Clutching claws on undead hands seized Aragorn's arms and secured his wrists in finely crafted brass shackles. The orcs were still wearing the crude armor which they had worn to the gates of Mandos and they reeked of decay. Burning purple lights of lifeless eyes stared out from their skeletal faces, desiccated skin pulled tightly over twisted bone as they fought for unnatural animation.
With the choice of either being dragged or walking on his own two feet, Aragorn chose to maintain whatever dignity the lord of this place allowed. They followed a passageway up a long hallway, here and there were cells opening out on either side, the doors were standing open on all of them. His undead captors followed behind the blue Maia as if lead by a leash.
Up, up, up they went until they came to a winding stair of black stone. Narrow windows let in an eerie greenish light, showing bands of a sky of churning clouds and lightning forking into pink arcs across the heavens. They soon came to a dark metal door which opened to a narrow parapet. Aragorn looked around for a route of escape but found nothing, they were in a fortress, vast and terrible, made on every side of black stone carved into high spires. He saw that a great rift had been driven through the many layered walls and a miasma of swirling darkness loomed at the center of the ruin. The fortifications were manned by unbreathing wraiths. Trolls and orcish warriors still bearing the ugly wounds of their downfall gazed at him with unblinking eyes alight with indigo fire.
A lone figure stood atop the wall, his dark braids were tossed amongst his flowing robes of black and red. Misshapen corvids perched upon the walls around him, their caws blending with the chanting army beyond. As Aragorn was brought to the edge, a hard wind pushed him back a step against the creatures holding him.
The landscape was unlike any he had seen in Middle Earth. Spired mountains went up above the clouds in the distance. Vast cliffs of pale stone formed the opposite side to a wide valley, the sun set behind them in bands of blood across the western sky and above the edges of the mountains the first stars were waking up, he looked in hope for the evenstar to grace his parched eyes with even one particle of light, but if it had risen it was yet beyond the lofty Pelori.
The ground shook below him as ten thousand, thousand, undead voices chanted as one in the tongues of steel and sorrow. Below them, upon a wide plane, a vast army of undead monstrosities danced in delight for their freedom. The smell rose to meet him on a foul wind sharp with horizontal rain.
The elf turned and smiled hungrily at his captive. He offered a very antiquated Quenya greeting and an indulgent bow. His finely chiseled features, so famously alike to his father, would have been fair if not for the condescending smirk. He had a white bandage wrapped around his throat to hide where it had been slashed by a Doriathrim blade.
"Curufin," Aragorn answered in Sindarin, he did not bow or offer any sign of respect. One of them was a king and the other was not. "They said that you had your father's likeness but the legends were right to say that he was ever taller." The elf narrowed his eyes up at the man's in distaste and one of his captors slammed an armored fist into his cheekbone. Aragorn's head rang from the impact and he shook away the sparks that danced in his vision.
"Son of Beren," Curufin's eyes flicked at his undead servants and one of them dug a clawed talon into the back of the man's knee, drawing blood and tearing at the sensitive tendons until the limb collapsed. Aragorn gasped, but did not cry out as he fell, iron claws pressed into his shoulders, throwing him onto all fours on the damp stone, treacherously close to the edge. "I did not think that the Secondborn could further diminish in intelligence but my friend," he glanced at the Maia, "tells me that he was able to outwit your closest allies without a moment's suspicion." He clucked in disappointment as lightning flickered across his face, "and then your son had the good sense to add that last, precious something to my long forgotten experiments. I cannot wait to meet the lad." Aragorn glowered up at him but refused to rise to the bait.
"The little princess screamed as she burned." Pallando-virne whispered and then laughed as Aragorn lunged at him with bared teeth and was thrown back down to the ground in a slick of his own blood. He thrashed and grappled with his tormentors for a moment, taking several blows to the face before his vision started to blur. With this hands bound he could not do much but thrash like a drunk in a tavern fight, a technique which quickly earned him an iron boot between his shoulder blades and a kick to the kidney that left him curled on the ground gasping.
Aragorn looked up at the elf in the strobbing lightning and he beheld that his once clear grey eyes were clouded. There was no blush of living blood beneath his skin. "You think you have won control over life and death?" Aragorn scoffed, spitting blood onto the stones, "you are a mockery of the living."
