Hob is in a very good mood today, and it is lucky that he is far stockier and shorter in the leg than most edain because he is another one who likes to sprint around. He walks swiftly but I have no problem keeping up with him, and I am mostly lost in my thoughts so I am surprised when he speaks. We have made it a fair distance without him saying anything, so I think perhaps he has been forming his words the whole way.

"Elves are not as I imagined," he says, and I am surprised by his choice of subject, but perhaps not too surprised. He has changed his opinion somewhere between our last meeting and this morning.

"Not all elves are the same," I say. "From my experience, the Noldor are wise and make me feel an idiot all of the time. The Sindar are brave and easy to underestimate. Every Silvan elf I have ever met is distressingly tended toward violence and of questionable sanity."

Hob laughs, and I marvel at how different he is today. It is as though he has shed the mantle of captain and has decided to simply be a soldier… as though he has no idea how to take us, and so has reverted to what is most comfortable. I like him far better this way.

"You are curious about him?" I ask.

"I am curious about you both," he admits, "but he is not here, and so I cannot ask him about you. Perhaps I will get him drunk later."

"Good luck to you," I mutter. "I have never managed it even once. If you have questions then ask them, friend Hob."

"There are tales of you," he says, but he draws the words out as though he is thinking them as he speaks. "I have heard them told, and I believe them true, but the two of you being friends…"

He stops, makes a face, and there are all sorts of things hanging in the air now.

I feel suddenly awkward and uncomfortable, and Hob can tell. He has gone over a line somewhere, he knows that he has, but he does not know how to remedy it. He is unsure whether to brazen it out, make a joke, or ignore that he has said anything at all, and I know all of this because perhaps Hob and I are quite similar as well. It is all of the things that I would be feeling, and I decide to be kind to him.

He is trying to be friendly, trying to treat me as though we are nothing more than lads in the ranks getting to know one another, because this is what he knows - what he is accustomed to. I should be honoured; in a man like Hob, this is the greatest compliment he can pay me.

"We are an odd pair, are we not," I smile at him, although I am unsure as to whether he can tell. The rose laden waters have made my beard far too large and fluffy. "To be truthful, we could not stand one another at first. Had we not been so occupied, I might have shoved him off the edge of Caradhras the moment the rest of the Fellowship looked away. Alas, Mithrandir is quite observant."

He smiles, relaxes again.

"Legolas says that you dislike elves," I say, and I am careful to keep it as a question rather than an accusation. "He says that you already disliked them, and he is very perceptive for all his faults."

I am not sure how I expected him to react, but I certainly did not expect him to laugh. He ducks his head, abashed, and looks quite embarrassed. He runs his hand across his head, and I start to wonder why he does that as often as he does.

"In truth, master Gimli, I had never met an elf before yesterday," he says. "I have seen them, many of them from afar, but I have never spoken to one. Speaking to elves is a matter for greater men than low-born captains, but what I did see…"

He does not finish, but I think I can understand in any case. There is a silence before he continues.

"I have had to work for everything I have ever had," he says. "I have no family, I am not a rich man by any stretch of the imagination, but I am a captain now. I have fought and battled my way through life, but to see an elf? It always seemed so unfair – they are beautiful and immortal, wise and strong. Gifted just by their birth."

"So what has changed?" I ask. "You are different toward us today. I do not complain about it, but I would be interested if you would tell me."

"I met an elf," he shrugs. "And you… you are like me, despite that you are a dwarf, and I was curious that you could be friends. The lad who translated that word for me. What is it? Fae-something?"

"Faengolen."

"Aye. He knows a few things of elves. He told me about Mirkwood, about what has been happening there and for how long, and I think perhaps your prince has had to fight for everything he has as well. If the two of you can be friends, then at least I can try not to be difficult."

I smile, and I cannot help it, because this is a fine man beside me. Fine indeed. I reach up and clap him on the shoulder.

"I make no promises for the elfling," I tell him. "We have had some unpleasant experiences with men recently. For someone so old, this is the longest he has spent out of the forest and he does not trust easily, but it is worth it if you are persistent. Do not tell him I said that, though. I will deny it."

