Chapter 60

August 28th, TA 3020

Cities were like people, had Halbarad once declared as they led their horses through the bustling streets of Tharbad, meandering through a jolly crowd where men rubbed shoulders – or, rather, bellies – with hobbits, while seeking shelter from a stubborn drizzle between half-timbered facades and under pointed rakes jutting up into the flinty sky. Elladan could not remember what kind of person Tharbad had been, in the grizzled ranger's eyes, but he could have sworn that Minas Tirith was a bitter, vindictive madam. He had not set foot into the city since the royal wedding, and it must have taken his absence for an insult, for it now towered on the horizon, cornered between the crests of the Ered Nimrais, its tiered walls like frothing skirts gathered in disgust before some small, crawling menace.

And crawl Elladan did – or so it felt like, as the great gates remained ever out of reach, even as the sun set beyond the Mindolluin. After hours of canter up the causeway amidst lumbering wagons pulled by oxen, laden with apples, onions and jars of olive oil from Anfalas, and chariots of various shape and size, the drivers' weary children slumbering under the canopies, the ribbon of the highway still seemed to stretch on forever, the distant Othram a dark crevice against the tawny fields. Some would call out, or even curse Elladan on his passage, coughing in the clouds of dust Runcynn's hooves raised in their wake, but he had ignored them, his calves pressed against Runcynn's flanks to keep up the pace. Such a delay, however unnerving, was also welcome, allowing Elladan to think of what he would say, and do, once he arrived.

He could not possibly declare himself right there and then, grimy from more than a day's journey, the stench of smoke and sweat lingering in the creases of his neck and in his hair; Mehreen deserved better. Yet, Elladan could not vouch for his own restraint, once he saw her after all this time, glowing from a day in the sun, her guileless smile illuminating the twilight. Though perhaps, if Legolas was to be believed, she would not begrudge him his ardor…

…But Arwen might.

She, of all people, had the only right to call Elladan out for his hypocrisy. He, who had spent many a year trying to delay her drastic choice, pleading and arguing in turn for fear of losing her, just like he had lost their mother. Would Arwen believe he had chosen mortality for Mehreen's sake, preferring one lifetime by her side to wandering through the ages of this world alone?

Elladan raced past the causeway forts that towered on each side of the highway, standing useless guard over the passage into the Pelennor. The ribs jutting from each side of the Rammas Echor reached out helplessly towards one another, broken where the battering rams of the Dark Host had torn through the arch. The debris had long since been cleared, so that the causeway lay clean and deserted before him; even now that Sauron had been defeated, respectable travelers were seldom found on the Morgul Road after sunset, preferring to halt in one of the taverns on this side of the Anduin, their warm lights and garish signboards growing ever more pressing as the spires of Osgiliath faded in the distance.

Unimpressed by either solitude or the insetting darkness, Elladan had ignored their artless beckoning, listening only to the call of his own heart. He could now make out the gates – large rolling doors of black stone encased in steel and mithril, rebuilt by Gimli and his people in the months that had followed the war – and, beyond them, the anthill that was Minas Tirith, shimmering in the rosemary-scented dusk.

So close!

A lone egret squawked in alarm, spooked in its solitary foraging as Elladan spurred Runcynn into a gallop for the final stretch of his journey. He had left Bar-Lasbelin shortly after his discussion with Legolas and their aborted lunch, thrusting his affairs into Redhriel's willing and more-than-capable hands with but a taste of remorse. A remorse he had kept smothering along the way, picturing Mehreen's face and summoning her husky voice as a shield against the pinpricks of his forsaken duties. Even so, a steady unease had been growing within him, which Elladan had readily attributed to guilt, and his own inexperience in the matters of the heart.

It was something of an irony, that millennia of practice in the mending of human bodies had prepared him so little to approaching one with less…chaste intentions. There were the scars, of course, gleaned over centuries of seeking out vengeance in the high passes and couloirs of the Hithaeglir. Elladan had collected them with something of a sullen pride since until now, it had never occurred to him that someone else – someone beside Elrohir – would ever see them. But deeper still ran the suspicion, itching like a healing wound, that he was unworthy of a touch as innocent as Mehreen's, and that the inferred count of his kills would terrify her more surely than any scar ever could.

