I would like to extend a special thanks to both Ithilien and Thundera Tiger for all their help and encouragement on both my previous chapter and this chapter! THANK YOU!!!!!!!!  

Chapter 18      Road to Khand

The city of Minas Tirith was glowing, its white walls and streets sparkling and shining beneath the full rays of the afternoon sun.  The high towers of the palace rose gracefully into the sky, its arching fingers of white stone seeming to absorb all the light and then reflect it back out again in a blinding glow that settled gently over the rest of the city.  A brisk wind blew throughout the streets, its chill robbing the heat from the day, but not the light and beauty.  Citizens dashed to and fro on private errands, calling out to neighbors and friends about the approaching winter.  Children, taking advantage of the last of the season’s warm weather, laughed and played, their high-pitched screams and yells meshing in with the hawkers’ and merchants’ loud calls.  Everywhere there was the loud hum of voices and activity.

Within the palace grounds, the scene was not much different.  Word of the King’s imminent departure had spread like wildfire, and now soldiers, stablemen, and servants dressed in gold and red livery scurried to and fro on their private errands.  Horses filled the main courtyard, snorting and rearing at all the commotion going on around them, their handlers fighting to keep them under control.  The scene was one of controlled mayhem, where no one spoke or walked, but everyone shouted and ran.  An overall sense of urgency filled the air, and no one seemed able to shake its spell.

Arwen stood silently on the balcony outside her room, her eyes scanning the wild commotion going on below her, one hand idly running up and down the smooth stone railing directly in front of her.  Behind her, Aragorn muttered and cursed as he impatiently flipped through a high stack of tunics piled on the bed.  Expensive silks and finely cut cotton tunics went flying through the air to land in unceremonious piles on the floor behind the bed.

“Arwen!”  Aragorn straightened from his task with a frustrated sigh.  “I can’t wear any of these!”   He held up a dark green satin tunic with large, gold buttons running down its front and intricate gold braiding on the shoulders and down the sleeves.  The tunic had been specially tailored for formal gatherings and celebration, but Aragorn had never found the courage to actually wear the thing.  Now, with a disgusted grimace he sent it flying to land in the pile of all the other discarded clothing.  “They won’t last a single day of heavy travel.  Where are all my sensible, plain clothes?”

Arwen did not turn from the balcony, but Aragorn plainly heard the hidden amusement in her voice as she replied, “I suppose the servants found them all and hid or destroyed them long ago, beloved.  You must admit, the clothes you wore as a ranger were hardly suitable for the courts of Minas Tirith.”

“Perhaps, but these things,” he waved an impatient hand at the pile of silks and satins, “are hardly suitable for travel, especially if I wish to remain inconspicuous.  If I attempt to ride into Khand wearing these, I might as well hold out a sign proclaiming who I am.  I do not think the good people of Khand will be too delighted to see me!”

“I am more worried about the bad people of Khand, love,” Arwen answered airily, at last turning from the balcony to regard her husband with an amused twinkle in her eye.

“Arwen…” Aragorn began, his voice the closest thing to a whine it would ever be.

“In the trunk beneath the bed,” Arwen cut him off, waving a hand toward the bed before once more turning her back to him.

Aragorn blinked in surprise, then hurried over to the bed and reached beneath it, pulling out a heavy brass trunk.  He glanced up at Arwen before opening the trunk, but his wife still stood with her back to him.  With a slight shrug he flipped the lid of the trunk open, gasping in surprised delight as the contents were revealed to him. 

“My old tunic,” he whispered in excitement as he pulled the black, stained material from the base of the trunk.  “I had thought the servants found this and destroyed it long ago!”

“They tried,” Arwen answered simply without turning.  “Yet I knew it held value for you, and I thought that perhaps there would come a day when you would need it once more.”

Aragorn stared in wonder at the back of his wife’s head, his hands idly smoothing the cotton held in his arms.  Besides a few stubborn stains that refused to come out, the tunic was soft and clean, its many tears and holes carefully patched and mended.  Somehow, Aragorn knew that Arwen had cleaned and mended the tunic herself, and that simple act caused his heart to swell with an overwhelming desire to sweep her up in his arms and never let her go.   “Thank you, Arwen,” he at last said softly, rising from his knees and moving toward her.  “This means a lot to me.”

“I suspected it did,” Arwen said simply, “Especially when you would come home to Rivendell from months in the wild and the guards would be able to smell you several miles away.  I often wondered how you managed to peel the thing off in order to bathe.”

Aragorn grimaced at the picture that was not too far from the truth.  “I got Elrohir and Elladan to help me,” he mumbled good-naturedly, moving up to his wife and sweeping her into his arms.  “However, I was not talking about the tunic.  It is you who mean a lot to me!”

