New Year's Eve (Chapters 4-5)
Thundera Tiger 
 


Chapter 4: Strangers in a Stranger Land

…………

Well, here is the strangest riddle that we have yet found! A bound prisoner 
escapes both from the Orcs and from the surrounding horsemen. He then stops, 
while still in the open, and cuts his bonds with an Orc-knife. But how and why? 
For if his legs were tied, how did he walk? And if his arms were tied, how did 
he use the knife? And if neither were tied, why did he cute the cords at all? 
Being pleased with his skill, he then sat down and quietly ate some waybread! 
That at least is enough to show that he was a hobbit, without the mallorn-leaf. 
After that, I suppose he turned his arms into wings and flew away singing into 
the trees. It should be easy to find him: we only need wings ourselves!

Legolas—The Two Towers (The White Rider)

…………
 

For much of the early morning, the Pelennor Fields had been peacefully quiet. 
And after the long journey from Edoras, the Rohirrim were extremely grateful. 
Most of them were staying without the walls of Minas Tirith, having pitched a 
camp in the northern fields near the paddocks and pastures where their horses 
were being kept. The hustle and bustle of the city was a bit much for the 
riders, many of whom spent the bulk of their time upon the open fields of the 
Mark. Only a few guards and the royal family were actually staying within Minas 
Tirith itself. The rest were enjoying the fresh spring air upon the Pelennor and 
making the most of a rather lazy holiday.

At least, that had been the case for a good part of the early morning, but 
things had changed quite abruptly. King Eomer had collected Shade, mentioning a 
sprint against Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth—an idea that amused the Rohirrim 
greatly—and then something had happened. None were exactly sure what, but a 
great commotion was brewing in the southern parts of the field, and many of the 
Rohirrim were hastening there to discover what had transpired. The sheer number 
of people as well as the clamor now rising suggested that something ill was 
unfolding, and given the usual luck of the Rohirrim, Eomer was probably in the 
thick of it.

Watching the chaotic activity and wishing for the sight of the Eldar so that he 
might see what was taking place, Elfhelm clenched his fists and debated about 
deserting his post. Guarding the horses stabled in the northern pastures of the 
Pelennor was really nothing more than a formality. All here knew that the 
animals were under the protection of Rohan, and none stole from the Rohirrim 
with impunity. But Eomer had decided that appearances needed to be maintained, 
and Elfhelm’s company had drawn guard duty this morning. As such, they had been 
unable to join their fellow soldiers in rushing to see what had befallen their 
king. But as Marshall of the East-mark, second only to Eomer and Erkenbrand 
until Elfwine came of age, Elfhelm wondered if he was actually required to stand 
with his men. Erkenbrand had been left in charge of Rohan, which meant that 
should anything happen to Eomer, Elfhelm was in charge of the Rohirrim that had 
come to Minas Tirith. With this in mind, it could easily be rationalized that he 
needed to know what was happening and was justified in leaving his post.

Yet even as these thoughts crossed his mind, the obedience that had been drilled 
into him ever since the day he had first taken up the sword came into play. He 
had been ordered by his king to guard the mares that were set aside for breeding 
with Rhûn. He could not abandon that duty. And he would know soon enough what 
had transpired without having to leave his station. Arhelm’s company was not on 
duty, and if there was anything to report, Arhelm would return and seek him out. 
The crown-prince, Elfwine, had also gone to investigate, and he was a smart lad 
that knew the proper chain of command. Had something befallen his father, he 
would seek the Marshall’s counsel.

But until such time, Elfhelm was constrained to stand and wait, looking on with 
the rest of his men as more and more people began to gather. And waiting was 
something the Rohirrim did not endure well. They were a bold people, charging 
bravely and swiftly into whatever problems confronted them. They did not stand 
to the side while others raced to help. If deeds were to be done, then they were 
to be done swiftly and efficiently. There was no room for dawdling or tarrying 
in the Rohirrim mindset. Subsequently, Elfhelm and those in his company began to 
grow anxious, and anxious soldiers of Rohan are an open invitation to trouble.

Fortunately, the wait was not long enough to provoke rash acts on the part of 
Elfhelm and his men. After a few minutes—though each minute seemed to last 
several years—one rider called out and pointed, indicating a small figure making 
his way toward them while two horses trailed behind. One of the animals was an 
older mare of good breeding, though she would never compare to the mares of 
Rohan. Elfhelm believed he had seen her in Dol Amroth’s company, but he could 
not be certain. The other horse, though, was instantly recognized as Eomer’s 
stallion, Shade. And at this realization, murmurs and whispers began to spread 
among the men even as Elfhelm sprang forward to discover what had happened.

"Prince Elfwine!" he called, for he could see now that it was Elfwine who led 
the horses forward. "Prince Elfwine, what tidings?"

At Elfhelm’s shout, Shade suddenly snorted and reared, fighting Elfwine’s hold 
on the reins. Startled by his sudden movements, the mare shook her head and 
reared as well, neighing loudly in protest. Taking in the situation quickly, 
Elfhelm raced to Elfwine’s side and took the mare, pulling her back to the 
ground and hauling her away from Shade. With quiet words and coaxing, he managed 
to soothe the skittish horse, but his eyes could not help straying to Elfwine 
and Shade. Elfwine had begun riding almost as soon as he had begun walking, and 
though Shade was solely Eomer’s horse in both body and soul, the stallion would 
occasionally permit Elfwine to groom him and speak with him. But Shade did not 
appear to be calming down now no matter what Elfwine did or said. Rather, he was 
becoming more and more frantic with every move, and though he had not lashed out 
directly at the boy, Elfhelm felt that such an event was only moments away.

Other riders now appeared on the scene, but their presence only served to 
further incense Shade. Immediately realizing what was happening, all began to 
back away, but eyes were turning desperately to Elfhelm, demanding orders. For 
his part, Elfhelm had never felt more helpless in his entire life. This was the 
chief of the Mearas. He was effectively the king of Rohan’s horses. He could not 
be manhandled as lesser steeds might be. Yet if they did not do something soon, 
Elfwine would be crushed beneath Shade’s powerful hooves.

Fortunately for the torn Marshall, a chorus of whinnies suddenly echoed up from 
the pastures. Other horses had heard the distress of their leader and were 
calling out to him. Upon hearing their cries, Shade paused, and his hesitation 
was long enough for Elfwine to regain his feet and take a firmer grip on the 
harness, all the while whispering reassurances and promises. Shade tossed his 
head and his ears fell back against his neck, nostrils flaring. One foreleg 
stomped hard against the ground and his tail whisked the air, but he made no 
other action. Elfwine continued to speak to him, the other horses continued to 
call, and after a moment, Shade’s eyes lost the fires of rage. He was still 
agitated and his ears were still back, but he was no longer fighting Elfwine’s 
hold.

With gentle, cautious words, Elfwine again started forward. Shade resisted, his 
muscles bunching as though preparing once more for action, but with steady 
coaxing, he at last consented to be led toward the paddocks. The gathered 
Rohirrim hastily cleared a path, unwilling to further upset the Mearas chief, 
and after a few painfully long minutes, Shade was released into the area 
containing the other warhorses.

A soft whicker behind him reminded Elfhelm that he was still holding the mare. 
He gave her a rather absent pat on the neck by means of acknowledgment and then 
began leading her forward. Two steps later, he stopped, immediately seeing the 
limp in her stride. But he had no time to care for her now as too many other 
things were happening. Waving one of his riders to him, he passed the reins over 
and quietly ordered that a physician be summoned to see to the animal. Having 
taken care of that, he looked for Elfwine and found him leaning against the 
fence that formed one of the paddock boundaries.

"Prince Elfwine?" Elfhelm walked over to the boy and placed a hand on the lad’s 
shoulder. Elfwine appeared as though he was ready to fall over, but answers 
could not wait until he was better prepared to give them. Under normal 
circumstances, Eomer would never have allowed Elfwine to handle Shade when the 
stallion was so upset. The king knew better than anyone just how short Shade’s 
temper could be. Therefore, something must have happened to Eomer. "Elfwine, 
where is your father? Where is the king?"

At the mention of the king, Shade loosed a scream of anger and rushes the 
makeshift fences that had been set up. Shoving an exhausted Elfwine out of the 
way, Elfhelm placed himself directly before the great stallion, daring him to 
make the leap and kill in the process. Shade skidded to a halt and snorted 
angrily, his eyes promising that if Elfhelm did not move, he would not hesitate 
to trample the man.

"Shade!" Elfwine called out, his voice soft but firm. "Shade, peace. I promise 
to give you news when I have it."

Shade snorted and his eyes flashed, but he made no move to rush the fence. Wary 
but feeling safe for the moment, Elfhelm turned back to the crown-prince, his 
eyes questioning. "Elfwine, what has happened?"

