The Hunting Trip
Chapter 37: Voices in the Dark

Their steps became unsteady as the last of their trail ended in a rock-littered path. The striking presence of a craggy shale wall loomed before them. Aragorn steered them up and over the path, while Arwen prayed a silent plea to the Valar that this was not the end, that there was more beyond the bend they might take. Their light fell dimly about them, illuminating only the tiniest part of what was beginning to feel like an immensely large space. With the little she could see, she found the ceiling suddenly cresting into a very steep point, like those found in the great halls back in their citadel home. At the same time, the walls on either side were narrowing inward, coming together in the shape of a tapering wedge. The ledge they had followed seemed to have diminished away from an easy trail nestled by the water into these rocky steps that seemed to climb higher and higher, as if their intent was to reach the height of the ceiling. But even this was misleading, for the trail did not appear complete. The steps dissolved into the sheer face of stone before them, as if they had been created by an incomplete thought. She stared hard into the dark of the cavern, doing her utmost to see if they had missed another way, if there was by some chance a different road. But there was nothing that showed an alternative route to follow.

Looking over the cliff side, she could see the shimmer of the water reflecting some many odd feet below, the soft glow of the lamplight casting winking reflective light above to the ceiling. She looked up and saw raggedy rock on high. It looked as if it had been formed there by the collapse of the stone, unlike the ceilings they had noticed in the earlier parts of the tunnels, which were smooth and worn through. The water below seemed far deeper in the pooled basin than anywhere else in the river, and she could see large rocks littering the bottom as if they had come from the steep peaks above. Still nothing of even a ripple could she see. It was disturbing to find that the surface of the water did not break, even now at what seemed to be an end.

It was heartbreaking, this discovery, for it was nothing as she had imagined it. Their exit, in her mind, should have followed a growing waterway that would have led them out to an embankment along the familiar river of their Henneth-Annün home. It should have been simple, for she thought her conclusion logical. However, there was nothing that resembled this dream, and the crush of reality and her failure to predict their direction collapsed upon her. There was no escape from this direction. She had been wrong.

She sat down on the perch of rocks that cantilevered like a small balcony over the pool. She was exhausted and hungry, weary of walking and climbing and fighting against mud and rock and filth. Yet it was her mind that made her crumble, for she felt all her confident assertions of before had been dashed as if she had been thrown to that wall. Aragorn had been right. This was nothing more than a long and narrow lake. Perhaps, as huge as this cave system was, it was merely a room with but a single threshold.

She sighed a silent breath of despair, the weight of her failure pressing heavily on her. Fate seemed not to care. As if laughing at her thoughts that the matter could not grow worse, it proved it could. The lamp gave its last flicker of light, and failing in quick order, the wick ran dry. Their flame was squelched. Darkness took control and leapt upon their helpless state as she and Aragorn were plunged into the darkest of nights. Pitch blackness overwhelmed them without mercy.

A thought ran through her mind, Is this too much for my fractured soul to take? She felt her heart sink though she forced her mind not to take notice. She grit her teeth while she fought back her fear. She was determined not to let the misery that seemed to taunt her from the shadows take possession of her soul. She felt rigid in her fight to hold back the sorrowful cry that welled deep in her chest.

His hand touched her shoulder, and she felt Aragorn settle in beside her, wrapping an arm about her in comfort. It was startling almost to find him there, for long had their silence gone on, and in it she had fallen into her own personal perspectives. Yet his touch was of assurance, a quiet telling of his understanding. There was no blame in it, and despite her failure and the guilt and remorse she wove into it, in the last many wordless minutes there had been nothing from him that seemed to place doubt upon her. It was relieving to feel his consolation without accusation, and with the comfort of motion, every instinct in her changed. Unlike her desire to hold taut against the pull of acid tears, she could feel the dam break and she wept with the sudden shuddering of a sob breaking free. He pulled her to him when her lament poured forth, and without question or quip she cried into his arms, her anguish ripping her open and purging her of her loss of faith in herself.

After the wealth of her tears had been spent, she felt his arm loosen from about her, and a series of small movements were made. He spoke then and his voice surprised her for the depth of its volume. She nearly jumped at the sudden boom of words. "I think we should rest for a time."

She would not argue this, for the weight of the darkness was heavy on her heart and she felt nothing of valiant order to fight it. She was spent by her grief, but not so wearied that she could not also be curious at his movements. She could not see them, and she had to rely only upon the subtle twists of his body and the sound of ruffled garments. The actions seemed to be directed at prodding and reaching for something hidden on his person. "Eat this," he said, surprising her again as she felt him prod her with the back of his hand. "It appears still to be good, despite our earlier bath in the mud pit."

Her fingers wrapped over and around his hand to take the small ragged object that he offered. She played over it with her fingertips, wondering at the oddity of it as it came into her hand, and then lifting the light object to her nose, she sniffed it. Dried venison. She had no idea he had any food on his person, but then again, she knew he was resourceful. Quietly she bit into the scrap, knowing it would quench the rumble in her stomach little. Still she was grateful, for it would give her strength when they resumed their travel.

