Chapter Summary: Evil plots are put into action in the dark of night...

Author's Notes: For all of you who have been waiting, this is the chapter with all the action in it! I hope you enjoy it, because I worked very hard on it!

Shout Outs:

Mercury Gray - Horse tripping? Is that like...cow tipping, or something?

Dread Lady Freya - Because your the DREAD lady, Freya...

Roisin Dubh - Hey, you stole my trademark threat!

JELLOGal - Take a pill and calm down, honey...

The evening was much warmer than expected for a spring night. Elemmire stood at her balcony, smiling upon the first star of the dusk, wishing upon it with her hands folded in supplication. Such hopes were now being sprung. Barahir was smiling at her more often, Silmarien had gone to Osgiliath to fetch the weapon of check-mate, and Glorfindel was soon returning. Elemmire wished her friends well, but left her most desired wish for the star to grant - the love of Barahir.

Sighing, Elemmire returned to her vanity to finish pulling her hair back into braids for the evening meal. Smoothing out her rosy gown that Queen Arwen had bid her servants to make for her, Elemmire wondered if she would ever catch a man's eye. Even if she couldn't have Barahir, which was nearly certain, she still desired to be married happily. But, she realized, she was too quiet, too demure for her own good, it was whispered, and Elemmire knew it. No man wanted a mousy wife. Putting aside her brush, Elemmire pinched her cheeks to make them rosy, and departed to the feasting hall.

"My lord Faramir," a servant began, "your lady sister wishes to see you."

"Let her enter, man!" Faramir said hurriedly. He was so excited for his sister, that her war was nearly at an end. The servant left, and almost immediately, Silmarien whisked herself in, nearly tearing the hood away from her head in her haste.

"Faramir, what is this thing you wish to give me?" she asked hopefully. At that moment she was embraced very heartily by her brother, who kissed her cheek and whirled her about in circles laughingly before he answered.

"The very plans of Alfirin, written so conveniently for us," he grinned. "Lord Nahald, her father gave it me."

"What luck!" Silmarien nearly squealed in excitement. "At last, written proof against her union with Barahir! I must act quickly to claim the right of intervention, for they have not yet proclaimed their betrothal. Where is it, Faramir?"

"Here, Silmarien. Take it, and good luck, for I think Alfirin will be looking for it. I know not when her father pilfered it, but until you use it, it is a dangerous item to carry."

"I will be wary, brother. I thank you for your help, though you gain nothing from it."

"I gain the satisfaction of helping my sister regain her honor," Faramir said grimly, embracing her yet again. "I love you, Silmarien. It greives me to see you so shamed."

"Worry not for me, Faramir. I have done well, even under such false accusation. My innocence shall be proven one day."

"Go then, back to the tower. I shall return in a week, but I daresay the news will come to me quicker than wild horses can run."

Tergon had made pretense of standing in awe of Osgiliath, even in her fallen state. The woman he had been ordered to follow was now retrieving the thing he had been sent to steal back. Gold was his reward, and he meant to have it. He had followed only closely enough to know where she had gone, and waited until she reemerged from behind the closed door. By the light in her eyes, he could see that she had indeed gotten the diary.

Tergon waited in the shadows, loosened his sword as she turned to make her way to her horse. Moving quickly from one dark shadow to the next, Tergon followed at a safe distance. He froze when his sword accidently linked against the stone wall of a house. He watched her pause and turn her head. Ah, so she knew the ways of espionage, Tergon smirked. Perhaps she knew the ways, but did she know how to rid herself of a follower?

For a moment, she stood still, listening. Tergon made no sound as he silently cursed her, thinking of the many ways he could capture her and the many more ways he would make her yeild up the diary. Cracking a smirk, he decided on the most pleasureable way to break her will. This woman was stubborn, he could see, but she was very well formed, and yet not as strong as the more muscular Haradrim. Even the men of her country weren't as strong, he mused.

She continued on her way, and was nearly at her horse when he made his move. There were no servants at the stables, and everyone else was sitting at their supper. Tergon leaped forward and caught her by the cloak, quickly covering her mouth with his hand.

"Give it to me," he hissed in her ear, clutching at her hand. She struggled against him and mumbled something he couldn't hear.

"The diary," he hissed again, tightening his hold. "Where is it?"

A sharp pain shot up his arm as she bit hard on his hand. Tergon clenched his teeth and growled in pain, then doubled over as her fist crushed his crotch. He still had a hold on her cape, however, but she unclasped the brooch at her throat and ran as fast as she could, screaming something in the language of her people.

Tergon righted himself, though still in pain, and tossed away the cloak she left behind, mounting his horse to give chase. Her cries were quickly alerting the soldiers stationed in Osgiliath as she raced westward, out of the city and toward Minas Tirith. As he rode, a few soldiers who had jumped away from their tables in haste held their spears against him, shouting for him to halt. They met his blade and fell.

