Right, first of all, terribly, terribly sorry about the inexcusably long wait! I am very ashamed and apologetic. Very. I'll go cringe away now…

Chapter Sixteen

Legolas crept forward slowly, his soft boots making no sound, his Lórien cloak barely rustling as he moved, so quiet that even straining his pointed ears to their utmost he could detect only the faintest hint of a whisper from his own movements. He paused as he came to the corner of the hallway and held his breath, listening. No sound came from ahead, but behind him he could hear the quiet clink of Gimli's armor as the Dwarf, moving on feet so silent only solid stone could be underfoot, sidled down the opposite side of the hall. He, too, paused when they came to the corner.

The two friends caught each other's eye and nodded. Then, moving with perfect timing, they stepped out abruptly into the hallway. Gimli had a small throwing axe pulled back and ready to fling; Legolas's bow was raised with an arrow notched to it. The Dwarf faced down the right side of the hallway; the Elf to the left. For obvious reasons, Legolas had taken the high stance while Gimli took the low; their heights were perfectly staggered to cover one another while scouting corners. They were ready; none who saw them would have had time to shout an alarm 'ere their life had ended.

However, so far they had encountered nothing save a few small rodents who, startled, fled silently from the sudden appearance of Elf and Dwarf. Glancing back at each other out of the corners of their eyes, they nodded slightly again; each way was clear of enemies. They were safe to proceed. So used to one another were they that only a small shift of the eyes was necessary to decide which way they would take; the discussion was both fast and silent. Sliding once more to opposite sides of the hallway they carefully crept along, weapons still ready in their hands. Just because the hallway was empty did not mean that it would stay that way. Gimli had lowered his larger battle axe out of the way, but he still held the throwing one tightly in his other hand, raised towards his shoulder; it would be the work of less than a moment to pull it back and send it flying. Legolas pinched the arrow's shaft with the fingertips he had wrapped around his bow, holding it there securely; he released the back of the arrow for a moment to wipe his hand dry. A premature shot caused by slippery fingers could bring ruin upon them all. Then he grasped it again, holding the bow half-pulled; it would be the work of less than a moment to raise and release.

Gimli shot the Elf a glance which Legolas returned with a raised eyebrow. The Dwarf wanted to know what this secret the Elf spoke of was that was not his to share. Legolas wasn't telling. They had been having the same silent argument down each hallway and up each corridor as they scouted. It was more out of habit than anything else; the part of their attention that was not occupied with avoiding detection was focused upon worrying about their other three companions. Legolas and Gimli had done things like this often enough that, by now, they had developed it to a fine art. Whether slipping around trees, skirting shallow alleys, stalking in echoing caves, or sneaking through elegant halls, the Elf and Dwarf had little fear of faltering. Unless they turned a corner to find a magically silent army gathered, they would be able to deal with anything easily.

However, while they did not doubt the abilities of Aragorn, Éowyn, or even their newly-met Ranger, Mallor, they knew that the three of them were not nearly so used to working together. It was a disquieting thought in the back of their minds…
And, of course, there was that secret of which Legolas would not speak.

………….

Éowyn watched with a sense of both impatience and helplessness. She had trained next to her brother, knew how to wield a sword and ride a horse with impressive skill. She had rode into war and emerged victorious from a battle with one of the greater Evils of the world. She had studied healing with the daughter and son-in-law of one of the greatest Healers to walk these lands. She had learned secrets of plants and growth from the Elves. She could hold her own in both strategy sessions and ladies' discourse, though she truly shone only occasionally in either.

And yet ever was she reduced to the status her birth had given her: the damsel, the lady of the court, the frail female for whom wars might be fought and epics written but who was never allowed to fight for herself, to secure her own legends. Even she, the White Lady of Rohan, the Lady of the Shield-Arm, even she about whom songs were sung and praises spoken, even she. Éowyn had long ago reconciled the fighter within her spirit with the lady she had been born, and indeed, among the Rohirrim there was a long tradition of Shield Maidens. Éowyn, Shield-Maiden of the Shield-Arm, had proven herself in war and then, desiring to fight no more, had gracefully stepped into the world of peace and healing.