But how would they travel? The darkness was penetrating. So dense was it that she felt as if it stymied even the air. How would they find it in themselves to discover a way out when there was no light as their guide? Despite the ache of this thought, Aragorn seemed to have an answer. As if surmising her dread, he said, "We will sleep for a time before lighting the other lamp and heading back to our starting place."

Other lamp?

Her mind stepped backwards, jostled by this thought, and then she remembered his earlier actions. He had doused the light in one of the lamps before they had begun the final steps of their journey. Her sadness lifted minutely knowing they need not search for alternatives to wandering lost in the ebony darkness. She wondered however about the amount of fuel contained within that last lantern. Would there be enough to get them back to the slippery chute from which they had fallen? Most likely not, and she shuddered, repressing the thoughts of what lay ahead. Apparently he did not wish to think on it either, for he quickly changed the topic of their converse. She supposed here would be time after their rest that they might speak on their strategies for combating the dark, and in that respite perhaps she or he might come up with something to stall off the glum prospects she saw ahead.

"I wonder of the others," she heard him say, and her heart turned away from the perplexity of their travels for the moment. He said nothing more and the silence lingered on, that thought hanging, though she longed to hear his words.

"Have you fears?" she asked. She knew in her heart that she did but she wondered what was Aragorn's state of confidence in these matters.

"We have spoken already of Gimli. I place blame on myself for what harm may have come to him. I never should have left him." She could hear remorse in his voice, trembling in the wavering echoes of the dark.

"You could not know," she said, slipping her hand over his.

"I should have seen it, after what happened in the Romany camp," he chastised. "But I was so blind, neatly caught up in the competition of our sport."

"There was no reason to believe our safety was jeopardized."

"Yet I bear blame. I was not thinking of the dangers and I curse myself for not seeing more clearly." Then she heard him shift and turn as if confessing something terrible. "My fears do not stop with Gimli. I suppose in a way I did know the danger was there though I discounted it. I warned Legolas and Faramir away from that camp."

"You did what you could," Arwen whispered encouragingly. "Do not forget that they have powers of observation too."

"I hope my alert was enough. I will be happy if we escape this to find they have been free of that gypsy woman's foul arts all along. She is dangerous, Arwen, I have no evidence to prove it, but I fear even what we endure is a manipulation of hers. And I fear our friends suffer even worse."

It was not as if Arwen hadn't considered this. In fact her heart had been locked in dread with the thoughts of exactly the same thing. Yet she had not dared speak it, her fear for each of them was great. She held her breath as she whispered, "What of Éowyn? Do you think she suffers too?"

He did not answer though she was certain he had heard her. His shifting turn, as if to look away, confirmed his thoughts to her. In a shaky breath she asked the question "Why could this not have been the way?"

"It was my path that led us into this hole. It was my doing that has brought this to come. While you . . . From the first you have sought nothing but to aid and escape, Arwen. You have shown tremendous fortitude and courage. If there is a way to find and help our friends, it will have been through your efforts, I am certain."

Yet Arwen did not understand. He manifested guilt yet there was little she might blame on Aragorn of their situation. In her opinion he had made valiant and courageous efforts to free them as well. "You have nothing for which to feel shame. I have held you only in admiration," she said in equally soft tones.

Then his voice hardened slightly. "Yet you carry your own regrets, and those will not aid us, Arwen." Again she blinked in surprise for it seemed even in the dark he could read her and know of the guilt that plagued her. He had turned the tables on her and made her forgive him for the sins she placed on herself. He had been deceptively fast in tending this ache before she had time to let it fester. "There is naught we can do to go backwards, and despite the slight missteps, our intentions have been for reasons of good. True, this road led us to nothing. But there are routes we have passed that we might take still. We will find our way out. I know we will."

It stung, this admission of flaw, but once said, it was not as painful as she might have expected. She could live with the knowledge that she had not succeeded to find their exit as she had confidently directed. So long as he did not hang it over her, she might bear it. "Do you think the soldiers might come yet?" she asked, thinking this might be a possibility.

"They will," he answered, but almost apologetically he added, "though they are loyal and would not dare interrupt us ahead of their appointed time. I am afraid they are trained too well. I only wish I had done a better job of fostering their kinship, and recruiting on my own for a private guard."

Arwen would have demonstrated the amusing sight of an Elven double-take had there been light to see, but since there was not she could only ask, "What is this you say? You have regrets about taking your safety more seriously? You have fought against it ever since your ministers foisted that responsibility upon you. Why, only a few hours ago did you resolve your actions from hereon would go without their interference."

"So I did. And my first resolution shall be to form a core group to act as my protectors. I regret to admit that I have been wrong and my ministers have been correct."

She could not help mocking him then, if only for the lift it gave her mood. "It must be a blow to your ego to admit such a thing."

She could hear the smile in his voice and she knew he too took her chiding with a light heart. "Indeed. Imagine my surprise when I came to realize my life is too valuable to regard it so blithely."

She laughed, as did he.

