Wonder of wonders, I'm back. And it only took me nine extra days. (ducks rotten fruit and knives) Um, right. Spell checked, not beta'd, so if there are words that are spelled correctly but aren't the right word for the sentence, that's why. Funny things happen between my brain and my fingers and back again.
Anyway, there's possibly good news on the horizon. Whether it's better for me or you is up to debate. (g)
I'm gonna try very, very hard to get the next chapter up by the 11th. As I'm now working, I do'nt know if it will actually happen, but I am definitely going to try. (Actually, I'm gonna try for earlier than that, Christmas maybe, but don't hold your breath.)
A big thanks to Alina and Niniel for helping with some of the elvish. Couldn't have posted without them. Cheers, girls!
Now, fewer words are better, right? On with the chapter.
Oh, wait. Quick note: Blame Legolas. It's his fault this is late. Now, carry on.
Chapter 21
Nothing moved within the cavern's stone walls. No one noted the stillness. No one noted the silence. No one found it unsettling, but more than just cold stone lived inside the walls, even if such was not readily visible.
Pale flickering light danced over the stalagmites and stalactites which decorated the edges of the space. Like bars, they stood, yet nothing but hard rock lay beyond them and the exit stood clear. Shadows played about the corners of the cave but did not encroach upon the center. No shade approached the stone altar nor extended a finger towards the crystal pool that lay near it.
It was before the former that the only life could be found. Dressed in dark robes, a man stood with his hands braced against the lip of the basin sat atop the altar. No twitch betrayed his life; no breath broke his stillness. More rock than flesh, he appeared, so that he seemed naught but an exquisitely carved statue but for his eyes. Cold, they were, as death, but not dead.
Light sparkled within their obsidian depths, betraying a life the body denied-- a life without warmth or compassion that promised nothing but pain and sorrow. Life, they held, but nothing of the man they claimed. Liquid and implacable, they reflected what they saw even as a deep pool with nothing to stir its waters.
They studied the shallow pool, unblinking, looking past the basin's bottom into a new world, though none could tell what they saw. They held no thoughts, and the man's face held no emotion.
Long moments passed, each identical to the last, seeming to have no beginning and no end, then Perego moved. His hands dropped to his side and fire swirled through his dark eyes, extinguished as quickly as it had come. "You seek to play with me," he murmured, his eyes focused on something only he could see, seeming to look through the walls. The water rippled slightly as he suddenly left, then smoothed to stillness, naught but the basin visible beneath its surface.
The sorceror strode the length of the dark tunnels with the powerful air of a king marching to war, his long robes making his appear to glide. None he passed opposed him and he paid them no mind. His steps never faltered; his eyes never strayed from his target. Slaves and Slyntari alike moved out of his way until he came upon one who paid no more attention to the bustle of activity than he did. There, he stopped, his mirrored eyes fixed upon the lone individual who deigned to ignore him.
The young captain glanced at him uncertainly, his gaze flickering between his lord and the conjurer, but he kept speaking. Perego cared not.
"Most find it unwise to cross a sorceror, Lord Shirk," he commented, his voice low. The captain had stopped speaking when he opened his mouth, and now the elf waved him away. The young man departed with a quick bow and a furtive glance. "I would have thought one of the Eldar would have more sense."
Shirk did not turn face him immediately, instead looking over the camp. His voice even, he said, "It is not my sense you should question, but your vision."
"The water's do not lie!" Perego hissed.
"Do they not?" the elf replied disdainfully, finally turning to face the sorceror. "What truth did you see that leads you to believe I have betrayed you?"
"You were supposed to consult me before making any alterations to our plan."
The elf raised a fair eyebrow. "Funny. I do not recall that being part of our agreement."
"It was understood, Elf. A higher power than you ordained this partnership; you would do well to remember that and hold to certain obligations."
Shirk's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?"
The sorceror nodded, a malicious glint in his eye. "It is, indeed. It would be a shame, after all, if some of your men were mistaken for the enemy. They might find it rather difficult to do your bidding if they can't see their target."
The elf's eyes narrowed further, but that as the only evidence of his displeasure. "Most unpleasant," he agreed. "But you still have yet to cite the basis for your protest."
"Do not play dumb, Shirk. Inarguably suited for it though you are, it does not become you."
"Be careful, sorceror," the blond hissed lethally, "lest you outlive your usefulness." He had killed men for less, and he would kill this one too, orders or not, if Perego did not learn to hold his tongue.
A realization the man had made long ago. "I do not appreciate others going behind my back," he countered softly, almost pleasantly. "There was no need to send a larger contingent after the Ranger. He would have come to us, just as we planned."
"And he will still come to us," Shirk answered, his calm restored. "Was the attack successful?"
"I know not." Perego clasped his hands behind his back. "It is quite difficult to judge success, after all, when one does not know the goal."
"Do they have the Ranger?" Impatience tinged the fair being's voice.
The sorceror inclined his head slightly. "Both the Ranger and the Elf are in their possession."
"Good," Shirk dismissed. He turned away without further comment.
The other watched him go. "You will not dismiss me so easily, my lord," he whispered. "When this is over, I shall be the one to dismiss you." He turned away abruptly and returned to his cavern abode without sparing another glance for his surroundings. He had plans to make . . . and a ranger to watch.