"I served alongside Larke's older brother," he tells me. "We rode with Lord Boromir and retook Osgiliath, and it was the proudest and greatest moment of my life. We rode again with Lord Faramir once it was lost, although we knew we could not regain it. He was killed on the retreat across the Pelennor. We were boys together, grew up shoulder to shoulder – we trained and took our oaths on the same day, even fought over the same girl once. Starling, his name was… his mother loved birds, so she did. I think perhaps I loved him as you love the elf."

"He is my brother," I nod. "We have been through much together."

We share a moment then, eye to eye, and we need not say any more. It is embarrassing, awkward, but Hob and I are friends now. It is a lot to share this early in the morning, but I am glad that we have spoken.

He nods, short and sharp, as though he has just decided something, and we make our way toward the daylight.

~{O}~

There are quite a number of us that descend toward the second circle, and we look rather fine in the clear morning light. The Whitecloaks – drat the elf, the name has stuck now – are well disciplined, but they are no longer soldiers. They smile and laugh, poke fun at one another, speak freely as we prepare ourselves. Their breath plumes in the cold air of the morning, some of them drink hot tea from cups and shake off burned fingers, one of them is a bit hungover.

I enjoy observing such scenes, because everything we have fought and endured has been worth it. These men have futures, friends that are likely to live full and long lives, positions that are far less dangerous than they once had. They are young men, mostly, and in some small way we have given them this. We have played our part.

Hob stops us on the third level and collars a small girl, dishevelled and dirty, hard eyed and suspicious. He speaks lowly to her and gives her a coin, and she dashes off through the gate to the second. We will leave our horses here, he says, and the others do as they are told without question but I look to him curiously.

"This is what the Steward is most cautious of," he tells me quietly. "We look as though we are here to cause trouble. There are too many of us and the people here fear soldiers. If the King's forces come down here in retribution – if we come to impose law – then they will fight us, and the Steward will not be able to stop them. The girl is a messenger; she will run ahead and tell that we are here peacefully."

"And if she simply runs away with the coin?"

"Then try not to kill anyone," he tells me, quite at ease with the whole thing. "It will be difficult to convince the Steward of our first intentions if we are telling it from a mound of bodies."

He walks away, leaving me blinking, and I begin to feel a flutter of nerves. Aragorn was right; it is as though this whole circle is divorced entirely from the rest of the city. I have no experience even similar to this to fall back on, nothing that would tell me how to act in an annex where tensions run this high, not when I am on the wrong side of the numbers. I cast my eye over our group; it no longer seems so large to me.

I am being left behind, I hurry until I am caught up, and then we walk through the gate to the second circle.

~{O}~

The entrance to the drainage system is hard to find, and for a long hour I curse the elfling for not coming with us. He could have found it easily enough, I know that he could, but after Hob has exhausted his – admittedly impressive – list of swear words there is a shout from an alley not too far from Edgar's burned out house.

There is a Whitecloak amongst us who is extremely sharp of eye, it seems, because we have already searched this alley twice, but once he reveals what he has found I can understand why we have missed it. The entrance has been artfully hidden by a stack of mildewed and mossy firewood. It is an artful and clever disguise, because the wood is all nailed together and hinged to the wall. It rolls aside very easily – the whole lot has been hollowed out – and the lad who found it seems quite impressed with himself.

He points to scuff marks on the cobbles – evidence of where the wood pile has been pulled away before – and almost glows when Hob gives him an approving look. It is all he gives – no more than a look – but from the reaction it gains it is high praise indeed.

The drain is cut directly into the stone of the mountain, roughly carven but large enough for a crouched man to walk through. It has rained heavily today, there should be water running through it, and I find the gulley meant to take the run-off a short pace away. It is dry with a dead shrub growing out of it – I do not think it has been in working order for a long time.

"The collapse must be further up," I say, peering into the darkness. I can see nothing but more darkness, but I can feel something… a fracture, a discordance in the hum of the mountain. "There is an instability in the stone. It is not immediate, not unless we start crashing about in there, but this is not a safe path."