"There was an accident," Elfwine whispered, shaking his head as though still in 
shock. "I was not there when it happened, and the Lady Eowyn sent me away ere I 
could learn much. But…" He stopped and frowned, his brow furrowing in 
concentration. "King Elessar was with my father. Prince Imrahil was also upon 
the ground, and Prince Faramir was seeing to him. More than that I truly cannot 
say for I was entrusted with the horses. I believe there was a fall. The pole 
that had been set up to support tomorrow’s main pavilion was upon the ground, 
but…" He trailed off again and raised helpless eyes to Elfhelm.

"Your answers give more information than what I had earlier," Elfhelm assured 
him, squeezing his shoulder gently. "Did you know the condition of your father 
when you left?"

"He was not moving and King Elessar seemed anxious, but I know no more than 
that," Elfwine said. "Lady Eowyn sent me away. I could learn nothing else."

"Then we shall educate ourselves," Elfhelm promised. Glancing about he spied an 
errand rider and signaled to him. "Fréalaf, seek out Captain Arhelm and inform 
him that he is to assume command here in the Pelennor. He is to report to me 
immediately."

"At once, my lord," the prompt reply came, and then the messenger was off, 
quickly mounting his horse and thundering off across the fields.

"And now we wait for Arhelm," Elfhelm said. "Once he is come, we are free to go 
up into the city and seek out your father."

"I should go now," Elfwine murmured.

"Nay, you have a responsibility to Shade, young prince, and I have a 
responsibility to the men upon the fields," the Marshall said gently, deciding 
to forget the fact that he had been sorely tempted to shirk his duties earlier. 
"Until our responsibilities are given to another, we cannot abandon them. It 
will not be long. Arhelm is no doubt on his way here even as we speak, and I 
suspect he will have information that you do not. Patience, Prince Elfwine."

The boy sighed and folded his arms across his chest, but he said no more, 
seeming to accept his fate. Hoping this dejected anxiety was not seen by Shade, 
Elfhelm glanced over his shoulder and sighed in relief. The stallion seemed much 
calmer now and was actually sniffing at the grass as though he was tempted to 
graze. But he was not totally at ease, for he kept lifting his head and turning 
his black eyes south, seeming to search for a sign of Eomer. Still, he was now 
more or less manageable. If Shade had chosen to jump the fence, Elfhelm did not 
think that any could have caught him once he was free.

"How long will it take Captain Arhelm to arrive?"

Startled by the question, Elfhelm blinked and glanced down at the crown-prince. 
"We sent for him but moments ago."

"But you said he might already be coming this way."

"He might," Elfhelm nodded. "But then again, he might not. I have no way of 
knowing with any certainty. It would be safe to say that he will arrive soon, 
though."

"How soon?"

The impatience in Elfwine’s voice reminded Elfhelm very much of the boy’s 
father. Eomer was not one for waiting either, and the desire for action rather 
than speech had led to complications more than once. Wondering if there was a 
way to instill more patience in Eomer’s son, Elfhelm searched for an answer but 
was suddenly interrupted by a loud whistle.

Jerking with surprise, Elfhelm swung around and stared. Shade was no longer 
looking to the south but rather to the north, and his posture was one of a 
challenging stallion. Confused as to what he might be challenging, Elfhelm 
turned his eyes beyond the paddock housing the warhorses and saw—

"By the blood of Eorl!"

"Those are the mares that were to be set aside for breeding with Rhûn’s studs!" 
Elfwine exclaimed.

"Come," Elfhelm commanded, racing toward the far paddock and summoning riders as 
he went. Shade began running as well, clearly intent on driving away the two 
stallions that had suddenly appeared among the mares. One was a tall black steed 
and seemed rather nonplussed with the situation, but the smaller bay horse was 
clearly enjoying himself. Upon hearing Shade’s challenge as well as the shouts 
of the men, both horses glanced their direction. The black one took several 
paces back, his ears flipping from side to side. But his companion was not so 
intimidated and instead reared, sending out an answering challenge while 
assuming a stance that indicated he was not ready to abandon his newly found 
mares any time in the near future. And judging from his stature, small though he 
was, he was quite capable of defending his claim. In fact, upon close 
inspection, Elfhelm decided that he had seen both these horses before. But when… 
"The elven horses!"

"The elven horses?" Elfwine echoed, his breath coming hard as he attempted to 
keep pace with Elfhelm.

"The mounts of Lord Elladan and Lord Elrohir. They joined us at Edoras and 
traveled with us here."

"I remember now," Elfwine exclaimed. "But how did they come to be…" He suddenly 
trailed off as Shade leaped the paddock fence and charged toward the pen where 
the mares were being kept.

"Shade!" Elfhelm shouted, but his cry fell upon deaf ears. The chief of the 
Mearas thundered toward the interlopers as an angry king intent upon vengeance. 
And with a challenging neigh, the bay horse raced to meet him.


* * * *

Most hobbits were not particularly vengeful. Family grievances were sometimes 
remembered for several generations and grudges did have a way of sticking around 
small communities far longer than was needed, but as a general rule, if a hobbit 
was wronged, he did not start looking for ways to seek retribution.

But Peregrin Took was not most hobbits. He was the son of Paladin II and a 
descendent of Isumbras the III, the same Isumbras that fathered Ferumbras the II 
as well as Bandobras the Bullroarer. He was a knight of Gondor, honored as a 
hero and friend to both King Elessar and Prince Faramir. He was a member of the 
Fellowship, known to be one of the Ring-bearer’s original companions. He was a 
survivor of the desperate battle before the Morannon and had witnessed the 
coming of the eagles and the breaking of Sauron’s reign. He was anything but a 
fair representation of his kin back in the Shire. And today, he was a hobbit 
with a mission.

Starting at one end of the vast palace kitchens while Merry started at the 
other, Pippin began looking for anything resembling a storeroom or an entry to a 
storeroom. The two had decided that it would probably be a passage leading 
downward, as it was easier for things to be preserved if they were kept below 
ground in a cool environment. To this end, they tapped out patterns on the 
floor, listening for echoes or hollows. They slapped the walls, attempting to 
uncover secret rooms. No cupboard was left unopened and no shadow was left 
unexplored. Stomachs would be sated, the storerooms would be found, their 
mission would be accomplished, and in the future, Arwen would think twice about 
toying with a hobbit’s culinary sentiments!

Pippin was scrambling atop a counter to investigate a stone that was a slightly 
different color than the other stones when Merry suddenly gave a shout. 
Startled, Pippin nearly rolled off the counter in surprise. As it was, he barely 
managed to stop himself just before falling to the ground. Looking across the 
kitchen, he muttered something rather uncomplimentary beneath his breath and 
quickly spied his cousin. "Merry, the next time you decide to yell, warn me. I 
almost—"

"Pippin, you are the greatest fool of our day," Merry interrupted with a sigh of 
disgust. "Here we are looking for hidden passageways leading to a secret pantry 
when all we needed to do was open a few doors."

Pippin blinked. "Pardon?"

"Quite honestly, I don’t know why I ever listen to you," Merry said, shaking his 
head. "Your mind is so addled it’s a wonder you can tell Hobbiton from Michel 
Delving."

"Is there a purpose to this or are you—"

"Here, Pippin. The stairs leading down to the storerooms are right through 
here." Merry pointed to an open door next to him and then fixed Pippin with a 
rather pointed stare.

"You’re sure?"

"What else could they be?!"

"Well, I don’t see why you’re so upset," Pippin answered, jumping down from the 
counter and walking over to investigate. "We found it, didn’t we?"

"Why did you have us looking for disguised trapdoors and—"

"Because we’re in a palace kitchen, Merry," Pippin said with a slight roll of 
his eyes. "Don’t you remember those stories they used to tell around campfires 
back in the Shire? All palaces have secret compartments where they hide their 
valuables. It’s clear to me that Arwen used something like that to hide things 
from us. Otherwise, the way to the cellars would have been obvious."

"It is obvious!" Merry exclaimed. "But you were too busy prattling on about a 
hidden storeroom to notice."

"You didn’t have to listen to me," Pippin pointed out, eyeing the dark stairs. 
They spiraled downward at steep yet manageable angle, but little else could be 
discerned. There was no illumination save what the large kitchen windows 
provided.

"No, I didn’t have to listen to you, but I did because I thought you knew what 
you were talking about. You are a knight of Gondor, after all."

"If you were wandering about Meduseld, could you have found the storerooms right 
away?" Pippin challenged, glancing about for something that might be used as a 
candle.

"At least I wouldn’t have gone searching for some shadowy corridor that led into 
mysterious rooms filled with heavily guarded food."

Pippin scowled. It had all made sense at the time, but Merry’s words contained a 
rather condemning element of logic. But logic aside, Pippin felt it had been 
quite natural to assume that the door to the storerooms would be hidden. Arwen 
was devious enough to give the hobbits access to the kitchens while making 
certain that accessible food was elsewhere. Going from that, it was a natural 
step to conclude that she would have hidden any food that remained at the 
palace. Of course, the storerooms would have been built long before Arwen 
hatched her heinous plot and hiding the door might have been slightly 
implausible, but elves had a way of getting around things like that. At least, 
that’s what Pippin had told himself. He was no longer quite so certain.