Wind whipped in his face, cold and biting. Two sets of hooves thundered in his ears. Trees flashed past, blurry from tears that stung his eyes. Urgency coursed through him accompanied by a familiar hate that burned through his veins.
Orcs. He was hunting orcs.
Elrohir twisted to look behind him, one hand twisted in his horse's mane. His hair lashed his face, but there, slightly behind him on his left, rode Elladan. Their eyes met. A persistent ache he had been unable to identify eased with the contact. He was not alone; all was as it should be. That relief curled through him, washing away his fear. He turned forward.
Pain suddenly exploded across his back. Propelled forward, he tumbled from his steed's back and rolled across the ground. Roots dug into his back like sharp fingers, poking and jabbing. A horse whinnied in distress somewhere behind him. Bewildered alarm shot through him. How did the Orcs get behind us?
He came up on his feet with sword drawn and ready, his eyes searching his surroundings. Orcs encompassed him. His brother stood ready at his side, battered and disheveled, but there. A gash split his forehead, dripping blood into his eyes; Elladan did not seem to notice.
Then the orcs attacked. His blade slashed, singing through the air with the fervor of his assault, ringing shrilly with every strike and parry, competing with the growls and grunts of his enemy. They swirled through his ears, merging with the thump-thump, thump-thump that dominated everything. Desperation fueled his attacks, cutting down each beast that appeared before him. They fell like grain at harvest, but more always came. They blocked out everything, even the light, and darkness encompassed him as he lost sight of his brother.
Back, in the recesses of his mind, he screamed for his twin, searched helplessly for evidence he could not find to know that the other was well. He was reaching out for him, stretching his hand out into the darkness, calling for him . . . but nobody answered, and nobody took his hand.
His eyes were wide in the darkness. He fought in an inky tide, filled only with the foul bodies of orcs, alive and dead, pressing towards him to end his life, strike after strike. His entire being went to defense as seconds stretched into minutes stretched into hours stretched into days, with his arms swinging, his feet moving, his heart pounding, his breath gasping--
In an empty, gray void.
Elrohir stumbled forward, surprised by the sudden absence of enemy, feeling strangely bereft as his eyes searched the rock walls around him. Had he not been in a forest? He blinked, bemused, as his eyes flickered over the small cavern he found himself within. A familiar cavern, with unevenly hewn walls, but he could not place it in his mind.
"Where. . . ?" The sound of his own voice surprised him, echoing off the unfeeling stone and pressing upon his ears. His feet scraped across the ground as he spun in a circle, confronted with the same gray with every step. "Elladan?" he called. The walls bounced it back, mocking, his own panic flung back in his face. "Elladan!"
No voice answered but his own. No one moved but himself. His heart beat faster, threatening to pound its way from his breast. He turned faster, hoping beyond hope that Elladan was playing with him, that he was staying behind him and if he moved fast enough, he would be able to catch him. The world spun dizzyingly. "El!"
"He is not here, my son."
He tripped trying to whirl towards the voice, landing on his back with a painful thud. He barely noticed as his eyes landed on the being who had spoken, a slender figure he had not seen in more than four hundred years.
"Nana."
She paced around the rocky mound Elrohir rested against with the silent stalk of a hunter, fighting the restlessness that always sought to claim her whenever she was forced to linger, doing nothing, when there was plenty to do.
Avoiding the brush that might give her away almost by habit now, Kalya passed out of sight of her elven companion and looked to the trees. That, too, was little more than habit, for whatever creatures had once lived in these lands had long since fled the growing darkness. To find wildlife, one would either need to go further south or cross the mountains. The Slyntari, themselves, would not find them for hours yet.
A cursory glance to the west (revealing more dead trees) brought her back to the lake. She frowned at its still surface but did not approach, her steps-- like her gaze-- straying towards the prone elf. He was almost bearable when asleep, she decided, but the jittery frustration caused by his silent company was little improvement over the simmering irritation of his waking company. Still, she did not pause there, either, continuing on to complete the circuit and follow it again.
The Slyntari would not find them for hours yet, and the trees were just as she had last seen them. The soil held her footprints, and she trace them around the bend where she found the lake. She might have guessed it would be the same, but she was trying so hard not to think that it had not crossed her mind. And Elrohir slept on, easy as you please.
She looked away, jerking her eyes from the thin form, and found herself staring at the White Mountains without really seeing them. Unbidden, the question she had been avoiding popped into her head: What am I doing here?
The girl stopped as suddenly as if the ground had dropped away before her. The question was like a blow to the head and left her stunned. What was she doing? She knew better than most what happened to those foolish enough to cross the Slyntari, and hers was even doubled, having not only escaped them but betrayed them. Such considerations, she knew, was precisely why she had been avoiding the question even before she had turned around to chase after an angry elven brother.
Whatever had possessed her to come back?
I knew I should have killed Strider when I had the chance.
Kalya winced at the thought and started walking again, her steps almost tentative. That was something Kelt would have said, and she had thought the other died when she opposed Shirk for Strider's life. Now she wondered if that was true-- and knew it was not. It was more than just a little discomforting to realize a truth she had clung to for the last year not only was a lie but had always been a lie.
