The Hunting Trip (39-41)
Author: Ithilien 

 

Gimli and Thranduil were speaking venomous words. At least that is how Legolas' 
scattered mind read the conversation. 

In the meandering course of his drugged and fevered brain, this was the 
conclusion his head had made. A voice, stern and abrupt was charging accusations 
while another was pleading piteously for something the Elf could not discern. 
Had Legolas been coherent, he might have questioned why he cast his father and 
his dearest friend in these respective roles with such little evidence to 
substantiate it was them, but his state was far from coherent, and given the 
harm razed upon him, it was rather amazing that his mind grasped even this 
wayward concept. He was in pain. His thoughts were muddied. Reality and dream 
became co-mingled in a whirlpool mass of twisted logic. He was incapable of 
fashioning more than this at the moment.

In the twilight world he created, nightmarish threats loomed. The words of his 
father and friend were but hints of the agonizing depths his hurt traveled. He 
moaned, attempting to make them stop, but found his strength lacking so that he 
might utter real words. He opened his eyes instead in the effort to gaze at 
them, but his vision was blurred and thus he was left with only the sound of 
their voices. 

"Yes, yes, I will do it! But the blood! Oh, the blood. I must stop it somehow!" 
Gimli cried over a fallen form. Pitiful was the Dwarf's lament, and Legolas 
tried to see over whom his friend was bent. The blood was a curiosity and the 
Elf wondered why it was there.

The Dwarf's face was obscured but Legolas was moved irregardless. The sorrow in 
the Dwarf's voice mixed with his own agony. Somehow, everything that had been 
flagging him merged. The anxieties for his people were tied to his fears for his 
own survival while the agonies of his bodily hurts were enveloped with the 
traumatic confusions lobbed on his mind. Together they melded into the single 
mournful wail of his friend. Separate though they were, they combined in 
Legolas' reality to become the figure unnamed over whom the Dwarf cried. There 
was no other explanation in the Elf's mind for the tears or the blood, and as he 
realized this, it dawned upon him that it might be his body for whom the Dwarf 
cried. 

"Have you no sense? Do you not realize where you are?" Thranduil's figure 
bellowed. Legolas stirred at those words. He did not like the disdain in his 
father's voice or to whom the words were directed. The Elf King's mood was dark, 
and Legolas thought likely it was due to the presence of a Dwarf. Thinking that 
somehow he needed to play a part in this drama, he tried to comply so that he 
might answer for the Dwarf were his aid needed. It was then that he sensed 
himself to be in some kind of cavern. Dully he thought that perhaps they were 
back in Eryn Lasgalen and that Gimli had brought him here to plead for Legolas' 
people. In the confused logic that rattled him, this made sense to the younger 
Elf. After all, was his bloody body not enough to show how his people suffered? 
Pain raked over him, though he could not reason from where it emanated. He only 
knew these two beings were conversing about what might solve his ills, thus 
curing him and his ailing colony. He hoped their answer might come soon, for his 
agony was exceptional.

Thranduil's voice continued, and Legolas grew confused, for the words again made 
no sense in his tormented mind. "This place has powers you have yet to wield. 
Use them and he might be healed." Legolas' mind roiled furiously trying to put 
order to that thought. Was Gimli somehow the means by which the Elf would find 
healing? It seemed to him when put this way that his father was rejecting him, 
casting him aside, and putting it upon Gimli alone to find aid for the ailing 
friend and the Elves that he ruled. Legolas moaned without meaning to, his 
bruised soul stinging at yet another hurt laid there.

And then the scene quieted. He drifted away lost in his misery. He was trapped 
between blossoming aches and the calm of nothing. When he found himself again, 
in the expanse of unmeasured time, it was Aragorn and Faramir who were speaking. 
Somehow he realized that the conversation continued as it had left off, and 
strangely the shift in speakers did not bother him. They began to work into the 
nonsensical order of words and thoughts. The shadows shifted, giving Legolas the 
impression there were others lurking behind curtains and off in the distance 
where he could not see. He realized then that the scene too had changed, and he 
was now in the King's court. 

"I cannot . . . my healing powers are not strong enough to stop this endless 
trauma . . ." Aragorn wailed, his hands covered in blood.

Legolas tried to move closer, so that he might console his friend's agony, but 
he realized he could not. Yet it fit within this reality. It was part of his 
illness and the cause of the blood he had seen with Gimli. It had transferred to 
Aragorn and it became the King's worry now to solve.

Faramir gave an exasperated cry readily appearing to be in a foul mood. "Must I 
show you everything in which you must act? Your powers are there before you. You 
need only look." Arwen stepped forward from the shadows then, nodding knowingly 
at her king as if siding with Faramir. She took one bloody hand into hers and 
placed it at her womb, which was, Legolas noted, swollen with child. Then she 
moved the other to the fallen form that lay before the king. The steward 
scowled, barking out to Aragorn with a dismissive wave, "Heal him, then get on 
with the task I set before you! I shall not hesitate again to make my presence 
known and my ability to usurp you take precedence!"

"But . . . " Aragorn's face showed his struggle to find an answer to the dilemma 
placed before him, and Legolas found himself seeking also to find the answer 
that might alleviate his friend's sorrow. Might Aragorn save him? That must be 
what was happening and he rejoiced that there might be a cure. Legolas felt 
certain he could not survive, damaged as he was. Too much blood was being lost. 
Yet Aragorn offered him a chance. The man's face lit up in surprise and wonder, 
as if he had been thinking the same thing and had come to find his answer. 
"These walls give me the power, do they not? They bolster my strength that I 
might do this, that I might heal him. Might I? Can I?" The son of Arathorn was 
taking in rapid breaths, excitement running over his features as he realized his 
strength. 

"Yes, yes, yes," Faramir barked out, his exasperation getting the better of him 
as his voice rang with anger. "You will not be stilled otherwise! Now do it and 
be quick!"

Legolas released a small sigh, his happiness buoying him lightly away from his 
pain. There would be a resolution. There would be relief from his ills and he 
would be healed. His people would live. But the pleasure was not long-lasting. 
Silence grew between them, and in the solitude of that peace, Legolas realized 
the sound of rushing water was about them. Suddenly, he knew not where he lay. 
He was not in Minas Tirith's halls any longer and the suddenness in his change 
of venue stirred anxieties. Worse, there was something else present, and it 
stripped away his joy. A growing worry began to take over, for the sound had the 
effect of rendering upon him another lost thought. 

Abruptly he was sundered from his frail grip on his thoughts. The interrupting 
force made him cry out. In that moment the sea-longing assaulted him like a wave 
crashing down onto an unsuspecting shore. Never had the effect come upon him 
like this before. He nearly gasped as he attempted to foist it back, the sound 
penetrating his dreams. The reality of the attack awakened him, and he found 
memory and pain choking him as he tried to hold back what was taking his mind. 
The effort to fight off the affects of the sea compelled him to take notice of 
external reality, and he forced himself forward into the present. It was as if 
he were swimming to the surface of a turbulent sea, fighting against a current 
that was far too strong. Legolas knew he had not the strength to push it away 
for long. He recalled then the harm Éowyn had inflicted on him by calling it 
forth in his mind, and the creeping lament of the gull's cry riddled him again 
with the memory. And all the while his body was racked in sharp jabs of pain.

"No!" he cried out. He wheezed out an utterance of surprise for the jarring of 
his mind. Fingers grazed his skin, and he flinched at the surprise of it. 

"What is it, Elf?" a male voice said. No longer was the voice like that of his 
friend, and he shot eyes open though he had not realized before they had been 
closed. He hissed in a breath, trying to put order to the new speaker in the 
wayward journey back to consciousness. It did not make sense. Aragorn, Gimli, 
Faramir, his father. Had they not been with him? Unless. . . unless it was part 
of his sickness? 

Blearily blinking, Legolas could make out the warping features of a man, one of 
an early age. A snarl painted the mortal's appearance, and he seemed unmoved by 
Legolas' confusion. Dawning realization struck the Elf. Though he would never 
admit it, the appearance of the Romany frightened him. Those strange utterances 
of his dream were the mingled dialogue of the people now about him. He grasped 
for the truth, no longer quite able to remember the words said, and knowing even 
if he could, what they had meant to his confused mind and to those who spoke 
them were two completely different things. He suddenly felt the reality before 
him and it was more frightening than the hazy dreams he had mistaken for truth. 
Curtik glanced over his shoulder and spat out, "This one too seems to need your 
touch, Mother, though I doubt you would really wish to see him healed. I care 
not," he said, rising and stepping away, "so long as you perform my task first."

The old woman's voice reached Legolas' ears, and it seemed to have taken on a 
lightened quality, as if the speaker were feeling something profound and moving 
and barely noticing what was before her. He saw her as Curtik moved away, the 
man rounding on a crumpled form before her. The old woman's hands were covered 
in blood and they ran over the length of the unmoving body. Her eyes were shut 
as she performed this action, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth. 
"Yes, Curtik," the old woman answered in a whispering voice, "you are next, and 
I am almost done here. The bleeding is nearly stopped, and I feel his body begin 
to heal." 

Her eyes flickered open a few seconds later and almost immediately came to 
settle on Legolas, the serene smile never leaving her lips. Her focus sharpened 
and her full attention was suddenly on him. "Perhaps I should find a way to slip 
him into a deeper sleep. My potion does not seen to have a lasting effect on 
Elves. This should require but a touch to reach his mind . . ." Her bloody hand 
reached out to Legolas and she began to rise. Legolas felt his heart race in his 
chest, the fear of her touch and how she might read his thoughts telling to him 
of the torment Kattica had once inflicted. 

"Not now! I grow impatient!" 

Curtik's words were like a slap in the face to the Elf, but he felt relieved all 
the same, for the man stepped before her, shaking her shoulder to draw her 
attention away. Despite his interference, there was a somnolent quality to the 
way she stared at Legolas. Curtik's tight grip on her arm did not seem to change 
this, though her motion was halted. 

Bregus' head slowly turned to her son. The serene smile remained as she touched 
the man's cheek. "Patience. You may not see it in the sky, but the moon is still 
there and it will remain so for the next few hours. Peace, Curtik, I will 
comply. Mattias will be well, and it is your turn. Come to me now that I might 
finish my work." 

They were distracted, and Legolas knew he would have little other chance. He had 
to make the attempt to move, the idea that he might free himself while they were 
turned away tearing through his mind. With his elbows levering him, he shifted 
in the litter. It was not a huge move, a nudge in another direction, but rather 
than finding motion, he was instead greeted with searing pain. He cried aloud 
for the agonizing hurt, and then fell back to his palette, the pain quashing his 
efforts and seducing him to acquiesce and lay still. His eyes were sealed shut, 
his agony pushing him to relinquish all else while he awaited its passing. Blood 
pumped forcibly through his temples and his breathing grew constricted. He felt 
dizzy and sick as a loud ringing filled his ears. 

In his mind he heard words being uttered distantly in a foreign tongue. For a 
moment they sounded as if they came from the throat of Aragorn and Gimli 
simultaneously. Activity commenced about him, something of light and shadow and 
a voice rising in pitch and tempo. Legolas struggled to open his eyes, hoping 
that indeed it was his friends who called out. Help me! Please help me! his mind 
pleaded to them. Noise whipped over him, like the heart of a storm, with the 
wind screaming a torrential cry. The world suddenly went quite bright, and he 
groaned, turning away, squinting his eyes to shut out the intensity of the 
overload to his senses. A blur of two figures huddled before him, and he could 
make out that this is where the voice and sound originated. Star trails led off 
from the highlights outlining their bodies, making it difficult to decipher who 
it was that spoke. But alas, they did not appear as his friends. He watched the 
light and color and sound unfold before him, but it wasn't a fog-filled mind 
that prevented him from making sense of what was there. Nothing was solid in 
this world. Confusion streamed around him and it seemed all the earth's powers 
were living at once in the two joined mortal forms. 

Wind blasted him. Light blinded him. The ground shook him. And water misted him 
with its spray and droplets as it bellowed out a crashing noise.

And then, suddenly, it stopped. The room fell dark, the dim light of a small 
fire the only source of illumination. The two forms were collapsed on the floor 
and nothing else but the rippling noise of the waterfall was witness to the tale 
of what had happened in this room. He grimaced, unsure himself what had happened 
though he was certain he did not wish to look upon his captors for answers, and 
he hoped they might forget his presence if he might remain still enough. He 
closed his eyes, easing back into the pain.

The watery tower cascaded as all other noises remained mute. The echoing rhythm 
of beating water pulsated its own sinewy beat. And then it was there, the calm 
evoked by the surf caressing the shore. The soft rippling of the sea's voice was 
a harmonious whisper of cool comfort. It had soothed his beleaguered body 
before, and it was tempting to let it give him relief once again. He had fallen 
into it so easily then, the balm of it easing his pain and leaving the tainting 
aftermath of his agony behind. How simple it would be to follow that path, to 
ride on the pleasure of calm waters. It gave the promise to ease him where 
rescue and salvation could not. The sea called him, the echo of its resonating 
voice beseeching his heart. To Valinor it sang. It was the answer to all his 
worries, to the ache of his body, and the frightening paralysis that filled him 
with fear. He could go this way and never come back. It was a temptation, the 
allure of that dreamy escape . . .

Only vaguely did he feel the touch of a hand on his heated skin or the whisper 
of a voice in his ear. Only vaguely did he realize the words said and how they 
encouraged him to merge with this longing. The voice bid his mind to accept the 
peace offered it. His eyes rolled back in his head and he let the clouds and the 
sky ride over him as the sea buoyed him away. "I see," the voice said, though he 
no longer heard it. "So this is what they mean by sea-longing. It is . . . 
interesting."