And there she still desired to remain; Éowyn had seen war, and it was an ugly, horrible sight. She no longer felt that chill desire for death in battle; she had passed through her shadow and emerged willing to live. She could see beyond that cold despair that had once frozen her, could see life and she cherished it, nurtured it. She found no joy in killing, in death; only in thwarting it.

But she certainly did not like being an…impediment. That's what she was; a problem, a difficulty, something in the way. Aragorn and Mallor, working in tandem, were silently sweeping the hallways of the aging citadel with the skill of the Rangers. Only after they had proceeded to the end of a corridor and seen that all was empty beyond it would they beckon her to join them. Éowyn swallowed a grimace and tightened her grip firmly on her sword and on her disgruntlement. She knew that she did not have the silence of a Ranger, knew that her eyes and ears were not as trained in detecting the presence of an enemy; she would have been more than content to follow them…but even that was too much of a risk. She had to remain, safe, waiting behind for them to ascertain that the coast was clear before they would allow her to join them. And even that, she could tell, sat ill with the two men; if someone were to enter the hallway or approach from behind, she would be unprotected. Éowyn could practically hear Aragorn silently repeating to himself reassurances; she was a warrior, she was skillful, she was proven, she had her sword, she would be fine, there was no danger… She could also see that while his lips were pressed tight in pain from his wound and determination that they would be successful, they were thinned as well by the distaste he felt for the risk her presence here placed her in.

Without her presence, Éowyn was certain, her companions would never have been hurt as they now were. Without needing to keep her safe, she was certain, they would never have thought of fleeing without Faramir and the other captives. Were it not for the fact that their nobility dictated that she—who had more than proven herself in battle—must be kept safe from any harm, Éowyn was certain, they would have stormed the citadel, defeated the enemy, rescued the captives, and returned home in victory with a chastened, obedient Ostad behind them. But because she was here, they could not risk such an action. It would place her in jeopardy, and they could not allow that. She was as fine a warrior as any—they would all readily admit her skills—but they would not allow her to use them, not if they could help it.

And, Éowyn was growing more and more certain, Legolas knew that she…

There was a short, sharp shout and all three cloaked humans froze involuntarily before spinning towards the distant sound. The cry had been faint, muffled both by the intervening hallways as well as by the one who had shouted; it was an involuntary sort of noise that one makes at a sudden shock or injury, choked off by the need for secrecy almost as soon as it left the lips that formed it.
But in that shout, Éowyn had heard the sound of stone.

Gimli!

………….

A thousand curses danced through Aragorn's mind, learned over millions of miles and decades of years from hundreds of people. He could not speak any, both for the woman at his side and the burning in his chest. Aragorn's feet fair flew over the cold and dusty stone of the citadel of Ostad and the man named Wingfoot soon outdistanced his companions. The yell had not been repeated and no other noises had followed it; either that meant Gimli and Legolas had managed to deal with whatever it had been promptly, or they were unconscious…or… The breath hissed between his lips and the blood of a wound seeped through its bandages and dripped down his chest but he did not falter. Granted, he skidded halfway across the hallway when he took a corner too fast, but he remained on his feet.

Feet that should have been more concerned with silence than speed, even now. Aragorn was one of the Dúnedain, a Ranger in training and thought. No matter what he heard, he should never have broken into a blind sprint—gone searching, yes, but searching with caution, checking around corners before dashing down them, listening for those he had to avoid…and it had only been one short yelp. It could well have been nothing more than an innocent surprise breaking the Dwarf's silence. It had not even been a plea for help, and certainly there had been no sound of steel following it. Every fragment of training and experience Aragorn had ever learned screamed at him to stop, to slow, to be silent; he could well destroy all their chances in his foolhardiness—over something that might be nothing more than a, a decayed tapestry, or wind-blown door, or a million other innocent incidents that could have caught the Dwarf off-guard for a moment…

But something told Aragorn it was not. Some tone in Gimli's yell, or sense in Aragorn's heart, or unclear flicker of foresight, told him that something was wrong…and he hastened towards it, prudence discarded as Wingfoot once more earned his name.
Andúril gleamed in one hand and a short knife of Elvish make shone in the other. He strained his keen ears, searching for a sound, a hint, something to tell him both where to go and what he would meet when he reached his uncertain destination. He knew the direction in which to head, both from the sound he hunted and from their earlier decision of where to search, but it was not specific. He knew not in which hallway he would find his friends—or in what shape he would find them once he got there.

