Hey y'all! Four months is a record for me (and not a good one) but it's finally here. I can't vouch for quality as I haven't read through it yet. I hope I caught most of it as I typed, but. . . . Experience dictates otherwise, I just can't read through it right now and I don't have a beta, so please forgive my mistakes.
Important Notice: I will no longer be responding to reviews on fanfiction.Much as I despise their rules, there's really not anywhere else I wanna post so I'd rather not get kicked off. That said, I've come across two possible solutions, and I want to know which you prefer. Now this is important. My last vote didn't go so well.
I can (1) post all review responses on livejournal or (2) send out all review responses as one big email. Think about it and let me know. You're not getting any responses to reviews until I have a majority. (g) BTW, if you want email, be sure to give me your email address in the review. I'll let you know next chapter what I've decided (or rather, what you've decided).
Though to answer a question: about six months has passed from the beginning of False Reality to now. We're coming up on March 1st, and if we're not, I need to go back and change some stuff.
I think that's it. If I remember anything else I'll post it on my profile page. If you didn't know, that's where I post updates on my writing. Delays, reasons, and hope for the next chapter can be found there, probably weekly.
Now, nit-picky stuff done, enjoy the chapter. (p.s. let me know if it sux.)
Chapter 24
There was a murmur of voices. He could hear the rise and fall of their speech, there but indistinguishable, like the babbling brook running just out of sight.
He opened his eyes, unsure when he had closed them. Darkness met his gaze and it took him a moment to notice the light, and several more to realize the shadows were the boughs of trees above him. How he come here? And where was here?
Slowly, feeling tired and heavy-limbed, he rolled onto his side and saw two figures kneeling, their attention focused groundward. With a start, he recognized them both: Elrohir and Estel! But how? He thought he was alone. . . .
Memory eluded him and the wisps he snatched at disappeared like morning fog under the midday sun, fading from his waking mind like a dream, leaving naught but confusion in its wake. He frowned, but the expression gained him no clear idea of how he got here. Where had he been before here?
"Ha! I won!"
"Deluded, brother: I let you win!"
"Don't take it out on me, Elrohir. 'Tis not my fault you're no good at dice."
"Ai! The callousness of youth! Elladan, why don't you play?"
"What?" he croaked after a startled moment to realize who his twin was addressing. The name sounded strange to his ears. His head pounded. His limbs felt like lead. The thought of moving—What happened to me?
"You should not have drunk so much, brother," Estel chided. "Father warned you."
"As did I," Elrohir added, not the least sympathetic. "Now, up! You must play with us at dice."
"And we'll make it interesting." A wicked, mischievous gleam he recognized well lit Estel's silver eyes. "Every time you lose, you must answer a question. Swear that you won't lie."
"Estel!" exclaimed Elrohir, shocked. "We would do not such thing. You wound me, brother."
"Come, Elladan. Will you not play?"
He stared into Estel's pleading eyes, warring within himself, with the weakness he felt in his body, then sighed. "I will play."
"Then come, brother," Elrohir bid merrily as a brilliant smile creased the young human's face. "The ground is too soft to play dice over there."
He closed his eyes trying to marshal his strength. Even the allusion to last night's drinking could not account for how he felt, he was sure. Perhaps a hangover on top of six months in the Wilds with the rangers while pursuing orcs, goblins, and trolls east to west without rest in between—unless Ada gave him a sleeping draught? But no, Lord Elrond never drugged anyone after over indulgence, especially not his own sons.
He took a deep breath and rolled up on his arm, shifting to his knees at the top to slowly drag himself across the six feet separating him from his brothers. Once he got there, he settled into a lotus position.
Elrohir and Estel looked up at him with identical grins. "First one to thirty-one wins," Elrohir announced. Estel shoved the dice into his hands with a hearty "You go first."
He glanced down, shook his hand, and dropped the dice. They struck the packed dirt and bounced. A black mist seemed to cover his eyes, covering the land in darkness, blotting out the trees, his brothers' smiling faces, the sun, taking him back to where that thing lived with fire and ice—
He shook his head and stared—and the darkness was gone. Both his companions were staring at the dice, and for a moment he could do naught but stare, unable to believe they had not seen the shadow, felt the darkness.
"Double sixes, brother, not bad."
He watched as Elrohir picked up the dice and repeated his motions, shaking his fist and then releasing the cubes to skitter across the earth. A smile played about his lips, a smirk. Not once did he look up from the game or glance in his twin's direction. It was like he was not even there. Then the younger elf groaned and his eyes finally did move, flicking over to Estel. "Your turn, little brother."
"I'll beat you both," the human taunted. "Games of chance are the specialty of Men, after all."
Double sixes.
He head the banter, cast his die, watched their faces, but thought they never failed to solicit his participation, they never once glanced his direction, never once commented on his lay save to announce his score. Could not Elrohir feel his fatigue, his confusion? Did not Estel notice how quiet he was? Though Elrohir was his twin, Estel was usually the first to notice deviations in his behavior, so close did he observe the elder twin. Why did neither see now? Was it what they expected?
Uume kaure an amin . . . Uume kaure an amin. . . .
His gaze drifted towards the forest as his mind raced and the words repeated over and over. His brothers' voices, their ceaseless babble, stopped registering in his ears, their words unimportant.
Uume kaure an amin . . . Uume kaure an amin. . . .