"I am no enemy, Aragorn." His name was like sweet poison on Curufin's lips, "I have invited you up here to look upon my benevolence. See all the souls who have been liberated by my hand," he gestured broadly, "and by the hand of your son."
"And what of those souls who have fallen before your thralls?" he tried to shift his weight away from his injured leg which radiated cold fire, "What has befallen the dead of Vanyamar?" he spat out the blood that was filing his mouth.
Curufin shrugged, "these halls are vast, and time does not pass in the deepest cells. Or so I have been told. But when I learn the secret of Illuvatar's coveted gift, I will share it freely with all those who would follow me into the infinite, not just my brothers. The rest may remain here, if they will, to rebuild Amanian society with their new neighbors." He spread his arms. "I am generous, after all."
"How did the Valar permit this?" Aragorn looked out to the distant mountains seeking some panoptic authority in the sunset-painted crags.
"The Valar are weak," Curufin whispered venomously, petting the mortal's hair with longing, "the only true power in Arda lies in Illuvatar's gift, but they do not know fear, and they do not know death, and if we cannot die, then existence is a prison."
"And you think that by my death you will earn you this gift?" Aragorn gazed down to where three enormous, armored trolls, one of whom had no head, were smashing the remaining painted walls of what once have been a homestead set in the rolling countryside of Aman, now blackened with the perverse atmospheres of decay. He could see burned elvish corpses displayed on pikes in the garden.
"I did, perhaps," Curufin studied the man at his feet as Aragorn wiped blood from his face onto the fine cotton of his stained tunic, "Mortal souls are easy to come by, those who came in with you were the first I experimented on, prolonging their passing until they screamed out the secrets of the music, I thought that perhaps your noble lineage would provide an answer to my query. But now I have something even better." His smile was soft and cruel. Grey eyes burned up at him in grim defiance, "my birds have just told me, that a half elven princeling just opened his eyes in the Dreamlord's garden. I suspect that he is looking for you."
Aragorn looked up at him, forgetting to fight against his captors as an expression of despair settled on his brow. "No."
"You should have taught him his history better, your highness," Pallando-Virne laughed at the man's distress, "does he not know what happens to Numenorian princes who try to cross the Sundering Sea?"
"Eldarion." He breathed, trying to calm his heartbeat.
.
"It was only for a moment!" Pippin insisted as all three Peredhil rushed into the room where he and Eowyn were standing beside the king's bed. Arwen went to one side of the bed and Elladan went to the other, producing a stethoscope he had inherited from his father which he fitted to his ears.
"Did he say anything?" Elladan asked Eowyn as he leaned over the King's body. "Aragorn?" he asked gently, trying to elicit a response and failing. "Estel!" he called, lying one hand on his chest.
Arwen, sat on the bed, taking one of her husband's hands in her own and petting back is hair from his scarred temple. She leaned forward and let her lips press against his silvered brow "Please wake up, please speak to me." His eyes flickered back and forth as if he was trapped in a nightmare.
"He seemed to flinch, like someone was hurting him, Mister Elrondion." Pippin watched in fear, stepping back until his back touched the cabinetry as Elladan listened to Aragorn's
breathing, putting the head of the device under his silk tunic and frowning in concern at his twin.
"His blood pressure and heart rate are elevated." Elladan said after listening for a moment, "he's terrified." He shared a dark look with Arwen. Elrohir went to the cabinet to retrieve a bottle of medicine which he measured into a copper cup and passed to his twin.
"Estel," Arwen whispered close to his ear, stroking his cheek with one thumb, "we need you to drink some medicine." Elladan put one hand under his neck. The cup of medicine went flying when the king's had suddenly flinched he thrashed and muttered something unintelligible.
"Aragorn!" Arwen pleaded, compulsively smoothing his hair behind his ear and reaching out desperately with her spirit for any spark of recognition. "follow my voice," she urged. His eyes flickered and rolled as his breath came in panicked little gasps.
"Eldarion!" Aragorn mumbled, a desperate, fearful prayer whispered so quietly that they might have missed it. The movement of his hand became spastic and unnatural and he made a strange grunting sound as his back arched.
"Pay attention, and cover your ears." Elladan said to Eowyn as he recognized what was about to happen and centuries of training took over. The seizure began to possess his brother's nervous system in waves of uncontrolled, discordant energy. Elladan gently pushed his sister away, removing his stethoscope from his ears as he climbed on top of the bed and straddled Aragorn's weakly twitching body. He had seen his father do this many times, but the sheer drama of it all was shock to those unfamiliar with the more brutal techniques of elvish medicine.
