Chapter Two: In the Dark
Arwen Undómiel was the only daughter and youngest child of Elrond, Lord of Imladris. She had spent a great many years in fair Lothlórien, particularly after the departure of her mother, under the tutelage of Celeborn and Galadriel. And now she was married to King Elessar, and was Queen to the Reunified Kingdoms. With all her training and experience in court, there were precious few on Middle-Earth that she could not handle, diplomatically or otherwise.
One of these was the oldest son of Thranduil.
Crown Prince Derinsul was an exact replica of his father, except for his eyes. He and his youngest brother, the current Lord of South Ithilien, shared the same intense blue eyes of their mother, Thranduil and the rest of their siblings had the Sindar grey-blue eyes. Unfortunately, whereas Legolas, on the outside at least, was an almost complete contradiction of his father, Derinsul followed his father in mind and mannerism.
If it can even be called mannerism.
Which was to say that he was exceedingly courteous to her, but scornful to all that was not elven. In his eyes, she was Lady of Imladris, and her rank as Queen of Gondor meant less than the servants in his father's hall. Elrohir, who held quite an opinion of himself, once declared to Arwen that Derinsul took insufferable arrogance to new heights, and would shave her bald if she even thought of marrying him. She had never turned a favourable eye to him. In fact, the better she got to know him, she more she came to detest him.
Much to the relief of Ada, Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel, Erestor, and the rest of the inhabitants of Rivendell, I'm sure.
Thankfully she had inherited her father's inscrutability and iron-grip on her calm centre, something Galadriel had honed over the centuries. Nonetheless she fervently hoped Elladan would return soon. She had been surprised to learn that he had disappeared the last night, intercepting a group of Riders of Rohan, or so the gate-wardens on duty reported. She wasn't too concerned about his wellbeing exactly; Elladan was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and if it had anything to do with Elrohir or Estel, she was certain he would have told her. Or she hoped he would. Wouldn't he? The reason she wanted his presence was so that she could be spared of the Sindar elf's company, or at least have someone to suffer with her. Derinsul, and his two companions, did not wish to mingle with "mortal company" – one of their more polite terms - and spent more time with her than she thought existed in Arda. The good news was that they were heading for South Ithilien, and had only stopped by Minas Tirith out of courtesy.
She wasn't sure if not stopping by at all would have been a greater courtesy.
She was rid of them for the moment, though. Thank the Valar! They had not graced her with their presence for over an hour now, and she luxuriated in the feeling of not having to grind her teeth every three seconds. She had suggested for them to take their horses out for a ride outside the city, sensing their unease at being within stone walls too long, and they had taken up the idea with enthusiasm.
As it turned out, it was extremely fortunate for Gondor and Greenwood that she had done so.
As she gazed out from a large balcony, one of many in the Citadel, letting the warm wind ease her stressed mind, her keen eyes spotted the horse galloping at full speed towards the Gate. Though she was now mortal, she had not been completely bereft of her elven senses, and she recognised the rider before they entered within mortal sight.
"Open the Gates!" she shouted to the guards below. "A rider comes! Open the Gate!" One of the men looked at her in puzzlement, bur a glare sent him running with her orders. Worry gnawing in her heart, the Queen of Gondor quickly changed and ran out of the Citadel. One advisor had once commented that it was improper for a lady, much less a Queen, to be seen running through the streets amongst the 'common' folk. Said advisor was quickly educated on why no sane elf would even think of not allowing an elf-maiden from bearing arms and standing beside their male counter-parts in battle. And that was before her brothers and Legolas found out. Not to mention Estel.
It was nice to be loved so.
Nevertheless, she still drew stares as she raced to the Gates on foot, with the unbelievable speed of her former people. She did not care, though, for first and foremost in her mind was what she had seen from the balcony.
For the love of Elbereth, she thought even as she ran. Please let me be mistaken. It was the first she had wished that her sight was not so acute.
It appeared that her orders reached the Gate in time, for before she could get there a powerful warhorse appeared and galloped right past her, heading towards the sixth ring of the City. One of the Mearas, from the look of him. The other two followed several minutes later, less magnificent steeds slowing and trembling from exhaustion. Aware that their mounts were on the verge of collapse, their riders reluctantly checked them to a walk, rousing angry mutterings from a small figure behind a Rider of Rohan. She saw Elladan lean slightly out of his saddle as he spotted her, holding out a hand as they passed. Grabbing her brother's hand, she nimble leaped onto the saddle in front of him.
"'Adan, Derinsul is here," she said, unwilling to think of the one whom Éomer had been carrying. "He is out riding, but he will be back 'ere long." Elladan groaned audibly, though his mind seemed intent on other things.