The wind blew gentle through the trees, pulling their green boughs in a dip toward the south. It whispered in his ear, a low, soothing call, and he let his eyes rest on the lone tree that stood before him, the lone thing that stood out crisp and clear, beautiful, young, unblemished, verdant and full of life. Its bark was smooth. This tree, more than any of the others, knew no pain, no sorrow. It, alone, was innocent of the horrors in the world.
From that perfection stepped a maiden, a beautiful elf-maiden, and his eye was caught. His heart and mind eased, and his breathing caught. Her gown, whiter than the purest snow, seemed to float over top the soft grasses and flow about her slender form. Her golden tresses hung in a smooth cascade down her back and waved, the pure color catching the sun and blazing about her face. Her pale, creamy skin seemed to glow. But it was her eyes that held him, brightest blue, clear, sparkling with the light of her soul, deep and boundless, joyful . . . and he knew them.
Naneth.
Yet his lips would not form the words, his lungs would not draw the air, and his mind would not stir his tongue. She reached towards him, and he longed to get up and run to her but his body would not move, would not release him from this strange paralysis that held him.
Uume kaure an amin. . . .
"Thirty-one!"
He jumped. The words seared through his mind—the sudden crack of a whip, the sudden boom of a heavy tome striking the ground, the shock of a sudden burst of thunder just overhead—jolting him from his thoughts. His eyes darted to his youngest brother automatically, just as quickly darting back—but she was gone.
Celebrian was gone. Gone, as if she had never been.
"You know what that means, brother." Fingers on his shoulder drew his eyes away from the empty space previously occupied by his mother, and his dazed blue eyes landed on the smiling visage of Estel, closer than before and looking straight at him. "It means I get to ask you a question, and you have to answer."
"What do you want to know?" He was almost surprised his voice worked. It sounded strange to his ears, hoarse, not his own, but neither Elrohir nor their human tag-along seemed to notice.
"What is my true name and lineage?"
Silence reigned. He blinked, thrown. Of all the things he had expected his little brother might ask, that was not it. Did not Estel already know he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnadain of the North, heir of Isildur and destined King of both Gondor and Arnor? But, n . . . Estel was but seventeen summers, yet a boy even among his people and not yet come to manhood. That information was not his yet.
Why had he thought the boy possessed such knowledge? Why, when he heard the question, did his mind flash to a man many years older, with deep silver eyes that bespoke pain better forgotten? Was it the future he saw, one which could be prevented?
He stared into the eager eyes of his young foster brother and felt himself flounder. What was he to say? Estel deserved to know the truth—his identity had never been meant to be withheld indefinitely—but was the boy ready for this burden? A part of him wished to spare the young man the weight of his heritage; a part wished him to know and come into his own.
But—"Why do you ask this now? You've never shown any interest before?"
"I may change my mind. I want to know now."
"Perhaps you should wait and ask Ada."
"You lost, Elladan. 'Tis you who must tell me."
He opened his mouth to answer his little brother but his father beat him to it: "His identity must remain a secret." He closed his mouth, swallowed the truth and tried again. "Ada will tell you when you are ready. Ask me something else."
"I don't want to know anything else, Elladan!" Estel protested. "You're not following the rules."
"I am sorry, gwador nîn, but I cannot answer that question." He glanced at Elrohir, expecting him to back him up, but the younger elf was smiling at him, his eyes seeming to say "Go on, tell him."
"Elrohir, make him tell!"
"Come on, brother," the younger twin coaxed easily. "It is his name, after all. He has a right to it."
"See?" Estel pressed, drawing his attention from his twin by moving closer, nearly sitting on his lap. "You promised."
. . . you promised. . . .
"Elladan, you promised not to do this, I am a man now. You cannot be with me all the time. You cannot always protect me. I must learn to do things on my own. Be at peace, brother. You taught me well." Silver eyes stared at him earnestly, willing him to understand, silver eyes filled with love and understanding, pleading with him to let him go, let him face the world on his own turns, silver eyes pleading to let him prove to himself that he was old enough, finally old enough. . . .
Silver eyes that hid his fear of failure in their depths, fear of failure, fear of disappointing his family . . . fear he could not find in the eyes that stared so insistently into his own.
He jerked back, sprawling, and shouted, "You're not my brother!" His eyes were wide as he struggled to put distance between himself and the imposter. "You're not my brother," he repeated, quieter, hoping the words would keep the thing at bay—
"Elladan!" Worried, scolding, shocked.
But he did not understand. Elrohir could not understand. This was the enemy's doing, the enemy's game. Estel's true identity had to stay a secret. He could not tell. He must not! "Nay, my brother." How close had he come to that which must remain unspoken, unthought lest that thought betray him. . . .
"Elladan!"
He froze, his twin's anger slicing through him. Elrohir almost never yelled at him. Blue eyes looked into seething, wounded blue.
"Look what you've done!" Elrohir hissed.
His eyes darted to the human by reflex. For a moment he stared into large silver eyes. In that moment, he saw pain, betrayal, and the glitter of tears—then the boy was gone. He reached for him, wanting nothing more than to take back the hurt, but the other was out of reach, fleeing among the trees.
"Estel. . . ."
o/o/o/o/o
The silence pressed against him, smothered him, rang within his ears and twisted through his mind. It shouted; it called; it leered, jeered, and laughed but it was nothing—emptiness, loneliness . . . false.
Elrohir jerked awake, startling to realize he had fallen asleep, even more troubled to see by the light that fought through the sand-colored tent that many hours had passed. His mind tripped over the thousand things that could have happened, that could have gone wrong, that could have been the death of his win as he struggled to catch up to what was as opposed to what he last remembered.
If I had been found. . . . He would have woken up in chains, every hope of saving his brother gone. Ice shivered down his spine.