He would have continued to examine the situation, but his inner musings were cut 
short by a gurgling growl from his stomach. Deciding that rethinking his 
assumptions could wait until after he had satisfied his appetite, he turned 
around and found a lantern, lighting it before turning back to Merry. "Well, 
whatever you might think of my methods, we’ve still found what is probably the 
way down to the storerooms. I say we investigate."

"Agreed. But let’s try to be a little more efficient this time."

With a weary sigh, Pippin bit back a retort and started down the dark stairs, 
feeling Merry fall in behind him. They moved slowly, uncertain of their steps 
and somewhat leery of the shadows cast by their lantern. Moreover, the steps 
were unevenly spaced and difficult to navigate quickly, so care was required. 
Pippin vaguely remembered Faramir saying something about stairs like these being 
a defense mechanism against attackers, as it prevented those unfamiliar with the 
steps from running up and down them quickly. That was all well and good for 
times of war, but at the moment, Pippin could only see such precautions as a 
nuisance. He was not an invader but a hungry hobbit with a mission to eat as 
much of the larder as he could manage before his stomach burst and the buttons 
of his waistcoat popped off.

"Maybe I was wrong," Merry whispered behind Pippin. "Maybe this isn’t the way to 
the storerooms where they keep the food."

Pippin frowned and shot a curious glance over his shoulder at his cousin. "You 
were certain back in the kitchens that this is the way. What’s wrong?"

Merry’s eyes flickered over the dark walls and he bit his lip. "Nothing. I 
just…" He frowned and shook his head, absently rubbing his right shoulder as he 
did so. "Forget I said anything. Let’s keep going."

Pippin studied the other hobbit for a moment, paying close attention to the way 
Merry suddenly seemed to be favoring his sword arm. From time to time, Merry 
would fall strangely ill and have unusual pains or feelings of numbness in his 
right arm. The most recent occurrence had happened nine days ago on the 
anniversary of victory on the Pelennor Fields. They’d been in Rohan at the time 
and Merry had hidden his discomfort well, but Pippin was not so blind that he 
could not see what was happening. He knew well that Merry still suffered from 
the blow he had dealt the Witch-king, and he knew that dark, silent places had a 
tendency to remind his cousin of the foul dreams that had haunted him after he 
fell beneath the Black Breath. "If you like, you can stay in the kitchens while 
I investigate," Pippin said at length, attempting to show naught more than 
simple concern. Merry could become very offended if he felt he was being 
coddled. "I can bring what I find back to you. In any case, it would be more 
enjoyable to eat up there where it’s lighter."

Merry frowned and then shook his head. "No, I’m fine. Let’s go."

"Merry, I—"

"Must I repeat myself?"

With a sigh, Pippin reluctantly turned away. It was clear that Merry would not 
be swayed from their journey. There were times when Pippin wondered just how 
much of Rohan’s haughty pride had rubbed off on the Brandybuck. Still, nothing 
could be done about that now, and so Pippin began walking again, moving faster 
so that Merry’s mind would be on his feet and his balance rather than on the 
shadows of his past.

After countless spirals down the winding stairs, they eventually came to the 
bottom. They found themselves in a wide, clean room with a low ceiling. A table 
next to the entryway contained several lamps, and Pippin wasted no time in 
lighting these. The more illumination, the better, and he could feel Merry 
relaxing as the shadows began to flee. "That’s better," Pippin said, forcing his 
voice to be light and casual as though fears of the dark were the furthest thing 
from his mind. "No sense in tripping over what can’t be seen when we can simply 
light a lamp and see it."

"True," Merry agreed, looking around the room. "But exactly what are we seeing?"

Pippin turned away from his task of lighting the last of the lanterns and 
blinked. They had found a storeroom, but this storeroom did not seem to be one 
used for housing food. Lining the walls and much of the center of the room were 
large casks that looked as though they held wine. There was writing on the sides 
of many of the barrels, and Pippin moved to inspect it, curious as to where so 
much wine could have originated.

"Greenwood," Merry announced, also inspecting the casks. "These are all from 
Greenwood."

"There is enough wine here to keep every hobbit in the Shire happy all the way 
into the next Age," Pippin whispered with awe. "Do you suppose this is for that 
banquet tonight that Strider was talking about?"

"Perhaps, but I didn’t think he would serve wine from Mirkwood. You remember 
those casks that Legolas’s father sent to the coronation?"

"I try not to remember," Pippin muttered, rubbing his head. That had been an 
interesting night, if nothing else. The hobbits had known that elven wine could 
be rather potent, and Legolas had warned them that wine from Mirkwood was 
stronger than most. But after a glass or two, all such considerations no longer 
mattered. Pippin could not remember exactly how the night had concluded, but he 
had found himself on the floor of the baths the next morning with a headache so 
large it would have made Treebeard wince.

A sudden growl arrested Pippin’s attention and he froze, searching the room for 
anything that might be construed as a threat. "Sorry, that’s me," Merry piped up 
with a hint of laughter in his voice. "My stomach does not appreciate the 
delay."

"Oh." Pippin gave a rather sheepish smile and relaxed, glancing about the room 
once more. "Well, we’ve found at least one storeroom, but it’s for wine and not 
for food. I guess we’ll need to—"

"What about this room?" Merry interrupted, moving toward the back of the room. 
Hidden in the shadows, he had spied a sturdy door. The wine casks had been 
placed in such a way as to form a path to this door, and it looked to have seen 
recent use. Pippin hurriedly joined his cousin in the back of the room and his 
spirits lifted as his keen nose caught an unmistakable scent.

"We found it!" he exclaimed. "This is it. The storerooms for the food are behind 
this door! I can smell it!"

"Apples," Merry agreed with a broad grin.

"Wheat."

"Flour."

"Dried venison."

"Cheese."

"Spices."

"Master Took, we have done well," Merry said, reaching out and grasping Pippin’s 
hand.

"We have indeed, Mastery Brandybuck," Pippin answered, pumping Merry’s arm. 
"Shall we feast?"

"We shall!"

The moment of triumph had come, and Pippin was nearly bursting with anticipation 
as Merry reached for the door’s handle. He would soon be within a room that 
contained the palace’s wealth of sustenance. They could concoct a feast the 
likes of which had never before been seen in Gondor. Arwen had failed, and this 
knowledge brought Pippin sweet satisfaction. He grinned, imagining the look upon 
Arwen’s face when she realized that she had been bested by two hobbits. It would 
be a moment of wondrous joy, and Pippin only hoped that he would not be too full 
to miss it.

It was then that the unthinkable happened. Merry pulled back on the handle and 
met with solid resistance.

The door was locked.


* * * *

With a scowl and a muttered oath about kings that ordered guests to watch their 
children, Gimli glared at the garden, searching for any clue that might tell him 
the whereabouts of Eldarion. But save for a soft humming that came from Legolas 
on the other side of the enclosed haven, there was no sign that any were in the 
garden other than the dwarf and the elf.

Knowing his father, I should have expected this, Gimli though dourly. Aragorn 
also had a tendency to take matters into his own hands. The incident with the 
palantír along with several other examples were swift in coming to mind. And it 
seemed that Eldarion was following in the footsteps of his esteemed sire. If the 
situation didn’t suit him, then he would change the situation. 
Unfortunately—like his father—Eldarion seemed to forget that others should be 
informed of the change of plans, thus leaving companions to learn about events 
after the fact.

Folding his arms across his chest, Gimli cursed quietly and fervently before 
turning around and glaring in the general direction of Legolas. If Eldarion had 
indeed left the garden, the elf had probably witnessed it. And in true elvish 
fashion, he had neglected to inform Gimli. Exactly why Legolas had decided not 
to tell was another matter entirely and undoubtedly had to do with a twisted 
sense of humor born from far too many years of hunting shadows and spiders in 
Mirkwood. And even if Eldarion was still somewhere in the garden—which Gimli 
greatly doubted—Legolas probably knew his location. In any case, the best course 
of action now was to ask the elf for assistance. The very thought made Gimli 
cringe, but he was running out of options and becoming more than a little 
embarrassed with his inability to find one small boy. So with a growl of 
annoyance and a mental promise for future retribution of some kind, the dwarf 
stalked back to his friend.

Upon seeing his approach, Legolas ceased his song and arched one elegant elven 
eyebrow, a move that immediately put Gimli on his guard. The elf looked entirely 
too casual, and a slight twitch in his right cheek indicated that he was holding 
back a smile. This only served to confirm Gimli’s suspicions that Legolas knew 
exactly where Eldarion was, and the notion did not put him in the best of moods. 
Deciding to take Legolas for a long sojourn in a cave and then find a way to 
leave him there, the dwarf sighed, came to a stop before the prince, and waited.

