The fourth circle is one of homes and businesses and commerce. It is not the widest of the circles, by any means, but the streets seem spacious – more open. The homes and stalls and markets seem to be built into the stone – the edifices flat against the mountain, reaching deep inside – and so outside it seems far less cluttered. There are a lot of people out here and they seem happy and healthy, but they still watch us with guarded eyes as we ride past. The men that I ride with will never be a part of them, not truly… not again.
The kelp vaults are far to the east, right where the circle ends and the mountain begins. It is far less populated, virtually deserted, and it is a place where things are stored rather than where people live or trade. There are many tunnels dug into the mountain, barred by thick oaken doors with locks on them, and I imagine that this part of Mindolluin is pocketed by countless holes where boxes of things gather dust.
We leave our horses at a tavern, tucked away quietly, and we pay the stable-hand to keep his silence about our presence here. He is curious but will hold his tongue, and we make the rest of the way on foot, cloaked and hooded. There is little reason for our secrecy though; once we reach the vaults the streets are all but empty. By the time we find the right one, we have walked a good distance, and we are entirely alone.
Which makes it all the more curious as to why the vaults are guarded.
"Those are not city guards," Ren tells us, once we have retreated a short distance – huddled behind some discarded barrels like brigands. "The uniform is almost right, but they are wearing it wrong. Why bother dressing that way at all? It is not unusual for business owners to hire men to guard their wares – this is more suspicious than if they had not bothered at all."
"There is something odd about them," Ren muses, peering out, but Larke pulls him back under cover.
"It seems we are likely in the right place though," I shrug, and pull my axe over my shoulder and into my hands. I was not coming without proper armaments this time, and wearing my own proper clothes and carrying my proper weapons makes me feel as though I have been asleep for the last few days. I feel right… I feel like myself again. "Should we go and knock on the door?"
Larke makes a noise, and Ren gives me a look that says he knows I mean to knock on more than the door.
"There are only two of them," I point out.
"The kelp vaults are the largest here," Ren tells me. "They are far deeper than that door suggests, and there are three levels to them. I think there may be many more men within."
When has he had a chance to learn all of this? The lad has spent only a morning reading on these vaults and he has retained everything he has seen – he soaks up knowledge as though it is water! I scowl at him, because it is actually rather annoying, but the lad simply looks at me with those unreadable dark eyes and lifts one shoulder in response. Cleverness is not something to apologise for.
"We should fetch others," Ren suggests, and although I knew it was coming it still feels like a punch to the gut. He is correct, he is quite correct, but I know that Legolas is in there… I know it, I know it with every fibre of my being. To be here now and to leave again? It is like a physical hurt. I do not know that I can do it.
"There is no need," Larke grips my shoulder painfully. He does not look at me, but he knows. "Whilst the two of you prepared I sent Mouse with two messages. The first was to go and find the man who bought distilled oil with gold, because he could not possibly be more suspicious, and the second was to bring us some reinforcements."
"We have spoken about this," Ren scowls at him. "You are not meant to make plans or do things without telling me about them. We have spoken at great length about it."
"How did the men searching the city miss this?" I ask, ignoring their exchange – which is mostly just Ren complaining. I am starting to see some distressing similarities between these two, and between myself and a certain kidnapped elfling.
"They wear the uniform wrong, but not many would have noticed," Larke tells me. "A man dressed as a city guard is trusted. There was a time once when they all knew one another, but not any longer, and with respect to them they are not as observant as we are."
"Or as humble," Ren mutters to himself. His tone changes again and he is conversing with Larke this time, although his gaze does not leave the doorway. "You are right, there is something odd about them."
"They are not moving at all," I point out, and both of the lads turn to look at me strangely. I frown. Cleverness is not just for young Whitecloaks. "Look at them; they are guarding a door but they do not fidget or shift or talk to one another or look about themselves. I have never seen guards on a menial duty do anything other than slouch or play cards, or perhaps take a nap. They are either extremely disciplined…"
"Or their captain is a terrifying man indeed," Larke finishes, and my silence is my agreement. We all fall into our thoughts then, we stand utterly still and wait, and I start to wonder exactly how long before Mouse and his reinforcements might arrive. It is galling to be standing, waiting for help when there are only two men at the door, but Larke's words keep echoing around in my head. It sends a chill through me and I do not know why.
But then something starts to stir, something in the back of my head like an itch, and by Eru this is bad timing. I can feel it in my heart and my mind, familiar and welcome, and I am filled with warring emotions: relief, because I have been straining to feel something like this since yesterday, but also annoyance and panic because this is very bad timing.
