Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Reviews help me update sooner…- Thanks to everyone who's been poking me!

Tadaaaa! Believe it or not, I am still alive, despite the best efforts of my teachers, and lo and behold here be Chapter Ten…

Chapter Ten

Eldarion freezes. He can see the long line of steel touching his throat, reflecting the dull light of the half-hidden moon. He thinks fast. "Who are you?"

"No questions," the voice growls. "Silence."

Eldarion raises an eyebrow. "I am inclined to disobey."

The steel presses harder against his throat. "You're hardly in a position to do so."

Eldarion snorts. "The likelihood of you cutting my throat is slim. I think I will take my chances. Who is planning to hold me hostage this time?"

The dark figure above him laughs, entirely humourlessly. "Nobody."

"No – oh. Ah." He is unprepared for that revelation. He can deal with hostage-takers, has done in the past more times than he can count, but assassins are more difficult. "Killing me here, in the middle of the street? Is that the best of ideas?" Talking, he knows, buys time.

"I've a message for you." A booted foot kicks his side unexpectedly, and Eldarion hisses at the sudden pain.

"Really? A message? How nice. From whom?" he manages. The boot makes contact with his ribs again.

"I was bidden to say that you have lost. Death now faces you, brave Captain of the White Tower." The tone is mocking.

"What, no useful names? No great revelation of some master-plan?" Eldarion knows fear. Fear haunts his dreams when he hears the screams of his sisters, sees battlefields littered with the dying wounded, and watches from his father's throne as Gondor falls in ruins around him. Eldarion Telcontar fears failure far, far more than death.

His captor does not, of course, realise this. "And now, Eldarion, last of the line of Elendil, prepare to meet thy end," he hisses, and lifts the sword to deliver the deathblow.

It is all the chance Eldarion needs. He twists against the slackened hold on his arms, rolling forward so that the one holding his legs tumbles back with a muffled yelp. He feels the sword whistle past his right ear and surges upright, lunges instinctively for the blade, and is immediately locked in a struggle with the man who wields it, forcing him back against the wall. The other two accomplices charge forward, but by this time Eldarion has wrenched the blade loose; his adversary, stunned, slides down the wall. Sword in hand, Eldarion turns, and the other two back away slowly.

"If I were you, I would run," Eldarion informs them. "And carry a message to your employer. Tell them that I have not lost, and that I do not take kindly to assassination attempts. Now go!" They take off at a run.

Eldarion watches until they are around the corner, then turns back to the man slumped on the floor. He drops down beside him and pulls the hood back roughly, then sets the sword at his throat. The eyes fly open.

"Unlike you," Eldarion informs him, "I do not draw my blade away before I slit a man's throat." He has never cut a man's throat in cold blood in his life, and does not intend to do so now, but his captive doesn't need to know that. "Who employed you? Speak quickly!"

"May you be swallowed in the fiery pits of Udun," the man snarls. His face is rough and unshaven, the nose crooked, a scar running over his left cheek. A fighter. "You and your cursed elf-mother."

"That's treason," Eldarion says pleasantly. "Was it Stelbin?"

"You'll get nothing out of me!"

The sword-blade presses harder. "On the contrary. If I were to cut your throat, the red blood would spurt out like a fountain. Of course, if I missed the windpipe you would die an agonising –"

"You won't kill me, you royal coward!"

Eldarion sighs. "True," he agrees. "Come on. Stand up. I'm taking you to the palace."

The man stands slowly, warily, his face twisted into a sneer. "If you think I'm lettin' you walk me up there…" he drops like a log as Eldarion's fist connects with his jaw.

"I never said that," Eldarion mutters, shaking his hand with a wince, then bending down and heaving the unwieldy bulk of the unconscious assassin onto his shoulders. The man is big, even taller than he is, and Eldarion lets out a grunt as his bruised side protests. "Oof. Valar save us all from fools." He trudges on up the street, head bowed, and misses the dark figure that detaches itself from the back of a nearby house and moves silently away in the opposite direction.

-------------------------------------------

It is one in the morning. Eldarion and Elboron, both dressed entirely in black, emerge silently from the passageway into the huge dark space that is the Library. Eldarion's lantern casts eerie shadows from the looming stacks.

"We are crazy." Elboron's voice is hushed; he follows a little way behind the Prince as they start forward. "Why could we not do this in daylight? And why could we not bring guards? I have nothing against adventuring, but…"

"We would make far too much noise, with more men. Elboron, if you do not wish to come then you only have to…"

"I would hit you, but there would be little point," says Elboron sourly. "I agree with your sister; you are growing paranoid in your old age."

"Maybe so. Would you feel better if I commanded you to come?"

