Brekke trotted along beside Beril through the streets of the lower city. Four sable-clad guards went behind them. The great, dwarf wrought gates would normally have stood open on a sunny summer afternoon, but this day the stalls of fruitsellers that usually lined the plaza within the city walls were shrouded in canvas. The remnants of a night of chaos were visible everywhere, many buildings had burned and there was more refuse in the streets than usual. The banner of the white tree hung from shuttered windows, displayed in support for the royal family.
The whole city seemed to be holding its breath. When they reached The Smoldering Star a large, brickwork inn near the gates, the usual rows of carriages and horses were drastically reduced. One small Shire-make coach stood conspicuously beneath the looming Numenorian architecture. It was painted in a riotous pattern of flowers and butterflies and bore the newly adopted Took clan seal – a red mushroom in a ring of seven stars.
When Brekke had awoken that morning, she changed the bandages on her arm herself, rubbed some oil into her singed curls, dressed in her most practical dress, a more feminine version of the same livery worn by all who worked in the citadel, and gone to ask how she could assist her lady. She had not expected to be sent on an errand such as this. Her job was to care for the little princesses; she was a nurse and an apprentice midwife - not a diplomat. She knew nothing of these exotic Northern pygmies. Still, it would not be proper to invite a young girl up to the palace with only a male escort. It would be Brekke's job to help civilize the girl. If the painting on the traveling coach was any indication, she would desperately need it.
She nodded politely at Beril as he held open the door for her. Brekke had been brought to court by her cousin when she was an infant. Unlike her older sister, she remembered nothing of their lives before they had been adopted into the burgeoning palace staff. Her comical puff of black hair and easy smile earned her the affection of everyone in the citadel. She had been outfitted with a tiny uniform, and, in a very solemn ceremony before the queen, she was granted an official position at court. The citadel under the direction of Sir Damrod, was a well-ordered bureaucracy in which every job, from mopping the floors to changing the princess' diapers, was done efficiently. Brekke thought it was beautiful.
That is to say, the sudden cacophony of The Smoldering Star's common room was an affront to her courtly senses. The room was dark and smelled of stale beer and pipeweed. The flag of Eriador hung over the cold hearth beneath a mounted warg's head. A group of people was off to one side, standing around a table where someone was telling a story. The paned, yellow windows let in slivers of greasy light. Rows of patrons looked up from their drinks, and a distracted bard sat in a corner playing some rambling improvisation upon a battered lute. It seemed that those in the city who had not reacted to the sudden violence and subsequent lockdown of the city with vandalism or song had chosen to drink away their anxiety.
"How can I help ye?" the old man behind the bar asked through a haze of pipe tobacco. He spoke in a thick, Northern accent. He caught sight of their uniforms and raised an eyebrow.
"We have come to escort Sir Took and his companion to the citadel," Beril informed him with a bow.
The innkeeper's demeanor relaxed. "TROLLSLAYER!" he roared, and the crowd around the table answered drunkenly in kind and parted to reveal a surprised-looking hobbit standing on the table holding a stein of beer. The so-called Trollslayer wore a finely embroidered red doublet and had put on a respectable amount of weight for a hobbit of his years. Pippin had been in the midst of a toast, which had turned, inadvertently, into a story and then another story about Aragorn killing an orc chieftain in Moria. He was surrounded by a ring of teary-eyed veterans of the Grey company who had spent the long hours of the night and the following morning buying him drinks and drunkenly confessing their undying affection for their chieftain. They still had not washed off the dust from the long road down from their homes in the North.
They grew suddenly still as they recognized the citadel uniforms.
"What news of Strider?" Pippin asked grimly as the two of them approached the table.
"I cannot speak to the king's condition," Beril lied diplomatically, "the lady Arwen has sent us to escort you to the citadel."
Brekke glanced at Beril, then around at the gathered Dunadain. Scarred survivors of many battles where they had followed their chieftain without hesitation, they deserved the truth.
"He is badly injured." Brekke spoke up, stepping beside Beril. "he could die. Lord Elladan is worried." She saw one of the men cover his face in his hand and begin to weep. Another put an arm around him. "I was there, in the market, when it happened." She stepped forward and was herded into the crowding, dark men like a flock of dirty crows. Sir Took stepped down from the table and pulled back the chair that he had been using.
"Tell us everything." He ordered, all merriment draining from his face.
.
"Your father's father," Findegil shook his head with a sense of certainty, "That's impossible. He was mortal. His soul has gone beyond the halls of Mandos into the eternal music." He had a way of talking that sounded like he had read a lot of books and had yet to absorb them fully. He watched his friend's face fall into sadness at his skepticism.
