Disclaimer: Unfortunately all these characters don’t belong to me. Tolkien invented them. The OC Calendil is my invention.

Story: Five years ago Aragorn was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Now – as he has become King Elessar -, the wrong person has come back to draw him into a cat-and-mouse game that may cost the lives of many humans – and Elves.

Type: Angst, torture, friendship

Aragorn/Arwen romance

Characters featured: Aragorn, Legolas, Elrond, the twins, Arwen, Faramir and Gimli.

This is a story about a serial killer, and it contains a few graphic descriptions about child murder. Rating: PG 13. This is a dark fic, folks! It contains murder scenes, and it is not a happy-happy story. Just so you’re warned.

The first part of this story takes place before the LOTR-trilogy but has no consequences for the actual trilogy storyline. However, it has a different in post-ROTK book notes. In this story, Elrond and his sons have not yet left Middle-Earth. They play a significant part in this story.

-- Moby

-- Faithless feat. Nina Simone

They were gaining up on him.

Calendil could sense their breaths at the back of his neck, lifting every strand of hair that covered his huge body. He could taste the threat of the enemy in the air, like a foul scent that overwhelmed the moon and poisoned the stars.

Very slowly still, he could see the blanket of snow covering the earth, touching those flowers that had fought hard to stand through winter. They would not make it now. At first the flakes were calm and small and they tasted like melting snow on his tongue. But then they became big and angry and destroyed all in their path. He could hardly see a wink, and his footsteps left a heavy trail behind him, making it easy for his captors to find and destroy him.

He grunted, walking fast and hard through the woods. He ran light footed despite the bulk of his body. He had no time to waste. His animalistic instincts drove him to make it to his wooden shelter where he could sit and have his prey, leaving her bones and flesh for the wolves that would devour anything during the hard winter’s hunger that had just begun. Soon the last of the flowers too would die.

He loved the look of human flesh decaying, withering, dying away. The blood was sweet, thicker and more beautiful than the flesh. He loved watching it trickle onto the ground, forming a pool in which he could stand. Sometimes he tasted it, gobbled it. But more than anything else, he loved the kill. He would sometimes take off their clothes and burn them in the fire. Other times, he would keep them on and kill his victims as they came to him.

He hated clothes. Years ago, he had worn them too. Then, he was still a part of the human community and was forced to move about them in a decent fashion in order not to draw attention upon him. But now - unlike most of them - he had chosen a life in the dark, feasting on the deaths of those who had once been his race. Elves were fine too, but difficult to capture. The best things to find were young, fresh humans – preferably girls.

He loved the hunt more than the actual kill, really. It was fun to chase a young child, horrified by his appearance. The child would stare at his face and body, scream and know that the end was near. His presence alone terrified them. Little did they know that once he, too, had been a child like them. Now, he was a misfit of nature, a creature living in the dark and hating the world that turned him in this abomination.

Once, he had been intelligent. He had been brilliant. He was about to become a Healer. But then he had felt his body change into this freak of nature, making him an ugly animal that would not be considered human anymore. It was a long time ago that he had felt human. A long time since his mother had thrown him out of her house and called him names he would never forget.

He still used his name when he covered most of his body up in dark rags and shoved a hood over his face to hide the abomination. Only that way could he roam about villages and cities on the lookout for new prey.

He was Calendil, son of Glair. He grew up on the outskirts of Bree, in a small village near the old Watchtower of Amon Sûl. He liked to play there when he was a child, ignoring all the stories of old and believing that he could conquer any ghosts that roamed there. As Calendil, son of Glair, he had once been a normal child with a strong ability to heal. After the changes, he had turned to the dark side and had given in to his undying thirst.

The girl in his arms groaned and stirred. He lifted her up more firmly over his shoulder and ran with her over the small forest path. He could not kill her here; eat her when they were behind him. He had fed her herbs stolen from the Houses of Healing in Cameth Brin that were to keep her calm and oblivious to what passed around her. He was used by now to the way the girls reacted. Even though they were all different in appearance and character, in the end death unified them.

He had picked this one because she was beautiful - so young, and already so stunning in appearance. He hated attractive children who seemed to have everything they ever wanted. All he ever received were horrified expressions and terrible reactions to the abomination that he was. He took away their beauty and made them abominations like himself. He shed their skins and bones, took the flesh into his body and buried what was left of them.

It was not his fault, really. His mother made him like this, mocking him for his appearance, laughing at his ugliness. She was the one telling him he was no good, an animal who did not deserve to live amongst humans. He killed because he liked to kill - because it was so easy to put the blame on beasts and not on human kind. Then again – was he not a beast too?

Surely a human could not exist with the thoughts of murder on his mind, could he? A human was better than that, stronger. They were a race joined in their efforts to fight against darkness. They had great things on their minds, plans to restore the old powers that had reigned these parts for so many years. Surely none of them would consider killing one another?

Calendil thought of his family as he carried the girl to his shelter. At some point in his life – perhaps not even ten years ago – he had loved his parents dearly. He had lived a good life in his village near Weathertop, enjoying the simple life given to him. He had cared for his father who did everything for him and was proud of his son’s decision to become a Healer. His father had wanted to send him to the Citadel to learn the trade. He had the talents for it, those natural skills one needed in order to be selected for the task.

And then it was over. One morning, Calendil woke and found changes in his body. His hands seemed different somehow: the fingers were larger and bulkier, hair grew upon them. His chest felt strangely swollen, his legs seemed to have a will of their own. He could hardly walk.

It was the day when he was sent to the Citadel. He left, not telling his parents about what happened to him that morning. Not that they would care. During the travel, he began sensing strange prickles of pain throughout. Once he arrived at the Citadel, he had already changed. People stared at him strangely, wondering what was wrong with him. When he saw his face in a mirror, he did not recognize anything except his eyes.

They treated him like a patient, instead of allowing him to become a Healer. He was prodded and probed, examined and questioned. His body seemed to form one big blister, as everything was swollen and out of place. And the thick black hair just kept on growing, covering everything except for his face. That came only later.

They sent him home again. And there, as he arrived, he found out that his father had died four weeks ago and that his mother – or better, the woman who had given birth to him – had bedded another one before her husband was even buried. Her son killed her for it.

He did not mean to do it, really. It just happened. He arrived home to find her in bed with her Captain - one who came often to have her while he should have been in the Citadel – and he would never forget that look on her face when she spotted him standing there.

At first she did not even recognize him, so changed he was. He was not her son anymore but nature’s error. She called him names and sent him away, refusing to accept him as her son. They fought and argued and she sent him away, setting him outside without a home.

He came back that night when she was alone and entered the family home. She sat before the fire crying. She did not cry over her husband or her son, but over her Captain who had abandoned her after seeing what sort of son she had brought into this world.

She jumped up and they argued, and he gave her a little push – a shove perhaps – and she fell with the back of her head slamming into the stone fireplace. One little punch with his right hand and she lay there, bleeding. She was alive and awake when he hovered over her, but the back of her head had been shattered and smashed against the fireplace. She could no longer move, having lost all control over her limbs.

He had taken a pillow from his bed and held it over her face, taking away her air. She did not fight. He knew she could not. In the morning they found her body and buried her next to her husband, believing she had had an accident. None knew her son had returned to the village. He hid in the dark and watched the burial and he shed not a single tear over her.

If they had known he had killed her, he would have been punished. He would have wound up in the dungeons of the Citadel for the rest of his life, rotting away and forgotten by everyone. They would find that he deserved such a punishment, if only because he was so different.

Calendil returned to the Citadel after that and knew what he was going to do. He could not possibly let the Captain live, could he? Not when that man alone was responsible for his father’s stroke, for his father’s death. He covered himself up in dark clothes and made his way through the forests, traveling alone. He quickly learned how to be a shadow amongst the shadows, a traveler unseen and unheard by anyone. His senses sharpened by the hour.

The next night, he ran his blade through the captain’s abdomen, watching him die a slow and harsh death. The man literally bled empty at his feet in his own home. The scent of him had brought Calendil on his trail, leaving no room for argument. Calendil felt nothing when he murdered deliberately. But he stared in awe at the stream of blood – so beautifully crimson red - so thrilling, so exciting.

Calendil could smell it. Human blood had such a special scent. He remembered the smell of blood from when he had worked at the butcher’s as a boy – earning next to nothing. Then too it had thrilled him. The blood beckoned him. He knew he had to perceive these feelings again. When he killed the Citadel’s Captain, Calendil had crossed the line from humanity to beast. He did not regret it.

To destroy his demons from within, Calendil had to murder. It was as simple as that. He had stopped a long time ago to resist the urges. He salivated when thinking of the way his hands could send life into flight. the fleeing of life by his bare hands. This was what beasts had to feel when they ran their teeth through a human body. They had no mercy for humans. They did not respect one’s age or gender. They killed randomly.

He was a beast now.

Calendil soon found out he preferred his blood to be young, strong and powerful while it ran through innocent veins. He knew that when he walked through the Houses of Healing after the Captain’s death and wondered what he was going to do with his life.

Suddenly he found himself staring down at the body of a girl, not even ten years of age, and knew that he wanted to scent her blood. She lay in a room by herself, with blood pouring from the wound on her thigh. He smelled it. He dipped his hand in the blood and scented it. It was perfect in its innocence. He wanted more. He hovered over her, smothering her cries when he killed her and the Healers were in the next room preparing to repair her leg. With his bare hand he suffocated her. When she died, he stared at the gash on her thigh and opened it further, allowing the blood to drip onto his clothes and boots. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

At night, the haunting continued. He could not forget his mother, for she taunted him in his dreams, telling him he was no good. He could never be a Healer now that he had taken his first innocent life. He was the beast he had once sworn not to become. When he first discovered his urges, he had vowed not to abide them. But then he realized that he was meant to follow it. Now, he no longer fought against that which had become his desire.

Did he regret it? No. He could still feel the blood on his hands. He could still see it when he closed his eyes and reminisced. And his mother laughed from the grave and taunted him. He envisioned her the way she had been; realizing then that the girl in the Houses of Healing looked exactly like her. He had killed his mother over again, and he would do so again and again and some more.

Curve by curve, top to bottom, facial features: nose, mouth, ears, eyes and hair. He knew everything by heart. She became his demon at long last, telling him what to do.

Calendil spotted his second victim in the Citadel’s Inn where she sat with her father and listened to his drunken tales. He mixed amongst the humans now, refusing to call himself one of them. He was a beast now and he loved it. But he could still be amongst them as long as his body was cloaked and his face covered.

The new victim was a young girl, perhaps fourteen. She did not come from the Citadel. She was perfect. A dead ringer to his mother she was – a beauty to behold. He loved her already.

When her father’s head fell drunkenly to the table, she stood alone and left the Inn. He followed her. She walked in front of him through the dusty streets and he desired to kill her. That girl represented the image of his mother brought back into his life. He wanted to get rid of her. After all, he had killed her before. He could easily kill her again.

And so he did. He grasped her in a small and dark part of the Citadel and smothered her, cutting her up afterwards so that he could see her blood flow freely. He rubbed the crimson red over his clothes and kissed her while she lay on the ground with unseeing eyes.

He left her there for others to find and rushed the Houses of Healing where he stayed for the time being to rid himself of the clothes stained in blood. He washed them but the red remained. Finally he burned his clothes in the fireplace and remembered her broken eyes. He loved her still.

He had killed more of them. Could hardly remember who, or how many. He just did. Perhaps there were four or five, perhaps eight or nine - maybe even ten. He had lost count. They had all blended in together. They were one.

After a while, it was getting harder to get away with it. The Citadel was in an uproar after the third murder. People were afraid. No, they were horrified. And what satisfaction it gave him to see the bodies in the Houses of Healing the next morning, emptied of blood and pale in death. He snuck in and out whenever he pleased, moving like the moonlight shadows.

He told the main Healer he needed some time to himself and left for Bree. Calendil knew that he would get caught sooner or later but he did not mind. He preferred to die early knowing he had lived to the fullest than to wither away like most people seemed to do. He was a beast and beasts deserved harsh deaths. Let it come.

He killed five girls in Bree, all during the night and all near The Prancing Pony. It was even easier than it had been in the Citadel. The damp skies and the dreary rain made people eager to stay inside and lock their doors. The people of Bree were getting afraid, and he enjoyed the fear he gave them.

The rumors ran around, spreading over these parts like wildfire. Who was this mysterious killer? Why did he kill so randomly, so eagerly? What was it that brought him to that final moment where he would destroy one’s life, one’s soul?

They stood guard. Everywhere, people stood guard. On his sixth day in Bree he could not find a single girl alone outside and it frustrated him. His urge for blood remained unrequited. He sighed deeply, finally deciding to rush to his wooden shelter in the forests near Bree when he spotted her.

She was a stranger, just arriving in Bree. There were other travelers with her. She wore a hood over her face and she was pale. That, he could tell from a distance. Her large eyes were dark and inquisitive. A beauty, indeed.

When she turned to him, he could see she was an Elf. No! His thoughts sunk deep. He could do nothing with an elf, accompanied by other Elves. There was no way to tell how old she was. She could be five hundred years old so to speak. Or she could be young like humans. He did not want her blood upon his hands. He wanted a human.

He had never killed an Elf before. Did they even bleed like humans? Would she even die if he throttled her? Would she beg for mercy or plead for her life? He trembled, and then he decided. Aye, perhaps an Elf was not so bad. He wanted to find out.

With narrowed eyes he watched the arriving party. They would be staying in The Prancing Pony no doubt. They all looked weary, especially the human who was with them. The human’s face was rugged, unshaven. He wore his cap over his eyes and looked around suspiciously, scanning the area. He was a Ranger. A Ranger! Calendil sighed. He had no bonds with the Rangers nor did he seek them. They were dangerous folk, living in the wild and knowing them better than anyone. What was a Ranger doing with the Elves?

Elves were often not welcome in these parts but these ones seemed to feel at ease in Bree. They were known here too, for one of the stable hands bowed for the one that seemed the oldest of the group. Calendil narrowed his eyes. They must come from Rivendell, he realized. None other would receive such a treatment. Perhaps the Elven-Lord himself was amongst them.

But she seemed perfect, with her raven black hair and full red lips.

No! He would not take the risk.

Take another one, he ordered himself, and forget about her.

But who? There was not anyone he could take. It was late at night and even though the Inn was filled with people, most youngsters had gone to bed. All that remained were the small group of eight Elves and one human seated in the backroom having dinner, and the roaring crowd in the Common Room getting drunker by the hour.

He slumbered outside again, desperate to quench his thirst. He stumbled away from the Inn, frustrated. He balled his fists, forcing himself to stay calm. Let it be tomorrow then! His body screamed for the kill but he could not fulfil his needs now. Not like this.

And then he saw her. She sat inside a small cottage alone, sewing clothes and humming to herself. She was young and perhaps there were other people near her, but he did not care. He needed to kill. Perfect hair, perfect face and perfect lips. Perfect blood too.

She was perfect.

He opened the door to the cottage quietly and stood behind her. She kept on sewing, not looking up. She said, "Back already, papa?"

When he did not reply, she turned. Her eyes immediately filled with pure fear. He grasped her tight and forced his hand around her mouth, pulling her up as he pushed his weight against the door to shut it. At the exact same time the door slammed open once more, revealing a tall, bulky man.

"Leave her alone!" The man’s loud voice accompanied his large body. Calendil wavered between releasing the girl and fighting the man, or to hold on tight to her and make a run for it.

He released the girl. The bulky man approached him, reaching for him with both hands. "Bastard!" he shouted, "killer! What did you do to my daughter!?"

Calendil was smaller than the father and did not carry the man’s weight and it worked in his advantage. He ducked, threw himself onto the ground and – while rolling backwards – pulled a knife from his boot. He threw it into the father’s throat, severing the main artery instantly.

The girl screamed. Calendil hit her hard, watching as she fell to the ground without another sound. He had no time to kill her now, he knew. He wanted it to be his best kill. He wanted to take his time.

He lifted her, wrapped her in a blanket and threw her over his shoulder. He pulled his knife out of the father’s throat, letting the blood gush over the floor. Quickly he moved outside, waiting for anyone to come and stop him. Nobody did. They had not heard the father’s shout when he entered his house, nor the girl’s scream.

Relieved he moved through the rainy streets to his horse waiting near The Prancing Pony. He would take her into the woods, to his shelter, and kill her there. He threw her in the sadle and held her as he mounted his horse. Then, he made the mare turn around.

As he did, his eyes connected with the human’s who had accompanied the Elves. He stood nearby, having just exited the Inn. He was smoking his pipe, his eyes filled with thoughts. He froze as he stared at Calendil, his eyes catching onto the girl lying over the horse’s back immediately.

The glare only lasted one second but it was enough. Nervous, Calendil urged his mare forward, forcing the Ranger to jump backwards with his back against the wall. The pipe fell to the ground. Calendil did not wait for the Ranger’s reaction, rushing off.

He forced the mare to rush into the woods, taking him away from any possible pursuers. But right before the forest entrance, she slipped and fell, dropping Calendil and his victim off.

At first the killer thought the girl had died right there but she breathed. In relief he lifted her and made his way through the forest, using the smaller paths to bring him to his shelter.

It was then that he realized they were in pursuit. He felt their breaths in his neck. They were on horseback. He did not know who was following him, but he knew on pure instinct the human was with them. He had known the second their eyes met that he would be his captor. There was something different about him.

In the end, as he reached the shelter, he gave up the hope of getting rid of his pursuers. They followed his tracks with ease. He knew he could not shake them off. It was time to call their bluff and be done with it. He would die in his wooden shack in the forest and not regret a single moment.

The girl slowly awoke, staring at him with terrified eyes. She was afraid, of course, horrified at the prospect of being murdered. And the fact she would die by the hands of such an abomination. She did not scream but wept quietly, her eyes filled with tears. He dragged her to the shack and locked them in, surrounded by ancient walls that had been here for many years.

People did not like these parts of the woods, for the trees were ancient and bore many secrets, but he had come here a few times as a child and loved its eeriness. Even then he had been lingering towards the dark, despite his hopes to become a Healer. Perhaps – so Calendil thought – he was meant to be like this. To die here, like this.

He laid her down on the ground, taking the dagger with which he had killed her father as he hovered over her. "I will try not to hurt you too much," he said in a friendly fashion, bringing the knife against her throat.

"Do not kill me," she begged. "I do not want to die."

"No one does," he sighed, "but we all must go at some point. Your death will be swift, I promise."

And then he heard the horses. They were near the shack. They had found him. His attention drew away from the girl, interested to find out who was pursuing him and why - interested to see if they would be able to stop him.

He could not tell properly as he stared through the peephole. He saw Elves with bows and arrows; he saw the human. If the Elves made it inside, he would die before his stroke fell. He did not want that. If anyone could give him answers, it had to be the human. Only a human could explain to another one why he did what he did. The others were of no significance.

"He is in there," they said, pointing at the shack. They rattled the door, trying to open it, listening for sounds. He saw the human carrying a sword, his face weary with exhaustion and his eyes filled with things he had seen over the years of travelling. Calendil envied him. He wanted to be like him: strong and forceful - a leader.

Calendil’s voice shot through the night, breaking the silence. "The girl lives!"

A silence followed and then a voice replied in Common tongue, "Who are you?"

"Calendil, son of Glair," he replied, watching them. He knew it was the Ranger speaking.

"What do you want?"

"I want freedom!"

Silence. "Do you have a girl with you?"

"Aye, I do."

"Let us speak then."

"Only the human can come in or she dies. He must come unarmed."

He saw now there were several other people too from the town of Bree. A whole pack to kill the beast, he thought.

Another silence followed. Calendil smiled, knowing the Elves and humans would be discussing his proposition. They did. They turned towards each other and whispered.

He knew he would win.

"Alright!" the same voice said. "I am coming inside."

"Step back then and wait for my signal."

He watched the Elves and humans step backwards, leaving only the Ranger who gave his sword to one of the Elves. Then Calendil smiled bemused, for the female Elf was amongst them too. Her raven black hair was now clearly visible, her beauty apparent. She grasped the Ranger’s sleeve and whispered something to him that Calendil could not comprehend.

Calendil grasped the girl tight and used her as a shield while unlocking the shack’s door. Then he stepped backwards with her, forcing her down against the far wall. He sat behind her, keeping his dagger against her throat. None would be able to kill him like this, not with her as an unbound human shield.

A sound rattled him. Calendil lifted his head to find the human entering the shack, standing in the doorway unharmed but with a torch.

"I come alone and without arms as I promised," the human said.

"Come here and keep your hands before you. Turn around. Then come forward. One false move from you or your friends and she will die, alright?"

The human nodded and stepped forward, doing what the man said. In the torchlight, Calendil saw a tall man with long black hair, an unshaven chin and grey eyes. And definitely dressed as a Ranger. What would he be doing in the company of Elves?

"Come here."

The Ranger moved forward.

"Close the door."

The Ranger closed the door, using his right hand to shut it behind him.

