Perfunctory announcements, and then I'll let you get on with it so you can pummel me as you see fit (after you read, of course): Dorolyn is a place created by Cassia and Sio; for some reason I can't remember the name of the story, but it's their's and all you need to know is evil men abused Legolas there. End of story. I'm not happy with this chapter, now that I've finished it. I think it could be better. At some point in the far distant future, I may go back and revise it, until then let me know what's bad so I can mark it down. After three months, I think this chapter will be rather disappointing. I need to stop this.
Anyhoo. I have a way early New Years resolution: Never, ever, ever again will I write a chase scene involving horses in a city/town/village built on a grid. Never, ever. Period. I'm tired of it. I think if effects the chapter.
Eep-- no more complaints from me. No more comments. Story to disassemble as you will. Feel free to tear it apart. tries not to smile too widely
Enjoy.
(p.s. if takes away any more little characters, I'm going to have to do something drastic. Grrrr.)
Chapter 19
He watched as a pale light grew on the horizon, a sickly glow that nevertheless pushed steadily at the darkness until a clear beam lanced over the horizon. Inexorable, was the sun. It rose every day and fell every night, never effected by the motions of men, elves, or dwarves. It's motion was constant, predictable. It was welcomed by many. But not Torl. Not this day.
A chill wind stirred the camp, whipping at canvas and whirling round warm bodies. It pulled at his cloak, snapped it back, but he did not notice. His thoughts were flung too far to notice much of anything, save that he was alone with no one near enough to trouble him. He had stood thus for much of the night.
"Begin the breaking at dawn."
He had spent most of that time considering his lord's words. It was no strange thing for him to disagree with Shirk's decisions (though perhaps it should have been) as he could see other options which would achieve the same goal. Yet he had never before doubted the elf's wisdom.
"You are in charge of the prisoners."
It disturbed him that he did so now. It disturbed him more that this first time should come when he had finally gained true position.
"I am leaving you in charge."
It was unsettling that he should even consider going against his lord's wishes. It was preposterous! Absurd!
"Begin the breaking at dawn."
"Make sure Nirt does not kill them before the due time."
It was his duty to follow the order's of his Master's chosen, his lord. It was his calling to follow his lord's orders to the victory he knew awaited them. If a plan failed, it was because of poor execution, not a failure of direction.
Torl knew he should be heading to the elf's new prison to carry out his orders. He knew Nirt would be there, for she was to conduct the questioning-- he had informed her himself; knew that she would become impatient quickly and report his tardiness to Shirk. He knew. And yet he could not move. The weight of his knowledge hung heavy on him: if he questioned him as instructed, the elf would die.
His concern sounded so altruistic when articulated in his mind! The elf would die. But that was not the base of his concerns, the reason he stood trembling on a cold ledge when time had come to answer his lord's directive. It was not so selfless a cause that held him fast to unfeeling stone.
It was his own fate which bound him.
Too long had he been a Slyntari; too long had he tread paths of danger; too many had he seen die not to know what fate awaited him at his failure. To him, were the prisoners charged; from him, did they escape. One mistake could be forgiven. But two. . . . From two, there was no recovery.
He knew: if the son of Elrond died, so would he.
He breathed deep and let it out. The fresh mountain air bit his lungs, reminding him of the cold. He shuddered convulsively as he stirred from his long watch. His limbs were stiff, almost as if the cold night had tried to freeze them in place. He shifted and shook out his arms, hoping to relieve the sensation, and glanced to the horizon.
The sun slashed his eyes. He drew back quickly, squinting against the assault, and turned his back on the rising sun. With nary a trace of indecision, he strode back through the camp towards the door that would lead to his destiny, his stride quick and sure, for he knew something else as well.
If he did not question the elf, he would die. Presented with the option, he could do nothing less than take his enemy with him to his doom.
()()()()()
Torl barely spared a glance for Nirt and her companions as he strode to the slanted, cellar-like door that secured the elf within his new cell. He nodded curtly to the guards stationed on either side and they pulled the door open just in time for him to step through, his pace unhindered, his image still whole.
The dark, tunneled stairway echoed the even sounds of his descent before they became jumbled amid additional reports of varied strides less measured than his own. He need not have heard them to know they were there, but he took advantage of their chaotic descent to steady his own. These steps were nowhere near as steep as the last set he had had to traverse to visit this elf but compensated by being far longer. There were more of them to reach the end, and the only light to illuminate them in the narrow passage was the feeble glow of a single torch set inside the cell itself. That rectangle of light at the bottom was a beacon, a lone source of comfort in the darkness. A test for the faithful.
He clenched his teeth as he emerged into the stark pen and quickly cast his eyes about the block, locating the elf quickly. The lithe being looked even worse than he had scant hours before. Already pale skin had acquired a grayish hue that reacted with the firelight to turn him into a corpse, and the half-opened glazed eyes that stared unfocused and unblinking did nothing to gainsay that impression. His head lolled sickly from side to side with every movement involved in securing him to a chair. Were it not for the almost negligible rise and fall of his chest, Torl would have sworn the other was already dead.
A young man (Tin, he thought) looked up from his task as the Slyntari captain gained the floor, then turned back to his task securing the elf's arm. Gray eyes flitted over the youth before settling on the only other being in the room. Tamis, a young man with curly blonde hair and sky blue eyes, did not so much as twitch. His attention stayed focused on the light bandage that wrapped the elf's middle, tugging it this way and that to no discernible purpose. Nirt and her chosen shifted impatiently behind Torl, but he gave them no more notice than the healer gave him.
Only after Tin had finished did Tamis appear satisfied. He smoothed his fingers over the white cloth, barely cupped the elf's chin-- an abortive move at tilting the elf's head-- then lightly rapped the being's knee and stood. A smile split the young one's face looking two seconds from bouncing up and down like a five-year-old clamoring for birthday presents. He failed to school his expression into something suitably solemn but managed to keep his feet planted to the ground as he bowed his head and greeted, "My lord."
Torl kept his expression impassive as he inclined his own head in brief acknowledgment. "Report," he ordered dispassionately.