"I know what I saw, Fin," Eldarion answered him firmly.
"Of course!" he tried to sound sympathetic, "but…" Eldarion glared at him, and Findegil struggled to articulate what he wanted to say without upsetting his friend and liege. He knew as well as any educated Gondorian the complex dance that was the Choice of the Peredhil, "How fares your father?" he asked instead.
"We will see," Eldarion answered coolly.
They walked behind Holleg, who seemed to have tuned out their conversation, fixated as he was on remaining upright. His shattered arm was held tight to his stomach.
"Commander!" a troupe of black-clad guards appeared before them as they entered the entrance hall, "There was another blast?" the one in front asked, holding his sword hilt as if it would be at all effective against an explosion.
"I am aware, Captain," Holleg said in a breathy voice, unlike the one he usually used.
"You're injured!" the newcomer noticed, then, seeing the prince, offered a sympathetic inclination of his head and shoulders.
"The dark wizard is no more." Eldarion told him, "I would inform my mother." The boy looked grim, and there was a shadow behind his eyes.
"Truly?" The guard hesitated, looking between the two boys and his pale, commanding officer.
"I was myself injured in the confrontation." Holleg confirmed. "let us through. You have done your duty."
"You will understand if we take all precautions, my lord." He looked at the prince skeptically.
"Precautions?" Eldarion stepped in front of the Commander, anger cooling his tone. "Do you not know me?" His eyes flashed purple.
"Of course, my lord," the guard stepped back, "we have been instructed to take precautions against those impersonating your very likeness. I meant no disrespect."
"You would deny your wounded commanding officer access to healers?" Eldarion snapped, not knowing where this sudden audacity came from. The guard had only a moment to look between the faces of his superiors in unguarded terror before they were interrupted by a new voice.
"Eldarion!" they all turned to see Eowyn emerge from a side corridor. Elladan was immediately behind her, and they were followed by an ancient Easterling in pale blue robes with a walking stick. "Why are you walking around!" she demanded.
Eldarion's mouth snapped shut. He glanced down to see a spreading patch of red on his leg where his stitches had torn, and he had bled through the bandages.
"I was trying to get to the infirmary!" His tone switched from bratty to innocent, and he narrowed his eyes at the guard who had tried to detain him.
"Is this the boy who holds the stone?" Allatar stepped forward, looking to Eowyn for confirmation.
"Yes." Elladan confirmed, relief mixing with annoyance, "Your mother is not happy." Eldarion flinched.
"But you hold it no more?" the wizard asked, stepping up to the boy with his hands raised as if he were a wild and unpredictable animal who might lash out at any moment.
"It was destroyed," Eldarion watched the old man skeptically, only flinching slightly when he raised his gnarled hands to study the prince's face. "I threw it at him. It shattered. And then he was gone."
"How can it be?" Allatar touched his cheek in wonder, gazing into eyes that still reflected the light of the stone, and, he suspected, always would. "How is it that a child can wield such power?"
"I didn't try to break it!" Eldarion was suddenly very aware of all the eyes on him. "I… I was angry that he hurt my father. I thought that Holleg was dead. I didn't try to hurt anyone!" the old man smelled like camphor, and the look he was directing towards the prince was one of awe mixed with a strange familiarity. He studied the boys' still child-soft features and was hit with a wave of ancient memories.
"Those eyes…" he whispered, "son of the stars indeed. You have slain one of the Istari. Child, this is no mere feat." He removed the hand from the prince's face. "Take me to your father!" he ordered.
"Why?" Eldarion's recent experiences with wizards made him skeptical of the old man. He looked to his uncle Elladan. "Who are you?"
"Elrohir trusts him." Elladan shrugged, "he has a healing touch. He may heal what my skills could not."
"I am Allatar of the East," the wizard bowed his head, his hands folded over the top of his cane.
"Might I show you?" Allatar looked down at the stained patch on the prince's trousers.
"Not me," he nodded at Commander Holleg. "His arm was broken. You may heal it if you can."
"I have myself born witness to his power," Elladan interrupted them impatiently, "come, all of us, to the healing halls. We have no time to tarry!"
"Lord Elladan!" Findegil squeaked as Elladan directed him forward. "There are explosives in the Archive! Lord Faramir stayed behind to attempt to disassemble them!"
"You have seen my husband?" Eowyn looked between the two boys with wonder, seizing the prince's shoulder. "Tell me he lives."
"He lives. He was being held at the top of the tower," Eldarion answered, "he would not follow us."
