"It's a tonal lock!" Gimli announced five and a half minutes later. He had the two metal plates that housed the device pried apart with Elrohir's dagger. "But I have never seen one so complex."
"So it unlocks with sound?" Elrohir asked, sharing his confusion with the Steward with a glance.
"Theoretically."
"Do they know the voice of their maker?" Faramir watched over his shoulder, trying to understand how the device operated. The cards flipped in an even rhythm. The librarian lay dead among his books and histories.
"It's usually a piece of music, a sequence of tones." Gimli applied too much pressure, and the light began to flash again. He promptly stopped, letting out a shaking breath.
"Don't do that!" Faramir put his hand on the dwarf's shoulder, cringing when his torn skin hit the rough fabric of his hauberk.
"Well, that narrows it down!" Elrohir said sarcastically.
"What music would our dark wizard use?" Gimli looked between the other two.
Faramir hummed the first few lines of The Seven Stars. Nothing happened.
Elrohir took a breath and tried the familiar and iconic opening bars of The Lay of Luthien.
"NO, NO, NOT THAT!" Gimli took a step back as the gem flared an angry red color. And Faramir slapped his hand across the Peredhil's mouth.
"Not that." Elrohir cringed, recoiling from the device. He closed his eyes. This would not be how he died. He took a steadying breath, smelling the librarian's blood, the must of old parchment, and the lingering tang of sulfur in the air. "What did your smith friend say after the blast in the market?"
"Tulk?" Gimli shook his head, recalling their conversation. "He said it looked Noldorin."
"No," Elrohir corrected him, "He said it looked Fëanorian." He stepped forward. He put one trembling hand on the device. It was cold despite the summer warmth. "He said that the White wizards learned the trick of firestone from Lord Fëanoro's sons. Perhaps he also taught them locksmithing?"
"The Istari learned this art from the elves?" Faramir asked, his curiosity getting the better of him despite their dire circumstances. "Surely they had knowledge of all things?"
"They didn't know about weapons." Elrohir looked at the Steward. He had an idea. Keenly aware of the sound of their doom clicking closer. He took a breath, closed his eyes, and began to sing. The smooth Quenya poetry filled the silence of the rotunda, a dirge for a fallen queen lying amongst the poppies of Lorien with lips as pale as the pearls of Aqualonde.
"I think that's doing something!" the dwarf's voice went up a notch in excitement as the gem's color faded from red to vermillion to gold, the frantic flashing slowing to a steady pulse. "Keep going!"
"What if that's what it does before it goes off?" Faramir asked both of them in a whisper.
Elrohir ignored him and tried to sing the notes as perfectly as he ever had. He remembered his father singing it on the cold nights after Celebrian had sailed. It was written in harmony with a higher and a lower part. It felt skeletal and weakened with only one voice. As his burning heart filled with the ancient music, he felt an inner flow of an energy that he thought had left Middle Earth on his father's hand.
"It's slowing it down, but the countdown hasn't stopped," Gimli announced, shifting his grip on his axe, waiting for the moment when the gem went dark to smite the device from the pillar. Elrohir squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the notes over his trembling heart. There was a moment, just a moment, when it seemed like a second voice floated along an octave below his own, adding a living modulation to the music. As he chanted, the gem faded through green to blue and violet. The matching stones upon the other eleven devices went dark in kind. Elrohir held the last note for a long moment, his eyes filled with tears and his voice suddenly breaking, "Ada," he whispered.
.
Elanor had been firmly instructed not to open the shutters, no matter what sounds she heard outside. She sat on the edge of the bed, a beam of afternoon light across her face. The bed was too large, and the room was too dark. Her bare feet swung half a foot above the floor. They were on the second story, which made her legs feel like water. There had been yelling all night long from the street below her window. It smelled of cloying incense and the creeping heat of a Summer morning in this strange Southern land. Her father had sent her from Hobbiton with elaborate instructions about how to behave in the courts of Big People. She had been taught how to curtsy and had been firmly tutored on a few stiff phrases of Sindarin, which refused to stay in her head. Her father had assured her that the king and queen were "Some of the nicest people you've ever met in your life." Her mother had tearfully kissed her cheeks goodbye and pushed a box of seasoning into her skirt pocket.
Elanor had grown accustomed to the long and tedious days of travel. The roads were safe and the weather was pleasant. The tall, grim-faced rangers who escorted their party South had frightened her at first. Unlike the days before the war, these Dunedan veterans, personally selected by the King, could ride openly across the Reunited Kingdoms. Their formerly ragged mode of dress had been civilized into uniforms of grey and brown in the years since The War. They wore silver stars proudly on their breasts and rode horses that were gifted from the fields of Rohan. They had complimented her cooking and asked after the wellbeing of her father. As of only yesterday, she had felt a new swell of confidence and positivity upon approaching the city gates.
