Chapter Text
In the moonlight with the mist laying thick against the ground, the trees appeared merely as blurry, dark shadows, and cast their own shadows on Eldarion’s face and hands. Elboron peeked over his own bound wrists at their captors, hunched over a fire far enough away that he could barely feel its warmth against his cold-chilled skin.
Eldarion was still unconscious, but he had been stirring for ages, and would wake soon. Elboron readied himself for the barrage when he finally came to; his friend never had been subtle. He’d be angry, and he’d want to make sure everyone knew he was angry, and that wouldn’t be good for either of them. Elboron was angry too, but he wasn’t about to yell and launch himself at a grown man twice his size. Not that Eldarion would understand that.
A shape peeled itself off from the group by the fire and heavy feet stomped their way through half-melted snow. Elboron watched warily; he could only make out a silhouette in the darkness, but that silhouette was huge and hulking and sent another wave of terror through him, something he hadn’t thought possible.
Finally, the man came close enough for Elboron to make out his features; a large, many-times broken nose, one brown eye and one pitch-black one. It was made out of marble, Elboron realized after the initial shock of confusion. A false eye. The real one, though, on the left, stared down at Elboron mercilessly.
The tiny amount of hope he hadn’t even realized he had shrank within him. They would find no help from this man; his eyes gleamed with cruelty.
Where was Celenath? Was he tied up too just out of sight? Elboron wanted to twist around to look behind him, suddenly sure that something was there, staring at him, and hoping against hope it was their guard, but that wouldn’t be a good idea with this man staring down at him.
“Here,” the man said roughly, shoving a bowl of weak gruel at him. “Probably not what you’re used to back at the castle, sirs, but it’s what you’ve got to live on. You’ll be grateful for it in a few days,” he added with a mocking sneer. He moved away, heading back to his fire and shuddering against the cold, just as Eldarion started to stir.
Elboron stared down at the bowl, feeling his stomach starting to growl—he didn’t think he’d eaten a thing since an apple at midmorning yesterday. Was it worth it to eat for whatever these men were about to do? Maybe if they kept themselves weak and helpless, the men would see them as too much trouble and wouldn’t bother with them.
That was stupid, though; that was a level of optimism he would expect from Eldarion. Elboron was left to figure out a way of lifting the soup bowl to his lips with tied wrists. He managed it, but it wasn’t a rewarding experience; the gruel was tasteless and slimy. Eldarion stirred again, turning his face to the side and pushing up closer against Elboron, shivering with cold. It caused Elboron to nearly drop the bowl from his precarious grasp, but he tightened his fingers around the rim and wished he had his cloak to throw over Eldarion. He could only assume the men had taken them after seeing the rich embroidery. A sudden sharp pain touched his heart; Queen Arwen herself had embroidered those just a few months ago in preparation for winter. What was she doing now? Were she and the king aware yet that their routine trip to Greenivy hadn’t turned out so routine?
There was that prickling feeling again, like someone watching him. Elboron was free now to twist around and throw a glance over his shoulder. The clearing was surrounded by undergrowth and spindly trees, but the night darkness and winter mist was thick enough that he couldn’t see anything beyond. He still felt eyes on him. Where was Celenath? What about Aeglind?
“Elboron?” Eldarion’s voice rose from his shoulder, rough and bewildered. “What’s happened?”
Elboron didn’t answer, instead raising the soup bowl to his friend’s lips before he could realize what it was. “Here, eat. You’ll need it.”
Eldarion drank the rest of the soup and then grimaced, fully awake now. “Bleh! What was that?”
“Our only meal for a while, I think.” He explained the situation as thoroughly as he could, which took about ten seconds. “Our horses are gone. I don’t know what they’re planning to do with us,” he finished morosely.
Eldarion stared at the frozen ground underneath them and shivered. “Well, anything else you and your brilliant mind want to let me in on?” he muttered, kicking at a pile of snow. “I know it was you who stole my pet mouse last year, so don’t try to deny it.”
Elboron fought for something good to say. “He called us sirs. So I don’t think they know who we are. They know we’re from Minas Tirith but they seem to believe we’re sons of some nobleman. And Celenath’s not tied up with us…”
Eldarion lit up, just as he’d hoped. “That’s good, isn’t it? He’s probably free and on his way to rescue us!”
Elboron smiled weakly, grateful that Eldarion probably couldn’t see it in the dark; although, he was half-Elvish, so nothing was ever predictable with him. The smile fell away. “Sure,” he said, and fought down the grim thought that rose to his lips a moment later—and he’s definitely not lying dead on the side of a road somewhere while these bandits drag us off to Iluvatar-knows-where.
That was the much more likely option. He may be only ten years old, but he had studied his history. He read the old ballads all the time; his tutor had just told him of King Finrod and the werewolf. He knew how this kind of stuff worked. Eldarion might not, because he didn’t bother to listen to any of the old Elvish stories his mother tried to teach him, but Elboron did.