Eowyn and Pippin covered their ears obediently. Elladan held Aragorn's temples between his palms, pressed their foreheads together and uttered three syllables of resonant Quenya that seemed to almost crack the windowpanes in their power. Everyone present flinched. Aragorn went limp beneath him, lips slightly parted as he breathed evenly again, the fit dissipated instantly.
"I've never seen elvish magic like that." Pippin breathed into the ringing silence.
"That was incredible," Eowyn gasped. Elladan had explained to her that some parts of elvish medicine were not able to be learned in a single mortal life, she was determined that his would not be one of them. It was as if the progression of the seizure had been halted by a stone wall.
Elrohir went to the bed and pulled his brother back off the mattress where he had fallen, gasping against one botanically sculpted bedrail. Elladan covered his face with one hand and leaned heavily into his twin as he breathed through the sudden agony behind his eyes.
"Gives you a headache like a mace to the head," he told Eowyn with a wince, shooing Elrohir away and stumbling over to check Aragorn's eyes in the lamplight, "still unresponsive." He sighed as he turned to his sister with a look of guilt. "I won't be able to do that again. Where the hell is that wizard?"
"He called for Eldarion." Arwen gazed at her beloved, willing him to speak again but the convulsions had stilled to a deathlike sleep "Who has seen him since the council?" she tore her eyes from her husband's face to look at the others.
"Faramir went looking for him after the meeting." Elrohir said, standing straight, "I will find him." He reached out to squeeze Arwen's hand and turned and left the room.
.
"Maybe he was more rattled by the incident in the library than he let on?" the guard looked up at the empty sword stand above the mantle, scratching the back of his head in despair. "poor thing must have snapped." They were standing in the king's study turned crime scene, Holleg had opened the curtains to let beams of light fall across the lush carpet.
"Findegil?" Holleg asked incredulously "FINDEGIL stole the sword of kings?" the Commander of the city guard's anger blazed behind his dark eyes and his lungs filled with ire. The hapless lieutenant - who had been unlucky enough to be standing at the front door of the Hall of Isildur when Anduril mysteriously disappeared - quailed before the wrath of his commanding officer.
"Said that he was getting books for Lord Eldarion!" the guard insisted, rushing to his own defense, "he's the only one that's been here who shouldn't have, unless you suspect lady Arwen's handmaidens?"
"Lieutenant Gamdir… are you telling me that you think Lady Arwen's handmaidens, took Anduril?" Holleg rolled his eyes, "under your watch?" he placed his hands on his hips incredulously.
"It's…" Gamdir's mustache quivered, "not an impossibility." His voice went up to a squeak as he cowered.
"Hardel, Mercor," he called to his men waiting in the hallway, "Stay here. I will find the Steward!"
Holleg dashed out of the royal apartments and out into the brilliant light of the Summer afternoon.
"Lord Faramir!" he called to the Steward where he saw him across the Fountain Plaza, he was looking down at the ruins of the public library with his arms folded and the wind tugging at his clothing. Faramir turned to look at him as he approached.
"Ill news, my lord." Holleg inclined his head and Faramir raised his brows as if he had been expecting it. Holleg felt his heart racing as if it was jammed into his throat. "The sword of the king has been taken." He confessed, perhaps too quickly.
Faramir only blinked at him for a moment before taking a deep breath, "Taken?"
"Yes, my lord," Holleg held his breath, "it has disappeared from its stand in Lord Aragorn's study."
Faramir frowned, "was anyone seen going into the royal apartments?"
"Yes my lord, my lieutenant believes that Master Findegil may have taken it." Faramir blinked in confusion. "Findegil, Melbion's son. He's with…"
"Lord Faramir!" Faramir looked up to the voice and panicked for a moment as he realized that the Peredhel twins had worn matching uniforms to the counsel meeting. Whichever one this was had a look on his face that could only mean that he had news about the king. "Have you seen Prince Eldarion?"
"How fares the king?" Faramir turned fully towards him expectantly.
"He was showing signs of awareness. He cried out for his son, have you seen him?" the Peredhel looked between the two of them. Faramir deduced that it was probably Elrohir but he was not going to risk his reputation as a Loremaster on it.