"Do you have weapons on you?"

"No."

"Remove your cloak and show me your tunic."

The Ranger obeyed, revealing his bare skin. There were no daggers hidden underneath his clothing.

"Your boots. Show me."

The Ranger seemed surprised he would ask such a question but obeyed, removing his boots to reveal no daggers.

"You are telling me the truth," Calendil said, surprised. "Good."

"I do not wish to risk the girl’s life."

"You are wise," Calendil smiled. "Come and sit here."

The Ranger moved forward, sitting near him, startled when the torch lit the killer’s face. For one moment Calendil saw fear in the man’s eyes. Then the moment was gone.

"So you are Calendil?" the Ranger asked, recalling the man’s name.

"Aye, I am."

"Why did you take that girl?"

Calendil smiled. "Surely you must know who I am."

"No, I do not."

"You lie," he said.

The Ranger did not remark, revealing to Calendil that he did indeed know the truth about Calendil. The rumors that one had killed many young girls had spread as far as the North. Nobody assumed that a human was capable of murder in its purest form. It was something none wished to believe, but here they were. Then again, Calendil could spot doubt in the Ranger’s eyes. Was he truly human, those eyes thought? Or was he a beast who acted on pure instinct?

"What is it that you want?" the Ranger finally asked.

"Your name, for a start."

"I am known as Strider."

"Is that your real name?"

"Aye, it is," the Ranger said without hesitation.

"Good then … Strider. Tell me what it is that you seek from me. You cannot help me, and I cannot help you. All I want is a life of peace."

"Then why did you take that girl?"

For a moment Calendil was stunned. Then he said, "Why do you care?"

"You killed many girls, or so we have heard. Is it not time to put an end to it?"

"I was ending it … with her."

"She does not deserve to die like this." Strider’s glare went to the girl, his eyes fixed upon her and seeking to find a means to get her out of here alive. He knew it would be dangerous to fight an armed man, and Calendil was definitely armed. Yet he would if he had to.

Calendil followed the Ranger’s gaze. "Are you going to try and free the girl and force me to kill you?" he asked. "I have no quarrel with you, Strider. All I wanted was peace."

"No. I am here as you requested. I wish to speak with you about her, and hope to find a solution to our discussion. After all, what you do is your own business."

"Then why did you come here?"

"Because our paths crossed, and you left me with no choice but to come here and seek that girl’s safety. Then we shall leave you be."

"Why you?"

"Pardon me?"

"Why did you pursue me?" Calendil asked. "You came with those Elves, did you not? Why would you chase me if you want to leave me be?"

"We came because I tracked your trail. I am a Ranger and that is what I do. And the Elves are swift and full of empathy. They care about every form of life on this Middle-Earth. We wish to aid the girl and you."

"Who are those Elves?"

"They are friends."

"Why do they care about humans? Elves mind their own business. They do not care for our race."

"They always cared."

"They are from Rivendell, are they not?"

"Aye."

"How did they befriend you?"

Strider hesitated.

"The truth, Ranger," Calendil insisted, holding his dagger tighter against the girl’s throat. She winced.

"I grew up with them," Strider sighed, reluctantly playing Calendil’s game.

"They raised you? As an Elf?"

"No, they respected me for the human that I am."

"The ones who are there are your family?"

"Aye, they are."

"What about the woman with the black hair?"

The Ranger slightly winced as Calendil’s eyes narrowed. He knew love when he saw it. There was something about the fair Elf that made the Ranger sensitive to her. Affection? Care? Love?

Interesting.

"Are they your family?" Calendil repeated.

"Aye, they are."

"Even her?" Calendil’s eyes moved to Arwen. Aragorn did not reply, his teeth clenching.

"Tell me this," the man said slowly, "why did you obey me when I asked you to come in here? Why do you care about this girl?"

"I care about all life. I would have come for anyone."

"Are you that noble, Ranger? Would you give yourself for that which is unavoidable?"

Strider did not reply.

Calendil sighed deeply. "Come on, my friend. Tell me what it is you want to do. Do you want to plead for that girl’s life; do you want me to give up my weapons so you can kill me? Come, tell me!"

"I want you to let go of her and tell us why you did these horrible things. It does not have to end this way. You can walk out of here and lead a good life, just like this girl."

"Perhaps I was waiting for someone like you to tell me that," Calendil said slowly. "After all, it takes a human to know another one, right? You, who are so noble that you would sacrifice yourself for a girl you have never seen in your life, surely would understand that for every good there is also an evil. You seem like someone who has encountered darkness many times before."

"I have," Aragorn whispered, "more than I can say. I hoped that someone like you who seems decent would not lower himself to such standards."

"What standards are those?"

"The ones maintained by those who live in the shadows of Mordor, by the Easterlings and the Corsairs and slave traders. Humans without mercy who kill randomly and for money," Aragorn spoke softly, his voice filled with a slight hint of anger.

"But I am not human, Ranger."

"Aye, but you are. Your form and appearance may be different than ours, but you are human. I can see it in your eyes. You have compassion and sensibility, or we would not be here having this conversation."

"If I am human, then why am I holding a knife against this child’s throat?"

"I do not know," the Ranger admitted.

"What is it that you really think?" Calendil asked, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me the truth. What is going on inside my head, Ranger?"

"I do not wish to say."

"Say it or I will slit her throat!"

"You are a coward, Calendil. You hide behind this girl’s life because you are too afraid to face the consequences of your actions. You believe that you can toy with both of our senses and tell us what to do. You think that I am going to volunteer myself to die for that girl, but I will not. I swear to you that by the time we are through, you will be lying on the ground of this shack, and the girl and I will both be well. But I promise you that none of this will happen if you set us both free. Then we will all walk freely."

The Ranger’s grey eyes stared coolly into Calendil’s, meaning every word he said. The Healer smiled. Was that the way it was for the girls? Did he take their sanity before taking their lives by calmly explaining their fates to them? Knowing they were going to die?

"Tell me how you will kill me," Calendil demanded.

"I did not come to threaten you. All we want is the girl’s safety. I do not wish to kill you but I swear that I will if I have to."

"Why would I release the girl if I have even killed my own mother?"

Aragorn paled. "Why did you do that?"

"Because she was a coward, a woman hiding in another man’s arms after her husband perished. She used my father to get what she wanted, and then she killed him."

"How did she kill him?"

"She destroyed him slowly."

"Was it a reason to destroy her too? What has this girl got to do with it?"

"Why do you seek reasons?" Calendil asked, tilting his head a bit. From the corner of his eye he saw movement behind the walls, knowing they would use the peepholes as a way to run their arrows into him. He pulled the girl even closer to him, using her as a shield.

"Move to the right a little," he then told the Ranger.

Aragorn felt the eyes of his friends and family in his back when he obeyed, blocking their view. They would not be able to shoot Calendil from the outside.

Calendil smiled. "You have never killed for pleasure, I can tell. But it is a thrill, my friend. It is fantastic to feel someone’s life force drip from the body. It gives the biggest pleasure to know that that person died by your hand."

The man stopped suddenly, looking straight at him. "You have lost someone," he remarked. "Someone like her."

Aragorn froze. "Why do you say that?"

"I can see the urge in your eyes when you tell me not to kill this girl. It is almost as if you have been in this situation before. Who was she?"

Aragorn did not reply.

"That is why you are here risking your life, is it not? You seek redemption for your loss."

Aragorn resisted the urge to get up and knock Calendil off his feet. Instead, he remained seated and clenched his fists.

"What was her name?"

"What?"

"The name of the girl you lost."

"Erëa."

"An Elf?"

"Aye."

"How did you lose her?"

"I do not wish to tell you."

"Did you kill her?"

"No. I came too late to save her."

"And that haunts you still."

"Aye, it does."

The flare remained steadily near them, shedding its light through the shed.

"Do you dream of her?"

"Every night."

Calendil smiled. "Replace her face with my mother’s, and you will know what I am going through every day of my life."

"No", Strider said. "You killed your mother. I did not kill that girl."

"Everyone has his good and bad sides," Calendil said. "I chose to listen to my bad side. One day you will cross the line, Strider. And then you will see what I mean. Everyone can do it, you know."

"No. I will not."

Calendil tilted his head once more. "You have many secrets, Strider. I wished I could ask about each and every one, but we are running out of time and I must know what you are going to do."

"I will save this girl," Strider said. "Why would you need her, Calendil? She is not your mother. She does not deserve to die. Release her and quench your thirst elsewhere."

Calendil did not speak. But then he slowly said, "You know? I think you are right. I do not need her, do I? I can do with anyone - your dark-haired friend for example. She would be a good replacement."

Strider froze. "Never!"

"So you do love her."

"That is my affair, not yours."

Calendil hesitated. "What will happen to me if I let this child go? Will you kill me?"

"No, I give you my word that I shall not kill you."

"But will I be brought back to Bree?"

"Aye, you will be."

"There you will go to trial. You will be locked up. But you will live, Calendil. You will survive this."

"Alright then," the man sighed. "She can go."

Aragorn held his breath. "Do you mean it?"

"Aye."

"I have your promise?"

"Aye."

Aragorn slowly stood, staring at the dagger Calendil held against the girl’s throat. "You will have to get rid of that."

"I will."

Aragorn held out his hand. Slowly Calendil gave the weapon to him, surrendering to him. Relieved, Aragorn held the dagger to his side. He did not have rope with him to bind Calendil’s hands, nothing to make him defenseless. But he had the dagger. At least the man no longer had a weapon. He remained seated on the ground, pushing the girl forward.

"I will let the others in now."

"No. Bring the girl outside yourself."

Aragorn hesitated, and then he walked over to the girl, stretched out his hands and said, "It is alright. I will bring you home. You shall be fine."

He pulled her to her feet, forcing her to use her strained legs. He leaned forward and pulled the blanket off her that had wrapped her up tight. She shivered and swayed and he knew she was too distressed to walk away alone.

Aragorn looked aside and saw Calendil still sitting on the ground. The people of Bree would deal with him. The Ranger lifted the girl into his arms. She weighed next to nothing and clung onto him.

"I will get you away from here, alright?" he said, and she nodded with tears flooding from her eyes. "Put your arms around my neck."

She did what he asked. He felt her face buried against his shoulder as if she was a small child being carried by her father. She relaxed a bit, feeling safe in his embrace.

As Aragorn turned around to face the door and open it, Calendil stood before him, holding a second dagger. A second dagger? Strider had not seen another weapon. He held his breath, realizing his error. The door was locked. It was locked behind Calendil.

"What are you doing?" he asked, still carrying the girl. There was no way he could bring her to safety, unless he quickly turned and caught the dagger’s harsh blow with his back. "You promised to let her go."

"I lied."

Calendil smiled, revealing a set of white teeth and a broad grin that would have made any normal man astoundingly beautiful. Only in his case, it showed the darkness of who he was, literally proving his true colors to the world.

He is a monster and I underestimated him, Aragorn thought as he realized that he could never save the girl and kill Calendil at the same time. No matter how, someone would suffer. And he might as well make it this beast of a human.

"I will not let you kill her," Aragorn whispered hoarsely, clutching the girl against his chest.

"You already have," Calendil said as he shoved the table against the door with one strong move, holding back the Elves standing outside and trying to get in through the locked door. At the same time, Calendil moved forward with the second dagger in his hand. He was going for the girl, Aragorn knew. He would never have pity upon her; see her as the innocent child that she was. He would hurt her, kill her and then he would let the Ranger suffer because of it.

Strider swore that he would not let that happen! His right hand let go of the girl’s back and clutched the dagger, holding it. With the child in his other arm, he threw it at Calendil, aiming it at the killer’s chest. It struck air and then wood, dropping on the ground with a thud.

Calendil smiled, and attacked.

Aragorn turned to his side, protecting the girl with his body as he offered himself as target to Calendil. The next moment he felt an enormous blow against the side of his head as he stumbled backwards, tripping but standing. He still held onto the girl, clinging to her and protecting her in his arms as he swayed and turned his full back to Calendil, harboring her from harm yet exposing himself to him.

The stroke to his head sent Aragorn reeling, making him vulnerable and an open target.

Calendil seemed to be all around him, making circles around them. Aragorn could hardly see straight, confused that he was. He did not know that the blow to his head had caused a concussion, creating the nausea that was creeping up on him like a traitor. Aragorn could hear the Elves pound against the door, trying to open it. The crooked table held them back, giving the killer enough time to deal with his victims.

"No," his voice whispered constantly. "No, no. Do not – No."

He tried to protect her. He really did. He leaned over her, pulling her down so that she was out of Calendil’s sight. She wept in his arms. Her cries kept him alert. He had to help her. She would not become a victim.

Then he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. The fingers dug so hard into his shoulder that it bit with a sharp pain. He cried as he moved up again, still clutching the girl. Calendil’s hand was steady as he brought up the dagger again, aiming it directly at the back of the child’s head.

"No!" Aragorn heard his hoarse voice shout, and tried to get the girl out of Calendil’s reach. He could not. Calendil swirled and moved, danced around them, taunted them. The room tilted before Strider’s eyes – his body an abyss of pain.

The dagger killed once more as it struck its target. Aragorn saw the eyes of the girl turn upward as their faces were before each other – facing each other - one last time. Her mouth seemed to straighten and change form in its distress. A curious, contorted look appeared on her face. She sagged in his arms. Her weeping stopped.

They both fell to the ground – Aragorn slumping forward with her in his arms. Her weight was not enough to pin her down, but his concussion was. He could not move, making him defenseless before Calendil. He would have been defenseless without her too, for his mind no longer connected with his body.

There was blood everywhere. Strider’s left hand touched the back of her head – drained in crimson red. Blood and brains were everywhere. They were on him, polluting him. He closed his eyes, sighing heavily. The pain overwhelmed him as he tried to get the girl off him frantically.

He did at long last release her. Her body rolled over the ground and all that he saw was her destroyed skull. She was dead. Her eyes were broken. He stared to the right, knowing he had to save himself now. His dagger lay near – he could – perhaps he could reach it! His hand searched for it, touching it with the tips of his fingers. He could – just reach it. He would kill Calendil. He would - He screamed as Calendil stepped on his fingers, breaking two of his right hand.

He heard the others shove against the door, trying to break it. He turned to his side, clutching his hand. He could not fight anymore. Tears filled his eyes, sending shards of despair through him. Then, as he opened his eyes, he saw the dagger pointed at his face.

It was Calendil holding it, kneeling before him. "How does it feel to die today?" the murderer asked, not waiting for an answer.

The door burst open as the table was finally shoved to the side. Too late, Aragorn thought.

Aragorn could feel the sharp blade in his throat and in his chest. He closed his eyes, ready to accept his death, numbed with the excruciating pain in his head, his throat, his chest and his hand. But all that followed, was silence. The darkness came to retrieve him. He hoped that it would come without pain.

*

The next thing Strider heard were shouts, noises and voices. The room seemed to be filled with them, forming one eclectic universe of sounds and blurry images that protruded his closed eyelids. In his mind’s eye he saw shapes of Elves and humans, and he knew they had come to rescue him.

He hardly recalled the order in which the events took place next. All he knew was that they were all over him inside the shack. The girl was pulled away from his side, carried to another part of the shed so he could not sense her presence anymore.

Someone leaned over him; he could feel hands against his throat and pushing down hard on his chest. It numbed him, caused a new form of pain that made the previous ones seem meaningless. These pains were much worse, as if they were cutting into his chest themselves.

More hands touched his face, his shoulder, his throat. There was blood everywhere but he did not realize it was all his. He bathed in his own crimson red, not knowing that it was the reason why he felt so faint, so out of this world.

He opened his eyes as he coughed, tasting a strange iron taste on his lips. More blood, but he did not know that. He did not realize he was bleeding from the inside, and that the deep stab in his chest was slowly killing him.

The forms became Elves. He recognized Elladan. It was he who had his hands on his chest, and they too bathed in his blood. "Estel ... Estel! It is us. Stay still, you have been stabbed."

Is that what being stabbed felt like? He had never felt a dagger run through his chest before. It was worse than an arrow embedded in his flesh and bone. This was like something breathing air into his chest, entering his organs and devouring them.

He hoped he would never feel like this again.

His body started to shiver in icy cold. He convulsed, coughing up more blood. He was turned on his side, and he spat out the blood and stared at the puddle forming on the ground. He could feel the strong hands still all over him, holding the blood inside, or at least trying to do so. He knew he was bleeding empty. This, he had experienced before.

He was turned on his side again. "How bad is it?" he heard a human voice ask. There came no answer and he knew it was very bad. He stared at his shaking hands – his right one with at least two broken fingers. Her blood was on it. Or was it his? Then he felt a grasp around his wrist and he looked to his left and saw Arwen’s pale face, her large eyes filled with tears.

He heard her voice inside his thoughts, or perhaps she had spoken to him aloud. He did not know. "Do not look into the light. Return to us. Do not go where you think you must. Your time has not come yet."

Everything seemed to slow down in the world. He could see them walk and their feet hardly touched the ground, and their voices became strangely slow too, as if they were speaking like that. It did not make any sense to him.

He stared at Elladan taking care of things. His eldest twin brother had always been the stronger one, the one following into his father’s footsteps. And Elrond, who was not even here, would not be able to help him. There were his two brothers, with Elrohir frantically shouting commands, constantly asking his twin if their human brother would live.

Someone pushed a piece of fabric over his neck, trying to stop the bleeding. The cloth turned red immediately. Strider felt an enormous pain rush through his body, paralyzing him. He jolted. His body bucked. He convulsed. He could not stop it, he felt the cords of life loosen.

He tasted the blood in his mouth again, and he was once more turned to the side and he spat out more blood. "Hold him like that," Elladan said, "it makes breathing easier for him. Get me more rags! Find anything to stop the bleeding."

It was Arwen holding the cloth against his throat, and his blood ran freely over her fingers. She cried, and her tears dripped over her face. Their eyes found each other as she lingered over him, stroking his cheek when he bled empty.

I am sorry, he thought, I am sorry for being such a fool. I wish I could tell you how much I wanted to be with you.

She heard. He could see it in her eyes. He struggled to speak, and his voice was barely audible. "Help – the – girl."

"She cannot be helped," Elrohir whispered in her place, his eyes fixed upon his twin brother who acted as the Chief Healer and made the right decisions to save their brother. "She is gone."

"You tried," Elladan said, knowing their human brother would not be calm until he knew what had taken place. "We have him, Estel. He will never see the outsides of a dungeon for as long as he lives. You mustn’t trouble yourself over him, for he is beyond your reach and of no importance now."

Elladan’s words calmed the Ranger down. He no longer fought against what was happening to him, accepting his fate as it would come. He knew his brothers would not allow him to die – not in such a manner.

The villagers of Bree covered the body of the girl with a sheet. Aragorn could not stop looking at it while he felt his life slipping away. He could do nothing to save himself, nothing to save her.

Elrohir tried to get his attention, to stop him from looking. He blocked his brother’s view on purpose, forcing him to concentrate on himself. Then, after what seemed an eternity, Elladan had found all that he needed and started to work on the two grave wounds inflicted by Calendil. The chest wound was the worst, having protruded his chest and cutting the bottom of the lung going in, causing the massive bleeding.

Strider did not wince when Elladan examined him, his hands going over the Ranger’s torso. "It will hurt, brother," the Elf said with tears in his eyes, unable to distinguish patient from brother.

"I know," Aragorn whispered. "I do not care. Help me. Elladan – I do not feel – I do not feel anything –"

His plead cut through their bones, sending them into shivers of panic when Aragorn’s eyes finally tilted upward, and his head turned to the side, resting on the palm of Arwen’s hand. He embraced the darkness when it came, making the ordeal easier on him at long last. It was a miracle he had been awake for such a long time already, Elladan realized.

They could not move him onto a bed, for there was none in the room. In fact, they could not move him at all. They sat on the ground around him, holding onto the tethers of his life and trying to undo what Calendil had done, while Aragorn’s soul slipped away from them with every drop of his blood that dripped on the creaked wooden floor.

Five Elves worked almost three hours to save the Ranger’s life, repairing the damage done with the attention for detail only Elves possessed. Every cut was repaired, every single damage done to his lung mended. All those hours he did not stir, as if the Valar were graceful enough to save him from this ordeal.

Then the long wait followed in a quiet and tense shed where death roamed. It had already come to claim the child. Now they had to wait to see if it would claim the Ranger too. He lay on their cloaks and slept a deep, intense sleep. Sometimes he would stir but he never spoke. They washed him and cooled down his body, hoping to counteract the fever that would undoubtedly come to claim his body. It worked.

When dawn broke, they knew he would live. He opened his eyes for a few brief moments and smiled at them. He did not speak but his mouth formed a gesture of recognition. His weak grip on Arwen’s hand became stronger – he pressed her fingers to let her know he recognized her and felt well enough to show her that.Then he fell asleep again.