"It appears that Eldarion is winning the game," Legolas observed after a moment 
of silence. The twitch in his right cheek was becoming more prominent. It was 
only through a concerted effort that Gimli refrained from clouting the elf 
upside the head for his insolence.

"Where is he, Legolas?"

The elf’s expression became one of shock. "Do you not know? How is such a thing 
possible? You, who have walked the Paths of the Dead, stood before the horror of 
the Morannon, fought valiantly to repel the invaders of Helm’s Deep, witnessed 
the fall of—"

"I am well aware of these events. I was present for them," Gimli growled, 
interjecting a stern note of warning into his voice. "Now, know you where 
Eldarion has gone?"

"An elf knows many things," Legolas said loftily, a slight twinkle entering his 
eyes as his left cheek began to spasm in harmony with his right. "But it was my 
earlier understanding that you required no assistance. Has that changed?"

"No, it has not," Gimli answered briskly. "But it would shorten the search if 
you could use those highly touted elven abilities of yours and tell me where 
Eldarion is."

"Ah, it becomes clear! You do not need aid. You simply wish to cheat at the 
game." The elf shook his head and clucked his tongue sadly. "Gimli, I am 
appalled. I thought dwarves were creatures of greater honor."

"Legolas!" Gimli glared at the prince only to have his look neatly fielded and 
returned by an expression that combined infuriating innocence with calculating 
cunning. Exactly how Legolas managed to create that particular look was beyond 
Gimli, but somehow he did it and he did it well. Durin’s beard, whatever 
possessed me to make friends of an elf?! Still, it was either play the elf’s 
game or start a futile search for Eldarion that would ultimately result in 
asking for the elf’s help anyway. Knowing what was required of him, Gimli gave a 
heavy sigh and took a healthy swallow or pride, reaffirming to himself that 
vengeance would need to be planned. "Legolas, my most sincere apologies. I 
should have enlisted your aid in the beginning. I know not what I was thinking. 
Will you help me now?"

Legolas’s eyes sparkled and Gimli gave a mental groan, sensing that more was 
going to be required of him. "It is rare that a dwarf asks for the wisdom and 
counsel of an elf," the prince said slowly, drawing his words out with obvious 
relish. "I know not what to say. What is it you see in me that prompts this 
request?"

"By the craft of Mahal, Legolas, if I am forced to—"

"Then I was mistaken?" the elf interrupted, sounding as though he was deeply 
hurt. "You do not wish for my assistance?"

Oh, you shall certainly pay for this, my friend. May your trees fade, your 
rivers run dry, and your wine sour. And may it happen within the span of my life 
so that I am allowed to laugh at your misfortune! "Legolas, you have elven 
senses and I do not," Gimli muttered. "For this reason, I desire your aid."

"You desire it? Then this is not a necessary thing? You could carry out a search 
for Eldarion on your own?"

"I need your aid," Gimli snarled. The elf was pushing his limits far beyond the 
mark of safety.

"Ah, so you are unable to find the boy on your own. And why is that, my friend? 
Why should I be able to do this when you cannot?"

"Because, friend," Gimli hissed, "elven senses are better than my own. And if 
you wish for your head to remain attached to your neck, then you will—"

"Say no more, Gimli," Legolas interrupted, his face breaking forth into a broad 
grin that nearly earned him a severe beating. "I shall go now and seek out our 
missing charge. You have made to clear to me why my involvement is a matter of 
great importance, and I shall not fail you. Rest here until our return and 
ponder on that which you have said."

"Legolas, you—"

But the dwarf’s angry curse faded even as it began, for Legolas effectively 
vanished from sight, leaving Gimli alone in the garden. Ai. It is bad enough 
that I must watch Aragorn’s son while others enjoy themselves upon the Pelennor. 
But was it truly necessary for Legolas to watch him with me? If I am forced to 
endure the company of that elf much longer… Gimli’s thoughts trailed off into 
something akin to an angry buzz accompanied by detailed images of a certain 
Ithilien lord dying in rather ingenious ways. The dwarves were nothing if not 
creative, and Gimli’s imaginative mind made good use of his anger, concocting a 
plethora of vengeful schemes. Most of these schemes would never come to fruition 
and a few were so impractical that Gimli wondered if elven nonsense was 
beginning to negatively impact his engineering ability. Nevertheless, the 
pursuit of unique and inventive ways to destroy Legolas was quite relaxing. And 
after his temper cooled and his pride recovered, these ideas would be converted 
into safer and more harmless plans that could actually be used.

Finding a comfortable rock and taking a seat, Gimli leaned back and turned his 
eyes toward the sky, his mind still devising unusual methods of assassination. 
He would have to play his hand carefully, though, for an alliance with Legolas 
was still needed in order to retaliate against Elladan and Elrohir. Their 
mischief had been far more damaging to Gimli’s pride than Legolas’s smug word 
games. It would be necessary to work with Thranduil’s intolerable son for yet a 
little longer until vengeance against Elrond’s intolerable twins could be 
enacted. And unfortunately, it would probably be necessary to work with Legolas 
in denying whatever they did so as to prevent Aragorn’s wrath from descending. 
After that, though, the way would be free for a dwarven version of retribution.

Perhaps I should tunnel beneath his home in Ithilien and destroy the foundation, 
Gimli mused. That would certainly be entertaining, and were I clever enough, he 
would never know the true culprit. Or rather, he would know, but he would have 
no evidence to support his accusations. And it would be difficult for him to 
retaliate as he is barely able to endure my own home. Aglarond would certainly 
be safe from elven scheming. Intrigued by this idea, Gimli called up a mental 
map of Legolas’s home and began examining the surrounding area. He would have to 
begin tunneling quite a distance away from the court itself, or the elves would 
find and catch him. And he would have to strike a final blow when none were 
within the halls so as to avoid injuring anyone. Perhaps he should start near 
the Ephel Duath. Nay, they patrol those regions too often, the dwarf decided. 
They would be drawn to any suspicious activity and the game would be up. Near 
the Anduin? Nay, too much trade. Too far south and we risk alerting the men that 
have taken up residence there. And though they might help us in our endeavor, 
they are completely unable to keep a secret.

Frowning, Gimli pursed his lips and began drumming his fingers upon the rock. 
Where could such a tunnel be started so as to keep its existence a secret from 
the elves? Would Faramir be willing to take part in such a scheme? If that were 
the case, the tunnel could be started near Emyn Arnen. But could Faramir’s men 
be trusted to keep this a secret? It would be a long undertaking as they worked 
their way through the bedrock. Beregond would be willing, and his lips would 
remain closed, Gimli mused. Bergil would also enjoy this scheme, but I do not 
think he could keep word of this from slipping. It will have to be a select few 
that knew of it, and that will prove difficult. Still, the greatest risk to 
secrecy would come in beginning the project. After that, the entrance could be 
hidden and we could work at will, periodically checking direction when none were 
around. Or perhaps we could create a ruse. Perhaps Faramir wishes to begin a 
mining project and we would come to aid him. None would think to question that. 
In fact, we could then position ourselves closer to the elven realm and—

"Gimli, we may have a problem."

Curse elves and their silent feet! Startled into jumping, Gimli swung around and 
fixed a stern glare on Legolas, who had come up behind him. "Is it too much to 
ask that elves announce themselves as would any courteous being?!"

A ghost of a smile flickered across the elf’s face, but it vanished quickly. "My 
apologies for the deaf ears of the dwarves. However, we still have a problem."

Gimli glowered and then looked around. "I thought you went to find Eldarion."

"I did. But it seems that—"

"You did not find him." The dwarf’s face broke out in a broad grin. "Your keen 
elven senses were unable to find him. You—"

"Gimli!" Legolas interrupted sternly, and something in his voice made Gimli 
pause. "I did not find him because he is no longer in the courtyard. According 
to a guard I spoke with, he has gone into the palace."

"The palace? But…you did not find him there?"

"I did not go into the palace. I came back for you because I told the guard that 
you were with Eldarion and I merely sought your whereabouts. I decided that 
would be best to hold back alarm and panic."

Gimli frowned. "Alarm and panic?" he echoed.

"Apparently, Elladan and Elrohir were also seen entering the palace. This was 
shortly after Eldarion went in."

There was a long pause following this announcement. "What would they do?" Gimli 
asked at length.

"I am reminded of a story my father told about his father. It seems that Oropher 
in one of the only individuals aside from Lord Celeborn who has been able to 
make mischief for Galadriel in Lothlórien itself. He kidnapped Celebrían."

Gimli stared at Legolas in astonishment. "Your grandfather kidnapped Elrond’s 
wife?"

"She was not more than ten at the time and was returned within a day," Legolas 
answered. "Still, the uproar lasted for centuries."