The elf shifted forward, getting to his feet with graceful ease despite his sleep fogged brain, then eased forward in a crouch. The rain had stopped; what eluded his memory was when. The last thing he remembered was the steady plop of heavy water droplets against the taut canvas; the cessation of which, he thought, was what had woken him, but it had taken time to penetrate his brain and register in his mind. But how much?
Another shiver coursed down his spine at the horrid possibilities which played out before his mind's eyes. It doesn't matter now, he told himself firmly. I'm awake now. What ifs don't matter.
That confidence turned to stone in his gut as he reached the tent's entrance and sidled to the side to look out unobtrusively. Perhaps twenty Slyntari thronged the walk further down the row. As he watched, three entered a tent, weapons drawn. A fourth walked in the doorway, watching ready to sound the alarm if there was trouble; then two reemerged, flanked by the tent's occupant and followed by the third, the leader, who motioned quickly, moving the group quietly to the next tent in line. A quick glance in the opposite direction showed it was only the one group searching—at least on this row.
He retreated to the far side of the tent and sat. Ten tents separated him from the search party. He had time; he needed to figure out his next move. It was obvious they were searching the camp. More likely than not, they were doing so in the hope of catching him. The question, then, was if this was a normal procedure, routine as far as the situation was concerned, or if they had been alerted to his presence. He struggled against assuming Sierra had sold him out but the thought lingered, hovering in the back of his mind.
Elrohir immediately dismissed any thought of trying to pass himself off as a Slyntari. They still kept their hoods lowered and the pale sunshine which lit the camp all but banished shadows. Escaping out the back, then, and slipping was his only choice, bar announcing his presence to the entire camp—and that was a choice he could not afford.
The thought that this could all be a trap fluttered through his mind, but the Slyntari were now but a tent away; he was out of time and options. If he wanted even a chance of completing his mission, he had to wait for the girl to get in position, and the enemy could not find him before that.
A quick glance showed everything where the previous owner had left it, then he was slithering beneath the edge of the tent's rear wall, into the dubious safety of the open air.
o/o/o/o/o
Kalya leapt too late to avoid a vine that suddenly appeared before her. It caught her foot, upsetting her balance, and she crashed to the forest floor on all fours. For a moment, a double heartbeat, she froze, listening for any sign that her presence had been noticed, then she was up again and running.
The trees flashed past her, blurring, each exactly like the next, all flaking bark and brooding, empty branches. She remembered the woods north of Rivendell: the vibrant leaves, the sturdy trunks, the quiet voices whispering of more than death or despair, of joy and light and love, so different from anything she had known in Mordor. It was the difference between night and day, and se knew which she preferred. But it also reminded her of Strider, of Aragorn, and the reason she was here, running through this dead wood.
Her jaw clenched as she forced herself to run faster. She cut seemingly randomly around obstacles, weaving a path around tree, rock, and bush that found meaning only in her mind. Many paths could take her where she needed to go, many of them crossed, merged, split off in different directions. Some were not even paths at all. Yet she ran them, leaping what she could not dodge, making her way relentlessly towards the mountains which loomed ever larger before her.
Not for the first time, she cursed herself for telling Elrohir it would take no more than a day to reach the mountains. She ached and her legs burned; too well did she remember all the running she had done in the last couple of days and how little rest had come between them. Her eyes were gritty, like sand poured over a little water and spread across marble. More than anything, she wanted to rest, to lie down and let oblivion take her, but she ran on.
The sun sank inexorably into the west, each minute taking it closer to the horizon, every moment moving her closer to the time of reckoning when their plan would succeed or fail. Success meant freedom and failure meant torment and death, but the words were as close as she got to understanding, here mind too tired to comprehend the idea's breadth.
Fearing the future was a mental task beyond her ability. She had but energy enough to concentrate on one thing: reach the mountain. Over and over, those three words repeated in her mind, forcing out all other thoughts through strength of will. Her arms and legs trembled; her breathing was fast and harsh. Sweat sheened her body and pain thrummed between her ears, through her temple, pounding in him with her racing heart. She had not felt so poorly since the last time she was poisoned, but that meant nothing. She stumbled as the world spun lazily around her. Rest was what she needed yet there was no time for rest, no time for anything by running.
By the time she reached the foothills of the southern arc of the White Mountains, it was all she could do to stay on her feet. How much longer she would be there was anyone's guess. She only hoped her strength would last to her mission's completion.
o/o/o/o/o
Just beyond the tent, Elrohir crouched. Before him stood another tent, the entrance on the opposite side. In either direction stretched a narrow alleyway, riddled with holes which marked the spaces between tents. Prior to slipping out, he had not known what to expect, what he would see, but now that he had, he was not quite sure what his next move should be.
He could not remain where he was, he knew; they would eventually look between the tents, and if they were as experience dictated, it would be sooner rather than later. Returning to the tent after they cleared it seemed a dangerous proposition though he could not pinpoint why. If he was honest with himself, the feeling sprung mostly from the idea that he would be hiding, no closer to freeing his brother, but such honesty requires a willingness to look and he was not. He latched onto the idea without examining it, an elusive thought he could not quite focus the only encouragement he needed.
Leaving, then, was his only option, but where would he go? Where could he go? He worked his way back through the myriad advice and information Sierra had provided before they split to attempt this rescue. Most of it, he noted with annoyance, was contradicted by something else the girl had said. The oft heard adage about not asking elves for advice twisted ironically through his mind.