They made a gurney and used it to carry him back to Bree, the nearest place to continue the Healing process. Rivendell was too far away; he would never make it alive. One of the men of Bree carried the body of the young girl in his arms, his eyes constantly tearing up. Calendil walked in the back, his wrists bound and surrounded by three men.

He was unharmed.

And he scented the reek of blood.

More than a day later, Aragorn woke in one of the larger rooms of The Prancing Pony. At first he saw nothing, thinking he had lost his eyesight. But then the darkness became shadows, and the shadows became forms of people and things. He did not know where he was, for he could not recall how they had brought him back. He did not know that six times they had stopped to listen to his heartbeat and breathing, terrified he would die despite their efforts to keep him alive.

He was not alone when he woke. His two brothers and Arwen were there, waiting impatiently for him to wake. It was Arwen’s beautiful smile he saw first, and guilt raged through him when he remembered what had happened. He felt ashamed over his decision to go into that shack his willingness to sacrifice himself at all cost.

He remembered Arwen’s plea not to go in that shack and risk it. He had done it nevertheless, asking her if she were willing to sacrifice a girl’s innocent life. She knew then that he would go no matter what. He did. She loved him for it, but she was terrified that one day she would lose him for his bravery, his compassion towards others.

"You gave us quite a scare," Elladan said, appearing in sight. "You were out for so long that I wanted to bring Ada here to see to you. I feared I had killed you instead of saving you." He smiled but his eyes spoke of the fear he had felt. Another bout of guilt overwhelmed Aragorn.

Strider grasped Elladan’s hand and he smiled weakly for his brother’s comfort. "You would never kill me," he whispered, his voice only half of what it normally was. "I would trust my life in your hands any day – yours and our brother’s."

Both twin brothers released a sigh then, smiling at the relief of pressure.

"What has happened?" Aragorn asked, sipping cool water.

"You were in luck. He tried to slash your throat but did not cut deep enough. Then he cut you in the chest, nearly succeeding then. If you had not had a Healer right there, you would have left this world. The tip of his blade had entered your lung, causing the excessive bleeding. We repaired the damage and now you shall be well."

Aragorn touched his wrapped throat. Then he remembered the blood on his hands and beneath him. He had been bleeding empty. No wonder he still felt so faint. He had to restore the loss slowly, take his time to heal. He knew that it might be a long process but one that would ultimately restore him to full health.

His hands ached. He looked at them, realizing two sore and swollen fingers had been splinted. Calendil had stepped on them, snapping the fingers like twigs.

"Your hand will heal fine too. Do not worry," Elladan hastened to say. "They were clean breaks. You will carry your sword again soon."

"I killed the child," Strider whispered, his eyes turning away from his family when they filled with tears.

"No, Aragorn." Arwen sat on the side of the bed, grasping his hand and tilting his head so he had to look at her. "That girl was dead already. At least you gave her a chance of getting out of there alive, no matter how slim it was. And a least she did not die alone, in his hands."

"We should not have handled it this way. We should not have answered his beckoning. We should have taken the risk of bursting in there."

"He would have killed her before we were through the door. Calendil is a manipulator, Aragorn. He wants you to think this way," Elrohir said strongly. "You should have heard him speak when they brought him here. He is proud of what he has done. I have never met a human like this before."

"I had the opportunity to save her!" Strider exclaimed. "He gave me his dagger. I should have known he had another one. And even so, I should have thrown myself against the door, getting her out. There were so many things I could have done."

"Do not do this, Aragorn," Elladan said with vehemence. "Believe us when we say there was nothing you could have done differently. You tried to save her and it nearly cost you your life. You owed her nothing and you risked it all."

"I failed."

"People think you are a hero," Elrohir spoke calmly. "You said it yourself: you had nothing to risk, Aragorn. It took courage to go in there unarmed, not knowing what you were going to face. You almost died because of it. This should not have happened. You should not be here like this."

Aragorn did not speak, convinced of his guilt, knowing he could not tell them how he felt. His brothers loved him dearly. Arwen would give up her immortality for him. But what had he offered them in return? Fear and anxiety, terror and a horrifying image of his possible death.

"What happened to Calendil?" he finally asked.

"He is very much alive and waiting to be brought to the Citadel," Elrohir said. "He killed more girls there. They will put him to trial and hopefully execute him, even though they might lock him up in the dungeons forever too."

"What would you prefer?" Elrohir asked quietly.

Aragorn thought this over. "Someone like him does not deserve an easy, merciful death."

"I see." Aragorn closed his eyes and recalled the moment the girl died in his arms. How would he ever be able to forget that? How could he live on when her blood was still upon his hands? He should have protected her.

"When you feel better, we will head home," Arwen said. "We must leave this tragedy behind us. You must forget that it happened. It is over."

"I want to see him."

"What?" Arwen rose from the bed, releasing his hand. "Are you mad? Why?"

"I need to know why he did this."

"You do not!" she said sharply. "Aragorn, think about what you are saying. You already sacrificed so much to help that child. You cannot risk more. It is over. She cannot be brought back and she cannot be helped now. We must move forward and past this - for your health, your life, your future."

"I want to know what lives inside his head," Aragorn said calmly, facing Arwen. "Do you not see?"

"No, you do not see. You will enter his world where he is in control. You will see what is inside his head and you cannot handle that, not this way. Calendil was - is - dangerous. He plays you like a violin, like he does us all."

"Arwen." Aragorn turned to her, grasping her fingers tightly. "I do owe it to that child and her family, and the families of all the ones he has killed. I do not care about the risks. He has killed me once; he cannot kill me again. If there are others like him – people who kill like him – I must know about it. Perhaps then – perhaps then we can find out what has happened to Erëa."

A silence fell as Strider spoke the name of the young Elf they had lost years ago. It had been a long time since anyone mentioned her, not since that day she fell into the hands of a human, dying as the child of Bree had done.

"This is not about Erëa," Arwen said firmly. "This is about you and what you need to reconcile with."

"It has everything to do with her, and what overcame her. I wanted to know then how she died, and I want to know why. The man who killed Erëa is long dead and we cannot ask him any more questions, but we can ask them to one who was like him. If we do not get answers, at least we tried."

"You are allowing him to meddle with your head," Elladan said quietly, "but we cannot stop you. You have that fierce glare in your eyes, the one that tells me what a stubborn human you can be. You shall speak with him then, brother. And I shall help set it up. But I wished you would change your mind."

"I shall not," Aragorn said.

"Rest then and heal so that you can face your opponent."

Arwen’s eyes sought Elladan’s, warning him silently not to encourage Aragorn’s wishes. Yet they all knew that the Ranger felt this was not over.

It was far from over.

After four days of resting however, the time had come to face Calendil once more. Aragorn’s restlessness had pushed forward a speedy recovery, giving him something to to strive for. The past days he had spent in the presence of his Elvish family alone, accepting only one other visit from the Council’s Chairman. All other curious citizens of Bree were kept outside by Elrohir who watched over his brother like a troubled father.

Calendil’s fate was still in question. Tomorrow he would be brought to Cameth Brin for trial, undoubtedly awaiting a life long sentence or death. The Elves had pleaded to keep him alive, defending that being locked up for life was far worse than a swift death. They believed firmly that no man should die, even if he had murdered someone else. The Councils of both Bree and the Citadel took that in mind as they sat together to discuss the trial.

During the four days after his capture, Calendil had not spoken a word, taunting his captors with fierce glances and smiles that toyed on his lips, revealing his uncaring and selfish nature. His misshapen body startled them all, making them wonder if he was truly human. Everyone came to see him but none received access to the small dungeons underneath the City Hall, where most people gathered to argue over what had taken place.

"Death to him!" people would often chant. "Death to the killer!"

Now the crowds knew that the Ranger who had captured him came to see him. Most had thought he would not survive, for the tales of his injuries had been widely exaggerated – or perhaps they were true. None knew the truth. They watched the pale Ranger who was dressed in noble attire and seemed strong despite his physical weakness. His beard was shaved and he did not look as disheveled as he had done that night when Calendil tried to kill him.

The Elves who were with the Ranger had already won their awe, for they came from Rivendell and were the children of the well-respected Lord Elrond. Their protectiveness towards the Ranger startled the humans – they had never seen such care amongst two races before - but they did not ask any questions.

It was so that the Council faced Aragorn and the Elves, speaking to them before allowing them to see Calendil.

"We have a great deal of gratitude to bestow upon you," the Council’s Chairman said, embracing Aragorn as if he were his best friend. "You have saved these people from an evil worse than any threat we have ever faced. May good fortune become your eternal companion."

Aragorn smiled, not uttering a single word. He was eager and nervous to see Calendil, wanting to face the man of whose face he had dreamt of many times now. He could still feel the dagger slash into his chest and throat, cutting so deep that it numbed him.

Arwen grasped his hand, squeezing it tight. She knew exactly what he was thinking. He looked aside briefly, finding her large eyes staring at him, supporting him. He nodded quietly and smiled at her.

"I wish to speak with him now," Aragorn said.

"Are you certain he wishes to see you?" a man asked. "For days now he has not uttered a single word about the murders. He is the most coldhearted being I have ever met. Why would he invite you in when he could have made a penance at any given time?"

"He shall see me," Aragorn said, "if only to brag about his killings. There is one thing that we share, My Lord."

"What might that be, Ranger?"

"We both fight for what we want. He never intended to let that girl live, but he found it quite amusing that I would sacrifice myself to try saving her anyhow. In his own sick way, he respects that. He did not expect me to live, and I am certain he is struck by my survival."

"Why do you wish to see him?" someone else asked, leaning forward. "Surely you do not owe yourself the pain of facing him again?"

Aragorn took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly as the throbbing pain in his right hand reminded him of the ordeal. "I do it because that monster in there has killed at least twelve young girls. Because he may have murdered many more of whom we do not even know. If we can put some parents at rest by finding their loved ones, it shall be worth the effort."

"He shall never tell."

"He will, for he is someone who wants the world to know what he has done. He has kept his secrets with him long enough. He shall confide in me and tell me the truth."

The Council murmured and then several nodded. Aragorn turned and smiled at his family. "Do not worry," he said. "This time, I am the stronger one."

The dungeons of the Citadel were one of the worst places anyone from any race could be held. It was there that they had put the murderer, feeding him water and bread and granting him no comfort whatsoever. He was treated as the beast that he was.

For the confrontation however, they brought Calendil inside the Citadel’s Court where he would be tried. It was a small room where he was kept, with two guards standing outside and two watching him in.

Aragorn slowly opened the door and heard it being locked right behind him. Through a small window the others could follow what was happening inside of the room. They would interfere immediately should something happen. Inside the room it was dead quiet, except for the breathing of two men facing each other.

"You are stronger than I thought, Ranger. I thought I had killed you." Calendil left his chair quietly, pushing himself up with his bound hands and turned his back to Aragorn, looking straight through the window at the others standing and waiting. His eyes were fixed upon Arwen. Elladan pushed his sister behind him and challenged Calendil to challenge him. Aragorn came to realize that Calendil did not know his true name, for it had not been revealed to him. That made him feel stronger somehow.

"Maybe I was not meant to die, just like that little girl."

Calendil turned to face him. "I hope you realize that I have been treated like an animal over these past days? I have hardly been fed and they mock me as if I am a caught Warg on display. I hate it here. It is a cold and dark place."

"Do you think you deserve better than this?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"Yes. Yes I do. I am human after all."

"Some of us think differently, Calendil."

"Are you still trying to get me to reply to questions, Strider? It is a shame that I have not killed you so that I would not have to listen to them anymore. You are wasting your time here. You already caught me. You have me, the beast. Locked and sealed. All you have to do now is kill me, end it. I am trapped like a caged animal, stuck in this dungeon. I cannot even drink fresh water of eat good food. All they bring me is old bread."

Silently Aragorn poured fresh water from a can he had brought into a cup and handed it over.

Surprised Calendil accepted it, bringing the cup to his mouth with bound wrists. He drank eagerly, allowing the fresh water to soothe his sore throat. "Thank you."

Aragorn sat down on the other side of the small wooden table that rested in the center of the room, beckoning Calendil to take the other seat. He did, and they looked at each other.

Calendil studied him carefully, just like Aragorn studied him. It was the first time the Ranger got a clear view of what the other human’s malformations were: his hands different than others, his back hunched, his face and arms and legs covered in hair. His eyes were hidden deep in their sockets, and his nose was large, as were his mouth and lips. He could still be considered human, had he not been so callous. Yet Aragorn knew that this man – should he shave the hair off his face and hide his malformations, he would be treated like any other human. It was almost as if he relished being different than others, using it as an excuse to kill.

Calendil on his part again saw everything that he ever wanted to be: a strong, tall human with strong eyes and a firm chin, a strong fighter’s arm – even though he had not been able to use that – and a will to do right. The Ranger’s eyes never darted away from Calendil, waiting patiently for him to speak.

"Does your throat still hurt? Your chest?"

"No."

"Are you upset with me that I stabbed you?"

"No."

"But you are angry."

"No, I am disappointed."

Calendil raised an eyebrow.

"You should not have killed the child. There was no need for it, as you already saw my blood spilled over the ground. You already stabbed me, quenching your thirst to kill. If you had let her be, you would have lived. Now I hope that they will put you to death and be done with it."

"You are a liar, Ranger," Calendil said slowly. "You would never have aided me. You would have killed me after I let her go, killing me so I would not kill anyone else."

"I gave you my word I would help you and you ignored it."

"Of course I did. Why would anyone help a beast like me? I am, after all, only meant to perish and rot away, am I not? You still do not understand how I could have done such heinous acts. You are here to question me, and hope that I shall tell you the truth."

"What is the truth?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"There are no truths."

"Aye, but there are."

"Alright." Calendil stretched his back. "I shall tell you the truth about me if you tell me the truth about the other girl."

"What other girl?"

"The one you lost. The reason why you walked into that shed unarmed in the first place and risked your life for a stranger."

"I do not wish to tell you about her."

"Then I shall," Calendil hissed, leaning forward while pressing his hands on the table. Aragorn remained unmoved. "Shall I tell you a little theory of mine? A tale that I am fairly certain is right?"

"Do indulge me," Aragorn spoke coolly.

"She must have been young, about that child’s age. Perhaps she was an Elf, or human, I do not know. She might have been older then if she were an Elf, but young still in their eyes and in yours. She might have been someone you played with, for whom you cared. She might have been a good friend. And one day, something happened to this little girl. Perhaps she was snatched away from her parents, taken in the woods where she was playing with her friends. Perhaps you were meant to guard her, or perhaps you were one of her young friends. Whichever way, you watched her die. You saw how a human like I killed her, took the very life of her and ripped out her heart and shattered yours. You were young when it happened, and you have felt guilty since that very day. You have always tried to find a way of making up for her loss, and you thought that you had found the means when you encountered me."

Aragorn paled, his features remarkably calm under Calendil’s inquisitive glare. "Nice story, Calendil. Now tell me your truth."

"Like I said," the killer smiled, leaning back. "There is no truth."

"Alright then," Aragorn said, standing. "I came to aid you but you do not wish help."

"How can you possibly aid me? Are you going to release me?"

Aragorn smiled. "Never. But I want you to make peace with what you did and make rights wrong. I want you to help other people come to peace with their losses too."

Calendil laughed mockingly. "So that is it then? You came to ask me how many I have killed. If I have left bodies to the wolves, making their families believe they have left for other places or new cities. You want to tell them their children will never come home."

"How many did you kill?"

"They say I killed fifteen."

"Is that correct?"

"I believe it is. I am sorry I cannot give you names."

"Why do you not show remorse?" Aragorn asked quietly. "Do you not regret having killed them?"

"No. And I will kill more."

"You will never set one step outside the dungeons of the Citadel for as long as you live, Calendil. You are going to die there. Either of old age, or under the executioner’s axe."

"Why there?" he asked.

"Because you killed most of the girls there."

"And they have a good executioner, and strict laws."

"Aye. That they do."

Calendil smiled. "It does not matter. I will get out."

"You will not."

"Mark my words, Ranger. Listen to what I am telling you. I will get out, and I will strike again. And we shall meet again."

Aragorn knocked his chair backwards as he stood up. "We are finished," he said calmly. "I hope you get what you deserve, Calendil."

"Strider!"

Aragorn turned around and looked in Calendil’s eyes. "You think that your demeanor hides your fears and anger, but your eyes cannot lie to me. You know that I am telling you the truth. We shall meet again and you can feel it too."

"If they put your head on the block, I will come and watch it, Calendil."

Calendil smiled, placing his bound hands forward on the table. "See you soon, Strider."

Aragorn trembled as he walked outside, shutting the door behind him. Arwen grasped his arm, holding him quietly. "Are you alright?" she whispered.

The Ranger started walking, sensing the urgent need to catch fresh air and get away from this place. He felt suffocated. Arwen and the twin brothers followed quickly, rushing after him as he strode out taking large paces.

"I cannot do this," Aragorn whispered as he stepped outside, trembling and taking deep breaths. "I cannot handle this."

"Handle what?" Elladan asked quietly, forcing his human brother to look at him.

"The memories – what he has done to us. This." Aragorn touched his chest where he could still feel the wounds on his skin and flesh. "I do not know how to forget."

"You will forget," Elladan said. "Not now, but later. It is a matter of time and healing. You will get better; you shall feel better some day. You shall remember but you shall move over it."

"Will I?" he asked trembling; staring at the building they had just left. "Men like Calendil should die at once. No trial, no sentencing, just death. Alive he is too dangerous."

"He is getting to you," Arwen said firmly, grasping her beloved’s hand and squeezing it. "Aragorn, you swore you would not let him get to you. This is what he wanted: your fears. Get out of his head, my love. Get out. Stop searching for her. It is long over."

"I thought I could do it."

"You cannot, not like this when you are weak and vulnerable," Arwen continued calmly, embracing him. "Aragorn, I have never seen anyone so dedicated to anything in this world as you. You were so set on helping that girl that no ten Wargs could have stopped you. You are so devoted to what is right that you sometimes forget there are others who do not feel the same way. This is not a black and white world. You must let the colors swirl, see the gray. It is over."

"I cannot let it go." Aragorn sadly turned to face his beloved, touching her face. "He wanted you, Arwen. He wanted you and he told me to trade you for the girl."

She held her breath at this new information, a detail her beloved had neglected to mention before - or had not wanted to mention.

"Do you not see?" Aragorn continued more softly. "If he is out there, he has every means and opportunity to kill you; to track you down and to destroy you."

"He shall not walk free. Ever. You must have faith in the men of the Citadel, in what they will do to him. He shall never see the light of day again."

"I hope so," Aragorn sighed, his eyes somber. "I hope so, Arwen." He leaned forward to gently kiss her and allowed her to caress him, to comfort him. He looked at his brothers, both so determined to protect them. He knew that as long as they all lived, they would forever remember these days.

But they were right: he had to let go. There was no other choice.

Soon after, Calendil was brought to the Citadel and tried. By that time, Aragorn and his family had returned to Rivendell, giving the Ranger the time he needed to recover from the ordeal.

Later, they heard that the Council had sentenced him to life in prison where he would live on water and old bread, suffering from day to day in darkness as the beast that he was. They did not grant him an easy death, or the executioner’s axe.

When they learned, the Elves were pleased. But Aragorn felt a desire to go to the Citadel and tell them they should kill him. Alive he would forever be a menace.

Yet, just as Elladan had predicted, Aragorn slowly started to forget. The nightmares that plagued him when he lay at night alone in bed, diminished slowly. At first they taunted him almost every evening, but soon they were replaced with happier memories given to him by his family.

And then, only a few years later, there were other problems to deal with. Mithrandir sent message to Rivendell, asking Aragorn to come to The Prancing Pony. He had been there several times since Calendil, but every time he had thought about the killer.

This time however, he had other things to handle. The threats of war came closer, the darkness was upon them, and Sauron’s veils threatened to suffocate the world. This time, when in Bree, he came to take four hobbits home, not knowing that it was just the beginning of the new War, yet at the same time sensing that it was.

The world would never be the same again.

Days, weeks, months passed and everything changed. Aragorn left Rivendell for good, leaving behind his beloved and his brothers, and Elrond. The Elves were preparing to leave for the Undying Lands and he did not know if he would ever see them again. He feared. He was afraid they would depart forever.

And then there was the Fellowship, a group of nine coming together to bring the One Ring to Mordor where it had to be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. During the months of traveling he no longer dreamt of Calendil, placing him in the back of his mind as a bad dream – a part of a past best forgotten. He made new friends of different races who would all die for each other.

He had other things to think about: his future, that for which he was born. The fear of becoming a king when he did not feel ready for it, a future that he did not embrace but reluctantly accepted, and then slowly grew towards.

There was so much happening. So very much in so little time. The Fellowship in danger, Gandalf’s death, Boromir’s death, the group splitting up, the fear for the two captured hobbits, going to Edoras, nearly dying, the battle at Helm’s Deep.