"Even so, it is a path we must take." Hob peers into the dark, his face very serious and focussed. I do not think that he wishes to go in there any longer. "Can you tell how far we must go?"

"This path chokes into nothing perhaps a hundred steps from here," I tell him. "I cannot tell you where it has opened to the caverns though. I can feel that they are there, but the whole mountain is pocketed with small voids and it echoes terribly."

"A hundred steps," he nods. "That is not so bad."

He turns, gestures, and one of the men comes forward with a good number of torches he has tied together and slung across his shoulder. He crouches to the ground and starts to untie them, to pull out his tinderbox, and I grimace. Men. I would have done this easier in darkness – light blinds the eyes underground – but this is likely better than them walking into walls or falling over their feet the whole time.

"Larke, Ren and Mouse will come with us into the tunnels. Hamar and Céorl – Mistress Breda is expecting you; go and fetch Sig and take him to the Magister's office, the rest of you guard this entrance. If anything larger than a spider comes out, catch it."

"How large a spider, sir?" comes a faceless voice, and there is a murmur of laughter.

"You are quite right, Galen, we should catch them all to be certain. I will leave that in your hands."

There is a groan and more laughter, and I turn to Larke and Ren who do not look happy at all. Our other companion is the lad who found this entrance to begin with, and although he was not named Mouse by his parents – I am quite certain of it – I have never met a more mouse-like fellow in all of my days. He is small and slight, alarmingly young, but he has already proven himself observant and sharp eyed. He offers to go first, but I shake my head.

"There is no point in bringing a dwarf if you are to put him at the back, laddie," I tell him. "I would see better from the front."

Hob nods his assent, takes up a torch now that they are lit, and we are on our way.

~{O}~

The tunnel is thankfully dry and filled with the crackle of dead leaves and twigs. It is distressingly filled with cobwebs, but I would be a terrible dwarf if such things bothered me. I am entertained by the soft sounds of horror from directly behind me – I think perhaps Ren dislikes spiders – and I hear him muttering unkind things about me. I am meant to hear them, and I cannot help but smile, because sometimes being shorter than everyone else has advantages. Not having to duck in tunnels is one, and another is in not protecting everyone else from cobwebs with my own face.

I run my hand along the stone wall as I walk, feeling the roughness and dry rasp against my skin, but something deeper and bigger in my heart. The Song of Mahal does not speak, it is not a map, but a dwarf who paid attention in his lessons can learn to interpret it, and I paid very close attention.

The Song is like a constant dirge, a deep hum, huge and rooted in the heart of the world. It is not as beautiful as the Song of Iluvatar – not as frightening or endless or humbling – but to me it is familiar and known, and it is fine in my eye. I have learned to tell the slightest change in pitch, the most minor echo and reverberation of the mountains, and from it I can read the stone. I keep half an ear on it, partly because I do not love stone enough to be entombed in it should it collapse, and mostly because it is what I am here for.

"The wall is thinnest here," I say, my voice flat and echoing. "If there is a way through, it will be nearby."

"How large do you imagine the spiders might be?" I hear Ren murmur to Larke as they start to search.

"I have fought the giant spiders of Mirkwood," I say conversationally. "They can grow as large as a horse, easily, and that is without the legs. The small ones though, the ones the size of hounds… you can dispatch them easily enough with an axe, but they make a terrible mess."

Ren gags audibly and Larke snorts into a laugh.

"That is enough," Hob stops us, giving me a disappointed look although I give him my most innocent.

"Here, sir… sirs," Mouse calls out, and we turn and follow his voice.

"Lad, you have the eyes of an elf," I tell him, because this door is another masterpiece in camouflage. The wood sits almost exactly flush with the wall – not a seam or a gap or a visible hinge – and it has been stained and distressed so that it does not look like wood at all. The problem, though, is that it has been constructed so that there is no way in. It is completely tight to the wall, and Larke pokes his finger so that a small piece of wood pops out. There is a keyhole, but I am unsure how useful that might be.

"I am going to have to break it down," I sigh sadly, shrugging my axe from my across my back. "This is a work of art."

