Chapter Seventeen

Wingfoot fair flew around the corner before slowing his panicked run to take in the situation.

Gimli knelt over the prone form of Legolas, trying to rouse him. Blood gleamed wet and red. Aragorn's sharp eyes flashed down the hallway and up again, but could find no evidence of a fight. Nothing he noticed seemed amiss; it was as if the Elf had been struck out of nowhere and all evidence of the attack simply melted away. The Ranger's steps faltered as he searched desperately, but there was still nothing. He opened his mouth to voice a question, but before he could do so, he stepped close enough to hear that Gimli was speaking.

Not speaking, really; cursing. Aragorn knew almost no Dwarvish—for it was a secret language, and one the Dwarves guarded carefully—but he knew Gimli well enough to know when this particular Dwarf was swearing, and right now he was doing it with a vengeance. The fact that the Khuzdul was liberally interspersed with more familiar—if no doubt equally foul—smatterings of Westron, Rohanese, and Sindarin made it fairly obvious that the Dwarf was expressing an ill temper, as well as revealing that said temper seemed to be directed at Legolas.

Sheathing his blades, Aragorn knelt next to them. "Gimli, what happened?" he asked, cutting off the Dwarf's muttered curses.

"Talc-minded Elvish idiot," Gimli spat back furiously, "somehow this fool of an Elf managed to get himself wounded and, in his typical corundum-headed superiority, decided he was immune from all frailty or hurt! Who knows how long the blasted princeling's been bleeding himself into a stupor?" Aragorn knew it was a bad sign when Gimli started using rocks as descriptions; at least he wasn't spitting inarticulate Dwarvish expletives yet, but he was clearly close to that point. The Dwarf shook Legolas's shoulder again, more gently than the rumbling rage in his voice would have suggested, but none too delicately.

Aragorn reached for his pack and started searching through it for those pungent herbs that, when crushed, could wake all but the dead as Mallor and Éowyn dashed, panting, into the hall. The Ranger caught his breath against the wall for a moment before pushing off and standing on guard.

"What?" Éowyn managed to gasp faintly as she dropped next to Aragorn.

The king had just started to explain when Legolas stirred with a soft groan. He shook the shadows from his head, and seemed to be about to speak, when he noticed the two Healers leaning over them. He blinked in confusion, frowning. "What is going on?" he asked. Aragorn tensed for the explosion.

"Might one not have more right in asking you such a question!" Gimli bellowed in a whisper.

"Gimli, familiar as I am with your penchant for not making sense as well as your perpetual habit for blaming anything that your feeble Dwarven mind cannot grasp upon myself," Legolas replied with a long-suffering sigh, "I must admit that I find myself utterly at a loss as to why you would think that I could possibly answer such a question when it was I who was somehow rendered unconscious while the rest of you appear none the worse for wear." The Elf spoke in a careful whisper, but his words were weaker and slower than secrecy should have merited. "What sort of attack was it that managed to catch me so off-guard, distracted although I was with watching over my loud companion here in the effort to keep him from alerting the entire citadel to our presence?"

"How should I be expected to know what made you keel over when you choose to keep your honeyed tongue between snake-smiling teeth?" Gimli snarled with terrifying eloquence. "You have all the stubbornness of your ill-begotten father with none of the charm," he began, and Aragorn tensed so sharply that his gasp hissed audibly between his teeth. When either Glóin or Thranduil entered the conversation, all around would be well advised to duck for cover.

"Legolas, you are injured," Éowyn broke in so quickly she nearly stumbled over her words as she spoke and her skirts as she leaned forward.

"I am still waiting for an explanation of what occurrence…" Legolas began somewhat petulantly as Éowyn reached for the Elf's bloody arm, but his voice trailed off when he saw the blood seeping from beneath his archer's bracer. "Oh," he said in a somewhat small voice that seemed to want to disappear beneath the stone floor on which he lay.

"There was no attack, was there," Aragorn said flatly.

Gimli snorted, his throat apparently crammed with too many jumbled words to speak, and shook his head. The Dwarf's eyes sparked as he glared furiously at the Elf. "Fool Elf just collapsed," he eventually managed to force out tightly.

"And now I am fine. A momentary inconvenience," Legolas said lightly, moving to stand. "We had best be on our way, for I fear the foolishness of Dwarves might well have drawn attention to us—am I right?"