Her mind wondered back. Almost before her eyes, she could see "Kalya" taking form as "Kelt" failed, her natural inclination towards defiance latching onto the Ranger as a buffer when her world began falling apart; it was easier. Scared, she had sought to delay punishment, hiding-- even in her mind-- behind a change of heart. And Strider had talked of starting over, being free. She had expected death; when death did not come, had she allowed herself to believe Kalya lived and, somehow, Kelt died?
Easier, her mind whispered in answer. Then her own voice echoed back to her, condemning: "It's never that easy."
Again she stopped, her feet acting separate from her brain, and she found the lake before her. A deep blue several shades darker than the winter sky, its surface lay undisturbed. From where she stood, she could just make out the silvery reflections of trees on its mirror-like surface. she could imagine young maidens looking into its depths, eager to see their beauty reflected back at them, and wondered uneasily what she would see if she chanced a look.
Who wears my face? Kelt or Kalya?
For a moment, he could not move, could not even breathe. Some manic dwarf had come up unnoticed and socked him in the gut, stolen the air from his lungs. His eyes wide, he felt himself slide back hundreds of years. His heart filled and broke all over again.
"Nana?" he tried again, crawling to her side. He reached out to her, but could not bring himself to touch her, for fear that she would break. Tall and thin, Celebrían had always looked delicate but for the strength that burned in her eyes, belying that weakness. To see her now, battered and bruised, her golden hair matted and clumped and that zest for life all but gone from her crystal gaze, it was more than he could bear. "Nana, please."
Slowly, the impossibly pale face moved, lifting pain darkened eyes to rest on his face, their blue depths all but alien to his searching gaze. "You should not have come," she breathed, her lips barely moving. Blood crusted the left side of her mouth.
He shook his head quickly. "We could not leave you to the Orcs, Nana. We would not. Now, be strong and full of hope; we have come to save you."
"It is too late for me, my son."
"No," he denied, his heart breaking afresh at hearing her words of defeat. "No, we'll take you home. Ada will heal you. He will save you."
She chuckled, a soft, weary sound, and in it he could hear her acceptance of her fate. "Oh, Elrohir . . . so stubborn, just like your father." Her hand brushed his cheek and he caught it in his own, refusing to let it fall. Tears trickled slowly towards her fingers. "You should be protecting Elladan now."
"He will be along soon," Elrohir assured. "I need to get you back to Ada."
"I am already lost to you."
The younger twin ignored his mother's words even as they slashed deeply into him and shifted closer to lift her into his arms. She felt light as an elfling and impossibly frail. Fear followed the pain, but he turned towards the entrance, determined to get her to his father before her dire predictions could come true. He steadfastly ignored the whispers that told him he had already failed.
He stopped before he had gone two feet. Wood thunked under his boots. Water crashed rhythmically beneath him as it rushed towards shore, hindered only by the dock upon which he stood. His eyes rested, unbelieving, upon a ship, its great masts stretched towards the sky.
"So stubborn," a voice whispered regretfully. A soft hand caressed his cheek.
He glanced quickly to the side and found his mother staring back at him. Starting in surprise, he looked down at his arms, but they were empty, his mother's broken form no longer held within them. Confused eyes returned to his mother's gaze.
Celebrían smiled wanly at him as she stepped backwards, closer to the ship, all signs of abuse gone from her face save for the shadows that still haunted her eyes. The edges of her white gown danced about her legs in the warm ocean breeze. Her gray traveling cloak draped off thin shoulders, and the hood covered her golden hair. Knowledge of what was happening struck him the same instant he knew where he was.
"Nana, don't go!" he pleaded abruptly, attempting to rush forward.
She stopped him with an upraised hand. His legs refused to move. "I am lost to you," she said.
He shook his head helplessly, unable to speak the words that choked his throat as tears slipped down his cheeks. Helpless. Hopeless. His mother had decided. All that pain, all that heartache, all the effort and sacrifice-- all for nothing. The orcs could not have taken anything more precious.
"You should have gone after your brother."
Confused, he opened pain-filled eyes to look at her, intending to ask what she meant. Elladan was here, with him, just like always. Not once in the last year had they been separated.
But she was gone.
His words died on his lips. A hole had opened up inside him and the ocean breeze whistled forlornly through his heart. Desperately, his eyes searched the space before him and found naught but air. He turned, thinking maybe she had slipped away to talk to his father or sister, or brother, but the beach was empty. No one stood there.
"Nana?" he called shakily. The cry vanished on the wind. No one was here. Not his mother, not his father, not his sister or brother. He turned full circle, but sand stretched as far as he could see. They were gone. Pain and fear mingled inside him. With one voice, heart and mind cried out for the one person he had always known would be with him.
"El!"
For a long moment, she stood frozen, afraid to walk forward and see Kelt reflected back from within her eyes. And she could not figure out why.
Why, when she had been Kelt all her known life, should she fear such a discovery? Why, when she had always abhorred her elven name, would she strive to cling to it? Why, when she had never desired to be anything more or different than her birth had ordained, did she suddenly want nothing more to do with it? Why, in seemingly the blink of an eye, had everything changed?
But even as she asked, she knew the answer, and it all came down to one person: Strider.
Why, though?