But there was to be no palace reception. In the panic after the attack, the Rangers had brought the Hobbits to this dingy inn instead of the citadel. The whole city had heard the blast and saw the pillar of dust and smoke coming from the market. Elanor had been stuffed into an upstairs room in the inn and had not been outside since. She had not slept a wink.
When her curiosity had finally outgrown her fear, Elanor set herself on her feet and crept to the window. She slid the latch that held the shutters closed and pulled them open just enough that one round, brown eye could peer out. She winced and was blinded by the daylight for a moment before her vision adjusted. The city gates were visible to her left. They had been closed with great, black iron bolts inlaid with mithril fillagree. A row of grim-faced soldiers stood before the gate, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. It was as if the city was under siege, but there was no army outside its walls.
The street below was abandoned. She followed it with her gaze. The rooftops went up, up, up towards the upper parts of the city. The walls of sheer marble rose in layer upon layer of grim architecture above her. The largest city she had yet seen in her short life had been Bree, or perhaps Edoras, where they had been greeted as honored guests. In both cases, the wooden buildings had never been higher than the treetops. On their journeys, they had passed through the ruins of an Elven city in Hollin, and she had heard stories from their traveling companions about how the king was going to rebuild the ancient cities of the North. But Minas Anor, a name that many of its residents had yet to adopt, was something entirely different. It had seemed to gleam like a jewel in the prophetic glow of the red morning as they rode across the Pelennor amidst a stream of traders and travelers. Now, that jewel had a flaw at its center. She could see a dark spot where blocks had been blasted away from the tower on the hill. That black mark brought a feeling of dread to her chest.
"I told you to keep those closed!" Elanor startled, snapping the shutters shut and spinning around. Her uncle Peregrin was carrying a tray of food. He looked uncharacteristically tired as he set it on the table. He had changed into formal livery, looking suddenly much older and more severe than she had ever seen him. The stiff, upright collar of his sable and silver velvet hauberk lifted his chin enough to give him the grim look of a soldier.
"I'm sorry." She sat at the small table, it was built for a Big Person and she was not entirely comfortable.
"Of all the inquisitive…" he sighed, rolling his eyes, and went to latch the window again. "Eat."
"What's happening?" Elanor asked, picking up the giant spoon and taking a sip of the strange, starchy broth. It was seasoned with some exotic herb she was unfamiliar with and had an assortment of chunky vegetables floating in swirls of spicy orange oil.
"You know that your father will personally eviscerate me if anything happens to you?" He reminded her for what was perhaps the hundredth time since they had left Hobbiton.
"Do you know what's happening?" she asked again.
"There is a messenger from the palace." He put his hands on his hips and nodded at the bowl of soup, expecting her to eat quickly. "The king is hurt." Elanor paused, mid-spoonful, "but a friend of mine has offered us a place to stay until things… resolve." He blew out a huff of air and pushed back his hair. Elanor noticed the bright sheen of tears in his eyes.
"Uncle Pip?" she set down her spoon.
"Eat!" he ordered her, "I'll bring your bag downstairs." He left, fastening the carpet bag with Elanor's clothing in it and taking it with him. Elanor gazed after him with worried eyes. He was known nearly universally for his charm and lightness of heart; she had never seen him afraid, and it made the stew taste stale in her mouth.
.
Elladan knocked politely on the door to Aragorn's sick room, out of habit more than anything. He looked behind him and saw that a large crowd had followed them. It seemed that news of Allatar's healing abilities had spread quickly. Commander Holleg had been pulled away by one of his healing staff.
"You trust this man?" Eowyn asked Elladan, studying the ancient, stooped Easterling with skepticism. Allatar looked around the healing halls with an expression of benign appreciation. His black eyes were like chips of obsidian under drooping lids.
"I have no choice," Elladan paused with the hand on the latch. "Assist me," he ordered, knowing of her deep affection for the king. "Everyone else…"
"I'm coming too." Eldarion stepped forward, his jaw set with determination. "I'll stay out of the way, I promise!" there was a tremble of desperation in the prince's voice.
"Very well," Elladan motioned the boy forward reluctantly, "but everyone else!" He looked at Tulk and Findegil specifically, then, ushering the other three into the room, he shut them all outside.
An irrational part of him expected to see some change in Aragorn's condition. Elladan had to pause a moment before going to his side. Aragorn's lips were a sickly shade of grey, and his bruised eyelids made his face look like a skull. His chest barely rose and fell, and Arwen sat with her arms folded over her head upon the blanket, the image of despair.
"Where's Celiriel?" Elladan asked, kneeling beside his sister and touching her back.