Arwen smiled and snuggled into his embrace, her cheek pressed warmly against his chest.  “I know,” she mumbled softly, one hand caressing up and down his arm.

They stood like this for several long minutes before Aragorn at last reluctantly pulled back.  “Arwen,” he whispered softly.  “I must go, but…”

Arwen lifted a hand and gently placed her fingertips against his mouth.  “I know,” she murmured once more, her eyes filled with an unspoken understanding. 

“I love you,” Aragorn whispered, pulling Arwen close and crushing her against him. 

“And I love you,” Arwen answered against him, holding him tightly.

When Aragorn at last released her, the unshed tears in her eyes caused his heart to throb painfully.  “I will return as swiftly as I am able,” he whispered softly, running a rough hand down her smooth cheek.

Arwen merely nodded, then quickly turned away from him, her hands gripping the balcony railing in a white knuckled grip.

Aragorn watched her silently for a moment before turning back into the room.  Striding over to the bed he roughly shoved the tunic inside the small bag containing other spare pieces of clothing and a few personal belongings.  Grabbing up the bag and swinging it over one shoulder, he reached for his sword belt, the glittering sheath containing Anduril shining softly in the light streaming in from the balcony.

“Good bye, Arwen,” he whispered softly, before quickly striding to the door and throwing it open.  An overwhelming urge for a final look back swept over him, but with a small shake of his head, he stepped out into the hall and firmly shut the door behind him.

Faramir was waiting in the hall for him, casually leaning against the far wall, his features expressionless, giving no indication of how long he had been waiting.  He straightened as Aragorn entered the hall, then quickly sketched a short bow.  “I have just finished meeting with your councilors and advisors, my Lord,” he informed Aragorn, his features twisting in a wry grin for a moment before his expression once more became neutral.

“And what did they have to say about my sudden decision to depart?” Aragorn asked curiously, swinging his sword belt around his waist and securing it with a deft twist and pull.

“A lot, let me assure you,” Faramir answered glumly.  “I had to wait nearly an hour before they calmed down enough that I was even able to speak to them.  Of course, they are used to your strange ways by now, but still…”

“What did you tell them?” Aragorn interrupted impatiently, starting down the hall and motioning Faramir to follow.

“That you are off to visit Legolas’ people in Ithilien, to inform them of their lord’s…disappearance, and to hopefully acquire their help in the search for him.”

“And they accepted this?”

“They seemed to, my Lord,” Faramir answered with a small grunt.  “After all, they have no reason to suspect that we might be lying to them.”  His face twisted with displeasure as he said the word ‘lying.’

“That is good, Faramir.  You have done well,” Aragorn quickly spoke up, feeling slightly guilty that he had dumped such a task on Faramir, but relieved that it was done all the same.  “So they gave you no trouble?”

Faramir merely shrugged.  “They wanted to know why it is that you are going and not me.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Legolas is your friend, and you feel a personal responsibility.  Your past history regarding elves makes you the perfect candidate, while I would likely bumble around and make a fool out of myself.”

Aragorn gave a short bark of a laugh.  “You told them that?”

“Perhaps not in so many words.”  Faramir grinned.  “Basically, I just had to throw out a few suggestions and hints and then let them form their own conclusions.  They are quite good at that.”

Aragorn laughed.  “That they are.  And yet you have handled them superbly my friend.  Thank you!”

Faramir nodded, smiling widely.  He reached into the pocket of his tunic and held out a long, rolled up piece of parchment.  “This is a map of Khand,” he informed Aragorn as the King reached out and took the proffered paper.  “I attempted to find one with details, yet I am afraid they are all woefully inadequate.  Still, it will offer you some knowledge of where it is you travel.”

Aragorn carefully slipped the parchment into his bag, nodding his thanks to the Steward.

“How many men have been chosen to accompany me?”  he asked casually, shifting the bag awkwardly across his shoulders.

“Besides Kenson and Gimli, you will be escorted by thirty men led by Captain Jeralk.”  Faramir answered briskly, his gaze focused straight ahead.

Aragorn grimaced.  He knew Jeralk quite well, and greatly respected the grizzly captain of the White Guard.   However, he disliked the idea of riding around with thirty guards as an escort.  They would inevitably slow his pace, and time was not an ally at the moment.  Still, they were a necessary part of the sketchy plan he and Faramir had worked out earlier at breakfast.  In any case, any argument he made now to lower the number would only result in further delays, and he wanted to be out of the city and well on his way before mid-afternoon.

