Surprise! I'm still alive and kicking, and I managed to kick out this next chapter. Really, really sorry it took so long. Elladan's sequences wouldn't cooperate, and I'm still not sure they're really what I want, but I think they work well enough so 'nough said. On an up note: I think I have about half of the next chapter already written. I have to go through what I have and figure out order and what not, discover what's missing. I'm thinking a week or two, but every time I tell you when, I'm late, so maybe we should pretend I didn't say that.
In case there's any doubt, I changed my name from Maranwe1 because (1) I hate being a number and (2) was being a jerk and wouldn't let me update my profile. (From 'because' on is just f. y. i.) I'm really happy (or somewhat numb, can't decide) because I got my film paper back today and got a 90 instead of the F I thought it was worth (yay!). Incidentally, that paper was what broke my writer's block. Lol.
Any updates (for those of you who don't know—those that don't care just ignore this, I'm sure you probably skip my little notes anyway) I have can be found on my profile page. I'll try to be prompt and give you the chapters instead of the notes, but I have papers and projects coming up for school that will make that even more difficult than it already is. The writing, annoyingly enough, isn't what takes up the time. But enough of that. There's a chapter waiting that's long overdue.
I don't remember offhand when I last posted, but I'm gonna guess it was before Christmas and hope you all had a great one and a happy new year and a nice Valentines and . . . but Easter's too far away to say anything about that.
Oh, and I'm participating in the Teitho Challenges started on the MC list, at least as the ideas come to me, so that could hinder my writing and will be responsible for the odd little stories that pop up. I'm blaming them. They shouldn't have started it! It gives me more plot bunnies! (pouts)
Now it's really onto the story. Swear. Responses are at the bottom.
Chapter 22
The land was strange.
He stood in the gardens of Rivendell, overlooked by the North Tower. Spring was on the land and amid the carpet of new grown green bloomed flowers of bright red and pure white, yellow as the sun and blushing pink, with blues and purples gathered round like little seas.
It was an image born from younger years, and if he glanced at the sky he could see that it stood clear and cloudless, a perfect pale blue, and the sun was bright overhead. Yet a darkness seemed to hang at the edges of sight, and if ever he turned his gaze away, a shadow would fall upon it. Before his eyes, thought, the way was clear and a smile brightened his drawn and weary countenance at what he beheld.
Away in a small alcove surrounded by flowering dogwood trees, a carved marble bench sat where peace might be enjoyed and rest taken in cool shade. Upon that bench sat a maiden, elven fair, with long golden hair and clear blue eyes. She was clad n a simple gown of pale pink and white blossoms surrounded her and sprinkled her hair. A small book lay upon her lap, a pen in her hand, and she was smiling as her slender hands drew graceful lines.
He drew closer, the better to see her, and felt contentment in her quiet joy, a peace not even the strangeness of so familiar a place could destroy. In his heart, he vowed again to do whatever was needed to protect her.
He passed closer still, drawn by a pain in his heart he did not understand, loathe though he was to disturb her. But after several moments, he gave in and asked, "What do you draw, Mother?" His voice sounded strange on the air, like it passed through another mouth or two at once, quivering and dull.
Yet Celebrian raised her head, a beam of sunlight striking her golden head, and smiled, and with her smile banished all care and concern from his mind. "Would you like to see?" she offered, her voice clear and musical, soothing as he remembered.
With her invitation, all hesitance left him and he strode quickly to sit at her side, his feet not seeming to touch the ground. Amusement sparkled in her eyes as he sat and, wordlessly, she passed the tablet into his hands.
Holding it carefully, he glanced down into the faces of himself, Elrohir, and his father. All were smiling. He had no memory of posing thus, but he recognized their outfits from yesterday and knew this to be how their mother had seen them.
"Handsome, are they not?" He looked up to find her smiling fondly at the drawing. "All the men of my life. My fierce protectors." She traced her fingers over the page then turned to him and studied his face. Her hand caressed his cheek; her eyes searched his, impossibly tender. "Uume kaure an amin, ion-nin."
Unbidden, the sun that streaked her head turned red and dripped like blood. Fingertips ghosted across his cheek, cold, the touch weak, frail, and the blue eyes locked on his own were dull and hopeless, full of pain. A plea: "Do not fear for me, my son."
He started as one struck and the moment was gone. Trembling, he pinned her hand to his face with his own and tried to smile, though it was shaky at best. Tears pricked his eyes and fear filled his heart. The rest of the garden seemed to disappear, for he saw only the elf maiden before him. "Don't say that, Nana," he begged. His voice rasped in his throat.
Her smile remained untouched, bright as the sun despite the fear in his heart. And she did not speak.
o/o/o/o/o
He stalked across the camp, a scowl etched firmly onto his features. Often, he had heard it said that a good captain sacrificed his comfort for his lord, embracing even unpleasant tasks so his liege could attend to more important matters.
Unpleasant, however, had been left far behind long ago.
It was bad enough they had to reside in the mountains in the heart of winter, but warmth was not likely to be found in any lands north of Harad and it was a sacrifice he did not mind overmuch. Even the necessity of traveling without hoods with the biting wind did not change that opinion. Sleep, too, was necessary to forgo, at least while one of the twins and Kelt remained loose, and he had accepted that deprivation when he joined the Slyntari even before he approached the rank of captain.
No, all physical discomfort fell cleanly into the category of "unpleasant," even if they were stacked and combined to the point that they were unbearable. What single-handedly shoved every discomfort from "unpleasant" to "unlivable" was orcs—the foul, despicable, contrary, brainless menaces of his master's service. The Dark Lord, no doubt, would be pleased.
Torl absolute was not. His promotion had freed him from orc-duty, that responsibility given to Gilith; he was supposed to be able to delegate, order others to the tasks he did not want that others could reasonable do. But, no, somehow he had to get stuck babying the orcs again.