"Still," he went on, his tone becoming more serious, "I might find remedy if I embrace the notion of my worth. I think if I were to choose my escorts to be more of companions than guards, it might help me respect what the counsel of my ministers makes so ingratiatingly irritating." There was a pause and then he went on in his confession. "I was thinking those chosen might act less with the formality of guardsmen, and walk more in our presence as peers. As stealth protectors, if you will. They would appear to be friends. Family. I did not think I could allow such a thing before, but adding others into the circle of our companionship should not be construed a bad thing. I have been greedy this way, thinking only those we have closest might be of our protectors."

"Family." She whispered, the word pausing on her lips, as if she were measuring it.

"Our friendships are dear, I think. They are as brethren, our friends. We have no others, save your brothers and grandfather," he softly stated. "Yet there is room for more in our companionship, do you not agree?"

"Nay, it is not that for which I qualify the word. It is that . . . " Her voice revealed the harsh sadness she felt at this exposure to an intimacy that oft plagued her. Family. She deemed so much weight upon that word. It was not a light subject in her heart, though she knew he had not used it in the way she was thinking.

He winced and she could hear it in the dark. His voice grew soft, apologetic. "I understand. I did not mean to . . . add trouble to your thoughts."

In light of our barren state, she completed the thought. "I am sorry," she whispered, almost crying.

He laughed, the sound inviting and sweet. A teasing voice played then to her ears, as if to chase away her wayward emotions. "The darkness of this cavern seems to bring apologies forth unprompted. Do you think this is an Elven trait or some magic within the cave? If so, I must drag Legolas down here that I might procure his remorse for ruining my best hunting knife last winter."

She could not give in to his jest. "You know why I offer my pardon."

His voice seemed to refuse sober tones, as if not wishing to delve deep into her pain. "I know you belittle yourself because we have yet to produce children."

"I have yet to produce children!" she accused both him and herself, though she knew such an outburst was uncalled.

He seemed then to quiet and his voice grew sad, as if she had hurt him. She immediately regretted having said anything that might rip away his spirited responses. "Do not foist blame on your shoulders alone, my love. You have proven to me well that I have done much to cause you strife."

I make him suffer guilt, she thought. That is not my intent, for the guilt is mine alone. "It is not your making. I should have fought harder for my own freedoms. You would have given them, I know, had I made them apparent to you," she said, defending both his actions and her words in one fell answer.

"You think I might have allowed it? Knowing how I hover over your actions?"

Now it was her turn to laugh. "Had I sent you the full of my wrath prior to today, do you think you might be questioning me now?"

A pause followed, and then meekly he said, "Mayhap not."

"The point is proven then," she said firmly, her mood somewhat lifted, though the pain of the subject had not fallen away.

A long silence followed before it was broken, and the penetrating reality of what was left unspoken seemed to make the air thick. Her throat constricted on the aching twist of her misery. She felt as a failure, and no banishment of her responsibility by him could make her feel any better for it. She had ultimately failed in what was her female duty, and though there might be remedy, she could not know if there would be time allotted to make it right in the end.

"Time will heal this, you know," he said. "It is not an ailment of the body that flags you."

"It is time that vexes me," she said scornfully, the source of her bile drawing near.

"You know I do not pressure you, Arwen," he quietly answered.

"Never have you yet, though I feel it all the same." The silence lingered between them, whispering all her remorse for her failure to meet the desires of his kingdom. "I hear the secreted words, Aragorn. I see the watchful eyes. There is blame cast upon me because I cannot do this simple thing. I would have children for you. I want them. That should be enough for my kind that I might conceive them. It is the way of an Elf, and believe me when I say that every time we make love I think what a blessing it might be, the prospect of children in our lives! I want it, Aragorn. A real family, not one constructed of peers. We have both sacrificed so much that we might have such a reward. And yet, I fail, and I know not why it is so, save for the make of my soul!"

And there it was, exposed, the core of her hurt. Though it pertained little to their circumstances, it had led them regardless to this very moment, one step after another. Like stacked chips that tumble, the actions to this point cascaded, slipping down to fall into a heap of simple failure. Their doom was of her make, though she was as innocent as he in bringing it about.

Had she not sought this reprieve of the wild, to be away from the shunning eyes of the people of Gondor, they might never have made this journey. That she sensed Aragorn needed this holiday as much as she did made it better all the same for the respite that she needed. That all the friends wanted a measure of removal from their stresses as well made it better, for she could hide away her reasons behind their enjoyments. But in the end, it was her selfish desire to be free of blame for a time that drove this retreat into being. But for the people of Gondor and their scathing glances at her whenever she appeared before them as a woman laden of barren figure, she could be fine. But for their measured words and hints that she should be of fruitful years, she might live happily. But for their scorn, she might find some peace. This was what tore at her night and day. This pervading inadequacy and inability ate away at her soul, making her heart cry that she was helpless to fulfill her duty as a queen.

"The people do not blame you, Arwen. I do not blame you," he said as if he could read her thoughts. "Bearing young is not a simple act." The words were softly said and she knew Aragorn did not hold her in contempt.

