Chapter 7

Groping in the Dark

April 11

Minas Tirith, Gondor

The palace was hushed next morning, with the city almost as quiet. By some swift means the news had spread that Queen Arwen was deathly ill, and it was only in catching the somber faces in the marketplace and the anxious whispers at the guard outposts that Duurben realized how attached the people had become to their lovely queen. Black banners were hung outside many of the shops, as if death were inescapable.

Desperately he tried to keep morale up, particularly amongst his men. They needed to be alert in case of a second attack. It took no great intelligence to realize that the queen had not been the only target. King Aragorn had escaped only through the sheer chance of Legolas' unexpected arrival, and the children's deaths would not have been too far off.

Duurben readjusted his cloak against the damp morning air. He knew that, though he had tried, it was unlikely his men were at all reassured or heartened by his encouragement. It was difficult to be encouraging in the aftermath of so total a failure in one's duty. Had this been a war, with a second-in-command ready to take his place, he would have already begged to be relieved of duty. It was inexcusable. As Captain of the Palace Guard it was his responsibility to prevent happenings such as these! There was no other purpose in his being there. And yet it had been right under his nose — while he himself had been on duty — that the entire royal family had nearly been assassinated.

"Captain?"

Duurben flinched, but turned to face the voice. "Yes, Master Peregrin?"

"The king's busy just at the moment, but he asked me to find you and give you this." Pippin handed him a folded piece of paper.

The note had been very hastily written. There was no seal, and the parchment appeared to be a section torn from a larger piece. It read simply, "Duurben: We shall speak this afternoon. Until then you are not to even contemplate leaving my service, committing suicide, or anything else rash or irreversible. If ever you held to your duties above all else do not abandon me now, my friend. — Thorongil"

Exhaling slowly, Duurben slid the message into his belt pouch. It had a desperate tone that worried him — the king was strained to the breaking point — but it cleared his mind a little to have a few orders he could obey.

"Oh good." Pippin sighed in relief.

"What is it?" Duurben asked, frowning.

"You've stopped looking like death on two legs. I was afraid you were blaming yourself for all this, or something stupid like that."

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Legolas had taken up a position in the back corner of the Hall of Kings, behind the platform and the white throne of Gondor and just outside the door of a smaller room that Ecthelion and Denethor had used as a study. Aragorn used it in a similar way, but the books and scrolls were arranged in a fashion that reminded the elf strongly of Lord Elrond's library in Rivendell.

It was this room that Aragorn used more than the actual throne room — at least when assigning smaller duties or conversing with only a few people. Even when in the hall, he rarely sat on the throne unless the formality of the situation demanded it; most often he was to be found standing.

Arwen was sleeping peacefully just at the moment, the chief healer was examining her and a maiden from the Houses would be sitting with her when he was done so that Arien could continue to watch the children. Both jobs were ones that Aragorn would not have normally entrusted to anyone, but there were other things pressing. Just now he and Eression were talking.

"I need someone I trust to carry a message for me," Aragorn said.

"Of course, my lord."

"It is a long journey, and there are few among the regular guard who have the abilities to make such a trek — especially as I will need anyone who goes to travel with more than the usual haste. I do not know how much time is left to us…" His face was so composed, Eression still did not understand in which direction his instructions lay.

"Where, sire?"

"Rivendell. I need you to bring back my brothers. Arwen's brothers."

Eression had been standing at Aragorn's side, watching his profile, but now he took an involuntary step forward so that he was facing his king. Legolas himself looked up sharply, suddenly realizing what Aragorn was trying to prepare for.

"You will accept this mission?" Aragorn asked quietly. "There is no one else I can send, Eression."

"Yes, my lord Elessar." With a slow bow, in which he never took his eyes off his king, Eression turned and left the room. From the expression on his face as he passed, Legolas could tell Eression had never seen Aragorn like this before. The king was on the brink of losing hope.

Aragorn was sorting through a pile of dispatches, finding nothing of great import. He was clearly hoping to be done quickly and return to his family. There were guards everywhere — Duurben's efforts to make certain no second attempt would be made on the lives of the royal family. For once, Aragorn had not tried to avoid them.

"My friend," Legolas said softly, "I hate to see you like this."

"I'm sorry," he sighed, his eyes still scanning the papers before him. "But it seems clear to me…" His voice broke off, his calm fragile. "I am losing my wife, Legolas. I do not know what the snake was that bit her, but the poison reached her heart before the Lhandlas was administered — there is nothing now that can cleanse her body. Eventually the poison will overwhelm her. I cannot think of anything else to do…"

Legolas shook his head, fervently pressing back against the wall of inevitability. "No, Aragorn! I recognized the snake — it is a Mornelet, native to Mirkwood."

It seemed Aragorn had entirely forgotten to ask his friend about the viper, for now he looked up and appeared to be listening attentively. "So it was most certainly brought here for this purpose?"