Slowly, he wondered how much of the Slyntari doctrine was set down and how much of it was intuitively known to those raised to it, incomprehensible to those without. But then he heard footsteps approach.
Just as the flap was thrown open, he stepped as far from the rear wall as possible, hoping the light was such that his shadow could not be seen from within. He held his breath and waited, hand ready on his sword, as the Slyntari entered.
He thought he heard three sets of footsteps, but two disappeared almost immediately. He imagined they stood just inside the doorway, acting as guard against anything coming from without or within. The third was quiet, with the kind of cautious, careful step he had long associated with hunters and trackers—often (in his experience) their functions overlapped. Which he would prefer just now, he could not say.
Twice, he heard the being pause. Twice, he imagined the other stooping, crouching to more closely inspect the ground. One of which sounded suspiciously close to where he had slept the morning away. Then the steps crept toward him and he tensed. His knuckles turned white. His heart hammered within his chest.
The other stopped a bare foot from the canvas wall. He heard worn leather boots groan as the man shifted to a crouch. For a moment, he fancied the other was staring straight into his eyes. Then—silence.
Nothing but the sound of slow, even breaths reached his ears. Had he not known better, he would have said the man on the other side of the fabric wall had simply fallen asleep. But he did know better.
Suddenly, there was the whisper of fingers over stone, the barest grit of sand brushed over unyielding stone. Tracing something, or looking for something to trace?
Few were the men who could track elves. Too light were the steps of the Eldar to be noted by the average man, trained or no, yet some could do it, and it was far from inconceivable that Shirk's trackers would be able to track elves. Had he walked through the cloth barrier, he nevertheless would have worried little, for stone gave away little even of the tread of Men to keen eyes, yet he was painfully aware he had forced himself through a tight space, had slid across the ground with no attention to what signs might have been left in his wake.
For countless heartbeats he expected, in the next instant, that the tent would be ripped up, the leering faces of the Slyntari exposed to his apprehensive gaze. But nothing happened, and eventually he heard the quiet footsteps retreat, the flap flip closed, and the host retreat. It was several relieved moments later that he realized all trouble had not passed, that they had not, in fact, all left: one of the guards had been left behind.
He remained still as that realization twisted through his mind. A vague feeling that something was wrong, like the subtle discordance of a minor key, played through him. He did not remember anyone remaining behind at the other tent. Again, the possibility of betrayal rose in his mind. It was banished with rationales.
The other room had held a living occupant. Because the owner had been present, they knew no one had entered and stayed throughout the night. With an empty room they had no such assurance and were taking precautions against him thinking to return. But then, why clear out the others? Could he not just as easily enter and kill the resident upon his return? He knew he could, but that would leave a trail which would confirm his presence. Had they reached that same conclusion? Was this a precaution, a guard against his moving freely around their camp, against him having a safe place to hide and escape detection?
It was not impossible, he knew, and the Slyntari cared little for the lives of their own so it was a tactic he could see Shirk approving. He also got the feeling it allowed the dark elf to play with him, and he hated being toyed with.
One more thing for him to pay for, Elrohir decided darkly, then he pushed such considerations from his mind. He had a more immediate problem.
The Slyntari host had continued its search while he indulged his musings, and now they were nearing the end of the row. If they had not already completed the row behind him, they would soon move to do so, and as soon as they turned the corner, any soldier worth his salt would be gifted with a clear sight of him.
Quickly making a decision, the dark-haired elf rose and walked rapidly, quietly along the aisle until he had put a tent between himself and the tent which held the guard, then he turned and crept between two tents toward the path he had fled. If he Slyntari moved on to search the row behind him, his best choice would be to go back the way they had come, otherwise he would be pushed before them until he had nowhere left to run; and he had no intention of ending up in a corner. If they had not left a guard. . . .
He pressed himself as close as he could, backed as close to the canvas as he dared, and peeked around the edge. The first thing he saw was the group of men and women silently moving from tent to tent, down to their last two, then he turned his head and looked the other way.
They had left a guard. A bow was strung over his shoulder and he watched the street with the air of one born to sentinel duty, avid and focused, still as stone. He pulled back with a curse. If he did not stay ahead of them, he would be trapped.
If he was trapped, he could not help his brother.
Elrohir turned swiftly and hurried down the alley. If he was quick enough, he could get across the path before the host turned the corner. He knew he had no reason to believe they would head one way and not the other, but also could not afford to take the risk of being wrong. Luck had not been with him thus far, and his instincts screamed move.
He slowed but did not stop as he approached the street, hesitating a bare moment before charging forth, well aware he had only seconds to get safely to the other side if the group did turn his way. But a step out, he froze.
Opposite him, three tents down, four men had just emerged from a tent. They started to look his direction, then paused and turned to look back at the tent, almost hovering, and Elrohir jumped back out of sight. From the shadows, he watched as a flaxen-haired woman stepped through, her eyes passing over where he would have been, a smile on her face. He swallowed to clear his heart from his throat. Not even his disgust with this particular practice of men could distract him from how close he had come to premature discovery and the doom of his twin.
Yet more immediate matters called his attention. He cocked his head to listen for the search party even as his eyes remained fixed on the quintet, willing them to disappear before the larger party caught up. He did not know how much time remained for him to cross the street before his chances were destroyed; too many extraneous noises competed for his attention to place even twenty individuals' quiet steps. Perhaps if they spoke. . . .
His eyes narrowed as the female and her friends began meandering his way. None were particularly aware of their surroundings, but they glanced about them far too often—and far too randomly—for him to be able to slip across. He cursed the ill fortune which had called them from their tent at so inopportune a time. They would not be clear before the other group arrived.