The youth seemed to waver somewhere between excitement and unease, his body swaying with the conflict before his enthusiasm won out. It was the tone and not the content that gave the victory away, and the captain was suddenly reminded of something Kelt had said a couple years ago: He learns quick, that one; a natural if ever I saw one, but healing was never his calling, never should have been. He's one that would hurt an animal to see the color of its blood, or pull at a wound to see what lays with the bone underneath rather than heal it. It's little wonder Akin couldn't stand him; he's no professional pride, none at all. It wasn't a comforting memory.
"He regained consciousness briefly when he was brought in but wasn't cognizant of his surroundings and hasn't woken since. Three more ribs broke in his fall, as well as his collarbone and his wrist. His right hip sports severe bruising-- unknown if it covers a break, and his leg fractured below the knee. Wrenched his ankle, too, swelling there." Torl could just imagine the other twisting the appendage during his ministrations as the boy rocked back and forth on his heels as he glanced at the still elf. "Um, concussion. His pupils dilate unevenly. He's a nasty bump on the back of his head, but his skull appears to be intact, mostly, so he shouldn't die 'cause of that, least ways not right away."
"And his original injury?"
Tamis chuckled. "I'd've never believed it, but the stitches held. Couple of 'em pulled free, but the wound's still closed. Was bleeding a bit so I bandaged it. Bloody lucky, that one. I woulda thought the fall would've kill him." Regret was what the Slyntari captain heard, but regret of what he could not determine. That the elf had lived? That his stitches had not broken?
"If he were truly lucky, it would have," Torl replied evenly. "Now he gets to suffer his body's betrayal." He pulled the vial he had chosen from his belt and held it out to the healer. "Dose him," he ordered.
Wounds enough decorated the slender form, but Torl did not object when Tamis produced a knife and sliced a new line across pale flesh, drawing blood only to press a cloth to it and hide the blemish from view. He half expected the elf would stir in reaction to the liquid that suddenly rushed through his veins, but his breathing remained the same and his eyes never twitched. If he somehow knew what awaited him, he did not show it.
"Shall I wake him, my lord?" Tamis inquired when he turned back to them, knife gone and vial capped.
He suspected the boy would relish the activity, and he saw no reason to indulge the boy. "No," he answered. "Dismissed."
Both healer and guard bowed, then filed past him and up the stairs. Torl accepted the vial back as they passed and tucked it back into his tunic. The Slyntari held still as they listened to the young ones' progress, echoing steps punctuated by the doors closing drifted down to them. Silence began to replaced the lazy cacophony, then two distinct thumps echoed down.
Torl nodded. "Wake him," he ordered as the locks being reset clanged through the darkness to them. Nirt obeyed without a sound and her helpers followed her forward. He watched the woman a moment before taking a seat in the far corner near the entrance, in a chair similar to the one whose occupant he watched. His eyes narrowed as he studied their ministrations, not so much trying to determine what they were doing as how successful their efforts were.
His body will betray him twice before the end, he decided. "Oh, Nirt dearest," he called sweetly. The elf groaned blearily, pulled from the oblivion of sleep into more pain than he could imagine. "Do only use the whips to encourage him."
()()()()()
He did not know what he had expected, but he had not expected this-- to ride out and come face-to-face with men they had to both avoid and follow. He did not even know he had expectations, but he was still surprised, and yet . . . not.
On a whole, they looked no different than any man he had ever met. They were better dressed than some, worse dressed than others but certainly not orcs. They had dark hair and wore it long in the style of men with full beards neatly trimmed. Their horses were of fine breed, their bridles and saddles well-made, and their swords-- while used-- were well-kept. Legolas knew (the same way he knew these were the South Men) that these men could pass down any street in any city without drawing a second glance.
And yet, there was a darkness surrounding them that baffled the elf prince how it was possible that there were those who could not see it. It was a presence, a shadow that seemed to churn and distort light. His stomach churned as he recognized in them the same shadow he had encountered in the men at Dorolyn, the same menace.
For a moment, he did not move. He stood alone before six of his enemy arrayed on horseback, themselves just as still, just as surprised. It did not last long.
Legolas turned Ardevui in the opposite direction just as the first of the men charged. He could hear the others following suit, gaining rapidly while he was forced to change directions. His heart quickened and his blood boiled with the desire to face his enemies, but he held to his decision and urged Ardevui into a gallop as soon as she was oriented in the right direction.
Under different circumstances, he would not have hesitated to engage them, but his duty now was to aid Aragorn in finding his brothers and heedlessly attacking six superiorly armed men when he did not have to was counterproductive to his cause. He wished he had his bow. He would settle for his knives.
He neared the corner of the street and aimed Ardevui just past the edge, hoping to skim the building and make a sharper turn without slowing down. He felt the wood clip his knee and elbow, then he was riding north with all speed only to pull Ardevui abruptly down another road. He took this one just as fast as the others and counted off seconds in his head, trying to judge when his pursuit would make the turn to find him. It was difficult, for he had no way of knowing how fast they could ride and he wanted to make sure he was as far from them as possible before turning.
He had forgotten how long the streets were.
The seconds stretched long in his head, increasing his tension moment after endless moment until, finally, he deemed it was time. They were nearly to the corner. He needed to turn. Houses blocked him on either side.
Shouts whipped his head around to find he had been spotted and the men were turning to follow him. He turned forward, not even wasting the breath to curse. No suitable words sprang to mind anyway. His keen eyes darted up the road, finding the next intersection. He directed Ardevui toward it, angling south, and crouched low on her back as he urged her to jump the porch railing. Her front hooves pounded the wood planking, followed quickly by the second; then she was hesitating, gathering her strength--
She sailed over the low rail and landed sure-footed, sending up a shower of dirt and once again increased her pace. He hung on with his knees pressed tight into her sides and guided her as best he could.
A square town with grid streets that connected one to another, each eventually leading where one wanted to go if one followed them long enough, was hardly an ideal place for a chase. It had its advantages and disadvantages-- for both sides, but was (in this case) to his enemy's advantage by simple virtue of numbers. One on one, they could chase each other down side streets forever, weaving in and out of big roads and small roads, never able to catch the other until the world ended or foolishness tilted favor.