 

 

****

 

Arwen snuggled into the warmth of Aragorn's arms, her body spooned in the curve 
of his body. His form matched hers, and she felt a sense of completeness in the 
secure hollow of his draped arm as her dreams faded away and a new day broke her 
reverie. A smile of pleasure creased the corners of her mouth upward as he 
nuzzled his chin into hers, the heat of his breath tickling the lobe of her ear. 
She pressed into the caress, the comfort of his musky scent and his muscled 
limbs bringing joyous pleasure to her very soul. Feeling his bristly beard 
grazing her cheek, she nearly purred her waking pleasure at finding him by her 
side. Her eyes remained closed as she drew her hand up, feeling the coarse 
texture of his facial hair with her feathery touch. Her hand brushed his cheek, 
and he stirred. Her fingers pressed to his lips as he greeted them in dreams 
with the whisper of a kiss as she felt a small smile working along the rim of 
his mouth. She reached down then and pulled the large hand of his bent arm up to 
her lips. She too brushed the tips of them against her lips, her tongue just 
grazing them enough to taste the salty essence of his flesh. Her scent perfumed 
his stilled digits, and she brushed his strong fingers along her cheek, sighing 
contentedly for the fulfillment of his touch. 

She used the comforting moment to reminisce the hard pull of her feelings for 
the man who had become her mate. It had been considered an oddity by her kind 
when she had made known her feelings for Estel. Unique. Odd. Those were the 
words she had heard phrased again and again as slowly they had unveiled their 
tender feelings for one another. She knew the reasons her people were 
hard-pressed to relinquish their hesitance. He was nothing like the Elven males 
to which she had been drawn at a younger age. Aragorn was unique to everything 
she might have found attractive in a mate. By Elven standards he was ugly! He 
did not bathe frequently enough. His hair was often in need of combing. When 
left to his own devices, he would wear the same garments day in and day out. And 
his hands -- this was a bone of contention even Arwen had trouble overlooking. 
It seemed no matter how frequently he washed them, they were never quite free of 
dirt, an embarrassment, Arwen felt, when etiquette and state diplomacy were 
required. Yet here in his arms, it mattered not at all these nuances to his 
appearance. She cared not for what her people or even representing governors 
from far lands might think. She felt intoxicated with joy over the sheer 
magnificence of his bearing. He was rugged and masculine and incredibly exciting 
as a lover, and all the nuances that had once made Elven males attractive to her 
seemed petty in comparison to the enticement he offered. She had no regrets 
whatsoever over the decision she had made in marrying him and scoffed at those 
of her kind who might find her choice a scandalous one. Arwen snuggled in 
closer, enjoying the last of their rest before she knew they must rise.

Aragorn moved even closer then, pulling her tightly into an embrace. He was 
awake now and his head was bowed as his lips caressed the base of her throat. 
Arwen rejoiced. After a dozen years of marriage the physical pleasures of 
marriage remained as pure and rewarding as their earliest encounters. She could 
never grow bored with the infinite variety of games and experiments that they 
played in those coital moments, and she expected their life might always be 
such. Ticklish glee rode over her as she realized his revived desires in the 
tight confines of their hug. It seemed apparent with his kisses and licks 
growing strong with awakened passion that he also did not tire of these 
intimacies. His stamina was great and she smiled at this, for there had been 
times, when mood struck them and their duties would allow, that their yearnings 
had strung out for countless hours on end, and even days of intermittent 
lovemaking sessions had been made a part of their most secret of games. Of 
course, that would not be the case on this day as they did have other stresses 
yet to face. Still, they might have time for one more quick dalliance before 
rising for the challenges that lay ahead of them.

She pulled his dexterous fingers to her mouth again as he nibbled at her neck. 
His aggressive attentions were not lost on her, and she decided to reciprocate 
by exercising a little stimulation of her own. In anticipation for the tease of 
the trickery she might wield elsewhere, she opened her eyes and gazed at the 
faint outline of his long, muscular hand. She smiled as she saw his hands were 
in need of a good scrubbing, and thought it better that she ply his digits touch 
rather than oral stimulus. She smiled as she rubbed the length of his fingers 
with her own, tangling them seductively with her suggestive caress. And then she 
stopped.

It took but a moment for it to register, but when it did she caught her breath. 

"Estel!" she gasped.

"Oh, you like that, do you?" he responded as his tongue flicked the tip of her 
ear and he ran his hand over the curves of her body. 

"No," she said, then gasped again as he touched her in a way most enticing, "I 
mean yes! But . . . Ai, Estel!"

He brought his head up now, his eyes too also open, and she could see the 
shadowy features of his face as he said, "Have I done something wrong?"

She could not help but kiss him then, for her joy was nearly uncontainable. 
Pulling away she grasped his face in her two hands and dared meet his eyes. 
"Look at me," she demanded. "Can you see me?"

It took him a moment to realize the same thing that she had, but when he did, he 
shot up from his reclined position, turning his head abruptly to find the light 
source. "I can see," he murmured. "Barely, but -- Ah, Arwen, there is light!"

A jubilant smile burst upon her face as she drew up to his side. Her eyes also 
scoured the space, seeking out the origin of the illumination. It took but a 
moment to find it, for the light was rather dim. In comparison to the pitch that 
surrounded them, it was the beckoning call of the sun on a fresh summer's day. 

The pool below them had turned a dim shade of blue, and it appeared as if a 
section of water actually glowed. The lightsource grew from the solid wall that 
had ended their journey, blocking their passage. Yet apparently it did not. "It 
comes from below," she said, for indeed it appeared as if the light came from an 
underwater passage.

They were on their feet instantly, running down the slope of the trail, fingers 
grazing the wall to gauge their way, to meet up with the shoreline of the 
underground river. Despite the appearance of light, the cavern was nearly as 
densely black as before and they had not clearly seen where their steps had 
taken them. They splashed into the newly flooded pathway. Aragorn, thrown by the 
sudden change in his footing, nearly fell upon entering, but Arwen was quick to 
aid him in recouping his lost balance. As he regained his feet, Arwen noticed 
the water was just high enough to cover the tops of their feet. It was enough 
though to saturate her bootleather, and the trickle of water was incredibly cold 
to the touch, even by Arwen's standards. 

Glancing about, she could make out that the water quaked and rjppled from the 
impact of their steps, and with it a shimmer of light danced about the room, as 
if in greeting to them. It gave them enough that they might see the path was not 
just flooded in this spot, it was flooded in all the low places where the path 
trekked away. The water table appeared to have been broken. Arwen's keen ears 
recognized the sound of water dripping further back in the caves, and decided 
this was likely one of the reasons for the rising river.

"It must have rained," she uttered.

She turned her eyes back to the river. From this new angle it appeared that the 
light drifted in from somewhere beneath the water. Where the towering wall met 
the rippling surface, the new light revealed an etched recess carved from the 
solid rock below. She had been mistaken to believe this wall had been the end, 
for clearly the water tunneled out at its lower depths. It was difficult to know 
the distance of the resource, for the light was indirect and surrounded by 
shadow, but in her judgment, considering the overhang and the length of the 
light's reach, she anticipated the entrance might be but a few meters back. 

However, she was disturbed as she gazed into the liquid. Dim as it was, she 
could see particles of dirt flurrying within the murky confines of the pool and 
the water was no longer still as it had been the night before. Now the surface 
was shifting and turning. The liquid within was hazy while the floor of the pool 
was no longer visible. Something was causing the water to move and Arwen had the 
ominous feeling that despite the soft murmur the surface gave as it lapped at 
the walls and shore, there was danger below.

At her side, Aragorn was muttering thoughts of his own. "The passage looks 
narrow. From here I cannot tell if it is large enough to let us through." He 
knelt down, as if to get a better perspective, cocking his head to the side and 
craning his neck to look at the flickering light. Then reaching deep into the 
cool surface of the pool, he hissed at the chill of the water as his arm slipped 
into the deep, past his elbow. "The current is strong," he said, glancing up at 
her before rising. Then he stepped away, not pausing to tell her his thoughts, 
only walking away, nearly lost in the dark. However, she did not wonder at this 
for she knew he had gone to their sleeping spot as though to gather their goods. 
She heard the sound of flint striking steel, and then watched as a small flax 
string was cupped and then raised to the kerosene lamp. The yellow glow of the 
light fell upon Aragorn's face, and she smiled at his completely disheveled 
appearance. He gathered their meager goods before returning to her side. From 
there, the rope that he had untied from his waist the night before was returned 
to that favored spot. He handed her the other end as he said, "Use it to pull me 
back if I do not return on my own."

She had expected as much, and though she took the offered cord, she did not 
grasp it. She held it out as if she had no intentions of accepting it"No," she 
said. His head shot up, his eyes pulling away from the act of securing another 
knot.

He gave an exasperated sigh though his face looked grim. "It is the way out, 
Arwen; the one you had predicted."

"Aye, it is, but that passage is narrow and the current is strong. You are not 
the one who should be attempting this escape."

"And you are?" There was no smile on his face as he snapped this. She narrowed 
her eyes, giving him a warning glance but she new it was not his over-protective 
nature now speaking. He too seemed to sense a danger in the water. Yet he 
appeared perceptive enough to see she might read his intentions otherwise. He 
took a deep, calming breath, and then said in his most diplomatic voice, "Tell 
me your thoughts."

She smiled. He is learning! she thought. Then she glanced down, noting the 
numbing feeling in her toes as she stood in the hazy grey water. She said, "I 
can tolerate the temperature better than you would."

He stared at her, as if digesting the merit of such a comment, but then he shook 
his head and said, "I do not think it matters much. I shall not be in the water 
long." 

"I am slighter than you as well. It might be easier for me to pass. And if it is 
not, I am the better swimmer between us. Further, if there is trouble, I would 
be easier to pull back as my weight is not as great as yours." His eyes turned 
away, looking into the pool as if weighing these arguments. She took the 
opportunity to push her point through. "The water is like ice, Estel. For those 
of mortal blood, even a minute in that could be a debilitating period. I am of 
Elven blood. I am not nearly as affected as you would be. I am more qualified to 
withstand the chill and I am more qualified to take on this risk."

His brow furrowed as he pondered this, and she could see he was battling his 
protective nature to hear her reasoning. At last he sighed and then approached 
her. Fingers trailed down her arms and laced into her hands. "I do not wish it 
to be, but you are right," he said as he lightly took the proffered rope and 
began to tie it about her waist. He secured it with a tight knot.

She laid her fingers over his, feeling a tiny tremble as he stilled his fumbling 
fingers. His eyes roamed up from her hands to her face. She greeted him with a 
smile that reached her dark eyes. "It will be well," she whispered, softly 
cooing her assurances. "We shall be free, I know it. This will work."

He nodded only slightly. No words did he say. The yellow light of the lamp 
showed the moisture building in his eyes. Then he turned his eyes back to his 
task, his hands fumbling with the rope again, tightening his knots. When he was 
satisfied they were secure and would hold, he sighed, standing more erect as he 
did. Simultaneously, spontaneously, they wrapped their arms about each other. 
Their kiss came unbidden, the sign of their intimacy locked together with hope. 
When they broke away, he said to her, "Two minutes. If you have not made it 
through in that time, I am pulling you back."

He looked so frightened, and she could think of nothing that might vanquish 
those fears. However, a thought to lessen his burden came to her then. She 
smiled, teasing him then. "One hard yank if there is danger or if I need for you 
to come," she said, reciting the words in the instructional voice he had used 
when he had loosed her in the tunnels alone just the day before. "Two short tugs 
if I have reached the end yet I wish more lead to go on. Three tugs if --"

"I know," he interrupted with a grim smile, placing one hand over hers.

"Have faith," she cooed softly, her words nearly lost, "and know I am only as 
far as this rope can take me. Do not be afraid of our separation. I will never 
leave you."

He smiled, seeing the parallel between her words and his mood as they had been 
the day before. "Remember to keep the rope between us taut. That is important," 
he said, joking still with yet another reiteration of his prior words.

She turned then and took her first steps, sinking quickly into water that rose 
to her waist. As anticipated, the water was frigid, and though it was uncommon 
among Elves, she could feel gooseflesh rise on her arms and neck. "It is very 
cold," she announced though she knew he had earlier proclaimed this. She began 
to walk towards the light, feeling the tug of a current dragging at her feet as 
she lowered further. She was in water up to her neck and there was still another 
twenty feet or so to go before she would reach the great wall. The current was 
so strong that her feet were barely skimming the loamy bottom of the pool. Where 
her feet did touch, great clouds of silt-like sand billowed up around her, 
muddying the water and decreasing visibility even further. The water deepened in 
the next few feet so that she could no longer stand, and she was forced to 
relinquish herself to the tide that tugged her steadily forward. She glided in 
the water, her head just above the surface, but the current was fast, and she 
was quickly pulled to the rift in the walls base. 

Too fast it came up, and luckily she was facing forward as to see the wall 
coming. Had she not, she would have crashed head-on into the wall. As it was her 
speed was swift, and she heard Aragorn gasping in astonished fear as he watched 
her reach out and catch herself before she was dashed into the rock face. 

"Arwen!" he cried, nearly diving into the water after her.