Once again, he retreated, returning to the narrow space bordering the rear of the tents, knowing as he did so that his ability to reach his brother was now severely compromised, and felt a part of him die. He could no longer reach Elladan without leaving a trail of bodies. With a trail, the Slyntari could discover his intrusion too soon, and if they did, it would his failure. It would mean his brother's death.
Sternly, he shoved the thought aside. It would no longer be a concern if he was caught even before it was time to move. Then he reached the corner, but a flash of movement kept him from continuing. He ducked back just as the first of the host crossed the alley's mouth and in that instant saw the man's head turn. He wondered if the other had caught sight of his motion.
Closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath in a bid for the calm which was rapidly slipping beyond his grasp, Elrohir waited for the hammer to fall, the lack of an alarm bringing him no release. They would not wish him alerted to their knowledge of his presence before they were ready to trap him. He would not know if his carelessness was his downfall until they closed on him. But still he listened for the quiet scrape of approaching footsteps in taut silence. Only when he heard the smaller party press nearly upon him did he risk a glance down the path.
No one appeared within his view. The small crevice was empty and no one stood at either end. In the second he watched, no one passed so he decided it was safe. The elf slipped around the corner and pressed his back against the wall.
His eyes remained locked on the far break, each second expecting a Slyntari to pass before him and glance down the alley, betraying his presence. Yet one second passed, then another, and none walked past, none glanced into his hiding place. He breathed a quiet sigh as he allowed relief to hold him, allowed some of his tension to ease. That danger had passed; the host had not discovered him.
Yet unease twisted through him as he listened to the small party drift past his hiding spot and little of it had to do with the humans so close to him. Why had not the Slyntari left a guard at the far end? If they were going to the trouble of checking individual tents, it was because they wished to be thorough. And that desire flew in the face of leaving part of camp, no matter how seemingly insignificant, unguarded. It was an oversight he could not imagine them committing.
Which meant it was deliberate. But deliberate because they already knew he was here, or deliberate because they wished to lure him here by giving him space to operate in apparent security? It was a fine but important distinction, and one he needed to find the answer to, quick.
It was also, for good or ill, something he could not afford to discover standing still. He frowned as he tried to determine his course. Both streets were closed to him. It was possible, however unlikely, that he could leave by one of the ends and move to another part of the camp unseen. If no guard had yet been stationed at the opposite end of the street to the one the Slyntari now searched, that was an option. Preferable, of course, was to slip past the already placed sentry and head in the opposite direction, away from the intended search corridor. But for that, he needed to know what was happening in the interior of the camp.
Slipping quietly past tent after tent, he put more space between him and the enemy and eventually gained the far end where he had originally glimpsed the hunters. His first peek beyond the sand-colored fabric was not reassuring, and his second look convinced him his first instinct was correct.
Neither his first trip into the camp, nor his subsequent removal, had provided him with a clear view of the layout of the camp. Even his brief glimpse from the top of the mountains had failed to convey how open the interior of the camp was. The most noticeable feature was a pit three or four feet deep of roughly the same dimensions of the largest tent. No fewer than thirty pale-clad individuals milled about within it and darker clad Slyntari, half a dozen strong, stood above them, roughly two feet back from the edge.
Half a dozen feet north of the pit, another group was busily stacking wood for a bonfire, the peak reaching the top of every man's head. More guards watched them, bows in hand; and an almost steady stream of traffic through the area from all reaches of the camp ensured that the relatively small number of guards overseeing the slaves were not the only ones available. A single alert could summon more than twice the number of guards in a heartbeat.
His eyes lingered on a tall, thin pole as his hopes of slipping through died. None of the guards had heir hoods up, and if he could not pass himself off as a guard, he certainly could not pass himself off as a slave. He would have to hope for more luck on the other end.
Fading back into the shadows of the narrow alleyway, Elrohir quickly reversed his course. Frustration warred with anticipation within him: anticipation that this might finally be his escape from this aisle; frustration that each prior attempt had been stymied. And underneath both, lurked fear—fear that this last choice might also be blocked, fear that he would fail his brother.
Almost unconsciously, he counted the tents as he passed by, slowing as he reached his original starting point. So far as he knew, a guard still waited within, and after all the trouble he had gone to in order to remain hidden, he did not want carelessness to trip him up and undo it all. He crouched lower, further into the shadows, and eased past only to stop almost immediately as he came upon the large host. The scrape of dozens of footsteps off stone was as loud to him as a shout.
What to do? Judging by sound, they were inside the tent next to the one he stood behind. He had no real way of knowing how long the trio would spend inside the building. The last thing he wanted to do was cross the threshold between buildings at the same time the search party moved on. Regardless that they had not left a guard, he knew they looked into the crevices as they passed. That made timing tricky, and he could not tell precisely where the beings were located from where he was; they were too far away, their steps too soft. If they were at the rear of the tent, they might hear his footsteps. Yet he chafed at the idea of waiting here until they had passed him by.
He had time, he knew, as the sun had not yet sunk beneath the mountains and he could not move to rescue his brother until just before dawn; but he also did not know how long it would take him to work his way around the camp, nor what obstacles he would find as he tried to get there. His decision here could make the difference on whether he was ready when the moon was in position.
The elf bit his lower lip (a mannerism he had picked up from his human brother quite by accident) as indecision gripped him. He knew the risks, but it was the unknown factors outside his control which proved the greatest impediment. He could move now, but if the Slyntari within the tent heard him, he could be captured. He could wait, but if it took too much time, he might not make it to the detention cell in time to save his brother. Neither consequence was acceptable.