"He must not see Legolas," Elladan muttered, his brows furrowing. There was a look in his eyes that Arwen recognised…
"Elladan, where is Estel?"
Her stomach turned to ice when Elladan didn't answer. "Muindor?"
No. Elbereth, no.
"I think he lives still," he finally said, not meeting her eyes. "They were ambushed. Estel was not amongst the dead."
"By whom?"
"We do not know." Something else troubled Elladan, or so Arwen could tell.
For some days now she had noticed that he looked as tired as she had ever seen him, reminding her of the stressful times before the War of the Ring when the shadow of Mordor began growing once more. Her brothers were around a century her senior, and by the time she was old enough to notice such things, even Elrohir was losing the innocence of his childhood with the growing need for more fighting elves. She had always thought that though their father was exceedingly proud of his sons' many accomplishments and mastery of weapons, the Lord of Imldaris would not have been displeased had they not chosen war as their craft. She herself wished at times that she could have known her brothers before the grimness of facing and inflicting death had entered their eyes.
And now, Elladan's eyes looked… haunted. "It was a massacre, dear sister. A massacre. They did not stand a chance. It was… it was worse than orc-work." His eyes flickered anxiously to the horses riding in front of them. "By fate or fortune Legolas lived still, and he may slip from us yet."
"Not if it is within my power." Anger rose within her now, outrage at whoever was responsible for this. Very little roused the ire of the elven Queen, but attacks on those she loved she took most to heart. Then some of Elladan's other words hit her. "The Guards?"
Elladan shook his head. "All dead. Each and every one. I can only hope they had died before… They died defending Estel. To the last man. I counted the full guard of fifteen. None tried to run."
"They loved him," Arwen could only whisper. "They swore to protect him."
"And they gave their life for it. Honor be theirs. Estel chose well."
She bowed her head in grief. Though the royal couple had not relished the idea of having personal bodyguards, it was part of being King and Queen, so they lived with it. Eventually, the various men Estel had personally picked for the position had become like an extended family. They had been good men, fiercely loyal to her husband and herself, and almost all had families of their own. She knew most of their wives, and had played with their children. In the privacy of the Citadel, more often than not she would find Estel drinking with them, singing them a song or giving advice where it was asked for. She recalled the names of those that had accompanied her husband to Ithilien, murmurring a small prayer to Ilûvatar for their souls. How could she face their families and comrades, and tell them that such brave men had died defending her husband?
They were good men. Eru have mercy.
As great as her grief was, and the even greater fear for her husband, the present situation required a stable frame of mind from the daughter of Elrond. The horses came to a grateful stop as they reached the courtyard of the Houses of Healing. It appeared that Éomer had already gone in, and had earlier given the order for the Rider who had accompanied them to see to the horses. Gimli jumped from the back of the Rider as soon as he saw the Houses, landed with a grunt, and raced into the main entrance. Handing the reins of his horse to the Rider, Elladan and Arwen hurried to follow them.
But not quickly enough, for Arwen's sharp ears heard the shouts from the three figures running towards them as only elves could. She did not need the flash of gold hair to know that things were going to deteriorate very quickly if Derinsul even glimpsed his brother. Thranduil was overly protective of his youngest son, yet some memorable experiences in Rivendell involving Legolas and Estel told her that Derinsul took this protectiveness to new extremes. He would not trust human healers to tend Legolas. He might have been persuaded to trust Estel – Arwen felt a pang of fear and loss at the thought of her husband -, for he had seen Estel tend his brother before, but no other mortal.
Sighing and sending a long-suffering look to her eldest brother - who, despite the gravity of the situation, looked torn between amusement and trepidation – she motioned for them to continue one inside whilst she dealt with the newcomers, mentally preparing herself. A war between Greenwood and Gondor was the last thing she needed.
"We hear that a small party has just arrived, my Lady," said Derinsul as he approached, glancing at the entrance to the Houses of Healing behind Arwen. She stood on the courtyard, seemingly at ease, yet also effectively barring the entrance to the House.
"Yes, my brother returns from Ithilien," she said carefully. Galadriel had taught her well in the use of ambiguity. The Crown Prince lifted an eyebrow.
"I know not of his errand." Which was true. Elladan had yet to give an explanation. "But he came back with an injured person, and I deemed that questions can wait until the soldier is seen to." So far she had avoided outright lying, which would save a lot of trouble later. Derinsul would have to be told, of course, but not when Legolas lay in such a critical condition.