But such was not the case. What he faced was two sworn, numerically superior enemies with better working knowledge of their terrain and no knowledge of how they would react towards one another in regards to him. He gained no advantage over them by being on a horse and actually suffered on maneuverability; he was under-armed and could not operate to his full advantage because he could never leave without Aragorn. That meant he had to stay, and if his enemies knew that, they could eventually use their numbers to box him in. If that happened, the only thing he could do was fight them or take to his feet . . . and he was loathe to do either.
Skipping two intersections took him a third of the way to Caivern's center, and two more passed before he decided to turn. He thought he heard them turn the far corner, but the increased shouts and stamping hooves combined with distance and obstructions made it nearly impossible to be certain.
No matter. He had no need of them to follow him, just for there to be space between him and them. He needed time.
Ardevui panted as she raced for the distance, not sure where she was going but aware she had to get there quickly. Her body quivered ever so slightly beneath him. Fatigue pulled at her muscles. Running cross-country with the minimum of stops to see to the health of horse and rider, her longest break had come more than a month before when Aragorn fell in the river, and even that was easier than what he demanded now.
Holding a steady-- or fairly steady-- speed for long distances was incomparably easier on a horse than rapid acceleration and deceleration, and gradual turns far less stressful than sharp ones. Even doing his best to minimize that strain could not erase it, and jumps were not much better. His course amounted to a draining, highly stressful race-- one he could not in good conscious ask her to continue long, one she could not continue long even if she would. They would have to leave soon, or Ardevui would not have the strength to bear them far with any speed.
The next intersection closed upon him with the speed of a charging bull, away one instant and upon him the next, with the seconds stretched long in between. Too fast and too slow, he felt the constraints of time more keenly than he could ever remember having felt them before.
He slowed Ardevui's mad dash with a touch to her neck. The sides of the buildings were solid here, and the intersection too small to repeat his earlier move at speed. The mare obeyed quickly, and obligingly drifted left as he directed. She reached the corner at just over a quick trot and took a right down this new street. The shouts were louder now, no longer so distant, though little had changed. It was almost as if he had stepped from one room into another but still had not found where the conversation he glimpsed originated. It gladdened his heart to know he might finally be getting close.
A glance to the side showed part of the group had broken off and were now paralleling him along the other street. That limited his choice of directions, but he no longer had to worry about them. Unless they rejoined the group following behind him, he would see them long before they could harm him.
Unless they conjure bows.
Legolas pushed that thought away. He had more important things to do than worry about a future that might not even come to pass. Like surviving to get to it in the first place.
Another glance showed the men still pacing him. Once he passed the edge of the building, he pulled Ardevui to a halt. Counting out just enough time for the others to have passed by, he urged his steed forward again. There was no sign of the men as he passed the lane, and they did not reappear as he arrived at the second. Twisting, he just glimpsed his pursuers turning onto his street before he turned onto the new one, once again headed east.
Front doors flashed past quickly, and if anyone looked out their windows, he did not take the time to see. Wind rushed past his ears, whipping like canvas in a storm, and blocked sound. The growing presence he had heard faded, and with it his awareness of what was happening around him. It was uncomfortably like being blind, and the elf prince resisted the urge to slow down so he could hear. He could not afford to slow down.
The next intersection flew at him as if on wings, and he almost did not slow Ardevui enough to make the turn. They burst into the open with too much speed and not enough attention to their surroundings, trying as he was to shift in order to give Ardevui the best chances of making the turn. An arrow shot past inches from his ear, startling him into shifting backwards. Ardevui started forward.
"Shoot!" he cursed breathlessly, scrambling to catch hold of something to keep him from falling. His eyes widened as he realized what he had said, what had happened, and what was likely to be done. "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" he amended quickly, managing to catch Ardevui's mane with his fingers and regain his seat. For a moment, he inanely thought he felt like a human, terribly clumsy and unaware, and wondered how Aragorn could stand it.
Legolas shook his head sharply. "I have been spending too much time with Strider," he told Ardevui mournfully. The mare just snorted. She probably thinks I should have know that already.
Or should be paying attention! he added as two more arrows streaked past his head. Then houses appeared on two sides, and he knew Ardevui had carried him past the intersection onto the continuation of their street and out of harm's way. But that hardly made them safe.
He bid her stop, and she turned towards the intersection, facing one of the houses but swiveling her ears to find out what was going on. Legolas listened, too, and what he heard failed to elicit a reaction from him either way.
"Hey! That was the Elf!"
"Yeah, but where's Ranger?"
"Who cares? We'll find him soon enough."
"Think he'll come if we catch the Elf?"
He was too busy considering his next move to truly give their conversation any thought. More important was the fact that they were coming closer and he was quickly running out of time to make a decision. It was rapidly becoming an academic question of whether it was to be the South Men or the villagers that caught him first. He could continue running, but if there was a similar group at the next intersection, he would accomplish nothing save to box himself in. And the pair behind him would get him in their sights long before he could reach the next intersection; their bows made that a tricky and possibly useless venture.
Neither, though, could he stay where he was. Even if he could take out the villagers with just his dagger, that still left the six creeps to deal with; and he had every reason to expect they were back together, ruling out the hope that he could deal with them three at a time. Six on one was no better an option now than when he had encountered them halfway across the city. Unless. . . .
The villagers were armed. Both had bows from what he remembered and at least one carried a sword. If he could take them out quickly, he would gain a bow and another more suitable weapon than his lone dagger for close combat. That would even the odds and give him a fighting chance.
The elf prince slid from Ardevui's back before he could give himself a chance to reconsider. Reconsideration could breed doubts, doubts would spawn hesitation, and hesitation would get him killed. He stroked Ardevui's neck and whispered for her to hide before moving forward and away, sliding silently to a position a few feet back from the intersection on the side the villagers had to come from. He pulled his dagger and listened closely as they approached, tensing as they pulled nearly abreast of his location.
He felt he should have foreseen what happened next.
Alarmed shouts told him something had gone wrong. Then arrows flew past towards targets he could not see, and it occurred to him that the South Men had arrived. Hooves thundered, throbbed between the buildings (far louder than what was made by just six horses, no matter how hard one rode) and arrows crossed back towards the villagers. More than a dozen to answer the people's four. It occurred to him as he backed up that he may have just made a fatal mistake.
Then he turned and ran.