"I consider myself commanded. 'Darion, I wager you my mare's new saddle that we will find nothing."

"Wager accepted." Eldarion reaches the end of the Library, and turns left, then kneels down beside the old screen which covers the gaping hole in the floor. He shifts it aside to reveal the steps leading down into the darkness, and glances up at his friend. "Elboron, will you come or no?"

"I will," says the other with a sigh. "You are nearly as bad as Idril used to be. Do you remember when she must have been, oh, six I should think, we would have been about fifteen, and she led us on that hare-brained escapade when she took your horse from the stables and went off without telling anyone?"

"She still drags people into hare-brained escapades," says Eldarion distractedly, already disappearing down the steps into the darkness. "Usually because she believes that she is a better rider than she is."

"You should have seen her, in Ithilien," says Elboron behind him, admiration in his tone. "Wild and free, like one of the shieldmaidens of yore. Mother was delighted."

"She's not strong enough to control your horses," says Eldarion severely. "I do wish you would not encourage her. Either that, or marry her and then she would be your responsibility."

"Marry Idril?" There is a silence, but for the sound of their footsteps, and then, "Do you know, I had never thought of that."

Eldarion grins, knowing that his friend cannot see him. "Perhaps it is time you did, if you are going to. The men at court flock around her like bees to a honeypot." He reaches the bottom of the steps, and looks around. Elboron arrives beside him and gives a low whistle of surprise.

"If ever I saw an underground passage certain to hide secrets galore, it is this one," he remarks, then winces as his voice echoes around the enclosed space. Eldarion holds his finger to his lips, and they move forward.

The remains of the string that Eldarion had used before still lie on the ground, next to the Ranger symbol for danger ahead. Eldarion locates the hidden lever that stops the tipping floor, and as he fumbles in the wall says to Elboron in a low voice, "There are pits in the floor – I think I remember where – and after that, blades come out of nowhere. Tread where I tread, and be very much on your guard."

It turns out that they need to be on their guard. The knives are totally silent but for the swish of air as they swing; Eldarion can hear a constant mutter of Rohirric behind him as Elboron tries to keep his balance, and feels the bitter tang of blood as he bites his own tongue by accident. He spits with a grimace and clings to the side of the passage, working out his next move.

"There's a ledge," hisses Elboron in his ear, pointing to the opposite side of the passage. Eldarion glances back behind them; they have come as far as he did before, and he is unwilling to cede defeat now.

"I hate this kind of thing," he says under his breath, and jumps.

Metal screeches past his head, and he twists and lands at an awkward angle, stumbling on impact. Elboron joins him a second later, and they press against the wall, listening to the echoes die away.

"…not successful. We need better planning."

Eldarion blinks as the voice filters up from somewhere around floor level, and looks downwards. There is a narrow grille, set just above the floor, and he crouches down as quietly as he can, motioning Elboron down beside him.

"You will never catch him unawares again." The voice is female, low and impatient. "I know him; he will be doubly on his guard."

Eldarion peers into the dim room through the grille, but can see nothing beyond indistinct shadows against a flickering candle. He listens closely.

"And we must act quickly," muses the first voice again. "The king grows wary."

There is a rustle, as of long skirts, and the woman says, "Then how would you have me dispose of the Prince?"

"I know that voice," breathes Elboron, but Eldarion silences him with an impatient flap of his hand.

"My dear, if Prince Eldarion does not die at the Midwinter Ball along with his elf-witch mother and that girl from the Library, I will be severely displeased." The voice becomes noticeably sharper. "Kill him, my lady. I will deal with the King at a later date."

Elboron's eyes are narrowed in the light from the grille. He looks directly at Eldarion. "Assassins. You were right."

-----------------------------------------------

"…make an arrest on the night, but how can we when we know nothing of the enemy?" Eldarion's voice is frustrated, and as Eleniel comes down the steps into the Library she finds him pacing back and forth across the foyer, watched by Elboron. "If only – Eleniel, are you all right?"

"Yes, as far as I know," says Eleniel, surprised by his urgent tone. "You are here early, my lords." She peers more closely at the Prince. "Have you actually slept at all?"

"I was busy," says Eldarion rather grimly. Behind him, Elboron looks as though he is bursting to say something; the Heir favours him with a glare before continuing, "We have a few matters to take care of. Do you mind waiting?"

"Not at all." Eleniel moves over to her desk. "I have plenty of work to do; I can carry on searching through that Division of Lands if needs be. Is Idril coming?"

"She is," announces Idril's voice from the passage, and Idril saunters out, resplendent in a pair of baggy breeches and ancient shirt. Elboron stares at her admiringly, and she blushes slightly. "You two run along."

