We meet before anyone else arrives, in an antechamber that is rather small and that has Legolas all agitated again. I have just got rather wet smoothing all of the edges out of him, but it cannot be helped; Aragorn needs to hear his tale before we meet with the others, and it is not the sort of thing that the elfling needs an audience for.
He reports quickly and efficiently, facts and details, like a soldier reporting to his captain. I recognise that he is removing himself from what has happened – distancing Legolas from the elf that was taken – and I take this as an encouraging thing. It is the sort of thing that an elf with properly functioning walls is able to do, and is something that has been lacking for a while, but even so he is tense and twitchy when he is done.
Aragorn is sympathetic; cups his hand gently to the side of the elfling's face, and gives him a look of fondness and understanding.
He tells us that Hob and his men have ben questioning those that were taken captive in the vaults, although no sign has been found of the cloaked man that Legolas fought. The prisoners remain silent, he says, despite their best efforts – they are proud and hard men, but Hob thinks perhaps it is fear that stays their tongues rather than loyalty. Fear can be broken, loyalty cannot.
He says that he is sorry, and he means it, and then he promises that efforts will continue. They will find who took him, he swears it, and Legolas nods although his jaw is tight and the lines of his body rigid as a bowstring.
We have a bit of time, Aragorn tells us, and then leaves, and apparently this means something to the elfling because we leave as well, although we do not follow the King.
Legolas takes me to a balcony, slender and narrow, and I do not think that I could see it from the ground. It opens out onto all of Gondor without a single thing to break the view. The rain is easing; the sky directly above is still dark and shadowed, but the sky to the east is washed a pale blue as the sun sets. I can see stars there, diamond cut and clear, and I think that I will come here on a clear day so that I can appreciate this properly.
I am dragged by my sleeve to the edge of the balcony, and Legolas and I stand with our elbows folded upon the wet stone, our shoulders touching. The courtyard below is lit by torches, and for just a second I am tempted to drop something over the edge, because I was a boy once.
We stand and simply look, and we do not speak; it is a moment for quiet and respect. The White Tree stands beneath us like a ghost in the coming dark, and it sings clearly even to someone like me. I feel small, brief; unimportant but involved in things of such importance. I stand in a city of Kings, I am a part of a history that will one day be told, and suddenly all of the terrible things that have happened in my days upon Arda seem small and brief as well.
As soon as there are no guards paying attention, I drop a pebble from the side of the balcony.
~{O}~
We do not meet in the Throne Room, because that really is too much, but there are smaller conference chambers just above it and they are grand enough. The ceilings are high and vaulted, and there is an impractically high backed chair for the King that sits as a focus for the room.
Everything else orbits around this chair: the long and narrow table that cuts through the middle of the chamber, the ten other – significantly smaller – chairs scattered around it. There is a tree whitewashed onto the wall directly behind him; a faded ghost, huge and beautiful… all of it is set to highlight Aragorn as the centre of the room.
We cannot help but sit at council. We cannot help but look up to him, and we cannot help but be cowed by where we are. I am hit by the weight of such history and past greatness, of the sheer significance of where we are. If I can feel it even when I parade around with an elf – who makes even a trip to the bakery a lesson in how endless he is, and how brief and ridiculous I am – then it must be quite disconcerting to the others.
Aragorn has invited Captain Hob of course, and he looks wildly uncomfortable. He sits there with Ren and Larke, scowling to hide his discomfiture, and although he is trying his hardest to look dignified and stoic the other two are staring around themselves as though they have found themselves in Mandos' own chambers.
Aragorn has made a bit of an effort tonight, and I can understand why, but in my head there is a strange separation between my Aragorn and the man who is King. When I saw him last he was tired and worried and vulnerable, the man that I know, and now he is distant and noble and strangely unreadable.
He sits in a doublet of darkest blue, hair tamed if not tame, with a slender sword at his hip and those pale grey eyes of his cutting into each of us like a blade. He does not wear the crown of Gondor, thankfully, but a circlet sits upon his brow; reminding us all that he has one to wear if he wished to, and that we do not.
Legolas is un-cowed by such things – he is far too used to them – but for once he does not stride into the room and flop into a chair, making some glib remark to ruin Aragorn's efforts. Instead he enters proudly, and stands just behind Aragorn: pale and hungry and with those terrible, terrible eyes of his watching us all. I follow his lead, I stand on the other side, and I do not know how I appear but I try my hardest to be the dwarf that my father would want me to be. That Aragorn might be proud to know.
I plant my axe upon the floor, a heavy thud that makes Ren flinch, and I rest my hands upon its haft.