"We could knock," Ren suggests. We all turn to him, blinking as though the thought never occurred to us, and he reaches past to rap on the wood. We all wait, curious, but after a long time in silence I resume just as I was. I hear Larke call his friend an idiot beneath his breath, and there is a slight 'oof' as he is elbowed in the ribs for it.

I set to the door with my axe, grimacing as the first strike splinters the wood. It is a shame, a true shame, but I feel a bit better once I realise that the door is not as well constructed as I first thought. The wood is dry and not very thick, and my axe sinks into it easily. I make short work of it and it is not long before I am kicking the last of it free, and I stand aside so that Hob can stick his head through the entrance.

We have no time to explore though, despite that this is all I have wanted to do since we entered this tunnel. There is a shift and a shuffle of footsteps, and then a man comes barrelling out of the newly opened doorway.

There is chaos then, just for a second, because it is difficult to catch an escaping man with burning torches in your hands. The light fractures, we are plunged into darkness, and there is a lot of noise and scuffling and shouting. I stay clear, there are more than enough men in the fray and one more will only cause confusion. It is not long at all before the sounds die down, and all that I can hear is Hob shouting, and some unknown person panting and keening in fright.

"Stay down!" Hob bellows angrily. "Stop fighting!"

I pick up one of the torches, still guttering and struggling for life on the ground, and I hand it to Mouse who looks far too calm for what has just happened. There is a man on the ground, wild eyed and terrified, pinned down by Larke and with Hob's knee in his spine, but the captain rises as I approach. Larke drags him up, shoves him against the wall, and our quarry looks at us all in horror. He looks terrified, and I do not think that it is us he is afraid of.

Edgar is not much older than his brother, but he is certainly a fully grown man. His hair is lank and dirty, covering eyes of bright blue, and if he were a bit cleaner he might almost be considered handsome. He has a finely boned face and a beard that is starting to grow unruly, but I think it might usually be well kempt. His clothes are patched and worn, but although they are dirty now I think he has pride in himself most of the time. He looks at us, looks hard, realises that we are men of the King and his whole body slumps in relief. I can hear his breath rasping in the quiet, slight catches of fright still hitching his chest, and the tension falls out of the air in just a moment.

"Edgar, I presume?" I ask, strapping my axe safely away and approaching.

"You have been a difficult man to find," Hob accuses. He is still tightly wound from the surprise and the fight, and he sounds quite frightening.

"Not difficult enough," Edgar replies, and his voice is dry and hoarse. Larke hands him a water skin and he drinks greedily, water spilling down his chin and shirt front. "How did you find me?" he asks once he is done.

"That hardly matters," Hob scowls. "We have questions for you. Many questions indeed. Larke get him up – I am not doing this here."

"No!" Edgar panics again, his eyes flying wide open again. He grips Larke's hand where it is fisted in his tunic, and I notice something. His hand, he uses his left, and when I look closer I see why. Edgar's right arm is wasted, shrivelled, hanging limp and useless at his side.

"You did write the journal," I frown. It is not what I expected. "The handwriting, it was poor; your left hand is not your dominant one."

"This," Edgar gestures at his crippled right arm, his tone bitter and angry. "It happened when the city was invaded. Your writing would be poor as well if you had lost an arm."

Hob looks at Larke, gestures, and Edgar is released. Apparently we are doing this here after all.

"Edgar, what happened?" Hob asks, and this time his tone is more reasonable. He crouches before the man, invites his confidence. "Your brother…"

Edgar's face crumples, the grief crushing and terrible, but he seems a proud man. He rubs the tears away, sets his jaw, but the devastation is still there is his eyes.

"Did he suffer?" he asks quietly, and he pins Hob with pale blue eyes full of hurt and grief. "Would he have known?"

Hob pauses, thinks, bows his head for a moment.

"It would have been quick," he promises.

I saw the body. I saw Wynn's face, I saw the wound. I saw how long he would have bled for and how he was completely alone. I saw how he was left as he was, how no one in the houses around him would even admit to seeing anything, let alone granting the boy aid. I saw.