"He was behind the palace," Faramir answered and he put together the pieces of the puzzle as he was speaking, "with, ah, young Master Findegil."
"Oh no!" Holleg gasped and sprinted in the direction of the looming mountainside, the other two followed on his heels. Faramir rallied a few bored looking guards who followed them obediently into the alleyway behind the palace.
"They were here," the steward stopped before the pathway up to the catacombs. The wind whipped down the abandoned alleyway, there was no sign of the prince.
"Ai, Eru," Elrohir swore, reaching up to the ledge between the marble buttresses and pulling down Elros tar Minyatar's crown.
.
"But what do we say if somebody comes?" Brekke's voice hitched up in panic. Elanor gazed up at the portico above them. Tulk had jammed the haft of his jeweled axe into the handles on the far side with his Dwarven strength, effectively locking the two girls outside.
"Say we were overpowered." Elanor suggested.
"By wh…" Brekke's face went white as she looked over the hobbit girl's head.
"Brekke!" her kinsman's voice made her tremble, as commander Holleg rounded the corner with Faramir, one of the Peredhil and a whole troupe of citadel guards. She looked up at the rough hewn sides of the winding path and found no recourse or escape except to back herself into the locked gate.
"Lord Faramir." Elanor bowed, greeting the steward with a calm politeness at odds with the three tall men's obvious distress.
"Miss Gardener," Faramir's eyes flashed around, reading the scene, "where is prince Eldarion?"
"He has ordered us to guard this door." Elanor answered.
"Elanor," he asked, watching as Elrohir struggled with the gate. The axe that served as a bar was jammed skillfully between the interior handles. "Where. Is. Eldarion?"
Elanor set her jaw in defiance of the tall man but Brekke whimpered under Holleg's wrathful gaze. She glanced meaningfully into the gated door behind her.
"Muk!" the Peredhel Swore, bracing his foot on the gate and shaking the door, "it's not opening. I'm going around the other way." Without another word he was rushing past the citadel guards standing on the stairs and had disappeared.
"Take these two into custody," Faramir ordered, looking at Eleanor's defiantly crossed arms with a baffled sigh. It was clear that Brekke was near to panic as Holleg went to gently pull her from the door.
"He said he could save lord Aragorn!" Brekke confessed tearfully as she was lead away by the Commander. Elanor scowled up at her with a look of betrayal as a guard seized the back of her dress.
"Who did?" Faramir asked kindly.
"Fin!" she insisted, "This was all his idea, he took Anduril!"
.
Elrohir often cursed his naturally eidetic elvish memory when his meditations were flooded by a long lifetime of violence and tragedy. But today he would take an eternity of nightmares for the chance to remember his path through the catacombs from the day before. He pushed past guards and mourners at the top of the stairs up to the citadel. Some of whom shouted questions about the wellbeing of the king which he ignored as he descended into the city at a sprint.
The closest guard house allowed him access to the undercity. The stunned guards did not question him this time, he was wearing his dress uniform from that morning and radiated authority and haste as he passed through the barracks at a run.
"Follow me!" he cried over his shoulder as someone shouted after him and Elrohir heard the guards obeying with alacrity as he lead them into the sewers.
The catacombs reeked of the fresh bodies from the attacks. But he did not pause to honor these mortal dead as he traced his steps going up towards the palace from the far side of the temple.
He was breathing hard when he staggered up the black stairs to the temple of the Doomlord. Beams of cloud dimmed sunlight crossed the pillared edifice from the distant ceiling. He could hear the tramp of boots coming through the necropolis behind him as he stumbled up to the open doors to the temple.
Elrohir stopped at the open door, terror and panic clutched him and for a moment he was standing in an orc den in the Redhorn pass looking at his mother's tormented body.
The prince lay on the floor flat on his back with his head turned to one side, his lips were pale and he could not see any sign that Eldarion was breathing. There was blood on his face and his father's sword lay abandoned beside him. Allatar stooped over him, brilliant lights dancing in a vortex around them as he lay one hand on the Prince's brow. Elrohir was dimly aware of the guards coming up behind him, they gazed at the scene in shock as they spilled into the temple, the dim lamplight shining from their mail.
"Lord Peredhel, what are your orders?" one of them was asking.
"No," was all that Elrohir could say as the man's voice pulled him back to reality. He could not feel the child's spirit. He looked at the wizard, feeling sickened that he had trusted this being so readily, "What have you done?"