"Daro!" she responded, resorting to her Sindarin tongue to call his stop. He was 
forever her rescuer and she would not have it. The water made sound, like the 
drain of a basin where she dragged along the surface near the wall and it 
threatened, siphoning her body as if trying to drag her down. Still, she would 
not be deterred. She saw a bloody trail snake down her arm, a confirmation of 
the cuts on her hand from the jarring blow against the wall. It was nothing to 
her, minor cuts suffered for the sake of their escape. It gave her shivers of 
fear though as she sensed this incident to be warning of looming danger ahead, 
but she pushed back her anxieties and refused to let it stop her. She switched 
back to the common tongue, clinging to the jagged wall as she said to him in the 
calmest voice she could muster. "I am well. It is -- the current is very strong 
here."

"I am pulling you back," he declared, but she shook her head in answer. 

"No! Let me try! I have not had my two minutes yet!"

"The current will drag you under," he said. "You will not be able to bring 
yourself back up!"

"Is that not why you affixed the rope?" she asked, shivering slightly. Her 
patience was short and she perceived his to be as well. She did not await his 
response. With a quick gulp of air she purposefully swam under, expecting him to 
immediately yank back on the rope. But she felt nothing that would indicate he 
was dragging her away, and she had to assume he was allowing her the opportunity 
she was promised. 

With the circulation of water now evident around her, she could feel the mixture 
of warm mingling with the cold. But she hardly had time to register anything but 
the most outward of sensations. The rip of the current was great, and she found 
herself plummeting forward. The underground river traveled on several dozen more 
feet before opening into the greater world. The tunnels height and width were 
nearly the same, and they formed into a funneled tube as they progressed. The 
end revealed an opening that she could swim through and it was coming up fast. 
She could see rays of sunlight beckoning to her from the other side of the 
opening. Excitement rippled through her and she kicked her feet that she might 
reach it even sooner.

And then her journey found an end. 

The cord wrenched at her waist as the air nearly burst from her lungs. Her 
progress slowed and the water that had been pulling her dragged against her body 
as she came to a dull stop. Water gushed around, sweeping past her and toward 
her simultaneously. Only a few feet more and she would reach the entrance. 
Surely Aragorn was not yet attempting to pull her back? Although her lungs were 
feeling constricted, she knew she was not yet at her final moments of air. Time 
was not up, so why was she not granted further access? She could not have 
reached the end of her rope so soon. Or could she. Glimpsing back she could see 
very little in the darkness, and she suspected that perhaps the rope was at an 
end. She had come further than she had expected she would.

Panicked because she knew the tunnels length was too long to pull her back in 
safe time to beat the current's strength, she struggled to kick ahead. This near 
to the entrance, the water was in a strange state of motion. Both in and out it 
seemed to go, and she felt herself eddied both ways as she struggled to make 
free. Just three more feet and she might find a handhold to pull herself up. Two 
more feet. But then, there was no more. Struggling, struggling, she could feel 
her lungs begin to scream. Her time was drawing to an end, and she was caught in 
an impossible place. She must find more rope.

She looked down, gazing at the knots holding her to the tether. Argaorn's strong 
fingers had done well. In fact, in his instinctive desire to protect her, he had 
done too well. There was nothing she could do to break out of the knots. Her 
fingers cloyed at the tight fibers but there was not an ounce of give within 
them. From this end, she would never be able to cut loose from the bonds. Yet 
from the other end . . .

Her heart was racing a thunderous pounding within her head. Her lungs began to 
cry silent agony for the air she could not breathe. And yet her brain was 
ticking away a strategic method to find escape. She would die in but minutes if 
she did not act. 

Wrapping both hands around the thickness of rope, she used her own weight to 
rudder her down. She girded both feet beneath her and pulled. Not once did she 
yank at the steely tether, but twice, telling Aragorn, she hoped, that she 
needed more line to find her way free. 

The change was quick to come. She lurched yet another several feet, and she 
flipped about, scrambling to find the hold she had nearly had before. Hands 
reached the torn edge in the rock, and she dragged herself out, relief so very 
near. Sunlight sparkled down on her as she used every inch of cord released to 
her to make herself free of the tunnel. And though it seemed clear Aragorn had 
not released the rope, it did seem apparent that he had found more to give her. 
Hand over hand she pulled, and then finally she arose, clearing her way from the 
tunnel.

The water around her jostled merrily, bubbles and foam playing on the surface 
while churning sounds of great volume greeted her in muffled voices. Here too, 
the water swirled furiously and quick, but somehow, with the rediscovery of the 
sun's glimmer, she felt capable of fighting it yet so that she might rise. More 
rope was released to her, and she used her handhold and the extra length of 
freedom to rise. She was not in deep. Quickly, soundly through those nine or ten 
feet of the water she went, surprised to find suddenly so much rope now availed 
her. 

She broke the surface, gulping hungrily on the sweet, clean air, barely noticing 
the roaring sound of pouring water echoing loudly in the air. The craggy wall in 
which she hung gave her good handholds, but they were slick with the slimy 
residue of plant life. She gasped great breaths of air, coughing on the uptake 
as small waves of water hit her squarely in the face. Yet she was free. She was 
free!

Remembering immediately the one she had left behind, she reached down to take 
the rope. Seeing that he understood her last message, she thought it only right 
to let him know it was safe now to join her. Her free hand wrapped about the 
cord while the other still held to the wall. As it had been all along, she 
expected to find the rope taut when she set out to greet him with her outcome. 
But to her surprise, it was not. Instead, the rope drifted freely, laying slack 
in the water.

"Estel--?" she whispered, pulling the rope up and up and up in order to reach 
the point where it gained her leverage again, or at least the one on the other 
end of it. And then rapidly, suddenly, like a coiling serpent set free, the rope 
gained new life. She realized too late what was happening, and even if she had 
there might be little for her to do. Perhaps if she had considered it sooner, 
she might have tried to climb out of the water, to go to dry land so that a tree 
or heavy rock might have anchored her to her place. But she did not, and with 
nothing more than a short breath of air to fortify her, she was dragged back in 
and torn into the raging current. 


Chapter 40: Raging Forces

 

With barely contained frustration, Faramir turned from his companions and 
watched the wending waters snake their way past the grass-curtained wall of 
their cave hideaway. The blades of green, made heavy with the weight of the 
night's rain, dragged listlessly at the water's edge, streaming trails as the 
river rolled past. Further out in the stream, the waters swirled about rocks, 
mirroring the tracings in the shallower depths but with greater force, and the 
meandering current they created caused the water to stir in bubbling response. 
Deeper still, boulders and heavy rocks cut the surface, and here the action was 
not so sedate. Eddies and swirling curlicues of rippling water twisted over and 
around these large stone guardians. Time and time again, fallen branches would 
float over the water's surface, carried there from places upstream, caught in 
the motions of transport and either sent to drift in the stiller waters near the 
shore, or pushed into the swirling flow at the river's depths. It was difficult 
to predict which way a branch might go as trajectory and weight had as much to 
do with its wayward path as did the river's course. Faramir played witness as a 
thick broken limb worried its way to the center of the river. It was spun and 
tossed lazily in the hidden menace of the rocks, but it continued its onward 
path, lightly battered but still whole. 

Like us all, the steward thought, as he turned his gaze back to the tired faces 
and worried expressions of his companions. A night's rest had been of aid to 
them, but it could not suppress the rising panic the group was feeling. I should 
have told them what happened at Henneth-Annun in a better way. I have only 
worsened their fears for our loved ones with my words. Since awakening, he had 
been forced to tell and retell all that had befallen in the night's battle. Many 
blanks were missing from the story, but those he could not fill. All he knew for 
certain was that Éowyn, Legolas and Mattias were injured, being held against 
their will, and that he had failed to free them.

"Sitting here is furthering us none! How much more must we wait before we may 
try something to rescue our friends?" Gimli growled, interrupting Faramir's 
contemplation. Urgency was readily apparent in the Dwarf's stern voice, if not 
in his frantic pacing, and Faramir turned his attention to face his friend.

"Peace, Gimli. A few minutes pause and then we will move. We are not all ready 
yet," the steward replied, glancing at Gordash, who had just been tended and 
given a restorative that Kattica had concocted. The large man reclined back, 
head against the cave wall with his eyes closed for a moment's rest. The wound 
to his belly was much improved, but was still a serious wound, and the man was 
clearly weakened by the great loss of blood he had suffered.

But Faramir spoke also for himself, for he did not feel ready to move with any 
surety quite yet. 

For his part, Gimli ignored all indications of illness, not seeming to notice or 
care. Anxiety wore at the Dwarf's features and Faramir grimaced in response to 
the pelting scorn that radiated there. Had he thought on it, he could have 
predicted such a response from the Dwarf. Almost he regretted having told his 
stout companion anything of what had occurred the night before. But they needed 
to know, he told himself, and we do need to act, for I do not know how much time 
we have. 

Faramir closed his eyes, tuning out the rumblings from the dwarf. He was weary, 
his body ached and a gash still remained across his torso though it no longer 
bled, but he was in far better shape than he had expected. There was no denying 
a miracle had transpired, or something close to it, but how he had come to this, 
he did not know. Faramir could remember little if anything of his arrival into 
their camp the night before. He had no recollection of either spell, incantation 
or potion being used to perform the miracle that was his and Gordash's cure, 
though Kattica had told him she had indeed used magic for this. He recalled 
Kattica meeting them, as if expecting them, when he and Gordash had found their 
way back to the camp. it The next thing that he remembered was finding himself 
in their keep, the fire burning brightly, the sound of light rain bouncing on 
the river's surface, and the utterance of words being spoken in Kattica's voice, 
but in a language Faramir could not understand. He must have drowsed for what 
came next could only be a dream. A kind faced old woman stood over him then, her 
large brown eyes showing both wisdom and compassion. And while he detected great 
age in them, he also had a sense of eternal youth living there. There was 
something familiar about her, about her stance, the way she lifted her chin, as 
if there were something regal in her bearing. But at the same time, Faramir was 
quite certain he had never seen the woman's face before. The dream ended there, 
for the next that he knew, Kattica was working over him, washing his wounds, 
humming a strange little tune as she did. And then he had awoken to the morning 
light and many frantic questions.

At present, he felt nothing close to being wholly well as his shaky hands 
reached up to smooth knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders, but he knew he 
must muster his strength. The lives of his friends depended on it.

He pressed a hand to his brow and rubbed at the ache that was building there. 
The sounds of the argument invaded his mind, and, gazing up, he turned tired 
eyes upon the Dwarf. The conversation was no longer directed at him, and for 
this Faramir was grateful. Gimli’s need for action had been turned on Kattica in 
his attempt to understand what kind of enemy they faced. Kattica had told them 
about her creation of a magic circle, but Gimli, having never witnessed such a 
thing, did not understand that of which she spoke. Further, he could not 
understand why Bregus was at an advantage.

"Can you not just jinx her or put a hex on her or some such nonsense? You imply 
she is nigh impossible to fight, yet you managed to do just that. Why do you 
fear her when obviously she can be broken?" 

Kattica breathed out a deep sigh then answered, "The joining of worlds comes 
together in the Henneth-Annün cavern. Bregus controls much of everything around 
her there."

"Ha! But apparently you can too! Last night you healed us," the Dwarf pointed 
out, scoffing while standing on a leg that had been hobbled the day before. "We 
are fit now, and without benefit of having a Protected Place like Bregus. Does 
that not prove you a powerful enough witch that you could fight her?"

"This is not a true Protected Place but I made it into something that resembled 
one. Still, the elements I used are depleted now and my healing powers become 
meager here," she stated flatly, as if that were an answer. She turned to her 
medicine bowl then and began to mix ingredients together.

Gimli shook his head, not understanding. "But why?" he asked in a terse voice, 
the sound risen in frustration. 

"A true Protected Place is composed entirely of the base elements in a natural 
setting." Kattica's face turned to Faramir to give him an annoyed expression. He 
could see fatigue lining her eyes, and he realized Gimli's constant prodding 
tried her as well as it did him. "Earth. Wind. Fire. Water. Your Henneth-Annün 
has all of these elements. At least it does when the sun is properly in the sky. 
When that time comes and a shuv'ni is present within that cave, she or he might 
wield great magic. Our camp," she gestured around them, "is a mere imitation. 
Water laps at our feet but it does not make up the walls. Wind sweeps us on its 
own whim but it is not a constant breeze. Our fire is manufactured. It is not 
the fire of the earth or the sky that makes it fully the gods' gift. The mark of 
a real Protected Place has all these things naturally."

However, Faramir could sympathize with Gimli's confusion, and trying to 
understand the source of the power that had been in their cave as well, Faramir 
commented, "It rained last night. The wind was blowing. Would those not make the 
hold stronger?"

A twitch at Kattica's mouth told Faramir it was so. Brown eyes penetrated his. A 
spark of memory flashed before him. He could remember seeing her calling to the 
skies. He fixed his eyes on hers, and they told him this truth. Kattica had 
indeed used these elements to her benefit. Perhaps she had even created them, 
though he could not fathom her doing such a thing. Yet she seemed hesitant to 
speak on it, her eyes warning him. As he watched her answer, she seemed to be 
indicating her fears. Her eyes kept darting to Gordash and her answers remained 
humble. 

"They were temporary. Gifts of nature. They were given and I used them to heal 
your injuries." She nodded at the bandages she had used to wrap Faramir's waist.

Faramir's face blushed crimson as he gazed at the dressings. At the moment he 
was glad there were not more eyes to witness his humiliation, but he decided it 
might do to lighten her mood, and so he teased, "Pah! You used them to further 
your feminine ambitions. Gifts, you say. I look as a pretty package all 
decorated for the giving."

"Be glad you yet breathe and never mind the dressing," Kattica admonished with 
the first hint of a smile he had yet seen this day. 