Kelt, I'll have your head, he declared silently. Were it not for her, the elves would still be firmly in their grasp, no outside threat forcing exposure to the elements, and the people—other than himself—who were supposed to deal with the orcs would not be out on patrols scouring the countryside for her and the other.
Why can't those beasts act civil for one god-forsaken day? He grimaced, wondering how he could even think the word "civil" in conjunction with orcs. They're getting to you, Torl.
His gaze swept the camp from northeast to southwest out into the trees that surrounded the base. Moving here and there were groups of four or five, all with their hoods down, some returning and others leaving. He still could not fathom the reason for this if Shirk truly thought they would return for the remaining twin, but he knew there must be one. As it stood, the camp was more deserted than it had been since they had last abandoned it for a more convenient locale further north. He could not help but wonder what Kelt would make of it.
The dark-haired captain caught sight of clouds away to the south and paused, studying them. Dark and low, to him they looked impossibly wet and he quietly calculated their speed and direction. "Nightfall," he muttered. The night watches would be even more uncomfortable than usual. He would need to call the patrols back so the guard could be rotated more frequently.
He continued his walk, mentally reminding himself to pass on the orders ere the dusk patrols departed, and headed to the elf's cell alone. No one waited outside the slanted doors. He almost smiled. The patrols had done one thing at least: they had taken Nirt far away from him. He no longer had to balance his more reserved approach with her desire for pain.
Torl accepted the torch one of the guards handed him and walked down the long stair, listening to he solitary tattoo of his steps. The torch only did so much to dispel the darkness, and he used the echo and memory more than his sight to find his way down the stairs.
Upon reaching the bottom he lit a second brand set by the staircase and proceeded to the other side of the room to deposit his torch. He skirted the tray that had been placed in the middle of the room, noting in passing that everything he had requested was present. Good.
He walked back across to the elf, checked his eyes, his pulse, and his side to make sure the wound was not bleeding again. It was not; the pulse was fast, and the being's eyes were dilated further than he would have liked. The longer this went on, the more doses he was forced to administer, the more certain he became that the elf's body would break before his mind whether they raised a hand against him or not. But that was not his concern.
With a quiet sigh, he picked up the familiar vile and prepared the next dose. He watched the other's face as the liquid hit his bloodstream.
o/o/o/o/o
"Nana," he rasped. "Please?"
Her eyes still locked with his, she slowly pulled away. He tried to hold onto her, but he could not move. His hand stretched out before him, then she moved out of reach and her hand slipped away.
Foul voices echoed in the air. Fear seized him. He leapt to his feet. "Don't go, Nana!" he cried, but she retreated from him, bourn away as on a wind, her eyes still locked on his and a smile still on her face. "Nana! Come back!"
But she was gone.
o/o/o/o/o
Torl's gray eyes glittered coldly in the firelight as he waited for the drug to take effect. The other's breathing had accelerated almost the instant the drug entered his bloodstream, but that was not the sign he was waiting for. What he was waiting for was more subtle and he stared intently into the half-visible glazed blue eyes.
He could see shadows moving within the orbs; thoughts, perhaps, and wondered vaguely what the elf saw. What horrors and fears were paraded across the son of Elrond's mind? Did they see what men see? He had never been subjected to this drug; Kelt had (by her own choice, out of curiosity) but she had never spoken of what she saw and never tried it again. Was he seeing what she saw?
Then the shadows changed, darkened, and he knew it was time. Speaking firmly, he said, "Who is Isildur's heir?"
For an instant, their eyes met, the dark-haired elf focused full on him. He saw his chance, pressed again: "Who is Isildur's heir?"
Panic, resistance flew through his eyes and they darted wildly about the room, landing somewhere behind him. If lucid he had been, that lucidity was gone. Even as he asked again, he knew it was going to be a long day.
o/o/o/o/o
The gardens now looked dark and cheerless, their joy stripped from their flowers and leaves; and the trees stood dark and menacing. The shadow that had hung at the edge of his vision like a mist encroached farther on his sight, devouring the fair lands of his father and surrounding him in blackness.
In terror, he tried to turn away, tried to find a path the darkness did not claim, but neither stone nor stem nor tall tree hindered it, and it swept round him like the sea, rising quickly and closing mercilessly around him, choking off the light and washing away hope. Despair drowned him and then all was still.
No sound touched his ears. No brush of wind came to his flushed cheeks. No hint of movement betrayed the presence of another in this gloom. He was alone.
After a time, he dared to move, to breathe. His hand drifted aimlessly in the twilight, searching as the blind amid the unspoken, but touched nothing. Hesitantly, he shifted forward, seeking out the plants that had minutes before been near within his sight. His feet shuffled forward uncertainly yet no crunching of gravel, no grating of dirt, no crackling of leaves reached his ears. Did he but walk on air, he could not tread more silent!
Slowly, he sank to the ground and felt about him for pebbles, for dirt, for leaves, for silken-petals, slender stems, and found none. Naught but air passed through his fingers. His breath came short and quick. Quickly, he glanced at the sky, seeking the sun, or even the moon and stars; but if this was night, some great hand had stretched forth and blotted both from the sky so that even their memory was beyond recall.
His breath shook as he rose to his feet, his body tense and battle-ready. In darkness he stood—darkness impenetrable even to elven eyes that stretched to the ends of the earth, empty of life, and it pressed in around him, closing in on him to choke the life from his body, to dispel the last light of his soul. Motionless, he waited; time stretched and shrunk, passing in a second, feeling an eternity, an eternity and a second. Breath flowed from his lungs and entered and nothing moved.
Then something wrapped about his ankle. He gasped. Cold it was, like ice, and yet it burned like fire, and it was wet. Startled, he yanked his foot back, but the thing held firm. He kicked, flailed, twisted, turned—his foot felt like it would fall off, burned to ash and frozen to ice, his ankle sore—but the thing held him still.