"I am afraid that is how it appears. Still, there is hope yet. Lhandlas cures the poison if administered in time; but there is another cure if that is not managed. The Lhandlas must be administered regularly, so that the poison's progress is slowed almost to nothing, and then there is a medicine my father discovered which cleans the toxin from the blood — Raniean was bitten during a boarder skirmish and we were trapped for months before we could get home; he recovered with its help. If we can obtain some soon, Arwen will be well."

"Are you sure of this?" Aragorn asked searchingly, not daring to believe it.

"Yes, Estel. I am certain."

Aragorn fingered the Evenstar on its chain. "Would you go for me, gwador-nin? I cannot leave Arwen, and there are none I would trust more to bring it in time."

"Of course."

They stood in silence for a long while; the length of their friendship taking the emptiness from the quiet. But it did not last.

"My lord king?" an elderly man in gray robes queried, bowing in the doorway. It was the healer who had been with Arwen.

"What is it? Is there something wrong?" Aragorn asked swiftly, crossing the narrow room.

"Nothing immediate, my lord, no. But though the herb is slowing the poison's progression, I fear it is still moving unnaturally fast. Perhaps it is some unfortunate effect that strikes only the First Born." He glanced appraisingly at Legolas, but the elf shook his head.

"This poison's effect on immortals is quite slow."

There was a hissing intake of air as Aragorn's face went white as chalk. "Arwen… she is not immortal, Legolas."

Legolas' eyes closed briefly. He had not thought of this. "Master Healer, how long… would…" the elf could not finish his question, not with his friend standing beside him. Not with his own mind reeling at the thought of Arwen actually perishing before her children were grown. Not with the horrible realization dawning in his mind, so soon after he'd given his friend hope…

"Two months, perhaps," the healer murmured. "If she is strong."

"She is," Aragorn said fiercely. "But, two months — Legolas, there is no time…"

Legolas could not speak. He shook his head slowly, hating the cruel fate that had placed them all in this room. With a bow, the healer went back to his duties.

"What was the cure?" Aragorn asked. "Is there any way we could duplicate it?"

"It was the sap of a tree — but a special tree. It was planted by my father and his kinsman, Celeborn of Lorien. In their youth they had fought at each other's side and grown close as brothers; something my father had not experienced in his own family. After Orophir's death they became separated by the distance of their kingdoms, but before they parted they had begun work on a special plant.

"Perhaps it was a mallorn originally, father never quite explained, but from their friendship it grew taller and stronger than any tree they had ever seen. At the moment when both of them touched it, it bloomed and shone white as the sun. It was the sap that they discovered had strange healing properties. You could not take much before the light began to fade, but only a very little was needed for most injuries."

"Could any be gotten without Lord Celeborn? For he is gone across the sea."

"Yes. The sap, when taken by one person alone or by two people who are not bound in their friendship, is a poison even stronger than the Mornelet's. Still, when we needed a little for Raniean's sake, he and Trelan were able to waken the tree together."

"But they are in Ithilian, and the tree is in Mirkwood…" Aragorn said hollowly.

Again, Legolas could only nod. But a thought was pulling at the back of his mind — something his father had told him — a detail he had left out. He frowned hard, his smooth forehead creasing. "Wait… Lorien." He looked up. "My father's tree was merely a shoot off the original. The tree they grew was in Lorien, Aragorn. A swift journey could bring the sap back well within the two months."

By this time, Aragorn's nerves seemed to have been stretched thinner than spiders' silk. He was staring at his feet, his hand still caressing the jewel at his neck. Legolas wondered if now were the time to say what he knew he must.

"Aragorn, I cannot do this alone."

The human looked up, seeming to look right through him, not understanding.

"You are the greatest and truest friend I will ever know. In truth, you have been more than a friend; though I fear I cannot find words to express what you are to me. I cannot wake the tree alone. It is beyond my strength. But…" he reached over to touch Aragorn's shoulder, "we could."

"I — cannot leave," Aragorn said slowly. "Arwen, the children — and I am king now, Legolas, I can no longer disappear without warning."

"Iston, mellon nin. I know."

As Legolas watched, though, he could see the struggle in his friend's soul — as if there were naught but a pane of glass between the heart of Aragorn and the world. Ultimately, this was a decision that Aragorn would make not as a king, but as a husband. As a man desperately and hopelessly in love.

A matter not for logical thought, but for the heart. And the choice had already been made.

"Legolas, would you please summon a messenger. It seems time is our enemy."

The elf left immediately and returned with one of the city's mounted messengers, Siniath, a trustworthy man who knew all the usual routes well. They found Aragorn completing a hasty letter at his desk. He sealed it as Siniath bowed.

"Take this to Lady Eowyn as quickly as your horse can bear you. It is a matter greatest urgency."