“All the men are waiting within the courtyard and will be ready to ride upon your command,” Faramir informed him shortly, almost as if he had read Aragorn’s mind and was aware of his anxiousness to depart.

Aragorn nodded briefly, then let out a short, sharp curse as he and Faramir rounded a corner in the hall and found two guards desperately trying to keep a firm grip on the small, wiry messenger from the night before.  The man was struggling wildly, demanding in a high-pitched voice to know exactly where he was being taken and why.  Both of the guards had a steady grip on each of the man’s arms, but his wild twisting was making it difficult for them to keep hold of him.

“I demand to see the King!”  The small man screeched loudly, trying to kick the shin of the guard on his right.  “Unhand me at once!  I demand to see the King!  He cannot do this to me!”

The struggling trio had not yet noticed Aragorn and Faramir’s approach, and when the guards at last became aware of their presence, they snapped to stiff attention, their faces flushing darkly.  The small messenger continued to struggle between them, his back turned to the two newcomers, seemingly unconcerned by his guards sudden stiffness.  He managed to jerk his arms free, and with a triumphant grunt he whirled around, intending to charge away down the hall.  Instead, he collided roughly against Aragorn’s firm chest, yelping in stunned surprise.  Aragorn let out a small grunt at the impact, but otherwise did not move as the small messenger bounced backwards to land rather unceremoniously on his backside.

“Looking for me?” Aragorn asked calmly, looking down with disgust at the small man at his feet. 

“I am sorry, my Lord,” one of the guards gasped out, racing forward to drag the messenger to his feet.  “Captain Jeralk sent us to fetch this one and bring him to the courtyard.  However, he has been giving us some difficulty and…” the soldier trailed off slowly, glancing uncertainly between Aragorn and Faramir.

“I see,” Aragorn said slowly, his eyes boring into the small messenger.  The man was no longer struggling, but was instead eying Aragorn up and down, his sharp gaze taking in the King’s traveling garb and bag thrown over one shoulder.  A slow, mocking grin suddenly appeared on his gaunt face.

“I see my Lord has finally decided to heed my message…” he began haughtily, but a single, sharp glare from Aragorn caused him to abruptly shut his mouth.

“What is your name,” Aragorn demanded coldly, never taking his eyes off the little man.

The messenger seemed to wilt somewhat under Aragorn’s fierce gaze, his tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously.  “Delran” he muttered sulkily.

“Well, Delran, it seems you and I shall be traveling together.” Aragorn’s voice was as frosty as the coldest winter night, and he took a small step forward.  Delran flinched as if expecting Aragorn to strike him.  “You will be allowed to ride free and unbound until you give me a reason, any reason, to change my mind.  And if I so much as suspect any trickery on your part during any of this journey, than you shall feel the sharp sting of my sword at your throat.  Have I made myself clear?”

Delran gulped and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Good!” Aragorn stated, his voice only slightly less cold than before.  His eyes flashed to the two guards standing with their mouths slightly agape.  “Escort him to the courtyard and place him under Captain Jeralk’s supervision,’ he ordered briskly, before returning his gaze to Delran.  “He will give you no more trouble.”

The guards bowed deeply, then quickly reached out to lead Delran away, their hands shooting out to grip his forearms tightly.  They needn’t have bothered, however, for Delran followed them as meekly as a kitten, his gaze never lifting from his study of the floor in front of him.

“He will be trouble,” Faramir warned quietly just as soon as the soldiers and Delran were out of earshot.  The Steward stood frowning after the trio, his hand unconsciously caressing the hilt of the long dagger he wore at his hip.

“I will handle him,” Aragorn answered shortly, also watching as Delran and his guards disappeared around a corner.  “Better yet, I will hand him over to Jeralk and let him handle him.  I have no doubt but that the good Captain will have him sitting proper and behaving in no time!”

Faramir let out a short bark of a laugh.  “That he will!”

Aragorn shook his head then started in the same direction the three men had just gone, Faramir a step behind.  The two talked quietly as they went, discussing last minute details and carefully assuring each other that all would be well.  When they at last reached the main courtyard, they found it bustling with activity, soldiers moving swiftly about as they prepared horses or loaded supplies.   Aragorn immediately spotted Captain Jeralk as the large, grizzled man quickly made his way their direction, his loud voice booming orders to the soldiers around him.  He stopped his boisterous shouts as soon as he reached Aragorn and Faramir, and bowed low to both of them.

“My Lords,” he greeted them gruffly, his rough face screwed up into a deep scowl.  “We are nearly ready to depart.”

“Thank you, Jeralk,” Aragorn responded lightly, not at all put off by the man’s gruff voice.  Jeralk’s voice was always rough, whether yelling at a new recruit or wooing a beautiful woman.  Yet those who knew him well saw past his gruff exterior to the honest and loyal man hidden beneath.  He was a man well liked and well respected by the men beneath him as well as the other officers. 