She shook her head and started walking briskly again, ignoring the lake's edge and passing Elrohir without a glance. It did not matter who she was, nor why she was who she was or how she had become that person. She was herself and that was all that mattered. If she chose to be known as Kalya over Kelt, it was her business. Names were just show, something presented to the world at large to let others hang their expectations and preconceptions. None of it mattered.
Then why won't you look at your reflection?
Abruptly, she stopped, more than just a little surprised to find herself, once more, at the lake. She glanced behind her, as if expecting to see the lake just behind her, then turned back. There's no point, she answered silently.
There's no harm, the voice countered reasonably.
That's not a reason to do something, she thought back testily.
The reply was smug: No, but it begs the question why you won't.
For long moments, she remained silent and unmoving. The barest hint of a breeze stirred the air around her, cooling her skin. Slowly, she shook her head. "It doesn't matter." It's never mattered.
She did not need that annoying little voice to tell her that was not true, but she could not block the voice from her mind when it whispered, Then why does it haunt you so?
The girl sighed. Less than a dozen feet before her the water was still flawless but she turned away to continue her circuit. Blue eyes tracked automatically to Elrohir-- and caught. A slight frown pinched her brow as she was suddenly reminded of Strider. His face flashed before her eyes-- sheened with sweat, his eyes closed, lips pressed in a tight line. Distress radiated from every line of his face, and she could almost hear his ragged, jerky breathing. But why--
She killed the thought and resumed her trek. Strider was not here; and whatever the similarities between him and the elf, Elrohir was no Strider. The human was far away from here and her task was to save the elder twin-- not compare the younger with his foster brother.
Her eyes skipped through the open spaces left by brittle tree trunks, but the gesture was fruitless; the Slyntari would not find their impromptu camp for another couple of hours at least. By the time they realized their people were missing and tracked them down, their prey would have moved on. But it never hurts to be cautious when dealing with the Slyntari, she finished, looking towards the distant camp that even the sharpest elf's eyes would never be able to see. Even if you are on a suicide mission.
Suicide. Disgust churned her stomach.
Why was she here? Why should she risk her life for some stupid elven prat? She owed him nothing, owed his brother nothing but a round kick up his arse. What was she doing? What, in all of Arda, had possessed her to come back when she was home free? Isildur's heir could almost expect a kinder welcome than she was going to receive.
Isildur's heir. . . .
But, no-- she did not owe him, either. If anything, he owed her. She had freed him from the Slyntari. She had risked mortal injury to let him escape. She had led him safely through the mountains. She had kept the darkness from claiming him. She had neutralized the poison. And what did he do? Ruin her life.
But was it the life you wanted?
Not the least bit pleased, Kalya looked up and stopped. When she had started walking again, she could not say, but her circuit had carried her once more to water's edge. She frowned at the innocent water, but resignation tugged at her. What could it hurt, really?
Still reluctant, her steps were tentative as she edged closer to the water. It sparkled cheerily in the light from the morning sun. Her expression, however, suggested she expected the clear liquid to jump up and bite her any second. She watched the mud squelch under her boots, then dropped into a crouch. Her weight sent tiny ripples out over the surface and she watched them for a moment, trying to come up with an answer to a question she did not know.
Finally, she sighed. Procrastinating accomplishes nothing. Bracing her head lightly against the ground, she leaned forward.
"Elladan! Brother!" The words vanished into the distance and he dropped to his knees in sudden weariness. "I need you," he finished, his voice barely a whisper.
Gone was the sea that had taken his mother. Gone were the warm sea breezes that seemed determined to ease your sorrow. Gone was the repetitive crash of wave upon shore. All that remained was the sand, stretching towards the horizon as far as his elf eyes could see. "Brother!" he yelled again.
At first, nothing happened, nothing changed, then his eyes caught sight of something dark on the horizon. Little more than a black smudge on tan sands, he nevertheless started crawling towards it. Cool sand splashed over his hands and between his fingers. His eyes remained fixed on that single spot. A part of him feared that if he looked away, it would vanish. And as it grew larger, that feeling grew in tandem with his hope.
Seconds flew by as he closed the distance between himself and the lump. Excitement bubbled up within him; he just knew it would be Elladan. Probably, his brother was sleeping, and he would be able to tease him mercilessly for his poor hearing. His focus narrowed until the still body was his only goal. He barely noticed as his surroundings shifted around him, as the light faded to darkness and the sand became stone. All that mattered was that he reach his brother.
"Elladan!" he breathed as he gained his brothers side. He recognized his brother's dark hair, and his relief was palpable. His hand found the slight figure's shoulder and rolled him onto his back. The dark cloak fell away, disappearing into the ground beneath him, and Elrohir gasped.
Cuts and welts, all flaming red, marred his brother's pale chest. Bruises decorated his arms and speckled his face and chest. Glazed blue eyes stared emptily into space. Were it not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, Elladan could have been dead. Blood covered Elrohir's fingers as they grazed the wounds.
"Speak to me, brother!" he commanded, feeling his heart crumble into millions of pieces, and his hope collapse in upon itself. What had happened? Why had he not been there? Had his mother been right? He should have been with Elladan. What if his brother died? He had already lost Nana, he could not lose Elladan, too. "Brother. Please. . . ."