Still debating, he crept forward to peer around the edge of the tent. If the Slyntari were not near the edge . . . but he caught sight of two bodies just shy of the alley mouth. One was facing away from him, but the other was facing him. Talking? Perhaps. It hardly mattered, for he could not risk moving so long as even one man stood in a position to see him, concealing shadows or no.
Abruptly, both turned, peering down the street towards the kitchens. No call or cry had sounded, and the change startled him. Automatically, he started to follow their gaze—and felt a knife slide sharply under his chin.
"Well, well," a familiar voice intoned silkily, ironically. "What have we here?"
o/o/o/o/o
Light played off the cavern walls, thrown in jagged stripes as the water in the basin rippled, pushed not by an outside force but from within. Avid black eyes watched the scintillations, untroubled by the light flashing in their depths, unflagging in their diligence. Two hands rested on the basin's edge, waiting, holding the avid eyes back.
The light flickered faster, then, even as the water began to still, taking on a life of its own. It touched the stone walls, dancing over them like lightning, and leaving the basin cast in shadow, along with the being which stood at its head, peering into its depths. The torches placed along the wall flickered, ten died, as if all oxygen had been drawn from the room.
An electric blue glow, reminiscent of the elves but too harsh, too sharp, suddenly grew from a point on the man's chest, little obscured by the long white beard which hung to his waist. It started at a point, then spread to enshrine the still, brooding form. It played over him, drawing all light from the room, then swirled out to circle the altar, rising from its base toward the basin perched on top. The light seemed to leap into the air, reaching for the stone ceiling above before crashing back down, swirling into the water, churning it.
The water swirled within the bowl like a tornado viewed from above, the light draining towards its center and leaving darkness in its wake, a darkness which consumed the light and surged back out. The man leaned forward as, within the darkness, images formed.
Silver eyes, hard and unyielding, flashing amid a sea of shadow, staring up at him with burning hatred ignited in their depths.
A man, standing upon the battlements of a great city as a great host marches toward him against a wide plain. A strong breeze whipped dark hair over broad shoulders. Armor glinted against the sun. A long, bright sword flashed in his hand. A voice: "Stand now, or fall forever."
The gates of Minas Tirith stood open. Thousands of people flooded the street. Atop the King's Balcony, dozens stood, turned silhouettes by the sun's harsh glare. A crown, held high, lowered onto a man's head.
A hand thrust high, clenched tight around a flashing sword; a small glint of gold from around a forefinger, broken only red lines around the band. Darkness engulfs the sun, spreads about the land. Silver eyes, hard as flint, glare out of a stern face. Thousands kneel. A cry, voiceless and of thousands: "Hail, Lord of the Dark Tower! None shall come but to thee."
Barad-dûr rises from scorched land, impossibly tall. At its peak, its highest balcony stands a man, clad in long, formless black robes, white hair whipped about by an eddying wind, thrown over his shoulder. Another stands at his side, tall and broad, strong, young, with bright silver eyes, clad in the mail of kings. A red gem rested in the hollow of his throat. The world of Men bowed at their feet.
Perego smiled. His hands caressed the basin's edge as the images faded from sight and blue light threaded its way through the darkness, quickly erasing the shadow and restoring the water to its shallow clarity. Long had he been in service to Mordor; long had he done the bidding of others, biding his time, growing his power. But now his time had come. Soon, he would cast down the Dark Lord and take his rightful place.
And it would start with the Ranger of the North, Strider, the one Shirk wanted, the being that prissy elf had notion of his true value, the one he had so dutifully led to the Mountains to meet his fate. But it would not be the fate the Lord's pet had chosen; it would be the fate of his own design, and it would lead him to power.
The Ranger was the key to his dominion; he had seen it. And once the ranger was bent to his will, there would be none able to stand in his way, not even the Dark Lord himself.
The future was in his hands.
A low growl broke the silence and his eyes came up. Unnaturally bright green eyes met his gaze from a figure stooped and broken, a being that had once been beautiful, had once been free—before she sold her soul to him. Now her pleasure was pain, her desire his will, and her usefulness almost at an end, for soon he would replace her. A frigid smile parted his lips.
"Patience, my pet," he soothed. "Soon, you will get your heart's desire. Soon. Everything is going according to plan."
o/o/o/o/o
"Well, well, what have we here, brother?" Elladan held the tip of his sword under a man's chin, tipping the other's head up and holding him in place.
"Looks like a beggar from the next town, brother," answered Elrohir carelessly. "What think you?"
"Ha, ha," the object of their discourse cut in before Elladan could answer. Estel turned his head to fix his brothers with a withering glare, forcing the elder twin to remove the blade or slice his youngest brother's throat. "You two are hilarious."
"Why, thank you, brother," Elrohir answered immediately, unperturbed by the other's sarcasm. "We try."
The young man just shook his head, and Elladan said, "You know, you're funny, too, little brother. Whoever heard of a Ranger getting caught off his guard?"
o/o/o/o/o
"Who knew an Elf could get caught off his guard?" Nirt taunted slyly.
The blade of her dagger forced Elrohir's head up and obliged him to stand on his toes, and still the sharp edge dug into his flesh, so much so that he feared to swallow. He remained motionless as more humans approached. They took his hands and bound them tightly behind his back with coarse rope that burned and abraded his skin. They were not gentle, but he barely noticed.