And then, going to Minas Tirith at long last, the White City. He had not seen it in many years and still he feared that he would not be a good king despite the fact he yielded the sword and had the healing hands to prove it.

When Sauron fell at long last, it almost seemed as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders, only to be replaced by another one. He was made king, and still he feared the future. He feared being alone.

He did not need to.

Arwen was there, and so where his brothers and his foster father. They were there to watch him become king and shed off his ranger-clothes for good. He had shed his skin and became that which he was born to be. And they were all proud. They loved him. They cared for him.

And they were there when he wed Arwen, making her his wife and Queen of Gondor. And that night, as she lay in his arms and caressed his chest, her fingers going over the old wound Calendil had caused, he knew that at long last everything would be alright.

There was a future, and there was hope. He had received them both.

The daily watch bored Khildol. It was not as if anything was bound to happen. The dungeons were as good as empty, with only three prisoners occupying the largest and darkest ones. And what could they possibly do? Locked behind bars they were – locked and sealed, some said.

There was breakfast at seven consisting of a small can of fresh water and last night’s bread. Then they could wash at a small basin at eight – otherwise the smell would be unbearable – and then they received ten minutes to stretch their legs for a walk through the dungeon’s carved hallways with iron chains wrapped around their legs which they had to bring on themselves before being allowed outside of their cages – and by ten they were back in their lockups where they would stay until the same ritual repeated itself in the evening.

During the day they had nothing to keep themselves occupied with: they possessed no weapons, no tools to carve statues with, no books, nothing. They could just sit on the ground and dream of better days. Go slightly mad. If they raised their heads, they could catch a glimmer of sunshine above their heads. When it rained, it poured inside the cells and the ground turned into a puddle of mud within minutes. They hated the rain.

Five years Calendil had been here, and every day was exactly the same as the one before. The prisoner knew when they would come in, and he knew how long he would be able to walk, and how far. Exactly fifty steps he could take before their time was up. Fifty steps! And then he would have to return to his cell already, forced to sit down and spend his day hoping for a miracle.

Calendil knew it did not take much to go crazy. All he had besides the loneliness was the presence of the two others in the same situation. Sometimes they spoke, but even that cost them effort. They were weakened by the lack of good food and freedom. They were slowly decaying – rotting like living corpses sitting in their cells.

Last week Romdil – their fourth prisoner – had been executed after spending three years in the dark. They had decided to make way with him at long last, putting his head on the block and taking it off in three hauls. The first two times failed, as the axe was too blunt and the executioner forgot to sharpen it first. Perhaps he did it on purpose. After all, Romdil’s crimes were even worse than those of Calendil, the notorious children’s murderer. Romdil had literally cut the face off his wife, eating the flesh. Someone who did that could not be allowed to live.

Khildol had pestered Calendil after that, telling him that he would be next, even though there was no such talk yet. Calendil was certain they just wanted to get rid of him, spare themselves the efforts of giving him food. He would never be granted freedom again.

From his cell the intelligent prisoner learned a lot about the outside world. Khildol was a talkative guy and not even a bad man. He felt a certain compassion for his prisoners, even though he loved to taunt them too. He would sometimes bring them little treats, like a pipe and tobacco, or sweets from the market. Other times he made them scrub the floors of their cells with the steel brushes he brought. Then he was only pleased when they literally rubbed the skin of their hands.

At times he was compassionate enough to tell them about the outcome of the war of the Ring and the changed world that followed after it. Despite Calendil’s hopes, good had won. He would not have minded being a minion for the Dark Lord.

Khildol watched his prisoner bemusedly when he spoke of what had taken place outside the Citadel.

"You would never fit in again," he would say, leaning with his back against Calendil’s cell, knowing that he was perfectly safe to do so. "The darkness has gone. People have changed. The evilness has left this world. Sauron has been defeated and the Orcs are most likely all dead. If there are any left, they hide out in what is left of Mordor. It is a good world now, with a king who is strong and fair."

"If he is that fair, why does he not free us?" Calendil bitterly replied. "Surely he would grant a few poor men like us freedom?"

"Nay," Khildol said. "He would not. What have you to prove to him that you have changed? Besides, he would not care about prisoners in the Citadel – even if he came from the North."

"The North?" Calendil asked. "What do you mean?"

Khildol then smiled, smoking his pipe. "The new King of Gondor – the rightful heir to the throne of Gondor – was a Ranger from the North - and to know that he has roamed around the Citadel many times is just strange, is it not?

"A Ranger?" Calendil repeated coldly.

"Aye, a Ranger raised by the Elves of Rivendell. He speaks their tongue perfectly and has their manners, they say. He is a fair king, attractive to the women but married to a beautiful Elf who has given up her mortality to be with him. They are a legend already, even if they have just gained the throne and are only just rebuilding the White City after Sauron’s fall."

"Is that Elf of his by any chance a black-haired one?" Calendil asked numbly.

"How should I know?" Khildol laughed, turning to face Calendil. "Ah, but I know why you ask that question, my friend. Perhaps you would even love the irony of your fate."

"Would I?" Calendil asked coolly, every hair on his body rising. "Why is that?"

"The King of Gondor is your Ranger – the one who put you here. Is it not irony that he should be there on his throne while you are here rotting away?"

Calendil gripped the bars, grunting as he realized that he had always known. There was something different about that ranger. He had sensed it then. He had seen it in his eyes. But for him to be the new King Elessar? To be Aragorn, son of Arathorn as they still often named him? Nay, he had not expected that. He had been known to him always as Strider. Nothing more, nothing less.

And here they were, divided by a few thousand miles and bars that would forever keep him in. Nay, this King would not grant him his freedom. He would rather let the axe come down on his neck himself, ridding himself of one of his demons.

Strider – or Elessar as he was now named – would never free him. So he would have to do it for himself.

Khildol was through taunting Calendil. He turned and kicked the younger boy hired to scrub the halls of the dungeons, making them clean from infestation and rats. Khildol killed rats all the time. He hated them.

"Work harder!" he shouted at the boy, happy to be in charge. He hated his job; he might as well have someone else to take it out on. The boy lowered his head and scrubbed the floors even harder, ignoring Calendil’s piercing glare as he approached the prisoner’s cell.

Calendil retreated back in his cell, waiting there and listening to the sound of the boy scrubbing the floor. He watched the child intently, knowing now that he would not be here for much longer. He sought his revenge and he would get it.

At night, when the cells were locked and darkness settled in, the boy finished his work and turned to Khildol who rewarded him with a coin. The boy stared into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of the illustrious Calendil, but failed.

"What has he done?" the boy asked when they walked outside together, not knowing the story behind Calendil’s lockup. He looked up at Khildol, the man who had guarded prisoners for the better part of twenty years and knew everything of everybody.

"He has killed many people – children like you."

"Why?"

Khildol shrugged. "Why does anyone kill?"

"Why did they not execute him then?"

"What is worse, boy: to be locked in the dark forever or to feel the swift axe of death upon your neck?"

"I would prefer the lockup."

"Why?"

"At least then I would have hope of escaping."

Khildol laughed. "No one has ever escaped these cells. No one ever will. All he has to keep him upright is his brooding and his thoughts for revenge."

"Revenge on who?"

"The one who captured him." Khildol placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. "Do not concern yourself over the filth of this world, my boy. These men are not worth it. Go home."

The boy sighed and left the dungeons. He felt sorry for the men sitting in the dark. And Calendil sensed that.

In the morning, the boy returned to the dungeons, finding Khildol there too, his face distressed. "I am feeling terrible," he said, clutching his stomach. "Mind the cells for a few moments, will you?"

He left before the boy could say anything. Terrified, he stayed behind, holding his broom in his hands. He stopped before Calendil’s cell, forcing himself not to stare at the man. But Calendil stepped forward out of the shadows, placing his hands on the bars so that the boy could see him.

"Hey," he said. "What is your name?"

"Amel."

"Amel, will you do me a favour?"

Amel shook his head no, and then waited hesitantly. He did not move on. Calendil smiled, knowing the child was curious. "Amel, I am going to die in a few days, do you not know?"

The boy shook his head.

"They came to me this morning, telling me that I will be put to death soon. I do not have much time left, and I want to spend it as well as I can."

"I am afraid of you," the boy whispered, turning around. "I dare not help you."

The child moved quickly away from the cells.

"No, wait! Do not go. You seem like a friendly boy. I will not harm you, I promise. I do not care about you. I just want some peace and quiet in my last days on this world. I want a few things. I have the gold for it. Will you help me?"

"No. I do not want to."

"Please. I give you my word I shall not harm you."

The boy eyed him suspiciously. "How would you get gold?"

"I hid it a long time ago, before they brought me here. It is buried in the ground. I will give it to you if you aid me."

"What is it that you wish me to bring you?"

"I want a can of the Inn’s best ale. And I need herbs – special herbs that one finds in the woods. You must go and pick them. I have pains, you see - pains in my stomach getting worse all the time. I want some relief of them. I will draw the herbs for you, show you what I want."

"And that is all?" the boy asked suspiciously.

"Aye, of course it is."

"You do not wish any weapons?"

"Of course not." Calendil smiled. "Why would I? I cannot escape, can I? Now move on lad and come back later with what I asked of you. Bring me the ale only when you bring me the herbs. Alright?"

"I do not know how I can bring that to you with Khildol seeing."

Calendil smiled, stretching out his hand and opening it. Inside his grip laid a small amount of crushed herbs. "Just pour that in his can of water. He will drink it and feel ill for a while. Do not trouble yourself – it is perfectly harmless."

Amel did not ask how Calendil got those herbs, fearing suddenly that there was a lot more they did not know about the man. He sighed, for he needed the money. He was saving up for a new life, somewhere far away from here. He wanted to begin anew without having to scrub the dungeons.

"Alright," the boy said. "I will come back." He did not take the herbs or cast another glare upon them.

Calendil did not say another word but sunk back to the ground, biding his time.

The next morning, the boy returned with a small parcel stuffed in his own small pack. He carried his brush like he did every day, approaching Calendil’s cell and opening his hand through the bars. Calendil let the herbs fall from his own hand upon the boy’s. In a swift move Amel let them slide in Khildol’s can of water.

To Amel’s surprise, Khildol did not take long to start feeling as ill he did the day before. He excused himself once more and rushed outside. Calendil grasped the bars and said, "Now, boy."

Amel gave him the the parcel and then left the dungeons quickly to retrieve the ale he had hidden in the back where Khildol never came. Calendil accepted his gifts quickly and then moved to the back of his prison where he dug with his fingers deep into the ground, leaving a small hole in the thick sand. Amel could see a lot of coins down there, and wondered where they came from. He had no time to think of it, for now they all ended in Calendil’s small parcel, amongst the herbs he had still left. Calendil hastily dropped three large coins in the boy’s hand. Amel smiled broadly.

"You did well boy," Calendil said. He said nothing more. Amel hesitated, fearing suddenly he had made a grave error. But in truth, what could a pint of ale and some herbs possibly do? All Calendil wanted was relief from his pain, surely!

The boy shrugged and continued his work, hardly looking at Khildol when he came back. Soon, all he remembered were the coins in his pocket. He was rich. Rich!

Calendil sunk down to the ground and opened the parcel with herbs. He smiled when he saw them. Slowly he began to chew on this, stuffing them all into his mouth and swallowing them eagerly. When he finished, he drank the ale.

Then, he just waited.

We shall meet again, King Elessar.

*

"Help! I need help!"

Khildol’s strong voice shouted through the dungeon’s empty halls, echoing against the dreary stone walls out of which they had been carved a long time ago. His voice sounded loud enough to alarm the night guard who had just come in.

Both stared in shock at Calendil’s convulsing body lying on the ground of his cell. His mouth foamed, his arms and legs spasmed. He lay with eyes open but was barely conscious.

"What has happened?" the night watch shouted.

"I do not know," Khildol retorted sharply. Both men entered the cell and stared down at Calendil, watching him convulse. Then Khildol sprung in action, grasping the man’s head tight and trying to calm him down.

"Let him croak," the night watch said coolly. "They are going to execute him anyway."

"That is why he must stay alive. This is an easy death. He does not deserve it. Go fetch help!"

The night guard hesitated, wondering if he did the right thing leaving Khildol alone with the prisoner. After all, they did not know how seriously ill the Calendil was. He stood anyhow, rushing outside to fetch the Healers.

Khildol groaned as he remained seated with the prisoner. The cell smelled foul. He did not want to be here, yet he was. He sighed, his right hand still on Calendil’s chest trying to calm him down, with the man’s head in his lap.

He startled when he looked down again and saw Calendil’s open eyes. Khildol’s first instincts warned him to run outside and lock Calendil up again, but he reacted too late.

Calendil grasped his wrist tight, pushing the guard away while pulling himself up. "Shout and you are dead," he hissed.

To Khildol’s surprise, the prisoner held one of his two daggers, pushing it against his chest. "What are you doing?" Khildol whimpered, his voice small. "Was this a trick?"

Calendil smiled. "If you stay calm, I will not harm you. But you are going to help me out of this cell, my friend."

"They will kill me anyway if I set you free."

"That is your problem then afterwards. I will give you gold if you stay calm and help me. Alright? Choose, Khildol: money and life, or death."

"I choose the money," Khildol whispered hoarsely.

"Come then before your friend comes back and wakes the city." Calendil pushed his prisoner forward out of the dungeon, holding an eye on his as he pushed the dagger against his back. Khildol started walking.

Calendil was barefoot, still clad in the old, tattered, and dirty clothes they had given him many months ago. Now and then they would give him something else but all in all he had been wearing rags for a long time. His beard was long and his hair fell over his eyes. He was hardly recognizable as the being he had once been. He was even more of a beast now, yet the long hair hid most of his facial features and made it easier to look at him.

"Open the gates," Calendil ordered as they approached the exit. Calendil had been here once, when they lead him to the cell. He knew the gates were always locked, and that only the two guards had the key.

Khildol did as he was ordered and walked outside first. It was dark out and the Citadel was quiet. A fresh wind blew through Calendil’s hair. He wanted to stop and embrace the world but there was no time.

Khildol bled: The tip of the dagger had accidentally touched the skin behind his tunic, scratching his neck. Calendil watched the cut and smiled. Patience, he warned himself. Patience.

"Do you have a horse?"

"Aye."

"Where?"

"Around the corner. Here."

"Good, bring us there." He pushed the guard over the square until they reached his stallion where it waited patiently all day for its master. Calendil could hardly believe it was so easy.

"Get on it. Do not try anything stupid. I will kill you before you are able to say your own name."

Khildol mounted the stallion and felt Calendil’s strong hand on the reins. Soon, the prisoner sat behind him and shoved the dagger against his back. He could feel the tip cut through his clothes.

"Give me your cloak."

Khildol removed it and gave it to Calendil, who shoved it over his back and covered his hair and face with it.

It really was that easy, Calendil came to realize when Khildol rode the horse out of the Citadel, leaving through the gates in the dark, nodding at the guards who eyed his passenger for a moment before looking away. There were constant visitors heading in and out of the Citadel. What did they care, really? Within five minutes the men had left the Citadel. Khildol rode until Calendil told him to stop.

Exhausted, the guard slipped off the stallion and watched Calendil in fear. "You promised to let me go," he said when Calendil approached him with the knife. "Please, I have a wife and child. I always treated you fairly."

"Aye, you did," Calendil spoke slowly. "That, you did. Thank you for telling me where I can find Strider. I will be thinking of you when I kill him."

Khildol did not cry when his throat was slashed. He did not think either. There was nothing but a void that demanded his body.

*

Thousands of miles away, Aragorn’s dreams were filled with blood. He held a girl – a poor, sweet and innocent child – in his arms. He touched the back of her head, staring at his fingers, startled, when they came back covered in blood. He cried out, holding her, losing her and letting her slip away from him.

When he laid her down on the ground, her face changed into that of Arwen. It was her eyes staring at him accusingly, asking him why he had not been able to save her.

At first the King did not understand what had woken him up.

It felt like something brushing past him slightly, touching his arm ever so lightly. He opened his eyes, startled when he did not know where he was. The room seemed strange somehow, unfamiliar. But he had to know it, his mind told him. He knew it as well as he knew himself. Yet now it seemed overwhelmed with shadows.

Then he sighed relieved, for next to him lay his wife Arwen and surrounding them were the walls of the Royal bedroom of Minas Tirith. Walls in which he had slept now for many months. This room had become a home to him, like his quarters in Rivendell had been before they had left so many months ago to destroy the One Ring.

Now, the Ring was gone and with it the threats of Mordor, now only a shadow-filled, deserted place. The destruction of the Ring had also taken away Sauron, leaving the world a better place than it had been in a long time. With its destruction, the Ring had unveiled the beauty of this world, making it stunning in its variety.

Aragorn smiled when he let himself relax and sink back in the soft pillows. He was still not used to being here yet, to be in her presence. Sometimes he had to pinch himself to make certain he was not dreaming. After all those years of yearning for her – almost seventy long years – she had become his.

It felt unreal that she had given up her immortality for him. They no longer had to argue about it or whisper when they met in secret in Rivendell. They could openly show the world they loved each other. He could hold her hand and squeeze it tight, disbelieving that she was truly his wife. And Lord Elrond was now truly his father, more so than he had already been before the wedding. And his brothers, who often traveled between the White City and the almost-empty Rivendell, were his kin. The marriage did not change his affection for them. He could not have loved his family more should he have attempted to do so. Yet it made it all very real somehow. He had a family.

Everything in the White City still seemed so fresh and new. Sometimes he woke up thinking he was still in Rivendell, or even in the forest sleeping by a campfire. Those were the moments in his life that he missed his old freedom. Yet it was nothing in comparison to the life he was given now. This was what he was born to do, and he would do it every day for the rest of his life.

He had given his heart and soul to Gondor, not regretting it for one moment. When the moment came to take charge, he had done so without giving it a second thought. The second he had made the decision to protect the people of Rohan had changed his course forever. The moment when he took the people of Gondor and Rohan into battle together, had become a desperate, groundbreaking effort. He shuddered to think how close they had come to losing it all.

He had never felt this relaxed. The time of the Orc was over. It was the race of men now who reigned Middle-Earth and rebuilt that which had been destroyed. Some days he woke to think about this situation – his fate. He was King now, no longer a Ranger. They called him Elessar, but his friends still named him Aragorn.

He liked both names, trying different facial expressions as a pass-time depending on what he was called. When he was Aragorn, he became the rebellious Ranger who had given up his life in the wilds and Rivendell. As Aragorn, part of him wanted to be dressed as the Chieftain he once was. With the name Aragorn, he was still Elrond’s son, living in Imladris with his twin brothers and Arwen, enjoying the presence of Legolas who often came to visit.

When he was Elessar – the name most people addressing him used - he was dressed in beautiful attire that felt as if it did not fit him, yet always did. He still carried a sword, but not just any sword: Andúril, forged out of the shards of Narsil. He just had to look at it to know that it was rightfully his and represented that which he had become. As Elessar he had made new friends and was respected in the world.

He often stared at himself in a mirror, wondering who this serious man was who wore the wardrobes of Kings and spoke like a King, choosing his words wisely and carefully. How had he made the progression from Ranger to King? How had he become this man, when it almost seemed like yesterday that Boromir had died to save the Hobbits? Where had time gone?

Perhaps there was more to contemplate. Yearnings of the past he had not dealt with yet. Hurts and aches, forgotten moments where life had been harsh and ruthless. Perhaps something from the past would some day come to taunt him, to tell him that he was still the same old Strider and that this Kingdom of his was only a temporary life. That perhaps all his happiness would be pulled forcefully from his hands; pried away forever.

He knew he should not think this way. The moments of doubt were supposed to be over. He was crowned King, proving with his Healing Hands that he had every right to be here, proving by leading them for a final battle against Sauron’s dark army, defeating them when Frodo threw the Ring in the fires of Mordor.

He belonged here now, as Elendil once did. The throne was his and he wanted to use it properly, to do well in this world. Was it really already a year since Sauron’s defeat? Was it really true that the walls of the White City had been repaired and again represented the splendor of the City of Kings? The traces of the War were gone, and all that was left to commemorate it, was the new statue standing on the lowest level as a memento to those who had died to save the city.

People forgot easily and these people were eager to move on and reclaim the life that was theirs. In a few months’ time they had indeed done just that. Minas Tirith was once again the most beautiful city in the world and its banners rose high to show its wealth and beauty.

It almost seemed as if everything that changed this world had happened only a few weeks ago, or days even. He still remembered the details of that last battle, and the coronation, and Arwen appearing so sudden – He still remembered how his heart had leaped out to her, admitting to himself at long last that this was what he had always wanted – And finally, all of his hopes and dreams had come true.

Lovely Arwen.

He turned to his side and faced her. She was fast asleep, needing sleep now as much as he did. Since she had become mortal, she had discovered needs she had not had as an Elf. The need for plenty and good sleep was one of them. And the taste of food – he smiled when he thought of that little perk. Before, it almost seemed as if Elves had no real care for feasts as humans did – even though they loved good food. Somehow they never seemed to need as much as humans did. But now Arwen was as hungry as him and craved good meals three times a day. She still did not eat animals, but she had discovered a good cook who prepared fabulous meals using the freshest vegetables and herbs.