"I can imagine," Gimli murmured, overwhelmed at the very thought of such a 
thing. Though I cannot say that this act would be beyond Oropher or any of his 
descendents. If anyone was to risk angering the Lady of Lothlórien, it would be 
the foolish elves of Mirkwood.

"Gimli, I believe Elladan and Elrohir may try something similar here in Minas 
Tirith. It would explain why they have not come after us again. And if they 
succeed in their plans, then Aragorn is going to be most displeased with you."

This last statement was enough to shake the dwarf from his inner thoughts 
concerning the sheer audacity and stupidity of Legolas’s sires. "Me!?" Gimli 
gifted his friend with an expression of pure outrage and indignation. "I was not 
watching him alone, Master Elf! You are just as responsible as I!"

"Nay, Aragorn specifically gave Eldarion over to you. He was your 
responsibility. I suggest you either find him quickly or become missing 
yourself."

"I will not take the blame for this alone!" Gimli shot back, his anger mounting. 
"Valar, Legolas, are you losing your elvish hearing?! When making his request to 
watch Eldarion, Aragorn included your name as well. My name. Your name. Gimli. 
Legolas. Me. You. Two different names. Two different individuals. Both 
responsible for one small prince. And if we do not find that one small prince 
before a pair of arrogant Imladris lords do, then we are both going to be 
mûmakil fodder!"

A long silence fell during which elf and dwarf traded dark glares. Eventually, 
Legolas looked away and sighed. "This is pointless and we waste valuable time by 
standing here. We must begin the search."

"And where do we search?" Gimli asked, still fuming but grateful that Legolas 
seemed to be accepting responsibility. "Where do elven children go when they run 
away?"

"Elven children do not run away."

"Oh?" Gimli’s eyebrows arched, and though he knew time was of the essence, he 
could not quite forego this opportunity. After all, Legolas had already 
exasperated him several times that day. Some retribution had to be made in order 
to preserve the dwarf’s sanity. "I seem to remember you telling me about a time 
in Mirkwood when—"

"If they do run away, it is for very good reasons," Legolas interrupted quickly.

"A desire to avoid your lessons was a very good reason?"

The elf sent Gimli a withering glare. "As I said before, we are wasting time. 
Eldarion did not run away. Rather, he sought a better hiding place than what the 
garden could offer and decided to seek it in the palace. He could be anywhere. 
It will be difficult if not impossible to find him."

"My thanks for your words of comfort," Gimli growled.

"I did not intend to comfort you. I intended to portray the situation 
accurately."

Gimli clenched his fists in frustration. "Very well. Now that all things are 
portrayed accurately, what do you propose we do?

"I propose that we slip into the palace using the servants’ entrances and then 
we separate. We ask after Eldarion and also after the twins. If you are 
questioned, say that Eldarion is with me. If I am questioned, I shall say he is 
with you. None shall be the wiser, and Valar willing, we will find the 
crown-prince before Elladan and Elrohir do. But we must act quickly and above 
all else, we must act quietly! Great discretion is required. In fact, this 
situation might call for your dwarven expertise in the art of subtle deception," 
Legolas concluded with forced levity.

Muttering a rather foul dwarven curse beneath his breath, Gimli pushed past the 
elf and walked out of the gardens. "And what happens if we cannot find Eldarion 
or if Elladan and Elrohir find him first?" he asked as Legolas fell into step 
beside him.

The elf grimaced and looked away. "In that event, we should probably hearken to 
the voice of discretion. I would suggest running."

 

Chapter 5: Matters of Perspective

…………

Good morning! 
What do you mean? Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good 
morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it 
is a morning to be good on? 

Bilbo and Gandalf—The Hobbit (An Unexpected Party)

…………

Arcing bridges of white stone flashed high overhead, creating a rather 
bewildering display of light as the sun appeared and disappeared behind the 
arches. They journeyed quickly on horseback with many bumps and jolts, though it 
was evident that the man charged with his wellbeing was taking as much care as 
he could. Still, it seemed strange that there should be such a fuss. Aside from 
a horrendous pounding in the back of his head, he felt fine. Well, perhaps fine 
was not the best term to use. Dizzy would work. So would disoriented. 
Bewildered, confused, and lost also came to mind as apt descriptions of his 
current state. But after seeing a woman that challenged the beauty of the stars 
themselves, bewildered, confused, and lost were minor irritants.

Glancing about in the hopes that the mysterious woman had followed him, he 
winced as he moved his head too quickly and felt the throbbing pain behind his 
eyes escalate violently. His vision blurred and the sound of hooves echoing off 
stone streets pounded through his head. Where was he being taken? And where had 
he been to begin with? Not that he was in any condition to resist these men. He 
had a rather strong suspicion that he would swoon the moment he attempted to 
take any substantial actions of his own. And he didn’t feel as though he was in 
any danger, thus eliminating any need to escape in the near future. But how can 
I trust my feelings when I am not even certain of my own identity? He paused at 
this thought and felt a twinge of frustration. All creatures have identities. 
Surely I must have one. They called me something. Something…Eomer? His face 
creasing in a frown, he murmured the name quietly, feeling it roll off his 
tongue. Eomer. It sounded…right. And since he was quite unsure of anything else 
at the moment, he latched on to this name quickly, binding it to his soul and 
whispering it repeatedly as though to assure himself that he did have a place in 
this world. Exactly what that place was…well, that was another matter.

Turning his attention back to his surroundings and once more looking for the 
beautiful woman, Eomer watched as they wove their way through hushing crowds. 
His eyes were keen, and he was quick to notice that his group was drawing a good 
deal of attention. Nay, not the group, he suddenly realized with something of a 
shock. I am the one drawing the attention. The people are staring at me. 
Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, Eomer looked about for something that might 
strike him as familiar, but the many shops, taverns, and walls that met his eyes 
were strange and foreign. He did not feel at home here. He did not feel like an 
intruder, but he was very certain that he did not belong in this stone city. He 
belonged…where did he belong?

The horse was suddenly brought to a halt, and Eomer could not hold back a low 
moan as his vision blurred once again and the pain in his head became a blinding 
agony. Voices rose around him, and he felt himself lifted down from the horse. 
His hand brushed against the animal’s sweaty coat, and Eomer found himself 
wondering why there should be so much perspiration. Not enough grain, he 
decided, turning his attention to the horse’s breathing. He should not be so 
winded from so short a run. It must be a lack of grain. ‘Tis no wonder his 
stride was so uneven. He has had greens enough and now needs something more 
sustaining. Corn, perhaps, would be good if they plan to use this horse for 
messengers. And here, Eomer stopped, confused. How was it that he could so 
easily determine the horse’s ailment and feel so confident of his diagnosis? For 
there was no doubt in his mind as to the chief cause of the problem or what the 
solution should be. It would seem I know something of horses, he decided. 
Interesting. I suppose it is a rather useless bit of trivia at the moment, but 
it is interesting nonetheless. Every creature must have a hobby. Mine apparently 
involves horses.

Eomer would have continued to study this seemingly innate knowledge, but hands 
were suddenly about him, lifting him and carrying him forward. His contact with 
the horse was lost, and Eomer felt as though something familiar had just been 
taken from him. Then the world fell dark as he moved through a tall doorway and 
into winding halls. The scent of many strange herbs caught his sudden attention, 
and his mind identified this as a place of healing. Feelings of instant 
rebellion rose in his heart, and he began to struggle, not knowing why he should 
feel so leery of a healer’s care but deciding that these feelings were too 
strong to question. Doubting one’s instincts only led to trouble. He could not 
say where this conviction came from, but he trusted it completely and knew it to 
be truth.

Reacting to his struggles, the hands upon him tightened and a voice ordered him 
to cease. But the idea of being commanded by another stirred even more feelings 
of rebellion, and thoroughly disgusted by his situation, Eomer began to fight in 
earnest. He jerked himself to the right, feeling the men carrying him stagger at 
this sudden shift in weight. With his opponents off-balance, Eomer lurched 
forward, dragging himself upright and squeezing his eyes shut against the 
blinding pain in his head. He did not need to see in order to escape, for his 
body seemed to know exactly what to do. Once his feet hit the ground, he turned 
and swept one arm outward while keeping the other close to his body should he 
need to fend off a blow. His fist connected solidly with someone’s jaw, and as 
his victim fell, Eomer changed tactics yet again, seizing the man and using him 
as a living shield against any who sought to charge him.

Backing against a wall with his hostage held firmly immobile before him, Eomer 
opened his eyes and hissed as his headache became even larger. The world spun 
wildly, but he was not about to let himself be taken by these healers. They were 
naught but trouble. Leaning against his hostage and assuring himself that his 
hold around the man’s neck and head was secure, Eomer eyed those who sought to 
capture him and began looking for a method of escape.

"Eomer!"

The stern voice immediately caught his attention, and against his will, Eomer 
felt his eyes drawn toward a man now striding toward them with firm, determined 
steps. Gray eyes flashed in what seemed to be a strange combination of 
frustration and resignation, and jaw muscles tightened as though biting back 
scathing words. Rebellion surged again in Eomer’s heart, but even as it did so, 
something in the face of this man drove these feelings back.