Fortunately the elf seemed satisfied, at least for the moment, though doubtless he intended to interrogate Elladan himself. And that will be 'Adan's problem.
Derinsul did not move, however, apparently waiting to accompany her back to the Citadel. She could not go into the House with the Greenwood elves trailing behind her, but she was reluctant to leave Legolas. She finally decided that she could help best by leading the elves away from the Houses. Besides, she needed to fully absorb what Elladan had told her, as well as try to figure out who could be responsible for the attack. In times of doubt and unknown danger, such as this, she would often follow her father's example.
Let us see if the library has some answers.
~*~
Once Éomer, Elladan, Gimli, Legolas, and Ioreth were all in the small ward, Elladan warily looked back at the way they came, earning a curious glance from Ioreth. But there were far more pressing things at hand, and highest in the list was the one Éomer laid gently on the soft mattress.
Legolas was, in short, a mess. Éomer did not know, and was reluctant to find out, if the blood that covered the elf – even his normally sun-gold hair – was Legolas' or that of the other men. He hoped it was the latter, for he doubted even elves could survive so much blood loss. Where the blood was not as thick, he could see dark purple bruises. Both arms were at the wrong angles, as well as an ankle. And his eyes were closed, something that happened only if an elf was greviously injured, or dead.
But he still breathed. Éomer needed little help to recall the events of that morning, and the scene of carnage where Aragorn's Guards had made their last stand. He had wondered how Elladan and Gimli could bear to walk amongst the gore of mutilated bodies, and had been startled when Gimli ran shouting to a body amongst the branches of a tree. He could remember his horror at recognising the unmoving form to be the Lord of the elves of South Ithilien. His eyes closed, Legolas appeared to be one of the more fortunate ones. At least half of the Guards were not even whole.
Gimli had screamed in a deafening rage that Éomer was sure could be heard in the Shire. Fortunately the King of Rohan (with some of his men) managed to restrain the wrathful dwarf as Elladan nimbly climbed onto the tree for a closer inspection. Éomer himself was beginning to feel the tendrils of grief as the shock and horror wore off. Legolas had been a friend and comrade-in-arms, and it was a great loss to Middle-Earth for such a great and fair elf, as well as being one of the Nine Walkers, to die in an ambush – for that was what it must have been – by an unknown foe.
Balanced precariously on a higher branch, the Lord of Imladris gingerly lifted Legolas' hood. His eyes had widened in shock and wonder, and he cried out "He lives! Legolas is alive!"
There was a stunned silence. Then men and dwarf were moving quickly, as Elladan carefully extracted Legolas from the tree. The horses refused to come near the bodies, even though Éomer himself spoke soothing words to them, so Legolas had to be brought to them. And as Éomer's mount, Grace, was the swiftest of the horses, Legolas was hoisted up to him. Elladan, of course, would go, and there was no question of Gimli going with them. Leaving Farhall in command, with the order to stay where they were and do what they could for the dead until Éomer returned or sent someone, three already-weary horses set out at full gallop towards Minas Tirith.
Now… if the grimness in Ioreth's eyes were anything to go by, Legolas may still be lost. The elf's breathing was far too slow and shallow. He was yet to respond to any outside stimuli. He had not even moved, save for the rise and fall of his chest.
Brisk orders from Ioreth sent the man, dwarf and elf off to fetch water, bandages, herbs, and whatever she may need. In the Houses of Healing, Ioreth was a much more important person than the King of Rohan, Lord of Aglarond or Lord of Imladris. She was also one of the few who knew how to treat elves, for most of them time Aragorn tended any injured elf himself.
Aragorn. Though he had recognised the men as of the Guard of Gondor, the full extent of what their presence meant only hit him when they were racing towards the White City. Fearing the answer, he managed to ask Elladan about his foster-brother over the thunder of horses' hooves. The elf-lord had told him of what he had been able to learn from studying the bodies, and assured Éomer that Aragorn was not amongst the dead.
That had relieved him somewhat, yet he could tell without asking that Elladan was just as puzzled about this as he was. Who could have done this? Even orcs did not take such a delight in spilling blood. And why had taken the King? Had they - it must have been more than one person to be able to overcome fifteen battle-hardened Guards - left Legolas to live? If so, why?
Such thoughts weighed his mind even as he helped Ioreth in washing Legolas and removing blood-soaked clothing, to reveal even worse wounds beneath.
"Mahal," he heard Gimli gasp at the large wound where it seemed a large amount of flesh had simply been ripped off. Ever since they had found the elf, Gimli's eyes never left Legolas. "It is a wonder you have survived, you idiot elf."