He got no reaction. His hands wandered helplessly over the elder twin's prone form. Tears gathered in his eyes as the depth of his failure set in, and the weight of it threatened to crush him. "What did they do to you?" His voice cracked and blood suddenly started flowing from Elladan's mouth. Panic flashed through him.
"No! Somebody, help!" In desperation, he looked up, searching out anyone who could give him aid, but no one was there.
And when he looked back down, Elladan was gone.
"El!"
Kalya jerked back and around, nearly dumping herself in the lake. Her eyes wide, her hand went automatically to her knife as she scanned the area. About the time her eyes landed on Elrohir, her mind caught up with what had been said: 'El.'
Equal parts relieved and irritated (and more than just a little embarrassed at being taken unawares), the girl shot to her feet. She studied the dark-haired elf closely as she approached. His eyes were bare slits, the lids covering all but a dash of white, and she could see them darting back and forth quickly. His body was taut and tension pinched his face. The barest hint of a frown creased his brow. His lips moved and she fancied she heard "brother" in the indistinct muttering that followed.
Nightmare, she realized, and suddenly understood why Strider had come to mind when she had last looked at him. Now that she knew what she was looking for, the signs had been obvious, but she did not move immediately.
Surprise at finding an elf trapped in a nightmare held her in place. She had always been taught elves could control their dreams, and never had she known another elf to suffer night terrors. Her own tendency towards nightmares, she had always attributed to her human father. But maybe. . . .
She shook her head clear of such thoughts and knelt at the other's side. For a moment, she hesitated, then put her hand on his should and shook him gently. They could not risk alerting the Slyntari to their presence with his shouts.
His eyes flew open. Without warning, he grabbed her wrist, wrenched her around, and slammed her against the wall, pinning her firmly in place and-- somehow-- coming up with her dagger. Again. Startled by his reaction, she forgot to resist and only stared wide-eyed into wild blue ones.
"What are you doing?" he demanded sharply. Not entirely sure he was aware, she did not answer, but he shook her slightly, clipping the back of her head against stone. "Answer me, spawn of Mordor!"
"Waking you, dimwit!" she sputtered, tensing against the pain. "Watch who you're talking to!"
"I know who I'm talking to," he hissed, pressing the dagger close to her neck. His eyes snapped fire, sparking dangerously, but completely lucid. "I don't suffer betrayal from anyone. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slit your throat right now."
Kalya bristled at his words, but she was unsettled enough by her situation and earlier thoughts that she could not muster the confidence necessary for defiance as the blade of her own dagger pressed a cold line against her throat. "I saved your life," she bit out. "Your gratitude leaves much to be desired."
Something flashed through his eyes, too nebulous to identify, but though he shoved her harder against the stone, the knife withdrew. "Congratulations, traitor. You live to try again." He backed away, tossing the blade, and she moved forward cautiously in his wake.
While he paced towards the lake, she remained crouched, watching, and idly resheathed her dagger. Anger and resentment curled through her, and both emerged in her voice. "Why don't you just keep the dagger if you like it so much?"
Elrohir ignored her question, but turned back to face her. Six feet lay between them. "Why did you come back?"
"My reasons are my own," she snapped. It was the height of injustice that he should expect answers she would not give herself.
His eyes narrowed. "'Not for all the gold and jewels on Arda,'" he quoted back to her. "Yet here you are. I've a right to know what you're planning."
She brushed loose strands of hair out of her face and fixed him with an insolent stare. "I had 'planned' on helping you free your brother, but if you'd rather just get yourself killed, be my guest."
"I can still slit your throat, brat," he responded distastefully. "But I don't see any gold or jewels, so again I ask-- why?"
"I changed my mind."
An eyebrow climbed towards his hairline. "Changed your mind?" he echoed, disbelieving.
"Yes," she affirmed. "And a good thing, too, as you obviously don't possess all the riches or Arda."
Something shifted in his gaze, but though she could see it, she could not even begin to decipher what it meant. He folded his arms across his chest. "I was under the impression you wouldn't help even then," the elf observed silkily.
To that, she had no answer, and could not come up with a deflection that sounded even halfway credible to her own ears. So she did not try. Her voice was cold as she said, "If you'd rather, I can leave."
Instead of sending her away immediately as she had expected, the dark-haired elf surprised her again by remaining silent. Dark blue eyes studied her with an intensity she found disconcerting and a thoughtfulness previously unseen on this trip. What he was searching for, she could not imagine, but she met his gaze stubbornly and refused to let herself consider the consequences of his decision, whatever that would be. She wished she knew what was going through his head.
Finally, he nodded. Whether it was because he found what he was looking for or had merely come to a conclusion, she could not tell, and his words did not help. "My father believes in seconds chances," he announced. "Maybe this is yours." He sounded neither hopeful nor convinced, but he made no further objection.
She watched him walk to the lake and splash water over his face with a feeling of dislocation. No matter what she had expected his answer to be, she had expected it would be more decisive; clear cut. Now that it was done it seemed . . . anticlimactic. She sighed. Elves. . . .
Deciding the best thing to do was not think about it, she stood and retrieved her pack from the crevice she had hidden it in. Wordlessly, she pulled out their rations and passed Elrohir his share once he turned back. They ate across from each other, though not quite facing, a charged silence hanging between them almost like static. She stared into the distance, purposely taking no notice of Elrohir's contemplative frown nor his infrequent glances, trying not to think and finding more success than she had previously.