"You heard the prince!" Elladan snapped at the troupe of guards who had watched the scene unfold. Their leader nodded, understanding that he was being chastised. "lend what aid you can to the Steward. Secure the tower for now. Assume that the intruder is banished." They rushed past in a clatter of armor, sable cloaks flowing behind them, the sound of iron boots echoing off the high ceiling. Eowyn's relief was mingled with worry as she gazed at the retreating backs of the guards.
"I need you to do your duties, my lady." Elladan reminded her gently. She spared a glance after the guards and nodded.
"Yes, sir." She gently lifted the hand that Holleg was using to protect his bloodied limb, "This is a twisted break," Eowyn cringed as she studied Holleg's purple and swollen arm, a white jut of bone pierced the flesh above his vambrace and his hand was turned too far around, "no healers touch will make these bones align. It will need to be carefully set."
"I must agree." The wizard stepped up beside the Commander's other side. "I regret that this may be my brother's doing, but perhaps I can take away some discomfort." He raised his hand, asking Holleg for permission. When he had nodded, the wizard placed his fingers lightly on his shoulder. A wave of energy that bore the smell of spring rain washed across them. Holleg gasped in relief as numbness spread from his shoulder. The wizard stumbled into Eowyn, cringing and leaning heavily on his cane.
"What is it, father?" She caught him gently.
"Oh," he shooed her off casually, "these last days have been a trial for these old bones. Come," he put a familiar arm across Eldarion's shoulder, "Son of Melian. Show me to your father."
.
Faramir stared at the whirling mass of wires and gears between his hands. He willed the still-surging chaos of drugs to dissipate, closed his eyes to the slowly orbiting cosmic mandalas in his mind, opened them, and watched as the complex mechanism seemed to warp and disassemble before his eyes.
How long did he have? How much time had passed? What was time? He shook his head, willing himself to focus. Thousands of lives depended upon him. If the tower fell, it could crush half the city. If he told the citizens to flee, it would cause panic, and more might die. Crowds of mourners stood in every stairway up to the fountain plaza. He might lose his chance at disarming the bomb while running for help.
Faramir laughed. He could taste his heartbeat in the back of his throat, and it made him gag. There was a mechanical dial on the softly-clicking device. Every few seconds, a card would flip to show a new grapheme in an alphabet he had never seen in his life. The machine was counting down to the seconds to his doom, and he had no idea how long he had.
Findegil had tried to pull one of the devices apart. It lay still mostly in the place where it had been installed around one of the pillars. The mechanism was housed in a brass chassis. It could be pulled partially away from the block of dusty-looking clay adhered to the pillar, and bits could be removed with a knife or a chisel, but the large light in the center of the mechanism began to flash red in warning, and he had, evidently, stopped.
There had to be a way of disarming it. On a day when he was not drugged and sleep-deprived, Faramir may have been able to figure it out. He thought of himself as an intellectual, a puzzle solver, a wizard's apprentice. But all that meant nothing when poisons and potions stole his thoughts away like a fall of springtime apple blossoms, and his vision lensed and burst into rainbow patterns at the corners. Today, his shaking hands fumbled on the metal surfaces, and he giggled as panic began to set in. They were all going to die. Hilarious.
A low whistle from behind him made Faramir turn. "Now that's Firestone," Gimli observed with more awe than urgency, walking into the center of the Archive and looking around him. Faramir dropped lightly onto his backside. The Lord of the Glittering Caves stood in a beam of light from the high windows. It struck the many-faceted jewels sewn into his braided beard and sparkled across the high ceiling.
"Lord Gimli! Can you help…" he grabbed his hair in frustration but dropped his hands in wonder when Elrohir Peredhil stepped around the end of the bookshelves.
"Lord Faramir?" He said, stopping in his tracks and looking around at the chaos that had been the Archive.
"You live!" Faramir exclaimed. The lingering waves of euphoria and dread from the dark wizard's enchantment wiping away a lifetime of courtly manners. He gawked openly as he took in the half-elf's bedraggled appearance. "Eldarion thinks you dead. My lord."
"And he may yet be right if we do not undo this," Gimli gestured broadly and shook his head.
"What is this?" Elrohir stepped up to him, then, his eyebrows rising in alarm, he turned in a full circle, looking in at the devices around him. "Ai Eru, This is the dark wizard's craft?"
"I don't know how it works!" Faramir laughed again, stumbling to his feet to embrace Elrohir with genuine affection. His mind was innocent and unguarded as he threw his arms around the Peredhil's neck. But Elrohir had gone stiff, looking over the steward's shoulder. His eyes were fixed on the slowly flipping letters on the closest device.
"Those are Valarian numerals!" Elrohir shook him off, "We have ten minutes until this tower falls!"