Another snared his left arm, wrapping it in fire and ice He looked to it in shock, in fear, but could not see. He pulled, started to reach with his right, but it too was caught, pulled so that his arms stretched to either side. His heart jumped, then his last foot was seized. Arrested—spread—defenseless, he could neither more nor fight, and his eyes widened in alarm.
He opened his mouth to call for help but something looped around his neck and he could not breathe. His throat burned, throbbed—
In desperation he thrashed against his unyielding bonds, hoping, fearing, his pride forgotten. Nothing moved; nothing helped. He was alone. With the last of his strength—the last of his breath, he cried: "Elrohir!"
And then he fell.
o/o/o/o/o
The trees were the same listless shadows they had passed on the race east, each as dry as the last, dead to all outward appearance though some yet claimed a form of strength and fewer still a form of life—a half-life. Naked, their leaves blanketed the ground, brown and dead, some crisp and dry while others were soggy and rotten. Skeletons of once leafy bushes stood at their sides, their thin limbs the only thing left to them to suggest life. Black thorn bushes tangled about their feet, and creeping vines fed off what life they could find, the only green things yet in sight.
He walked through them, following a trail that did not exist as quickly as he could. In the distance, he could see fallen trees and rocky plinths that hid the landscape behind them. Every so often he would catch glimpses of trails, small paths that ended as suddenly as they began but which were well-defined while visible. He could guess much about their nature and purpose, but for now, they were not a concern so he noted them and ignored them. He had more important things to worry about.
Like how he was going to rescue his brother.
The layout of the Slyntari camp danced before his mind's eye, an image taken in the brief moments of their arrival through the mountains when the land had been visible and their position vaulted enough to command a view for miles. He could picture row after row of near, non-descript tents, arranged simply, and could guess at their number; yet while the memories of the eldar did not fade, neither could they make clear what was scarcely paid attention to. His concern for his brother had driven all but a rudimentary examination from his thoughts. How he rued it now.
Glimpses, he had, but they were glimpses without context. Who were the people he had seen? What had they been doing in that moment of vision? Was it what they usually did? Had duty called them thence, or leisure? Did the Slyntari even enjoy leisure? It frustrated him to realize the level of his own ignorance.
How can I rescue Elladan when I don't even know the practical aspects of the camp? Their brief rest during their first escape had told him the camp was not arranged as a camp of war, but neither was it domestic. Its setup was foreign to him. Plus, from discussion and experience, he knew there were parts not easily seen even by those keen of eye.
"Easy, my son," his memory soothed, the calm voice of his father echoing in his ears as truly as if the elder elf stood next to him. "Find your calm and clear your mind. Abandon haste. It will only hinder you."
I have hindered myself enough already, Elrohir thought, both resigned and annoyed, bordering on despondency but too wound up to fall prey.
The younger twin tried to calm his thoughts, tried to order them as he had been taught, but every time success approached his grip, his twin's face would flash before his eyes—as he fell or from the dream—and his worry would rise, casting about his efforts like a storm-tossed sea, shattering the state of mind that was most conducive to rational thought before it could be formed.
He flung his attention outward so not to be overwhelmed and focused once more upon the trails, attempting to trace them more completely. Behind him he could hear Sierra's steady tread, soft but easily discernible, and was not sure if it comforted him or disquieted him further.
The girl's loyalty was a matter yet unresolved in his mind. Her words and behavior sometimes clashed oddly, and that alone would have given him pause under normal circumstances—and these were hardly normal.
That she had all but claimed intimacy with the Slyntari, meaning an allegiance to the Dark One, was hardly a point in her favor. In fact, it was a strong mark against her, and but for Elladan's willingness to trust her and his father's words of caution he would have dealt with her long ago. As it was he could find no cause for such action on his part (save his instinctive dislike of her) and even had—however unwillingly—cause to keep her around: he needed help, and hers was the only aid to be had for weeks in any direction.
If his brother could scarce afford the passage of a few days—and he was sure he could not—then a couple weeks was out of the question. And even then, who would he go to? Neither the Rohirrim nor the Gondorians had had close association with the elves for the greater part of this age, and the memories of men were not so long as the eldar race. What aid would they willingly send even if he were to ask it? It was laughable. To think—
His thoughts stilled abruptly as he suddenly noted something changed in his surroundings. He frowned slightly, attempting to pinpoint the difference, and whirled when he determined it, his hand falling to his sword.
The elf started back as he found Sierra much closer than he expected, barely restraining a cry of shock, and saw his own surprise mirrored in her eyes. She stumbled back and half turned as if to face something behind her, then froze, apparently sure no enemy approached from the rear, and merely watched him, poised for trouble. He could almost see her mind spinning, furiously searching for an explanation for his strange behavior.
He, also, searched for an explanation. When he had realized he no longer heard her footsteps, he had assumed she had disappeared, the long awaited betrayal finally come to completion. So to find her still with him, exactly where he would have expected with no change of pace, was a surprise that defied description. He watched her closely, a frown on his face.
She endured his scrutiny quietly, still trying to puzzle out his behavior for herself. He saw the exact moment she gave up the exercise and watched her open her mouth to question him. Some shadow passed across her eyes, then—doubt? Uncertainty? He was not sure—and she closed her mouth without uttering a word. The girl settled for raising an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smile on her lips.
Taunting, he would have said, but the question had not left her eyes—eyes that were both more vulnerable and more remote than when they had last parted. "What were you doing?" they asked, but he ignored the question, his own discomfort focusing past the obvious question. His frown deepened, but it was his own question that perplexed him: what had changed?