…………….

Arwen scowled and pushed the scroll away from her, although her unhappy gaze never left the cursed paper. The mortal Elf-woman sighed with frustration and resisted the urge to storm from her chair and pace the room. She had always had a keen eye and graceful hand when it came to the literary arts, whether it be in Tengwar or one of the mortal tongues, and it was not difficult for Arwen to spot the signs of forgery in the letter that had called Éowyn to Ostad. Indeed, Arwen felt that the only reason Éowyn herself had not noticed something amiss was because the open Rohirrim woman, for all the time she had spent living with the foul machinations of Wormtongue, was not the type of person to react with suspicion. She had received a missive from her husband, had taken it happily for what it seemed to be, and never thought to look further.

Arwen could not blame her; she wondered that she would ever have thought to do the same, and felt unfortunately certain that she would not. She was lucky that Aragorn had a distinctive hand, difficult to fake; there was a touch of Elvish to the way he formed his letters that came from learning them in her father's household. It was like an accent that could not be heard but rather seen. It seemed that any Elf's writing had the same strange, almost imperceptible difference to it. Her own written "accent" was very thick when she was in a hurry, although usually she took enough care when making her letters that one could mistake them for a graceful mortal hand. And, being related to Elladan and Elrohir as she was, Arwen lost no chance to tease Aragorn about her being able to write more "humanly" than he did.

The queen sighed again. Thinking tangents like that would get her no where, and were a sign of how frustrated she was growing. Arwen was certain that she recognized the hand that had written this letter, but she could not place it. There was something disquietingly familiar to the letters, but what that was she could not say.

The letter had been brought from Emyn Arnen as Aragorn had requested before he set out, although the sudden arrival of her brothers with Beregond had forced him to leave before it came. Arwen had placed it in the private study when the rider handed it to her, and all but forgotten about it with how busy she was in keeping up this intolerable charade.

Arwen was already halfway through her first revolution of the room before she realized that she had risen and begun to pace. Glaring at herself now rather than the letter, she emphatically sat down and pulled it back towards her. She just needed a closer look and she was certain the whatever-it-was would become clear to her… Her dark locks swung down to caress the page and she irritably hooked them back behind a slim pointed ear. Her nose crept down to where it was nearly touching the object of her intense scrutiny. There, she almost had it…just a moment more…

A soft cry interrupted and Arwen immediately jumped to her feet. In a flurry of dark skirts she was in the adjoining room and lifting her daughter into her arms, shushing her back to sleep. The babe squirmed and whimpered as if from a disturbing dream but soon settled back to contentment, one small hand curled in her mother's soft hair. A nurse could have been standing by to care for the child during the night, but Arwen was loathe to pass her darling child into the care of another. As queen, she sometimes had no choice; she had too many duties to be able to take on every moment of attention an infant required, but certainly the babe's nursemaid saw far less work than she had expected as caretaker for the first child of Gondor's royal family.

"Hush, little one," Arwen murmured, gently stroking her daughter's silky curls, "all is well. Rest peacefully, my darling, nana is here. Losto, my Gilraen…"

Yes yes yes, I am decidedly evil. I'll try not to let so much time go by this next update, really I will! But at least I found a nice, happy spot to let you all stew…er, I mean, wait…now didn't I? Heh.

Oh, and a thousand thanks to Lyn for the very welcomed nitpicking! ("Sneaked" sounds a bit awkward, so in places I prefer "snuck," even though it's not a real word. The rest of it, though, yes, I should go fix that now, thank you greatly.)

Also, if I've just sent you a duplicate response to a review you left for a previous chapter, my apologies. I try not to respond until I post the next chapter in order to avoid this, but it's been so long (gee I wonder whose fault that is?) that I may have forgotten...and, yeah, again, I'll be slinking off now...sorry.