The sky had darkened, a blue deep enough to match his navy blue dress robe in Rivendell, clear of clouds but not yet lit with night's first star. He had failed. He had failed and could not even seek solace in the heavens for the darkness pressed down on him, condemning, and his thoughts raced, flailed: How had Nirt crept on him, surprised him so easily? How had she even known he was here? If he had been quieter, would it have made a difference? Quicker? What—
"You quit our hospitality early on your last visit, Master Elf," the green-eyed hellion intoned as she removed her blade and turned him to face her. A small smile played about her lips. "I do hoe you'll stay longer this time."
"Don't count on it," he bit out. "Sensible beings go a long way to avoid service like yours."
Her smile widened. "And here you just walked into our camp," she said, "but I'm afraid we require special invitations for our guests. Can't have strangers just wandering around, after all."
"Too bad your guard is slipping then," Elrohir replied.
"Oh no, no," Nirt answered, her eyes and voice going distant. "No, our guard is as good as it ever was." She refocused on him. "Of course, you, my friend, might want to be more careful who you choose as friends."
o/o/o/o/o
Darkness had fallen by the time she stood before the cave opening on the eastern side of the southern chain of the White Mountains. Kalya stared at the dark maw with unseeing eyes as she struggled to catch her breath.
It bothered her that she had come upon no further patrols during her journey, though the rain had stopped and the temperature had climbed higher than it had in weeks. There was no reason the patrols could not have resumed at noon, yet they had not. She feared what that meant for Elrohir trying to remain hidden in the camp. It occurred to her that he could already have been caught, her efforts doomed to worthlessness before they truly began.
It also bothered her that no one stood guard at the cave's entrance. The last time the Slyntari had claimed these lands, they had guarded every entrance to the tunnels. She had never discovered why, but the abandonment of that practice sent an unaccountable shiver down her spine. Not for the first time, she wondered if it had been done to keep others—or to keep something in.
No that the answer mattered to her, here, now.
Kalya blinked, her breathing easier, and forced her eyes away from the cave to glance at her surroundings. Great boulders decorated the ground and jutted awkwardly from shelves, ridges, and crevices. Some had been worn smooth by wind or water; others were as jagged as the day they were born. And here and there green disturbed the shifting scale of gray, patches of lichen the only hint of life to be seen for some thirty feet in any direction from the hole she was to enter. Uneasily, she wondered if that was a precaution the Slyntari had taken, or if nature itself had shied away from the darkness the mountains concealed.
It was a dark thought, one that left her distinctly uncomfortable; but there was nothing for it. Whatever was in there was not her concern. Not yet, at least.
Admitting defeat, she turned and retraced her steps to the forest's edge. Her eyes searched the ground as she moved over it slowly, and when she found what she was looking for, she knelt and seized it.
It was a stick a little wider around than was comfortable for her hand and nearly three feet long. Several leafless twig branches stuck out from the sides, making it look like some bizarre skeleton from a deformed beast. Which would fit perfectly with the feel of this place, she mused darkly, but again, that was not her concern, and it was the work of only a moment to dispose of them; and the proper application of some pressure chopped the stick down to a less unwieldy length.
She paused, then, studying her make-shift torch with critical eyes. Turning it slowly in her hand, she noted how dry it felt, and how flakes of bark broke off onto her hand. No good, she thought. It'll all go up in flames and die just as fast. And she needed it to last for several hours of wandering through dark tunnels.
Blue eyes scanned the ground, but no branch was any more likely than the one she held in her hands. Rain had just drenched these lands, but though she could see where the run-off had displaced dirt, the water seemed not to have touched the trees. Protection against just what I'm planning? She had no way to know.
With a sigh, the girl pulled her water flask from the pouch she carried; she hoped she would not need it later. Then she opened it and slowly drenched the branch in the precious liquid. The outer skin still flaked off at her touch, and she slid her hands along it to get rid of all of it, but the wood underneath was damp, and Kalya was satisfied that it would work. A broad swath of tightly wrapped cloth later, she was ready.
Again, she glanced at the dark tunnel, darker even than she remembered, and for a moment she considered turning back. This was not her fight. She did not owe the twins anything. She could turn around and leave now, never look back. But Elrohir was counting on her to do here part; and if they actually managed to pull this off, they would have accomplished the impossible . . . and was that not what she had reveled in all her life?
It was, but this was different. She could feel it. If they caught her now, she would not be able to laugh it off and try again. And Elrohir and Elladan would fall with her.
If Elrohir had not been caught already.
Kalya scowled. She set her jaw, braced the torch and struck the flint. She had to do it again because her shaking hands thwarted her, but then the torch flamed to life with a comforting roar. She was heartened to find it worked.
Setting her shoulders, she stalked back to the cave with torch in hand, and this time she did not hesitate. This was the path she had chosen. She would walk it to its end.
o/o/o/o/o
"Estel!"
But the boy did not pause or look back. He could hear his hitched breathing, his stifled sobs. What kind of brother was he? What kind of brother—You're not my brother!—disowns his youngest sibling for not being afraid? Was confidence not what they had been trying to instill in him? He had no right—
"Way to go, brother," Elrohir chimed in bitterly. "Why do you always have to do this? Every time he makes progress, every time he shows any confidence whatsoever, any comfort with who he is, you're always there to break him back down. Good thing he has you for a brother."
"No. . . ." he murmured, but he doubted Elrohir heard him, the denial so soft as to nearly escape his own ears. That's not true—but he could not say it. His own memories mocked the thought, turning it into a wicked dagger plunged over and over into his own heart. How many times had it been his thoughtless words that reduced the boy to tears? How many times had he lashed out in anger, in pain, and hurt the one he wanted to protect? How many times had Estel felt unwanted, unloved—because of him?