Without answering either question by word or deed, Elrohir turned on his heels and continued his trek through the undergrowth, moving with quiet, deft grace despite his rising irritation at having been distracted from the important dilemma of how to rescue his brother now that the surprise was wearing off. The question raised slipped form his mind as if it had never been.
That he needed more information was a truth rapidly coalescing in his mind as he picked up his trail of thought where he left off; yet he was loathe to break the silence that existed between him and his temporary companion. He had no wish to revisit the fights that had characterized their conversations previously, no matter how little he liked her or trusted her. They were unnecessary distractions that served little more purpose than to rile his and agitate her, and—unless he was mistaken—it would only take a little to set one or the other of them off.
In the quiet, he could almost forget he did not trust her. Without hearing her voice, he could almost pretend she was any one of dozens of other people he had traveled with over the centuries whose company he found much more agreeable. There was just something in her tone, in her manner of address, which incited his resentment. He could no more pin it down than he could dismiss it and both irritated him further. Why could this girl not leave him in peace?
For now, however, the answer was simple: Elladan.
He frowned at the skeleton trees and once again attempted to order his thoughts, sorting through what he did and did not know. The former was distressingly short and the latter alarmingly long. That he had a ready-made information source in Sierra was a fact his mind, at least, was starting to appreciate, never mind that it galled him to be beholden to her for answers.
The dark-haired elf peered through the trees trying to glimpse the mountains behind them to judge how far they yet had to travel. The attempt thwarted him lest he looked over the boughs to glimpse the peaks, and that aided him little. Yet he could hear running water, less than a mile away unless his ears deceived him, and that was some help. They yet had several miles to cross, then.
"A storm approaches."
Elrohir glanced back at the girl in surprise before casting his eyes to the sky. He regarded the dark, low-hanging clouds dispassionately as he walked, his thoughts still focused elsewhere. "I will not seek shelter."
"By nightfall, it will have reached the camp," Sierra continued, undeterred. "The rains shouldn't fall 'til then."
He stopped, forcing her to stop, and glared at her. "I said I will not seek shelter!" he hissed.
She blinked. "There is no shelter to be had, whether you would or no," the girl replied calmly, a precise bite to her voice that reminded him of a frustrated parent reprimanding a recalcitrant child while trying not to snap.
"Then your reason for mentioning it was?" he prompted, his anger quickly rising once more in the face of his association despite his attempts to hold it in check.
"I thought you should know."
"I have eyes, child."
"But you didn't know." Matter of fact, he might almost have believed her innocent pretensions, but he could read more in her eyes, her emotions not so well masked in this as in other matters.
His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. She took an involuntary step back. "But that's not the reason you spoke; is it, Sierra?"
"Yes, it—"
"You cared not whether I knew of the approaching storm; all you cared about was your own amusement! Does it tickle you so to vex me? Does it make you feel powerful?" he demanded. "Selfish brat—did it never occur to you that you waste time with your foolish games? You callous, unfeeling wench! My brother could be dying even as we speak and you stand here playing games!"
Telling, indignant anger colored her cheeks. "Unfeeling, am I?" the girl retorted, fury blazing in her eyes and contorting her face. "You would not last five days in Mordor with what I have endured for fifteen years! It would've broken you! What business is it of yours how I deal with my circumstances?"
"When you came here to free me and my brother—when you returned, it became my business!" His frustration made him shout and he continued more quietly, hissing, "You're not in Mordor anymore! It does not control you nor your actions. Like a child, you justify both by pointing to your past, but it does not own you! What you do is your choice. Or did someone make you come back?"
He glared at her and she glared right back, but offered no answer. "For all your pretence of maturity, you're just a babe," he added after a furious beat. "You don't understand the world you live in so you paint it in visions of the past. Well that doesn't work, brat! Grow up or get lost. I don't have time for your childishness."
Without waiting for a response—no less angry than at the beginning and now angry with himself, as well, for giving into that anger—he turned on his heel and kept walking. His rage surged though him, a fire that washed across him like the waves at a tide, burning alternately high then low; yet as he walked further, he could feel it ebb, the force of it dissipating. Its echo, however, lingered long after the flood had passed, like a bad aftertaste he could not wash away, and his mood remained dark.
In the silence that followed, his anger to turned to shame at his outburst. He never should have given in to her provocation, yet he could not bring himself to apologize. Somehow, he felt Sierra would not take it well if he did. With little to no basis for the feeling, he could not help but wonder if it was not his own reticence that spoke, but it did not go away. He let the impulse to apologize fade as the anger had. That he could still hear her footsteps following (albeit a couple steps further back) convinced him to let the matter rest. Right or wrong, he would let her come to her own conclusions with no interruptions from him.
He turned his mind back to his brother and was surprised at how easily it was done. His mind slipped past the horror of his dream and the terror of his twin's fall to a place beyond emotion where the camp was brought more clearly into focus, the different memories and views gathered together and fitted one upon the other like pieces of a puzzle until the layout, deepened by opposing views, was spread before him.
Despite Sierra's hesitance, he knew moving about the camp would actually be fairly simple. His superior senses and ease of movement would be an excellent asset. Finding Elladan, too, was likely easily accomplished. What he knew of Shirk told him told him the elf loved psychological games and trapping his enemies within their own expectations, but that he was unlikely to pursue that pleasure when there was the possibility it would fail—however unlikely. That they had nearly escaped once was a fact he could not ignore, so whatever else awaited the younger son of Elrond, guards were to be the best indication of Elladan's position.
It was getting in to begin with and withdrawing without falling back into the trap that would prove the true difficulty. The fall alone would have made any escape attempts troublesome, but those injuries were not the only things they would have to contend with. That prospect—escaping with his injured brother—was daunting. How was he to do it, knowing what he knew?
"Do not allow the distant prospect to overwhelm the immediate. Start at the beginning, my son. Then the path will unwind before you."