()()()()()
He stumbled to a halt upon the zenith of the shallowest inclines of the smallest pseudo hill and stared out at the skeleton trees, dead bushes, and rocky soil like a thirsty man who has toiled long to reach his destination only to discover he was wrong, and what he thought was the end was really the beginning, desert stretching to the endless horizon before him. Elrohir sighed.
He had only been traveling an hour, but he could not remember ever feeling so tired. His arms and legs felt like lead, carrying all the weight of the ages, and he could barely imagine moving one more step, never mind another mile. And mile upon mile yet separated him from his brother, far more than he had imagined when he set out; it was with a sinking pang that he realized how long he must have been out of it to have no knowledge of coming this far.
If I had not given into despair, it would not be taking me so long to reach Elladan. He staggered, almost falling as he took a step forward, and it was hard to tell if the sudden weakness of his legs was from the guilt or the fatigue. His next step was not any better.
He stepped out and brought his foot down without incident, and even found the strength to lift his back foot and continue on-- but his upper body had a mind to continue faster. He felt himself rock forward, tipping past balance in that endless, floating moment before you fall, where your stomach tightens and a thrill runs up your spine. His eyes widened as the ground began to rock towards him, and his mind screamed Move! move, move, move, move, move! But his body did not seem to respond. Not as he wanted, and not as fast as he needed.
His upper body continued at a run while his lower body continued at a walk, his legs tripping after like a child trying to keep up with a rushing adult, and he was surprised when his arms slipped around a tree, his right arm hooking it before he could trip over it and sprawl face first at its base.
The younger twin rocked back and, still keeping a firm grip upon the papery trunk, managed to stand upright. His head swam ever so slightly, giving the impression that he was floating instead of standing and not completely connected. He clenched his eyes shut, some little voice whispering in his head that if he did it harder it would accomplish more, and opened his eyes seconds later to find that the world seemed solid once more. Bracing himself with a deep breath, he shifted his grip so he only pressed his hand against the trunk, then started forward, watching the ground for any trickery.
Nothing out of the ordinary appeared, and he continued on five, six, seven . . . only to see the ground slip left. He wavered, trying to balance as his feet went one way, his head the other, and some soft, insidious voice kept whispering he was going to fall, he was going to fall. . . .
He was going to fall.
"I am not going to fall," he said irritably, and was not entirely sure if it was himself he was trying to convince, that little voice inside his head that was being contrary, or the Valar who were surely laughing at him by now. In the end, it did not matter.
Elrohir reclaimed his balance, unconsciously holding out his arms and twisting them like he was holding on to people walking beside him, and continued walking. The dirt, dry and rocky, crunched and shifted under his feet, little drops that would have meant nothing under normal circumstances. Now, though, they disturbed his already precarious balance. He made it perhaps ten steps before he was once again swerving into a tree.
A crack resounded at impact, and he held it tightly with both hands, some part of him thinking he could hold it together while another feared it would vanish all-together if he let go. He clung to its cool solidity with his eyes clenched shut while the world about him swirled and sloshed and he tried to slow his heartbeat, which was racing from his close call. Actually, it had been racing before that, a slightly too fast rhythm that felt strange within his sluggish body. But this-- this was too fast.
He took a deep breath and felt it turn shaky. He had not felt this bad since that drinking contest on Estel's twenty-first birthday. As if conjured by the memory, his head began to throb distantly. What did they give me? he thought. What did they do to me?
The last weeks scrolled across his mind's eye like a horrible play, reminding him of the forced travel, the harsh treatment, the poor care. It occurred to him that on top of being drugged, he could not remember the last time he had eaten, nor if he had had any of the water he had given his twin before they left, before everything that had not already gone wrong went straight to hell. He could not remember, but what he did suggested he had every right to feel this horrible, and that was not a comforting thought. He wondered how much longer he would be able to stay on his feet.
Until I rescue my brother, he thought. I just need to stay standing until I rescue my brother.
"The only thing you will accomplish is to suffer beside him; suffer and die!"
"No, I won't!" he denied. I'll save him. I have to.
His head throbbed, pounding between his eyes and at the base of his skull, prying persistently at his thoughts and cocooning them away from him. His mind spun, helplessly active, but with no focus or purpose, no clarity. Planning was beyond him, and he was surprised to realize he had started walking again, staggering across the rocky soil with less than his usual grace.
He could see trees, tall and thin, their skins pale gray and paper dry; their spindly limbs reached for the sky like bony fingers raised in supplication, the trunks tortured spirits locked forever in endless death. They pinwheeled before his eyes-- sometimes faster, something slower-- and grew within his sight. Blackened bushes like dead, tangled vines, hugged their bases and changed the lines, made them different, marked their passage. Always, it seemed he would fall, but always he found his balance (or his balance found him) and the trees continued to dance. Here and there, there and here. . . .
He could almost imagine they were spirits, floating . . . but the ground that was solid under his feet was solid around theirs. He glanced to the side, instinct and long habit of watchfulness taking over-- and started back, tripping over his own feet in surprise.
His feet did not move fast enough. He needed to get away--
The dark-haired elf felt the tree before he saw it, saw it before he understood what it was, and heard the loud crack, ominous in the unnatural silence, that heralded a falling tree magnified many times as it rang in his ears. He froze, not even daring to breathe, feeling he had just stepped on the largest twig in the world, and now he was bound to be found.
Elrohir waited apprehensively, his eyes the only things that moved. Inexplicably, he felt like an elfling, like he had just been caught roughhousing with his brother, a broken vase scattered about their feet. For half a moment, he fully expected to glance up and see his father frowning at him sternly, a lecture on his lips.
But when silence returned, the last echoes falling away, he heard no one closing in and Lord Elrond's voice did not command it; he looked up. Blue eyes scanned deadened woodland before him and found everything as it had been, no shadow out of place.
Of their own volition, his eyes tracked back across the forest path, seeking out what had startled him so. A dark stump, knarled and twisted, rising nearly equal with his head, stood where the shadowed form had been. It was a different species than the other trees. Its bark was rougher, darker, and the trunk was thicker. Instead of drying out, though, it had rotted. Bits of itself lay scattered at its feet. With a bit of imagination, it could have been a man.
He sneered at it in disgust. Whether it was himself he was most disgusted at or someone else, he could not say. His thoughts were not so clear as to allow such insight, but he could easily tell he was dissatisfied. A sneaking fear, like the covert slithering of a snake, wormed its way into his thoughts and dropped into his stomach like a knot of ice.