Aragorn put a firm hand on the Elf's shoulder and forced him back down. "You are," he said, hoping that Gimli would not choose to notice that in agreeing with Legolas the king was theoretically agreeing that the Dwarf had been foolish—Gimli was more than capable of starting an argument over a technicality like that if he were in the mood for one—but apparently the Dwarf didn't want to dilute any of his anger at Legolas by sharing some for the Man. For which Aragorn was grateful; he was well skilled at speechcraft, but Legolas and Gimli had spent immeasurable hours perfecting their talents and techniques for argument, and he knew that in his present state he would be no match for the frustrated Dwarf. "However," Aragorn continued, "since you chose not to share news of your injuries with us when we could have better spared time to tend them, we will have to hope that your stubbornness does not now harm us."

Legolas's pale cheeks flushed slightly. "I told you, it is nothing. Let us be off—" He was interrupted by a sharp flinch when Éowyn probed along the bottom edge of his ribcage where his tunic bore a stain of blood.

"What happened and when did it occur?" The Rohirrim woman asked with steel in her eyes and voice.

"When we were going over the wall, I was grazed by an arrow. Now, are you all satisfied? May we be on our way at last? For I—"

"That's an awful lot of blood for a graze," Aragorn murmured, raising an eyebrow in a not-at-all amused manner. "One would think that a bandage might have helped greatly when the wound was freshly made," he added dryly.

"That implies that Elves are capable of thought," Gimli muttered. Legolas shot him a haughty glare but knew that he was in no position to argue the point right now.

"How much blood loss does it take to make an Elf faint, my lord?" Éowyn asked coolly, although she knew quite enough about the Healing Arts, even when applied to Elves, to require no answer.

Gimli offered one, though, saying, "quite a bit less when they haven't slept in days, I'd wager."

"That is a bet I doubt any of us here would take, my friend," Aragorn answered, tugging on the buckle of Legolas's bracer to loosen it.

Which apparently took things just a step too far. Legolas was willing to put up with more than usual because he knew he'd been foolish and his stubbornness had placed his friends in danger, but enough was enough. He yanked his arm away from the king and rose almost smoothly to his feet. If he had to blink to dispel a flash of dizziness, he did not allow that to deter him. "While I am thrilled that you are all garnering amusement from this at least, I truly believe that there are better times and better places to continue my embarrassment," he snapped. All three opened their mouths to say something, but Legolas turned sharply on his heel and stalked away. He roughly yanked his arm-guard tight again; it made perhaps a less effective tourniquet than he had thought it would, but it ought to be able to put enough pressure on the wound to keep him upright long enough for them to find somewhere safer than the middle of a hallway.

"Come along," he snapped to Mallor, practically stomping—if such a word could be applied to the noiseless footfalls of an Elf—past the Ranger. Mallor's jaw worked, as if he were searching for words. He glanced back at his liege for help, but Aragorn just shrugged and waved a hand, indicating that the Ranger might as well do as Legolas said.

Éowyn and Gimli muttered mutinously under their respective breaths, but rocked to their feet and followed as well. They were familiar enough with Legolas's stubborn streak to know that once Aragorn folded to more or less side with the Elf, any further opposition would be a waste of quite a bit of time. Of course, the Elf was setting himself up for quite a bit of grief later, but Legolas was irritated enough at them and, more so, at himself, enough to not care at the moment.

The Elf forced himself to slow down when the faint sounds behind him reminded Legolas that his companions could not be as silent as he and still move so rapidly. And upset as he was, now was not the time to put distance between them, however much he might like to. He was quite capable of taking care of himself, and there were more important things to worry about now than a simple arrow graze—and no matter if he had perhaps lost more blood than he'd anticipated, now was not the time to dawdle with such trivialities. Gimli should have just slapped him awake and they could have gone about their business without any of this pointless trouble.

Aragorn leaned over to Gimli and whispered quietly enough that Legolas, with his head still ringing a bit, didn't overhear the soft words. "So he simply toppled over with no provocation?"

"Ay," Gimli mumbled back, scowling at the retreating grey cloak of the Elf in question. "One moment we were arguing, the next he swayed and tumbled like a brittle tree in a storm."

Aragorn was almost too preoccupied to notice that Gimli had used a metaphor that was distinctly more Elven than Dwarven in nature, but some small part of his mind filed it away with a hidden smile for later note. Aloud, he murmured, "he is lucky he did not crack his head open when he fell."

Gimli snorted, but quietly. "Thranduilion's thick head is far too hard to be injured by this poor, bruised stone. Rather, we are lucky that he did not split the floor in twain," the Dwarf grumbled.

Aragorn swallowed a chuckle, knowing that to laugh would be to invite doom from both Dwarf and Elf upon his person, and to force them to unite in argument when they were angry with one another would only cause them to direct more venom his way. And while the king would never admit it, the last desperate dash had left him more tired than he was comfortable being in, in such a situation. He needed a moment to recover from his thrice-cursed wounds…

But the king's sharp ears suddenly caught proof that that moment would be a long time coming:

Voices!