Aragorn carefully swept the courtyard with his keen gaze, easily picking out Kenson as he earnestly spoke with two other men.  Several yards beyond the Mayor of Calembel, Delran sat sulkily between the two guards who had been escorting him earlier, his expression sour.  There was no sign of Gimli anywhere.

Any brief hope Aragorn might have harbored that Gimli had come to his senses and decided to stay behind was dashed a few seconds later as a gruff voice spoke up from behind him.

“Aragorn, what is all this?”  Gimli strode through a tall arch and into the courtyard, looking quite impressive in full battle armor, his axe strapped securely across his back.  He looked healthy and energetic, if a bit grumpy and dissatisfied.  He was watching all the bustle in the courtyard with a deep scowl, his red beard bristling out from his chest like some agitated cat. 

“We were just preparing to leave, master dwarf,” Aragorn answered calmly.  “We are glad you could make it,” he added wryly, almost as an afterthought.

Gimli grunted in acknowledgment, his scowl never leaving.  “I am talking about all the men, Aragorn.” He waved an armored fist in the direction of the soldiers bustling about in the courtyard. “I thought the messenger told us we were not to have an escort?”

“No, Gimli,” Faramir said lightly, “He merely said you were not to bring any soldiers with you when you ride into Khand.”

Gimli transferred his scowl from the soldiers to the Steward, but Faramir seemed not to notice, his features smoothed into an innocent, expressionless mask.

“It’s the same thing!” Gimli muttered, his fingers drumming impatiently against his thigh.  “An escort is an escort, and if we attempt to ride into Khand with these…”

“They will not be with us when we ride into Khand,” Aragorn interjected sternly, effectively cutting off Gimli’s tirade before it could begin.  “They will merely accompany us to the borders of Khand.  After that, we shall ride on alone, and Captain Jeralk will split his men into small groups and follow us at a distance.  That way we will not be escorted, yet the men will be there in case we need them.”

Gimli contemplated this for a moment, then shrugged and turned away, his features blank, hiding any thoughts he might have on the plan.  Aragorn was not too surprised.  The only thing the dwarf truly cared about at the moment was getting Legolas and Dar back safe and sound.  It was doubtful that he cared how they did it, just so long as they did.  He was completely focused on the task at hand, and nothing could distract him.

Well, almost nothing.

A brief, sharp neigh echoed loudly throughout the courtyard, heralding the approach of Shandarell as he was cautiously led forward by two stablemen.  The fiery red horse did not look to be in the best of moods as he pranced arrogantly into the courtyard, his ears rolled back and his nostrils flaring widely.   At one time, he had been properly trained to accept a halter and lead rope.  However, his years with Legolas had obviously spoiled him, and he looked down at the two men trying to coax and lead him into the courtyard with evident disdain.  For nearly six years, Legolas was the only one who had ever handled the great horse, and the result could clearly be seen in Shandarell’s temperament.  With Legolas, he was gentle and obedient, if still a bit fiery.  Yet with anyone else he was cautious, distrustful, and downright difficult to handle.  Aragorn briefly wondered at how well Shandarell was behaving, especially when one considered his normal disposition. While he appeared indignant and flighty, prancing around and tossing his head nervously, he was still moving forward under the gentle prodding of the stablemen.  This alone was a sight to behold.

Aragorn turned to glance at Gimli expectantly.  He imagined that the dwarf’s face was slightly pale, but it was hard to tell for sure beneath his friend’s bushy beard.  Gimli certainly looked determined, and with a fierce glance at Aragorn he marched forward toward Shandarell, his posture stiff and unrelenting, his hands crossed firmly on his chest.  Aragorn thought he looked very much as if he was marching into battle, and he felt a brief flash of sympathy, for he was not at all certain who was going to win the upcoming confrontation. 

“This is going to be interesting,” Faramir mumbled softly.

Aragorn only nodded, intent on watching the unfolding drama before him.

Shandarell had by now spotted Gimli marching toward him, and the great horse’s ears pricked forward for a moment before shooting back to lie flat against his head.   He snorted loudly, his head dropping low as one front leg began to paw restlessly at the stone beneath him.  His entire body was drawn tight and tense, responding to the challenge approaching him.  The two stablemen quickly backed away from him nervously, still holding tightly to the lead rope, but looking suddenly as if they wished to be anywhere else but where they were.

