he bargained for. He rubbed Ardevui's nose in passing and moved quickly to the back, picking up a horsebrush on the way. In seconds, he stood behind the man. He murmured a quiet apology as the man looked up, catching sight of his shadow, then brought the handle down sharply against the back of his skull.
A quiet crack echoed in his ears, and Jay slumped forward bonelessly, saved from hitting the floor by Legolas' strong arms. Tenderly, he positioned the elderly man as comfortably as he could on the floor before striding briskly back to his horse.
"Come, my girl," he murmured affectionately. "It's time we left this place." He did not bother with saddle or bridle, deeming they would take too long, and instead grabbed ony one of the bags that had been attached to it because it held a spare knife. He swung the pack over his should before nimbly jumping onto Ardevui's back.
Traven was staring at him when he look up. Legolas inclined his head regally. "Take care of your friend," he bid quietly. The boy's eyes darted in Jay's direction and Ardevui burst forward. Instinctively, the boy jumped out of her way, still ruled by shock. He had not expected to come face-to-face with one of the strangers, not expected it at all.
Legolas paused once he was under the stars. He could hear horses rushing the distance, distorted by the buildings, the pounding of their hooves a throbbing pulse in the night. The commotion he heard had to mean the ranger was yet free, but he worried about the lengths these villagers were being pushed towards. It had to be only a matter of time before the human was killed.
He urged the mare forward only to bid her stop a moment later as mounted men blocked his path. The first thing he noticed was their dark hair, his first realization that they were not Rohirrim. In that first startled moment, he took in their dark clothes, dark cloaks, and dark air. Perhaps some would have likened them to rangers, thus did they appear, but no one who knew the noble travelers would ever mistake them for such. There was something in their eyes and their manner, a malicious savagery, that promised cruelty and pain where the rangers ever promised security.
He knew them without ever having seen them before, without anyone naming them before his eyes. His blood went cold. The South Men. Impossibly, they had just gained a new set of problems.
Away to the east, the first finger of dawn stretched from the horizon.
[[[]]]
Review Responses:
Shaodwfaxgal7: "blushes" Wow, thanks. I'm really sorry you missed it, and by so little. Truthfully, I had tried to post earlier also and couldn't, so I know eactly what you mean, even if your situation is far more frustrating. Don't worry about reviewing too much (which is not to say I don't want you to review!) I'm just too horrible a reviewer myself to be able to hold it against you. Second Chance will have the twins in it, I think. So will a few of the others (the one where Estel is about 18, for example) but I can't remember all the options well enough right now to tell you any clearer. I can figure out which ones have them in it if you'd like, though? I've gotten rather fond of them, too. They'll be in But Ada when I finally get it written. Um. We get back to the twins in Chapter 19; you'll find out how Elladan is then, first thing. Again, so sorry it took so long. Valar willing, the next one will be ready inside two weeks.
Lavender moonlight: Thank you. I doubt this is your definition of soon, but I try.
Veritas and Aequitas: "blushes" You're too kind. I'm glad it worked so well, and am immeasurably relieved you think so highly of that exchange. I had to write it differently than everything else so it wouldn't lose momentum. It's the part I was most worried about. "g" I'm glad you're glad and more besides. Plenty of torture coming up, psychological and otherwise, and angst to go with it! (Don't worry, we're all mean or we wouldn't have so much company!) How about we try 'soon' again and see if we have more success this time. What do you say? By the way, how did you come up with your name?
Nerfenherder: LOL. Oh, I love those parts, too. Thank you, thank you. "gathers kind praise close and cuddles it" "giggles" Tickles. . . . Lol. Ai, I know they're all intriguing or I wouldn't be so keen to write all of them. "looks slightly frustrated" I may have to rethink this. Hm. . . "smiles" You take care, too. I need your reviews to make me smile. "giggles again" Every time I look at your penname, I see Han Solo and his expression just after Leia call him a nerf herder. "snorts" So sorry.
Grumpy: Ah, I'm glad Abyl is to your liking. I even have more of Aragorn and Legolas fighting. What more is there for them to do? "eg" Yes, its now been proven that bad luck doesn't just follow Aragorn and Legolas around, if there was ever any doubt. "g"
DeepBlueSomething: "bows deeply and beams" Thank you. And there's plenty of angst to go around, I think. Several times. Ah, yes, 'stressed' might actually be putting it mildly. Don't let them kill him? "blinks blankly" Why should I do that? Mm, well, maybe since you asked so nice and all. . . . I'll see what I can do. No promises, though. "g"