"Have fun," adds Eleniel, silently envying the fact that Idril can still look glamorous and regal even in cast-off men's clothing.

Eldarion hesitates. "Stay indoors, please; I think it would be safer. There may be danger about."

"We will, and if Stelbin turns up I shall send Idril back to the Palace," promises Eleniel, and Idril makes a strange kind of angry snort.

"You will not be sending me anywhere," she says indignantly. "Are we cataloguing?"

With the other two gone, Eleniel and Idril continue with the work on the gallery. It is odd working without Eldarion; Eleniel finds that she misses his smile, his dry remarks, not to mention that little flutter of – something – that his glance frequently causes. Something silly, she tells herself sternly, and applies herself to working.

After about two hours they stop for a break, sitting down on the stone floor cross-legged and wondering where the two men have gone. "Important business," says Idril with a roll of the eyes. "They went to see the King early this morning about something."

"It must be important, then." Eleniel rubs her nose. "We've nearly finished the Gallery – I hardly know where to start with that wing."

Idril reaches over to pull the old records towards her and opens them randomly, the heavy pages crackling. "Hah. We should start with the section on Treaties of the Second Age between Gondor and Rhun, that's what we should do."

"Yes, but first we have to finish all this poetry!" Eleniel clambers to her feet and pulls the Princess up after her. "I could wish that there had not been quite so many poetic lovers in Arda's past."

"Love is poetry, and drama," says Idril loftily, "and raging fires of passion."

Eleniel eyes her doubtfully. "I think it could get rather annoying, being read poetry all the time."

"True. Odes to Cinthara, Volume Two." Idril moves along the row, Eleniel scribbling down the name of the volume and ticking it off the old records. "Some of the moronic boys at court would play the harp and sing outside my window every single night when I was a few years younger. It was sweet at first, but it gradually drove me insane."

"Every night is excessive."

"Elegies of the Anduin Vales. Eldarion used to sing and play the harp; some of the Sindarin love-songs from the First Age are very lovely," adds Idril randomly, leaning on the shelves. "You should ask him to play to you. I'm sure he would."

"I wouldn't dream of it," says Eleniel, blushing.

"A Selection of Poems from Numenor. He is very good, actually. I listen sometimes, when he thinks there's no one there."

Eleniel waits while Idril climbs the ladder to reach the top shelf. "Idril? Do you – do you think that Eldarion will marry someone else, now that Celeglin is – is…"

"Removed from the picture?" Idril raises an eyebrow. "I don't know." She prods at the spines of the books. "He's been acting rather strangely for a few days – I think he's worried about you, you know."

Eleniel looks away. After a few seconds, Idril says with uncharacteristic gentleness, "Eleniel, he worries because he cares about you."

"He shouldn't," says Eleniel morosely. "I almost wish that he'd never come here – I – I still think it's my fault that there's this danger and…"

Idril sighs, sitting on the top rung of the ladder. "I think he got attacked last night. It's happened before. But it's not your fault, how can it possibly be? If someone wants to kill one of us then they'll do it regardless."

"I know that really. It's just…"

Idril nudges her with an outstretched foot. "You are moping again. Come, do you want them to come back and be smug because we've only done a few shelves?"

It turns out that whatever has called the two men away detains them for most of the morning as well; a page-boy arrives from the palace at around lunchtime with an apologetic note from Eldarion and some sandwiches from the kitchens. The afternoon wears on, punctuated by speculation and the odd incident with the ladder, but for the most part productive.

Eleniel is rummaging behind the desk for more paper when she at last hears hoof-beats outside; she straightens, unable to stop the smile that spreads across her face. Idxril is deep in the left wing somewhere. "They're back!" she shouts, though she doubts the Princess will hear, as footsteps sound on the stairs. "And about time; I was beginning to…you!"

Lord Stelbin's boots ring hard on the floor as he stalks towards her. He is flanked by three men, who carry sheathed swords. "Greetings," he says amicably, coming to a halt not far from her. I have things that I would – discuss – with you."

Eleniel knows she is in trouble. The three men have moved to flank her, cutting off any means of escape. "Then discuss them by all mean, and get out."

Abruptly, Stelbin lashes out with the riding crop he holds in his hand. "Insolence," breathes the tall man, and she bites her tongue, cheek stinging where he has struck her.

"I want you out of this place," Stelbin continues, his voice still soft, stroking the whip along Eleniel's cheek. "I want you out, or make no mistake about it, I will turn you out of that miserable hovel that you call a home."