Too many. Far too many.
His mind mocked him with memories of times past when unnecessary tears had welled in innocent eyes and pain deepened in silver orbs. Time after time, the young face turned away, time after time, Estel ran from him—and each time his heard broke anew.
He rolled, struggling to gain his feet, and stumbled in the direction his brothers had gone. He needed to make this right, needed to erase the pain from his brother's eyes before it was all the boy had. Tears rose in his own eyes, pricking and itching, blurring the ground beneath his feet.
And still he moved, half walking, half stumbling, running—the trees bent towards him—the branches snatched at his hair, scratched his face, his arms—roots clawed at his feet, tripping him, pulling him down—his legs were heavy, his breathing harsh—his brothers a million miles away, mere specks at the edge of sight as forest stretched away forever before him.
On he ran, walked—stumbled. On his brothers fled, further and further away. He tried to call to them, to draw their attention, get them to slow, but his voice refused to work. Someone had poured molasses down his throat, sticking the words, keeping him silent.
He opened his mouth to yell his brother's name—an inhuman shriek filled the air! His head snapped to the side, his eyes immediately taking in the dark shapes that rushed towards his brothers. His heart smashed to his feet.
Desperately, he tried to run faster; but the harder he tried, the slower he moved, his feet suddenly in a strange mire, dragging, sucking. . . . A wretched cry broke from his lips. He was stuck—too far away.
The foul beasts fell upon his brothers, somehow able to run without difficulty. He could hear the clashing ring of metal on metal and see the frantic swings as the dark-haired duo struggled to hold back the horde—if only he could help them! He should be there to help them! He was the older brother, for Manwe's sake. He was supposed to protect them.
Frantic, he redoubled his efforts, forcing his sluggish body forward, step after weary step, driven beyond exhaustion by his fears. He saw his siblings' deaths with every arc of an orc blade, heard it with every grunt, every cry. If he did not make it in time, if Elrohir or Estel died because of his foolishness, because he was too slow, he would never be able to forgive himself.
He would never be able to live with himself.
He could barely make out the lithe form of his twin, twisting in and out of the melee with inhuman grace, his sword flashing strongly against the cruel blades; more difficult still was the stalkier, slightly shorter form that was Estel, dressed in dark clothes nearly indistinguishable from the orcs in the gloom. But he caught a flash of blade not his double and a bit of tangled hair—or maybe that was wishful thinking—and comforted himself that they were both still alive, still standing, still fighting. He could make it, would make it—
A cry shattered his thoughts—high, full of pain, choked—and his heart stopped. His eyes sought the source barely ten feet away. The orcs parted to give him a clear view: Elrohir stood before Estel, who had been shoved out of the way, a great, ugly orc scimitar shoved through his chest to protrude from his back.
"No. . . ."
Estel looked at him upon hearing the grief-stricken whisper, but he had eyes only his other half. The soft sound exploded through his head with the force his numbed body could not muster.
He struggled forward and caught Elrohir just as he sank to the ground, heedless of the orcs surrounding them. "Brother," he whispered. "Not like this. Not like this. This isn't how it was supposed to be."
The younger twin's lips moved, but all that came out was blood—dark, red blood. It sheeted over his chin and down his chest like a grotesque parody of the waterfall that crashed so near their home. The blue eyes, identical to his own, turned glassy and unfocused, then stared vacantly into space, the soul that had looked through them forever gone.
"No!" he moaned as the last breath escaped Elrohir's body. "No, brother, no! You can't leave me, Elrohir. You can't! Not now, not like this. No. . . ."
I never got to apologize. He was mad at me and I failed him, failed them both and didn't even get to apologize. Why didn't you wait for me, El? Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut? Why must I hurt the ones I love with things I don't mean to say?
"Forgive me, brother; forgive me." But it was too late for that, his choked pleas unheard and unheeded. His tears slid ceaseless down his face and broken sobs wrenched themselves from his chest, strangling him. Blood drenched his hands.
Then he heard a sob not his own. "You killed my brother, the only one who truly loved me! I'll kill you!"
Estel.
"No!" he shouted, realizing belatedly what the grief choked words meant. He lunged after the young man, reaching for him, grasping at him frantically—
Too late.
He shook his head helplessly, belligerently, refusing to look at his youngest brother. If he did not see it, did not accept it, it would not be true. Estel would sit up and grin at him, laugh at the look on his face, his eyes sparkling with the knowledge—the accomplishment—of finally tricking his brothers. No matter how cruel the trick, he would welcome it with open arms. He did not want to see, but he had to look.
The child did not move. He did not smile or laugh, nor his eyes sparkle, the light and laughter gone out of the grail body before its time. Blood spattered the boy's pale face, painted his clothes in dark splotches that hone ever-so-slightly when struck by light, wet—soaked—with liquid that never should have been there.
A hole gaped in the boy's middle, and his hand trembled as he reached towards it, thinking maybe he could make it go away, soothe it like so many other scrapes and cuts and make everything better. His eyes could not believe this was real. Estel—his little Estel! His hand found the leg, the shirt, both solid, both there. Red warmth coated his fingers anew as he fumbled higher to find the boy's throat. He could not lose them both. He could not. . . .
He gasped—an anguished wail that shook the heavens with his despair, and in his head a cold voice echoed, voicing the knowledge of his heart, now dead as his brothers:
"They are dead. They are all dead."
And it is your fault. You killed them.