But even as he thought it, he remembered one story that flickered vaguely through his mind—not one he’d heard from Queen Arwen, but one that the fisherfolk in Emyn Arnen liked to tell whenever they returned from the sea. He nudged Eldarion, who was staring mournfully at their empty bowl. “Hey,” he muttered, “remember that one story? Of the Elf who rescued a bunch of kids from a collapsing city?”
Eldarion’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“The people of Emyn Arnen have this story.” He settled into it as much as he could in the biting cold with his hands bound in front of him. “They say the ghost of an Elf wanders around Gondor and sings stories, stories of long ago, of the deeds he’s done throughout his life, good and bad. And one of those songs is about how he charged into a collapsing city that his brothers had attacked and rescued a bunch of children who were trapped.”
Eldarion scoffed, but his eyes were gleaming. “His brothers had attacked it?”
“Yeah.” Elboron frowned. There was a rustle in the undergrowth behind them, he could swear it. “I don’t remember that part very well, but for some reason they were enemies. But this Elf helped them, and he took out his flute, and he played his flute and they all marched away from the city to live in his home in peace. ‘And love grew ever between them, as little as might be thought,” he quoted, though he couldn’t remember where that quote had come from. He pasted a grin onto his face. “Wouldn’t that be great if it happened to us?”
"His home?" Eldarion's eyes grew bright even as his brow furrowed. "If his brothers were evil, then maybe it was a lair!" He seemed far too excited over the prospect, but of course, Eldarion would latch on to the most exciting alternative. “I’d like to live with an Elf," he said.
Elboron scoffed. “You do, almost. And you’ve got your uncles and grandfather, too. They’re real Elves.”
This did a good job at distracting Eldarion, and as he started in on an argument about why real Elves were like Elves in the stories, not like his half-Elven uncles, Elboron listened for another rustle in the undergrowth. It came, just as it had a moment ago.
They’d been keeping their conversation to a mutter, but one of the men turned toward them, then stepped away from the fire. He was a couple feet from them when he frowned and turned back toward his fellows. “Hey, do you hear—?”
A swift gleam in the moonlight, and then his head was rolling along the ground and the clearing broke into chaos.
Eldarion broke off with a choked cry, and Elboron sought about for a sharp rock or a broken twig, only to find a dagger already sawing at the bindings around his wrist. Kind grey eyes caught his with a smile. “Nice to see you alive and well, my lord,” Celenath said as he broke through the final rope and turned to Eldarion.
“Celenath!” shouted Eldarion, and he lunged forward to hug him. Celenath leaned away, but kept his hands on his shoulders.
“Nice to meet you again, my lord,” he said, then shoved a pair of daggers into their hands. “Stay here, and use these if anyone comes close.”
And then he rose, loosened his sword in its sheath, and plunged into the chaos. Elboron felt suddenly that he was very alone, hands pale and frozen around the dagger hilt in the cold winter air. Eldarion pressed his shoulder against his, and that part of his body became marginally warmer.
Their captors weren’t paying much attention to them; through the fog and darkness, Elboron caught sight of distant, dark shapes, some flickering through the clearing, some laying hunched and motionless in the puddles of snowmelt. He tried not to stare as, only a few feet away, Celenath shoved a sword through a chest.
And above everything roared a Song. It was not a normal song, not like one the fisherfolk sometimes sang or the weaverwomen hummed, but one that carried with it every threat of war. Like the ones his father sometimes recalled in snatches that made him sigh heavily and vanish into the depths of the Citadel for hours. The air thrummed with it, the mist swirled around the notes and became somehow sharper for it, the darkness plunged even deeper with it.
And it was coming from the other person in the clearing, hooded and cloaked, face invisible in the darkness but eyes shining with starlight. He flicked through like mist himself, seeming almost as insubstantial as it, his bright sword cleaving through whoever he encountered. The captors fell or fled, one by one, and maybe Elboron and Eldarion weren’t meant to see what happened next.
The hooded figure caught hold of one of the men by his shirt, then shoved him up against a tree. “Who do you serve?” When he wasn’t Singing, his voice was rough and hoarse, as though he didn’t use it often.
The man was facing Eldarion and Elboron. It was the man with the false eye, which gleamed dully in the moonlight. Celenath watched, a few feet away, breathing heavily and absent of any opponents. They were all dead or gone.
The captor struggled vainly, but the stranger only adjusted his grip and shoved him back against the tree trunk. “No one, no one, I promise!” The captor’s voice turned shrill and panicked.
“You promise?” His voice turned rougher. “Would you swear it?”
The captor hesitated, blinking bewilderedly, then: “Yes, yes, just don’t kill me!”
“Swear it then. Tell me who you work for, or swear on Eru Iluvatar that you don’t work for anyone.”
The captor panted, then strained to break away again. It was another vain effort. “Who?”
“Don’t worry.” His voice was almost cajoling. It was like the way Elboron’s father sometimes spoke to him when he was trying to get him to tell the truth, but this was much less innocent. Even Elboron could tell he was lying. “I won’t kill you.”