I could've been dead, he thought faintly. Had that been the enemy, I would have been dead. Sobering, but there was little he could do.
Time ticked away like a vice, every second bringing the two clamps closer together until, eventually, they would crush him between their merciless embrace. He could feel the weight of his brother's-- his twin's-- life hanging down on him, crushing him. Sometimes it consumed him, claimed him, other times it waited, lurking, just out of reach but always there, always harbored in the back of his mind like an annoying itch.
He could not forget Elladan's life hung on his shoulders. He could not forget what his failure would cost. He did not want to.
Nana paid for my mistake. It cannot happen again. For Ada, for Estel, for Elladan . . . for me. It cannot happen again. I cannot let him pay for my mistakes. I could not bear it.
Elrohir took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He did not realize he had closed his eyes until he opened them. The lids felt incredibly heavy, sticky almost, and his head just as fuzzy, but the pain had faded-- a dull buzzing that merged with his floating thoughts-- and the world seemed firmly in its place once more.
Brushing aside his concern, that nagging feeling that something was wrong, he ran. Again.
()()()()()
It was impossible to say when he noticed it-- when the world shifted from "normal" to "off." He was not even sure what triggered it, what had told him that things once right were now wrong. It was just something he became aware of, like the tickle of a feather against his skin.
It was not his headache, now a full-blown monster pounding at the confines of his skull. It was not the floating quality that had come into his vision, the way the ground would drift just a little too far that way. It was not the shivery feeling in his legs, nor the fluttery galloping of his heart. It was nothing tangibly wrong, nothing he could definitely put his finger on, but it was there just the same, and he knew it. He could feel it, tickling at the edges of his awareness, unidentifiable.
Gradually, he slowed, his feet unwillingly coming to a half amid the crunch of gravel. He looked around warily, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. It was a momentary distraction to touch the haft and find it different than the one he remembered, but he instinctively pushed it away in favor of more immediate concerns . . . the menace just out of reach. . . .
Everything was still. Quiet. The wind, which had ghosted through the empty boughs all morning, had ceased, leaving the air charged with a kind of breathless expectancy. He listened, straining his ears, stretching, trying to catch just a hint. . . .
He moved in the same instant he was attacked, deftly turning away from the blow and rolling out of harm's way. He came up, his sword drawn, and saw the man check his momentum quickly and turn once more to face him.
His blood burned hotly in his veins, eager for this fight, eager to be able to do something other than just wait. The barest hint of a feral smile hovered over his lips as he flowed forward, bringing the sword up and around to connect solidly with tempered steel. The blades locked. For the briefest moment, their gazes met and Elrohir saw the same anticipation he felt in his gut.
Then they broke and the dance began. Steel rang sharply, almost jarring, nearly musical. His hands moved seemingly of the own volition, up, down, strike, jab, block, sweep, forcing the other back, down, maneuvering him with the ease of a child pulling a wagon, his blows clean and graceful, a testament to his skill. The battle would not last long.
But uneasiness had begun to grow within him, a quiet doubt beyond words that required no expression. It whispered just as eloquently that something was wrong as the niggle in the back of his mind that had warned him of attack.
Long had Elrohir been a warrior. Many centuries had passed and he had fought countless enemies in that time in nearly as many locales as there were to be had upon Middle-earth, both well-rested and tired, hale and injured. He had come to know the arc of his swing, the power of his strike, the quickness of his step, the limit of his stamina, the feel, the rhythm, and knew when it had faltered.
A quiet little fear, the kind that noted faults even when nothing had gone wrong, pointed out the slowing of his step. He was overly aware of the weight of the blade, heavier than his own, though he had fought with many blades over the years. He felt the different balance, how it pulled further before he could halt his swing, how it took just a little bit more effort to start it moving, to change its flow. He felt how his arms shivered, and how the weight wanted to pull him forward, off-balance; and he knew his style would become awkward the more he tired, knew he would make careless mistakes.
He could feel it already. He needed a wider stance. His feet were too far apart. His hands were too far forward. Too high. He was leaning too much, his weight no longer balanced over his feet. He needed to end this. Quickly.
The younger twin stepped up his attack, forcing his arms to swing faster, his blows to fall harder, his strikes shorter, surer. He drove the man before him, the other's counter swings nearly frantic as he tried to stem the tide of the elf's assault. Brown eyes darted around for an escape he would not grant. Satisfaction, relief, flowed through him when the man's sword flew from his hand and his feet dumped him to the floor. Elrohir approached the prone form with sword held high ready to end the foul creature's life--
The stroke never fell.
Before he could complete the strike, he whirled, barely catching the sword edge that had been heading for his throat. The blades slid as the opponents fought for dominance, then he stepped forward and pushed the other's blade to the ground. It sang as it hit rock, and Elrohir pulled a page from Estel's book, removing his outside hand from the hilt and smashed his fist back across his attacker's face. He felt something give and the man stumbled back, losing his grip on his sword.
By this time, he knew beyond any shadow of doubt that he was not alone, and got a brief view of three beings who had come to join the first two and was blocking a third sword before he could finish what he started with the second.
Movement from the corner of his eye warned him the first had regained his sword and his feet and intended to use them. He retreated, dancing away from his opponent and placing four of the five on one side of him. The third followed the move, keeping up the friction between their blades and filling the air with the scratchy ring of metal. The fifth moved as he set his feet, coming against his back, and he broke away. He spun past the blow and tried to deliver one of his own, but the other spun away.
For an instant, he had all five in view. Four were men, all with builds similar to Estel's, three had dark hair, two with black instead of dark brown, and the fourth was an ashy blonde with soot smeared on it in an effort to darken the color. One of the black-haired men had green eyes. They all moved before he had even set his feet, shifting around to get behind him. The only one who did not move was the woman.
Bright red flashed with green and for a heartbeat he feared it was Nirt, reflexive panic trying to claim him before he realized this one was inches too short and of a heavier build; stocky instead of whipcord thin, but the same manic light burned in her eyes. She enjoyed this.