"No," I whisper beneath my breath. "Not now…"
"What?" Larke asks curiously, puzzled by the dread in my voice. I shake my head, struggle to find the words. How can they understand? They were not there last night when I explained everything to Aragorn, and although they have been remarkably patient with my mysterious comments prior to now, I do not know how far I might stretch things.
"Legolas," I explain. "He is awake, and he is fighting. Somewhere in there he is fighting his way free, and I have all of his weapons."
Both Larke and Ren are staring at me, and I do not meet their gaze because I can feel their disbelief without seeing it. They are silent for a long time, and out of the corner of my eye I can see them glance at one another as if questioning how to handle a mad dwarf. I have no time for it.
How to explain how it feels? How to explain to someone, to know… to simply know.
There are two layers to the elfling when he fights, usually. His mind is like a snowfall; calm and cold and still, focussed and clear. His heart though, that is like a wildfire: unbridled and furious, dangerous. It is two things layered on top of one another, and I have become too accustomed to it; I had stopped paying mind to it, stopped noticing, and as horrified as I am that he is doing this without me there – without help, without his blades – I cling to the sense of Legolas as though I have been drowning. Ai, I am so glad to feel it again!
I try to speak to him, and it is not words that I send but rather the sense of my own presence. I have done it before, I know how such a thing is managed, and for just a moment I feel the sense of him falter. Relief floods my mind for a moment, he knows that I am here, and then there is a jolt of impatience that tugs at me like a rope. He is wondering why I am dallying around outside and I almost laugh.
I go to leave, to approach the doors, and both Ren and Larke grab at my arms and hold me fast.
"Lads," I say calmly – far calmer than I feel – and I do not take my attention away from the door. "I am starting to become quite attached to the two of you, we might even be friends one day, but if you stop me from trying to help him then I will fight through you as well."
And now I do look at them, because I mean what I say and I would have them understand it. Ren looks alarmed, confused, completely out of his area of comfort but Larke is calm. I do not think that it is possible to ruffle this lad, not so that anyone could tell, but he examines me closely and I know that he believes me. He releases my arm.
"You are certain?" he demands, and I read in his voice what he does not say with his words. Am I certain enough to risk them as well, to put them in danger? Because if I go, then they will be coming with me. I am their charge and the friend of their King. They would not let me go alone.
"Utterly certain," I promise, and Larke nods.
"Then we will all go."
We make short work of the two guards at the door, but I think it is mostly because they are so surprised to see us. They fight well, despite that they are outnumbered and that we have appeared almost out of nowhere, and I start to feel a glimmer of worry about that. These are men of high calibre, well trained and battle hardened. I start to feel concern at what we will find inside.
At first we spend some time looking for keys upon their bodies, because if we can keep our advantage and remain quiet then we will do, but it seems these men have been guarding a locked door with no way of opening it. It is yet another sign that these men – whoever they are – are more than they seem to be. We consider trying to pick the lock but then we start to hear a commotion inside: shouting, voices raised in alarm, and I have reached the edge of whatever restraint I had left to me.
I destroy the door with barely an effort, and step over the wreckage with my axe in my hand. I stride into the darkness of an unknown battlefield, my only companions two young men with whom I have never fought before, and who I barely know. I feel all of my fear and guilt and anxiety boil away, and in their place there is only cold anger and a readiness for battle. I thrill with it, I burn with it, and somewhere inside of me I feel the Song of Iluvatar ringing through my veins – it is Legolas, calling me toward him.
Forest green and as gold as the dawn, tasting like the ash of battlefields and blood, and a thousand years of combat. It is darkness, and nights that never seemed to end. Legolas calls – the crazed fury of an elven heart without any protective walls, burning through my defences until I can feel it as well… can feel it as though it is my own.
With a grin that tastes like madness, I ready my axe, and I answer his call.
~{O}~
Eru it is as though we have disturbed a hornet's nest.
There are so many of them, more than I had expected by any stretch, and so we settle for speed rather than might. We try to make our way as deep into the tunnels as fast as we can, because I can feel the elfling – close, so close now – and we will be stronger together. If we can find him… if we can only get to him.
My companions surprise me, although I probably should not have been surprised; they are chosen men, after all.
Larke fights like an elf, but for a lad so slender and tall I had imagined his style to be similar to theirs. He is graceful and quick, and although he fights with a sword rather than knives, his blade is slender and light and he manages it as though it is made of air.