Yet the beginning was no more promising than the ending. If he could but start in the middle, he felt he could get somewhere. That the quickest way inside Death Camp (aside from being recaptured) was from the southeast certainly encouraged that course; but elf or no, there was no way he could disappear completely to elude the eyes of the guard who stood watch.
Continuing west to the mountains nicely circumvented the problem of crossing nearly a mile of open land, yet Elrohir was not convinced that was as simple as the girl had suggested. He remembered seeing guards about the entrances to those tunnels, and there was no way past that save killing them. He was nearly positive missing guards would be noticed. Besides, the prospect of becoming trapped in the dark confines was not alluring.
No, he would not approach from the west. That much he was willing to proclaim. The added travel time and difficulty, plus the fact that he would have to rely solely upon the half-grown girl nearly made marching straight into Mordor alone more palatable. Thus decided, however, he was still left the difficult task of determining a mode of entrance from the southeast, or as near to it as could be managed.
His gaze ranged once again across the trees. Largely thin, brittle-looking things, they offered little inspiration. Rather disgruntled, he wondered if setting the lot of them aflame would be distracting enough to let him enter the camp unhindered.
He suspected not.
The smoke from such a thing, however, could possibly prove beneficial—if it was copious and hovered near to earth for an extended period of time. Then he could use the smoke to slip by unnoticed and so pass his first obstacle. Knowing it would need to be several miles of smoke that hovered about like fog convinced him he may as well wish for the Valar to cloak him in a cloud and spirit him. . . .
Elrohir's thoughts trailed off as his blue eyes tracked to the sky. The dark clouds still several miles south of their position hung with weighty imminence in the pale blue, almost gray, sky. He spent a few minutes judging for himself whither the storm would go and when, and concluded that the girl was probably right in her estimates, whatever her motivation had been. A snowstorm, perhaps, could help him.
Sierra's words finally penetrated his brain, and he turned towards her with frown, quite forgetting his anger. "You meant it wouldn't snow until nightfall," he said, the sentence a question only so far as to beg confirmation.
Dark blue eyes lifted from their contemplation of the ground to meet his gaze, her expression and posture unchanged. "Nay, Master Elf. I said rain, and I meant rain."
"It is too cold for rain this time of year," he protested.
"And yet my words and meaning remain unchanged," she noted ironically.
"Sierra—"
She cut him off. "If you will not believe me, see for yourself when the first drops fall. Or, if you prefer, call it sludge. But whatever you call it, it is not snow. Real snow, here, only falls on the mountains."
He studied her skeptically, but could think of no reason she should lie about this. What difference did it make, really, if it was rain or snow? The answer, of course, was none at all.
"Rain?" he reiterated, just to be sure and give her one last chance to recant her claim. She nodded curtly, however, and he continued walking silently, mulling over this new information within the confines of his mind. Dark, cold, and rain, he knew from experience (second-hand, but experience just the same) were uncomfortable for men.
Perhaps, he thought slowly, a smile beginning to tug at his lips, rain was even better than snow.
o/o/o/o/o
Something changed.
He looked around with pensive eyes, but could see nothing. Nothing indicated change; nothing was around to cause the change—at least not that he could see. Change without a cause sprung tension through him, a fear of the unknown.
What pain had he known in the dark? What horrible things had surprised him from the depths of a fathomless abyss? The answer, the truth, eluded him, but he felt its presence. It knew what haunted him, what plagued the shadows to rip him apart.
He inched to the side. Maybe if he could get out—get away from here, he would escape. The doom that stalked him would pass. It was possible. Probable. It could happen. He looked around, glanced behind him, as if expecting to confront glowing red eyes. Yet there was nothing but shadow. He took larger steps, daring to move further, quicker.
But the farther he moved, the greater seemed the presence. More and more often he looked behind him, searching, seeking—the darkness ever an impediment. He could not see though he stared into the empty pit. He turned back around thinking to find somewhere to hide—
—and jumped. A scream rose in his throat at the form that met him, dark and shadowed, until his eyes lighted on his face, and fear transformed to shock. "Elrohir!"
His twin smiled at him, but did not move. He stood straight, stiff. Unnatural, was the word that popped into his mind, but his relief at finding his brother instead of a demon was too great to attach any importance to that. It was a peculiarity within the norm of his surroundings. It meant nothing.
"What are you doing here?" He waited, expectant, his joy a boisterous uncontained thing unusual to him, harkening back to older days.
It met with silence.
"I didn't expect you here," he continued when the quiet became too much, the weight of expectancy to great. "I mean, I can't imagine why—you're my twin, we always do everything together, but I hadn't thought you'd be here. When did you come? Where did you come from?"
He halted, his words cut off with the abruptness of one who expects an immediate response, begun almost before he finished, and the continued silence unsettled him almost as much as the change. In the back of his mind, he realized he had been rambling, that it was out-of-character for him, and his reality seemed to twist, pulling back on itself and warping—a shift more felt than seen.
It felt strange, and he looked to his brother—truly looked at him—for the familiarity he missed. A smile still adorned Elrohir's face, but to his eyes, the expression looked fixed, wooden. The eyes looked dead, their customary sparkle gone. The posture was wrong. He recognized nothing of his brother in the figure before him.
Belatedly, he took a step back, regarding the being warily. "Elrohir?" he queried uncertainly, hoping for a spark of recognition, humor . . . anything! He wanted to see his brother. . . .
But the blank stare followed him. He took another step back, then whirled to flee, to escape this masquerade. And came up short.
Bare inches from his face stood a familiar visage. But where the other had mocked humor, this one held menace. The same smile adorned its handsome face, but there was something hard in it, and the eyes sparkled wickedly, like steel in moonlight.
He took a step back and was pulled up short by a firm grip on his arm, the fingers biting into his flesh. "E-Elrohir?" he asked, uncertainly, but he already knew this was not his brother.