"Why Lady Eowyn?" Legolas asked, as Siniath left.

"I cannot think of anyone else I would sooner entrust with the childrens' care, and Arien will be needed to stay with Arwen. Eowyn should arrive within three days, at the most. Faramir will be with her if I know him at all. If anything should run amiss, I pray he will be able to see to it. He is a wise man and trustworthy."

"Aragorn," Legolas said, a note of suspicion in his voice, "do you then mean to leave without informing anyone?"

"No, and yes. I would not leave Arwen or the children without explaining the reasons, but I know Duurben all too well. He will not let me go unescorted, and we have no time to spare for extra men. We shall have to travel as we once did, my friend," he said softly, extinguishing the candles with his fingers and rolling away the last of his papers. "When the world was simple."

"You think the world was simple then?" the elf asked skeptically.

"In retrospect, I do. Come, I have many other details I must arrange if I am to be gone for over a month. And I have a captain of the guard who needs seeing to; a message won't hold him down forever."

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Hunching in the shadows, the traitor cursed in every language he had ever learnt, trying to bite down the nagging pain that was tainting his every movement. He had taken some of the Lhandlas he had stolen as soon as he had been able, but though the unexpected bite of the viper had not reached his heart, it seemed he had misjudged the dosage.

As he had predicted, there was going to be no opportunity for him to leave the palace that day and he settled in to wait, his mind working furiously. In case his first attempt had failed he had been given a second plan to try, but now it was far from his mind. He was dying, slowly but surely, and what use was there for money if he were naught but a corpse in the back corner of Minas Tirith?

Risking a slow look around from the end of the balcony just behind the Hall of the Kings, he heard snatches of a conversation and paused, silent and unnoticed, hardly daring to breath lest he miss what was being said.

"…was the sap …. discovered had strange healing…"

"Could any be gotten…"

"Yes ………. waken … tree together."

"…Mirkwood…"

There was a pause, and then, "Wait… Lorien …… swift journey ……….. sap …… two months."

The traitor had heard enough. All that remained was to retrieve his pay and find the tree. Preferably before whoever the king sent did.

Turning, he slipped off . One way or another he would find a way out of the city that night. But first he had to collect a verification of the king's death, and for that he had an idea... He needed to get into the halfling's room.

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April 11

Somewhere in Northern Gondor

At the door of the old woodcutting cottage, the strange leader of the corsairs stood, the Shadow, his hawk perched on his shoulder. Its head shifted from side to side, its eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"It seems he will not be coming," the Shadow rasped, his voice like metal grating against metal. The bird shifted in response. Then the leader turned his head, as if scenting something from far off. "Or perhaps…"

Five minutes later a horse appeared in the yard, its rider looking stiff, as if he'd been riding a while.

"Well?" the Shadow asked, quiet as coarse sand.

"It is done," the traitor said shortly. His tone was strained, but that was only to be expected. All such men seemed to face a moment of realization — one where it became apparent to them what they had just betrayed. All except for the leader himself. He remembered no such pause.

"Have you proof?"

"For the king, yes — if those black banners in Minas Tirith aren't proof enough. Here." The traitor reached into his pouch and produced a leaf-shaped brooch, the delicate silver stem looping across the finely crafted piece. "Elessar was given it by the elves of Lorien when he passed through there before his crowning."

There was a silence as the gloved, capable fingers of the Shadow as he fingered the brooch. "Yes," he said softly, recognizing the workmanship. "They do not give these out lightly or to strangers. Very well. Your reward." He took from inside the door a leather bag heavy with gold and handed it the traitor, a sneer on his hidden face. "You'd best run now, hadn't you, Hablak?"

"I suppose I had… Vardnauth," he returned, his voice soft.

For a moment they gazed at each other, and Vardnauth seemed to be considering whether to cut the hablak down for his forwardness. Then he gave his thinnest and most dangerous of smiles. It was a smile that promised the traitor death should he ever attempt to make use of his knowledge. "Discovered my name, have you. You are cleverer than you appear."

Without another word, the traitor turned and mounted his horse, the bag of blood money in his hand. He left the clearing at a gallop.

Entering the house, the hawk following him in a short swoop of flight, Vardnauth pulled a strip of parchment out and wrote a brief report for Queen Mavranor. Attaching it to the bird's leg, he held the door wide for it and it soared off into the night.

He walked as silent as a shadow towards the stables and entered them to find several of the corsairs waiting in the dimness, one of them awake on watch while the others slept.

"Come," Vardnauth rasped. "The work here is finished. When the battle begins there will be much to do from this side of the lines; we must make sure no supplies can move towards the Gondorian troops. Talas, you will remain here and keep watch." Snapping his fingers towards a lean black horse who came obediently forward, he mounted and together they rode north towards Rohan in a rumble of hooves.