“I swear it, then, I swear on Eru Iluvatar himself, I don’t work for anyone!”
Celenath stepped forward, hand on his sword. “How can you believe him, sir, he’s a liar! They have someone behind this, I’d swear on it.”
“I agree.” The hooded figure tilted his head to the side, and his hood fell away to reveal lank, dark, curling hair. “You don’t even know whom you just swore upon, do you?” It was a soft question, half-hidden among the rasp of his throat. Elboron inched closer, pulling Eldarion along with him, but Celenath noticed and ushered them back with a quick flick of his wrist. The stranger started up again, his voice cajoling again, but…sneakier. Like that Power from before in the Song, but turned sideways, turned sneaky and snakey. “I think you do know something. A smart guy like you, your leader confided in you. There he is, dead on the ground. A pity; but now you’re in charge. So tell us what you know.”
“N…” The bandit grew confused and shook his head, his voice growing thready. “N..no. I…what are you doing? Stop it!”
“I’m doing nothing,” the stranger said flatly, but his hold on the man’s shirt tightened. “Let me know.”
“I don’t know anything, I swear on Eru Iluvatar, bless his soul, honest!”
“You stole these children. I want to know why.” His voice was hard now, that Power in his voice like stone. Celenath shifted, and a look of unease crossed his face.
“Coramarth, what are you—”
“I’m getting answers. Let me—”
But he stopped, because in the moment he’d been distracted, the bandit let out a shriek and hunched forward, face sharp in terror. Coramarth let his hand fall to his side, and the bandit fell limply at his feet.
He was dead. A shiver of terror ran through Elboron, and Eldarion’s hand clenched his tightly.
Coramarth cursed, then turned his face in their direction. “I’m sorry you had to see that, children,” he said, almost gentle. “I didn’t intend for the conversation to go as it did.” Now that he was facing them, the pointed tips to his ears were clear. He was an Elf? Elboron reeled, but Eldarion didn’t seem as astonished. He pulled away from Elboron’s grasp, and as Elboron reached for him, Eldarion went up to the stranger. The first hint of a smile touched his face.
“You saved us, sir!” he exclaimed.
The Elf’s shoulders shook, and then he sank to his knees before them. He was laughing, Elboron realized belatedly, but it didn’t sound like a laugh at all. It was a guttering, hacking sound, and Celenath pulled Eldarion away. A moment later Elboron was crushed to his chest.
Coramarth didn’t do anything for a long moment; he just knelt there, his long tangled hair sticking to the sweat and grime on his face. It wasn’t a face that belonged to any Elf Elboron had seen in Ithilien; it barely looked like an Elf as he’d seen them. It must have been beautiful and noble once, but now it was just gaunt cheekbones and unhealthily pale skin surrounding eyes that shone like moonlight. Finally, though, the Elf let out a long, wavering sigh, and looked up at them. “I suppose I did,” and though the words were triumphant, the tone was utterly weary.
Celenath’s voice cut through, sharp and harsh. “What was that? What did you do?”
“That,” Coramarth said, “was a corruption of one of the greatest Elvish powers. I should not have done it at all. And it came to nothing. I don’t have any answers to give you. Who would have thought a bandit would have such a strong presence of mind?” With a sigh, he bent over Eldarion. A slight smile—the ghost of one, anyway—touched his face. “Are you alright, young prince?”
“How do you know who they are?” Celenath asked, one hand leaving Elboron’s shoulders; from the look Coramarth threw him, he suspected it had gone to Celenath’s sword-hilt.
“The boy looks like his parents. And some. He’s the spitting image of Elrond Peredhel, if you would believe it.” He gave a short sigh. “So please don’t run me through with a sword. Again, are the children alright?”
“I’m fine,” Eldarion said. Coramarth’s eyes met Elboron’s, and he shook his head.
“I’m okay. Just cold. And hungry,” he added, seeing the soup bowl out of the corner of his eye.
“I can fix that,” Coramarth said, though it was more to Celenath. “If you will let me.”
Celenath wavered. “You know I don’t know these woods. If this is some faery trick—”
The Elf laughed again, that harsh laugh. “I do no faery tricks. Not much for those anymore. I ask for the childrens’ sake.”
“Fine,” answered Celenath finally. “Lead us to somewhere there’s food, and do it safely.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered the Elf, getting to his feet again. He pulled up his hood again, casting a shadow across his face. “Come. My…lair…isn’t too far away.” That was said with a wink at Elboron, and he felt certain that somehow the Elf—Coramarth—had overheard his story.
Perhaps Celenath didn’t hear the humor in his tone, because he muttered under his breath as they started into the forest, but Eldarion and Elboron cast each other amused looks. “Like the Elf with the flute,” Eldarion breathed into his ear.
Elboron wasn’t so sure, but followed readily enough, eager to be out of the cold and out of reach of hunger.