Aragorn smiled, thinking of his marriage. It was worth it all. Since the day they were together, he had never been happier. Every single moment of their lives was perfect, every step a leap towards a road taken. With her, he could forget past his troubles and worries and the constant questions he asked himself about his kingdom. With her, he felt like himself, sharing his doubts behind closed doors and allowing her to comfort him and speak to him about them.

The one disadvantage of being the King was that every moment of the day was for someone else. Every hour was spent arranging things, speaking to people, making sure the country ran its course. Everyone seemed to want to talk to him to solve their concerns, giving answers to various questions.

Even though there were many friends in the White City, there were also some not. Aragorn missed Lord Elrond and his brothers, both still in Imladris and preparing to sail off soon. He had asked them not to, but they knew that sooner or later their time would come.

"It is the time of Men now," Elrond had told him before he left for Rivendell. "We do not regret that, my son. We knew that it was to come and we embrace the changes. Do not weep over us when we depart, for we shall be happy where we are and we shall be thinking of you and Arwen."

The King knew it was Arwen’s greatest sorrow to say farewell to her father. He cherished every day they received message from Rivendell, every moment a certainty the Elves had not left yet. Perhaps they would meet one more time before their time had come. It was something the King and Queen both hoped for.

Aragorn sighed, slipping out of bed. He walked to the windows of their beautiful room that overlooked most of the White City. Down there were his people slowly waking up at morning’s dawn, setting up the stalls for the morning market.

Soon, they would be selling fresh bread, vegetables, herbs and meat at the lowest prices, bidding against each other to compete. Arwen loved walking around the market. It was one of her favorite moments of the day, when she could spare an hour to rummage through the wooden boxes on the lookout for exotics brought from all over Middle-Earth.

The King usually spent his morning with his Council and the Steward of Gondor. Then, he would meet with those who brought questions for him from various parts of his Kingdom.

Already had the King traveled over the lands that were his, meeting with different races and populations; visiting those who did not believe that Gondor was free and had a new King. The shadows of Mordor seemed to disappear with his coming and when he left he would leave happier people who believed in a rightful future.

He would go hunting at times with Faramir – now one of his best friends -, Legolas and Gimli. Elf and Dwarf had stayed in Gondor at his request, wishing to remain there and be his friends. Gimli would soon go to the Glittering Caves underneath Helm’s Deep with his kin, a wish granted him after the War. And Legolas was speaking of setting up an Elven community in Ithilien. It would hurt him to see them go, but they would always remain close too. The Dwarf and Elf were the best of friends now too, following a long period of bickering while they traveled to Mordor.

Times had changed when Elf and Dwarf were able to communicate without issues, leaving room for nothing but friendship. That which remained was the ultimate sense of brotherhood that stretched far beyond the races.

Aragorn would never forget what they had done for him – how they had defeated the Paths of the Dead, challenging those who had dwelled inside the mountain – to come with him. They had placed their lives in his hands, believing in the fate that was his. He should always remember that, and he did.

There were old friends who had departed a long time ago too: the Hobbits, who had returned to the Shire with tales to tell their children, and Gandalf, who would go to the Grey Havens now that his time here had passed. He would not go alone, Aragorn knew. He had seen what lay in Frodo’s eyes: the darkness that lingered there after Sauron had been defeated. Those who had held the Ring were never the same. Unfortunately, neither would Frodo be.

Aragorn sighed. This was a morning filled with memories – both good and bad. No matter what the war had caused, it had also given him love and friendship. He should cherish that and be grateful for it.

Aye, he no longer was the Ranger he once was – even if Legolas often still named him that. He was now a man with memories, with a past that he cherished and a future that lay out in the open. Then why did it feel as if his past had not reached full closure yet? Why did he sometimes feel the urge to go back into the wilds and relive what he once was? No matter what he felt, he never lived to his needs. He had obligations now, and he would forever put those first.

Aragorn stretched his back as he stood before the window overlooking the market square. He heard happy chants and cheerful voices, people preparing for a nice and warm day to come. So strange that only a year ago, this very square had been filled with the dead, stacked there by their kin until they were ready for proper burial. So many deaths had occurred then, he remembered. He should never forget that.

He knew most of these people by name, except for the travelers who had come from faraway places to deliver and sell their goods. He liked the people of Minas Tirith: of all the men on this Middle-Earth, they were the most overt. They shared their belongings with others and lived good lives in which they laughed a lot. They did not hesitate to ask him questions and they did not put him on a pedestal. He could communicate with them as easily as he did with his friends.

Aye, living here was a good way to spend his days.

On the square a man stood looking up. He was cloaked and hooded and looking up at the Royal Halls. Aragorn did not see him when he turned and returned to the bed, slipping under the covers next to Arwen. In her sleep she pressed herself against him. He brought his arm up, allowing her to nestle into his embrace. Thus he fell asleep again, with the scent of her perfect hair upon his nose.

It was the best way to sleep before morning would break in full, leaving him once more without rest until nightfall.

Faramir listened to the sounds of the market quieting down, stood and opened the windows to the Throne Hall where they met daily to discuss the progress of Gondor. The Steward of Gondor – having been assigned to the task after his father’s death by Aragorn – noticed that the King was not himself today.

Often Aragorn’s eyes would dart to the windows, and he would seem almost eager to be out there, amongst his citizens. Lately, many had noticed that Elessar was quiet. He would not comment on it himself, nor say what the reasons behind his silence were. It was as if he struggled with certain aspects of his life, but none knew what those could be.

Troubled as he was by this, Faramir had gone to his Queen yesterday to ask consult about it. Clad in a midnight blue gown she had stood in front of him, smiling as she asked him not to be concerned over his King.

"My husband has a weary soul," she said, "one that has always roamed our world freely. Sometimes his spirit needs to remember that a time goes into another one, and that every new age will bring new fortune and luck."

"Is our King not happy then?" Faramir asked, troubled. "Surely he is feeling well?"

"Aye, that he is," Arwen hastened to reply. "It has nothing to do with you or his citizens, My Lord, but with his old ways of life. I am certain that often he would love to sneak out of the City and roam freely."

"Then he must do so!"

"Nay, it does not belong in his character now. He has his memories to go by. I am certain that his silence shall pass soon, as it has done before."

Faramir bowed, leaving the Throne Hall where he had met with Arwen while her husband was consulting about this year’s crops. The Steward of Gondor had served his King for a year now and he loved him. Aragorn – as Elessar insisted on being named by the Steward – possessed strong character and the nobleness Denethor never had. It was wrong to deny the Ranger’s claim to the throne, but a wrong that had been undone quite soon.

Faramir still remembered how his father had tried to kill them both. If it were not for Pippin and Mithrandir, he would have surely died. And if the King’s Healing Hands had not rescued him, he would not have stood a chance against the embedded darkness in his body and soul. And he would not have met his beloved either.

His thoughts filled with emotions of affection and love when he thought of Éowyn, his wife. What good fortune that he had found her. She had chosen to stay with him and share his life in the White City and it had been their best days. He would forever be grateful to Aragorn for pushing him gently into her direction. They had cast one glace upon each other and known they were meant to be together. Her unrequited love for Aragorn was soon forgotten.

In thought Faramir returned to the meeting room, hoping to catch up with the ending of the conversations. The crops had been growing rapidly and steadily thanks to a beautiful, constant bout of sun that oversaw them. The people of Gondor would not suffer from hunger.

"Faramir!"

The Steward of Gondor turned to see Legolas stride towards him. The Mirkwood Elf now lived inside Minas Tirith’s Halls and trained young soldiers how to fight with daggers, sword, bow and arrow. He was an able warrior whose skills did not go unnoticed in Gondor. Above that, he was also one of the few remaining Elves on Middle-Earth and a rarity in his own right.

Above all, the race of Men liked him and treated him as one of their own. To Faramir he was one of his best friends, as his bonds with Éowyn were strong before the Steward and the Elf had even met. The War had brought them all together, creating a bond that was almost as strong as that of the original Fellowship.

"Aye, my friend?" Faramir asked, waiting for him to catch up. Legolas walked quickly through the corridor, standing before him without as much as a loss of breath. His eyes seemed troubled.

"Have you seen Aragorn?"

"He is meeting with the Council to discuss the crops. Why?"

"I must speak with him. It is urgent."

"Is there a matter urgent enough to interrupt his schedule?" Faramir asked with raised eyebrow.

"There is."

Faramir opened his mouth to retort when his eye caught a glimpse of more shadows moving down the corridor, rising into forms of people he had not seen in a long time. In shock he stood when he recognized Elrond, Lord of Rivendell and his two twin sons Elrohir and Elladan. He never could tell who was who in the brief conversations they’d had.

Behind them was a small group of Elves, warriors of old. Faramir felt a cold hand grasp his heart. Elrond would never travel with them if there was no new trouble rising.

"My Lord Elrond." Faramir bowed for the Elven-Lord, waiting for him to speak. "What a surprise it is to see you here again. What brings you to our parts of the world?"

Elrond smiled nervously, bowing for the Steward of Gondor as a token of his friendship. Then he placed his hand upon the Steward’s shoulder. "My Lord Faramir, I have come with an urgent message. I must speak with King Elessar at once."

"Certainly, My Lord." Faramir turned and walked before the Elves to the meeting Hall where Aragorn sat in Council. As they entered, the members of Council turned and stared at the Elves. Soon, everyone stood and bowed, exchanging courteous words of friendship and appreciation of the old bonds that existed between Men and Elves.

But Aragorn was not amongst those present in the room. "Pray tell me where the King is," Elrond said as his eyes darted nervously about the room, "For I must speak with him at once. News has come to my attention that I must share, for it is grave and of utmost importance."

"The King went outside for a catch of fresh air, My Lord," one of the members of Council said. "He should be in the courtyard."

"Thank you." Elrond turned and followed Faramir who lead them down to the enclosed courtyard where they were expecting to find Aragorn.

They did. Only, not in the peaceful fashion they expected.

*

Aragorn took deep breaths, allowing the fresh air to enter his lungs and liven up his spirits. He was tired of all the meetings and eager to clear his head of any and all cobwebs.

This courtyard was probably his most favorite part of his new home, for he was the only one who ever came here. It was a small yard with two trees, a patch of grass and thick, high walls enclosing it. There were two entrances and exists leading towards it. One started directly from the corridor of which he came, leading to the heart of the building; the other way out lead to a stone staircase; and from there onto a lower level of the beautiful city.

He was used to being alone here. Everyone respected his privacy. Here, he thought of things of the past and present, of that which would trouble him or of the memories that he pondered in his thoughts. He often thought of Boromir as he sat here, remembering the man’s last words as he died in his arms. He could still see the man’s hopeful expression when Aragorn swore to protect the city. He had done so in every possible way, hoping that it would make a better place.

People had not been happy with Denethor’s choices of ruling and he had sensed that. What joy however would it have been should both brothers still be alive and by his side. Yet he was happy to have Faramir, especially after the ordeal his own father had put him through. It was a miracle the Steward had escaped with his life and sanity.

Aragorn would often stand from the bench and look at the scenting roses that spread over flowerbeds surrounding him. He loved flowers as much as he loved the beauty of the city. They reminded him of the sweet perfume Arwen wore, the scent of her body and her very presence. Without her, this would have meant only half of what it did now.

But this time it felt as if he were not by himself. As he sat on his bench looking up at the skies while enjoying the fresh air and pondering his thoughts of the day, he could hear a noise behind him. It startled him, for he was used to the peace of this place where none other ever came.

He stood and turned, surprised and shocked when he felt a sharp blade rest against his throat before he could fully turn, held by a hairy hand he recognized immediately. He would notice that hand from a thousand, for it was unique in its strangely distorted form.

No!

This had to be a dream. This could not be the hand that had plagued him in his dreams – the hand stabbing him in the throat and the chest, hurting him worse than anyone had ever done. The hand killing the girl lying for aid in his arms when there was nothing he could do for her. This was the hand of his foe – his enemy.

No, it could not be. It could not be!

He tried to shake the hand and the sharp blade that it held off, pushing himself back hard against the intruder. The other hand grasped his shoulder tight, digging deep into his flesh and forcing him to his knees as he groaned in pure pain. The fingers rubbed past the exact spot over his throat where he had been stabbed, leaving a small scar hardly anyone would notice. It was a horrible touch and one he would remember for a long time to come.

"Aye, it is I, Ranger," the voice whispered soothingly in his ear. "Do not worry. I shall not kill you today, even though you should start being more careful from now on."

"If I shout, you are dead," Aragorn whispered, horrified, feeling the blade against his throat as if ready to cut. "You shall not leave this city alive."

"Then so neither shall you. Do you think the good people of Gondor will miss their new king? What will they do without you? Do tell me that. Should they mourn his death or be happy that he is dead? Perhaps I would be doing them a favor. You must tell me so."

"Why have you come? How did you escape? I thought you would be dead, Calendil – long gone and forgotten by now, rotting away in the dungeon where you belong."

The hand roamed over Aragorn’s chest, finding the spot where the blade had cut deep. The finger prodded at the exact point, pushing hard into the flesh where the scar lay as a lonely token of their joined past. "Is there still a scar to remind you of me?"

Aragorn did not reply as the blade cut slightly into his flesh, causing a drop of blood to fall upon his hands.

"What is your name these days, Strider? Should I name you Aragorn, son of Arathorn? Or Strider, Ranger from the North? Or do you prefer King Elessar? What a mighty man you are now, and what an honor it was for me to be the one to nearly defeat you."

"You did not defeat me. You never shall."

"Why? Because you are the King of Gondor? Do you really think I care who you are? I care for no one but myself, so you should know by now. How many times have I intruded your dreams, Ranger-King? How many times have you cried out my name as you woke up bathed in sweat?"

Too many times, Aragorn thought quietly.

A thousand thoughts ran through the King’s mind as he stood there with Calendil behind him, holding a weapon to destroy him. The former Ranger was unarmed, vulnerable and alone as he had been that night. It all came back to him, every single detail of what had happened to him. His worst nightmare had returned, one he had forgotten a long time ago – or not.

Aragorn tried to turn and see if was really the misshaped man holding the knife, only to be rewarded by a strong kick in his lower back, sending him forward, crying out in pain. The King tried to protect his back, holding his one hand firmly against the hurt as he opened his mouth and grunted his scream, a cry muffled by the intruder’s free hand.

"One more move and I swear I will get to your woman next," the killer hissed. "Do as I say and none will be harmed."

"Why should I believe the liar?" Aragorn hissed darkly, desperately trying to restore to his full strength so he could at least fight this man as the Ranger he was.

"Because there is nothing else to do for you. I could easily slit your throat right here and now and there would be no one to save you. Or, I could let you live while you listen to my plans of life."

Aragorn did not say a word.

"I know you remember everything, Strider. For a long time, I was in your thoughts and you recalled the blood that I let pour out of you and the child. You lay on the ground dying, bleeding empty. I stood in your blood and I scented it, loved it. Blood is so good, Aragorn. It is like a source of life. You want to devour it, take it into you – and you want more, always more and more and then some. It is the most perfect thing in this world. Do you know that, King Elessar? Is that why you were so merciless for your enemies, killing those who opposed you? Should you not have embraced your darkness instead of fighting it?"

"You are ill, Calendil. You need help."

"Help, Ranger? Did you help me when you locked me up to forget in that pit? Did you care for me then?"

"You cared for none yourself."

"None ever cared for me. I gave the world what it deserved."

"How did you escape?"

"It was easy, and you gave me the reasons to do so. But it is alright, Strider. I came to help you, not to harm you."

"Help me?" Aragorn spat.

"I like you. You wanted a penance for that Elvish girl’s death, did you not? That is why you came to me. You paid more attention to her than you did to me. That is why you tried to save the last child – to make up for the past. But you did not listen to me properly, did you? You did not think that I meant what I said?"

"No, I did not," Aragorn whispered calmly.

"You failed then, but I shall give you the chance to repent for what has happened that day. You see, I know what you are like, Strider. You may be a King now, dressed in clothing that seems to fit you but you still have the same chin with the stubble beard, the same hair and the same expression in your eyes. You shall always be the man losing that little girl, no matter what you do."

"What do you want from me?" Aragorn hissed.

"You and I are going to play a little game, my friend. The game is called "Find the Girl". Have you ever played this game, Ranger?"

Aragorn felt his throat go dry. "No, I have not."

"Well, this is your chance to become a master at it. I shall be leaving you pieces of a puzzle, and at the end you will have recaptured the past that you have already lived through. Maybe this time though, you can save a young child’s life. But then you must listen to what I have to tell you. For, if you do not, I shall leave a trail of blood for you to find."

The hand holding the dagger eased some of its pressure. It no longer cut into the King’s skin. He turned slightly, catching a glimpse of a hooded and cloaked man holding a shiny object. The eyes told him that it was indeed Calendil. Those eyes, along with the strong, misshapen hands, were his alone.

Then Aragorn turned even more, hoping to speak to Calendil before he left. But then, as he did, he could actually watch the rock come crashing down on his face. The King felt a sharp sting in the side of his head as he fell forward dazed, catching the fall with one hand while the other rested against his brow, holding the palm of his hand against the bleeding wound.

Aragorn crawled up, forcing his legs to work with him as he stumbled towards the exit leading to the staircase going down. He tripped and fell, hardly seeing anything. He crawled up once more. Then he stood before the staircase, looking down. He saw or heard nobody.

"Aragorn!"

The King heard a very familiar voice call out his name. He turned and saw Elrond and his twin brothers rushing towards him over the small courtyard, followed by Legolas, Gimli and Faramir. Elrond grasped him tight, then placed his head between his hands and examined the wound.

"Come son," he said, placing his arm over Aragorn’s shoulders. Aragorn swayed but remained upright on his legs, forcing himself to understand what had just taken place.

"He was here," Aragorn whispered. "He was here, My Lord."

"We know," Elrond said. "And that is why we came, hoping we would not come too late."

Aragorn let himself be lead inside his quarters, listening to Faramir’s orders to his guards to find Calendil. He knew they would not find him. If there was one thing the killer could do, it was hiding.

The Throne Hall was filled with people when Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, walked inside accompanying the King. The Counselors and those present bowed for the King and his Elven family. Their presence had stirred quite a commotion in the White City, one that rippled through all the levels of Minas Tirith. It was uncommon for Elves to come, especially when most of them had already left for the Undying Lands. Even if they knew that Legolas, the Mirkwood Elf, often resided here, they were still not used to seeing so many of them. And how different they were, how gentle and pure.

Arwen, the King’s Queen, entered the room by her husband’s side. She seemed as pale and distressed as the rest of them. It was clear to all that something had happened to Aragorn, for his brow bore a wound that had not been there before. His expression was extremely serious, while a wrinkle rested between his eyes.

Here were those the King trusted. They were his friends, his confidents and his kinsmen. For these people he had given up his past life, accepting the present as if it had always belonged to him. He just had to look around him to find Gimli the Dwarf watching him friendly yet strained, and Legolas, who had plans to go to Ithilien soon.

And of course there were the dark-haired Elves: his brothers, his father and his wife. He smiled at them, keeping control over his realm.

"My King," Garé said, bowing before him as he seated himself on the throne. "Pray tell us what has overcome you. What news from this unknown enemy who has entered our domain?"

The King settled down, placing his hand upon Arwen’s as he smiled reassuringly at her. Her expression remained grave. He knew her well enough to know she was quite upset by the event, for it brought them back to where they had been many years ago.

Aragorn found Elladan’s eyes as he spoke, remembering that his brother had been one of those saying Calendil’s punishment should be eternal confinement and not death. He knew his brother well enough to know Elladan now blamed himself. The King nodded slightly at the Elf, showing him clearly he bore no grudge.

Elladan only smiled as he remained standing next to his father and his twin. The Elves formed a united group that would stand behind Aragorn, forever protecting him. And next to them stood one Dwarf, holding his axe before him as support, the way he always did.

None spoke, except for Aragorn and Elrond. It was they who had most news of the tragedies coming to the White City.

Aragorn sighed as he rose. "I prayed that we would be left from harm once Sauron was defeated, but I fear that now darkness again has come – not in the form of a being of darkness, but in that of a human who has done harm to others. He is someone who has crossed my path in the past, and who has apparently sworn to be my downfall."

"My King, you are wounded," Faramir said. "When any harm shall overcome you, we shall do everything in our power to stop this. We will find this man and end this before it has even begun."

"I thank you for your concern," Aragorn replied with a smile, nodding gratefully at his friend, "but I am well. He did not come to kill me. He came to taunt me."

"Taunt you with what, My Lord King?" Garé asked.

"He wishes to end something he has started years ago, before we left Rivendell to fulfil the Ring’s Quest. It is a long story and one that lies not in the happiest of my memories, I fear," Aragorn said quietly.

