Forever Afternoon
Chapter Twenty
Word Count: 3,017
Rating/Disclaimer/Summary: Same as chapter 1, really
Author's Note: I said back on chapter thirteen that this story had flaws, and unfortunately, it seems to be gaining more as it goes along. It was difficult to get this chapter put together, and in the end, the best ending left for the chapter cut out what I might have done for Aragorn, meaning it is, once again, more about Varyar. That really doesn't seem like a good thing.

And I should add in this... warning. The chapter is heavily influenced by the movie. I liked the idea of only a small group of them going to Orthanc, which led to Sérëdhiel's scene and let Éowyn make an appearance, too. That, and I have never liked the war of the Shire or Saruman getting away with what he did at Helm's Deep, so I went with the movie version where he died at the tower. It's better that I did not attempt the war. I would not have been kind to anyone there.

Spoiling the Spoils

"Strange elf."

Varyar groaned as the ent picked him up again, lifting him up away from the Uruks that had chased him into the forest. The ent would call this safety, but he could have killed them. He wanted to kill them. It was not enough to draw them from their march. Eventually they would have returned to their original target, and if those at Helm's Deep survived the night, they would be forced to fight again.

"Let me go," Firyavaryar ordered, pushing at the gnarled bark of a hand wrapped around him. "I don't have time to sing now. I need to kill those Uruks."

"The forest will take them," the ent said. He stopped, looking down at his feet as though he had stepped on something. At least the blood was black. It must have been an orc. "Where is your companion, Gildin?"

"I do not know," Varyar answered, hoping the assassin was far from the absent-minded crazy Onod. "We were separated. I thought you were sleeping."

"The Entmoot has been called."

Varyar suddenly understood that the ent intended to carry him off to that Entmoot, and that could not happen. He remembered little of what he'd been told of the Onodrim—his mind had only just recovered the Sindarian name for Ents—but he did know that they would be going away from where he wanted to be. The Uruk-hai were headed for Legolas, and if Varyar did not go after them, he needed to get to Orthanc. He had to know if Saruman was Ogol. "I cannot go with you, tree, as I have many orcs yet to kill and my gwador to find. Let me down. Now."

"Lathonlass."

Firyavaryar frowned. That did not seem to make sense. Why would he use those words? Was Varyar remembering the language wrong? He did have many gaps in his memory, and that included the language he had been raised with. "What?"

"I am not a tree. Lathonlass is my name, for I would neglect my duties and pretend to be one of my flock to listen to all the elves. I loved their songs." The Onod frowned. "The elves stopped coming, you know."

"That does not mean that you get to keep me," Firyavaryar told him, squirming in the Onod's grip. He would not be dragged off to any Entmoot. Where was Nostalion? His gwador was not dead. Varyar was not a tracker, but he still believed that Nostalion was alive and doing what he was trained to do: kill. Few Uruks lived, and Nostalion must be dealing with the rest.

"I will help you find your brother."

Firyavaryar could use that. He only needed to get Lothanlass to let him down to search, and then he could escape. "No Entmoot?"

"You sang to me. I will help you."

Firyavaryar cursed. He did not want the Onod's help. He wanted his freedom. He needed to find Nostalion and a way close to Saruman. He twisted in the tree's grasp, trying to accept that he would not get free. "Will you take us to the wizard?"

"To Saruman?"

"Yes."

"Why do you seek the wizard?" Lothanlass asked. The tree's eyes looked to the distance, and Firyavaryar would guess that was where the Entmoot was. "They will go to war with him soon."

"The Onodrim are going to war with Saruman?"

"That is what the Entmoot will decide."

"I may kill the wizard," Varyar admitted. He had not been certain that he should tell the tree this before, but he decided to risk being crushed now. "In which case, no war would be necessary."

"I will help you kill the wizard," the tree said, and Firyavaryar started to smile. He figured that the ent would be a powerful ally, given how badly he had almost been injured by Lothanlass. "But you must sing."