Why, then, did he long so much to let her know, and have her love him despite of what he had one…or, perhaps, because of it? Whatever it was, there was no undoing the results of a quest Elladan had so long and so doggedly pursued. Besides, how was it that Mehreen had once put it?

I couldn't imagine you any better, anyway.

If someone may prove willing to listen to his reasons, however petty and twisted, it was her, prying his defenses away with fingers reddened by honest labor. Tearing him open – not like flesh or skin, but rather like a peach, splitting of his own accord. Mehreen, of all people, could understand his choice to bind himself to the land that had borne and raised him, and whose inhabitants he had made his purpose to serve.

Chasing the nagging disquiet with a shake of his head, Elladan leaned back in the saddle, stiffening his haunches to signal Runcynn to a halt in front of a barbican built in the same obsidian rock as the rest of the Othram. The gelding slowed down with gratitude, his coat darkened by sweat, just as a guard emerged from a narrow door in the left tower flanking the gate.

"Who goes there?" he called out, his quavering voice betraying his greenness, and lowered his halberd for good measure. His rutilant chainmail rattled under a gambeson of quilted linen, with not a speck of rust in sight.

"My name is Elladan, son of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. I come to see my sister, your Queen," Elladan added as an afterthought, as it occurred to him that one so young may have neither witnessed nor heard about his involvement in the battle for Minas Tirith. He tossed his dusty braids over his shoulder, so as to reveal his ears – a pointy, and ofttimes fascinating, proof of his elven lineage.

The guard cast him a censoring look. "At this hour? 'Tis most uncustomary, m'Lord. Have you a letter of passage?"

"A letter?" Elladan spluttered. Legolas had provided him with the passwords to all six gates between the First Circle and the Citadel, but had mentioned no letter in his instructions.

"A letter," the young guard repeated obligingly. A sparse, blonde beard covered his weak chin under the raised visor of his sallet, and he switched his halberd to his left hand to scratch it with thoughtless abandon. "'Tis a paper of sorts, explaining…."

"I know what a letter is!"

Belatedly, Elladan realized his friend had never turned up in front of the gates after nightfall, nor seen his identity questioned by someone younger than the youngest of the men Elladan had trained over his lifetime. He shot the smug-looking sapling a withering look. Under different circumstances, he might have commended him for his zeal as he, too, had the reputation of being a stickler for enforcing the rules. Tonight, however, Elladan was in no mood for patience.

"Well, forgive me for taking my tasks seriously," the youngling pouted. "It's just that my grandmother told me there's two sorts of elves: the good kind, who's helped our King defeat Sauron, and the…other kind, still loitering about these shores in hopes of being pardoned." He squinted up at Elladan from under his visor. "How do I know you're who you say you are, and not one of those?"

"Elves do not lie," Elladan hissed. "Nor do we, in fact, loiter about."

By Angainor, why was he even debating the matter?

As he made to dismount, intent on entering the city one way or the other, even if it meant asking for forgiveness later on – rather than permission, as Glorfindel was wont to do – another guard emerged from the twin tower across the black expanse of the gate, no doubt to see what the ruckus was about.

He gaped at Elladan. "Your Elven Lordship! You come unannounced."

"So I am told," Elladan ground out, unable to keep himself from slanting a triumphant look to the condescending youth. "I have ridden all the way from Bar-Lasbelin to see my sister, Queen Arwen, for an urgent matter, only to be turned away like some pesky peddler." As though sensing his impatience, Runcynn sidled with a snort, testing Elladan's grip on the reins. "Well, then," he bit out, "announce me."

"But the hour is late, m'Lord…." the youngling pointed out.

"…And it grows ever later the longer we stand here."

The older guard was the first to catch on. "Just so, my Lord." He turned to his comrade. "Go on, then. Inform Lord Borion of his Lordship's arrival." As the young hope of the city guard trudged away – not without a last, reproachful look in Elladan's direction – he opened his arms in consternation. "He may be green, my Lord, but he's right. Her Majesty's likely retired for the night." He pushed his helm back with a large, ruddy hand to wipe the perspiration that had gathered at his brow. "There's a good tavern in the third circle. The Tipsy Troll. As clean a place as you'll ever find, my Lord," he specified, "even in the upper circles. Mette gets her wine from a small vineyard in Lebennin and, unlike some, she won't charge you double for a pitcher of watered-down plonk, if you know what I mean."