"Eomer, release that guard."

Before he even knew what he was doing, Eomer dropped his arms and stepped to the 
side, allowing his captive to stagger forward. The logical portion of his mind 
screamed at him, demanding to know why he had done such a thing, but he could 
give it no answer that made sense. He only knew that this was a man to be obeyed 
without question. A sliver of annoyance edged its way into his mind at this 
thought and he wondered why anyone should deserve unquestioning obedience, but 
this rebellious inkling was too small to be of any use in escaping the gaze of 
this man.

"My thanks," the other said, his voice filled with what might have been 
reluctant amusement. He approached Eomer slowly, much as one might approach a 
wild animal, and held out his hand. "Come. You are not well."

"I am well enough," Eomer answered, but he did not back away.

The dark-haired man snorted at this and shook his head, his gaze turning inward 
for a moment. "And they say elves are bad patients," he murmured before raising 
his voice and once again addressing Eomer. "Believe me when I say that you are 
less than hale, my friend. Come. It would be best if we found a place where you 
might lie quietly."

"I have no wish to lie quietly," Eomer said, but he still could not seem to move 
away.

"I am hardly surprised," the other retorted. "Nevertheless, you should not be up 
and about in your condition." His hand fell upon Eomer’s shoulder and he gently 
pulled him away from the wall. "Let me help you."

Eomer stiffened, his rebellion once again rising. He would obey this man to a 
point, but no further. And his wariness concerning the healers was still strong. 
"I assure you that I am fine," he warned through clenched teeth.

"And I assure you that you are not," came the answer, now tinged with rising 
impatience. "Now come with me before I—"

"King Elessar, might I have a moment with him?"

Eomer flinched violently, having forgotten that others were in the room, and 
then he clutched his head as the pounding agony behind his eyes flared back into 
life. He felt hands upon his arms seeking to steady him, but he pulled back and 
shook them off, all the while moaning quietly and willing his pain to cease. 
Bracing himself against the wall, he felt those around him withdraw, but the low 
hum of hushed conversation told him that they were still near.

"Eomer?"

The gentle voice was difficult to ignore, and Eomer eased his eyes open slowly. 
He found himself staring back into a face that was so familiar he felt he might 
have been looking into a mirror. A woman stood before him, her hair the color of 
burnished gold and her eyes flashing like moonlight upon a polished blade. An 
overwhelming sense of kinship washed through Eomer, and as she placed a gentle 
hand upon his shoulder, he felt himself relaxing despite his fears.

"I know you," he whispered, his hand reaching up to cover hers.

"And I you," she said. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," he answered, not understanding his sudden change in feeling but willing 
to accept it.

A smile flashed across her face, but it was strained and lacking in real mirth. 
She was tense and uneasy, and Eomer was overcome by the need to comfort her. Too 
long had she endured the darkness and too long had fear haunted her bower. She 
was meant to be free and happy. She had more than earned it.

"Walk with me," she commanded, taking his elbow and turning him away from the 
crowd in the hallway. "There is much that must be done."

Eomer allowed this lady to lead him forward, somehow knowing that whatever plans 
she held in her heart, they were for his wellbeing. He felt as though he had 
protected this woman for years and that she had done the same for him, though 
the methods of protection differed greatly. How this was, he could not say, but 
he was convinced that such was the case. And so he willingly gave himself over 
to her care, an honor he would bestow upon no other. He would follow her no 
matter where her course led, and he would—

Eomer’s thoughts and sense of familiarity abruptly vanished as he caught sight 
of a figure standing to the side. Stopping cold, he felt fire rush through his 
veins, and his breath caught in his throat. The woman who held his arm turned, 
her face showing confusion, but Eomer was no longer aware of her existence. All 
noble intentions of standing beside his kinswoman disappeared in the face of the 
dark-haired enchantress he’d seen while out on the field.

"My lady," he breathed, his eyes wide as he stared at the flawless face framed 
by hair as deep as midnight. Her skin was pale, her eyes glittered with stars, 
and the slight tug of a repressed smile upon her full lips almost sent Eomer to 
his knees. "My lady, I did not know you had come."

Had Eomer been more attentive to his surroundings, he would have immediately 
noticed the change in atmosphere. The hallway seemed to darken and several faces 
clouded in anger. Orders were barked sharply and hands suddenly fell upon 
Eomer’s arms, but he took no note of these things. He had eyes only for the 
vision before him, for indeed, what else could this creature be save for a 
vision? She was the embodiment of perfection come to grace the cheerless earth 
with a moment of priceless beauty. She was a treasure beyond treasure, with 
neither equal nor rival. None could touch her. None could draw close to her. All 
the kings of men arrayed in all the splendor of their glory and renown could 
never hope to hold a candle to such natural grace. To such ageless wisdom. To 
such perilous beauty…

A sharp stinging in his shoulder jolted Eomer from his trance, and survival 
instincts somehow managed to overcome infatuation. Turning his head to the side, 
he stiffened as he saw a dart of some kind being pulled from his skin. His eyes 
flashing in anger, he looked up to discover that the culprit was the man who had 
spoken to him earlier. King Elessar, his mind recalled, and he moved to defend 
himself, outraged at the interruption. But much to his dismay, his limbs were 
heavy and would not obey his commands. He felt himself falling, and the king who 
had drugged him stepped forward to support his weight, though it seemed that he 
did so reluctantly. Eyes the color of fierce storm clouds glared out at him from 
beneath lowered brows, and Eomer wondered exactly what he had done to incite 
such rage. He opened his mouth to speak, but he no longer had the strength to 
voice words. The surrounding world started to dim, and his head lolled to the 
side as he lost control of his body.

"Believe me when I say that we will speak of this again and at length," a taut 
voice promised grimly, and then darkness fell, banishing Eomer to a dreamless 
world of shadows.


* * * *

With the forlorn look of a lost kitten that has inadvertently stumbled into a 
puddle of water, Pippin backed away from the locked pantry door and turned 
beseechingly to Merry. Had the situation not been so serious, Merry might have 
laughed. Pippin appeared utterly devastated. But then, Merry knew that he 
probably wore a very similar expression himself. Beyond the door before them, a 
menagerie of smells taunted their senses and teased their hunger. But the lock 
was a strong one, and not even Pippin’s nimble fingers had managed to crack it.

"It wouldn’t surprise me if Arwen herself held the key to the door," Merry 
sighed when Pippin started to play with the lock again.

"I don’t understand how she could do this to us," Pippin murmured.

"You saw what Elladan and Elrohir did to Gimli," Merry shrugged, attempting to 
take the situation in stride despite the complaints of his belly. "And you heard 
Legolas telling Gimli what he did down on the Pelennor. Or rather, what was 
going to be done on the Pelennor. Based on all that, should we really be 
surprised?"

"But this is Arwen!" Pippin protested, tugging vainly on the door’s handle. "I 
thought she was…above all that."

"Then I guess we both thought wrong," Merry answered with a grim shake of his 
head. "And you can quit trying, Pippin, because we’re not getting into that 
pantry without the key."

"I don’t see you doing anything useful," his cousin retorted.

"Then you aren’t looking closely enough. I’m thinking." Ignoring Pippin’s look 
of disbelief at this statement, Merry backed away from the door and studied it 
for a moment before turning and examining the walls. "The door is wooden," he 
said at length. "The walls are stone. And between the two of us, we should be 
able to move everything out of the way so that nothing else is damaged and 
things can be contained. And we’ve got the wine to help us start."

Pippin frowned and narrowed his eyes. "If you’re suggesting what I think you’re 
suggesting, then maybe I should suggest that you suggest something else."

"But Pippin, if we—"

"No!" the other hobbit said firmly. "Absolutely not. I know all about the 
Brandybucks and your fires. You’re too eager to use them and you always overdo 
it. Why, just think of the Old Forest! The trees planted themselves near the 
Hedge, and what did you do? You tried to burn the entire place down."

"That was a long time ago," Merry reasoned.

"Not long enough ago. The Brandybucks still have this unusual need for fire. And 
didn’t you try to do it again a few years ago? I heard that the flames swept out 
of control and almost reached—"

"The stories were exaggerated," Merry interrupted quickly. "There were Bolgers 
helping at the time who didn’t understand that we had everything under control."

"I see," Pippin said, nodding complacently. "Then I suppose that those homes 
near the southern end of the Hedge were destroyed in a completely different fire 
that happened to take place during the same time that you were trying to burn 
down the Old Forest."

"We weren’t trying to burn down the Old Forest!" Merry exclaimed. "We were just 
trying to teach it a lesson. It’s not as if there are any Ents to watch over the 
trees like in Fangorn. It was getting too dangerous again, and the Bonfire Glade 
was completely overgrown."