Ren, who is stockier and shorter, fights mostly with his hands. He is rooted to the earth like a tree, solid and strong, and although his movements are confident and practised he hits like a boulder. He finishes off his opponents with a blade that he keeps tucked close to his wrist, and I think perhaps I have been unfair to him. I have built up a picture of him in my mind: afraid of spiders, a little oafish, more likely to complain or make jokes than be serious about matters. I had imagined him the weaker of the two, but it is not so. He is a formidable fighter, and he and Larke fight together as though they have been raised from boyhood against one another's backs.
I pay little attention after that, because I have enough to get on with.
The men are quick and eerily silent. They do not shout or call out their battle cries, they attack without a word, but even so it is very loud. The tunnels are low ceilinged and narrow, and the sound of blade hitting blade echoes and distorts terribly. I can hear the heavy breathing of exertion, boots upon stone, metal clashing and also of blade meeting flesh – a terrible sound.
I have found of late that fighting with elves as often as I have has made me lean and quick, quiet and precise. I am still stronger, I still favour the axe over a blade and I still use my low height and powerful arms to greater advantage, but I no longer run into a fray bellowing and waving my weapons around. I fight my way methodically, quickly, and I cut a path for my companions as though we merely clear a path through overgrown trees. I am pulled onward, spurred toward the clear bell-like calling in my mind, and I run down the stairs as fast as I can, toppling men in my wake.
Larke and Ren follow me easily, although I hear Ren complaining and calling me names at the pace I am setting. I try not to think about how we are going to get back out again – because ploughing a path through surprised men, and escaping again once they have surrounded us is a very different thing – but one thing at a time. I can only focus on one problem.
I reach the foot of the stairs only to find even more tunnels branching out, and I take a left without thinking. Then there is a right, a long stretch to run down, another left and Eru this place is a labyrinth! My arms are starting to tire with the exertion but we are coming across fewer men, which helps our speed but not my concern as to where they all might be. Behind us, that is for certain, and between us and the way back out again.
Finally though, finally I know that I am near. Legolas is deafening; the singing thrills in my chest and I shout out his name, I call out to him, and my voice echoes back to me – once and then again – but then finally I hear him. I hear his voice, his real voice, and I burst through a door into a wide and open space. Surprising, after such narrow tunnels, and I stumble to a stop because it is idiocy to race into an unknown place.
The ceilings are still very low, Larke's head almost brushes the ceiling, but the walls are wide apart and I can smell brine and salt and dampness. I can feel it upon my skin, taste it upon my lips, and I know that these are the kelp vaults. The recesses run deep into the mountain, tens of them, stretching out as far as I can see in the dimness of torchlight and each of them is piled with seaweed. Fresh, it has not been here long, it has not yet made it to the drying racks, but I stop paying such close attention to it; it is seaweed.
I see a corner where chains have been hammered into the walls. I see blankets that have a smear of blood upon them. I see an uneaten plate of stale food and a cup that must have contained water. This is where they have kept him, and I feel a surge of rage that I push down into my chest, feel it burn and smoulder.
"Legolas!" I call out, and he turns.
He looks utterly dreadful. There is blood encrusted in his hair, down his face and onto his jerkin. His eyes burn like embers but his skin is as pale as the grave, florid with bruising along his jaw and cheek. He moves painfully, awkwardly, and I would feel a surge of pride at the fight he has very obviously given them, but there is no time for it. Legolas is fighting someone, and he is unarmed.
The man has a hood and a mask over the lower part of his face, and so all that I can see is his eyes. His skin is an odd copper colour; rich and golden. His eyes are almond-shaped and dark, as hard as diamond, but this is all that I can see. He is short, for a man, and slender, but to think of his smallness as weakness would be foolish indeed. He moves with grace, like a cat, as though it is the easiest thing in the world, and by Eru he is giving Legolas a run for his money.
Legolas fights as though he was born to it… even for an elf he is gifted. I have watched him fight a hundred times, a thousand perhaps, and each time I have been given pause to think.
His movements are natural, as though he does not even have to think about what he does. He predicts the movements of his opponents as though he can see everything around him without looking. He manages feats of agility with barely any effort at all, swift and nimble, and he does not need his blades to be a force to be reckoned with, but perhaps this time he does. He is very close to losing this battle, because this man? This man fights as well as he does.
I shrug my shoulder, bring his blades around and untie them. The others questioned why I had brought them along with me – lugged them this whole way when they are far larger to me than they are to him – but I am endlessly glad now that I did.
I fumble with the cords that tie them together, pulled too tight, cursing the whole of the time, but my gaze does not leave my friend. Legolas is hurt, I can see that he is hurt, but he fights as though he feels none of it. The man is armed with twin blades, he favours them just as my friend does, although they are shorter and the blades are narrower. Legolas is doing his best to fight him but he is starting to lose the battle.