Gimli slowed his approach, dropping his hands to his sides and taking on a more relaxed, calm posture.  He began to speak quietly, too low for Aragorn to overhear above the loud bustle of the courtyard, yet Shandarell’s response was immediate.  The horse lifted his head and stopped his anxious pawing, his ears flickering forward curiously as he released a loud huff of air.  Gimli came to a stand still directly in front of the large horse, continuing to speak quietly, but otherwise making no other move.  Shandarell’s ears flickered continuously as he listened to the dwarf, and to Aragorn’s surprise the horse seemed to be relaxing slightly.

Curious, Aragorn slowly moved forward, aware of Faramir directly behind him.  He approached Gimli and Shandarell cautiously, pausing several feet away so as to not disturb either of them.  He tilted his head and listened closely, feeling a shock of surprise as he realized that Gimli was talking in Sindarin.  The dwarf’s voice was strangely low and soothing, his tone calm if a bit awkward as he struggled with the foreign tongue.  Still, Aragorn was startled at how well the dwarf seemed to know the elven language.

“What is he saying?”  Faramir asked softly from a few paces behind Aragorn.

Aragorn shrugged, then leaned forward and listened carefully for several long seconds before straightening and turning back to Faramir.  “He is explaining to Shandarell that Legolas is in danger and is asking for his aid in helping us find and rescue him,” he informed the Steward shortly and calmly.

“What?!” Faramir exclaimed in surprise, his face registering stunned disbelief.  He turned back to face Gimli and Shandarell, his head slowly shaking back and forth.

Yet whether it was because of Gimli’s words or calm tone, Shandarell noticeably relaxed, not flinching or shying away at all when Gimli at last lifted a hand to gently stroke his long nose.

One of the stablemen quickly darted away, returning moments later with a small, pony-sized saddle, the stirrups in just the right position for Gimli’s short legs.  He approached Shandarell slowly after Gimli’s brief nod of approval, holding the saddle out in front of him and allowing Shandarell to thoroughly examine it before attempting to place it on the horse’s broad back.  Shandarell’s ears flickered nervously, but to Aragorn’s everlasting surprise he remained perfectly still as the stableman cautiously lowered the saddle onto his back and quickly secured the small piece of leather.  Gimli continued to talk to the horse in Sindarin, his voice dropping so low that Aragorn once more was unable to hear what it was he was saying. 

“I don’t believe it,” Faramir whispered dryly, his head continuing to shake back and forth in disbelief as the stablemen quickly and efficiently bridled Shandarell without so much as a stamped foot in protest. 

“Believe it,” Aragorn responded softly.  “But Gimli still has to mount…”

Gimli’s mounting went a little less smoothly than the actual saddling and bridling had gone, but it was merely because the two stablemen had trouble boosting his heavy frame up far enough that he could swing a leg over Shandarell’s tall back.  The horse stood calmly and patiently throughout their struggles, not so much as twitching a single muscle despite Gimli’s loud complaints and the men’s heavy gasps of effort.  When Gimli at last managed to gain the saddle, Shandarell’s only acknowledgement of his presence was a slight flicker of one ear and the lazy swish of his tail.

“He couldn’t have understood what Gimli said to him, could he?” Faramir asked incredulously.

Aragorn ripped his gaze away from the unbelievable scene in front of him and turned to the Steward.  “If you have some other explanation as to why Shandarell has just calmly allowed himself to be saddled and bridled for the first time in his life, as well as quietly accepting Gimli being tossed onto his back, I would like to hear it.”

“Maybe he just likes Gimli,” Faramir muttered unconvincingly.

“Maybe,” Aragorn answered dryly, not believing it any more than Faramir did.

“I must ask, Aragorn, do we intend to actually go anywhere today, or do you just plan for us to sit around and stare at each other all afternoon,” Gimli called out impatiently, his hands holding the reins in front of him in a white knuckled death grip.

Aragorn glanced at him and gave one last disbelieving shake of his head before turning and heading to where his own mount, a dark bay stallion, stood waiting for him.

It was finally time to go.

******

Someone was groaning, the soft sounds echoing eerily in the darkness.  Stirring slightly, Legolas realized the groans were coming from his own throat, and he mentally groped around until he figured out how to stop them.  His body seemed to be moving in dreamy slow motion, and vaguely, from somewhere far distant, the pain signals began to register.  He groggily decided that when they got closer and more insistent, he was going to wake up, and it was going to hurt.  But until then, he was content to merely drift along, protected for the moment by the black waves that gently washed around him and carried him forward.

A voice, strong and familiar, yet at the same time, strange and terrifying sounded from beside him, briefly breaking through the comforting blackness that surrounded him.

“Welcome to Khand,” the cold voice whispered simply, and Legolas could not hold back a deep shudder.

TBC