"Adira has her," Arwen said as she sat up straight, naming one of her handmaidens and leaning into her older brother's arms. Eldarion stood back near the door, watching them and feeling a deep sense of shame at the way he had spoken to his mother. He crossed his arms, trying to stay as much out of the way as possible, watching the wizard shuffle up to the side of the bed.
"Is there some clean water?" Allatar asked after looking at the king for a moment. He was shown to a small basin of beaten copper with a flowing tap of scalding water. He took a bottle of strong-smelling oil from his belt of jangling vials and shook a few drops into his hands. It smelled clean and pungent, like a whole pine forest in a few drops. It made one's sinuses open with a single whiff.
Allatar sat on the stool across from Arwen. He bowed deeply, acknowledging the queen. She was still radiant, even in her sorrow. Her dark hair fell across her chest, and her silver eyes bore into the old man. She had one of her husband's hands clutched in her own, the dainty tendons lacing across her knuckles stood out white. The green stone of her wedding ring flashed in a beam of sunlight.
"May I touch him?" Allatar asked gently, waiting for an answer as he rubbed the oil into his hands.
"What are you going to do?" Arwen asked, studying the Wizard in wonder.
"All that I can," he raised his palms to her, and the look of pity on his face nearly sent her crumbling down into despair again.
Arwen nodded, sniffing and releasing her clutches on Aragorn's hand. Elladan kept a hand on her shoulder.
"Can you remove the bandages, please?" Allatar looked to Eowyn with an expectant smile. Retrieving a pair of delicate shears from the cabinet of supplies on the wall, Eowyn did as she was bid. Seeing the grief of this family for whom she cared so profoundly awoke some soldierly instinct in her. Her demeanor became grim and professional as she stepped beside the wizard, prepared to help him however she could. Delicately guiding the shears between the thick gauze wrapping and the king's cheek, she used her hand to avoid cutting the grey hair at his temple. Deep purple bruising had settled into the battered flesh. He did not react as his wife carefully supported his neck with one hand to allow Eowyn to pull the bandages away.
Allatar sighed. He studied the wound carefully. It ran from the brow ridge to the occiput in a jagged line. it had been expertly sutured and dressed with aethelas oil. He lay one hand against the side of the king's face, closing his eyes and going quiet for a long time.
Everyone present waited and watched in silence.
"The bones have been skillfully set." He finally spoke, looking at Elladan with a nod. "but there is swelling, bleeding in places that you could not reach without killing him."
"Can you help him?" Elladan asked directly, emotion tightening his voice.
"I may be able to heal his body. It will take time… but…" Allatar shook his head.
"What is it?" Elladan asked.
"The primary hurt is not of the body but of the spirit. My brother has vanished in body, but his spirit remains in his dark enchantments. This is..." Allatar took a deep breath, locking eyes with Arwen, "This is old magic, ancient necromancy spinning dark threads between here and the distant realms across the unbending sea. I fear we do not understand it fully. Perhaps if my brother were still here?"
"No!" Eldarion stepped forward, "you said you could help him!" Elladan put an arm across the boy's chest. He looked around at the faces of his family, rising panic in every breath, "I'm sorry!" he squeaked out, looking at his mother and seeming to recoil into himself in shame.
"Oh no, sweetheart!" Arwen grabbed him before he could wiggle away from his uncle.
"I didn't know what would happen!" he confessed to his mother, a horrified look of guilt on his face as the sight of his father made him sick with the sudden feeling that he was being crushed again and would never escape. "I swear it, I swear it!"
Eldarion felt the world spinning around him, and he struggled to get a lungful of air. He felt suddenly crowded by the presence of a thousand mortal ancestors, a chorus of voices ringing in eternal harmony beyond the ruined gates of death. He hated it. He wanted his father. He couldn't breathe, the room was spinning, his eyes flashed purple, and he felt suddenly nauseous and faint. A hand was placed on his forehead.
"You need to get your leg looked at, Eldarion. You're running a fever." Elladan's voice came through the fog. His uncle steered him firmly towards the door, sensing the boy's distress, "Listen to me. You bear NO guilt!" He took his nephew's shoulders in his hands and leveled his gaze at the prince, whose eyes still lingered on his father. "Do you hear me?"
Eldarion nodded.
"Seek out one of the other healers. Get your leg seen to. I swear I will do everything I can." Elladan pushed open the door, and Eldarion allowed himself to be led back into the corridor where Tulk and Findegil sat on the windowsill overlooking the garden. They had been speaking together when they both stopped to stare at the prince. Eldarion stood with his eyes, and his fists squeezed tight, taking deep gulps of breath.
"Mageslayer!" the dwarf named him, "is it true that the dark wizard was struck down by your hand?"
"Don't call me that!" Eldarion shook his head.
"What's wrong?" Findegil asked gently, seeing his friend's distress.
"He won't wake up, Fin!"