The man is snake-quick and moves with grace and confidence. He counters every move, he is just as agile and just as fast, and the two of them are making me dizzy just watching them. For every attack that Legolas dodges there is another swift upon its heels, he must duck the sweep of blades as well as that of leg and fist but he is managing for now. The man lands a blow and then another and I can see that my friend is tiring. Finally I release the bonds on the blades at my feet, I call his name again. I throw them – one and then the other – and Legolas alters his course to intercept them.
He catches them, and he is armed, and then the fight continues in earnest.
The man brings down one blade and Legolas stops it with his own, the other sweeps toward his ribs and he spins, turning his body so that it passes harmlessly by but he has a foot in his spine and is kicked away. Legolas falls, rolls, recovers, and is back on his feet just in time to avoid being gutted, but is punched quite squarely in the jaw. He grabs the man's wrist, pulls him off centre, but the man counters it – turns his stagger into a fluid roll, grabs Legolas' wrist so that he is twisted off his feet as well. They hit the ground and the man elbows him in the sternum, and anyone else might be done then – gasping and wheezing for breath upon the dusty stone – but Legolas rolls free and crouches, his arm wrapped around his ribs, a guarded moment of recovery.
I have never seen him give ground like this, not once. I can feel him losing control, becoming angry, and where before his mind was cold and calm it is starting to reflect the madness in his heart. Legolas can only fight so well because he can balance the two; can keep his mind when his heart is nothing but turbulence, but he is beginning to lose the battle inside. He snarls, his face twisted like a cornered wolf.
He hangs his head low, bloodstained hair hiding his face, and through it I can see summer blue eyes burning ice cold. His mouth is twisted, his teeth bared, and I have seen him like this before… Eru I had hoped never to see it again, but I knew it could be like this. We both knew that this might happen, indeed I have been waiting for it.
Legolas' walls are too thin and too weak to retain his control. In battle he is at the very edge of it, all of the time, but now he is only a short step away from this madness. In my heart it feels like being swept away by a churning river, it is raw and flame bright and not particularly sane, and I hear Ren exhale softly as Legolas launches himself forward and attacks the man, because it is a thing to behold. A battle enraged laegrim elf, uncontained and furious, faster and stronger and more reckless than usual. The fight begins anew.
Legolas throws himself at this mysterious adan, and although he is losing control of his heart he has never once lost control of his movement. He is too experienced for it – each stance and move and counterattack is written into him like the pages of a book. He brings both blades down, too fast and too heavily for the man to do anything but catch them upon his own, and it leaves him vulnerable. He stumbles under the fury of it and Legolas kicks at him, aims for the gut and is ready when the man bends away from it, was expecting it, and takes advantage of the others' vulnerable position.
He sweeps his own blades down and to the right, dragging the shorter blades aside and putting the man off balance, yanks them backward and then slams the pommel into his face, kicks his feet from under him.
The man lands hard and Legolas kicks him nastily, a clip to the ribs and short and sharp stamp to the gut, but the man recovers, gagging and wheezing, and rolls free. He is to his feet in seconds, meets the arc of a silver blade and counters with the other. Legolas is too reckless when he is this way – too willing to let himself become hurt – and he pulls himself too close within the man's reach. Legolas grabs his jerkin and yanks him forward, close enough to crunch forehead into his nose, and the man staggers back in surprise. I am certain that mask he wears is now saturated in blood, and I feel a jolt of satisfaction.
I can see that the man is becoming angry as well now, and whereas his anger is cool and precise, Legolas has lost that ability with the passing of the winter. He is wild and frightening and dangerous, but he is also tired and hurt and this man is exceptional.
For a while it is all I can do to keep track of their movements. They are a whirl of blades, graceful and agile, and despite that he is losing his mind and is hurt I can tell that the elfling is making up for lost ground. The man is starting to take greater risks, starting to stumble, but out of the two of them he is in the best physical condition. Legolas attacks quickly – a speed that no man can match – but his opponent is ready for it. He dances to one side, is ready for the feint, takes advantage and manages to land a blow, this time with his blade. He slashes across Legolas' chest and I see redness spill free, see him falter and trip, and I hear a soft sound of dismay escape my own lips. I feel sick, and my heart does its very best to crawl out of my throat.
Eru, there is a very real chance that he is going to lose, and if Legolas cannot beat this man then I certainly cannot! I will not stand by and watch this. I go to move forward, I ready my axe and I take a step forth, but Larke grabs my arm and spins me around.