"Before we explain this to everyone, we must make certain that you are protected," Elrond said strongly. "The Lord Steward has confirmed and reassured me that all necessary precautions have been taken to secure your safety."

"My safety?" Aragorn asked, surprised.

"Aye," Elrond said. "For, if he decides to go after you to finish what he started, you may not fare as well as you did now. He has tried to kill you before, and he has shown that he can do whatever he wants."

„He will not succeed in that again," Legolas spoke firmly, his dark eyes filled with anger.

Aragorn smiled faintly. "That was before we knew he had dared to come," he spoke forcefully, looking at the joined company. "With all due respect, My Lord Elrond, he is not going to kill me. He wants to play games first. He shall try to relieve the urge for blood he has felt before, and then we will catch him as we did the first time around."

"Please fill us in," Faramir asked, even though Legolas had told him the basic story when they rushed to the courtyard to find Aragorn. Aragorn directed the Council and his Steward to listen and explained what had taken place five years ago.

The Council remained quiet after that, not understanding at first. Then someone said, "Wait, are you saying this man killed at least ten young children?"

"And he shall kill more if we do not stop him," Aragorn replied sadly. "He is unmerciful, has no respect for human life and wants to finish what he has started then."

"Then why was he not brought to death? Surely such a man did not deserve to live!"

"They were planning on executing him," Elladan explained, "but five years ago we felt it was better punishment to have him locked away for good. And what a mistake that was."

"So you could say," Aragorn muttered. "But that was then and this is now. Now we have to face this threat again."

"The people of Gondor will be horrified to learn of this," Garé said.

Faramir walked to the door when one of his guards beckoned him. Aragorn watched him from the corner of his eye, instantly noticing the Steward’s strained expression.

"Then it is our task not to distress them more than necessary. We shall send out an official warning, but we shall not frighten them beyond repair. This man wants to play a game and we shall do that, but not at by his rules – by our own."

„What reassurance do we have that he will play his games according to those rules?" Garé asked. „He might have changed. We all change. So how can we ‚trust’ in him?"

„He knows that we shall do anything to stop him. That is what drives him. He needs an audience," Elladan explained gently.

„Then let us not grant him that!" Legolas exclaimed.

"I fear it is already too late for that."

Those present in the room turned and looked at Faramir. The Steward of Gondor approached his King and quietly said, "They have found the body of a child this morning – a young girl with long, blonde hair -."

"- and blue eyes."

"Aye, My Lord."

Aragorn’s voice was calm, yet it quivered slightly, when he rose and said, "Lord Faramir, take me to her. For, it is she who has already suffered innocently, and I shall prevent anyone else from doing so. This, I swear. My duty is to protect these innocents. Already they have suffered so much. I cannot allow this to happen once more."

The Council objected against Aragorn’s decision, but none refused the King’s wishes as the group departed from the King’s quarters to see Calendil’s first new victim.

As Aragorn walked first, none could see the way he trembled, except for Legolas who walked determinedly next to him. The Mirkwood Elf knew they were heading for trouble.

She was young, very young indeed. Perhaps she was no more than twelve, but none who saw her knew. Her mother was not to be found. Someone suggested she was at an Inn drowning her sorrow. Apparently she was good at that, as she had become accustomed to drinking since her husband died a year ago as a member of Faramir’s army.

She died alone. It was the first thing Aragorn thought as he knelt by her side, unaware of the eyes of his friends following his every move. He was not a King now, not the ruler of Gondor. He was a man who felt a terrible sadness towards a child whose life was lost for nothing.

So young and she died alone.

The body was found behind her house in broad daylight but her skin felt cold and it seemed as if she had been dead for some time. Perhaps she had even perished before Calendil had come to see Aragorn. None could tell. But it was so that the small street behind her house bore no other homes and so it was a place unvisited by many. He knew where he could leave her to be found only much later.

"It is him," Aragorn said, seeing the blood on the girl’s face, hair and chest. It had poured freely out of her from various cuts and wounds, inflicted by a sharp blade. There were traces of footsteps embedded inside the blood. He had stood there, undoubtedly watching the girl’s breath of life escaping her. He had most likely enjoyed it.

"This child’s death could have been caused by anyone," Elladan spoke first unconvinced. "It does not have to be him, Estel."

Aragorn looked up at the use of his old name, given to him by the Elves when he was but a child. He smiled wearily at his brother, grateful for the little sparkles of hope Elladan insisted on giving. But it was time to face reality.

Calendil had returned and he meant what he said. From now on, every child was no longer safe. Every single innocent soul that lived in Minas Tirith was in need of aid.

Aragorn knew that this was only the beginning.

He sighed, touching the girl’s face. He made his decisions as he sat there by her side and watched her innocent expression. She had not suffered when she was killed. The first cut had been the fatal one – he had been easy on her. It was the smallest comfort he could give her, the slightest one that meant a little sparkle of peace upon her soul.

He rose and turned to face the friends who had come to help him, and those who had already been in the City. He could hear the questions the population had from a distance, their remarks as they wondered if they were heading for another fall.

Legolas came to stand behind his friend and shook him out of his reverie, reminding him of the here and now. The Elf did not speak a word, but his support and care was in the way his hand pressed the King’s shoulder. Aragorn looked up and smiled faintly, reminded of many moments in the past where Legolas had stood by his side in a similar manner.

"Bury the girl," Aragorn said. "Give her all the praise she deserves, the honor we must bestow upon her as the victim of a man’s wrath."

Then he stood and said, "Let us return to the Throne Hall. There are things to discuss."

The others stared at him, surprised at his behavior. He was polite and almost normal, but those who loved him dearly heard the strain in his voice. Aragorn, son of Arathorn and crowned King Elessar of Gondor was not happy.

Legolas’ eyes roamed about, finding the startled expressions on everyone’s faces. He nodded calmly, as if to tell them that Aragorn was well. The Mirkwood Elf felt the urge to use his bow and arrows, driving them one by one in Calendil’s body. What a gift the murderer had given them; what a plague he had started.

It was Elrohir who grasped his father’s sleeve and asked out of Aragorn’s sight, "Is our brother going to be well, Ada?"

Elrond nodded slowly, but even in that small gesture laid a hint of hesitation. He had seen what Calendil had done to Aragorn’s state of mind five years ago. It had been one of the most strenuous of times for all of them. For, how could one human possibly understand why another killed without remorse, without cause? And why would that human choose an unwilling victim to toy with, knowing that mental anxiety could sometimes exceed physical one?

Elladan’s eyes were somber, for he too recalled the blood flowing out of their human brother’s body. Aragorn had walked many paths since, but a large part of him was still lying in that shed bleeding to death. Elladan had not forgotten, and it troubled him that neither had Aragorn. It would not be difficult for the man to reach back into his depths and discover what he had left behind then.

Everyone could see that Aragorn was tired. The past year had been one of ordeals, starting with hope and care for the future but ending with an exhausted King who desperately needed some time to his family, to his own state of mind. Aragorn had accomplished so much: rebuilding the city, re-creating faith in the country’s Council and King, helping the people mourn – not forget – their losses, dealing with other countries and their councils, negotiating treaties that had been long forgotten, and apart from that trying to understand his own royalty. It was enough to bring anyone to the brink of exhaustion, let alone a man who had only shortly before fought against armies of darkness, leading his comrades to victory.

Elrond picked up the vibrations quite clearly. He knew his foster son almost better than anyone, safe for Arwen who also sensed the same strain upon her husband’s shoulders. Both Elves knew all too well that Aragorn would rather topple over than to admit to his physical weaknesses.

Elrond vowed to keep an eye out for his foster son. After all, no matter where he was and what he did, Aragorn was still part of his life and his family. That would never change.

*

The room filled with dread. Aragorn’s eyes found Elladan’s, and then Elrohir’s. But it was Arwen’s that distressed him the most. They had been there five years ago, as much a part of this ordeal as he had been.

Aragorn sunk down, staring at his hands. He remembered what it felt like to have blood pour out of one’s body. He knew what it was like to watch someone innocent and young die. It was not the same as death on the battlefield. It was far worse.

The King shook his head as he tried to think. He could not do this a second time. He could not go inside this man’s thoughts and find out what moved him. Some things were better left unknown.

But he had to. Calendil had come back for him. If he did not react, there would be chaos in this city. This child was only the beginning – left for him as a token of the man’s will and daring. He knew they would not find him in the City. He would hide, either in some dungeon or in another place unbeknownst to men.

He was serious when he said he wanted to play a game. Aragorn could not afford to ignore the truth. Arwen grasped his hand. He looked aside and smiled. Whatever he chose to do, she would support him. He knew that.

"My Lord?"

Aragorn looked up to find everyone’s attention drawn to him. They were waiting for a reply from him, an action that would make everything right again. He rose from the throne, releasing Arwen’s hand.

"This City is under siege again," the King calmly spoke, drawing everyone’s attention. "It is a different sort of attack and one that might strike the heart of us all. But we shall not allow this to happen. I want every house, every property searched. I want every citizen to look out for this man and bring him to justice. From now on, no child will walk our streets alone until we have caught this evildoer."

Aragorn turned to Faramir. "Steward, I want you to rule the City for the time being. I shall concentrate on this enemy until we have caught him. I must make a choice between this City and finding him. I choose the latter."

"My Lord King!"

"That is an order, Steward!" Aragorn spoke sharply.

"Aye, My Lord," Faramir replied obediently.

Aragorn moved forward quickly, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder. "I need you," he whispered soft enough for only Faramir to hear. The Steward sighed quietly and then bowed his head.

"I am sorry," Faramir said.

"What are you sorry for?"

"For this – these events."

Aragorn let go of his friend and turned to face his people calmly, finding Elrond smiling supportively at him. "We know nothing of Calendil. To find him, we must know who he was and what he has done. This will aid us to search for him now."

"And how do you plan on doing this?" Elrond asked, already knowing the answer.

"I shall challenge him to tell me. He was eager to speak to me last time. I am certain he shall want to do this again."

"My Lord King, it is foolish to challenge him!" Garé exclaimed as the Council’s spokesperson. "What shall happen to our city if anything overcomes you? Surely you must stay here and be protected. Let others find him and execute him. Your City needs you."

"I will not sit back and watch this happen!" Aragorn said strongly. "This is my City as you have pointed out, and I shall protect it any way that I can."

"By sacrificing yourself?"

"There is no talk of sacrifice," Aragorn emphasized strongly, demonstrating his Council of his rights. "I am protected by all of you, by my Elven family and my friends. I fear nothing when they are by my side. But you must support this decision. I cannot concentrate on this City if Calendil wanders about. I must trust in Lord Faramir to take my place for now, for he is strong of will and knows what to do. I cannot ask anyone of you to fight Calendil for me. He shall not allow it, and neither will I. This is my battle."

"No."

Aragorn turned to find Legolas step forward. "This is not your battle alone. You have your friends, and we shall not part from you."

"Aye!" Gimli said strongly, stepping next to his Elven friend. "A long time ago we vowed to say true to ourselves. This is the time to renew those vows. You have my axe too, and I shall cleave his skull with it."

Aragorn smiled, placing his hand upon his friends’ shoulders. "Thank you," he said gratefully, "for being here. For being my friends."

"Is there room for three more?" asked Elrond. Aragorn turned to find his foster father standing behind him. His twin sons stood side by side with their father.

"Aye, there is," Aragorn said gratefully. "I thank you for coming to our aid, My Lord Elrond. Your help is kindly appreciated."

Aragorn turned to face Garé and his Council. "I beg of you to support me, for your friendship shall suffice to get us through these harsh times. Support Faramir as your present Ruler, as you have once obeyed his father. I do not know what paths I must take, but I wish to take them with your friendship."

"You shall have it," Garé said, bowing for his King and his Steward.

Then Aragorn turned to Faramir. "You have been a good friend and I trust this City into your hands. I would not trust it to anyone else."

"I bow for your trust, My Lord."

Lastly, Aragorn approached Arwen, facing his bride. She had tears in her eyes but her face was determined and strong. "I want you to be protected," he whispered, touching her face. "He wanted you, and I fear he might come back for you."

"I wish to be with you."

"I cannot worry over the two of you together. You must understand that."

"I do," she said, bowing her head. "My Lord King has a heart filled with care for his people and I cherish the fact I have the biggest part of it. I shall remain between these walls and let the King’s guards protect me. But I shall not yield to this enemy. I shall fight him when the time comes should my King demand this of me."

"I shall ask Lady Éowyn to stay with you," Aragorn said with a wry smile.

"Her presence is of utmost welcome."

Aragorn leaned forward and kissed his wife gently. Then he turned to his friends and smiled, for it was almost as if a new Fellowship had formed, one without some of his old companions, but in a new group that stood by him and would follow him wherever he went.

"Come," the King said. "We have much work to do."

Elrond and his sons, Legolas and Gimli followed him as he left the room. When Gimli shut the door, Garé turned to his Queen, his Steward and his Council. "There has never been a King so noble of heart. Let it be known to all."

The Council nodded in unison and went back to work.

For even though there was a murderer roaming their parts, there was also life to be lead, and work to be done.

The uproar within the walls of Minas Tirith was not as great as it had been when they learned of the Armies of Orcs coming for them. However, it was almost as serious, for this time none knew who the enemy was. Perhaps that fact alone was even worse than watching the heads of those who had tried to free Osgiliath being thrown over the City walls. It might even be worse than knowing that Denethor had thrown his burning body off the highest peak of the City.

"Do not be alarmed," reflected the orders of the Royal Guards. "But beware of an intruder. Watch out for strangers in the City and report them. Look out for a man with mutilations, a face different than other faces. He might be hiding near your house."

The words frightened the City’s population but it did not alarm them. They would mind their children and hope for the best. The rumor that the King himself was trying to find this intruder calmed them.

For hours people would wait for further news coming from the meeting where the King was discussing his options with his friends and family. Others tried to see the body of the girl found murdered in her father’s house.

On the third floor of the King’s home, a meeting room was occupied with those who would try to find Calendil. Aragorn lead the way, offering food and beverages before starting the discussion. It did not go unnoticed to him that the others waited for his suggestions, for none of them really knew what the plan was – if there was any at all.

Aragorn settled down without touching the food or drinks and was in thought, a gesture that was not lost on the others either. Elrond was the first one to approach him, resting his hand upon the King’s shoulder. Aragorn looked up and smiled wearily, grateful for his foster father’s presence. It was only now that he realized how much he had missed him over the past year.

"You must eat something," the Lord of Rivendell said, offering him freshly baked bread. "We need to gather our strengths if we want to oppose this man."

Aragorn smiled and accepted the bread, chewing it slowly as he watched Elrond. He had not changed a bit as if the years themselves had no impact on him. He wondered why the Elven-Lord had not left for the Undying Lands; it was a question he was no going to have answered today.

"I have missed you, Aragorn," Elrond spoke gently, watching his human foster son. "You have grown into quite the wise man. I wish your parents could have seen you like this."

"Like what?" Aragorn asked with a smile.

"You lived up to your heritage. You have become the King everyone waited for and I could not be prouder of you."

Aragorn’s face lit with the Elven-Lord’s words. For years he had fought to be as good and noble as his Elven-brothers, always believing he could never live up to that, always detesting Isildur for failing his people. He had sworn he would never become his ancestor’s true heir by betraying those who cared for him, but the fear had been greater than anything in this world.

Turning his back to his heritage and becoming a Ranger was the only way he could prove his own worth. It had nearly cost him his life several times, as he took chances with his health he knew he could not afford.

For years Elrond had told him about his ancestry, his fate and his future, and every time he had heard it the fear to fail had grown. He was afraid of what the crown of Gondor would bring and he had always ignored its possibilities until Boromir’s death. It was the Steward’s son’s love for his country and the White City that convinced him it was worth fighting for.

Before that, he had been one of nine companions bringing Sauron’s Ring to its doom. He had vowed to protect Frodo and he did, and then he his sworn oath to Boromir had led him further down the path. If he were a true King now, it was Elrond’s doing. His foster father had never lost faith in him.

Aragorn stood and embraced Elrond, smiling at the Elven-Lord’s surprise. He was used to the human touch thanks to Aragorn, but it remained an exceptional thing to experience. He could not love Aragorn more than he loved his own sons, trusting the future of his daughter in his hands.

Legolas and Gimli watched from a distance as both Aragorn’s brothers stepped forward and laughed, patting him on the back and embracing him too. Both were so similar, yet so different. Elrohir was the quiet one, but also the one in whom Aragorn always confided. Elladan was more straightforward, like his father, and the one who took action quicker than his brother. He was – after all – the firstborn of the twins and enjoyed that privilege.

"Aye, what a sight it is to watch the lad with his family," Gimli said, smoking his pipe in a good mood. "It is a shame that tragedies had to bring them together."

"There has been no tragedy yet this time, my friend," Legolas said calmly, "and there will be none."

"I do not know what you think lad, but I fear that there shall be."

"Is that your Dwarfish foresight speaking, my friend?" Legolas smiled.

"Mock me, but I can feel it in my smallest toes that we are heading for trouble."

"Then we must face it and hope for the best," Legolas retorted. "As long as we do not have to slaughter Orcs, I am up for the challenge."

"I prefer Orcs. At least you know they are stupid."

"Do you not think that this man is stupid then?" Legolas asked curiously.

"Anyone who kills in the dark is no fool."

"But a coward perhaps."

"A coward with a purpose is far more dangerous than Sauron’s greatest army, for he shall use the shadows to sneak up from behind and kill, "Gimli grunted.

"Then what must we do to lure him out of the dark?" Aragorn asked behind Gimli, startling Elf and Dwarf.

"Bring to him what he wants the most," Gimli said growling. "Bring the wolf to the food instead of the food to the wolf."

"How?"

"Find the traces the wolf has left. The one thing about animals is that they act on pure instinct. They will often go back to the place where it first started, for there they will feel comfortable and at home."

"He has come out of his shelter to an unknown place," Elladan said. "Master Dwarf, he does not want Aragorn to go back to the Citadel."

"Then he shall re-act what he has done. You must remember the details of him, of what he has done before and how."

"Gimli is right," Aragorn said. "And I know a good place to start." The King faced his friends. "Five years ago, when I held that child in my arms, I could smell herbs. He had fed her something to make her calm so he could bring her into the woods and towards his shack. Where would he find such an herb?"

"The Houses of Healing," Legolas spoke.

"Exactly."

"I will go there later and have a word with the Healers to see if they are missing anything," Elrond said.

Legolas directed his question to Aragorn. "Gimli and I were not there when all of this happened. I know most of the story but perhaps it would be good to know this man’s purpose so we can find him."

Aragorn sighed. "It does not matter," he said. "It does not matter who he is, for he holds the ropes now and we must play along until we are strong enough to stop him."

"Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Play his games?"

"Do I have another choice?"

"There is always a choice, Aragorn."

"Not for me," the former Ranger said, smiling at his friend.

"Why? He is no longer your burden."

"It does not matter whose burden he is. He has chosen me and I must pursue him."

"Aragorn, look at yourself," Legolas spoke. "Your eyes alone speak of the memories of what has happened to you five years ago. Then you were as agitated as you are now, as fearful of what had happened. You put the past behind you and it has cost you many sleepless nights. You are not rested, for there have been hard days behind you with many things to consider. How can you deal with this when you cannot deal with yourself?"

The room filled with silence when the others listened to the conversation between the two friends, knowing Legolas was right. Calendil did what Sauron could not: disturb Aragorn’s rest, make him afraid of what was to come.

"Humans do not crumble, my friend. You should know that by now. I have lived through many ordeals in my life and there shall be many more. He will not wear me down. I promise you this."

"How far do you need to go then? When will you stop?"

"When he is found and dead – for that is what I have promised."

"Aragorn, do not carry this burden alone," Legolas pleaded with him. "Rely on your friends."

"I am," Aragorn said. "I know this is not something I must do alone." The King touched his forehead, feeling for the previously inflicted wound.

"Let us get to work then," Gimli grunted. "Time is not on our side, is it?"

"Nay," Elladan said. "Come Elrohir, let us speak to Faramir and see if we can aid his guards."

The two brothers left the room, followed by their father who wanted to visit the Houses of Healing. The three friends remained behind. Aragorn sat down and moved his hands almost silently in his lap. They trembled.

Legolas watched him, placing his hand upon his. "Are you well, Aragorn? Do not lie to me, for I know it when you do."

"No," the Ranger said, answering truthfully. "I am not well, but if you ask me again I shall lie."

"Do not hide your fears from us. We have traveled this world with you and done many things together. Give us your trust to keep your sanity and your strength."

"That you may have," Aragorn smiled wearily. "As long as you promise me to give it back."

"You carry the burden of the past upon your shoulders, lad," Gimli said. "Give it to someone else and concentrate on your future."

A hard knock on the door startled them. All three looked up to find Faramir enter. "My Lord King," he said, holding a scroll in his hands. "This came for you."