Gimli gave a small snort then, overhearing this bit of lightened amusement, but 
the mock-scathing look Faramir gave in answer cut the Dwarf short. Gimli blushed 
when he realized Faramir’s eyes had settled on his own bandages, and with a huff 
indicating the joke was not taken, he resumed his pacing. Faramir inwardly 
laughed though. Take that! he thought affectionately, gaining relief from this 
briefest of light moments as a smile flickered on his face. When it came to 
their bindings, his diminutive friend had little ground on which to stand. In 
fact, Faramir thought, with the thickness of the bandage wrapped around the 
Dwarf's leg, he stands not on ground at all, but cloth. Yards and yards of cloth 
by Faramir's estimation, and all of it cast in a loud shade of red. Apparently 
it was an offering from an earlier underskirt sacrificed on Kattica's part. 
Faramir, upon seeing it, had nearly laughed at what he came to term in his mind 
as 'Gimli's Red Boot.' He suspected the Dwarf had every right to snort at 
Faramir in return.

"You will concede at least that I look as a target," the steward continued his 
complaint, using it to urge Kattica into a larger smile in answer to his empty 
gripes. His ploy failed.

"You would be a target were you to go after Bregus regardless of how your wounds 
are bound," Kattica retorted, her voice growing grim. She turned then and handed 
him the cup, and he could see tears pooled in her eyes. The moment of quiet 
laughter was again chased away.

Faramir did not wait to hear her command to drink, for he had heard her 
insistence when she had given the order to Gordash earlier. Looking at the large 
man, who seemed better for having ingested it, Faramir decided this too was a 
part of his healing. He grimaced as he smelled the concoction, and then nearly 
gagged as he drank down what tasted like a combination of thick, muddy water and 
grass, and was nearly the same consistency.

"You shall eat this as well," Kattica instructed, tears now streaming down her 
face, stepping up and offering Gimli a skewered piece of fish, then one to 
Faramir. She hesitated before stopping next to Gordash, then sighed heavily and 
nudged him awake.

Despite her tearful moments and somewhat obvious prejudicial feelings toward her 
brother-in-law, Faramir had to admit his admiration for this girl. Ailing as 
they had all been, she had taken it upon herself to accomplish much in one 
night. Somehow, beyond the magic performed, she had managed to net, clean and 
cook a handful of fish in addition to tending their wounds and stocking the 
fire. Such accomplishments were ill-proportioned to her physical bearing. 
Mythological in fact. Faramir smiled to himself. To accomplish this much, he 
mused, she could be none other than Marius Suenor. Thinking this, he felt a 
fanfare of trumpets might play in her tribute. But he brushed that thought aside 
for that infamous female character of lore, Marius Suenor, infiltrated inane 
tales of little imagination. Usually given over to youthful storytelling 
sessions among adolescent girls, Faramir rarely let such stories gain his 
attention. Yet he had heard of this creation of a superior female heroine. He 
supposed the girls who partook of such nonsense could empathize with Marius 
Suenor's character, but Faramir found her trite, and endlessly predictable. No 
one could be as gifted as that character in reality. Still, he could not help 
looking at Kattica with appreciative eyes placing her in a Marius Suenor role. 
Nay, she was not that, for her flaws were as apparent as were her talents. 
Still, she moved with vigor and he could not help being amazed that she could 
have accomplished so much with so little. 

He pushed these playful thoughts aside and turned his focus upon himself. He 
suddenly realized that he was feeling better if he were making mental jests. The 
fish seemed suddenly appealing, and Faramir began to feed on the steaming flesh. 
It was a tasty feast, and he devoured it quickly, realizing he had little to eat 
the day before and it was only right that he should find his appetite again. 
Almost immediately he found renewed strength. Whether it was brought on by the 
meager meal, or the ministration that had been tended him, Faramir could not 
say. He just knew he was better for them.

But Gimli stared down at the offering he had been given as if he had never seen 
the likes of food before. He shook his head lightly. "I am not hungry," 

Kattica seemed to take this as an affront, and Faramir reminded himself that 
they all suffered under the strain of their worries. She spoke almost as if 
through gritted teeth. 

"You have suffered injury and serious trauma in the day since last, and you must 
replenish your strength if you are to do ought for your friends." 

Gimli sighed. "It might give me strength I suppose," he answered begrudgingly. 
He fidgeted, poking at the food with his knife before setting it aside and 
looking hampered again by his desperation to move. It did not take long before 
eagerness made him pace again. At any moment Faramir expected the Dwarf to begin 
prodding them with urgings for movement. As if on cue, the Dwarf spoke. 

"What if we were to launch a surprise attack?" Gimli’s eyes brightened and he 
exclaimed this as if he had heard none of what had been said only moments 
before, "I can work a knife, Faramir. The odds are in our favor. By my count, 
their number is down by two at least. Besides," the Dwarf went on directing his 
thoughts toward Faramir and not noticing Kattica's discomfiture for the 
dismissal of her husband in his numbering, "surely they suffer damages as a 
result of last night."

Such were not the words to calm any of them, least of all Kattica. A grunt 
escaped her, and she threw her hands up in the air.

"Nay, Master Dwarf," she said with barely suppressed rage, "Our chances grow 
only worse! Such a plan would be folly! Do you not see? Bregus is in the 
Protected Place where her powers only grow stronger! Likely none of my people 
are injured, and likelier still they are hale! Her control will be heightened 
and they shall be more willing to do battle for her than ever before! Do not 
underestimate her!" 

With that her eyes glanced to Gordash as if to read his reaction to her words, 
daring him to speak. Faramir looked that way as well, but he saw nothing 
suspicious in the man, who merely blinked in surprise at the outburst.

There was nothing of a soothing calm in these charges however, and Faramir felt 
the Dwarf's ire burning as fiercely as Kattica's. 

"Yet we cannot idly sit by. At least an attack now would be unexpected!" Gimli 
exploded.

"Unexpected by you, perhaps!" Kattica answered in a cold voice, her eyes focused 
entirely on Gordash as she spoke, nostrils flaring. Faramir could see her anger 
rising, and felt the dread of her argument before it was spoken. "But for Bregus 
it would verily be expected, would it not, Gordash?" 

Gordash, shame-faced, looked away. "I am sorry. But I --" he whispered.

"You are sorry? Not nearly enough, I should think!" Kattica cried. "Not enough 
when your brother is sacrificed to her cause! Not enough when you aid her in 
resurrecting a ghost as our leader! Not enough when innocents are harmed or 
killed in your longing to comply. You brought this upon us! You!" Her cries 
echoed around them and the man blinked his guilty conscience with each 
accusation.

"Kattica, Cease this!" Faramir snapped, his voice sounding out his own rage. "We 
are getting nowhere and time races on!"

She then turned on Faramir. "And you! Why did you bring him here? What 
foolishness directed you? Can you not see he should be left behind? He is 
Bregus' agent and he will give us away!" the girl cried, rage spitting the words 
at him.

Had he considered it, Faramir knew he might have predicted this outburst from 
Kattica as much as he had expected the one from Gimli. He retorted with equal 
vehemence. "And you healed him despite knowing what you do of him! Do not blame 
me that I felt compassion when you apparently felt likewise!" he accused in 
return.

"Please, do not--" the large man cut in but Kattica interrupted.

"I did what I must as a shuv'ni! But Gordash is not the same! His crimes have 
been cruel! He is not an innocent accomplice!"

Faramir advanced on her, speaking harshly. "And you are?"

Dead silence followed.

Faramir felt nausea twist his stomach. He knew well the cruelty of his words. He 
watched the young woman's face collapse, her eyes widening as she swallowed 
reflexively. It was a low blow, but it was delivered in the intentions of 
helping her regain herself. Faramir's guilt lashed at him, but he told himself 
it was the right thing to do. Her apprehensions were getting the better of her, 
and like Gimli she was nearly hysterical with her fright. He felt dreadful for 
the words, yet Faramir had to remind her that she was not beyond the crimes that 
she pinned upon her husband's brother

"I--" she began, nearly choking.

"You are not above him, Kattica," he said.

A vanquished sob was relinquished from her throat, and Faramir caught her as her 
legs collapsed beneath her. He pulled her up, hugging her into him, hot breath 
beating on his chest as she sobbed in anguish. He said in a soft voice, "He is 
trying to break from her. Would you hold it against him for trying?"

She shook her head, crying into his chest. "Mattias . . . " 

She did not finish the thought, but Faramir knew what she might say had she 
continued. He felt equal in his anxieties, his regrets and his terror. Éowyn, he 
thought, yea that I might hold you again. Wistfully, he thought of his wife's 
golden tendrils of hair and her graceful figure as he held the crying girl. He 
found solace in the tears. 

Several minutes passed in silence, but they were broken when the Romany man took 
it upon himself to speak. He looked hesitant to vocalize his thoughts, but after 
a moment of pondering he did. 

"Kattica is right to doubt me," he slowly rumbled. 

Protests gathered on Faramir's lips but he did not speak them, choosing instead 
to let the Romany say what he would. 

"I told you last night I know not my own thoughts. She is correct. I still 
cannot say I am true. This however I can tell you. Should you fight my people, I 
shall not. Should you march to the soldiers camp, I will march with you and 
surrender myself. Should you wish to be rid of me, I would walk away and be 
gone. It is all I can do to show my aid. But whatever you decide, I think it 
would be best if I were not present as you discussed it." And with that, he 
stood and walked away from their cave, strolling upstream to a place that was 
out of earshot but within their eyesight.

Red rimmed, Kattica's eyes followed him, eyelashes sticking in star points. 
"That was . . . noble. I should not have . . . " she said with shame, never 
completing the thought as she looked down. Faramir felt a laugh spill out of 
him.

"You had every right to doubt him," Faramir corrected her with soft words, 
feeling a bit of mirth for the flip-flop her guilt put upon her. And then 
finding a little more of his strength, he released her and stood erect. "Thanks 
to your outburst and his given nobility, we might now speak freely." Growing 
suddenly serious, he said, "We need a plan, and we have made little of one so 
far. What say you, Gimli?"

Throughout the lament, Gimli had seemed locked in his own remorse. As he gazed 
up, dark eyes showed his hurt. "Would that Aragorn were here," he sadly 
muttered.

It was like the burst of a bubble. Mirth depleted in full and the steward's face 
sagged into a frown. The Dwarf's eyes dipped in misery. Would that he were, 
Faramir thought, and for not the first time, he considered Aragorn and worried 
for his condition. So too for Arwen. But, he realized, such thoughts could also 
stir up hope, and Faramir turned the sad tidings into ones of possible 
encouragement. "And were he here, what might he do?" Faramir asked the Dwarf.

"He might have chosen a less emotional course than we would, surely," the Dwarf 
chuckled. 

The laughter, though woeful, was a nice music in the steward's ears, and he 
wondered when or if they might ever truly feel happiness again. But what Gimli 
said had merit.

"Then let us think on our choices and decide what might best serve us," Faramir 
offered. "There are the soldiers."

"They would give us strength in numbers that we do not currently have," Gimli 
conceded.

"But enough to overtake Bregus?" Faramir asked, knowing the number of soldiers 
as compared to Romany.

"They use women and children in their ranks," Gimli scoffed. "That is no 
contest."

"Do not underestimate what those women and children might do, Master Dwarf," 
Kattica answered. "They will make you wary to strike, while they will show no 
hesitation in striking you."

"Granted," Faramir nodded. "Despite the soldiers, their number is greater. 
Should we send then to the Elven colony for aid?"

Antagonism emoted from Gimli with this comment. "Thus sacrificing more Elves to 
the witch's cause? I think not," he murmured.

Faramir huffed on the words. His frayed emotions had too reached a near end. 
Bringing harm to others was the last thing he wanted at that moment and Gimli's 
gripes were only flagging his energies. His head pounded yet again as he 
considered this. He was seeking help. That the Dwarf could not see this. . . "A 
simple aye or nay would suffice, Master Dwarf," he responded in clipped words. 
Any ease between them seemed to pass. Tension returned. Etched lines of worry 
reached the steward's brow as the mounting impatience met him in the Dwarf's 
stiff figure. Faramir's own worries were enough to set the prince on a path of 
dark misery. Anger ventured forth in his words, and he barely restrained the 
lashing he wished to deliver. "What would you have then?"

Gimli answered in a far calmer voice than Faramir used, though he was terse in 
his reply. "I would have us work to find a way that would breech their hold and 
rescue our loved ones. You speak of means of might, but what else do we have in 
our favor?" 

"Obtaining the soldiers' help seems a fair bit of advantage!" Faramir countered, 
realizing too late as he said this that the animosity that was brewing between 
them was coming from himself. 

"You give up on our skills too easily, Faramir! You would use might to force our 
way in when that might do even greater harm to our friends! Have you not 
considered that the witch might kill them if she cannot reach her goal? If we 
attack and break through, what will she do next? Have you even begun to ask 
these questions?" Gimli lashed back.

Silence fell between them as the echo of their voices faded away and the sounds 
of the raging river filled the emptiness.

But it was not the sudden temper unleashed that made Faramir pause, for he felt 
he might choke on the silence. Gimli’s accusations resounded in his brain, and 
Faramir noted each one. Indeed he had considered them, but not with any surety 
of thought. He leaned back, feeling weak again, his head pounding as he searched 
for answers.

Kattica looked away as he turned his gaze to her. She sighed, silently stroking 
her belly as if in contemplation of these thoughts herself. No answers would be 
given in studying her, and Faramir turned his eyes to the river, still too 
shocked to react.