We fall into silence, and if it is uncomfortable then I think this is what Aragorn has intended. All eyes are upon him, and he sits easily in his chair as though he is untouched by the tension. His gaze settles on Captain Hob, who meets it steadily.
"You are aggrieved," he says quietly, so that we must listen if we are to hear, and after a while Hob nods. Aragorn makes a slight gesture of his hand, graceful and small, and gives Hob leave to speak freely.
"Would you truly have sacked the second circle?" the captain asks boldly, because I do not think that he is capable of anything but boldness. I can see Aragorn consider his response, and in the end he nods.
"If negotiations fail," he says, "if things continue as they are, and nothing can be resolved, then I will take steps. But this morning I said those things only so that you would go to the Steward."
"You think me a spy, my King?" he replies tightly, affronted but in control of himself for now. "A snake that would slither back into the grass with your words upon his tongue, ready for any ear that might listen?"
"No," Aragorn shakes his head, dousing Hob's outrage instantly. "I think you loyal. And I think that you have had enough of bloodshed. And I think that you do not know me well. Not yet."
His tone is calm and understanding, his words honest, and they have the effect of placating the captain, although I can tell that he is unsure how. Hob looks mollified but puzzled, and sits back in his chair. Our ranger is getting rather good at this.
Aragorn tilts his head in Legolas' direction, barely turning, and Legolas steps forward. The King mutters into his ear, and I hear the briefest snatches of fluid Sindarin before the elfling nods once, stalks off across the room and points to three guards. He gestures for them to follow, they do so despite that he has no authority to command them, and he slips from the door. I am curious but I keep my peace; I am not left waiting for long.
Edgar is the first to be brought into the room, and he looks far better than last I saw him. He is washed and clothed and fed, and although he still has the look of a hunted man, he looks less likely to drop dead any time soon. He has only a moment to falter at the sight of his King, of the people gathered in this room, but then Sig is led in through another door and the boy races to him with a sob and a cry.
Edgar drops to his knees, receives the child as though he is his own. Sig is weeping – the broken hearted tears of the young – and I think Edgar might be as well, and then Moss bowls them both over because he thinks he should also be involved. His tail whips furiously, he is far too big and heavy to sit in anyone's lap, but it does not stop him from trying and they are soon in a tangle. I think that it is the first time I have heard either Edgar or Sig laugh.
We give them a moment, and despite that he has only one working arm, when Edgar stands he is holding Sig to his hip. I think that they will be fine. I think that they are the only family that either of them has now.
Once the pair are settled the door opens again, and this time it is the convoy of the Steward. It is the fancy and ridiculously dressed man – Briar's decoy – as well as the Steward herself, her guards and, strangely, the hooded old man. The rest are left outside. The old man is deposited quickly into a chair by the silent women, but my attention is more closely upon the man dressed like a peacock.
"You!" I accuse, unable to keep my silence. My face is thunderous, I can feel it, and my hands tense upon my axe.
The man beams, twirls, shows off his gaudy attire. It is Shutter… this preposterous fop is the assassin who would have cut my throat the first time we met.
"Ah, Master Durin!" he beams. His auburn hair is combed and held by some kind of pomade, and he wears greens and reds that clash horribly. He sweeps his cloak back. "Do you approve? I think I look rather fine!"
"You look ridiculous," I snarl. "Is it Lord Shutter now?"
I would continue, I think Shutter would as well, but Aragorn flicks one hand at me and I clamp my mouth shut. I am being rude; it is Aragorn's place to speak in such company, and so I keep my silence although I feel the beginnings of indigestion. Shutter winks at me, and it is only a sudden surge of emotion from Legolas that stops me from launching myself from beside Aragorn. He bids me calmness and patience, and it is the irony more than anything that keeps me still.
Shutter bows deeply to his King, unnecessarily florid, and he shuffles back until the Steward of the Second stands at the foot of the table. She stands alone, proud, and she shucks off her hood and pushes her cloak back from her shoulders. Her dark hair is waved from the dampness, she wears boots and leggings and a simple shirt of richest blue. She seems just as she did the night that I met her; the very image of womanhood: power and strength, beauty and cleverness, and she stands before a King as though she is an equal. She is an absolute marvel, and I risk a glance at Legolas out of the corner of my eye. He does not meet it, but he sees my glance, and I almost laugh at the dancing across his jaw as he clenches his teeth.
"My King," she bows, and she sounds quite genuine. Her voice is rich and soft, and it could be an act – this could all be an act – but she genuinely sounds humbled. She said that she was loyal to the King, and I start to think that perhaps it was truth.
"Lady Briar," Aragorn nods. "I had given up all hope that we might meet."