He pushed those thoughts away in favor of concentrating on the fight. He needed to plan so he could act instead of simply reacting, lead instead of following, guide instead of finding himself maneuvered into a trap he could not see coming and had no way to escape. For that he needed time and, desperately, he needed out of the noose they had caught him within.
The clash of swords rang in his ears as he ably defended himself from their assault, twisting quickly to stave off everything they threw at him, but he dare not keep it up for long. He could not keep it up for long. He would wear down long before they did; he was the one who had to do all the moving while they darted forward enough to force him to engage them or risk the noose tightening till resistance was impossible.
He tried charging a gap, but the space always closed, the defense too close for a quick break, and he was always forced to defend himself on another quarter before he could truly attempt to batter his way through. He tried charging a person, but the other always gave ground, and someone behind him would come up and force him to turn and face them before he could truly challenge the other. Then the game would begin all over.
He wished he was fighting orcs instead of men. Orcs could be taken out with a single blow, surprised with quick movements, but these opponents were too cautious. Used to working together, they had obviously been warned to be on their guard and seemed perfectly willing to let him collapse from exhaustion. He could not help but think this group was smarter than the ones who came after them last night.
Why couldn't they wait until I had rescued Elladan to grow a brain?
He parried high, then spun and blocked low, came back nearly a hundred eighty degrees to check a waist-high sweep, then almost went left instead of continuing right to catch the next threat. The brief hesitation threw him off, and he stumbled as he met the blow, not quite set. He could not move quickly enough to meet the next strike form behind, so he rolled instead.
The ground bit at his back, and a sword came at him before he made it back to his feet. Only half-standing, he blocked the blow and was knocked onto his back. Panic seized him. He needed to be on his feet! The longer he remained on the ground, the more vulnerable he became.
He had known better than to go down. He had known if he let himself be forced to the floor, it was possible he would never get back up. He kicked himself even as he feverishly defended against the blows that rained down on him, struggling to force an opening so he could regain his feet. But even as he fought, he knew it was a lost cause.
His arms ached with the effort of swinging the sword, ached from the heavy vibrations that traveled to his shoulders with every clash of steel on steel. His chest throbbed. His lungs burned. His heart was racing far too fast and pain was consuming his thoughts. His sight was beginning to dim around the edges, spots flashing before his eyes. It was just a matter of time before a blow got through. Then the battle would over.
I'm sorry, brother! he cried silently, seeing his doom. A sword he would never be in time to block descended towards his head.
He tried anyway, bringing his sword up as a kind of shield. His eyes widened and his heart stopped. Then the blade dug into the earth just past his head. He jumped as the man collapsed atop him, stiffening instinctively, and held perfectly still beneath the other's weight. He waited for the dark-haired man to get up, but he never moved.
Weapons clashing nearby pulled him from his stupor and he looked up into wide, surprised green eyes that no longer viewed the world they looked upon.
Elrohir got his hands up, dropping his sword where it was pinned between them, and pushed determinedly at the man's right shoulder. The other rolled partially off and he dragged himself out from under the dead weight, a quick glance around showing he was, for the moment, unnoticed.
He pulled his sword from the man's body and jumped to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, fighting the dizziness that washed over him and trying not to give into the darkness that was coming for him. It dissipated, and his gaze fell on the only other being near him.
It was the blond. Also dead. A dagger hilt was buried in his back at the base of his neck, forced between two vertebrate. A glimpse at the other showed a similarly clean strike had ended his life as well, this time through the heart. He blinked but left them where they lay. There was something far more important that demanded his attention now.
The four remaining living beings formed a cluster about a dozen feet from his position, his rescuer skillfully holding his own against three to one odds. But it was not going to stay that way.
Elrohir moved forward quickly and came up behind one of the men. Without a moment's hesitation he brought up his sword and loped the other's head off. The body fell, alerting the woman beside him and she quickly turned to face him, but it was not quick enough. His sword struck hers before it could pass her waist, forcing it back down. A quick reverse sliced deeply into her chest and pain choked her breath. She stumbled backwards, green eyes wide and fearful. She was staring at him when he drove his sword through her heart.
He turned in time to see the last opponent fall, and froze. His blue eyes fixed on his "rescuer." He did not know if he should feel shocked, triumphant, or angry, so he settled for staring blankly, feeling like a hole had opened up in his stomach and did his best to feel nothing.
"Nirt's not going to be happy."
It took him a moment to realize the inane words came from the girl standing casually before him as if she saved the lives of people who told her to go to hell everyday. "What?" he managed.
"Nirt," Sierra repeated. "She's not going to happy."
He blinked, bemused.
"You killed her sister: Nirauna." The lithe brunette gestured carelessly at the redhead staring blankly at the sky.
He did not bother to glance at her. "What are you doing here?" he demanded of the only other living occupant within sight.
The other's bright eyes scanned their surroundings as if he had not spoken. "We need to go," she answered instead. She took his arm before he could protest and started pulling him in a direction he could not readily identify.
"What are you doing?" His head was spinning, pounding. He would never have admitted it, but her hand clamped just above his elbow was the only thing holding him up. His vision blurred as they walked quickly through the trees, and it was several minutes before he realized she had not answered him. He tried again: "What are you doing?"
"We're going to find a somewhat safe place to camp for a few hours," she replied, an odd, distracted note in her voice.
Frustration washed over him. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me," he charged angrily.
"No," she interrupted. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me."
He frowned at her, but did not answer. His head was hurting too badly to support such considerations and it took too much energy to argue. Instead, he turned his attention to figuring out which way she was taking him this time. He was not really mollified to discover they were heading south. His brother was not in the south, but he was not particularly sure he could speak coherently just now so he did not even try. At least they were not going east.
Minutes melted together into an indistinguishable blur as they walked, and the sun was well into the sky by the time Sierra indicated a stop. Elrohir's tongue felt thick and his throat felt scratchy and he sank to the ground when he was released, leaning wearily against a stone outcropping that provided some shade from the sun.
He lost sight of the girl as she continued on without him, and his thoughts turned to that moment when he was sure he was going to die. He felt again the little rocks beneath his back, digging and scratching, the hilt in his palm; saw the blade poised above him ready to descend. He tired to think if there was anything he could have done, any way he could have saved himself, and could think of nothing.
He was left with his despair in the moment of his defeat. I'm sorry, brother! He closed his eyes.