He watched the muddy water as his mind went over the words. Of course the witch 
would kill the ones she held. She may well kill everyone in that cave if she 
could not succeed. A mass homicide was not beyond her doing, especially in 
knowing she had few qualms about killing even her own kin. Gimli was right, 
though such an admission stung Faramir's ego. Venturing far into the twisted 
mind of Bregus' was painful, and he was resistant to do so. Bregus was a mystery 
to him and, truthfully, he feared her. He could not forget what torment she had 
rained upon him simply with a touch and for little cause that he could discern. 
She was cruel and quite selfish, and the combination of those two qualities 
could lead her to do most anything. 

Faramir knew that Bregus had fears though too. They needed to consider anything 
that might break her, although he would relish a plan that would avoid a 
face-to-face confrontation. Yet he also knew this was likely not going to 
happen, and Gimli was probably correct. Such a sickening madness would have to 
be met head-on. Faramir's head pounded with his fears. He could not predict the 
response a direct assault might bring. All he could think was that he needed to 
get his loved ones free of her. His knowledge of their cave was for naught in 
devising any other means of offense. Force seemed to be their only option.

His voice sounded in surrender when at last he spoke. He felt spent for ideas 
that might aid their progress. "What is it that makes you change, Gimli? But a 
minute ago you wished us to attack without thinking. And now . . . " he sighed, 
shrugging miserably, not knowing what else he could say.

The Dwarf blinked and looked away, as if he too had decided he would not partake 
in further vehemence. Almost as if surrendering something, he said, "I have not 
given up on the fight. But perhaps I am not so convinced Henneth-Annün is as 
impervious as you would have it, Faramir. There must be a way to get in that the 
witch will not have considered." 

There was gravity yet in the Dwarf's voice, but Faramir could tell he was trying 
to find common ground on which they both might stand.

Softened as they were, Faramir considered the words, but his anger was not 
stilled. He knew everything there was to know about Henneth-Annün, and the 
Dwarf's insistence that there was another means of entry was slighting the 
wisdom he had already given. "You think there is another way to enter?" he 
asked, not guessing what the Dwarf wanted. His voice was still angry but at 
least he kept it at a quieter volume.

"I think there are means we are not exploring," the Dwarf answered more 
sedately, his eyes daring to look then to Kattica.

Faramir was perplexed. Another means? He could not understand what Gimli might 
be indicating. He furrowed his brow, fighting off a wave of lightheadedness, 
sinking to sit on the stone behind him in answer. He took a deep breath in order 
to rid himself of the tension that had burned itself into anger. He recognized 
his own fright, and he wished to rid himself of it. He was eager to come to a 
plan, and he supposed Gimli was vying for the same. Perhaps the Dwarf was right 
and there was more to consider than just physical might in taking on this force. 
Releasing his held breath, he said in a voice that was uttered in a far calmer 
tone than any prior words, "You obviously have a query. Ask it please. I cannot 
guess your meaning, and I weary of trying."

The Dwarf met Kattica's eyes. "The question remains. What shall we do to free 
our friends?" he asked solemnly.

Faramir rose again, this time on better ground. He glanced about them, looking 
for answers. The comment was well-intended. What should they do? There was no 
doubt the soldiers would be of aid, but what else might there be that could be 
of aid to them. They needed a plan. "We will enlist the soldiers' skills in the 
battle. It is not that far to journey and we are not so injured that we shall be 
hindered by the difficulty. We should reach them in but short time. Once there 
we will have access to our horses and can make the return trip in half the time 
or less. But I would want to know more of what we might face with Bregus before 
we make that assault."

He looked at Kattica then, and she stood taller, as if realizing only she could 
give them what they needed. They seemed to be asking it of her and she nodded 
her acquiescence.

Faramir spoke. "You implied that Henneth-Annün is not always true as a Protected 
Place. The elements are not entirely natural to the environment."

"They are not native at all given times," Kattica corrected quietly. "But at 
sunset the place is true."

"Yet in the day. . . ?" Faramir asked, leaving off to give Kattica the opening 
to complete the thought.

"It is a manufactured safe hold. Bregus must use a camp fire to give herself the 
strength to use it, just as I used one to complete our circle of elements last 
night," she answered unemotionally. 

Faramir's voice was low. "Still, as a result of the elements that are present, 
the witch's powers are stronger than they might be otherwise?"

"Yes. Even with the fire her space is stronger than ours because we no longer 
have the rain and wind to contain us."

"But she is currently not so strong as she would be when the site is true, at 
sunset?" he asked, pausing before speaking the last phrase.

"Correct."

"And when you made our camp a Protected Place, it was as strong as you could 
make it too?" Gimli asked this. 

The question seemed redundant, but Faramir perceived the Dwarf was coming to the 
same conclusions that he was.

"Yes."

Faramir grappled with his thoughts. Urgency suddenly was a keening wail in his 
mind and he could see a solution, or at least some possibility of a solution. 
Foregoing all others, he leapt ahead with the question he truly wished to know. 
"What could have broken it?"

Kattica turned her gaze on Faramir, giving him a querying look. "What do you 
mean?"

Faramir clarified the question by rephrasing it. "What could have wrestled the 
power you held away from you?"

Kattica frowned, and then the twisted expression softened and the light of 
realization came over her face as she looked up to meet his eyes. She opened her 
mouth to speak, but just as she did so, a cry came from beyond their cave. 

"What is that?" Gordash exclaimed, pointing to the river and running up to meet 
them.

Gimli stepped ahead, taking several steps down the path to follow the progress 
of something in the water. It was racing past. "Is that --?" the Dwarf began.

Faramir caught the sight. "Arwen!" he answered for the Dwarf, gasping in 
startled breath as he saw her pulled in the stream.

"And she is being dragged on a tether. Aragorn is in her lead!"

Faramir gulped back his shock and immediately sprang into the chase. Gimli was 
at his side. For someone so small in stature, especially considering the Dwarf 
had a cast leg, Gimli was moving with great speed. 

The water raged about the couple, and all Faramir could really make out was the 
bobbing heads being tossed up and down, in and out of the growing waves of 
water.

"They are being pulled into the harsher current!" Faramir heard Gimli yell and 
he looked ahead only to see the waters divide and the pair being pulled down the 
more treacherous route. 

"Faramir, to me!" the Dwarf commanded, and the steward immediately responded, 
looking up and leaping as Gimli was now doing over rocks and boulders that 
jutted from the water's surface. They formed a crossing of sorts. They would be 
dashed into the rapids if they fell, but Faramir ignored the danger.

He glanced over his shoulder to see Gordash and Kattica remaining on the shore 
and he waved to them to continue moving downstream.

Turning back, he saw the Dwarf was already across. One last hurtling jump 
brought Faramir to the narrow shoals on the opposite shore. The Dwarf had not 
waited. Gimli was closing in on the submerged forms and screaming back at 
Faramir to follow. "This way! This way!"

Wading into the river, climbing again onto the rock littered floor, Faramir 
noted the natural agility in the Dwarf's movements over the stone. It reminded 
the steward of Legolas' skills in the trees. He saw little effort was needed for 
Gimli to find his way, though Faramir felt more than a little off balance. 

The terrain bounding the river was greatly changed since the last time Faramir 
had surveyed there. He had once known this land well, but it had been a few 
years since he had last seen it, and he came to see why Legolas and the Elves 
were so proud of their accomplishments. Much had changed from those dark times, 
and even the river seemed to reflect the cleansing strength the Elves had 
brought with them. Faramir knew the shore to be narrow on this side of the 
river, and he knew Gimli chose the right route, crossing over it on the 
shallowest end, yet Faramir was little prepared for what he saw ahead some few 
hundred yards on the river's course.

The sound gave it away as much as the sight.

"They are being pulled to where the new falls drop off!" Gimli cried out.

Legolas had referred to this place as the New Falls, as if waterfalls had never 
before existed, but Faramir knew that to be not entirely true. The direction of 
Aragorn and Arwen's journey led directly into the path of the runoff from a 
waterfall Faramir had long known. Since boyhood, he and Boromir had come here to 
play whenever they were given the chance. But in the days of his youth, the 
falls had been small trickles of water raining down from a series of streams on 
the higher elevations of the cliffs. The sandy basins had served as small wading 
pools to the two brothers, their teasing and playfulness making it a quiet 
sojourn of boyish pleasure. Yet now, it looked nothing like the timid cascade of 
the steward's youth. The falls had massed and swelled to great magnitude, 
powerful and brutal, and the tumult of water that poured from them was not 
something that one might wrestle and tumble within. 

The brown water of the rain-swollen river slid over boulders no longer visible; 
the merging waters joined together to form a wide swell. Great ruts formed in 
the white-capped waters, places Faramir guessed to be whirlpools strong enough 
to drag a man under. And those treacherous rocks were just where Aragorn and 
Arwen were headed.

The pair tumbled and turned through the roiling water, fortune passing them 
through this field without being pulled under. Faramir gasped as he watched, 
leaping rock to rock in his attempt to catch them before their luck ran out. 
They fell away from his sight as another dip plunged them beneath the surface 
momentarily, and his heart dove again with fear. 

Even the Dwarf had shown no signs of catching them. But fate must have been on 
their side that day, for Gimli's voice rang over the whirling screams of the 
river's rushing waves. "They are caught on the rocks! Hurry! Hurry that we might 
reach them yet!" the Dwarf cried and he was already scrambling down one of the 
outcroppings that made a short platform before merging the waters once more. 

The cascades were near their end, and the two rivers formed into one mass. Ahead 
the water slid over one more stepped point before settling to its depths and 
narrowing into the silent river that eventually led to Henneth-Annün. The 
outcropping of rocks seemed a dumping point here, as if the strength of the 
water were physically spent. It snagged the couple, no doubt giving them both a 
jolting shock as they slammed to an abrupt end. The pressure alone might have 
done terrible harm.

Faramir gained on the scene, practically sliding as he descended the stacked 
stones that gave him access to where the last step dropped off. Rock upon rock 
lined the way, and again the water raged past. Yet somehow the pair had split 
apart and had ventured to opposite sides of the rocky base. Arwen was pale in 
the splashing water, her face in a horrid grimace, though she resiliently 
remained aware. Faramir could not imagine how she had survived to this point, 
but she was alive and struggling, pulling on the rope that mercifully was not 
twisted about her. Despite all, she pulled on the cord tethering her, trying to 
swing herself into a position where she might gain a foothold and haul herself 
up. But the rope was a counter pulley to her actions, and every inch she gained 
might mean Aragorn's end slipped further.

Luck prevailed. The rope somehow had zigzagged between rocks, the effect being 
to entangle Aragorn's line rather than letting him find the full power of the 
river's pull on him. Each turn had become a sort of buffer to the strength of 
the water's tug. The result was a near miracle, and at the rope's end Aragorn 
was saved from being pulled over the falls by the shortened cord. And while the 
drop was not so great, the rocks below surely could deliver a deadly blow.

Faramir’s relief was cut short, however, when he suddenly realized that injury 
had been sustained. Aragorn was face up in the raging waters, waves pouring over 
his still form, but Faramir gasped even still. 

Aragorn was unconscious. 

Faramir hastened past the dwarf even as his swift glance took in the scene 
before him. Gimli had reached the boulder off of which Arwen was snarled. From 
the corner of his eye, he could see Gordash had deserted his post on the western 
shore and was making his way across the river much as Faramir had. He heard a 
voice cry out to him, and realized it was Arwen.

"He is tangled! He will drown! Pull him up! Pull him up!" 

Faramir did not slow as he barreled past, his mind completely centered on his 
king. In three more jumps he was at the furthest most reach before the falls, 
and he could see Aragorn bobbing in the water just ahead. He could make out the 
ashen complexion and the sealed eyes and his mind screamed, Too late! I have 
come too late! Still he would not give up such a quest, and he put his hands to 
the rope and pulled but there was little give as the current tugged the king 
with it. Faramir felt a momentary panic that he would not succeed, when suddenly 
Gordash was there, adding his strength to the rope despite being already winded 
from the exertion of the run. 

"Pull! Pull!" Faramir yelled.

Inch by slow inch they dragged Aragorn closer. Faramir gasped as the small 
motions dragged his friend under, though that seemed to revive the king. Aragorn 
flailed, eyes coming wide in the surprise of near drowning, and Faramir reached 
out to grasp a wildly grappling hand. 

"Hold on to me!" he cried. The jerking force on his arm was severe, but he would 
not relinquish his grip despite being pushed into a leaning crouch. It was an 
awkward position but it had advantage in that, if he could get Aragorn's weight 
far enough back, he might put leverage on his knees and haul his friend from the 
water.

"Pull!" he screamed again and he and Gordash strained with a mighty groan. As if 
the river had vanquished its hold, Aragorn was wrenched free and the drenched 
figure suddenly was in Faramir's arms as he sprawled backwards onto the vast 
rock.

With a sideways glance, Faramir checked to see Gimli's progress, his task the 
same though the effort had been lessened. There too, Arwen was safe, collapsed 
in the Dwarf's arms as he pulled her to safe ground. She gasped deeply of air, 
and Faramir watched her eyelids flutter as she dropped her head against Gimli's 
shoulder.

Then collapsing himself, Faramir shut his eyes, breathing a great sigh of 
relief. He, Gordash and Aragorn made a ragged pile of bodies on the rocks, but 
Faramir's mind only registered one thought: They are alive. 


Chapter 41: Stone and Cord

 
Aragorn playfully wove the elven rope in and out of his fingers. He considered 
the pattern it made, reminding himself of the path he had followed to his near 
ruin when the waters had dragged him. However, the lacing of the cord over his 
digits demonstrated how this path actually helped him escape the brute assault 
of the booming water upon the rocks below. The snagging crisscross had held him 
back, and he was ever so grateful that it did. 