"There is nothing that physically prevents it," she answered. He might not hold her at fault, but she did.

"You are of Elf-kind. It is not the same as with mortal beings."

She had heard this excuse from him before. He seemed to understand much of what she was dealing with, though in her mind it did not give reprieve. "It should be easier than what human women face. I do not have sickness to attribute to an empty womb." She felt tears welling up where she had thought all had passed. "It weighs on me so. As I have witnessed it of my race, Elves often bear young in the early years of their marriage. But tell me Estel, what is early in the span of forever? By the reckoning of time for my people, 'early' may be centuries! I have chosen mortality. My life wanes with yours. I do not have the indulgence of vast centuries beyond before I find comfort enough in our pairing that my soul will relinquish and bring forth children!"

"Perhaps it may take only decades. . . " he offered.

"In a mortal world that would be an eternity!" she cried, her heart breaking with the hopelessness of her station.

"I do not care!" he shouted abruptly.

She halted in her tears, surprised by the stern tone of his response.

Then her voice entered in a small sound, like a whisper in the wind. "How can you not when it rips at my heart? How can you not blame me for my innate failing? For me time is so pointlessly skewed. I never had to think of it as I do now. I feel my retarded senses just hinder our opportunities more."

"You have had naught else as an example to follow but an Elven one! What other pairings do you know that might rival ours save those few told to us in ancient lore. I would not expect your body to relinquish to mortal actions when you are just learning what mortality means." Then he pulled her close and she could feel the heat of his breath whispering to her ear. "Arwen, did you not assure me that I must banish outward expectations and follow my own path? Does that advise not also apply to you?"

"Yes, and would it that I could follow my own words!" she cried, giving in again to her frustration. She was surprised at how easily the tears came.

He shook his head, the bristle of his beard scratching her cheeks. "I too hear the words whispered. I too know what they would say, but childless or engaged in a raucous brood, I care little. My life is complete because of you. I have want for little else."

She pulled away from him then, her hand firmly placed at his chest. "But your lineage! Your name! All the ages spent to restore you to your rightful place only to bring it to an end with no heir? I could not bear knowing I was a party to such heartbreak!"

She heard rather than saw the understanding that came over his face. "Then bear it not. My ego is not so large that I need an heir to prove my worth. Faramir's line remains unbroken. Perhaps it was destined that the Stewards would rule on evermore. Such a thought does not sadden me, Arwen. I think Denethor's heirs to be fair and kind and certainly deserving of this. To rule is not my goal. Finding peace has been. Happiness with you at my side has always been all I ever wanted. Nay, Arwen, do not hold yourself to me for scrutiny. My only desire is your companionship."

The thrumming beat in his chest was regular and smooth and she felt comfortable leaning against him. There was truth in his words.

"And what of your people? What do you say to them when their voices and accusations grow louder. I doubt they would desire much of a queen who cannot bear their next lord."

"You are loved by our people, Arwen. The presence of hateful remarks is small, and always pushed aside by those who love beyond their own goals. The majority feel as I do, though I wish it could be all. But you know, as do I, that it is impossible to please everyone. We shall always be under someone's scrutinizing glare. Yet that number is small. The vast majority of our people love you as I do, no matter the circumstances," he assured her, his voice confident and without reproach.

"That is not the answer I would expect of you," she said, remembering many a longing glance he had given her in passing, especially at times when Faramir's young had been in the company of their friends.

"I would want children with you, Arwen," Aragorn said, his lips brushing her brow, "for the expression of love in that pairing surely speaks loudly of our feelings for one another. But I will not deny that I can think of other reasons as well. Is it wrong of me to think that the gifting of children would benefit many others, not just ourselves?"

"Nay, I do not, so long as it is not the primary reason you wish them."

"It does not even come close. But you must admit it would make a merry sight to see your brothers as uncles."

She giggled in relief, delighted it would not be an act simply for the people of Gondor. "That stirs a great many images to my mind, Estel! I wonder how the twins might sit with that sort of responsibility."

"Jovially, I believe!" he laughed.

"So they would! I imagine too that they would be of the doting, spoiling nature," she said, still chuckling at how they might act.

"More so than Celeborn?" Aragorn asked, and a new image came to mind of her grandfather trumping the twins when it came to doling out tokens of their affection.

"Eagle rides on the Century Mark Conception Day would be only the start!" she told him.

"What more could they offer?" he asked, obviously having not witnessed such an event.

"Elladan and Elrohir had mearas racing on their day," she informed him.

"Mearas? Really?" She detected the merest hint of a jealous twang with the surprise registered in his voice.

"And for Legolas' one hundredth, Thranduil invited Mithrandir to preside over the festivities," she added.

"Legolas had a wizard at his party?" he asked incredulously.

"And fireworks!" she baited.

"Hmph," was his answer and she could not help but let a smile work its way over her lips.

"Estel, you are not jealous, are you?" she asked, sounding innocent.

"I never had a Century Mark Celebration," he quietly sulked.