Varyar cursed.

"What is this?"

Sérëdhiel lifted her head, facing the edain woman who had challenged her. She had an air of authority, somehow the leader of the bedraggled mass that was reentering the land, despite the men behind her. A shield-maiden, then. Sérëdhiel knew little of edain culture, but Varyar had told her many times that she was as much a shield-maiden as she was a healer, as was Alassë, though her sister was not a healer.

"Looters," Sérëdhiel answered, kicking the nearest corpse with her foot. "I assume they intended to take advantage of the fact that your people had gone to the refuge of Helm's Deep."

"They are dead."

"Asking them to stop was not enough," Sérëdhiel said, though she would have preferred that it was. She did not enjoy battle, and she liked even less that she and her family had blood on their hands. She had never wanted that, Varyar had sacrificed much to prevent it, and Eruaistaniel's healing had suffered again because of it.

"Though we are, I assume, in your debt, I do not know who I am thanking or why."

"You may thank Legolas," Sérëdhiel told her, not wanting to say more. She had not wanted to be here when the edain returned, but the raiders had prevented their departure, trapping them in Edoras until the last man was dead.

"You are friends of the elf?"

"No, we just cut our ears to look like elves," Idhrenion grumbled. He dropped another body onto the pile. "I had forgotten how much this stinks. I thought orcs were bad, but these edain are somehow worse."

"Your imagination," Sérëdhiel told him. They were all accustomed to the way Varyar disposed of bodies. His poison corrupted the body, but at such a speed where they did not smell of rot for long, leaving nothing behind. "All the dead smell the same."

"Legolas did not say he was sending friends here."

"That is because he did not send us, nor does he know that we are here," Sérëdhiel said. She looked to her brother, silently urging him to gather his wife and child so that they could leave now. Let the edain clean this mess. This was their home, and her family would leave them to it.

"My lady," a rider said, coming up next to the other woman. "We cannot trust them. What if these men were refugees? Why should we believe these strange elves? They give you a name to placate you, but they offer no proof."

The shield-maiden stepped forward to examine the body. She bent down, tearing a cloth from the man's coat. She stood. "The mark of Dunland. These were raiders."

"Lady Éowyn—"

"Let go of me!" Alassë ordered, trying to pull free of the guard that had her by the arm. Idhrenion's eyes darkened with fury, and he lunged for the man holding his family. Sérëdhiel moved to take Thenidriel from her sister, turning to face the shield-maiden.

"Why must you edain always be like this? We may have trespassed, but we intended no harm. We caused none except to those who sought to harm us. We would already have gone if not for them. Let us go, and we will leave you in peace."

"Let her go. Let them all go," Éowyn ordered. She saw some of the men starting to object and shook her head. "My lord uncle gave you orders to obey me in his stead, and that is a child. Anyone who harms them will answer to me."

Sérëdhiel returned Thenidriel to her mother, now free of the guard but glaring hatefully at him from her husband's arms. Sérëdhiel turned to the shield-maiden and bowed her head in gratitude. "Thank you. We need to gather one more before we leave, but we will depart immediately."

"That is unnecessary," Éowyn told her. "We are in your debt, and you are welcome here."

Sérëdhiel shook her head. They were not, and everyone knew they were not. "We should go. My husband should have reached us by now, but he has not. He is late, and I must find him."

"I cannot see a blasted thing," Gimli grumbled, fidgeting as he did. "Your hair is in the way, you vain elf princeling."

Legolas frowned, shifting around in the uncomfortable saddle to look at the dwarf. He was not vain, and it was not his hair that obscured Gimli's vision. He was aware that his back was the obstacle, but he did not know why the dwarf was complaining now.

"There is nothing to see, Gimli," Legolas told him. The ride had become long, weary as they were after the battle and its painful aftermath—caring for the fallen—but they were not done with their travels. "We have not yet reached Orthanc."