"My thanks, but there is no need. My business takes me to the Citadel, and that is where I shall go."

Was it him, or did the guard regard him with pity? Regretting, no doubt, that he had not managed to convince Elladan of the merits of Mette's fine establishment. Or, perhaps, was he as unconvinced of Elladan's identity as the youngling had been…. Still, his pointy helices worked their usual magic as the man shrugged, and looped a thumb through his belt. "A safe ride to you, my Lord. And a good night."

He bowed, before diving through the same narrow door he had come from. After a while that felt like an eternity to Elladan, a low rumble sounded, rising from the very depths of the ramparts. Runcynn shied, rolling fearful eyes and yanking at the bit, only calming when Elladan lay a soothing hand upon his hot, damp neck. He could hardly begrudge the gelding his nervousness. It was as though some giant centipede had emerged from its slumber, scuttling along the walls in a metallic grate and clatter; the very earth trembled beneath them as the doors groaned and lurched open, sliding sideways to disappear into the Othram.

Minas Tirith welcomed them, her qualms vanquished by Elladan's persistence. He raised his eyes to the keel of pale granite that jutted from the mountainside, dividing all but the first and seventh levels in two. It was another lady he now yearned to see; one as dark as Minas Tirith was pale, and as warm as she was stony.

Mehreen.

Yet, despite their growing proximity, the feeling of oppression refused to wane.

oOoOoOo

If cities were people, the Circles of Minas Tirith each deserved a personality of their own, the first being a diligent matron that hoarded every inch of space with the same determination as she might have a coin.

Huddled along streets twisting like rattails, the houses piled one upon another, bartizans and brattices sprouting from the facades, divided by narrow staircases and arched alleys. Even the shops and stands seemed to have been built into the buildings' nooks and crannies, their fronts boarded up for the night. Marigolds and marjoram burst forth from wooden planters, filling the evening air with a fragrance that mingled with that of fried fish; greasy waters ran down the gutters and seeped between the cobblestones.

A door creaked open somewhere above Elladan's head. A woman in a nightcap emerged in a stream of yellow light, carrying a basin that she emptied into the street below, not without a spiteful glance to the shuttered windows of her neighbors downstairs. Then, discarding her shoes, she left them at the door upside-down. A smile tugged at the corners of Elladan's lips at the memory of Arthad, one of the Dúnedain, who used to do the same, driven by the belief it would prevent some trickster spirit from walking off with them.

The guard at the gate had been right. While not yet fast asleep, the city was settling down for the night, so that the clip-clop of Runcynn's hooves raised the eyebrows of more than one sentry.

"Telemnar," Elladan announced, dutifully providing the password to one gate after the other.

That particular name left a foul taste in his mouth. Another failure. At the time, Elladan had been in Fornost, trying to save a city overrun by what would be later known as the Great Plague. By the time they had grasped the extent of the blight, neither he nor his father could prevent that branch of Isildur's descendance from being extinguished.

As Elladan made his ascent through the streets of Minas Tirith, meandering back and forth along the mountainside, he was once again reminded of Imladris, and the secret, purposefully treacherous trails that led into the valley, winding along vertiginous ridges, where the challenge was as high as the reward. Now, another kind of reward awaited him: Mehreen's balmy presence, as unassuming yet as vital as the air inside his lungs. Whether she was willing to become both his refuge and his undoing was up to her, but the thought he may be the one to fulfill her wishes stirred Elladan's pulse in a way that was anything but unpleasant.

By the time he arrived at the sixth, and final, gate, the city's pinchpenny ways had been replaced by an undeniable largesse. The courtyards had grown less cramped and the corbels and balconies of freshly scrubbed ivory, more distant from one another. Gone were the clotheslines suspended between them. Instead, roses tumbled from the windowsills, blushing in the muted lights that filtered between the muntins.

"Telumehtar," Elladan called out as he approached the gatehouse, which had as much in common with that of the first level as a peacock and a pigeon.

Despite him knowing the password, it took some insisting before the gate was opened; that, and the barely veiled threat regarding elven memory, and the promise to remember the slight should his request for the Marshal of the Citadel to be summoned be refused. When Lord Borion did peer out of a window overlooking the gate, a herigaut of maroon brocade thrown over his nightclothes and evidently disgruntled from having been disturbed in his bedward preparations, he waved Elladan in with a grunt before disappearing once more.