"And there you have it," Pippin said triumphantly. "Only a family possessed of 
an unhealthy obsession with fire would name a clearing the ‘Bonfire Glade.’"

"It was a fitting name!"

"It struck the rest of us as a bit of Bywater humor."

Merry rolled his eyes and turned away. Attempting to explain methods of dealing 
with the Old Forest to anyone who didn’t actually live next to it was quite 
hopeless. The Tooks were usually more accepting than most, but even they could 
never understand what it meant to have rather ill intentioned trees living just 
on the other side of the Hedge. "We’ll do this your way, then," he said, making 
a mental note to bring up the possibility of fire once Pippin’s idea failed. 
"How do you propose we get into the pantry since you’re against my plan?"

"I don’t know yet," Pippin answered. "But give me a moment or two to look around 
and I’m certain that I can come up with something."

This prompted a rude and rather derisive snort on Merry’s part, but Pippin chose 
to ignore him, moving away from the locked pantry door and examining the rest of 
the cellar. Predicting that he would be here for a while, Merry clambered up on 
one of the wine barrels, dusted it off, and sat down. From his perch, he could 
see that there was actually quite a bit of dust on the casks, which meant they’d 
been here for a while. That seemed odd to him. Why wouldn’t this drink be used? 
Mirkwood made extremely fine wine if one could handle its potency. Of course, 
its potency was something of a legend and had gotten many of them into trouble 
once, so perhaps it was understandable that Strider would be reluctant to serve 
it. After all, it wouldn’t do to have ministers and governors staggering about 
the Citadel in a drunken and somewhat giddy stupor.

A sudden rumbling sound in the pit of his stomach interrupted Merry’s musings on 
wine and brought him back to their current predicament. He was starting to get 
hungry, which was definitely not a good thing since they couldn’t seem to get 
their hands on any food. And lunch was still several hours away. Beyond that, 
they would have to journey down to the Pelennor for it, and Merry didn’t know if 
they could make such a long trip on an empty stomach. While it was true that 
they’d traveled further distances on shorter rations, it didn’t seem necessary 
to make such a sacrifice when there was perfectly good food stored only one room 
away. One very inaccessible room away, the hobbit amended grimly.

"Merry?"

Merry turned toward Pippin, hoping that his cousin might have found something, 
only to freeze as a shiver of fear crawled down his spine. Not this! Please not 
this! Of all the problems to face today, why did it have to be this?! Pippin had 
a look about him that suggested a combination of boredom, frustration, and a 
slight twinge of curiosity. It was an extremely unnerving look, particularly 
when considering the circumstances in which it had previously appeared. Pippin 
had worn that expression just before he dropped a pebble into the well in Moria. 
He’d also worn it the night he’d stolen the palantír from Gandalf and eventually 
came face to face with the Dark Lord himself. As a result, seeing this look upon 
Pippin’s face gave Merry great cause for alarm, and he wondered if it might not 
actually have been safer to stay on the Pelennor Fields. True, elven pranks were 
abroad this day, but elven pranks were nothing compared to Pippin when he set 
his mind on something. Or perhaps I could sneak into Ithilien and climb up to 
Cirith Ungol. Sam was wondering just how many steps were on that trail. I could 
count them for him. That should be long enough for Pippin to get into trouble 
and back out again.

"Merry, it’s become clear to me that simple measures will not work. We will have 
to do something drastic."

Merry inwardly cringed at these words. Cirith Ungol, he decided. I will 
definitely be climbing the trail to Cirith Ungol. I’m sure it will be good 
exercise.

"Arwen seems to be thinking one step ahead of us, so that means we’ll have to 
change our strategy. We need to think one step ahead of her, which means two 
steps ahead of us. So we have to plan our next two ideas completely and then 
skip to the last one."

I might even become famous as the hobbit that counted all the steps.

"Of course, Arwen could already be two steps ahead, which means we need to be on 
the third step. And if we add a fourth step just to be on the safe side, I won’t 
say that’s a bad idea. But we shouldn’t get too far ahead of ourselves or we 
might circle back and accidentally use the first idea, which is what Arwen would 
be counting on."

But what if some of the steps are broken? Should I count those as half a step or 
a whole step? And what about different sized steps? Should they be counted as 
something different? Perhaps I ought to count all the stairs separately. If 
anyone wants a total, they can add them together later.

"Merry, are you listening?"

"Steps," Merry answered, still going over the problems of accurately recording 
the trail to Cirith Ungol. "You were talking about steps."

"Well?"

Merry blinked. Pippin usually talked himself out of his inane plans by the end 
of the monologue. Asking for input before deciding that the plan was a waste of 
time—or even revealing the crux of the planet itself—was something of a rarity. 
Consequently, Merry had only noted that he and Pippin both seemed to be thinking 
about steps but that they were considering them in vastly different contexts. 
And at the moment, Merry could not say exactly what Pippin had been thinking 
about doing with his steps. "I…believe we might want to consider other options," 
Merry said at length. It was a safe answer and undoubtedly sound advice, given 
Pippin’s usual plans.

"You weren’t listening, were you?"

Well, it would have been a safe answer fifteen years ago, but Pippin had grown 
significantly since the War of the Ring and had developed a strange ability for 
determining whether or not others were being completely honest with him. "Sorry, 
Pippin," Merry confessed. "I suppose I wasn’t. What were you saying?"

With a long-suffering sigh and a shake of his head, Pippin folded his arms 
across his chest and tapped one foot. "This is serious business, Merry. We can’t 
take this insult lightly."

"I know, and I’m sorry. Would you tell me again what you were saying?"

There was a pause during which Pippin stared at his cousin with a look that 
Merry assumed was reproach. But it was difficult to tell because some of the 
lanterns near the stairway were burning low, and the rumblings of his empty 
stomach were becoming distracting. Beyond that, Pippin had never been very good 
at giving reproachful looks despite the vast number of times he’d been on the 
receiving end of said looks. The current glare resembled indigestion as much as 
it resembled reproach. Nevertheless, Merry tried to appear properly 
contrite—hoping that contrite was the desired response—and eventually Pippin 
sighed again and continued. "I was saying that we seem to be one step behind 
Arwen so it would now be best to think at least two steps ahead. Three might be 
even better."

Merry blinked. "And how are we going to go about that?"

"It’s really quite simple. We’ll plan out our next steps and then skip all of 
them except for the last one."

Rubbing his brow, Merry frowned and thought the idea over. "Let me give you an 
example and you tell me if you still think this will work," he said after a long 
pause. "I’m going to float my boat down the Brandywine. First, I will get in my 
boat and check to see that it’s in good condition. Then I will cast off. Then I 
will start rowing, steering around obstacles when I come to them. When I reach 
my destination, I will find a dock, get out, and tie my boat up. If I understand 
you correctly, you’re suggesting that I skip everything except the part where I 
get out of the boat and secure it."

"Exactly."

"Pippin, I can’t get out of the boat if I’ve never gotten in! And I certainly 
can’t tie it to a dock it’s never reached."

"Yes, but Arwen doesn’t know that."

Merry stared at his cousin and wondered what had brought on this sudden madness. 
"Perhaps you’d better lie down."

Pippin rolled his eyes. "Think about it, Merry! Arwen will be expecting you to 
cast off and row down the Brandywine. She’ll have set things up so that one 
event leads to another. But what if we skip ahead? Find another way around so 
that we don’t trigger anything in between?"

"As in carrying the boat overland?"

"Something like that."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

"With a boat, it would be," Pippin agreed. "But we’re not working with a boat 
and we’re not back in Buckland. That’s the Anduin out there, not the 
Brandywine."

"I think we’d better change stories, then."

Pippin shook his head. "No, we’ve already wasted enough time. Come on. We have 
things to do. I’ve planned out our next steps, and I know what we’d do last. So 
we’re going to do that first."

"Wait," Merry called as Pippin headed for the stairs. "You know what we’re going 
to do next? What about me? What if I would do something different?"

"Arwen would be expecting you to take the lead. Therefore, I have to be the one 
doing the deciding."

"Ah." Merry debated about making further attempts to understand Pippin’s twisted 
line of reasoning but ultimately decided that such a tactic could only result in 
trouble. He would simply have to sit back and try to keep the damage to a 
minimum. And with this in mind, he hurried after his cousin, thinking that if 
nothing else, the rest of the day would be interesting.


* * * *

Though he could be fiercely independent from time to time, Prince Elfwine of 
Rohan was usually not too proud to admit that he was young and had seen very 
little of the world. There were yet many mysteries to be discovered and many 
realms to explore. However, Elfwine was reasonably confident that what he 
witnessed now was something that even the weathered Marshall beside him had 
never seen, and he doubted that he would ever see it again. A rival stallion 
that knowingly challenged the chief of the Mearas was either overly confident, 
hopelessly foolish, or a combination of both. None of the studs throughout the 
Riddermark would dare take such a risk, and all the horses in Gondor and the 
surrounding area were too frightened of Shade to place themselves in such 
danger. But it seemed that horses of the Eldar were not so constrained, and 
Elfwine watched in amazement and fear as the smaller of the two elven stallions 
sped toward an outraged Shade.