"Listen!" he urges, and I am surprised enough to do as he says.
The tunnels behind sound different, something is happening, and I have been so focussed upon the battle before me that I did not notice. The shouts are louder, the sound of battle continues despite that we are no longer up there. Our reinforcements have arrived!
I am not the only one to have noticed, that is for certain, because I turn back toward Legolas and the mysterious fighter has paused… his head tilted as though he listens.
He stays as he is, does not attack again, although I think perhaps he could win this fight right now; Legolas is gasping for breath with his hand pressed tightly to the blood seeping from his chest, and as I watch he drops to one knee. He is glaring furiously, his face fixed in a rictus of rage, and he looks terrible with that wildness in his eyes and blood all down his face. He is frightening to behold, but he is also hurt and weakened and I am so desperately afraid for him.
The shouting behind us becomes louder, closer. Whoever Mouse has managed to rouse has brought a lot of friends, and I know that we have taken the tunnels – that we are victorious. It is simply a matter of waiting, and I think the man realises this just as I do.
I can see when he makes his decision. He straightens, relaxes, sheathes one of his blades but holds the other up to his face in a salute… Eru he bows to the elfling, and it is a promise, I know that it is. He sees Legolas as a worthy opponent, and he says nothing at all but I know that this is an oath – they will continue this again, some other time. It is not over. There has been no victor in this battle, but next time…
He ducks and races off into the tunnels, and I think perhaps there is another way out but I have stopped paying attention to him; there is nothing that I can do to stop him, and my mind is occupied with more important things for now.
Now that he is gone – silent, like a ghost – Legolas slumps, but although it hurts me almost physically to stop myself, I do not approach. I can see the way that his shoulders heave, the way his knuckles are white upon the hilt of his blades, and when Larke goes to move forward I grab the lad quickly.
"Stay away," Legolas growls, and Larke falters; it is cold, more a snarl than anything, and I keep my fingers dug deep into the Whitecloak's arm until I finally feel it… finally feel him bring himself under control. The softening of the wind after a storm has passed, birdsong after the rain.
I hurry to him then. I catch him before he can fall completely, and I grip his face in my hand – shake him just to be certain. He looks up and scowls, his face pale and bloody and awful.
"A moment, Gimli," he chides, barely a breath. "Give me a moment!"
Ren fumbles at his jerkin, exposes the wound to his chest, but it is nothing but blood and I cannot see the true damage. Legolas bats his hands away irritably, then bats mine away as well, and he cannot be too badly hurt if he is acting this way. I feel horrified, absolutely horrified, but I am also flooded with relief to find him alive, if not entirely well.
The softness of golden hair, the heat of his skin, the green and gold scent of the wood. Legolas… ai Legolas – my dear Legolas is alive and well!
I can feel the warmth of his hands, the slamming of his heart beneath his ribs, the rise and fall of his chest. I can feel the burn of the Song in him – slowing now, coming under control – and he finally looks up at me. Summer blue eyes, angry and exhausted but they have lost that glint of madness.
"How long?" he asks, his voice hoarse and his breath snatched and ragged. "How long have I been gone?"
"A day and a night," I tell him, and I cannot help but rest my hand against the back of his head. I cannot help but touch him, even though I know that he detests such things and he nods. Short and sharp.
"The next time that you are taken," he gasps. "That is how long I will wait before I come to rescue you."
And I pause, I freeze completely, and for the love of my ancestors and all of their beards I have no idea whatsoever why I bother with this awful, awful creature!
I shove him, he topples over with a soft complaint, and I walk away to help with the aftermath of battle.
TBC
So those of you who know me will remember how much I HATE writing action scenes. This chapter has given me a lot of trouble; I have re-written it about a thousand times but I really need to just release it and let it go, because I don't think I've ever going to like it any better than I do right now. For the sake of balance - I really like the character development between Gimli, Larke and Ren in this chapter. I love writing those two... some of my favourite OCs next to Rowan and Callen; bit of an odd couple, but I'm becoming quite fond of them.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and to anyone who reviewed the oneshot as well... I know it felt a bit choppy but I started writing it a long time ago, so it didn't blend too seamlessly with my current style.
You might be happy to know that I have broken through my writer's block FINALLY! I had to delete an entire 4,000 word chapter, which HURT, but apparently it was necessary. I'm back on track, if slowly, so huzzah!
I shall stop warbling on now, and leave you to your evening or day, depending on what timezone you're in. I hope you have a great weekend :)
MyselfOnly