He then spread his fingers and the rope let loose, freed as if relinquished by 
command. A small smile pressed Aragorn's lips. Such was the make of elven goods.

He mused on the object he held. Slightly more golden in appearance than the 
ropes the Fellowship had used in their travels, the crafted cords of the Elves 
of Doro Lanthiron were every bit as fine as the rope gifted to Sam when they had 
traveled through Lothlórien. But what craft honed them to such expert 
usefulness, even Aragorn could not say. He had watched how the Elves braided and 
wove the fibers with deft fingers, but never could he discern why their cords 
turned out so much the superior to ropes of mortal make, even when they were 
constructed in nearly identical fashion. Sadly, he knew few mortals who would 
understand that, in this instance, the rope had really been what had saved him, 
but Aragorn's faith in what the Elves brought to Middle-earth was heightened 
with just this small piece of evidence all the same.

The sinewy elven fiber could act almost of its own volition, and he knew it to 
be true. Crisscrossing and looping around in the rocks, it was as if the fibers 
knew that such meandering might serve to create small braking moments for the 
body being pulled. And though Aragorn had lived it, it amazed him nonetheless. 
Had it been any other cord he surely would have been cut down the middle by the 
sudden yank when he stopped. Or the fibers might have been shredded into bits. 
Or twisted about his limbs and throat, choking off his air. Or lopping off an 
appendage by the sheer force of the water. Granted, when the event had happened, 
the air had been knocked from his gut rendering him incoherent for a moment, but 
he had barely a mark now to show for the endeavor. This was so unlike how it 
could have been had the rope been other than what he had.

Arwen too had somehow survived it, though that miracle was one of its own 
telling. He had gasped his relief that she had made it out of the cave without 
drowning, for the knots that he tied had been by his own hand, and like all 
elven ropes, they held true to the one who had tied them. Could he go back in 
time, he might have thought to have her tie the ropes about her own waist, for 
then she might have freed herself. Then again, had she released herself, they 
might have been completely separated as she was sucked into the tumble of the 
rapids and current. It was hard to say which had been the better, for in the 
final outcome, the rope had been their salvation, though it had also nearly 
killed them in the process.

His heart quickened its beat as he remembered the moments in the cave. He had 
let her go. It had been difficult to see her dragged away, and he had held tight 
to the rope knowing that the tether was the only thing keeping them united. But 
when he realized how fast it was that she was traveling, he knew the current had 
taken control and sucked her into its flow. It came as a bit of surprise for a 
few seconds to see the uptake on the slack, but once realized, he knew he would 
have to give her more length, as she had been showing no indication of stopping. 
Such speeds were dangerous, and he knew if he did not find a way to stop her 
slowly, she might have been damaged horribly by the force against her body. Or 
he might have been jerked into the pool involuntarily, possibly harming them 
both. And so he had taken steps into the water, all that he might act the slow 
anchor when her rope reached its end. 

The water had been bitterly cold when he had stepped in, and he felt his teeth 
rattling and the painful chill running through him within the first steps of his 
immersion. He was dragged as he tried to brake her ending motion, his legs 
quickly numbing in the waters. But he had been successful in slowing her without 
harming either of them. And then he felt her signal. Two tugs. She was not 
through. With dread he realized she had not enough rope. He had made the next 
steps while pulling back on the line, to keep the progress easy enough that they 
might both stay safe. That might have worked, but he could no longer feel his 
limbs, and a misstep toppled him. He lost his footing, and experienced himself 
the horrible drag of the water. Just as she had, he was pulled along on the 
surface. The solid stone wall had loomed up and realizing he was about to be 
smashed against it, he had dived. Below the water's surface, he found himself 
being pulled along by the current, just as she must have experienced. Little air 
was there in his lungs, but he had faith that the tides fast flow would free him 
soon enough to breathe. The light grew and he saw his freedom with it. But once 
free, he had nothing to hold him back from the continuous flight. There was no 
tension on the rope to give him leverage to fight for the surface and the only 
thing he had was his own strong kicks. Instead the water held him and pulled him 
and he had no choice but to be dragged along by it. The tug at his waist a 
moment later had told him that Arwen, willing or not, had joined him in this 
outbound journey.

He gulped for air when he was finally able to reach the surface, but the water 
batted and pelted him, spinning him dizzyingly. A whirlwind of confusion 
followed. He remembered swimming, pulling the rope, trying to reach Arwen, but 
they were always just beyond one another's grasp. Water buffeted him, splashing 
him, raking him over rocks and through whirling pools. 

Time and time again he saw nothing but snatches of Arwen, or the shore, or 
monstrously large stones jutting from the water's surface. Time and time again 
he was gasping for air. And time and time again he could not make out where he 
might go to find rescue. 

The only logic he could think in this vivid chaos was to keep his body light and 
on the surface so that he would resist the drag of the undercurrent. Skimming 
by, over and under, tumbling and twisting. That is what he felt. And then there 
was the abrupt halt and blackness accompanied by the choking fight for more air. 
He remembered arms pulling him up and laughter and sobs of a joyous voice 
ringing in his ears. He could not remember finding his way to the shore, only 
the vague recollection of being hauled over the shoulder of another. Once landed 
she was there, brushing fingers through his hair, and breathing kisses over his 
damp skin. 

He had awakened with a startling clarity of mind, remembering everything and 
realizing much had occurred in the interim of his drowsing state. 

And now he sat, taking in everything about him, running his hands over the cords 
that had saved them.

They were alive! They had escaped! He should rejoice for the ecstasy of that 
prosperous news. 

If only he could. If only that might be the end of their horror for this day. 
Yet hearing the words of his old and new companions, he felt he should be 
partaking in what would otherwise be a ghost tale, best told before the light of 
a fire on a howling, stormy eve. He was still, resting his weary muscles while 
his brain digested the nightmarish tale of all that had come to pass in a day's 
turn. This was not some fable created to frighten young minds and innocents. 
This was real, and frightening, and vicious. This was the reckoning of a horror 
designed with the purpose to steal what rightfully belonged to another, with no 
gain for any but one. 

His fingers curled tightly about the now tangled cord in his hand as he listened 
to Faramir relay all that had happened the night before. A twinge of guilt 
touched Aragorn as he heard the details. While he had laid beside his wife in 
the confines of the cave, ravishing her body and sating his desires, his friends 
had been fighting for life. For freedom. 

Even if he had known, he still would not have been able to aid them. Yet, it 
would ease his ragged conscience if he had.

He had been blind then to all that was beyond him, but he could see now, and his 
mind was ticking away, creating strategies and formulating thoughts as all the 
points of the narrative were relayed to him. They had an enemy to defeat, and 
there were none among them more bent to do this than he. They had suffered, and 
he was willing and ready to seek vengeance for that.

His eyes swept over the group, assessing the damage they had suffered in his 
absence. Two he could not claim to know, but he assessed them as if they were 
his, knowing they were soldiers to a common cause. As he examined them, he 
wondered what they might bring to this campaign. 

The larger man he recognized as being among the brothers in the camp. He 
remembered the awkwardness and apologies at his brother's overeager ineptitude a 
few days earlier. He no longer seemed the easygoing character that had mourned 
the dogs' mysterious poisoning. Now he was shaky and weary, relieved and yet 
afraid. He was anxious, Aragorn surmised, and knowing Gordash's part in this 
story, he could understand why. The desperate man knew not where his heart lie, 
nor did he know if it might yet go astray. But then he also looked to his 
steward, for Faramir was sure of the man, and that was enough to make Aragorn 
sure as well. How might he use the man? Of that he was not so sure.

The woman too was frightened. Aragorn need not query her with details over the 
facts, for he could see she would rather jump to the next stage than bandy about 
what was already known. Her hands kept brushing her belly, as if that gave her 
comfort, but for the most part he saw a mixture of eagerness and anger in her, 
and such tensions made him worry for the late stage of her condition. From what 
he had heard, she had done much as their aide, and he had no desire to see her 
brought to further harm. And yet she possessed skills of many sorts. As a healer 
he could see her talents. As a conjuror he could not, though again, he was 
willing to believe what Faramir had offered. And yet he also saw she was 
vulnerable and could be used as a weapon in the witch's arsenal. The witch 
wanted an unborn child, and though Bregus already had Éowyn (who Arwen confirmed 
was with child), Aragorn could not help thinking the witch would prefer 
Kattica's baby far more. For that reason alone he had serious doubts as to the 
usefulness the girl could offer. It pained him to think this, but in relying 
upon her, he would be putting her directly in harms way, and that was not his 
intent. She would never understand his thinking, but he would protect her if he 
could.

His eyes then went to the Dwarf. He could have guessed Gimli's emotions, for he 
knew his small companion well. What surprised him however was how silent and 
cool the Dwarf appeared to be. Pacing still, Gimli seemed astonishingly calm for 
one who might normally be called hot-tempered and rash. In this case though, the 
Dwarf simply listened, silently running his hands deep into pockets or over the 
shaft of his blade. Oddly, the Dwarf was muttering to himself. Aragorn dared not 
mention it, however, for Gimli seemed completely unaware he was doing it, and if 
pointed out, Aragorn would have likely been verbally assaulted for the insult. 
Instead, he gave his friend distance, knowing soon enough he would be granted 
the whole of the Dwarf's thoughts.

He turned then to Faramir, and Aragorn felt, rather than saw, the damage done 
there. The outward harm was apparent, but the king could see deeper. Anguish 
flickered in the recesses of the steward's eyes. It was masked, filtered by 
duty, but Aragorn felt there was pain, in both heart and mind in that stewing 
frame. He followed Faramir's words, but tried to read beyond them. Something had 
happened. Something Faramir could not mention, and Aragorn knew he would be hard 
pressed to go there, having not lived what his friend had. Yet whatever it was, 
the steward was functional. Justice, however, might make good medicine for what 
had brought on the hurt, and Aragorn could easily detect it was the old witch 
who might pay for the crimes rendered upon this man, and on his wife.

He gazed at Arwen. Her eyes were dewy with unspent tears, her lips curved 
downward into a frown as she listened to what had come to those she loved. 
Remote as they had been, all along she had commented on her fears for their 
friends, and now her premonitions of danger were ringing true. So much harm had 
come to these folk. He could hardly consider himself among them, for he and 
Arwen had suffered the least of them. Andnd yet he felt as if a year of time and 
learning had occurred in that day's disappearance. He examined her too, 
realizing exactly the tenacity and cunning that lived in her. He would never 
misuse those skills again. And now, he was sure, if he did step out of line, she 
would correct him and align him as he ought to be. At least something had been 
bettered in their enforced absence.

Silence fell. The story was done. No happy endings were there found among the 
faces. As yet. Anything to be made would have to come from them, and Aragorn 
suddenly felt determined there would be a good ending or there would be no 
ending at all. He could spend his life seeking justice, if that is what it took. 
But he would not wait for the ugliness the witch had planned to be executed. Too 
much had passed. It was time for this story to find an end. He would stop it 
now.

"Very well," he said slowly, drawing eyes to him with his even voice. "We need 
to act and there is no more time for us to wait. One or two among us shall go to 
the soldiers' camp. It will be as Faramir had begun to lay out: We will have the 
soldiers fortify our numbers and weapons. We will fight the Romany with the help 
of the militia forces, and I care not if the witch launches her illusions of 
massed forces. Knowing it is not real will be half of what empowers us to fight 
them." Aragorn's voice was stern and sure. No doubt was there in this decision 
though he had his own fears. Yet he knew it would serve them none to show them. 
Best that his feelings stay locked within him where no one could see them. He 
looked at them, opening his mouth to reveal his plans to their anxious hearts. 
His words were halted before he could even utter them.

"I think I should be the one to go," Arwen said. The words were startlingly 
familiar to him for he had heard them said many mornings prior, though the 
reasons said were for a far different cause than this.

He met his wife's words. "Yes," he said, agreeing with her though finding 
himself choking on the conflict of feelings. He feared for her departure, yet 
knew it the safest place for her to be. And she would be most useful to him this 
way. He saw the parallel. She had asked him if she might go to Poros and he had 
negated her before the others, his heart telling him for the sake of her safety 
he must say no. But he had learned since then. She clearly could assess the 
situation as plainly as he. 

She heard his agreement, as well as his unspoken fears. Her eyes, flickering 
with a smile and the calm of her mood, directed him back to those around him. He 
completed his thought. "Kattica should go with you." 

Immediate words of protest followed. He could have predicted them.

"Nay! You deny me my opportunity! You think my condition excludes me from 
fighting!" Kattica exclaimed. There was fire in the younger woman's voice and 
were she not in danger and vulnerable, he would have thought her a good ally to 
fight in this battle. "I am with child. My mind is not addled," she insisted.

Yet Arwen seemed to know what was within him. The calm of her eyes touched him 
and despite this, or because of it, he heard her words above all else. "Let her 
stay, Estel. I will make the journey alone." 

Forgetting all else, he said, "Alone? But. . . you should have a companion."

But she seemed not to find the words worth the merit of argument. She did not 
plead, but merely spoke the logic of her mind. "You will need all the help you 
can get. This is how I may offer you the most of me and this is how you can get 
the most of Kattica. I am not a warrior, or a witch. I could not aid in the 
assault."

He knew this. He also knew there was danger for Arwen to walk the woods alone 
for Bregus might be searching yet for another Elf. 

Arwen added, "I know the way to the soldier's camp, and I am the least hurt 
amongst us. I would move faster alone." 