Piercing screams hit the air as the horses raced for one another, and then the 
bay stallion leaped the fence that separated the breeding mares from the rest of 
the herd. Almost he seemed to float over it, and he landed well, resuming his 
pace and stride with all the grace of the elves that he served.

"Eorl’s balls!" Elfhelm swore violently, and Elfwine blinked, grateful that his 
mother was not present to hear such language.

"What can we—"

"Naught," Elfhelm answered the prince, slowing his pace. "We can only wait. 
Should any interfere now, it is likely that they would be killed."

Slowing his own frantic run to match the other’s pace, Elfwine shook his head in 
disbelief. "But—"

"We cannot step between those two lest we be trampled in the process. And Shade 
will not let any incursion into his herd go unchallenged. We can do nothing!" 
Elfhelm spat. He turned and motioned to other riders, signaling them to create a 
loose half-circle around the closing stallions. "We can only hope that the bay 
horse retreats, and if he does retreat, he must retreat far enough for our ropes 
to snare him. If not, Shade will kill him before he allows us to take him away."

"Kill him?! Why would—"

But Elfwine was not allowed to finish his question, for Shade and the bay had 
quite literally collided with one another, ramming shoulders together with a 
sickening crunch. The harsh sound of their impact echoed off the Rammas Echor, 
and twin screams of rage tore through the morning air. Shade reared, his 
forelegs flashing and his teeth bared, but in a surprising display of ingenuity 
and innovation, the bay took advantage of his own small size and scooted beneath 
the taller stallion. Flailing hooves clipped his back, but the elven horse took 
no notice and squared about as soon as he cleared the other, lashing out with 
his back legs and registering a solid hit on Shade’s hindquarters.

Elfwine felt his breath catch in his throat as Shade stumbled to the side, but 
the chief of the Mearas quickly regained his balance and lashed out with his own 
hind legs, striking the elven horse in the shoulder and driving him back. 
Whirling upon one another, the horses tossed their heads and screamed, leaping 
back and forth in mock charges as they evaluated one another’s health.

"Elfhelm…" Elfwine hissed.

"We can do nothing until Shade feels himself avenged," Elfhelm answered, his 
voice betraying his own frustration. "If we interfere now, he will turn on us."

"If we do nothing, they might kill one another," Elfwine answered.

"Both are too wise for that. One shall back away before that happens."

Had Elfhelm sounded even remotely confident of this statement, Elfwine might 
have been reassured. As it was, though, his fear only grew. But he was not given 
the chance to pursue the conversation, for a new voice was suddenly added to the 
scene. Forgotten for the moment by all involved, the taller black stallion now 
joined the fray, his challenging screaming ringing strong across the Pelennor 
and his pounding hooves swiftly closing the distance between himself and the 
other combatants.

Shade screamed an answer and whirled to face the newcomer while the bay stallion 
whinnied shrilly and charged the chief of the Mearas. Shade turned back to face 
his first opponent and the two horses reared, striking out at one another. Then 
the bay lunged forward and shoulders met. The two horses reared again, their 
necks snaking together and their forelegs failing wildly. And in the background, 
the pounding thud of approaching hooves grew louder and louder as the second 
elven horse approached. A ripple of fear went through the surrounding riders, 
but as Elfhelm had said, there was nothing that could be done until dominance 
was established by one of the participants. And so Elfwine watched in growing 
horror the bay stallion and Shade pressed against one another, biting and 
kicking, while the black horse charged.

What happened next was so unexpected and so fast that Elfwine had to mentally 
reconstruct it afterwards. In a blur of confusion and hooves, the sounds of a 
collision were heard and then the dust cleared, revealing a rolling bay horse, a 
snorting black horse, and a very confused Mearas chieftain.

Apparently as bewildered as everyone else, the bay surged to his feet and 
stomped before screaming and rearing. But the black elven stallion leaped at 
him, catching his chest with his own and pushing him back by sheer virtue of 
superior size. In the meantime, Shade snorted loudly and also reared, clearly 
issuing a challenge to both elven steeds. But the black horse was resolute and 
continued to push the bay away from Shade. And for his part, the bay seemed to 
grudgingly accept this intervention, though it was obvious that he was less than 
pleased with the situation.

"Never in all my years have I seen anything like that," Elfhelm murmured.

"Now we can send riders in, correct?" Elfwine hissed, keeping his voice down so 
as not to alarm the horses.

"We may not have to. The elven horses seem to be coming to us."

And Elfhelm was right. It was, perhaps, one of the strangest sights any of them 
had ever seen. The bay snorted and reared periodically, his head swiveling back 
and forth between the black elven horse and Shade. Shade did not move from his 
spot, but he would stomp the earth and toss his head, occasionally loosing a 
challenging scream. But the black horse was studiously ignoring him and steadily 
pressing his companion toward the waiting Rohirrim, who stood with ropes and 
halters ready.

"Call Shade."

Elfwine blinked and looked up at the Marshall. "What?"

"Call Shade. Distract him. Get his attention away from those two."

The crown-prince of Rohan nodded and took a small step forward, his eyes focused 
upon the chief of the Mearas. "Shade? Shade, hear me. Come, my friend. You need 
not stand there."

Shade’s ears flicked and he turned dark eyes upon Elfwine, almost as though he 
was uncertain of the situation. Unfortunately, this action did not go unnoticed 
by the bay stallion, who whistled sharply and attempted to charge him. The black 
horse held him back, but Shade was already whirling about, rushing the two and 
crying out in challenge. Now the black elven horse turned and reared, though he 
made certain he was blocking his companion’s path as he did so. His shrill 
whinny carried overtones of warning but also something of a plea. Shade skidded 
to a halt and snorted, his head tossing and his forelegs pawing at the ground. 
The bay horse attempted to leap around the black one, but his friend was ready 
for him and quickly dropped to the ground and shouldered him back, making no 
pretense about being gentle. And his shove managed to push the bay into range of 
the riders.

A rope sailed through the air, neatly looping about the bay’s thick neck, and it 
was quickly pulled tight. The stallion screamed and reared, but the black reared 
as well, knocking him back to the ground and pushing him even closer to the men. 
Apparently having enough of this treatment from one who should have been an 
ally, the bay bared his teeth and snapped, grazing the other’s neck. And then a 
second rope was seen, falling onto the black horse and jerking him away from his 
companion. Shade neighed loudly, but fortunately for all involved, he made no 
move to interfere. He seemed satisfied with what was happening, though his 
posture made it clear that he was still tense and angry.

"My lord, your orders?" a rider called, struggling to keep the bay horse under 
control. The black stallion was allowing himself to be led away with something 
of an ill grace, but his companion seemed affronted by the fact that he was 
being handled by mortals.

"Tether both near the city, and keep them together," Elfhelm answered. "And keep 
men with them at all times. We cannot risk an escape."

"And what of Shade?" another the rider asked, his voice low so as not to attract 
the attention of the Mearas chief.

Elfhelm grimaced and then turned toward Elfwine. "My prince, when you feel it is 
safe—and only when you feel it is safe—I would have you go to Shade and lead him 
back to his paddock. But give him time to cool his temper first! And if he 
wishes to visit the mares, allow him to do so. We can certainly remove a few 
from the breeding herd if it will aid in assuaging his anger. We will probably 
have to remove some of them anyway thanks to our elven friends."

"It may take some time before he will allow any to handle him," Elfwine 
murmured.

"You are probably correct."

Elfwine frowned, his young brow furrowing. "And what of my father? I must know 
how he fares."

"You will," Elfhelm answered. "But as I said before, we have duties that cannot 
lightly be dismissed. We both must wait."

"I thought you said Arhelm would be here soon."

"He may have been sent on some errand or other by King Elessar," Elfhelm said 
quietly. "If that is the case, it will take time for Fréalaf to find him."

"And until he comes, we must wait," Elfwine said bitterly.

"We wait, and we tend to such duties as come to us," Elfhelm answered firmly. 
"But we can also take action to ease our fears," he added, his face softening 
into a smile. He then turned back to the rider who’d asked about Shade. "Send 
more men out in search of Arhelm. He is to report here immediately. Also, send 
others to seek out the king and ask after his condition. If he is hale, they are 
to tell him of what has happened here."

"By your command, my lord," the rider said. "Do you have anything else you wish 
done?"

"Yes," Elfhelm said slowly his eyes narrowing. "Before you go, have someone look 
through our supplies for a gelding iron. I feel the king may want one close at 
hand when he learns of what has happened. Dismissed!"

"Those stallions are stud horses of Rivendell," Elfwine protested even as the 
rider hurried off. "My father would never go so far as to—"

"I did not say the gelding iron would be for the horses."

 tbc