"Don't go," the other said, smiling widening. A chill shuddered down his spine. Far from his brother's warm voice, it sounded like a child and a nazgul, high yet rasping, not one yet not the other—evil hiding behind an innocence that could not conceal it.
More than anything he wanted to go, to escape, to pull away, but he could not. His body revolted against him, pinning him in place, the hand only partially responsible for holding him in place. He could not move. Helplessly, he looked into cold, merciless eyes.
"We have so much to do."
Understanding did not hit him immediately. For a moment, he hung suspended, unwilling to imagine what was to come, unable to escape that it would. It was on his tongue to ask his brother not do this, to plead with him not to do this.
Then the being's hand rose and reached for his chest. Ice struck his breast, penetrating, hard and sharp, seeping the warmth from him, spreading throughout his body. Ice so cold it burned.
As images flashed through his mind, he screamed.
o/o/o/o/o
Hours never passed so long than in monotony. The same questions over and over, the only replies screams or moans or terrified cries, pleas. . . . He had learned something, though, even if he had been quite happy in ignorance and it was not what he was looking for.
This elf was Elladan, the elder son of Lord Elrond—unless he had been calling for himself, unlikely—something he would be willing to bet Shirk had known full well and not told him. Not that he cared. An elf was an elf, and at this point it hardly mattered if his name was Gil-galad, except if it was it would probably be Shirk down here questioning him instead of Torl.
"Your brother can't hear you," he told the insensate being before him, not minding in the least that he could not be heard. Darkness, a brief respite, had claimed the elf moments before as it had numerous times in the past, and he relished the chance to hear sensible words even if they were his own. "He's long gone and far away from here. If he's smart, he's not coming back, either."
The human frowned at the battered face before him and then pressed a spiced rag against the cut on his arm. Elladan gasped and jerked as if slapped, his breathing restarting at a slower and even jerkier pace than it had been before. His frown deepened.
The mind was only pliable for three hours after an administered dose, which meant he had a lot of the drug in his system by this point, but that was the third time this session he had stopped breathing, his system too strained to properly remember all its tasks. Would the elf survive another dose? He was due another, but would it prove too much?
Torl considered that as he stood and began making his way back up the stairs, torch in hand. At the top, he rapped once against the door, waited for the requisite two knocks and wrapped again. When the door opened and he stepped into the sunlight, he was almost surprised to find it nearly dark though sunset was still at least two hours away. He glanced briefly at the sky, noting the darkening clouds.
"My lord." He looked at the man who had stopped before him and bowed. The man straightened and continued, "Lord Shirk wishes an update. He would speak to you."
"Order all patrols not yet departed and due to return after sunset to be cancelled. Have Kine draw up the watches rotated every three hours, kalen tiers, he will know what to do. Tell our lord the elf has not spoken and I will report to him when the questioning is done, unless he bid now?"
"Nay, Captain," the other answered, sketching another quick bow before leaving on his fresh duties.
The young captain watched him as he disappeared amid the tents, then turned and retreated down the stairs. The next six hours would be long, indeed.
o/o/o/o/o
An hour had passed, yet scarcely had they traveled half the distance they had managed the first hour. Their pace had not merely slowed, it had been curtailed.
Upon crossing the first bend of the river, the Slyntari had suddenly made themselves known. The first group had passed further west of their position, prompting the disparate pair to fade into their surroundings and remain still. The second group had appeared near where the first disappeared but further south and moved further east, almost paralleling their path some twenty yards below them. That path, so near to the fugitives, kept them in hiding for nearly ten minutes as they slowly made their way through the growth.
Never before had he been given the opportunity to study the way the Slyntari moved, his previous encounter with them not exactly conducive to lengthy examination. Yet here with plenty of time to do nothing save watch, he was struck by their skill and silence. It almost reminded him of the rangers with whom he had traveled so often in the past. They moved with confident familiarity through the trees, their knowledge of the land aiding their quiet steps. He could see Shirk's influence as clearly as he could see his own and Elladan's in Estel.
They moved on in silence, the only difference being that the girl had closed the distance between them to its original length. They were constantly on the lookout for more patrols, and more than once had to slow to avoid a group passing some distance away.
When a third group appeared nearly right upon them from the rear, Elrohir thought he finally understood why Sierra had proposed traveling further south, and better than he had ever wanted to.
Both held very still as the foursome reached a certain point and split, each member going a slightly different direction. The Slyntari fanned out, just missing their shelter and slowly disappeared into the trees.
The elf turned his gaze from them and looked at Sierra with a raised eyebrow. The girl frowned, then motioned with her head towards the nearest section of well-defined path. "They're checkpoints," she answered. "Patrols can take any route they choose so long as they hit all their assigned checkpoints."
Wonderful, he thought sarcastically, but he simply nodded and moved forward again, picking an ever more careful trail than before. He dutifully skirted each checkpoint and tried to keep them near some form of cover. If his companion objected, she gave no indication of it. He noted her expression as he glanced back to take in the terrain behind them and nearly hissed in vexation.
It was an irritating cycle he found himself in. On the one hand, he had his brother. Worry for him forever ate at the back of his mind and tried to consume him if ever he gave it the slightest chance. On the other hand, he had Sierra. Young, remote, and disagreeable, she was the last person he should choose as an ally, his faith in her nonexistent. Each gave him cause for concern; and it was inevitable that thoughts of one would lead to musings on the other.
His brother was in trouble; he needed to get him out of the camp, away from Shirk. How could he do that? No alone, he knew—but the only help was the girl. He did not trust her. Elladan had. Why had his brother trusted her? Because he was in trouble. . . ?