"Take Gordash then," he offered, knowing that at least the Romany man might 
serve as a bodyguard for his wife. There were the dogs to consider, and even 
though the man had succumb to an attack by them, he had experience with them. 
Aragorn knew he was putting his faith in Faramir's trust of Gordash, but he had 
to believe the Romany would come through in this endeavor if asked.

The large man stiffened as his name was spoken, but he offered no argument to 
the role being bantered.

"Gordash will slow me down with his injuries, as will Kattica in her condition," 
Arwen said.

"Gordash will not fight his own people," he said, turning to the Romany to 
confirm this. Shame-faced the large man blushed red. It was enough for Aragorn 
to know Gordash could not be relied upon as a fighter in their ranks. He turned 
back to his wife. "He would be of better aid to you," Aragorn responded, shaking 
his head, pleading that she might give this. It seemed a valid argument that her 
travel be accompanied. 

She stepped up to him then, taking his hands. She whispered her words to him, 
and they were light but still readable in his ears. "Let me do this, Estel. 
Gordash refuses now, but circumstance may come that could alter his choosing. I 
think he needs to see things as they really are to know for sure. And he will 
only slow me should he come on my path. You will need the soldiers and you will 
need him. Let us not delay. If I am quick, I could have them to you before a few 
hours passing."

"Yet alone?"

"You would send a single rider if this were a military mission and I were but a 
scout."

He lowered his head, knowing her words were true. He could not dispute her 
thinking, though the ache in his chest made him feel that he should. Yet they 
had come so far, and he knew to rein back now and to demand she take another 
companion would be to break everything they had forged. He nodded his ascent, 
then turned to Kattica, "But I fear for you, Kattica. I would have you go with 
Arwen to protect both you and your child. But I cannot force you. I am not your 
king. The choice is yours."

"I may stay then? I can be of benefit? Yes, you will see. I can fight in other 
ways than with the sword," Kattica said, her voice sounding relieved and 
renewed.

Gimli chuckled, "Now that is the spirit with which I was referring when I said 
there might be other means to fight. A Dwarven woman might say the same."

That decision at least was made. Aragorn turned to Arwen for parting words. She 
met him with a kiss that surprised him, but he gave into it with all the passion 
he dared show before others. He held onto the sigh of her heated breath as she 
ducked her head, her eyes trailing to his hands. He had unconsciously tangled 
them into the ropes yet again, and as she drew them up to place kisses upon 
them, he realized the handicap to his touch and dropped the ties to the ground. 
Her eyes slid closed as she brushed the brown fingers along her pale cheeks. She 
opened her eyes to him and said, "I will meet you near our cave in a few hours 
time. We shall bring weapons and food and gear to supply all sufficiently. Is 
there anything else I might do?"

Aragorn pulled his knife from his boot and handed it to her . Then in turn, he 
leaned in to kiss her brow. "Stay safe," he whispered to her. He knew no one 
else had heard his words, but if they had, he would not care. She knew all that 
had come to them and she knew the dangers she faced in the wild. Her safety was 
his only wish for her at this given moment.

Her eyes opened. She smiled, raising his hand to her mouth. Then she kissed the 
palms of them once more slipping a sweet smile past her lips as her eyes dipped 
to gaze upon them.

But there was something in that glance that made her smile slide away. She 
frowned then, and her eyes grew larger, though the gasp of her voice told the 
full of her astonishment. "I do not believe it," she softly exclaimed.

"What?" Gimli asked, wondering aloud what she meant.

"What?" asked the steward as he craned his neck to see what Arwen might be 
seeing. 

She turned confused eyes upon Aragorn. "Your hands . . ." she began. "They . . . 
they are . . . filthy!"

"Oh, that," said Gimli, dismissing her and turning away. "They always are."

Aragorn chuckled at the Dwarf's response, then tried to turn a weakened smile 
upon his wife.

"But he just cascaded down hundreds of yards of raging river! He has been 
scraped, scrubbed and scoured as if a tempest had been launched upon him! He is 
as thoroughly cleansed as he has been in months. And yet his nails are not 
clean," she said, darting glances to Aragorn's face and then back to his hands.

She gave him the very slightest of a reproachful scowl, but Aragorn knew he 
would do well to react as little as possible. He simply shrugged.

Then she drew her eyes closer to the long fingers, her brows coming together 
under her scrutinizing gaze, and she said, "The soiling looks permanent. As if. 
. ." she glared up at him then, nonplussed by what she clearly could not believe 
true. 

"I always thought the markings to be tattoos," Gimli laughed, shrugging at the 
amusement of the idea.

Arwen's eyes widened. The accusation was unspoken as her mouth clamped shut. 
Catching the full of her silent wrath, Aragorn felt as if the air was being 
sucked from his lungs. His knees went weak under the scorn of her gaze, though 
he was certain no one else saw the joined amusement and fury in his wife's 
beautiful face.

Or maybe they did.

Gimli snorted. Kattica and Gordash gazed sheepishly around, apparently uncertain 
how to react. Faramir seemed to have suddenly found the toes of his boots to be 
astoundingly fascinating.

Arwen continued, the hint of a smile creeping over her face though her voice was 
solemn and still. I am in trouble now, he thought. The others might see her as 
the ethereal being she always appeared to be, but he knew the truth of what she 
was feeling. "I would take it that this is some silly rite of passage? Something 
of a Ranger initiation, perhaps?"

Faramir chuckled quietly at this.

But she turned the full of the elven stare she had been delivering upon the 
steward. "Do you have it too, Faramir?" she asked, her voice infinitely calm, 
but the irritation was revealed to those who looked on her. 

Faramir pulled his hands away from her searching eyes. "Nay! That was a northern 
Ranger custom, not ours of the south," he said rapidly, and Aragorn inwardly 
groaned for the implication, but also smiled, for he knew that statement to be 
not entirely true.

"Very well," she sighed as if realizing she were getting nowhere with the 
questioning. "We shall discuss it later." She began her walk, stepping forward, 
and turning away from him, gliding past on quiet steps. Within a few yards 
though, she turned and said with a twinkle of fire in her eye, "And we shall 
discuss it, meleth-nin!" 

It was an idle threat and Aragorn did not dwell deeply upon it. He knew that she 
had said it simply to distract him from his worries. She was wise in this way, 
and he could not help but think he was fortunate to have someone as shrewd as 
she for his partner. He watched as she disappeared into the woods, her steps 
gaining speed until she was moving at a quick sprint before she was removed 
completely from his sight, and he did not doubt any longer that she would indeed 
return. If only to dole out justice. He felt like laughing at the thought of her 
ire.

Bending down to retrieve the rope he had earlier dropped, his mood returned to 
more serious matters, and as he rose, he turned to the others and said, "Shall 
we discuss the other means from which we might strategize a victory?"

Gimli spoke up. "I have a thought on how we might fight Bregus."

"Speak it," Aragorn said, eager to hear his ideas, and knowing he would learn 
Gimli's prior muttered thoughts.

"It would require getting into the cave," Gimli said quickly.

Aragorn smiled. "And I have a thought on how we might do that. Go on, Gimli," he 
said,with anticipation. He would share his idea later.

"And it would require our timing of attack to be exact," Gimli added.

"Go on," Aragorn said, knowing most actions in battle required a sense of 
timing.

The Dwarf's brows furrowed, as if he had a greater worry. "It would require that 
Kattica be involved."

Aragorn felt his worries exposed as he knew his brows drew together. But then he 
glanced to Kattica, and he could see the light in her eyes. The Dwarf too 
directed his gaze upon her, and she met him with her chin raised, her certainty 
maintained. She nodded her agreement, and Aragorn indeed thought her brave. 

"Then I would ask a question to start," Gimli said.

"Ask freely, friend," she answered, her voice but a whisper in contrast to her 
stern demeanor.

"Let us suppose you were attempting to overpower Bregus and gain control of the 
Protected Place -- er, Henneth-Annün. Is it possible you could do this by 
bringing forth goods that are greater in strength than the elements present in 
the cave? I believe that is what we were leading to in our earlier discussion," 
Gimli said. His voice was even, but Aragorn could detect both the plea and a 
challenge in it, as if he were begging for his understanding to be correct.

Kattica nodded. "Yes, that is correct." 

A small smile crept upon the Dwarf's face, but before he could say more, he was 
interrupted by Faramir. 

"But we have gone over this already, Gimli. Fire is the element missing in the 
cave. Kattica could hardly enter the cave bearing a torch. Nor could she douse 
the fire that is there in any indiscreet way. Bregus would never allow such 
blatant acts, no matter how they were handled," the steward said, shaking his 
head as he spoke.

Gimli laughed. "Oh, but I agree. It would look obvious that the girl was trying 
to overthrow the witch's power. Were I the old bat, I would toss her out on her 
backside for even attempting it."

"I dare say, Gimli, that Bregus would do worse," Aragorn pointed out in a soft 
voice.

"No doubt you are right," Gimli said, clearing his throat before going on in a 
more humbled voice. "But what I am thinking of would be far more subtle, and if 
this is to work, it must look as if Kattica has no intentions to usurp the 
witch's control. She will never gain trust if she does otherwise."

"You are suggesting what, Master Dwarf?" Aragorn asked, his curiosity for what 
Gimli might propose piqued.

"What if Kattica could conceal what she might bring into the cave?"

An interesting idea, Aragorn thought, but the key question had to be asked. 
"What might she conceal?"

"This," Gimli said, and he held out his hands. 

Kattica gasped. Faramir gulped. And Aragorn squinted into the reflected light of 
the stones, his jaw falling open in disbelief.

The color of the stones was dazzling and the subsequent light reflecting off 
their surfaces was white hot. Caught in the curve of cupped hands lay several 
nuggets of a silvery veined mineral. Rough cut and raw, they shone brightly in 
the morning light regardless of their ragged edges.

"Is that . . . ?" Aragorn began, greatly awed.

"It is, Aragorn. Mithril. I found it in the cave when I was trapped," Gimli 
said, nodding his confirmation. 

"Mithril?" Kattica said. Any composure about her had certainly fallen to the 
wayside as her enthusiasm bubbled over her countenance. "Why, that is precious 
in witchcraft! It is one of the high metals, like gold."

Gimli blustered with pride, "Well, I know its value in trade. I only hoped it 
might work well for our sake. It shines brightly, does it not? I thought perhaps 
in the light, it could be an equaling element to fire.

"Oh, Master Gimli," she said, "I believe it would do more. Unless 
Henneth-Annün's walls are lined in gold, these stones would naturally overtake 
the element of earth found in the cave."

"But is there enough to do the job?" Faramir asked, worry languishing in eyes 
that were aglow with the light of the stones.

"Yes, I think there is, and then some, for look at the light in them. It is as 
if they have their own fire!" Kattica exclaimed. 

"Very well, then," Aragorn nodded, seeing the benefit of what had been revealed. 
"Now, let us focus on the details."

Faramir's eyes turned to meet his king's, and Aragorn inwardly smiled. The 
northern Dunedain saw a hunger in his steward's eyes, and for the first time 
since their meeting he could see hope there. There was also a need to mete out 
justice in that gaze. Aragorn fingered the rope as he met the haunted look. "I 
have an idea," he said softly, and he watched as Faramir's face lit up to his 
words.


****

She ran some distance with her skirts flying behind her. Such an annoyance the 
free flowing fabrics were to her. And though she truly appreciated the 
appearance of a woman in the draped finery of a gown, it was hardly apparel 
useful when running through the snagging bramble of the woods.

She waited until she had passed the turn in the path leading to the 
Henneth-Annün cave, then lifted her skirt and tied it into two knots on either 
side of her hips. It altered her attire so that her legs were free to move, but 
it was not the most attractive garment Arwen had ever worn. Then again, mud 
stained, torn, and ragged as the dress had become, it really did not matter, and 
it was certainly better to get through the brush in the low lying places of the 
forest than what she had. She could make better time this way.

Now fleet of foot she ran over rocks, limb and meandering pathways. The ground, 
still slick from the night's rain, gave precarious hold to even her light feet. 
Were she like the Silvan folk, as Legolas proudly proclaimed part of his 
heritage, she might have taken to the trees to find the fastest route. But 
though the forest sang to her just as it did her Greenwood-born companion, a 
Wood Elf Arwen was not. Noldor was her race, and her people prided themselves on 
their more mannerly ways of travel. 

Still, seeing how she had hiked her skirts for the endeavor before her, it might 
behoove her to try travel above ground for a change. She glanced up at the trees 
and noted that the lowest branches were nowhere within her arm’s reach. In fact 
there were few branches within any kind of reach for Arwen. Proud though she was 
to be Elven, she knew there was not a chance she could scamper up the trunk or 
leap into the treetops as Legolas commonly did. And so she abandoned the idea as 
quickly as she had adopted it. 

Except . . .

A ray of light filtering through the canopy of leaves caught a glimmer of gold 
sparkling in one of the lower branches of the trees. Like a ribbon, the filament 
of lustrous color waved with the catch of a breeze. It waved lightly, as if 
beckoning, and Arwen had to wonder what the object was that had caught her 
attention.

She found her feet walking in the direction of the beckoning string, and as she 
neared it, she came to see it was a cord of sorts, a braided fragment of rope. 

It hung above her, balanced by a thread on a snag in the tree bark, and as she 
watched it, her curiosity seemed to get the better of her, for she took the 
moment to stop and to find a stick long enough that she might knock it down. A 
gust of wind might have done the same, but she did not have the time to wait for 
such things. Time was not an easy companion to her any more. She could spare 
only this moment for such frivolities. 