"I was under some duress, my Lord," she says, and there is a hint of reprimand in her tone but only a hint. She softens it with a smile; not coy or flirtatious, but rather I think she sees the entertainment of it. It is a game.
"An unfortunate thing," Aragorn says carefully, "but had you accepted my hospitality before, then I might not have had to resort to such measures."
"I had hoped that you would never have learned of me," she bows again. "I perform a service to you, and nothing else. One day there will be no need of a Steward on the second."
"I think that day is a while off yet," the King admits. "And I also think that is why we are here. You bring me a gift – is it what I imagine it is?"
She smiles again, and this time it is broad and real. She is impressed… pleased.
"It is," she says happily, but then her attention is diverted. She looks at the elfling, stood still and cool at the side of the King, and she approaches him although it is possibly a bit forward of her. She examines his face – bruised and damaged – and he meets her gaze impassively as she examines the hurt done to him.
"A shame," she breathes, and reaches out as though to touch him but she does not. She sighs instead, smiles again, but this time it is only for Legolas. "Still beautiful, though."
She turns and gestures toward her guards, and they pick up the old man by his elbows and bring him closer. It is a rough way to treat an old man, but once they drag the cloak free and discard it upon the floor I realise why; it is not an old man at all, instead it is a young man who is bound and tied and gagged. His eyes are wide and frightened, and he looks around him as though these are the last moments of his life.
"Lirra and Liana found him," she tells us, and finally the two guards have names. I can see them better this time; they are definitely sisters. "I understand you could not find the man who bought the distilled oils… we found him trying to leave the city. Everyone must pass through the Second."
Lirra – the taller and more angular of the two – grabs a chair and drags it into a free space closer to the King. Liana drops him quite unceremoniously into it and rips his gag free, and Aragorn looks to Hob who stands, approaches. He looms over the man, who is small and slight and afraid. He has narrow eyes and a thin face, and I hear Edgar stifle a gasp.
"He was there, my King!" He cries, and he sounds frightened, unsure; not entirely certain that he should be speaking at all. "He was there when they burned my house!"
The man's eyes dance around us all, taking in his audience, and his fear does not abate. He should not be so frightened of us.
"I did not know!" he cries out, and his voice is harsh and coarse from being gagged. He holds his hands up in appeal, bound together so that it looks like a prayer. "They paid me! My King…. My lords, masters all of you, you must believe me! I had no idea what was happening, I tried to leave as soon as I realised!"
"Realised what?" Hob asks coolly. "You can go ahead and assume that you are under arrest. What you tell us now might make things go better for you."
"I cannot!" the man cries.
"Your name?" Hob enquires calmly, and it throws our captive. Completely throws him, enough so that he stutters out:
"Miro, my lord," and Hob nods.
"Miro," he tests out. "You live in this city?"
"Aye, my lord," he nods. He is starting to calm just a little. "I live on the third with my sister and her sons; she lost her husband in the war. I am a carter, and she is a seamstress, and we make enough living for my nephews. They will be respectable men, once they are grown."
"And this was a job, like any other?"
"I received a petition," he nods enthusiastically, relieved that he is being heard. I am starting to pity the man. "I was to go to an oil seller and find a distillation, pay in gold and deliver it upon the second. That is all I know, I swear it!"
"Indeed," Hob muses. "That is all?"
Miro nods, fast and urgent, begging that we believe him.
"Swear it upon the lives of your nephews," Hob tells him, and the man falters. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out, his eyes widen again and he cannot do it… he cannot. His face drops, and I hear Legolas hiss in annoyance. His impatience and irritation have been scratching at the edge of my mind, a moth at a lamp, but he is so often irritated or impatient that I have grown to ignore it. Perhaps I should revise my stance on such things, because it seems the events of the last few days have set him back in his recovery quite considerably.
Legolas leaves his position at Aragorn's side, he strides across the stone floor, and as he moves he draws one of his blades. Larke stands to stop him but the elfling moves past, slips by as though the lad is nothing but an inconvenience. His face is blank and frozen, anger blazing in those awful eyes… not the kind and happy eyes that I know. He is not my friend when he is this way, he is a complete stranger, and when he reaches Miro he draws back his blade, readies himself to strike. It is only Aragorn's voice cutting through the air that stops him.
"Daro!" he snaps out, and Legolas falters, flinches. It is not shame or realisation, but rather the flinch of a dog that has been yanked by its chain. His arm is pulled back but he pauses – bares his teeth, snarling, and his eyes dance to the side toward Aragorn. He recognises the voice, knows that he should heed it, but I think he is struggling to recall why.