………….

Elrohir started, suddenly realizing that his name had been said twice without eliciting reaction. Granted, it was not "his" name, exactly, so he could perhaps be excused his inattention, but as he was currently playing the part of "Elladan," he really had best remember to respond to his brother's name.

"Your pardon, my lords," the Elf said smoothly. "I fear my attention was elsewhere for a moment." Arwen flashed him a look that said if she had been sitting just a few inches closer she would have delivered a wicked kick to his ankle. He smiled back at his sister most sweetly but resisted the urge to tease her; Elladan was the "serious" twin—in comparison to Elrohir, for both were shameless jokesters—and would have restrained himself from mocking Arwen in the middle of the council meeting unless his brother was here to start the game. Of course, Elladan's brother was here, but Elrohir was being Elladan, and so he had to act as his brother. It was a simple enough thing, really, but it got quite confusing when one tried to think about it. Elrohir idly cursed politics, kingdoms, nobles, meetings, and both his twin and foster-brother-brother-in-law for leaving him in this position.

Especially because Aragorn's illness-that-was-really-a-secret-mission-but-shh meant that he had to take the king's place at these hideous meetings. Arwen was more than capable of handling them on her own, of course, but he had to give the impression that both twins were here, and what better way than to make himself seen as each brother "taking turns" to aid the queen, while the other brother "sat with the king" in his bedchambers in case he should require anything in his illness. Fortunately, Beregond was recovered enough that he could be left on his own for a few hours, for the two Elves dared not involve anyone else in the deception. A stray word now would lead to all manner of trouble. Humans were such suspicious creatures…deservedly so, having lived on the edges of Mordor, perhaps, but really, it got a bit annoying, especially when you were used—and Elrohir was—to the ways of the Elves of Imladris and Lórien who had known each other for a very long time, in some cases literally for Ages, and trusted one another in every sense of the word. Of course, being an Elf of Imladris—indeed, being one of the two Lords of Imladris who had taken charge after their father went over the Sea—Elrohir ought to be used to meetings that went on for hours or even days, but somehow those meetings didn't seem quite so tedious as the ones he'd been trapped into attending here in Gondor. Certainly he'd never had his mind wandering this much during them! With a sigh, Elrohir forced his attention back to the matter at hand.

Which was, apparently, the organization of night watches on the outer walls. He had been asked for his opinion, as if he were some sort of expert on the matter. Granted, he had spent enough time riding with the Dunedain to be familiar with the limits of mortal senses and endurance; he also had plenty of experience in organizing watches around a camp in both dangerous and peaceful lands; furthermore, he had often arranged the defenses of Imladris…but that was really quite a different matter.

"Well, my lords," Elrohir-speaking-as-Elladan said, "I must admit that I have never given thought to the arrangement of such a thing in a city of this sort. Imladris—that is, Rivendell—lies in a secluded valley, and our gate guard is there more to act as a welcoming party than anything defensive. We have no walls to walk, and while we do have riders and scouts patrolling the surrounding area they are, well, they are Elves; we set no specific patrols to walk, merely scatter a few individuals and trust that they will remain close enough to one another to call for assistance if it is required and yet far enough to cover most of the ground. Even without the, ah, special protections my father used to keep our valley safe and secret, we need little fear sudden attack." He shrugged and spread his hands. "I fear my advice on this matter will be of little use…at least in comparison to that of my dearest sister." Elrohir schooled his face into innocence rather than smirking; he was being his brother, after all, and Elladan was quite good at looking serious.

He expected Arwen to shoot his a glare sharp enough to knock him from his chair for putting her on the spot like that, but instead she merely nodded and rose smoothly from her chair as if she had been waiting for the proper moment. Gondor's queen moved to the diagram of the city's defenses that was spread across the meeting table and began speaking.

Elrohir heard few of her words for he was too busy staring at the Elf-woman outlining her strategy for perimeter defense. When had Arwen become versed in military strategy? When, for that matter, had she started to care about such things enough to bother to become versed? Elrohir sat slackly in his chair wondering how long ago his little sister had turned into a queen and why he had never noticed the change until now.

When had his baby sister grown up, and what else had he missed? Suddenly, and for the first time in his long, long life, Elrohir felt old.

………….

"I don't see what all the commotion's over, anyway."

"Strangers in the city…"

"Aye, a scant handful of fools, from what I hear! Probably just got lost…confounded streets…"

"Their high-and-mightinesses want them caught, that's all that matters."

"And did you hear what Third Company was babbling about? Elves and monsters! Pah!"

"Well, we can't very well have that sort running around the city, can we?"

"And what do they want here, I'd like to know!"