Wynn's death was not a good death, but sometimes there can be kindness in a lie.

~{O}~

We have moved. Edgar has taken us into his bolt hole, and it is cramped and small but there are many black tunnels leading away into the depth of Mindolluin. I eye them curiously, the wish to explore burning in my veins, but I have a purpose here and so I focus.

Edgar has barrels of supplies in here, small but comfortable enough to sit on, and I look around at the mussed pallet that has been his bed, the mess and dust and dirt. This is unpleasant… functional as a refuge, but not somewhere I would like to stay for long. I sit, Hob sits, Edgar drops wearily into his nest of blankets and rests against the stone wall but the three Whitecloaks stay standing. They keep watch as Edgar tells his story.

"I do not know who they are," he tells us. "They never told me, although I asked. They came to me in the winter, found me in the Crooked Gate and bought me some wine – said I was the sort of fellow they were looking to speak to. I was deep in my cups and would have listened to anyone who bought me wine, and what they offered I could not refuse. Employment – nothing fancy, an assistant for an herb seller, but something that would bring me some income. All I had to do was write the damned journal and contact a friend I had – a lad who I knew, working as a provost – and give it to him. That was all. Then I could move to the third circle, be respectable, look after my little brother instead of him looking after me… maybe give Sig a home, too."

He trails off, and I see grief and self-pity wash over him once more. We grant him his privacy, grant him a moment, and he gathers himself once more.

"Wynn found the journal," he says, clearing his throat, his words thick with rancour. "The night I was to meet, to hand it over, he found it. He ran off with it before I could do anything, said what I was doing was wrong. Said I was betraying the people that looked after us – looked after all of us on the second – and perhaps he was right but what matter was it? The Steward can handle anything put our way, it was naught but a journal… if the King's men came to the second circle, routed it all and imposed law on this wretched place then it is the best thing for it!"

He heaves, angry, pushed past peace into nothing but emotion but again, we leave him in silence. To interrupt him now might silence him, and he is speaking freely.

"I searched for him all night, searched everywhere; missed my meeting with the provost but I hardly cared. They came to me in the morning, the men who made me write that journal. Told me Wynn was dead. Told me they left the journal on him so it could be found by you… the Whitecloaks, they've been calling you. Said it was better this way… better to get it into the right hands. But I had a copy, you see – the one they gave to me so I knew what to write. They wanted it back but I would not give it to them, not after they killed my brother. I hid it, and when they burned my house I ran… ran here and I have been here ever since."

He stops, and I think he is done. We allow the silence for a long time to be sure, and when he says nothing else I speak.

"Why did they want the other journal back?" I ask him. "If it is nothing but a copy, why is it so important?"

"Ah," he smiles, finally, and I see the first hint of pride in him. He lifts his head, meets our eyes squarely. "This arm has taken everything from me; I cannot work or make much of myself, not as I could, but there is one thing I could always do – no matter which hand I used – and that is draw. All manner of things, anything I see, and I am good with faces. Paper is scarce, expensive, and I drew them at the back of the journal because I like to draw things. I told them I have their likeness, although I should not have… it has put me in danger, I should have kept my mouth shut. I do not know who they are or why they are doing this, but I certainly know what they look like."

I am shocked, surprised, and I think the others are as well. Perhaps Edgar is more than he seems, and Hob leans forward in interest.

"Where is the journal now?" he asks, and Edgar's leans forward as well.

"You will stop them?" he asks, but is does not sound like a request. It sounds like a demand. "You will make them pay for what they have done to my brother?"

"We will do all we can," Hob promises. "If we catch them, they will be brought to justice."

Edgar thinks, considers, nods and then rustles in his blankets. He pulls out a battered and worn journal.

"Then this is yours," he tells us.

~{O}~

We tell Edgar that that he will be safe with us, safe in custody in the Rookery, but he puts up such a fuss that we retreat for a while. The edain are getting nervous, trapped in stone and without air or sky or sunlight, and so we retreat so that we can talk. We leave Edgar in his sanctuary, weeping over the loss of his brother, and we find the daylight so that we can regroup for a moment. Hob takes a huge lung of air once we are out of the tunnels, and we blink and squint in the sunlight, but it feels fine indeed to be out in the cold where the wind whistles past our ears.

