"My lord!" The soldier strode through the hall to where Aragorn paced restlessly beside a table filled with sheets of parchment. The king whirled and moved forward to meet the man, eyes searching the newcomer's face for any sign, any indication that a respite from this nightmare would be forthcoming. There was none. He lowered his eyes and went still.
"Nothing?" he asked softly.
"I am sorry, my lord. We've not been able to find anything more than what you already know."
"No trace of her? Of who is responsible?" he asked desperately, resuming his nervous pacing around the table.
"I'm afraid not, my lord. We have searched as thoroughly as possibly. The tracks are difficult to read- we think they may have fled across the river into Ithilien, but none of the Lord Faramir's patrols have discovered anything." The man paused, ill at ease and searching for some scrap of hope to offer. Aragorn continued to pace, lost in his own thoughts. Then, halting abruptly, he looked at the man as though seeing him for the first time, and taking in the soldier's soaked clothing, dripping hair and worn features he said gently, "You have ridden far this day- go and take your ease. Will you require anything?" Relief washed over the man's face.
"Only the chance to see my wife and daughter this night, my lord," he said, bowing deeply. Pain flashed quickly across the king's face as he replied, "It is done. Go and spend the night with your family. Report to me in the morning and I will give you instructions to bring to your commander." The man bowed again and left, some of the weariness leaving his step at the prospect of seeing his beloved family. Aragorn watched him go, feeling, if it were possible, even more agonized than before.
Arwen, my love, what has happened to you? Who has taken you from me?
Sabir squirmed uncomfortably as the rain found its way down the neck of his tunic. Even the hood and cloak he wore were no match for the downpour, whipped about by the wind and driven into any and every opening between clothing and skin. The storm seemed to be increasing even more as the evening wore on and slowly became night. He dashed water from his eyes and continued to stare outward from the inadequate shelter of the sentry's tower, down the road that led from the city gate. He could not see the road now, of course, through the driving rain and darkness, but occasional flashes of lightning showed enough to assure him that it was empty. It was near time to close the gates anyway.
Another flash rent the gloom and in the sudden shock of light he could see, quite clearly, a rider slowly approaching. He took the signal torch from its bracket and waved it twice under the sheltering awning. It hissed and sputtered as the rain hit it. An answering wave from below informed him that the gatekeepers had got the message- the rider would be the last person let in tonight.
From his perch, Sabir watched the rider come through the gateway into the street. The horse was moving slowly, head down as though very weary and the rider, oddly, stretched out over the full length of the animal's back, huddled in a cloak. He watched the unusual pair move haltingly up the street towards the second level gate. Strange. He'd thought all the errand-riders and scouts had returned already.
Shaking his head and reminding himself that he could hardly hope to know everything that went on in the city, Sabir returned to his watch and hoped that for once, his relief would come early.
Aragorn had fled to his study in an attempt to remain alone with his thoughts for the rest of the evening. He sat now in the darkened room gazing out into the stormy night and trying to block the thoughts of Arwen being out in that.
He was a fool. He should never have allowed her to go out with such a small escort. He himself should have gone with her. Now she was dead, or captured, or wounded.
Images of her lying bleeding and sick under a tree somewhere while the rain came down in sheets raced through his mind, and were mercifully interrupted by a quiet rap on the door.
"Come," he called without moving. The door opened and one of the young servants entered.
"King Elessar, sir, there's a rider down in the hall, just come in all dripping wet and everything. He says it's about Queen Arwen, sir." The boy jumped as Aragorn leaped from his seat and bounded from the room.
"Thank you. That is all," the king said in passing to the startled youngster.
Entering the hall, Aragorn found a slight figure in a sodden, mudcoated cloak waiting for him. The hood was still drawn over the man's face and small tremors ran through his frame as though he was shivering despite the warmth of the fire that burned on the hearth nearby.
"What news? No, leave off with the formalities and tell me what it is!" he demanded anxiously as the figure clumsily attempted to bow. A terrified voice, high pitched and shaking, issued from the depths of the soaking hood.
"I- I- My lord, I have news of your lady, sire."
"Yes? Yes? What is it?" Aragorn asked, fighting an irrational urge to grab the man and shake it out of him. He caught himself in time and as the figure hesitated again, he said, "Come, you must be very weary and cold. Remove your hood and sit by the fire. Perhaps it will dry you out a bit." The man hesitated again and shrank back.
"Come. I promise you I do not bite…much," Aragorn coaxed and slowly the rider moved to sit gingerly on the edge of a chair beside the fire, drawing off his hood as he did so. Aragorn found himself faced with a youth of certainly no more that fifteen summers with dark hair flattened almost completely to his skull by the rain, which had apparently soaked all the way through his hood. A pair of strangely bright eyes in an unusual swirl of blue and green stared at him from a very pale face.
"That's better. Now, tell me what news you bring," Aragorn said as he seated himself in the chair beside the lad
"I- Your lady, sire, she is going to be kidnapped. I do not know where or when or how, but I can promise that it will happen. Please, my lord, be careful." Aragorn felt himself slump.
"Where have you come from, lad?" he asked through the disappointment that threatened to overwhelm him. He had dared for a few moments to hope that perhaps they had found her, found something at last.
"I- S- South, my lord. A bit- A bit south of here," came the frightened reply. Aragorn considered this.
"I ask because the Lady Arwen has gone missing- five days ago," he said, watching the youth through keen eyes. The boy started and then sank back.
"So I come too late," he mumbled softly, as though he were alone. "Now what must I do?" Watching him, Aragorn felt a stab of pity pierce the cloud of disappointment and grief that surrounded him.
"Do you have a place to stay? You look in need of some good food and a bed." The boy darted a terrified look at him, growing even paler than before. His lips were pinched tightly together and his hands gripped the arms of the chair, the knuckles white.
"My lord….I must go!" he cried suddenly, and leapt from the chair as if to flee from the hall. He had not gotten two steps, however, when he let out a cry and crumpled to the floor. Aragorn leaped forward and barely caught him, keeping his head from striking the stone floor. The boy had fainted, whether from fear or exhaustion, Aragorn was unsure, but he gathered the soaking figure into his arms and set off for a room in which to place his guest.
"Fetch some food to the guest wing," he ordered a servant standing at the door. The woman nodded and turned in the direction of the kitchens.
Entering the guest suites, he laid the young man down and began to remove the cloak. The woman returned with a tray of food and, unbidden, began to light a fire. Aragorn continued to tend the boy, unbuckling a belt about his waist and pulling off his muddied boots. He realized, suddenly, that the stains on the stranger's worn pants were not all from travel- most of them were something else. Something reddish-black. Blood, he realized. He turned to the woman again.
"Bring me athelas, some hot water, and clean cloths and bandages." The woman left, and Aragorn continued to remove the boy's clothing, in hopes that he would warm up enough to halt the tremors that wracked his frame.
He looked over the boy's pants, searching for a rip or tear that would indicate the kind of wound that was surely responsible for the amount of blood he could see stained into the wet fabric. Seeing nothing, he concluded the injury was likely high on the boy's thigh, or around his waist. He carefully peeled away the clothing and gasped.
Blood seeped through a hastily wrapped bandage between the boy's legs, staining the blanket under him- and by the looks of it, it came from a severe injury. But something was wrong. Suddenly unsure of himself, Aragorn moved to remove the boy's tunic and gasped again. There was no mistaking it now.
The figure on the bed was a girl.