"Do not pout! Indeed you did have a Century Mark Celebration, just earlier this year. And as I recall, the festivities were quite regal indeed. Gifts abounded from all the lands. Kings and Lords were practically coming out of the pictures on the walls. You have no reason to complain," she scolded teasingly.

"No one gifted me with mearas racing," he answered, and she could tell now he was playing into this juvenile retort.

"Save it for your first born then. You can dote as much as Celeborn," she laughed.

He perked up, cheerily asking, "Would it be wrong of me then to want such a thing for the first decade rather than the first century?"

"You have found yet another reason to want children then, have you?" she goaded.

"Only for the joy they would bring us!" he said, snuggling her closer, and she believed him. It felt good to laugh and to be loved and to share a dream, and his affection did much to heal her.

"I think I might find mirth in these reasons myself. Mortal time being what it is, I think a first decade mark might make more sense for celebration of any child that we might bear," she said, considering the possibilities.

"Too bad that Gandalf has gone on to the Blessed Realm. I would have loved to see what magic he might create for such a celebration," Aragorn wistfully remarked.

"Radagast roams these lands still, I am told. He might be employed for an engagement as the court's wizard perhaps," she considered.

"Such a lovely picture it is, Arwen. Do you not think?" She could feel the contentment in him, imagining it then.

"I do think so, my love. I think so indeed," she answered, her thoughts influenced by the greatness of his love as she pushed aside regrets and tried to look only ahead. It was difficult not to feel the pain of yet more potential failure, but knowing that his feelings were indiscriminate helped, and it gave her hope that happiness still could be theirs.

She felt him raise her hands to his lips, as he blew warm breath on her fingers, the tips gently grazing his lips. He planted a light whisper of kisses upon them as he pulled her head to his shoulder.

Yet as he released her hands, she did not let them fall into the folds of her skirt as he might have expected. Instead, she slid them over his chest, caressing his skin as she slid one hand beneath the fabric of his tunic and rubbed it across the firm muscles of his breast. Her other hand grazed the column of his neck, and she used light pressure to guide him down to meet her mouth. Instinctively his lips parted, and she could feel the heat of his mouth meeting hers. She moaned softly into the kiss, dizzyingly lost in the solitude of black but caring none at all. She wanted his touch, his caress as their bodies pressed together tighter. She lost thoughts for anything else at the moment but the joyously arousing feeling that stirred deep within her as he held her. She could have let the moment go on forever, such promise did it offer, and she drank in the feeling of his kisses while the lavender scent of her flesh perfumed the air around them. There was no light to reflect their actions next, but light was not needed to fulfill such an endeavor. Love and understanding were all they needed now, and those were two things with which they had in bounty.

****

She did her best to master her fumbling steps. She felt sluggish and feeble-minded and only half-aware of her actions. It was a most difficult thing to do, to fight off the effects of the potion, and with her attempts she saw the blurry vision of a twisted smile hatch from the mouth of the witch. It was mocking, that smile, but it was also given as if an impetus. Its effect was like that of a whip, for it forced Éowyn to grit her teeth and persevere. She knew she must act the guileless prisoner, humbled into submission, and trying with vigor to save that of her friend. She also knew she needed to keep her wits about her, and her misbegotten steps, exaggerated by only the smallest amount, gained strength as she took in that mockery. She raged in anger at the old woman and it aided in keeping herself quick and focused. Done for show or for real, it was all moot. Her posture straightened. Her wits grew sharp. This was no game that she played. It was succeed or die. There was no room for slovenly execution. If she did nothing else, she would do this well. Nothing moderate would be allowed.

She felt them following. Felt, not saw. It would be too great an effort to swing her head back and check their progress behind her. She knew they were there, the mass of them, following with silent steps, a dutiful army of men and women taking the path that she laid. However, it was the staring gaze of the elder that penetrated her, attempting to rattle her composure. It placed weight on her conscious mind. Bregus' eyes bored holes through her flesh, the intensity made for the purpose of guarding Éowyn's movements all too apparent. Yet Éowyn stiffened her back even further in response, as if protesting the witch's small act of control, as if she were proving to the old one that she was not so incapable of mustering herself still, even with the cursed potion coursing through her body.

It was a false show, that bravado, the design of which was to allow the old woman's mind to race ahead, every step done as a hint that something sinister lay ahead. It was a teetering hold on just a slip of the elder's psyche, and Éowyn could not be sure it was working. Better though that she act the part of helpless, yet brave, captive. She almost laughed at the irony. The act was nearly true.

Her fingers trailed the wall, her hands rocking softly down the corridor to paw the stone that seemingly swayed like the hull of a ship. Doubt slipped over her. How am I to do this? she asked herself. I can barely stand, let alone walk. How do I dare run when I know I may fall with my first steps? But she also knew she had no other choice. Few opportunities availed themselves to her, and now that she had mastered the freedom of her hands, she could not forsake the advantage that emancipation gave.