The waybread they ate was hard and crunched as she chewed, sort of like eating gravel. If it had a taste she did not notice, her mind too distant. Some had said it tasted like dirt; others claimed it lacked only the smell of dung. Kalya decided it also lacked the correct texture. A strange and distorted mixture of cram and lembas that Shirk had dreamed up, it possessed the lone redeeming qualities of keeping for weeks and being more nutritious than it was harmful. Many would have preferred straight cram. If Elrohir was one of them, he did not show it.
"How far is the camp?" he asked abruptly near the end of their meal. He stared into the east, a distant look in his sharp eyes.
"About a day's walk," the girl answered after a beat, uncertain as to the wisdom of her answer, so she added, "Give or take."
He nodded. "Then we can be at the southeastern border by nightfall."
"We can," she agreed hesitantly. "But we'll be no closer to saving your brother."
He looked at her and his eyes narrowed. "We were held near the south east, were we not?"
"Aye," she said, "but where you were and where he is are two separate matters. Upon recapturing Elladan, he would not have replaced him in the same cell."
"Where, then?" pressed the elf testily.
Again, she hesitated. "More north-west, I think," she answered slowly. "Possibly somewhere with a door-- there are several-- or possibly even in the mountains. There are tunnels enough to rival those riddling the Misty Mountains and empty chambers in equal measure."
He muttered something derogatory then fixed her with a piercing look. "Do you know them?"
She caught herself before she could say "no" and ventured a tentative: "I have walked them once before."
His eyes narrowed, the only visible reaction to her statement and pressed, "But you could find your way."
"I could lead you in and back out again from nearly any point, but correctly guessing where Shirk might have placed an elven prisoner based on my memory alone would be all but impossible."
"Then we will hope he is not being held within the mountains." Elrohir stared at her intently. For a moment, in which her heart raced, she believed he was going to confront her about her past, but he did not.
Apparently, having made the decision to trust her to help him save his brother meant he was not going to concern himself with her past beyond what was relevant. That, or he did not trust himself to delve too deeply without losing control and had decided not to risk it until he had saved his brother. Either way, she doubted it would last beyond completion of the mission-- if it lasted that long.
"Can we reach the cells from the southeast?"
"Perhaps," she answered, snapping back to the moment. "But it would be better if we didn't have to traverse the whole camp to get there. the longer we're inside, the greater the chances they'll find us, and we won't be able to walk around in hooded semi-anonymity this time."
"Why not?"
"They'll be on code alert. Anyone wearing a hood would automatically be deemed hostile."
He remained silent and Kalya watched him with the kind of open stare that suggested attentiveness and actually served to cover the fact that she was not, in fact, paying much attention. She could feel the beginnings of fatigue pulling at her, nibbling at her thoughts, and wondered (rather futilely) if she should not have taken the opportunity to sleep herself.
"You think, then," Elrohir interrupted, "that we should approach from the mountains."
"That's right."
"I came in by the mountains." He managed to make it sound like a casual stroll through a peaceful vale. "There's little to no cover to be had that way."
"There are some tunnels we could use to travel unseen."
He nodded slowly. "How long would that add to travel time?"
She tried to picture it in her head. "Another day, maybe two. Possibly more. A lot of it depends on how far to the south we skirt camp."
"How far do you suggest?"
The question caught her by surprise and she hesitated over the answer. Either his brief rest had accomplished more than she had expected or something else had happened about which she was unaware. She did not like the uncertainty; but then, there was little about this situation she did like.
"I would say a league, at least, but a mile beyond the tree line would probably suffice."
He watched her a moment with a closed expression. Only long experience with such looks kept her from squirming and announcing her discomfort, kept her from dropping her eyes. Uneasily, she wondered what he read in her gaze and if he saw her uncertainty. But he just nodded. "For now, we'll head west. I'll decide our approach before we come upon the camp."
Kalya followed soundlessly when the elf put the sun to his back and started walking, offering neither comment nor protest. Elrohir seemed more at ease than he had previously-- he was certainly calmer; yet she could not help but feel disconcerted at the sudden change. It was suspicious. And, she could not help but wonder if she was compounding her mistake with Strider-- and if this third time, Shirk would finally get it right.
Legolas twisted his hands, surreptitiously testing his bonds. The ropes dug harder into his skin but-- just like the other dozen times he had tried-- the knots did not budge. He winced as they were yanked suddenly forward.
The elf looked up and glared at the man next to Ardevui. The human was too busy glaring at the horse to notice, but he did not use the whip again and, after only a moment, moved off again. Angry blue eyes followed him through the caravan then watched him take up post on the edge of the group near a different horse. That horse snorted at his arrival and laid his ears back but kept his peace.
His tension eased, the Mirkwood archer scanned the rest of the group. Numbering more than fifty, they were an impressive group. There was a guard for every one of the two dozen Rohirrim that had been captured and a dozen more besides. The three Aragorn had noticed led the procession, riding easily abreast. The children, both girls and boys under the age of sixteen, were kept closet to them, bound in groups of five and six to a horse. The women, most of them still young, came next. Behind them were the men, their groups smaller or children. Abyl had been placed with them.