Eleniel is frightened, but she tries not to show it. "If you do, then I shall tell the King of this! How would that look, threatening an unarmed woman and…"

Stelbin raises the whip again, and she trails off. He smiles thinly. "I am entitled under ancient laws to treat you as I choose, no matter the amendments that your precious Prince may make." He makes a sudden move, and Eleniel is unable to stop herself from flinching. "Perhaps a scar across that pretty cheek of yours would do the trick…"

"I am not afraid of you!"

"Liar." His eyes are cold. "Now, will you co-operate?"

"No!" Eleniel lifts her chin, pressing herself back against the desk as he moves closer. As if in a dream, she hears footsteps on the stairs.

"Such a great shame," Stelbin says thoughtfully, staring down at her. The whip cracks, and Eleniel feels a stinging pain just under her ear, and then he is crushing her against the hard desk and his face is descending towards hers, breath hot, and she tries to turn but his hand is holding her with a grip like steel…

"How dare you!"

Suddenly that dreadful weight is removed, and Stelbin goes crashing to the floor, and there stands Eldarion, eyes flashing, visibly shaking with fury. "How dare you," he snarls again, and the look on his face is terrifying. Stelbin staggers to his feet.

"If the wench was more obedient then…"

Eldarion's fist lashes out, and the older man reels, only catching himself from falling by hanging onto the shelves. "You low scum, you wretched excuse for a snivelling worm, get out. Get out before I kill you."

Stelbin is backing away. His three guards have disappeared. "A matter between myself and my tenant, Sire, should not…" He walks into Elboron, who mutely seizes him by the shoulders and marches him away up the stairs.

Eldarion stares at Eleniel, his face drained of colour. "Eleniel, what – what did he…"

"Nothing too bad," says Eleniel shakily, and suddenly finds herself in his arms.

"Oh, thank the Valar, I – I thought – when I saw the horses and…" he pulls back so that he can gaze down at her anxiously, and his eyes darken. "He hit you." Long fingers brush the mark on her neck. "I will kill him."

"He's going to turn me out of my home." Eleniel shivers. "He'll do it. I can't stop him, I can't – I can't – he's winning, he…"

"He will not win!" Eldarion's eyes are afire. "By all that I hold dear I swear to you, Eleniel, he will not win!"

Eleniel smiles up at him. "Why is it that when you say it I always believe you?"

Those long fingers are still tracing hypnotic lines across her face. Eldarion's eyes soften. "You have ink on your nose," he whispers, still and solemn, and in that moment something, some little resistance inside her, gives way.

There is a crash from somewhere behind them, and they instinctively leap apart as Idril comes racing down the Library. ""What happened? Eleniel, I heard shouting, I – you're hurt!"

"Stelbin came," says Eldarion between gritted teeth. "He threatened Eleniel. I hit him."

Idril pushes Eleniel down into the nearest chair. "That's a nasty cut."

"It's fine." Eleniel squeezes her hand. "I'm fine. But I would like to go home, I think."

"You should move out, it's not safe…"

"No. Not until he makes me. I'm not running!" Eleniel looks back at Eldarion obstinately. "He'll not try anything tonight. I think you've scared him off for now." She clears her throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Thankyou. You seem to do an awful lot of rescuing me from awkward situations at the moment."

Elboron comes clattering down the stairs. "He's gone. Good riddance to bad rubbish. – We weren't a moment too soon, 'Dari, were we?"

"Did you get done whatever you were doing all day?" Idril asks.

"We've been with Adar," Eldarion answers her. "Come, Eleniel, I'll walk you home."

True to his word, he does walk her home, after they've all said their goodbyes and Eleniel has locked the doors. He very much on the alert the whole way, hand never straying far from his sword, eyes darting from side to side, and he leaves her at her door with strict instructions not to let anyone inside.

"And don't go out this evening," he adds seriously, a worried crease between his brows.

"I won't." Eleniel shoves the door open. "I – Eldarion, I really am sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am, you should not have to – Eleniel, did you just call me by my name?"

Eleniel starts, feeling herself blush and wishing she could sink through the floor. "Oh, no, I – I'm sorry, it just slipped out, I…"

His lips curve into the first real smile she has seen for days. "I like it. All the 'my lord's are rather wearying after a while. "

"It's most improper."

"Oh, I know impropriety, Lady Librarian, and this isn't it." Eldarion brings her hand to his lips, giving it a squeeze before he lets it go. "Good night, Eleniel. Be careful."

"I will if you will," she calls after him, and he raises a hand in acknowledgement. "Good night, my lo – Eldarion."

She watches him until he is out of sight, then kicks the door shut and leans on it, staring blindly down the dark hallway. Battleaxe winds around her ankles, purring.

"Eldarion," she says aloud to the empty house.

She's fallen in love with him, like a foolish weak-willed girl she's always feared herself to be, and she slides down the old door, puts her face in her hands, and cries.