"Probably just trying to find the way back out—lost, like you said."

"Then what's the point of searching here, eh? They'll be heading for the exits, not the center of the city."

"Suppose they could be really lost…"

Laughter echoed off stone hallways.

"Still, even if they were that lost, how'd they make it through the wall to the Inner City, huh?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"But searching the citadel? It's ridiculous! There's no way the fools could have made it in here, even if they did wander past the Wall somehow…"

"Well, it hardly be our place to question, is it?"

"It is when I'm supposed to be sound in my bed!"

"You whine like an old woman."

Two citadel guards in their gray and black livery rounded a corner, their boot heels ringing sharply on the stone floor. The shorter of the two gave his companion a shove. "And you look like one," he snapped back, grinning. The noise of their conversation, amplified by the ancient stones, covered the sound of a quiet retreat ahead of them. They never saw the tail end of a pale grey cloak whip around the corner at the end of the hallway; it seemed no more than shifting dust and shadows cast from the torch the taller soldier carried aloft.

Still complaining, the guards bantered their way to a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, and on down the corridor. Then the taller one paused, and looked back. "Suppose we'd better check up there, too," he grumbled. The two soldiers hesitated a moment, eyeing one another, then sighed and stomped back the way they'd come. The staircase was small and dark, choked with dust, for few took this path any longer; there were broader, less risky climbs to the upper levels, and this out-of-the way set of crumbling carved steps now stood all but forgotten in the mazelike corridors of a citadel built for a larger garrison than the city could muster.

Grumbling all the while, the two guards took the stairs single file, the taller torchbearer in front. Their climb led past a few doors on its spiral upwards. The shorter guard tried the doors, but found most of them locked; the others were small storerooms, filled with forgotten sacks and chests, and a cursory inspection by the flickering fire was enough to reveal them empty, their dust undisturbed by anything larger than mice.

"Didn't think to get a set of keys," the shorter guard had muttered when they encountered the first unopenable door. "Should we go find the keeper?"

His lankier companion shrugged. "Why bother? 'Tisn't like they could have gotten in if it's locked, is it? This all be a waste of time anyway…"

"You be right," the other had nodded sharply. "Let's just get this done." They hadn't wasted more a second on any locked doors after that. It was late, and their bunks were calling.

Eventually they came across one door that seemed merely stuck; the guards glanced at one another, curious but not altogether alarmed. Ostad's infiltrators certainly weren't about to materialize in some forgotten pantry, but nonetheless, it was odd. The guards peered at the lock and jiggled it a bit, but it held fast. Grumbling about rust, the soldiers continued on their way, the dancing light from the torch skipping around a bend in the staircase and fading away at last.

Within the small room, a band of cloaked strangers breathed a collective sigh of relief. Gimli released his viselike hold on the door's handle, and the others lowered their weapons. The Bow of Galadriel creaked as if offended to have been drawn and not loosed.

"That was close," Aragorn muttered, sheathing Andúril.

"We could have taken them," Gimli grumbled, flexing his cramped fingers.

Gondor's King raised a noble eyebrow. "And of course, when two of their guards failed to return from their search, the captains would have written it off as coincidence."

The Dwarf shuffled and glowered. "It would hardly surprise me, in this shabby excuse of a city," he replied, but he said it quietly into his beard.

"Now what, my lord?" Mallor asked, his own sword still out and at the ready.

Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but Éowyn did so first. "There are injuries to tend," the White Lady of Rohan said fiercely, glaring at both Aragorn and Legolas as if the Witch King himself stood before her. The Man swallowed his words and both took an involuntary step back. They might both be great lords used to giving orders of life and death in dire peril, but neither one was about to argue with the Lady Éowyn.

"And then, rest." She glanced at the rest of her footsore and dusty companions. "We could, I am sure, all use some of that."

Cloaked faces looked back at her, pale in the sliver of moonlight streaming through the thin window, and nodded. The day had been long and hard, and tomorrow looked to be worse. They had survived the chase, but that was all. They were in more danger now than ever, hidden as they were deep within the center of the double city, Ostad.

Why in the world did I use the word "Rohanese"? Isn't it supposed to be "Rohirric"? Actually—surprisingly—not. I was double-checking the spelling on the word (I thought that's what it was, too) and came across the article on Rohirric on Wikipedia, en(dot)wikipedia(dot)org/wiki/Talk:Rohirric and it turns out, Tolkien never used that word. He only used Rohanese once, and usually referred to their language just as "Rohan." Rohirric, it seems, is a bit of "fannon" that we've all just accepted as true cannon, it's been around so long. Whaddaya know, huh?

...and as always, I apologize for the delay in updating.