The young man looked even younger than usual placed among men several years his senior. His eyes were wide and frightened and he looked stunned, like he did not quite know what had happened. The man he was tethered with had made no effort to comfort him, starring stonily ahead, and the elf wished he was close enough to try. As it stood, he could not even offer him assuring words lest it bring the Slyntari down upon the others.
Legolas' lips tightened in anger, compressing to a thin line. He felt so helpless! His hands twisted again in their bonds. He wished they had fought, that they had not capitulated without a struggle, that more of the enemy had fallen before they were subdued. He wished Aragorn had not--
But his keen eyes landed on the young ones at the front of the caravan and killed the thought before it could be completed. Guilt prickled uneasily at the edges of his mind. He knew Aragorn could not have done anything different-- knew he would have done the same thing if it had been up to him.
He closed his eyes and let the ropes pull him forwards. In the tranquility behind his closed lids, he tried to still his frustration, both with his captors and with himself. Neither was helpful-- not to himself, his friend, or their fellow captives.
He tried to picture it as a storm-- the clouds dark and menacing, the wind howling between tall trees, rain pelting the ground, whirling . . . and slowly willed it to die down, soothing the wind as one would a wounded animal, stopping the rain as with a new-built dam raised piece by piece, gradually breaking up the clouds until they were small and benign, and as the tempest eased so did his temper. For a moment, he was left in the calm he had created.
Then concern flowed in to replace his agitation, washing over him like a cresting wave, unhindered by the anger that had blunted it from his conscious mind. Concern for his friend.
Opening his eyes, the elf glanced sideways at his companion. Aragorn was bound similarly to himself, but the ranger had made no effort to test his bonds. His head was bent, his eyes downcast, and his mouth firmly closed. Since being captured, he had not uttered a sound and only once looked back.
His profile did not readily show more than a grim-faced ranger, but Legolas did not need to see more. He had seen all he needed when the man looked back and saw the flames leap from the roofs in the village had had hoped to spare. Those dark, haunted eyes were not ones he would soon forget. He had seen them too often. Each time they broke his heart anew.
Legolas glanced around, but no one was watching them. Cautiously, he let his steps carry him closer to the ranger, slowly closing the distance between them until their shoulders almost brushed. He looked around again, but interest had not shifted. He watching the other, he called softly, "Strider."
No reaction.
A Slyntari moved at the corner of his eyes, but the man was just urging his horse forward to ride with one of his companions. The elf dismissed him out of hand and turned his attention back to the human beside him. "Strider, answer me," he pleaded, his voice low. "Estel!"
A shudder worked down the man's frame and he looked away. Legolas frowned. Whatever he had expected, he had not expected Aragorn would act like this.
"Estel, look at me ," he commanded. "Yeeta nín," he repeated more forcefully when the other did not react, but he did not wait for his compliance. "This is not your fault, mellon nin. There is nothing you could have done differently. You did all you could."
That got a reaction. "What if all you can do isn't enough?" Aragorn's voice was so soft his words seemed to fade into the very air around them; but Legolas caught them, and his heart wrenched at the pain he heard.
"This isn't the end, Estel. Toltham gwanyr-lín," he assured earnestly, willing the words to penetrate the ranger's head. "We will save your brothers."
"Save them?" Aragorn echoed doubtfully. Slowly, he shook his head, still not looking at his friend. "No. Not all who enter will come out again."
"You don't know that, Strider," Legolas countered. "Everyone will be fine. You'll see."
Silver eyes darkened by shadow turned to him but they did not see him. The ranger was watching something only he could see. "What if the only way to save them is to sacrifice Isildur's heir?"
Legolas stared at his friend and felt the seconds mount, but his mind would not translate what he had just heard. It was like listening to a language he only knew partially, the words he did catch not making any sense. when they finally clicked, he blanched.
"No!" he yelped, louder than he had intended. A couple looked their way, but none of them said anything and he ignored them. "No," he repeated more quietly, though the word lost none of its edge. "Don't even think that. You must believe we'll find a way. Strider-- Estel: you must believe we will be able to save them."
"The Slyntari do not let people escape." His expression had not changed: flat, implacable.
"You did," Legolas pointed out.
Again, the human shook his head. "That was luck. That was Elladan and Elrohir coming to rescue me and Kalya fight to save me. And they were not captured, defenseless, before they arrived."
To that, he had no real answer. "Mellon nin, I know the way looks dark, but I refuse to give up. I will not surrender before the challenge has begun. What have you told me? 'Where there is life, there is hope'." He watched Aragorn closely. "I need you to hope with me, mellon nin. I cannot do it on my own. I cannot lose you."
"You have not lost me."
"Haven't I?" Legolas burst, some of his distress creeping into his voice. "The same shadow darkens your heart as when you arrived in Mirkwood, and you will not look at me! What has happened if I have not lost you?"
Aragorn's gaze shifted forward, resting somewhere about Ardevui's rear though he no more saw it than the had truly seen Legolas. "Shirk seeks Isildur's heir," he murmured, soft enough that only his friend had any hope of hearing him, and even for his elven ears it was difficult. "I know it. He thinks the twins know, or I know, and will certainly do everything within his power to learn his identity. My identity.