"What is it, Faramir?"

"A message from Calendil."

Startled, all four stared at each other. Slowly Aragorn rose and accepted the scroll. It almost seemed to burn in his fingertips. "Did you read it?" he asked.

"No, it was delivered by a young boy who received it from a man he did not know. He said the stranger wore a dark cloak and hood. The guards have explored the second level where it was handed to the boy, but found nothing. They are still searching through every house."

Aragorn’s fingers toyed with the scroll, slowly opening it.

"No!" Legolas stopped the King. "Do no play his games, Aragorn. He will hold you in his grip."

Aragorn slightly wavered. And then he opened the scroll, written in Common Words.

Aragorn’s eyes explored the rest of the scroll, reading aloud to his friends. His voice quivered now and then as he tried to keep his emotions from the text sent to him.

"He shall find his next victim the same way," Aragorn quietly said as he placed down the scroll and faced the others. Faramir’s face was as white as a sheet but he hid his emotions well. Years of practice with his father had taught him to conceal his thoughts, to keep what he feared the most inside.

Legolas made less effort of hiding what he felt. The Elf’s eyes spoke of the anger he felt towards Calendil when he spoke, "So what must we do? Go to every house and protect every child?"

"If needs be. He will be going around the Inns to locate those without proper parents, those abandoned either by neglect or sadness. He has an eye for those children and he uses his mutilated body to get sympathy from them."

"Where shall we begin?"

"At the beginning," Gimli said strongly. "The old-fashioned way."

The door opened, allowing Elrond inside the room. "I fear our suspicions were right. He has been inside the Houses of Healing and has stolen several sedating herbs."

"How many?"

"Enough to sedate an army; I fear he knew exactly what to look for. He has taken strong ones that will render one vulnerable for a lengthy period of time."

"So he can do what he wants with them," Legolas whispered distressedly. The Elf looked angrily at Aragorn. "How can one human kill another so easily? What makes him do this?"

"Why does anyone kill?" Aragorn spoke quietly. "To survive."

"Not him," Legolas said, "he does not need to kill children to survive – he does not kill for food, or to live. What good is this to him?"

"To him this is a way of survival," Aragorn replied strongly. "He needs it to feel good about himself, about who he is and what he needs in his life. It is difficult to explain to an immortal, my friend. It is –"

"It is a human trade," Faramir interrupted quietly. "We all want things in life that are more than what we already have. Sometimes we would do anything to get them and often we have to take the chance to get them ourselves because no one else is willing to give them to us. So we hunt for them to until they are ours."

Legolas, Elrond and Gimli turned to face Aragorn who continued slowly. "There are times when we fight for what we need, and this demands sacrifices. But people like Calendil, they believe only in taking what is not theirs. They are hungry for that which they cannot get. That makes their lives worthwhile , for they have nothing else. It is like Gollum’s addiction to the Ring. He would have done anything to get it back. That is what Calendil feels."

Aragorn remembered exactly what the murdered White City child looked like. She was a beautiful child, one who would have become a very attractive woman. Large eyes, small nose, nice mouth and long hair. He knew what she had looked like before he even saw her, for she was a spitting image of the Bree-child dying in his arms.

Calendil picked them out because they all looked the same and Aragorn told the others so. These types of girls were his aim: beautiful and young, long hair and special features such as the large eyes. He wanted them fresh and pure, untainted and ready to become women. Their blood was the best.

Aragorn looked at his hands, unaware of the stares of the others. The tingling feeling that the little child’s blood had left then returned and burned the tips of his fingers. He could even smell it, that strange scent when she lay dead in his arms.

He closed his eyes, trying to recall the feeling of anxiety and hatred he had felt then towards Calendil. He needed that now to find this man again. But how could he, when there lay a war with thousands of dead and five years between then and now? He could not concentrate on it.

Legolas walked over to the former Ranger and touched his wrist, shaking him out of his stupor. The King looked at his friend. "Do not crawl inside his head," the Elf said, as Elladan had said then. "He is not worth your anxiety. This is what he wants."

"Then what should I do?"

"He gives you clues and you will follow them, until we find him and bring him to justice."

"This letter bears no clues – at least not enough to find him tonight. If another child dies, her blood is on my hands."

"Nobody’s blood has ever been on your hands, Aragorn," Elrond gently spoke. "That is only what he wants you to believe."

"We must find him before he finds another child," Aragorn said, rising. "I propose we go to the City’s largest Inn and wait for him there. If he wants to take risks, he will challenge me there."

"Us," Legolas corrected him.

Aragorn smiled. "I know that you want to protect me, Legolas, but I can handle myself. I must go alone for he will be expecting that."

"I will not be left behind, Aragorn."

"I am serious, Legolas. I do not wish for you to follow me this time."

"You said that before we entered the Paths of the Dead, and we did not listen then either," Gimli grunted, stepping firmly forward. "Do you really think we will listen to you now?"

Aragorn could not help but laugh. "Gimli, do you not think you will stand out in that Inn?"

"If you are referring to The Traveler I must tell you laddie that I know more folk there than you. After all, I have nearly made them rich." Gimli patted Legolas hard on the back, "and I am certain they will remember Legolas too, after all our drinking games. What do you say, Elf?"

Legolas pulled a face when Aragorn, Elrond and Faramir stared at him amusedly. "Drinking games?" the King asked, raising an eyebrow. "My Lord Elf, I learn more about you every day."

Legolas did not comment, even though his face seemed slightly flushed. Aragorn laughed as he followed the Elf outside. Elrond remained behind and realized it was a good thing to hear the King laugh again.

*

Twelve hours earlier Calendil was a free man when he arrived at the outskirts of Minas Tirith. For many days he had traveled, hardly ever taking time to rest himself. His thoughts of revenge were so strong that they kept him from sleeping, eating and drinking properly. He only stopped in smaller villages where he begged for food and was usually given something to make him leave again.

None liked his appearance even though he had shaved most of the hair off his hands and face, and tried to conceal the rest of his body under a large cloak and a hood that covered his face. Nevertheless most that saw him feared him, for he was different than they were.

He saw their children: young, pretty girls and boys, all openly curious about him. They asked him why he looked so strange and he said he was a poor man with a good soul, and that he liked children. Only once had he been tempted to kill but he resisted the urge, telling himself better things were about to come.

He had left no traces, or so he thought. He hoped that they would think he was still around the Citadel in hiding, or perhaps near Bree. He had killed his hostage, the only one who knew that he had found out the truth about Aragorn’s whereabouts. But he had forgotten about the little boy who had listened for hours, standing in the darkness.

When the Citadel’s Council came to investigate the escape, Amel – the boy - told them about the conversations between Calendil and Khildol and the mention of the King of Gondor. It was enough for the Council to send an immediate urgent message to Rivendell where Lord Elrond was informed of the man’s escape.

They all knew instantly what Calendil’s destination was. He would go to the White City and destroy the King. Elrond did not hesitate for one moment. Instead of sending messengers, he prepared to leave with his sons, hoping they would arrive in time.

Calendil did not know it but during his travel to the White City, the Elves were never far behind him. In fact, they were only four hours apart from each other because the Elves too did not stop for food and ate on the way. They took short resting stops and traveled as fast as they could. The party of Elves breathed down Calendil’s neck but he did not realize that.

After days of travel, he arrived at his destination. He stood on the hill and watched the beautiful White City carved into the rocks. It was absolutely stunning. He had never seen anything like it, nor would he ever again. A sting of anger and jealousy rushed through him. After all, why would the former Ranger deserve such a City when he had taken everything Calendil possessed?

Calendil knew he had time and the lack of knowledge on his side. He could easily kill several girls before the King would discover his presence, but he did not want that. He wanted to challenge Aragorn, for it was the only thing worth the travel. He did not care for his own life or for that of the children. All he wanted was to ruin the Ranger’s.

He arrived during night time. He left the horse at the first Inn he came across and then made his way up the City until he came to the top level where the King’s Quarters were. There, behind those walls, lived Aragorn. He did not approach the building but stood from a distance so that the guards would not spot him. He waited for many moments, hoping that Aragorn might sense his presence and come outside, but he did not.

At the same time, he made plans. Plans that he could easily execute, for there was something the King did not know and would not find out soon. Calendil decided that he had waited enough now. He would quench his blood thirst first and then decide what to do next.

He wanted to leave a firm message for the King: Look at this! Look at this body and know that I am here! Look at me and know that I am still thy enemy and that you shall suffer under my hands. This is who I am now, and you shall obey me, for I have returned and shall end that which is yours.

He would personally deliver this message to the King.

He killed the girl. He left her behind the Inn. Afterwards, he went to his shelter and watched the one who would hide him. His host stood awkwardly in the room and watched him. "You have changed," the host remarked.

"So have you," Calendil remarked.

"You smell awful."

"I need a bath."

He bathed for over an hour, leaning backwards in the hot water and pouring more over his head. He stepped out finally, reluctantly, and looked at himself in the old, cracked mirror. He had not seen his face for many years since they would not allow a mirror inside his cage. He had shaved himself blindly before, and he noticed the large plucks of hair that had grown back.

He shaved once more and cut his hair with a blunt knife. Then he changed into new clothing. He felt like a new man.

"None will recognize you now," his host said, looking at the mutilated hands. "Best hide those though."

"I will wear gloves."

Afterwards, he walked outside again, towards the Houses of Healing. He used the dark to enter the building which was nearly empty. Apparently there were hardly any ill or injured in the City. His host had said the King had the Hands of a Healer and personally healed most who ended up in one of the beds.

He stole what he needed: herbs and extra clothing he could not leave behind. He found them in a small room and they were so beautiful he could almost weep. With them, he would feel like a true Nobleman, one who belonged in the White City. It did not matter that they were not rightfully his.

Then he returned home again, feeling suffocated in the City’s walls. He did not like being in large places but he would endure it. At home he questioned his host about the King’s daily routine, taking mental notes as he listened.

He knew when he would strike first, and how he would do it. The thought alone made his blood boil in a pleasant manner. He smiled as he sat down and smoked a pipe while looking at the dawn’s sun slowly covering the City. It would become a beautiful day – one that Aragorn would long remember.

Calendil looked forward to the battle of wills.

He wondered who would win.

Sorry about the relatively late update, real life took charge for a couple of days.

I’ll reply to questions in reviews next time, promise! Thank you all for reading and reviewing. J

Late that afternoon, Calendil took his time to explore the White City. His hands were now gloved and his body clad in clothes that fit any City Nobleman. He was hardly recognizable, especially now that he had carefully shaved his face and cut the hair to an acceptable length. If one saw him from a distance, one would not even consider him as the killer everyone sought.

There were constantly hundreds of travelers roaming the streets of Gondor, most to trade products or to purchase them in the rich City. He blended in perfectly. He did not wince when soldiers rushed by him to search the houses and find the killer. They did not pay attention to those who appeared in beautiful attire and had the facial expression of a rich trader.

During the short pauses he had granted himself on the long journey to the White City, he had carved small wooden images that he kept in a pouch on his body. He had started to think about his game when he thought of ways to taunt Aragorn. It seemed perfect.

He smiled when a woman winked at him. He was shocked to learn that perhaps there was a bit of humanity in him after all. For years, hidden behind the hairy exterior and seeing only his strangely mutilated hands, he had thought he was not accepted into society. After all, those who saw him usually feared him. He preferred the smell of fear above that of love anyhow. But now, as the woman smiled at him and obviously seemed interested in him, he could not help but smile back.

The moment lasted only a second but it was enough to please him to no extent. He continued his journey then, carefully searching the lower levels of the White City until he found what he was looking for.

On the second level was a small, abandoned building with shattered windows that had seen its best days. He had noticed that they were rebuilding that which had been torn apart during the War, but some places still remained unused. An old sign said that this house had once belonged to Tharnól who had been killed a year ago.

He shrugged and opened the unlocked door, looking around. None noticed him, for the abandoned house stood in the back against the rocks and remained hidden from the main squares. He watched where he placed his feet, staring at the floor covered in wood, stone and shattered glass. It was perfect.

He listened to the voices coming from outside, hoping to catch conversations about him. The walls were thick though and kept most of the recognizable noise out. Quickly he slipped out of the building once more and started his ascend to the third level. The higher he walked, the more thrilled he felt. He was close to Aragorn and he could feel it.

He stopped when he suddenly spotted a group of people near the Inn. They were watching something. His heart beat. Had they finally found the girl? Were they staring at her, regretting the loss of her life? Would Aragorn be amongst them?

Calendil carefully treaded closer and then stood among the crowds who watched the small party that lingered around the back of the Inn. His heart stopped for one moment. For there he was: Aragorn, son of Arathorn - the Ranger who called himself Strider. His enemy.

Calendil remembered how he had trapped and attacked Aragorn in the King’s own gardens. He had always planned on giving himself away, of stepping out of the shadows and proving to Aragorn that he was stronger than him. It gave him pleasure now to see the King’s worried eyes as he found the child’s body and remembered their mutual past.

Before, while attacking him in the Courtyard, he had not taken the time to watch him but now he did. Aragorn had changed slightly but not that much. His beard was more trimmed and his hair a bit longer, but the eyes and the expression were still the same. This was the man who had challenged him and caught him.

If he looked up now, would he recognize Calendil? He had not seen him before, for he had concealed his face and his trimmed hair. All he had to recognize were the hands – now without the hair – and the voice. He was certain the Ranger had not forgotten that husky, calm voice.

Calendil watched the others who were with him. Elves, he recognized. Elves but the woman was not amongst them. He had not forgotten her either, for her fair face and innocent appearance had appealed to him strongly. If only he could find a woman like her: perhaps he would stop killing then.

The group returned to the top level. Calendil felt slightly disappointed that the King had not sensed his presence. Surely he had to remember that special bond between them? Then why did he not react?

He then caught the shoulder of a small boy and gave him a coin to deliver the first scroll to the Palace. He had written it early this morning. The reaction would be swift.

Special messages were delivered to every square, hung in the form of scrolls on the information poles so that everyone could read them. He was described the way he had been then. He smiled when he read about himself. He was to be considered dangerous.

That alone pleased him. He had a surprise in store for the King. Many surprises indeed – surprises only the night would tell.

*

A party of three joined Elrond in the Houses of Healing where he was still trying to discover what herbs might have been stolen by Calendil. From the look on his face, Aragorn could tell it was not good news that he had received.

"I fear he has stolen not just sedative herbs," the Elven-Lord explained. "It seems that he might have taken lethal doses of plants too that can kill any grown man. If he uses it, there will not be much anyone of us can do."

"Then let us hope he shall not use it," Aragorn spoke determinedly as he was greeted by the Healers who bowed for him. He knew these Houses quite well, for he had come here many times when there were ill in need of his hands. Little over a year ago he had saved Faramir, Éowyn and Merry from certain death after their encounters with Sauron’s armies.

"The room was unlocked," the Chief Healer spoke, "as we trusted all who reside here in Minas Tirith."

"And you saw no stranger?"

"No, not at all. Our guards did not notice anyone, for they would have called the alarm at once. I fear we have failed you, My King. Please accept my resignation and my outmost shame."

Aragorn smiled, placing his hand on the Healer’s shoulder. "My dear friend, it is not you who has stolen these herbs. You were not to know. I shall refuse your offer and beg of you to remain alert, for he might be back. Lord Faramir will arrange for extra guards around these Houses."

"There is something else, My King," the Healer spoke with relief clearly visible on his face. "I think he might have stolen clothing as well."

"Clothing?"

"Aye, there were clothes missing from an open room where some of us change clothing. I think it was he who took them for there was no one else here last night."

"Can you show me?"

"Aye."

Aragorn, Elrond, Legolas and Gimli followed the Healer into a small room where there was nothing but a small cot, a table and a chair. On the table lay various sets of clothing.

"There are clothes missing from this stack."

"What kind of clothing?" Legolas asked.

"Nobleman’s. Beautiful clothing."

Aragorn moved to the pile the Healer showed him and placed his hands upon them. Almost instantly, a surge of dread rushed through him, engulfing him and frightening him. He closed his eyes and tried to pick up on the sensations that rushed through him.

Behind him, Legolas stepped forward, staring at the human. It was Elrond who shook his head strongly as a token Aragorn should be left alone. The Elf again moved backwards and waited.

It was as if an unseen connection bound the King to the killer. The clothes Calendil had touched had left that trace for Aragorn to find. It was an odd sensation the King felt, like prickles of pain forcing themselves through his fingertips. He could almost see Calendil as he stood here in this room, shoving dark clothing underneath his cloak. Here he had been, here he had smiled when he thought of all the things he was about to do.

"No." Quickly Aragorn pulled his fingers off the clothing, breaking the connection. Then he rubbed his digits against his tunic as if he had burned them. He did not understand what overcame him, nor did he wish to comprehend it.

"Aragorn." Legolas did not stop this time and stood next to him, grasping his shoulder the way he had done when the Ranger had touched the Palantír for the first time to face Sauron’s wrath. "What is wrong?"

"He had that girl on his mind when he came here," Aragorn whispered, barely seeing his Elven-friend. "I can see into his thoughts – I can see what he wants. For years, he dreamt of killing again. It is on his clothes, his very being, everywhere – he pollutes all that he touches, and now he pollutes us."

"His thoughts?" Elrond strongly said, stepping forward. "Aragorn, that cannot be. No man can look into another’s mind."

"Yet I can see into his, or at least pick up fragments of what he thinks and believes in. He is evil, cold. He does not feel remorse. He will not stop before he is dead," the King spoke quietly, self-assured. „It is as if he wants me to feel it too, as if he urges me to do so."

"Why does he want the girls?"

"He does not want them," the King whispered, his voice barely audible as he shook his head. "He does not think of them. He is thinking … of me."

The others waited in anticipation for Aragorn to continue, but all the former Ranger said before shrugging was, "He is near. And he is thinking about his next victim."

Aragorn turned to the others. "He will find her tonight. We must look out for him, for he will not fail. He is cunning and devious. He has changed. He thinks he has become invisible because the monster has been replaced for a man again. He hides those parts of him that are different, having learned from his mistake. Come, my friends. The Inns await us."

"Aye!" Gimli snorted, turning to the door. He stopped when Elrond’s twin sons entered the room, both looking extremely serious.

"What is it?" Elrond asked, watching his sons carefully.

"A young child is missing. Her mother came to find aid," Elladan said. "Lord Faramir sent us. You must come with us, Aragorn. There is distress in the City and your citizens demand answers."

The King nodded calmly, his eyes filled with pain. Elrond stopped him before he walked out of the room. His foster son turned to him. "Do not take his thoughts into you. He will abuse you."

"I have not taken them, My Lord," Aragorn replied calmly. "They have sought me and claimed me."

After that, the King and his party returned to the main quarters where the child’s mother waited for their comfort and aid. With every step he took, Aragorn could hear the pounding in both his ears.

His thoughts were not with this child, but with the one he had lost a very long time ago. You have failed them all.

Tará, daughter of Herua, lived in a large house carved into the rocks with her mother and sister. Her father had been a tradesman but had been killed when heavy rocks fell upon him during the Siege of Gondor. He had left enough gold for them to spend the rest of their lives in luxury.

Herua did not have to sell her house, nor was she forced to find a position to maintain her standards. Then again, most who lived in the City had nothing to fear when it came to wealth. The King had ensured their standards and made sure that all the widows received an income that would help them.

Tará was a happy child despite her father’s absence, but her mother was not as content. She desperately tried to find a new husband – not for the money but for company. Then again, none could really live up to the high standards she had made for herself. None could live up to her deceased husband’s abilities.

It was that which made the widow a lonely woman who neglected her children when it came to love and affection. She loved them dearly but they could not replace her husband’s love for her.

It was this way that Tará could be snatched out of her house easily, for the door stood always open and Herua did not care about safety. Since the War everyone trusted each other more than before and she felt no need to lock her doors. Herua was in her bedroom crying herself to sleep with her eldest daughter by her side, when Tará suddenly saw someone standing in the doorway.

Blinded by the evening’s sun she could hardly distinguish the shadow of the man before her. Only when he came to kneel by her side could she see his gloved hands and his face that seemed dark. His eyes were friendly.

"Can I help you?" Tará asked politely, not believing for one moment that this man could do her harm. She stood and waited for him to speak.

"Yes, you can," he said. Before she could even react, he had closed the door quietly behind him and dug out a rag. He was by her side in seconds and shoved the piece of cloth over her mouth and nose. She fainted within five seconds, falling into his arms without as much as a second thought.

Calendil lifted her, her small body resting in his arms. Then she could think no more. She slept.

Herua left her bedroom just in time to see her daughter being lifted by the hooded man. "Tará!" Her cries died in her throat as she ran after the swift man, her arms groping in the air for a grip upon him. She came too late.

He slammed the door shut behind him. Once she opened it, he had already left. Hysterically she cried for aid as she ran towards the alley he had vanished into. Her neighbors stopped her, calmed her down and listened to her as she explained what she had seen.