"And an even greater wonder we came in time," Éomer said. The dwarf was another puzzle. "If you had not come to get me, and forced me to ride my horses and men so hard, he would have been dead 'ere we reached him."
"You do not know how truly you speak," Elladan spoke up, leveling an elven gaze at Éomer. They stood back now, watching anxiously but at a respectful distance as Ioreth set to work. "Another hour… he would not have lasted another hour, Éomer. Probably not even a half-hour. If it had taken any longer to reach him, or reach Minas Tirith, he would have died. This I know."
Éomer frowned. The tone in the elf's voice suggested that he had been able to decipher something out of the attack, which was more than can be said for the son of Eomund. "Elladan, you have learned something?"
Instead of answering Éomer, Elladan turned to Gimli instead. "Gimli, will you tell us of your dream? The one that lead us here?" Éomer had forgotten about that, in the light of what he had happened.
Gimli blinked, and finally took his eyes off his elven friend to stare at the floor. "Dreams, Elladan. Dwarves do not dream." It was almost a plea.
"Aye, but elf-friends do."
For a long moment all that could be heard were Ioreth and her helpers at work. Finally Gimli sighed, though he would not look at either of them.
"It began two weeks ago. Legolas and I had not seen each other for a month, and I- I missed his company." The strong friendship between elf and dwarf was legendary, yet Gimli in particular seemed to dislike voicing his affections for his elven companion. If a shred of his old dwarf-self remained, it would be his reluctance at voicing his emotions. The fact that he did meant that he must be shaken badly. "I was observing some of those stars he loves so much – and for the life of me, I still cannot see why – when I fell asleep." He took a deep breath before continuing. "I was in a cave, but not one in Algarond. The rocks sang a different song than the ones in the Glittering Caves, and I was deep underground. Very deep. Then a voice say to me "I ben deleb pada! Drego!""
"The abominable one walks. Flee." Elladan translated for Éomer.
"I awoke, but every night the same dream came. Everything, exactly the same. But yester-morn, I saw also the White Tree, drawn on a slab of rock, drawn in blood. This time, the voice said "I nae delu tol. Cennin i bith en seger." I woke, and knew what I had to do, though I cannot explain why, or how. Just that I knew without a doubt." Gimli shifted uneasily, as if he himself did not understand what he had done. On second thought, Éomer decided that he probably didn't. "Never had I been so certain of something."
"What did the voice say?" Éomer asked quietly. Not for the first time, it irked him that he had never taken the time to learn the elven tongue, but there had never been a great need to.
Elladan answered, though his voice was distant, and his eyes were greatly troubled as they bore into Éomer's. "The deadly shadow comes. I see the fields of blood."
~*~
Faramir did not like the dark.
It was the kind of dislike that left one frozen and curled in a ball, unable to breathe then dizzy from breathing too much too much, whimpering and begging to be elsewhere, anywhere. He had not reached the latter stage yet, but he wasn't that far off from it. He was a captain of many battles, quite a few of which had been fought under moonless nights within sight of the Black Mountains. He had even faced two of the Nazgûl; and though he didn't battle with them, their very gaze sucked all memory of light from his heart. When he had been shot by that Southron arrow, he had grappled a darkness deeper than any night.
Yet simple darkness… His phobia had been a source of great amusement for Boromir, his brother, and Denethor took every opportunity to remind him of it, disgusted by such "unbecoming childishness".
He heard something move nearby, and had to convince his throat that constricting wouldn't really increase his chances of survival. His uncooperative mind decided to astonish him with a sudden creativity for creating images of whatever hideous beast prowled in this dark. He would have curled into a ball then if his body did not feel like a solid block of lead. And of course, the inability to move only sent what little coherency was in his mind into a full-fledged panic.
"Legolas?" the hideous-creature-in-the-dark groaned.
Panic died down as extreme embarrassment took its place, and Faramir the Sane came to be in control again. For a second he was even glad of the dark, for he felt a hot flush envelop his face.
"Nay, it is Faramir." More sounds of movement placed the man to the left of Faramir. "King Elessar?"
A hiss of pain, followed by a soft groan and what the Steward suspected was a curse in Sindarin, cut through the gloom. The King of Gondor stopped moving.
"Where are we?"
"I do not know, my liege," Faramir admitted, though his obsession with the lack of light had halted the processing functions of his brain from even reaching anything resembling orientation. The one thing he knew was that he was horizontal, and had been for some time, judging by how the heat from his body had conducted into the rough stone floor.
"Underground, at least half a league from the surface," said Aragorn after a moment. "A medium-sized cave, by the echoes."