Hob stands, hands on his hips and face tilted to the sunlight, and I give him a moment to gather himself before I speak.

"We could paper the walls of the second circle with copies of these pictures," I tell him, waggling this new journal in his direction, "but I do not think it will get us anywhere."

I have looked, of course I have looked, but all I have found is a drawing of three men. I do not recognise them; they are men, they look all look fairly similar to me and there is nothing particularly distinguishing about them.

"Then what do you suggest?" he asks me, turning now that he has composed himself.

I open my mouth as if to say something – I know not what – but suddenly I am beset with the strangest feeling. I clap my mouth shut, stand still and then stagger so that I am caught by strong and firm hands, but I do not know whose. I feel alarm, out of nowhere and with no cause at all, and it is brief and sudden but it is also blinding and huge. Something has happened, something is wrong… terribly wrong.

"Legolas," I breathe, and once I have said it I know that it is true. What I am feeling is not my own experience but rather his, strong enough to affect me no matter the distance. Something has happened, but it has happened to him.

Suddenly there is nothing more important. Suddenly, everything we do here pales into insignificance.

"I must go," I tell Hob, shucking free of whoever has caught me, and he looks astounded, surprised. I am already walking away and he jogs to catch up with me.

"What are you doing?" he demands.

"Something is wrong," I tell him, shoving the journal into his chest. "Something is wrong with the elf, I must go!"

"How could you possibly know that?" he demands.

"I simply do!" I tell him, whirling to face him. He reaches to grip my elbow but I twist away, bat his hand, and he takes a step back but narrows his eyes. He thinks, just for a moment, and then turns to his men.

"Larke, go with him," he instructs, but I do not wait for my guide; I turn upon my heel and I am already on my way. I hear the tap of hurried footsteps behind me and I know I am not alone.

Legolas. Something is wrong with Legolas.

I know it just as I know that the sky is blue. I know it to be real, no dream or imagining, and I recall the sensation over and over again, examine it as best I can. Alarm… nothing more than alarm, but it is not this that worries me most, it is the silence afterward.

I do not pay much attention to the link that the Shadow has granted us, indeed I have grown far too used to it. I think perhaps I have acclimatised far too much because it seems I imagined it an occasional thing, here and then gone, from time to time. It seems this is not the case; I think perhaps it is there more often than I realised, because now it is gone completely and it is like a shard of ice in my heart. Our link, our precious and cursed link, it is gone completely. Legolas is not there any longer… something has happened to him.

I pause once, twice, three times and I whistle to him. I send it clear and sharp into the wind, a piercing call that he has always responded to… always called back, always returned to me when I needed it. I change my call from a query on location to a request for help – because surely he cannot ignore that – but although I whistle, although I call to him, Legolas does not reply.

I call for him, my whistles echo back to me on the wind: lonely, mournful, but Legolas does not call back.

I do not know what to do.

TBC

To be fair, I think I've been extremely restrained with my cliffhangers in this fic. You cannot be cross with me; I think we all knew I was going to sneak one in there somewhere and I did warn you!

So yes, what on earth has he done to himself this time?! Unfortunately this now marks the start of my brief hiatus in posting, so I'm going to have to leave you to ponder on this for a bit longer than usual. I haven't written a single word since my last posting, not one, and I really do need to catch up if this fic is going to keep up the pace I have set for myself. I've also written myself into a bit of a corner, which I need to sort out before I post anything else because it gives me a bit of space to retcon if I need to. I shouldn't be gone for too long though, fear not!

Hopefully you all enjoyed the chapter, please let me know in the reviews - because hearing from you is basically the reason I keep posting - and I'd be interested to hear any of your guesses as to where this story might be going. Apart from Cheekybeak, because she'll only guess the entire plotline as per usual, which is actually a bit annoying ;) jk

Hope you all have a great weekend, and you will hear from me after my break (unless you review, in which case you will hear from me much sooner) :)

MyselfOnly