"Bah. I thought horses were supposed to make traveling faster."

"I believe that it is something else troubling you," Legolas began. He did not think that it was even the horse that bothered Gimli. "Will you tell me what it is? Surely it is not that I matched your count in battle."

"You? Matched my count? Only by cheating."

Legolas raised an eyebrow. He thought that the dwarf was the one who'd cheated, waiting until Legolas had given his count and picking a number one higher. "Then what is it that concerns you?"

"The forest."

"Ah," Legolas said, nodding. He had seen what happened to the Uruk-hai that fled the battle. They all had. It was rather intimidating, even for an elf who knew well and respected the power of the forest. "Take heart, friend dwarf. The forest is our ally. The trees will not harm us."

"They won't harm you, you mean. You're the elf," Gimli grumbled. "Those of us who are not should worry."

"Mithrandir said that an Onod was caring for Merry and Pippin, and the forest never harmed Estel when he journeyed with me. You are quite safe. Unless you decide to insult them, that is. I may be unable to save you then."

"Me need you to save me? You, a spoiled twig of an elf prince?" Gimli scoffed. "The day a dwarf needs help from an elf—"

"Is the day a tree eats you," Legolas told him, smiling as the dwarf spluttered. The horse started into the deep water surrounding the tower, and Orthanc loomed above them.

"I'd say the trees can fight," Estel said, surveying the damage. The work of the Onodrim was impressive, with the fires of Isengard all extinguished. The armies were destroyed, and yet Legolas thought some restoration was already beginning.

"Aye, they can fight," Gimli agreed, looking up at a nearby ent, one that was particularly leafy, and lowering his voice to add, "but they cannot sing."

Something thwacked against Gimli's helm, almost knocking him off the horse. He clung tight to Legolas' waist, and the elf tried not to laugh, though he thought he heard others snickering. It was hard to have much sympathy for the dwarf—Gimli had been warned, and yet he had still insulted the ent. Legolas managed a small smile. That singing had actually reminded him of Firyavaryar. His friend had been talented in many ways, but singing was not one of one of them.

"You should be careful, Legolas," Pippin called to him. "That one would run off with any elf—"

"Or hobbit—"

"What he thought was an elf," Pippin agreed, nodding to Merry. "Though I think I'm a better singer."

Merry shook his head. Estel laughed. "I'm surprised they didn't try and make off with you, then."

"Oh, he tried, and he had help, too," Merry told them. "A dark elf almost had him talked into it, but Treebeard wouldn't let him."

Legolas frowned. "Dark elf?"

"Aye," Pippin agreed, nodding a bit too sagely, probably because of the pipeweed. "Grumpier than Lord Elrond, with a scar on his face."

"Nostalion is here?" Estel looked to Mithrandir. "Why?"

The wizard shook his head. "Perhaps it would be best to ask him, if you can find him after we have spoken to Saruman."

Gimli bumped Legolas in the back. "Nostalion?"

"Firyavaryar's brother. He married his sister."

Legolas didn't know if the dwarf would have asked for more information—or if Estel would have offered it, but the hobbit's antics distracted everyone with their supposed spoils of war. He was relieved when Mithrandir ordered them over to Treebeard. Legolas urged the horse after the others, even though a part of him was tempted to jump off the horse and look for Nostalion.

Maybe even for Firyavaryar.

"How did you convince your friend to free you?"

Firyavaryar grimaced. If only Fangorn had not interfered when Nostalion had Lothanlass convinced that the hobbits were young elves that could sing for him. Varyar had almost been free, but no, the large Onod had spoken and ruined it, leaving him to be insulted by a dwarf. At least the branch had not missed—he'd gotten to see the dwarf almost fall off the horse, which had made him smile.

"I told him I would ask Legolas to sing for him," Varyar answered, shaking his head. He was not pleased by the lie, nor did he like knowing how close he was to his old friend again.

"You don't intend to speak to him."