The stick brushed against the cord, and down it fell, spiraling silently to land 
at her feet. It was then, as she glanced down, that she realized the lament of 
the tree. She bent to pick up the golden strand and she heard the sadness that 
pervaded the natural mood of this small clearing. The voice of the trees wept 
lightly. And though she could not have guessed why the mourning took place, it 
was with a glance as she rose, the string in her hand, that she realized she was 
standing in what had been a camp. 

And then she looked at what she held.

The braid was simple, comprised of fibers woven over and about one another, 
tagged only with the simple wooden beads that closed off the design. What was 
disturbing though was the acknowledgement that what lay in her hand was hair. 
Silky and golden, Arwen was certain it belonged to Legolas. 

Her heart hammered in her chest with the realization. Gordash had told this part 
of the story.

Evidence came clear to her then. This is where Legolas lay. And there is where 
Éowyn was thrown. The remnants of construction were visible and this she 
supposed was where the litter that carried Legolas was made. Some feet away were 
the remains and cuttings from various plants, strewn to the ground and 
discarded, their use done, and she suspected that that fire had been Bregus'. 

She turned her back. The trees told her the rest. Tears flowed.

Shaking herself free of her sorrow, she took a deep breath. She could not 
linger. Knowing what she did, she must hasten. The salvation of her friends was 
upon her, and she would not fail them. She began again her steps, renewing her 
quickened pace to rush past this ugliness, when one more marking caught her 
attention.

Upon the ground, clear as the light of the evening stars, was a paw print. Arwen 
was not as versed a tracker as Aragorn was, but having lived her share of years, 
she had learned a thing or two of living in the wilds. The print was one of a 
dog. She bent down to examine it, realizing it was freshly made. She gazed up 
again, seeing anew the marks of a struggle, a fight. Dog prints mixed with the 
scuffle of human feet, and had she not known the outcome of this battle as told 
by Faramir and Gordash, she may have worried for the victors and losers in the 
skirmish.

Still, she knew of the dogs, and the order they had been given, and the silent 
agreement made between Faramir and them. She had no need to broach it if not 
necessary, for unlike Faramir the night before, she did have the strength to go 
around this marked territory, and knowing the habits and claims of such beasts, 
she decided she might be wise to do just that. 

The braided hair still in hand, she stepped away from the path through the wood 
she had set herself upon, and started a trek that went deeper into the forest. 
She would work her way past the camp, veering around for a few miles, then work 
her way back to the river further downstream.

It was a commendable plan, and may well have worked but for one thing. Her steps 
had already crossed the dividing line of safe and unsafe lands, and for that, a 
confrontation was necessitated. She realized her failing when she had traveled a 
minute's further pace from the old camp. It was then she realized she was being 
followed.

She quickened her steps, stepping lightly, leaving barely a mark as was the way 
of her kind, but it did not cause the one in pursuit to falter. She heard the 
snuffling sound of a nose picking her scent from the air, and the faint 
breathing of her tracker's breath mixing with the morning noises. The sound of 
steps following her were accompanied by the subtle noise of stealth movements in 
the brush. Fear quickened her heart, and involuntarily her steps picked up 
speed. But then she forced herself to slow, heeling herself back to that of a 
more normal pace. Running would only encourage the one in chase. It would 
increase the sense of urgency and it would drive on a panic. She must remain 
calm, for that was the key to meeting her pursuer. Her emotions could direct the 
situation if she could maintain a quiet reserve. She stopped. Quietly, she 
turned.

The small sound of the brush's movement told her where to look. However, it was 
behind her as well as before her, and without turning to confirm what she knew, 
she was certain another and another in the small pack of hounds had gathered 
around her. 

Their leader stood before her. It was a wolf hound, muddy with matted fur. He 
met her gaze, his head lowered but eyes glowering with animal fury. A rumbling 
voice emanated from his throat, though he did not bare his teeth. Not yet. The 
threat was a low one, and she immediately shied her eyes from his. Around her, 
the frightful noise of the others growled to echo his, and though she inwardly 
shuddered, she put it upon herself that she would not show her fear. They would 
attack if she showed fear. She would not.

Breathing lightly, with caution, she slowly allowed her eyes to gaze up into the 
trees. As before, the branches were too high for her to make her escape there. 
Though it might be wise to retreat in this way, it was an inconceivable route.

Then gazing at her surroundings, she saw the beasts nudging forward, closing off 
the holes between them. There was nowhere that she might go to escape.

She released a shaky breath as she gathered her wits. She knew what was to come, 
and she plotted out her next steps. It was all a matter of action and reaction. 
She could predict what might happen, but these were animals of the wild, and 
whether she were of Noldor or Silvan or Sindarin folk, she could not predict the 
true actions of a beast. All she had was the cord of Elven hair woven in and out 
of her fist, and the knife in her boot that she might use if she could reach it. 

The leader growled at her and she could now see the grimace of his snarl.


****


A moaned cry jolted Éowyn to wakefulness from the solitude of dreamless sleep. A 
sharp pain made her lurch at something pulling her arms. It was her own voice 
that made the cry, and she realized this as her eyes came suddenly open. She 
pulled back, but that only sent spikes of more pain into her arm. She cried 
aloud, not caring to contain her hurt. Savage hands jerked her arms forward, 
inconsiderate of the pain they were causing. 

She felt the world growing black and distant, but she did not fall unconscious. 
She heard the sound of footsteps moving away from her but she chose not to open 
her eyes quite yet. Realizing in the hazy sluggishness of her mind that she was 
in a horrible predicament, she was able to instantly recall her situation. The 
physical agony was great, and the dizzying effect of it sent her into a helpless 
reverie as she pondered what she might do to save herself. She had no answers.

Slowly the ache dulled to only a massive throbbing at her side, but she felt 
relief that her arm was no longer being jarred. She relaxed for a moment, easing 
back from the tensions of her torment. She felt her body go light and warm, as 
if she were drifting.

"Éowyn," a voice whispered. "Éowyn, awake!" The urgency in the voice drew her 
attention, and she struggled to comply, sensing she had fallen into sleep 
without intending to do so. Was it but a minute that she slipped away? The 
speaker's voice was familiar, but a new feeling of dread came over her as the 
recollection began anew. She was in danger.

She blinked her eyes awake, trying to focus through a world dotted in red. Cords 
were wrapped tightly about her hands, and the numbed ache in her left hand felt 
odd as she noticed her fingers to be swollen. She turned her head toward the 
voice, realizing as she did that the dull ache of her arm seemed to match the 
throbbing beat within her head. She closed her eyes again, wincing at the small 
agony of it. She felt sick for her hurts. "Who . . . ?" she managed to utter.

"It is I, Mattias."

She opened her eyes again, the spots receding to the edges of her vision, as she 
focused on the face hovering before her. "Where --" she started, but then cut 
herself off. She already knew the answer to her own question. She could feel the 
cool breeze of the air whipping past her, and the sound of the pouring water. 
Her eyes darted about, taking in their surroundings.

They were in the front room of Henneth-Annün. Pushed away from the open wall of 
water, they were laying in a corner, side-by-side, put there, she supposed, to 
be kept out of harm's way. Yet they were unguarded, at least they were as far as 
she could tell.

And then she remembered more that she had intended to focus upon before she had 
succumbed to her pain. She gasped, "Legolas," as she remembered the Elf and his 
condition. Fearful concern overrode her own feelings of pain.

"Over there," Mattias directed with a nod of his head, and as she followed his 
direction, she could see the Elf's body from the corner of her eye. However, 
following through and turning with a damaged limb was not so easy. The movement 
required that she lean on the agonizing arm in order to bring her head around to 
face her friend. 

"Help me up," she said giving up this objective, and though he was tied as well, 
Mattias managed to bring his hands beneath her to lever her up. Still, even 
without using her arm in the maneuver, she felt muscles compress and shift that 
she might not have normally noticed. A grimace of pain played over her features, 
and she panted for breath once she was fully upright.

But now that she was, she was more capable of movement. It took nothing of her 
to gaze now upon the Elf, for he lay on the opposite side of the room, facing 
her, nearer the hall that led into the room. 

Yet it was a wicked sight she was granted. Her heart wept with anguish to gaze 
upon something so damaged. Legolas seemed to be worse for the time spent since 
his accidental fall. His skin was pale and dull. There was little of spark in 
his eyes, and his lips were chapped and parted as he breathed in and out of his 
mouth. He swallowed reflexively as she watched him, and then his eyes rolled 
back in his head and shut as he released a slow, low grunt. His face twisted 
with the sound, and it was clear by his expression that he was in pain.

"Oh!" she cried in sympathy, anguish ripping at her and she scooted forward to 
go near.

Voices in the next room kept her from going any further, though it was only the 
fear of being caught that compelled her to stay put. She paid no attention to 
what was said as it sounded of foreign words to her. Instead, she kept her eyes 
fixed on the Elf.

Legolas' eyes came open again, and he returned to his sorrowful stare, looking 
at her and through her. It was then that she realized he saw not at all, and 
that his eyes were glazed over, as if in sleep.

"He has been doing that fairly frequently," Mattias said from behind her, and 
she turned her head again to look at him. 

Focused on him now, Éowyn gave the Romany man her full scrutiny. She suddenly 
realized he was bandaged about the waist, and trace residues of blood littered 
his garments and body. "You've been injured," she said, her eyes running over 
his body and concern furrowing her brow as she tried to discern the extent of 
his wound.

"I was, but I live still. I think she saved me in the end."

"Who? Bregus?"

"Aye. I can barely recall, but the wound was grave. I remember thinking I would 
not see Kattica again, or meet my child," Mattias said with a sad smile.

"Tell me what has happened," Éowyn demanded.

His eyes darted back to the doorways, as if watching for anyone who might be 
eavesdropping on their conversation. He said, "Bäla now lives in Curtik."

Éowyn's jaw dropped. "What? But I thought--"

He almost laughed. "Yes, I know. It should have been me. Yet . . ." His voice 
dropped to a whisper, though he had been speaking softly prior to this 
adjustment. "I think Curtik is mad. He stabbed me. He meant to kill me. I think 
he still intends to do so, and I do not think my father will try to stop it. In 
fact, with the turn in the circumstances being as they are, I believe he will 
encourage it."

She blinked, astounded by the delivery of this information. "How do you know?

His eyes went back to glance at the door before he shook his head and sighed. 
His eyes met her as he said, "I cannot pretend to understand the mind of Curtik 
or why he did what he did. But I can understand Bäla. He and my mother were well 
suited, though he was never as aggressive as she was when it came to their 
ambitions. He had his limits. He never wanted to work. Yet I see the motivations 
of the current situation. Bäla, when he lived, was always jockeying for the 
better position. Now that he lives yet again, he will not be satisfied being the 
third son, just as he was not satisfied until he was leader of my people. With 
Gordash still gone my father will do all he can to promote himself."

Mattias' last words made her start. "Gordash is yet missing?" The dawning 
realization of what that could mean made her heart beat fiercely. As she spoke, 
the hint of a smile turned her lips. "Then Faramir may be alive . . ."

A new thought then came to her, and she did not complete the first one before 
beginning into this second one. "But why, then, did Bäla encourage Bregus to 
take Faramir?"

Mattias' face grew grim, as if the thought repulsed him, yet he pushed his voice 
to speak. "I have a thought on this, but I cannot say for sure if I am correct." 
He swept his head around yet again, checking to make sure they were safe to 
speak freely. Seeing they were, he ducked his head and said, "Aside from the 
similarities in our appearances to my father, I can see yet another cause for 
the demand to fall to Faramir. It is ironic, actually, for Kattica was fearful 
of what might happen should Bregus find out about Faramir's title and position. 
I don't think it occurred to either Kattica or I that Bäla might know of it."

Éowyn gasped. "Bäla? But how?"

"Who knows of the workings in the Other World -- what they see, what they know? 
It is speculation only, but it would make sense for the person I knew my father 
to be. He would lobby for a high-ranking post. He would be bedazzled by the 
glory of the position your husband holds."

Éowyn stiffened. "Faramir's job is not small. It would not suit one of little 
ambition or goals."

Mattias' mouth turned down into a frown. "He does not know that. He would see 
only the nobility and glory."

She smirked. "He would have never gotten away with it."

Mattias' voice grew ever more sobered. "He might have, had his wife died a 
tragic death while they traveled together on a hunting trip. I think he would 
have used that as an excuse for the changes he would have been seemed to have 
undergone."

The sound of another groan caught her attention, and she turned again to see 
Legolas' agonized expression.

"What of Legolas? What have they done to him?" she whispered, taking in the 
horrible condition of the Elf.

With a grim expression, he sighed softly and turned his eyes to Legolas as he 
said, "Nothing. He moans, as if in pain, and then he drifts away, as you have 
seen. But they have not touched him, for all that I can discern, and they have 
only been discussing him and their plans."

She nodded though she knew anguish must lie in her eyes. "That is good, I 
suppose."

"You sound unsure," he said, a look of concern washing over his features.

Éowyn paused, almost afraid to say what she would. She felt compelled to go near 
the Elf, but the voices were just on the other side of the door again. "It is 
just that he looks so very ill, as if . . . he were fading."

Mattias looked as if somehow he understood what she meant. "Would the dreams do 
that?" he asked.

"The sea-longing you mean? I do not know. I would think not. Unless . . ." Her 
voice trailed off as she considered an alternative reason.

"Unless?"

"Unless he were giving up." Nostrils flared as she turned teary eyes upon her 
Elven friend. She gulped on her breath as she said, "I told Bregus the pain of 
his injury could ki