She felt her mind waver again. Her thoughts grew unfocused. Vacantly she led, forgetting for only the slightest moment what she was doing and where she was going. A stumbled footfall drew her attention back to her actions, the jarring misstep driving her mind to regain her dizzy hold over her actions. She blinked her eyes open, not realizing that they had closed for those few seconds, and momentarily she felt as if she were lost.

I shall fail!

And then she regained her composure. She knew doubt was the surest way to failure, and she banished the thoughts of defeat from her beleaguered mind. Instead, she hurried her brain to race ahead into the cavern, to remember all she could of the details she might find there. As she had done before, she had to assess her opportunities, find her weapons in what there might be in the smallest of items, and then act. In the brief moment she found in this respite of clear thinking, she allowed her mind to plot and plan, to add to what she had already devised. There would be no other chances.

The air moved around her, gaining swells of small gusts as she came to the cavern's threshold. The walls were growing wider, and in a few dozen steps she knew the greatness of that first view into the cave would come clear. She prayed for the moon to show itself, though bleakly she recalled its decline behind ambling clouds. The result of its brightness just now would do her plan much good, as the sight of it in the blurring tapestry of falling water usually had a hypnotic effect over new visitors. But then even no moon might avail her, she realized. While the light was greatly attractive in the moonlit hours, the curtain wall of water was impressive even without, and as she began to register the darkness in the shadows ahead, she came to see this alternative might come to be. She would have to act without the light. She hoped without it, her scheme might still work.

Vaguely her thoughts went to Faramir as she groped the passageway, staying to the shorter wall of the curved path. She thought certain his actions would be to her disapproval. She knew him too well, for though she would choose not his involvement, she was certain that at the trail's end he followed. Very well then! she thought. If he is to offer his aid, I shall take it, but his thoughts best be wary, I have nothing to offer but instinct and action to clarify my plan. And then, as if there was no more she could do to prepare herself for what she knew would be split second reacting, her journey came to an end.

She could hear it before seeing it, though its sound had been growing, and no doubt could there be to any who followed her that the rippling tide of water was very much a part of the construction of this cave. The entrance to the cave was opposite that of the actual waterfall, and despite the roar of sound, unless one knew of the fountain that fell at the next bend in the path, one might never have expected that cascade to appear. Thus, the sound of the water spraying often was bewildering and wondrous, just because it was so unexpected.

Beyond sound, the wind hit her next as she took those last steps. Always it circulated in this confined space, as if the washing of water at the far wall were a device for its mechanics. The tug of it billowed her skirts slightly, and the effect was usually a merry one, as if the air were a greeting to all who would come here. Tonight, its motion seemed twice as strong, and in her rusty mind she thought the foul weather ahead was blowing itself inward to their abode. This was not the first time she had experienced the matter that weather played upon the cave, and in the weak retrieval of her memories she thought it to have a very positive effect in that it made her feel as if this cave were more outdoors than in. It had benefit of enclosure while allowing the freshness of the elements entry. Thus the wind met her, and immediately she knew the turn of the weather though in the next breath, that mattered little.

It stood before her, the great Window on the West, and though the light was dim in that massive spray of cascading water, there was still enough of it available to let all those who followed in quiet steps gulp in the mystery of this view as they entered the cavern. Warping and molding was the image beyond the pane, and she remembered her intrigue at her own first passing. Silently she prayed they might all have this same reaction as she worked her way around to the far wall to give the front of the line admittance. With the quickest of glances she surveyed the room and its annex, realizing it was exactly as she had recalled.

They followed, eyes sweeping over the watery wall as they entered. All but Bregus kept this fixed gaze. The witch alone seemed to keep her guard. It was exactly as Éowyn hoped.

This was the moment in which she must act.

"Captain! Help me now please! Seize them! Seize them!" she screamed. The sound of her voice pieced the falling water's noise and she startled even herself with the suddenness of it.

Adrenaline rushed through her veins with that planned cry, and as she sang it out, she ran. Her feet fell firmly against stone floors and her legs felt sure and right as she dodged into the crowd and the recesses of the cave. As she did so, she slammed into the man who carried the torch. Its flame had struggled against the brisk wind, but with her awkward blow he toppled off balance and the light dropped to the floor with a spattering of sparks. Éowyn didn't bother to look to see if the flame would blow out. She was too busy acting out her escape to the back side of the cave. There was no door at this end, but she was certain the Romany did not know this fact.

Chaos, as expected, immediately ensued. Act or no act, she thought certain Bregus would perceive such a ploy. She had no intentions of disappointing. Éowyn was horribly outnumbered, and she certainly held no weapon. Yet the woman of Rohan had the advantage. She had but one thing to control, herself, whereas the Romany witch had to maintain the masses. Surely that must not be an easy thing, seizing dominance over so many personalities. Further Éowyn knew her locale. Small as the space might have been with all these bodies pressing in, it was adequate for Éowyn to run freely enough without necessarily being confined. She attempted to use fear and panic as her weapons, feeding upon what she saw as the ultimate flaw in Bregus' plan. Éowyn doubted Bregus capable of controlling her people's panic that might be derived from a direct attack, even if the old woman could master her own.