The cycle continued, over and over, no matter which thought occurred to him first. More than anything, he wanted to ease his twin's pain—make him well, but until he reached the Slyntari camp such desires were far beyond his reach. The one close enough to touch, he had no faith in and could not broach the questions he wanted to know. And if Sierra's expression had been difficult to read before, now it was impossible.
It took little effort to deduce the change was his fault. Ever since he had yelled at her, her expression had become shuttered. Nothing of her thoughts or feelings made it to her face. He had known professional killers more expressive than her, and that despicable brand of being was exactly what she reminded him of—which did nothing for his state of mind at all.
The way opened up off to his right with a strange rock formation coming up on his left. The view past the small clearing was fairly close, allowing good sight for only a short distance before the gray trunks layered together and blocked one's view. He looked, glaring at the shadows with a piquancy unwarranted.
Why could not things be simple just once? Why did this have to happen so soon after the trouble with Estel? He was not even sure his little brother was well before he was faced with the distinct possibility of losing his twin. What would that do to the human's already fragile state of mind, for he would lose them both instead of just one?
Devastate him, if he knew his younger brother at all. It pained him that he could not even properly regret such an occurrence if Elladan died. It was a source of some guilt that he had no even thought about his brother in the last couple days. How much could have happened since they left Rivendell? The hope or failure of all their dreams, and yet. . . . Elladan—
His eyes caught on a shadow amid the trees. It broke from the norm in a way he could not immediately place, somehow different from the other shadows he had seen recently. It reminded him strangely of the patrol groups that appeared out of the wood, but it was not moving. In fact, it appeared to be pointing. . . .
Understanding clicked. Without thinking, he lunged backwards, grabbed Sierra's hand and pulled her sharply towards the stone, using his own momentum to add to the motion's power. The arrow exploded into a tree just behind her at neck height.
His back struck the hard rock, shoving the air from his lungs, and he caught her arms instinctively as she stumbled into him, steady her. In the next instant, she had pulled back, pulled her bow, and shot an arrow. Whether or not it struck its target, he could not tell. And (for the moment) did not care.
The shooter's companions had abandoned their cover and approached with weapons drawn. Turning to face them, he drew his sword. There were three. He saw Sierra glanced behind him and knew more approached. His jaw clenched. Where had they come from?
A question for another time, he knew. The elf moved forward a few feet, putting some distance between him and the rock at his back, then set himself and waited for the others to reach him. They hesitated just out of reach, and he glanced between them, watching for an opening and waiting. They exchanged covert glances. What. . . ?
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sierra move in the same instant he heard a snap. What she did, he did not see for his attention was grabbed by something flying at his face. He had a brief moment to recognize the net for what it was, his sword moving instinctively to counter it, before the thick ropes collided with him and flung him backwards, the lines about his feet tripping him as they suddenly pulled upward.
His breath left him in a rush as he slammed into the stone. His sword cut through a couple of the ropes and he half-fell, though his legs remained trapped and his right arm stuck. The rock scraped along his back and the rope chaffed his arm. A muttered curse slipped past his lips.
From his trapped position, Elrohir saw Sierra move against one of their attackers, quickly slipping past him to engage the second and securing the attention of the third. Annoyance—how did she escape?—surged through him, followed by the more productive realization that she was buying time for him to escape their trap.
Which also means there are enough men in the second group that she doesn't think she can face them alone, he concluded. And they're close enough she can't dispatch them then free me herself. What he did not understand was why she did not simply finish them off anyway. She had the skill.
Unless she did not want to kill them?
Suddenly, her movements too quick for even Elrohir's keen eyes to follow exactly, she struck, felling two of the three she faced. He blinked. The abrupt action reminded him of his own task, and he levered his blade against the braided strands that held him. Pain, the odd groan of a bone stressed as it was never meant to be, vibrated through him, but he ignored it and pushed harder.
The first of the ropes gave way as Sierra stumbled, almost missing her opponent's blade and just catching it near the hilt. Her feet slid over the scattered leaves. He could hear others coming up on the plinth and struck the strands holding him with his newly mobile arm. The motions were somewhat awkward, as it was his left hand, but the task hardly required finesse. The ropes could not give way fast enough.
In moments, he had pulled himself free of the tangling cords. A quick glance showed Sierra still engaged with her opponent and holding her own. Quickly, he tossed the sword to his right hand; he closed his fingers around the hilt just as the first opponent came into view. Swords rang as the enemies clashed.
Elrohir moved quickly, striking from as many places as he could. With the stone at his back, they could only attack from three directions, but he was loathe to become pinned down against the rock. So he shifted from side to side, occasionally darting forward to strike the too bold, once loping off a hand as he did so. It did not take long for him to notice their hesitation and determine its cause. They want me alive. A grim smile touched his lips.
Tightening his focus, he moved faster, pushing his elven speed and agility to the limits. To his opponents, he became no more than a blur—there and gone again as his sword flashed among them.
Normally formidable warriors, their hesitation undid them. They paused when they should have struck, unsure if they saw what they thought they saw, more concerned with not killing their quarry than emerging victorious. Their orders and instincts conflicted—and their orders won.
They second-guessed themselves. His blade carved into them one by one. They were young. They had not expected their trap to fail. They had not expected the need to fight a foe more skilled than they. They paid for the failure of their plan with their lives. He showed no mercy.
When he stopped moving, his sword held in a double-handed reverse-grip along his right forearm, none stood. Two has knives in their backs. The rest had fallen by his sword. Shirk had sent them to succeed or die. He looked in their lifeless eyes, open but forever closed to the world, and wondered if they thought it was worth it. Then he looked at Sierra. "Would you have been one of them?" he asked, motioning to the corpses.
Her eyes were cold as she looked at them. "I would have come up with a better plan," she answered, squatting to gather her knives with no more concern than if she was plucking them from a target tree.
He noticed she did not answer his question. He pressed another instead, "You think you could have?"