"A part of me does not think I can continue to conceal my survival. I am not certain I want to," Firyavaryar admitted. He let out a breath. "If they do not kill the wizard, if they attempt to set him free, I will—"

"Kill him yourself."

Firyavaryar had thought he would tell them Saruman was Ogol even if it was a lie. He figured the wizard would die if that was known. He did not plan to let the wizard live. He thought he hated all Istari. He didn't know sometimes why he hadn't killed Mithrandir. Childhood loyalty, perhaps.

"We need to get closer and find out what Saruman is telling them."

"I do not know why they bother speaking with him," Nostalion said. Varyar frowned. Sometimes the enemy had information that could be used, but then again, how did one trust a betrayer?

He grimaced, forcing himself closer to the tower, frowning at the water. If he entered that pool, he could poison all of it. He did not know that he dared. "Perhaps I should have let the tree carry me."

Nostalion gave him a look before pushing him forward, straight into the water. Varyar looked back at him, but his gwador grabbed his arm, pulling him through the slog.

"You might be poisoning yourself, you know."

The assassin did not answer, too focused on getting them to where they could hear Mithrandir's conversation. Varyar did not understand the other elf's behavior, but then perhaps he knew something was wrong with the others and wanted to return to his wife. That would explain the urgency, at least.

Something fell in the water in front of them, and Firyavaryar stepped forward only to recoil back when he recognized the planatir. Nostalion caught him, and Varyar found himself clinging to his gwador as Idhrenion used to do him.

"Look into the stone, pet. Look at your future," Ogol said, dragging Firyavaryar forward by the chain attached to his neck, forcing him onto his knees. He shoved a stone into the elf's face, and when Varyar tried to look away, Ogol tightened the chain until he could not breathe.

"Look."

Varyar tried not to shudder. He did not want anything to do with that thing. Something about it was wrong, though he did not even know what it was. "What is that thing?"

"A planatir. The edain kingdoms thought they owned them, but they do not," Ogol answered, voice full of scorn. "They know nothing of how to use them. I will show you."

Firyavaryar turned away, but Ogol caught his chin and forced him to look into the stone. Images filled his head of bodies, thousands of them scattered across a huge field of death. A dark tower rose above all else, surrounded by water. Then darkness, pure consuming darkness. His sister's cries. Ogol's laughter.

Varyar yanked himself away from the vision, struggling to breathe, trying to force the images from his head, shaking with the strange feeling overwhelming him after that vision. He was not afraid—he refused to be afraid—but he felt sick.

Ogol kicked him. "Sometimes I do not know what I saw in you. You are pathetic."

Something shook him, and Firyavaryar stared at Nostalion for a long moment before he could speak. "Ogol had one of those. He made me look in it once."

"Then Saruman is Ogol?"

Varyar did not know. "I need to see his face."

Nostalion pulled him along, helping him over to the wheel turning through the water. Varyar looked at it with a frown, uncertain why they were there, so close to the others—no, the others were gone. How long had he been in that daze? The memory was not as long as all that, was it?

The wheel contained to turn until it brought up a body, and Varyar cursed. He studied the face, the wide, dead eyes, needing to know if this was the same face that had hidden under the hood, the force of the twisted being that had killed his parents and taken him as a pet.

Nostalion nudged Varyar with the tip of a dagger, anticipating another fugue. "That him?"

"No." Firyavaryar looked at the body as it came around again. No, the eyes were the wrong color. The hair was not the same. The beard was cut close and clean, but Ogol had never worn a beard. The nose, the shape of his face—None of it matched with what Varyar had seen in that memory.

"Then he is dead."

"Is he?" Varyar let out a breath, trying to calm himself. He wanted to believe that, had since his own unfortunate survival, but he did not. The memories alone kept the monster alive, giving him no peace. "I was, yet I live. Mithrandir was, but he lives. Why not Ogol?"

Nostalion did not answer.