Yet, it was not the Marshal who welcomed him in the Court of the Fountain, but Lord Telior, the Seneschal, who still appeared very much awake at this late hour.

"Lord Elladan!" he hurried to meet him, motioning for a stable boy to take Runcynn's reins from Elladan's hands as he dismounted. Elladan noted the hesitation in his voice with a twinge of remorse. Lord Telior had almost confused him for Elrohir, which spoke volumes about his brother's diligent correspondence, and his own sloppiness in both writing, and visiting. "This certainly is an unexpected call." Bewildered, Lord Telior pulled off his hat to scratch the back of his balding head. "The guards have told us this was an urgent, and private matter but, before I woke her Majesty –" he clasped his hands over his hat in dismay – "I wished to know if, and how, I could first be of assistance."

The door to the House of Kings opened in his back, a golden light pouring onto the neatly trimmed lawn.

"Your offer of assistance is much appreciated, Lord Telior, but unnecessary," said Arwen with a hint of a smile, her ladies-in-waiting trailing after her. "I was expecting our guest."

Elladan startled. Could it be that his sister had inherited their grandmother's gift of foresight?

"Brother! It is good to see you."

"Elenig." Though weary, he could not help but grin as he sketched one of Annahad's infamous bows, finishing it with a flourish. "My apologies for the unseemly hour, and the small uproar I have caused."

Arwen lifted an eyebrow as some of her retinue giggled at his display, hiding their smiles behind their fanned-out hands. Yet, their laughter was foreign, either too high-pitched or too throaty to his ears, so that Elladan found himself searching the courtyard and the doorway beyond for a familiar silhouette. His heart sang with impatience – soon, soon, soon! – his skin thrumming with the need to see her.

Now, rather than later.

"That is nonsense, and well you know it," Arwen chastised him with a chuckle before her grey eyes grew serious once more. "You are always welcome here. In fact, I am willing to forego this breach of protocol, if it means seeing you more often."

Now, now, now.

Elladan tore his gaze away from the entrance long enough to offer Arwen a contrite smile. Evading her solicitous hands – a skill he was beginning to master – he grasped her by the shoulders, leaving his sister to hold him over the sleeves of his tunic instead.

There would be plenty of time to tell her of his choice later, instead of marring their reunion with the news.

"My apologies. I have been…."

Another soft smile. "I know." Her eyes widened, much like when the little girl she had been had looked up at him with a bottomless stare that seemed to have captured the firmament, while tugging at the hem of his tunic to get his attention. "Let there be no resentment between us. We both have our duties, now. I would not presume to chastise you for your dedication." She peered over his shoulder. "Now tell me, where is Lady Mehreen? I must admit, were expecting her arrival much earlier. Legolas had said…."

The rest of her sentence drowned in the sudden, frantic quickening of Elladan's heartbeat. "You mean to say she is not here?" he heard himself say, but his voice sounded muffled, as though coming from a distance.

Now, now, now, now….

Elladan inhaled sharply, willing himself to sober up and think.

Anwar. It must be Anwar. He had taken her – not himself, no, having sent his men to do the dirty work in his stead. To abduct a young, unsuspecting and, most likely, terrified woman for the fulfillment of his basest desires. The scent of Mehreen's fear seared Elladan's tongue like venom. Anwar. He had left her alone with those men. Alone, yet far from docile, and Elladan remembered what men like him – like Harun – did to those they could not cow into submission.

The merciless cold of fury descended upon him, robbing the summer night of its warmth, smothering the cicadas trilling in the grass nearby and blotting out the stars. Elladan disentangled himself from his sister to call the stableboy back, uncaring if his roar woke the rest of the city.

If Anwar had gotten his undeserving hands on Mehreen, there was not a second he could afford to waste.

A.N.: though I am averse to using Sindarin words when the speakers are all elves (unless, of course, one of them happens to not speak a word of Sindarin), I've made the choice to have Elladan use the word 'elenig' in this chapter as a nickname for Arwen (meaning 'little star', from 'elen' = star, and the diminutive suffix '-ig'). To me, it sounds better than him calling her 'little star' directly and, to an onlooker, the scene would appear as though he first calls her by her Sindarin nickname, before switching to Westron, which is precisely what he does.