Something was dropped in his hands, and he clutched it reflexively, his eyes flying open. It took a moment, but he eventually resolved the brown blob in his hands into a water skin, and he drank from it gratefully. It felt cool going down his throat and by the time he was done, his headache had eased.
He looked around and watched a moment as the girl played with something on the ground. It felt good to be sitting still, and he let his curiosity hold him in place while he tried to figure out what she was doing. He was no closer several minutes later and deemed it was time to go after his brother again. He began working his way to his feet.
Sierra's head came up immediately. "Where do you think you're going?" she demanded sharply.
He bristled at her tone. "To save my brother," he answered shortly. He thought crossly that he need not have answered her at all.
"You're not doing any such thing." She was on her feet before him before he could take a single step.
He glared, aggravated. "We've already done this, wench," he growled. "Don't interfere. This doesn't concern you."
Anger flashed across her face, momentarily distorting it into a sneer, then blanked and her jaw set. "You're going to sleep."
"I'm going to save my brother!" He stepped, but she blocked him.
"You couldn't get past me if you tried," she countered, her voice low. "One way or another, you're going to sleep, Elrohir. By your choice or mine, you're going to sleep, and you're going to sleep now."
Of all the arrogance! He reached out to shove her aside so he could get past, but she grabbed his arm and pulled, taking him forward faster than he had intended. He stumbled and felt her arm wrap around his neck before he could react. Her other arm pressed his head forward. He struggled against the hold, but he was too tired to break it; and before he could stop himself, he slid into darkness.
()()()()()
The surprise of him jumping off a roof to land on their ringleader's horse did not last long. Neither was he long a solitary rider through the endless streets. In this land of the horselords, it seemed everyone who was anyone owned a horse.
Aragorn chanced a glance behind him and wished for the dozenth time that the villagers' general ineptitude in combat had extended to horsemanship. At least a dozen men were close behind him as he raced, heedless of traffic or obstruction, down the village streets. It was a little less than half the number that had hounded him originally, but he knew better than to feel relief. He had not lost them, merely not found them yet.
It was a dying hope that he would not find them for a long, long time.
I'm in trouble, he thought, nearly frantically, a decidedly late realization. Plans were a luxury he had no time for, and he had long ago resorted to making random turns in the hopes of losing his pursuers. His thought was that taking a lot of turns to go nowhere would confuse them and they would lose his trail; he need not see the group behind him to know he had failed.
Or rather, he amended dryly, succeeded with the wrong subject. He, Ranger and Chieftain of the North, was decidely lost.
He look a turn-- too fast-- and could not tell if he was going north or south (though he might have been going east or west-- he could not remember which faced the houses). And he did not have time to check. Direction was not really important anyway. His hair whipped back form his face and the cold morning air stung at his eyes. He searched desperately for somewhere to go, somewhere-- something to give him inspiration.
A flash of black-- a moment of emptiness amid constant color-- caught his eye, and he turned the mare towards it before he even realized what it was. The darkness washed over him like ice water, and he tensed. He could not help but remember his last plunge through an unlit stable; the bruises on his legs throbbed with the memory. He hoped there were no surprises lurking in the shadow for him to discover the hard way.
Seconds passed, and he reined his horse to a halt just as the other riders reached the stable. Turning to face the entrance, he watched the men streak past, praying no one would think to look his way or-- looking-- would fail to see him. He held himself as still as a statue, poised on a razor-blade of anticipation.
An age seemed to pass while they streaked by, but when empty street was once more before him, he remained unnoticed. The ranger released a breath he had not realized he held, and patted the steed's neck gently, comforting.
A sigh escaped him. "When my father told me I'd face great trials as I grew older, wars and thankless tasks-- he somehow failed to prepare me for days like this." Weeks like this.
The mare snorted. A small smile eased his countenance briefly and he restarted her on an easier pace for the far end. The relative quiet, after so much commotion, tempted him to relax, and much of the tension that had plagued him melted from his shoulders. It was a feeling that contrasted sharply-- jarringly-- with the knowledge that he was far from safe and definitely still in grave danger.
His eyes darted around the entryway for hints of trouble as a jittery unease stole back upon him, forced back upon him by his dark thoughts, scattering the momentary peace he had felt. It was like being yanked back and forth between two stubborn children who both wanted to play with the same toy, and he found he did not like that mental image at all. It was much too easy to overlay them in a battle zone, with people screaming and running for their lives, the children fighting obliviously among themselves, and him helpless to do anything as faceless riders descended upon them with raised and bloody swords.
It did nothing to aid his peace of mind.
Pushing that thought away, he listened intently for any sign that villagers lay in wait past the wooden walls beyond his sight. Distant clip-clops and muffled screams were all that reached him-- nothing close, nothing threatening, but he had long learned it was the threat you did not see which proved the most devastating. Nevertheless, there was nothing for it but to ride out.
He went left immediately, not bothering to look around him, and took the first right he came to. No shouts went up to announce he had been seen. No hooves raced nearer in rapid tattoo. In fact, he saw no one. Always before when he had doubled back, he would find someone yet patrolling the road, ever ready to take up the cry and bring others upon him faster than he would believe possible so the insane chase could begin anew.
"What's changed?" he asked of no one, even as there was no one present to answer him. He could hear the commotion from somewhere in the city that told him all was not yet calm.
Curiosity slowed him as he tried to determine where the sounds were coming from and what they meant. The yells and screams all melded into one, an unearthly roar that prickled the back of his neck-- and stirred a memory. Horses riding hard at him, swords raised high above dark heads-- but he blinked, and judged the roar to come from the direction his pursuers had been heading. He looked that way, frowning, though countless buildings stood between them.
What was going on? What had shifted the villagers' focus away from him? Had they found Legolas? His friend would face more adversaries than even he could safely handle if so, and his heart ached at the thought that ill might befall him. Again, his mind flashed to the dark riders. But this time it was a familiar face that caught his eyes as they rushed towards him. . . .
He stiffened and was jerked from memory back into empty streets. A quiet voice, more an impulse than anything else, told him he should leave. It whispered that he should ignore whatever was happening and get out of Caivern. He needed to find his brothers; there was no need to remain here when Elladan and Elrohir were not here, especially as doing so placed him in danger. He should leave.