It seemed to work. Cries and shrieks erupted around her, and bodies collided into one another as the pandemonium of activity followed. Women reached for children who cried with confused tears. Some of the men began the act of following her, while others turned to flee the cave, and still more bodies, unsuspecting, poured into the cavern, surprised by the confusion and turmoil. And in her mad dash through the cave, Éowyn ran to those spaces that held the effects of her companions, knocking into them as she pressed on, making as loud a commotion as she went that she could, the goal to cause even more distraction.

Yet they were in pursuit. The cry of the old woman mingled with the rest of the voices, but she could hear the instructions given. "Get her! Get her before they arrive!" It urged Éowyn on. The old woman believed Éowyn's ruse.

The Romany came following her just as they had before, this loyal army. She could hear their footsteps echo in the cave. No longer were their footfalls silent. They were coming, obediently following orders, and she knew she must hurry. Yet she had no intentions of standing in the darkness with them. They were a thoughtless band of followers and they would pour in as Bregus ordered. But Bregus did not know there was nothing else. She thought Éowyn led them on to a maze of vast tunnels. Let them search the folds of darkness for a way further. There was none, but Éowyn had no intention of being there to reveal it. She must slip around. She must find her way to the opening. She must flee.

She ran to the very deepest part of the cave then doubled back on herself, her form still invisible to those racing in to follow. The room was pitch black and only the faint silhouette in the window's light told her more and more of the Romany piled into the cave. She heard wailing cries from the women and children, and men calling direction in the thick sound of their tongue. She hugged the wall in her motion, scurrying quickly to catch up to the entrance again, remaining in the shadows and hidden in the folds of the curtain. She still had no weapon, as the chest holding their armory was buried deep in that darkness. She considered going back for she knew the general location of the box. But she also knew with the chaos that expediency would serve her better. Instead, knowing it was there, her fingers reached out and touched the cordwood stacked against the wall. She gripped one of the pieces as she would a cudgel, weighing the generous measure in her palm. And then she drew back and waited.

It took mere seconds. One of the Romany moved into the doorframe, his figure vaguely illuminated in the threshold opening. Éowyn could see the slight shimmer of a knife in his hand. His eyes were wide as he tried to make out what lie in the thick darkness before him. Screams pierced the shadows, all hysteria set loose there, but nothing was available for him to see. The cries pulled him in. He stepped forward and as he did, she reached out and landed a quick blow at the base of his neck. He fell in a soft heap and she noted with satisfaction that he had landed in a way that would best trip up any returning in this direction. In one swift move she swept in, grabbing the knife, and in the next instance she was whirling around, taking steps forward and grabbing the heavy wool drapery. She pulled, dragging it shut across the entrance, her strength somewhat diminished by the exertion. The curtain was very heavy, and it suffocated the sounds of the screams and tears behind her. She stood now with the bulk of these people behind her, and she could only hope it might take them longer to regain their composure than it would for her to find escape.

Dodging around again, she stepped back into the shadows again. The front room of the cave was not empty, but enough action there was in that loud and frenzied space that she escaped notice. Her chest was heaving with panted breath and a cold sweat broke out over her brow causing her to shiver as the wind touched it. She could faintly hear the screams of fear from within the keep, but around her much more was occurring. She saw the shadows of other bodies moving in a flurry. There was a fight going on, and she turned at the grunted striking noise that accompanied a falling body.

The action surprised her. She jumped back as the foe fell near. At the same moment, a brilliant flash of light filled the water-filled window, and Éowyn saw then that Faramir had revealed himself. He was fighting off yet three of the Romany men and she could see the dim form of a body beyond him, someone who had lost an earlier battle. They all had short knives drawn and she gritted her teeth as she watched her husband spin and evade the nearest foe.

Yet they had not noticed her. She could have fled then, the entry standing open, but feeling her own sweaty grip on her blade, she knew she could not leave Faramir to this fight alone. She stepped forward to join her husband in battle knowing if she did not the prospects of a win were unbalanced. She charged.

Only she was halted. Her movement thrust her forward, before she had really begun her dash into the fray, though her momentum was enough to bend her over with the tug that held her back. A steely arm wrapped about her torso, gripping her with tight fingers that were bruising and fierce. She gasped at the suddenness of the unseen inhibitor, and she put her weight into pulling away, kicking and striking as she did. Her knife was still in her hand, and she tried to swing it into the flesh of the one holding her. However, her opponent seemed wary of the knife, and he pinned the weapon-bearing hand behind her back. The grappling hands held tighter with her fight, and she cried an angry gulp of sound as she fought the restraining hold. She tried to maneuver herself around, to tangle her legs beneath the others, to fix her steps that she might throw the one who had her. But her assailant was a versatile fighter and he dodged her parried moves, out-wrestling her with weight and strength to his advantage despite her agility and speed.

And then unexpectedly she was thrown, dashed against the wall. The loosening of the hold was so surprising, so unexpected, she had not time to compensate and catch herself.