Faramir raced to a window when he heard the cry in the night. "An enemy among us!" it said, and his heart beat faster, for he recognised the voice. From his vantage point, he saw a figure sprinting out of the city, and a rider giving chase.

"Close the gates!" he shouted from his window. "The rider shall not pass!"

But he also saw the rider strike out at a few solders who were not clad for combat, and knew that the gatekeepers wouldn't be able to impede the agressive wolf who chased his sister.

"Run, Mari," he whispered, praying speed to her feet.

Elemmire was taking a sip of wine when she felt a hand upon her shoulder. Looking up, she saw a servant smiling, offering her a message.

"Thank you," she smiled, taking the letter and opening it beneath the table so no one could see the writing.

My lady, I beg a private word with you. Meet me in the garden, where I wait.

Sincerely,

Barahir

Quickly folding up the parchment, Elemmire rose and excused herself. What could Barahir possibly want to tell her, and to call her away from her meal? It was odd indeed, but certainly nothing surprised her anymore.

Upon entering the gardens, Elemmire saw no one, and so she walked a little, waiting for Barahir to appear. After some moments, she looked up at the rising moon, smiling, lost in thought.

"The moon is full tonight," a voice said. Elemmire spun about to see Barahir.

"My lord," she smiled, curtsying.

"Please, Elemmire," he answered. "I am no king. Pray, do not pay such homage to me."

"If you wish," she replied softly, clasping her hands, and wondering what he had called her to the gardens to say.

Barahir stepped closer with a smile. "You have been kind to me, Elemmire," he said. "Your friendship with my cousin and your eagerness to help me understand her troubles have been of great comfort to me. I confess it troubles me that Alfirin could be so hateful, and I still cannot bring my mind to fully believe it. But your presence has been a peacful companion to me."

"I am pleased that I have been some help to you and Silmarien," Elemmire smiled, truly relived that she had been of some use, at least. "It was the least I could do for her. She has been so troubled as of late, and I think she felt inadequet to convince you."

"She sent to me a most able messenger," Barahir murmured, half to himself. Elemmire blushed unconciously and looked away. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she hoped he would not hear it.

"Elemmire," Barahir began. His tone startled her, for it was as soft as she could have wished it on that moonlit night. Her blush deepened as he came closer and took her hand. "I..."

"Drego!" a voice commanded just as a bowstring sang. The arrow did not hit its mark, for the owner of the voice that commanded also misdirected its aim. Barahir had only time to take Elemmire by the waist and spin about so that she was not in the line of fire. He fell against her with a pained groan as the arrow embedded itself into his left shoulder.

"Barahir," she cried as she held him, frantic thoughts rushing about her mind. A scuffle in a shadowed part of the garden only pressed more stress of urgency on her.

"Help!" she cried out, sinking to the ground under Barahir's weight. Elemmire held him by his other shoulder, and laid his head in her lap, clasping his cheek gently.

"Barahir," she murmured, on the edge of tears.

Silmarien was now on the open plain between Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, clutching the diary to her breast with one hand as she ran, testing the limits of her strength. She knew she couldn't outrun a horse, but she would make the attempt, at any rate. Soldiers would follow her pursuer. All she had to do was run.

Looking back was a mistake. It slowed her progress, and he was already upon her. Moments later, she felt the impact of his body crushing her as he leaped off his horse. Silmarien cried out in pain and anger, struggling against him as he tried to pin her to the ground. In desperation she flung the diary away and swung her fist at his face.

Tergon growled when he felt her knuckles connecting with his nose. Catching her other fist that threatened to bruise his jaw, he pinned it above her head, glaring at her as he wrestled her bloody hand to join the other.

"You won't win," he sneered. "I am bigger than a weak maid."

"Stand down!" a few guards shouted, still some distance away as they ran toward the two.

"Even if I lose, you won't escape," Silmarien snapped back, struggling further against the man of Harad.

"You should fear for yourself," he growled, drawing his knife and raising it. "I will have that book!"

Gasping, Silmarien looked away and tried to roll the rest of her body out from underneath her attacker. The blade never descended. Tergon cried out in surprise as he was lifted off the ground by his collar and tossed toward the oncoming guards. Bewildered at the sudden action, Silmarien took that opportunity to crawl toward the diary a few feet away and stood to run again. Shreiking in her own surprise, she felt herself being lifted off the ground and placed on a sweat-glistened, white horse. Looking behind her frantically, Silmarien saw Glorfindel's grim face.

"Are you well, Duveniel," he asked, his voice hard and edgy.

"Oh, Glorfindel, am I glad to see you," Silmarien replied, bursting into tears and burying her face in his chest. His arms wrapped around her comfortingly and he kissed her hair. He had returned at last, just in time.

Elvish:

Drego - flee!

Duveniel - Daughter of the South (more literal, South Daughter)

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