"With fifteen men and advanced knowledge of the enemy's passage?" she countered, scornful disbelief penetrating the aloofness. "A half-wit could've come up with better than this."
"Yet it would have worked," he observed, "if not for the fact that you eluded their trap." He studied her face as she stared blankly at one of the fallen. "Are you certain this was the extent of their plan?" he prompted after a moment, accepting that she would not answer his implied question, and willing to address another that had just occurred to him and perhaps held more relevance.
Her head came up and the slightest frown creased her brow. Apparently, she had not considered it either. He waited quietly as she studied the way yet before them, the path of her thoughts well-concealed.
"I think it is," she finally decided, still watching their surroundings. "Other teams may wait further west, but fifteen is already too many for a single unit. Botched or stupidity, it is done."
For long moments, he just stared at her, trying to see past the affectations and pretensions to the true word underneath. The problem was he could not, not for sure. She was too good at hiding her thoughts, too used to presenting a certain image to present another, whether truth or lie. He would have to decide, and he would have to do so to the exclusion of the truth.
Neither moved. He listened to the wind howling thinly through the trees and felt it sweep past him like a ghost. He saw his breath cloud on the air. Finally, he asked, "Did you know they would wait for us?"
Some shadow flickered across her eyes. Her jaw tensed. "I forgot," she whispered. In that admission, that bare movement of her lips, he could finally hear something of her, something undeniably real. She did not say it, but he heard it just the same: "A mistake; a mistake I never should have made."
Slowly, he nodded. They were safe for the moment, then, barring any unanticipated patrols— His eyes narrowed. "Did you say fifteen?"
"Aye," she answered warily, eyeing him curiously.
"There are only twelve."
Sierra briefly scanned the bodies littering the ground, then nodded once. "Twelve plus the archer—" She gestured across the clearing. "—and the two scouts—" with another gesture back the way they had come "—make fifteen."
"Scouts?"
"There are always two scouts for such ambushes."
He cocked an eyebrow. "Did you not see them?" When she shook her head, he asked, "Then how do you know they were there?"
Annoyance flashed through her eyes, gone as quickly as it had come. "If you would like, we can backtrack a mile or so and I will find where they hid for you," she offered, acidity present in her tone. "Elrohir, good scouts are not meant to be seen! They have one job: to see those approaching before the approaching find the rest of their companions. That's all they do! Do you always see your Elven scouts? Especially when you don't even know they're there?"
"Peace, Sierra," he bid, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "It was an innocent question. What will the scouts do now?"
By her expression, she was not willing to believe his assertion, but she let it pass. "Return to camp."
"Not to their superiors here?" He found that hard to believe.
She cocked her head, trying to come up with an explanation for something she knew simply as fact. "They don't report to the unit commanders. They are assigned to them, and accept their assignment from them, but they report to the field captains, who may or may not report in detail to the captain.
"In matters like this one, they will wait at their assigned post until the specified time, then depart and head back to their direct supervisor. The assumption will be that this group already returned to camp, as they were supposed to."
"Then the scouts could still be there?" he questioned.
Sierra nodded slowly. "It is possible. They wait a specified period of time after contact before abandoning post."
Elrohir's eyes narrowed. Either way, what surprise they had hoped to gain through secrecy was lost. They Slyntari would soon know which way they headed and draw their own conclusions. Silently, he amended his plan. "Let's go," he ordered, suiting action to word.
"But they know where we're going," Sierra protested, unmoved.
He looked back at her. Wide eyes met his hard gaze. "That's right," he agreed easily. "And we aren't going to disappoint them."
o/o/o/o/o
o/o/o
o/o/o/o/o
Bingo: No, it's not supposed to be like that. I had hoped I caught it before anyone read it, but you dashed my hopes quite nicely. (g) And, obviously, you have to wait a bit for more from Aragorn and Legolas. I'm gonna call it a token appearance next chapter. Happy reading!
AM: Whatever gave you that idea? (looks at the blade she's sharpening and quickly hides it behind her back) lol. Hehe, breathing. More or less, at least. Hehe. I think I'm gonna go before I end up sounding even more like a deranged psycho-killer than I already do. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Karriya: Are you here? Thank you!
Cosmic Castaway: Thanks for the nudge. They motivate me, I swear, even if the results aren't always quick. I left Aragorn and Legolas out of this one especially for you. (eg) Maybe I'll put them in next chapter, though. Shhh, don't tell it, it might hear you and fix it. Heh, yeah right. Anyway, lovely hearing from you.
Grumpy: Um, yes and no. I'm an elf! Lol. If it helps, I think things are going to look much worse for them. I think. Hard to say of something not written yet. Very sad, that.
DeepBlueSomething: Alright, easy part first: (g)grin, and (eg)evil grin, such as I've determined and how I use them. If there's a higher power that says otherwise, so be it. Erm, it's probably a little of both. Sort of, kind of, not really addressed in this chapter. You mean they haven't already walked into it? Wow. I hope they get along too. I'm starting to like them together, and in the tangents my mind runs off on that never makes it to paper, that's scary. I may have to kill her off just to save Elrohir. Eh-hem. Oh, me too. For the whole lot of what you said. It's not written yet, so I obviously can't guarantee anything even if I wanted to. (eg) Love your review.
Nerfenherder: (g) I'm just glad you reviewed, never mind when. I feel like such a hypocrite when I ask for reviews and then don't review other people's stuff. But I'm overly critical (thus the reason I always think my stuff sucks) and I can't tell someone it was great, whether I liked it or not, when I think it can be so much better, and unless I'm in a particular mood, I don't really want to tell them 'It was nice, but—' You know? Completely tangent. Anyway: I liked that too. Thought it was rather brilliant, myself. (g)
Abby: (blinks) Yeah, ok. Um, for the love of what?