Miro, by now, is sobbing. He has a furious – and slightly mad – elven warrior with a blade pointed directly at his heart, and only the tenuous control of his King holding the blow at bay. He starts to cry, and any pity that I felt before doubles and triples until I resolve to kick the elfling the next time we are alone, quite solidly in the shins.
"I do not think that he believes you," Hob shrugs, gesturing negligently toward the elfling and seemingly quite relaxed despite this show of aggression. "And we have no time for liars."
"They wish to take over," Miro weeps, and he is a bit of a mess by now. Legolas has the full force of that awful glare pinning the poor man into his chair, the threat of his blade upon his heart, and I am surprised that he has not ruined Aragorn's nice upholstery. "I heard them talking. Men do not often pay much mind to me, so they spoke as I was not there. They said: "once all is done and we hold the second circle…" and I heard no more, and they said nothing else on it… I swear, I swear on my sister and nephews, and my dear departed parents, and my cat and everything that I have… I swear it. Please, please my lords… I am needed, they need me. I simply answered a summons!"
Miro folds then into a mess of self-pity and fear, sobbing into himself, and I know that we will get nothing more from him. Hob reaches out and lays his hand upon Legolas' shoulder, and it is a heartening sign that the elfling lowers his blade rather than slapping his hand away, or perhaps impaling him, which is also a possibility. He straightens, sheathes his blade… returns to his station as though nothing has happened. Aragorn gives him a withering glare, then turns to Ren who seems quite alarmed by what has just happened, and then similarly startled to realise he is under his King's regard.
"Take him away," he instructs kindly. "Feed him, clean him up some – we might have more questions for him later, but send word to his family; let them know where he is."
Miro halts his tears enough to say his thanks, falling over himself and stuttering, a flood of relief and gratitude that is rather difficult to hear. Liana and Ren lead him from the room, and once he is gone I turn to the elfling.
"Would you like to kick the dog as well?" I offer mildly, and his lip curls for a moment into a snarl but I ignore it. People might find him frightening, but I am not afraid of him. Not now the danger is over, in any case… I am not a complete idiot.
"That is interesting," Briar muses, and she seems unconcerned by the spectacle of a murderous elf not feet away from her, but certainly troubled by the carter's words. She finds herself a chair and settles into it, sits proud and gathered, but her face betrays what her posture does not.
"Have you heard the name 'Oren' before, my lady?" Hob asks out of curiosity, and Briar looks blank, shakes her head.
"Do you make income from being the Steward?" I ask. I glance at the elfling, pull at our link to make certain he is unlikely to attack anyone else, and then I join the others. I leave Legolas guarding Aragorn, and I take a seat at the table. "If you would excuse my rudeness, I would hear it if you would tell it."
"A lot," she admits, and she shrugs. "I will deny nothing. I charge a percentage for my services, but I keep very little of it; it has better use elsewhere and money makes me uncomfortable. My father was the Steward before me, and he said that people can only take away that which you have."
"But a man who kept that income would be a rich one indeed," I press. She nods, and again her eyes have drifted. She is deep in thought.
"It is more than that, though. There are things…" she begins, "things I have started to do; practises I have tried to weed out. We no longer have any hidden caches of armaments, I have ousted most of those who sell poppy extract, although they are proving stubborn. There is no need for an Assassin's Guild, no cause for it any longer, but it made much gold in its best years. If I was replaced, and if my successor had only gold in his heart, he could un-do much and do a lot of harm. It could be… lucrative."
"And the effect on the rest of the city?" Hob asks faintly. I am surprised to hear a glimmer of weariness in his tone. She looks up, blinks, and for a moment her face is clear and without any pretence. She looks worried.
"It would be bad," she admits. "My family have kept things… contained, kept it quiet until your return, my King, but it is a tenuous balance and hard to keep. If the Stewardship was taken by someone with no love for this city, the darkness on the second would spread like ink upon water. Minas Tirith is not sufficiently healed to defend against such a thing – not from being poisoned from within. I would give it five years before the darkness spreads, and the remaining circles become much as the second is right now."
TBC
So, very quick a/n here.
I have been gone for FAR longer than I had intended. I tried to post on time - I truly did - but I had problems with the site. Firstly it wouldn't let me upload the chapter at all, then I could upload it but I couldn't amend it. Then I got busy. December was always going to be a busy month, but I had always meant to post three chapters before Christmas. This is partly because they are sort of the same chapter broken up - this is all one scene, and they go as a triptych - but also because I have a New Year hiatus every year. I didn't want to have a hiatus directly after a hiatus, therefore basically vanishing for a few months.
So the site is now letting me upload again, and I thought: 'self, you always intended upon posting three chapters before Christmas. There is literally no reason why you cannot do this.'
So I have.