Her shoulder collided hard into the stone, and she cried out a wail of pain as daggers of torment lanced her upper arm. She crumbled where she landed, uncertain for a moment what had happened that she found herself laying upon the ground. The knife she had won so easily now skittered away, careening carelessly out of her sight. Spots flickered on the periphery of her vision but she would not give in to their dizzying effect. She shook her disorientation away, reminding herself again that she could not give in to any failing. She could not falter.

She pushed herself up, wincing at the racking pain in her arm, shaky fingers of but one limb finding purchase against the hard walls. Her assailant seemed to have left her though her confusion and weakness did little to give her more clues. Chaos continued around her and her aching body and exhausted mind could do little but allow her to right herself.

Again the room was lit with a winking flash, white light flitting and blinding in a stir of blinking brilliance over everything about her. Lightening that was highlighting the night and she nearly jumped in surprise at what lay about her. The discarded bodies of both Legolas and Mattias were there, cast aside and haphazardly still. Legolas' palette was awkwardly placed, unbalanced on the ledge of a stone, tilting at an angle. At a glimpse she could read the ragged breath from his lightly parted lips, his furrowed brow marking the discomfort he must feel, even in a dream-state. Mattias was dumped in a darker recess along the wall, his arms askew as if he had been dropped, and had landed in just this pattern. There was no movement from him but she had not strength or time to investigate.

The sound of Faramir's battle drew her attention and she darted her eyes in his direction while she fought against her own pain. It was now just he and Gordash that battled, those two alone circling one another with eyes sharply fixed and weapons raised. She pulled herself straighter. She had nothing left for a fight. It was time to run.

As if sensing the same, Faramir's eyes ripped away and met hers, his words calling out to her. "Run! Run! Ai! Éowyn, NO!" His eyes went wide, and she read it as a warning before his was brought back into his own circumstances.

And then a closed fist struck her, landing squarely at her jaw, and the pummeling blow again threw her to the floor. Her eyes opened wide as a body landed upon her, strong hands pushing her own into the ground. A cry of pain was released as her shoulder again was jammed with the effort, and she nearly withdrew into unconsciousness with the agony that met her. She could taste blood in her mouth, numbly reaching her senses as the stinging ache in her jaw added but one more hurt to her already wearied body. Her blurry eyes tried to make out the features of the one straddling her form, and dazed though she was, it was more through sound than actual sight that she could tell this was the youngest of Mattias' brothers.

"Kill him! Kill him!" he shouted, looking up to the skirmish which Éowyn could no longer see.

A shrill scream was rent, and only then did Éowyn recognize that this voice had been wailing all along. Vexing curses were released as the pitch of that voice went ever higher and it was this that Éowyn's attention was drawn back to a precarious cognizant hold. It was Bregus' voice that called, though the words sounded strange, their meaning bewildering. "No! Do not kill him! Stop, Gordash! No!"

It was all chaos then as shadows and motion dodged about her. She heard Faramir's voice call to her, "Éowyn!" as another flash of light filled the room.

Light and sound blurred. Desperation and fear. Helplessness melted into a quagmire of blurry thoughts. Tears and surrender mixed with groundless effort. Surrender, the turmoil seemed to beckon to her. Surrender.

"Kill him! Kill him I say to you, Gordash!"

"No! No! No!"

Distant fears reached her. Her struggle remained. Somehow she relinquished none to her fevered confusion. It would not be. It should not be. Not without the last vestige of fight expunged from her soul would she give in. Not yet. Not yet!

Éowyn's voice joined the cacophony, the subtlety of it emerging with the surrounding madness. Her eyes looked to where she had known him to be, and though she could not see, she heard grunting and sparring still ensuing in that space. Weakly she called, "Faramir run! Run! Get away!" She sang out as the rumbling sound of thunder faintly echoed through the hall, and though her voice was mild, it was distinct enough to be heard above the others and in her mind she thought, not all should die. And then she turned her thoughts back to herself.

Behind her, the screams in the darkness filled her mind and they melded with her own as she fought in madness against her assailant. Screaming her own curses, biting and clawing and kicking where she could she did not give in. She fought. She fought for the only thought allowed to her now was to do this or to die! The sound emitting from her throat was a bleating wail of pent rage screaming forth. Pure furor and fight coursed her veins. She would not give in weakly. Her disturbing wrath urged on her actions to combat ever harder her enemy's detainment.

And then a clubbing hand came out and struck her, another surprise in the near dark. She barely registered the clouting blow as the world fell weakly away from her conscious notice. Shadows and light and sound all emerged into some nameless thing and the words yet taunted her again. Surrender. A void filled her mind and slowly she was lifted away to lay hostage within it. Simultaneously sorrow filled her heart with the desperate plea of her aching soul. Anguish stayed with her drifting mind. Though it would seem she was unaware, she knew yet as she fell into halfway dreams that the situation was wrong, that she should have done more. Vaguely she found herself thinking that she had failed. Somehow, though she could not quite recall how, she had lost. And now, there was nothing that could recall the future from this chain of events. Somehow her life would be forfeit because of that failure, and though it was her nature to fight against such a fate, all she could do was fall back and enter into dream.