But he could not forget Legolas. And as he knew beyond any shadow of doubt that the Mirkwood elf would not leave without him, he could not possibly leave without his friend.
Aragorn turned the horse about again, and her snort-- he imagined, if it were put into words-- would demand he make up his mind. He smiled at the flight of his own thoughts because it distracted him from the darkness that was taking up residence inside him, the unease that wanted to claim him, and said placatingly, "We're just going to go see what all the fuss is about."
He set the pace at a rapid trot and turned his head to better hear the chaos. He pushed all thoughts away and barely registered the buildings he passed, though they burned into his eyes with perfect clarity for the brief seconds they were in his sight. He could not have remembered a thing about them later, nor the path he took, but he wove through grid-laid streets following his ears-- which worked just fine, even if they were not so keen as an elf's-- regardless.
He remembered a game they used to play, when he was about ten, on rainy days that kept them inside. Nearly the whole of Elrond's household would remain indoors, something he had thought the way of things until he was old enough to understand better, and Elladan and Elrohir would pull out a long, thin piece of cloth and a bell. It was one of the few ideas the twins had that Elrond met with approval.
They would all congregate in the Hall of Fire, those four walls the boundaries of the game, and they would all take turns stumbling around the room trying to find the bell, laughing when they tripped over moving bodies. Then later years, after he was good enough, he and the twins would take it throughout all of Imladris. It never failed that the rules of the game would change with each repetition, and he could still hear the aggravatedly amused shouts of the kitchen staff as they bumbled through the kitchen, laughing, with Elladan as the Blind Man while they were trying to fix dinner.
Such happy memories, from a simpler time, somehow underscored the trepidation he felt at what he would find. He feared he would find Legolas, caught and tied, hurt and bloodied. He feared the possibility that he would come too late, that he would be unable to help his dearest friend. His fears pricked at the nightmares he had hoped he had left behind him months earlier, picking at them with a persistence he found unnerving.
He kept the fears at bay with a true and undeniable thought: they may not have found Legolas yet. It gave him the strength to keep his fears unarticulated in his mind. Something else kept him from considering what else could possibly cause such an uproar among the villagers, something he did not look at too closely.
Then the voices were near, perhaps one street over, and he could make out individual voices, could hear the softer cries amid the spirited yells, the anger and the fear, the pain and anguish. He was surprised to hear higher voices-- the voices of women and children-- in the mix, and had to force himself to approach carefully, with caution.
He could hear crashes and the crunch of smashed wood. When he came to the corner, he moved forward only enough to see around the edge. But what he saw turned his blood to ice.
()()()
()()()()()
()()()
Review Responses:
Deana: "g" I actually hadn't thought about that. I don't imagine he'll be pleased about it, though. Hm, this could be fun.... I suppose if you're an elf, three months could be soon. Right? "looks hopeful"
Athelassa: I'm glad it came out so well. It's not as fun to write a second chapter dealing with much the same stuff, and will be even less thrillling come next chapter. I'll just have to find some way to mix it up. "grins in mock cheer" hehe. I had fun with the hide-and-seek. Um, will definitely keep writing. As much trouble as this story's been, I couldn't possible start now. "g" Thanks for reviewing.
AM: "grins wryly" What about three months? Somehow, I think you may be right. No guarantees, though. The twins and Kalya? What about the twins and Kalya? I didn't forget them. I have plans for them.
Veritas and Aequitas: "sighs" I'm sorry. Soon still isn't soon, though it was closer last time. Twins... We actually get more into the twins in chapter 21. Chapter 20 deals more with Aragorn and Legolas, and finally extracts them from Caivern. Something which can't happen too soon, in my opinion. But I will most definitely not abandon this story. You may be sure of that, even if you can't possibly predict when my next update will be. Maybe we should have a pool, see who comes closest. "g"
Grumpy: lol. Yes, I just knew I had to take advantage of that when Aragorn presented the opportunity. I live to get him in trouble, you know. "g" Em, well this time, I had to read instead of write for a bit to gain some perspective, some inspiration, clear out the cobwebs. We'll hope it makes a difference.
DeepBlueSomething: Neither Aragorn or Elrohir are having fun, but I wager Aragorn's actually better off. The major twin angst comes in chapter 21. No, actually, it comes in chapter 22, but I haven't planned it out yet so I'm not quite sure what it entails. Should be good, if my imagination is up to the task. But that's getting ahead of myself. "g" I'm looking forward to it too.
Shadowfaxgal: "prods gently" Are you still here, hm? I haven't waited too long have I? I don't like dead reviewers. They haunt me in my sleep. "g" Don't worry about being late or forgoing details. So long as you get me a nice, long review eventually I'll be perfectly content. Hehe. Kidding. But I do love to hear from you, and whatever you're willing to give me is wonderful. I feel so warm and fuzzy inside.
Cosmic Castaway: I like your name. It's neat. "smiles" Eh-- "leans away from knives" Uh-huh. Whatever you say. Just let me finish this last page.... "disappears, never to come back" lol. Well, I hope you like it more than you dislike me so you're willing to spare my life to let me continue. "g"
Nerfenherder: Oh, I don't always have it on author alert and I'm not annonymous. "g" I like hunting through the recent updates to find my stories. Lol. Author alerts are rather handy for people like me who never seem to stick to any kind of schedule, though. So sorry. I'm glad my action sequences were not disappointing. "g" And dreams are so much fun. Mwahaha. Eh, well, when I write them short, I get a whole lot of chapters where nothing really happens (witness most of the beginning of this fic) and I just don't know. We'll see. I plan them trying to get to a certain point, and then the length varies by how much I write for each part. Maybe these next couple of chapters will cooperate better. I have a suspicion that part of my problem is the number of characters. There's, um, something like six p.o.v's, give or take (probably give), and three to four per chapter, and each one is coming from a different point. A mild nuisance, but maybe one day I'll be really good at switching between characters. "doesn't hold out much hope for that." Ooh! Hurricanes! Lol. No, not much trouble. A few headaches, a couple fights, hours (days) of darkness and a really cold, impresive rainstorm with lots of wind, but no trouble. In fact, I think I'm ready for another one. "eg" Soon... Well, this was almost soon. At least from your point of view.