"What if I am not strong enough? What if he torture's the twins and I betray my secret, betray their trust? I have no faith I would escape alive, but I would die with my shame to be tormented with my own weakness for eternity. Yet even knowing this, I cannot swear my silence to keep. My own pain means little, but I do not think I could bear theirs. Or yours."
"It would be difficult," Legolas agreed softly, his own sadness coloring his tone. "But do not think your would be any easier to bear. Your brothers would rather die a thousand times over than be responsible for your death." He trailed off, searching his mind for something more that might help. "Let their silence guide you, my friend. Match their fortitude with your own. You are stronger than you think.
Aragorn looked at him. Hooded silver eyes met blue. "Forgive me, mellon nin. I should not have bothered you so."
"Nay!" the elf denied. "You should and more besides. How else am I to help bear your burden?"
"It is mine to bear."
"Stubborn Dúnadain," he chided irritably. "I am your friend! It is no burden to me to share your troubles."
A somewhat wry smile lifted the corners of his lips. "I should've known my words would come back to haunt me."
Legolas smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "And?"
"And I'm glad you're here, my friend."
"And?"
"And. . . ." The ranger looked at him, his eyes skimming his face, and frowned. "Who gave you that?" His hands tried to drift to Legolas' left cheek but the ropes stopped them before they could get close.
The elf's own hands continued the track but they, too, were stopped before they could complete their journey. In his mind's eye, he could see his friend hovering over him, his bound fists swinging down to smash his face, a determined light in his eyes. He supposed he should find it disturbing that his own friend could attack him so fiercely, but he knew what it had to do to his friend and he had a different perspective: it told him Aragorn was strong enough to do what he needed to do, regardless of what he wanted to do. Now, if only he could convince the ranger.
He was still smiling slightly when he answered. "You did."
Aragorn's jaw dropped and his eyes widened, but even as he looked ready to protest, realization stole over his face, returning the shadow that had only recently fled. His mouth moved, but his mind did not appear to be capable of formulating a response.
Legolas jumped in before that could change. "Don't apologize," he warned quickly.
"But--"
"No." The elf shook his head. "If a bruise is the price of escape, I pay it gladly."
"But it was not. It failed."
"Actually, it worked," he countered patiently. "Were it not for the Slyntari, it would have worked very well, I think." He paused, thinking. "Next time, I think I'd like to be the one to hit you, though."
"'Next time,' he says," Aragorn said to an unknown third party with a wan, somewhat sick smile. "I just don't know what to do with him."
"Strider!" he protested indignantly.
The human flashed him a bright smile. His eyes sparkled with mirth. Yet Legolas could not shake the feeling that something was wrong, that Aragorn was performing for his benefit.
"Hey! No talking!"
A whip flashed between them and drew a line across the ranger's arm. The man hissed and both shifted sideways to put more space between them but the guard remained too close for even near-silent conversation.
Legolas looked at Aragorn helplessly, wishing to say more, wishing he could draw his friend further from the shell he had created, banish the darkness, but he could not risk bringing punishment down on his friend or any of the innocents around them. He had to hold his tongue.
Knowing his thoughts, the ranger flashed him a reassuring smile, his expression light. But the longer they traveled in silence, the further the man slipped away, his expression darkening with the weight of his thoughts. And Legolas did not know what to do. He feared, once again, that he was losing his friend.
()()()()()Please note: Toltham gwanyr-lín actually translates "We will get your brothers," but Tolkien apparently didn't think anyone would need to be 'saved' so I couldn't find the correct word. Get, in this instance is closer than 'protect' so that's what I chose. Just for your information.
Review responses:
Deana: Oops. (looks sheepish) Sorry. I'm glad you're still enjoying it, though.
AM: Breathe! It's here. Hopefully not too late. Glad you liked the fight scenes. We're taking a break from them. There might or might not be another one in the next chapter. Hope you enjoy this one!
Grumpy: Hmm. Well, I'll certainly take it under consideration. (g) I hope you got feeling back!
DeepBlueSomething: I can't tell you. But you make very interesting and possible guesses. Lol. Oh, good. Disappointment is something of a turn-off for a fic, after all. Who better, indeed? He had a bit more luck than Aragorn. Hm, Abyl. I've more or less decided his fate for this story already. However, you may plead his case if you wish. Elladan is not quite catatonic, and he'll get less catatonic then more catatonic in a kind of cycle as the serum wears off. At least, that's my plan. Thanks for your really long review. It was great. (g) Pray they cooperate with the torture scenes. They didn't the first time through. Lol. I hope it continues to be enjoyable.
Veritas and Aequitas: lol. I'm exceptionally pleased you feel that way. Kill Abyl? Blood, guts and mayhem? (eg) Possibly. Likely, even. I can't wait to see what he sees either. I bet it will be a wonderful surprise. Oh, and no one wants there to be lots of chapters when you get back more than I do....so long as you review them, of course. (wink)
Nerfenherder: Oh no! She's channeling Gollum! (looks horrified) (blushes and bows) I'm all blubbly inside. Thank you, thank you. I liked his monologue, too. Here's the next chapter, and here's hoping for a speedy update! Cheers!
Oh! A very Merry Christmas to everyone if I don't manage to update before then! Drink lots of egg nog and stay warm. And open lots of presents. (G) Hugs and kisses, everyone.