Faramir nodded, then realised that Aragorn couldn't see him. "Aragorn, are you injured?"
"Not too badly." This alarmed Faramir somewhat, as he had seen what Aragorn considered to be 'not bad' wounds- for himself anyway. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
"And what of you, my friend?"
Faramir executed a series of self-examination exercises that all the soldiers in Gondor were taught, something he had not thought of doing earlier. Painfully aware of the threat of a fresh onslaught of his phobia in one corner of his mind, waiting to overwhelm him, he used an old trick and focused with all his will in thinking about their predicament and his bodily aches, rather than the suffocating dark.
What he discovered was not comforting. He could not move his leg much before pain shot up his thigh. His deemed his shoulder dislocated. There was a dull ache on his torso that he couldn't quite determine. Yet most worrying was the fact that his movements were lethargic, and his muscles lacked their usual strength. He attempted to stand, or at least get out of his horizontal position, yet he barely got to his knees before he felt a strong knock to his jaw and realised that he had fallen flat on his face.
He lay in his new (and very uncomfortable) position before discovering that Aragorn was calling his name, and had been doing so for some time.
"Faramir?"
"I'm here," he grunted. He tried to move again, but a strong hand grabbed his shoulder.
"Nay, rest, and let me examine you before you fall and do worse damage to yourself."
Unable to resist, Faramir resigned to Aragorn's trained examination. After a while (in which he prodded and poked Faramir in various places, occasionally drawing a hiss of pain) the King of Gondor confirmed his Steward's suspicions on the dislocated shoulder. His leg was apparently also in bad shape, though not broken, and there was a deep but dried wound on his torso. More than once Aragorn sighed in frustration, muttering about being unable to heal a rock if he couldn't see anything. It also occurred to Faramir that Aragorn was giving him time to gather energy, as he had not been able to even reach standing position earlier, without slighting Faramir's pride.
"Faramir, I fear I must see to your shoulder, lest it cause damage to your arm."
He sighed. "If it must be done, then do it." He braced himself as Aragorn positioned himself to get a better grip on the offending limb. Without warning he felt his arm being jerked back, then pulled down. The joint snapped back into place as Faramir involuntarily cried out from the pain. His voice echoed, and he suddenly understood why Aragorn said they were in a cave.
"Aragorn, we must move," he finally said. As anxious as he was to leave the suffocating darkness, he also knew that there were creatures not of his imagination who would not be happy about their trespassing into their home. "Someone brought us here, and though I may be wrong, I do not think it wise to remain."
He did not know how he sensed it, but he felt Aragorn's gaze on him, assessing his Steward's condition. In his mind he could just see those storm-grey eyes bore into him.
"That is true. But you will lean on me."
He had expected this, yet his eagerness to be out of this blind darkness overrode the pride in his heart. In any case, he doubted he had a choice, as Aragorn's tone conveyed little patience with arguments. Gingerly he put weight on his uninjured leg – and immediately suspected it wasn't that uninjured – and felt Aragorn's strong arms wrap around his waist even as he hoisted Faramir's arm - thankfully not the dislocated one - over his broad shoulders. Unsteadily they stumbled in the dark.
They had not walked – or more like stumbled – for long when the floor suddenly shook. And being deep underground, the tremors were a lot worse than it would have been on the surface. Faramir lost contact with Aragorn, struggled to stay upright though his one good leg refused to hold his weight, then felt the rocky ground painfully make contact with his palms. Completely disorientated, he crawled, coughing on the dust. Suddenly he felt something slimy wrap around one wrist and injured leg. The pain from his leg made him cry out, before the darkness of unconsciousness claimed him again.
~*~*~
"Muindor?" – "Brother?"
A note on the Sindarin - it is one heck of a difficult language! I try to be as accurate as possible, or at least get near to what I'm intending to say, but the mutations are a headache. I will gladly welcome a better translation from one who knows it better; just e-mail it to me and I'll post it I'm sorry anyway, and I beseech outraged linguists to go down the road of laughing at my lack of grammar rather than flaming me. It's healthier for both of us.
Author's Notes:
It's really nice to know that people want to read your fics :-D so I'm sending out a special thanks to KaterineKasdorf, Jen Littlebottom, Silian, Faith, and Leigh for dropping such encouraging reviews.
Apologies to Leigh for the lengthy descriptions. I agree with you, but I can't seem to help myself! I'll try to add more dialogue in the next chapter, as we'll be meeting someone (two someones, actually) who you guys may not be expecting to be in this story..
For those who are following Enyalie, updates may be a lot slower now because Mirrors in the Mind is taking up a lot of my time. My apologies, though I will try my best.