It was they who advised her to go see the King, for there was a warning issued about a man who was a danger to every child in the City. Herua bit her lip as she rushed up the hill in hope the King would see her. She had not heard a thing. She had not known.

Why had she not known? Why had she not realized that her life as it were was meant to be doomed? As certain as she was of her despair after her husband’s death, as certain was she now that she was about to lose her daughter.

*

The rush that moved Calendil’s body came to a quick stop when he forced the girl inside the abandoned house and shut the door. It was only three doors away from the house where he had snatched her, hidden in the dark of the alley where hardly anyone ever came. The abduction had been perfect, almost as good as the ones he had performed in Cameth Brin and Bree. Well, except for the last one of course.

Calendil stayed silent as he brought her up the stone staircase to the first floor that reeked of bird’s remains and dung. When the girl woke, she would panic but he had given her enough to keep her quiet for at least a few hours. He knew he could not use this same house again, for it would be too dangerous to return here after he had made way with her.

He placed her gently on a bed and stroked the hair out of her face, watching her as she slept. She was so beautiful, so very innocent and so pretty. He felt a sting of regret rush through him. For one long moment Calendil wondered if it would not be better to be a regular man with regular needs. For one second he believed that he could actually live a normal life.

But then he caught a glimpse of himself in an old, abandoned and cracked mirror that still lay on the ground before his very feet, and what he saw distressed him. He could cut the hair and shave the face and hands but in the end he would still remain the old mutilated he.

He pulled off the gloves and stared at his hands and knew that they were made to kill. He was different than everyone else and he could not deny it. He was not human, even though he wore their clothes and ate their food. He was a murderer, a remorseless creature that did not care about anyone.

He shoved the gloves back over his hands and stood, straightening his back. Soon, little girl. Soon. And he will come for you and try to save you, but he shall not succeed.

If only Aragorn, King of Gondor, knew that his enemy was so very close.

The thought brought a smile on Calendil’s face.

*

Herua was in shock. She could barely sit up straight, let alone calm down as the King and his party questioned her and tried to help her. She was terrified from seeing her daughter taken away, and now the King sat before her and tried to speak to her.

She could barely comprehend what he was saying. All she saw were the Elves with their strong, serious faces and the Dwarf who carried his axe everywhere he went and the Steward of Gondor and his guards who all watched her. She sat in the center of the room and their attention and she hated it.

It was the King who finally turned to Faramir and asked him to leave, but he did not ask the Elves to do the same. When Herua looked up at what she suspected was the eldest of them and their leader, she found that the black-haired Elf smiled at her in a strange, comforting way. He nodded slightly as if he understood what she was going through.

And when she looked back at the King, she heard him say, "This Elf has raised me. I have trusted him all my life. I hope you shall grant me that same privilege."

The words brought tears to her eyes. Herua had not trusted anyone since her husband died and she had not put her faith into their new King, despite his obvious successes as he took the throne. She had been upset with the world. Had she not been, would the stranger still have been able to take her daughter?

She stared at her fingers and held her breath when the King placed his hands above hers and held them there so she could feel his warmth. When she looked up, she saw his eyes filled with concern and sympathy for her. He could comfort her without a single word. Finally, she wept.

"Herua," the King spoke softly, "I must be honest with you. Your daughter’s fate lies in the hands of a man who will kill her if we do not find her soon. We need your aid to retrieve her, for you are the last one who saw her and him. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary – anything that you might have noticed?"

Her eyes, shedding tears, looked up at him. "I – I do not know. I should have been in the front room with her but she was fine there. She always was. She was always safe here."

"Do you remember where he took her, in what direction? He was on foot, you said?"

"Aye, he was. He carried her like a lightweight."

"What kind of clothes did he wear?"

"Nobleman’s clothes – clothes like my husband used to have, but not as noble as yours, My King."

"Do you remember seeing his face? His hands? His hair?"

"He wore gloves," she spoke slowly. "His hands were covered with them. He had dark hair, right above the shoulders – not as long as yours, My King."

"What about his face? Did you see anything about his face?"

She hesitated and then shook her head. "No, My Lord."

"He did not have excessive hair growing on his face?"

"Not that I could see."

"What about your daughter?"

"She lay unconscious in his arms. There was a scent in the room, faint but sedative. I could not recall where it came from."

"He gave her herbs," Lord Elrond said, sitting down next to the woman without touching her. Herua looked at the Elven-Lord and found that she trusted him. In fact, she trusted all of them. "Your daughter could not have fought even if she wanted to."

"Why my daughter?" Herua asked with shivering voice. "Why take her? What has she ever done to him? She is only nine years old."

Aragorn slowly stood as he let go of her hands and without looking at anyone or anything, he said, "He took her because of me."

"You, My King?" Herua asked, rising too so she stood face to face with Aragorn.

"He took her because I failed to do my task when we first met. We allowed for him to live and gave him the opportunity to come back and take his revenge."

"But why her?"

"Your daughter looks exactly like the young child I could not save. He is reliving his past and forcing us all to do the same."

Herua shivered, pulling back from the King’s presence as she stumbled backwards. "So it is you that I must blame."

Aragorn did not reply, but it was Legolas who stepped forward and strongly said, "Nay, My Lady. Do not blame anyone but he who has your daughter. We shall stop him."

Herua felt the blood leave her face. Her body became faint and she shivered in cold. "Then find him before he finds anyone else. Kill him. Punish him in the cruelest manner so that he receives what he earned. But do not come back to me before you have found her."

Then she turned and left the room with square shoulders, leaving her King behind.

"She saw nothing and she heard nothing, neither did anyone else," Legolas said. "So what must we do, Aragorn?"

The former Ranger turned to his friends. "He could never have taken her a long way. He must have taken her down the back passages of our City, to an abandoned house or building. He will kill her tonight, for he will not risk keeping her with him for a long time. And he will want us to find the body." Then Aragorn turned to Elladan and Elrohir, hoping for them to agree with his suggestions. Elladan nodded slowly, aware that Calendil had returned to his old habits.

"He will need weapons."

"He probably already has them. He must have help from someone inside our City."

Elrond rose in surprise. "Why do you say that?"

Aragorn faced them all. "He has shaved his face and cut his hair to look more normal. He stole clothes from the Houses of Healing but he could not have gotten in there if he had not already looked like all of us. He came to the Citadel on horseback for there was no other way for him to travel. He must have abandoned his horse somewhere, and he must have found a place to stay. If we find that person, then we shall find him."

Legolas slowly nodded his head in surprise. "Aragorn, you are frightening us all," he said with a smile.

Aragorn looked back with a hint of amusement. "And why is that?"

"You know him almost as good as he knows you. Whatever bond exists between the two of you is strong but must also still grow. But use this gift – this connection – in another way."

"How?" the King asked.

"Focus on the here and now. Do not relive the past that cannot be undone but stop his future and what he is doing."

"You are right," Aragorn said, turning to stare at his twin brothers. "I feel, though, that you have to tell them the same. For, I sense extreme guilt from both my brothers. It is unnecessary."

Elladan lowered his eyes and bowed his head. "You are right, King Elessar. We do feel this is our fault, for we pleaded with the Council to let him live."

"Do not be so formal, my brother," Aragorn said with a smile, walking to his brothers. "I shall always be Estel to you. I shall never forget that it were your hands who kept the life in me that night. Without you, I would have found a grave a long time ago."

"Then allow us to help you now, for you have taken the burden upon yourself and we wish to carry it with you."

"Then pray tell me what to do."

"Retrace his steps and find where he would have taken her," Elrohir proposed. "Pretend you are him. What would you do and where would you go?"

Aragorn nodded slowly. "I would take her to the back of the City where no one ever comes, where there are houses forgotten by all."

"That is it then." Legolas shared a glare with Elrond and the brothers, smiling at Gimli who already rushed out of the room, eager to let his axe work.

"No guards," Aragorn warned. "Just us. We do not wish to warn him we are coming."

Legolas smiled. "You do not need to tell us, but you might want to warn Gimli not to breathe so heavily."

The Dwarf snorted loudly.

Calendil lifted the girl off the bed and held her on his lap, simply watching her breathe. What a gorgeous sight she was, so fair and so light in weight. She lay on her back, her hands tied behind her with rope that would cut into her wrists should she wake and struggle. He rocked her quietly, gently as only a father would do. His fingers followed the lines of her features and touched the contours of her innocent expression.

"Child," he said aloud, "Tará as you are named by your mother." Her name rolled over his lips and then changed into that of his mother’s. How he had hated her, detested her and envied her. How he still missed her, for she had been kind before his appearances changed.

She stirred quietly. Reluctantly he placed her back on the blanket on the bed and stood, delivering a sharp dagger from his pack. This was the one he would use, for it resembled the one he had used in the past. His aid had delivered it to him, purchasing it outside of the City.

Slowly the girl awakened, confused because the herbs played tricks inside her head. Calendil smiled and knelt down beside her, stroking the long hair out of her pretty face.

"Look at me, child," he beckoned her, and she obeyed.

The girl’s panicking eyes stared into his, trying to focus on her whereabouts. She did not know where she was and she felt so strange. So odd that she began to weep silently. She did not wish to be here where she did not know who she was and how she came to be here.

She struggled then to stand up, but she could not move without his aid. He removed the rope from her ankles but kept the rag tied before her mouth so she could not speak. Her legs were stiff and cramped.

"Do not be afraid," he whispered, pulling her once more closer to him. "I wish to help you. There was once a little girl as frightened as you are now, but she is much happier now. She did not like being here and she thanked me for aiding her. I shall aid you too, Tará."

She did not understand a single word he said. Her questioning eyes shed their tears and he was certain her mouth was trying to form pleads that would have reached his ears had he unbound her. Instead, he kept her tied as she was, knowing that a single scream would alarm the people on the streets.

He wanted them to find her after he had gone. It was not the time to find his death yet. But he would leave a surprise for them, one he hoped they would appreciate.

"Do not weep," he said, "for I will show you the other world."

She still wept.

*

"He is near," Aragorn whispered, restrained, "can you not feel it?"

Legolas turned to find Aragorn clutching his chest with both arms, clinging to his torso as if he were cold. It was a warm night though and one that would not feel cold to any soul, except perhaps those whose senses had been touched by the sheer evil of Calendil.

"Aragorn?" The Elf placed his hand firmly on the Ranger’s arm, stirring him out of his stupor. "What is happening?"

The King did not listen to him, for his mind seemed far gone and focused on the senses he had developed years ago, when he became a Ranger. His instincts had warned him several times, saving his life too on more than one occasion. When he chose to ignore that sense, he usually ended up in peril.

This time, he knew he had to listen, for the sense came strong and struck him like Gimli’s axe would hack into an Orc. It pounded the danger into his skull, telling him they had to watch their backs – telling him their nemesis was near.

No soldiers, he had said; no one to alarm Calendil that they were near. The Elves were the quietest creatures about and would not betray their presence by stumbling over a rock. They moved like shadows without footprints, like creatures almost floating above the ground.

In his past, the former Ranger had learned to be almost as quiet as they were, and now he used that skill as they walked down the City’s levels towards Herua’s house where the child had been taken. It was there – so Aragorn knew – that Calendil was near.

The King did not know the City as well as he wanted to, but he would wander about it alone at night without the knowledge of the guards to get to know its every rock. He loved its splendid houses carved into the protective rocks. He loved the stone walls built to protect it against all enemies, and he loved its squares where people’s voices would chant in good moods. He had learned there were darker sides to the city too, lingering in the back where no one sought them out. Not everyone was a form of perfection inside this City, and there were some who would do everything for profit. But there had not been a murderer inside the walls for many, many years.

It was there, right before Herua’s abandoned house that Aragorn found his thoughts wandering towards Calendil’s. "He had gone to the left," Herua had said, "To the left and then around the corner and then he was gone."

The Ranger followed that path. It was so that he felt the emotions wash over him, taking in the heartache and pain that came with it. Legolas’ arm still lingered on the King’s when Aragorn said, "He is very, very near. Search for an abandoned house."

The Elves spread but Legolas stayed near the King, watching his every move. He could not feel the same foreboding that Aragorn had, yet he did. The King’s strain flirted with the air, dreading his very being. He had only felt this way once before: when they entered the Paths of the Dead and faced its King.

It was Elrond who finally looked up and pointed at the cracked windows of an old building’s first floor where light burned. He did not speak a word. Aragorn escaped his reverie and looked up too, nodding slowly.

Unhurriedly, the Elves gathered once more, with Gimli standing before them. Quietly Legolas tried to push open the door but it did not give in. It was locked and sealed from the inside.

"Master Dwarf, it is time to use that axe of yours," Aragorn said. "He knows that we are here. He prepares to flee."

Gimli grunted loudly and raised his axe, almost taking off Legolas’ arm as he did so. The Elves stepped backwards and watched the Dwarf cut three times into the large, strong door, breaking it with a loud, crackling sound.

A piercing scream escaped the top floor of the old house.

"No!" Aragorn heard his own harsh voice as he pushed Gimli aside and stormed in, forcing his body through the remaining wood.

"Aragorn, wait!" Elrond shouted but the human was already inside, rushing through the house until he found the old stone staircase leading up. As he approached the top floor, the wood creaked underneath his feet. The floor was completely made out of it.

The King was the first one up with Legolas and his brothers breathing down his neck. Aragorn stopped when he saw the figure lying on the ground, covered in a blanket. She was alone. There was no trace of Calendil.

"Find him, he must be near," Aragorn said, pointing at the window near her body that lead to rooftops, giving the killer ample means of escape. Elladan and Elrohir rushed outside, cursing the fact that they were alone.

"Aragorn, wait," Legolas said, "It might be a trap."

The Elf delivered an arrow and strained his bow, ready to fire if the figure on the ground should prove to be someone else than the child. Its form seemed small but could not be determined properly with the blanket covering it.

Aragorn nodded quietly at his friend who treaded the floorboards quietly, placing foot by foot over the wood and the rug before her.

Aragorn, Elrond and Gimli heard it before they saw it. One second Legolas’ light feet padded the rug, and then they shot through it, losing the steadfast surface that carried them.

Legolas shouted as his body fell through the hole cut by Calendil and covered by the heavy rug. The carpet fell, followed by the bow and arrow. But Legolas held on for sheer life, his fingers clawing into the wood’s sharp edges where Calendil had sawed through.

Aragorn dropped on his stomach, grasping the Elf tight. The wood creaked under his weight as he held onto his friend’s life, watching his hands bleed where they struck the broken wood.

Then Elrond was near and he crawled to the other side where he could help pull Legolas up. Gimli used the heft of his axe to give the Elf something else to hold onto. Legolas shed his blood upon it and clutched it, not allowing his blood to loosen his grip upon the weapon.

With joined forces they managed to get Legolas back to safety, an effort costing them physical exhaustion. The Elf might not have died should he have fallen through the hole, but he would have certainly broken a limb.

"Thank you, my friends," the Elf sighed, staring at the gaping hole meant for Aragorn. He held his hands before him, and they could see splinters embedded in his skin. He did not seem to notice the pain. But Aragorn’s eyes were transfixed upon the blood, almost paralyzing him.

Aragorn finally turned his attention away from his friend, finding Elrond’s gaze as his Elven-father lingered near something lying to the ground. The Elf tried to block the King’s view, tried to stop him with the raising of his hand. But Aragorn already knew what lay beneath the blanket, for he spotted the crimson red that formed dark spots on the fabric above her body.

Legolas stared at the child too, shocked at what one human could do to another. Then he looked at Aragorn and saw his friend sway. „Stop," Legolas said, but he knew he was already too late to remove the dark thoughts from his friend.

Yet for a moment it was not the child Aragorn thought of. It were his brothers, out there in the darkness with Calendil.

No more blood, his mind screamed. No more!

Before anyone could stop him, Aragorn leapt out of the shattered window where small shards cut through fabric and skin. He was outside on the rooftops quickly, standing still as he tried to find his brothers rushing through the small roads and alleys that formed a labyrinth throughout the city. He heard Legolas’ voice behind him, shouting his name.

He could find neither of them, yet it was as if his instincts told him they were in peril. He jumped off the top roof onto a smaller one leading downward, and then his feet stood firmly onto the ground. He heard Legolas’ voice behind him but he did not reply. Instead, he walked to the right as he drew Andúril and moved forward.

Almost instantly a voice inside his head told him he was going the wrong way. He stopped and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths as he concentrated on that which lay ahead. Legolas noticed how the King’s head suddenly turned to the left and his eyes opened again. Determined, Elessar moved forward, striding hard through the dusty roads that formed small puddles of mud when the first thick drops of rain fell down upon him.

Legolas went after him, sliding off the rooftops with an Elf’s ease. The Mirkwood Elf had trouble keeping up with the King. He lost him a few times as Aragorn went left – right – left – right – straight forward – left – right, leading them past the rock’s edges and abandoned sheds. Then the King headed off a steep stone staircase to the lower level, left – right – left again, until Legolas saw him no more. He had never seen Aragorn go this fast but he could hear him panting from a short distance.

It was almost as if the King had forgotten why they had come here in the first place. He was wild with anger. Without even seeing the child’s lifeless body, the King felt upset seep through every pore of his body.

Aragorn’s Andúril shimmered in the dark, touched by little flacks of moonlight, driven by its master to be used as a lethal weapon; to destroy only those who deserved to be slain.

And then Legolas found him no more. He stopped and looked around him, lost in the City’s cobwebs. It was almost as if he were not allowed to be there. Perhaps he has to fight this one alone, the Elf thought, and then shook his head. He would never allow Aragorn to face his foe alone. Never!

It was a harsh, loud cry that made him look up, chasing the night away into the right direction. "Strider!" he shouted as he had done many times in the past, and he almost flew, bow and arrows ready to kill. This time none would stop him, no despair or doubts would keep him from his longtime friend.

Legolas stopped when he saw a sight that startled him. At first the dark heap on the ground seemed a flurry of arms and legs and bodies, entangled with each other. But then he saw that there was but one person lying on the ground and another one holding him tight, hovering over him and clinging onto him as the hands pushed on the other one’s chest. He saw the darker stains on the ground below them. He distinguished them clearly, almost regretting that he did.

He is dead! He is dead and I failed, Legolas thought miserably as he cautiously approached them. He knew who lay there on the ground – or at least he knew one of them. He could not see who the other one was. He had to come closer to distinguish that …

It was then that his instincts alarmed him, beckoning to him like a wolf to its prey, for him to say – to do – something! His sharp eyes found their target quickly, his keen ears caught the unnatural sounds that did not belong here on this small square where his two friends lay. He knew they were unaware of the enemy’s approach, for their distress was too great as it were.

"Aragorn, down!" Legolas’ voice broke the silence that lingered on the small and narrow paths behind rows of wealthier houses, where the darkness lay. Almost five seconds later he fired an arrow into the shadows, knowing it would reach its target, should the target not have moved by then.

The Elf had no time to think of that as he rushed forward onto the square, not thinking that he too might become a target for the night’s foe.

The human holding his brother’s lifeless body reacted almost immediately to Legolas’ cry. Aragorn let himself roll backwards to the ground, at the same time releasing his grip on his brother’s body lying in his arms. The dark-haired Elf’s head tilted back to the ground as he rolled away from him and onto his side.

Aragorn’s reaction came one fraction of a second too late. He could feel the graze of the arrow as it skimmed past his brow, taking away a small piece of flesh and skin before his upper body and head fell backwards to the wet soil.

Legolas’ eyes did not find the assailant firing the arrow but he could hear him leave. He ran too quickly for an injured man. The Elf felt a pang of regret rush through him for missing the target. He wavered between staying with Aragorn now laying next to Elladan whose unconscious form he had held, and chasing the one who got away.

"Go … go!" Aragorn groaned, his eyes opening and closing as he tried to grasp onto reality. He lay dazed on the ground but never lost his wits, knowing exactly what had happened and how. Another set of footsteps approached them. Legolas turned to find Elrohir run towards them. He made the decision to go after Calendil.

"I will be back," he vowed, his heart breaking at the prospect of leaving his friends naked to the enemy, yet knowing he would protect them at the same time. The Elf started running again, going after the footsteps that pounded on the cobbles paving the paths. His thoughts went out to Elladan lying ghastly pale on the ground. He had seemed dead.

Left – right – left – forward – up the stairs – right – left – right … left -? Right?

Then he stopped. The footsteps had stopped! They were gone! He groaned quietly, concentrating on finding lurking shadows or lingering viewers. He found none, for all the frightened people of the White City were inside their homes with locked doors. The streets were empty, the City seemingly abandoned. He had never felt the atmosphere of despair fall upon him this hard.

Frustrated, Legolas cried out loudly and then turned to return to his friends. He knew the way back almost blindly, this time not wavering for a single moment as his legs and feet hurried to bring him back. He seemed dead, he thought all this time. Dead.

The Mirkwood Elf found Aragorn’s Healing Hands back upon his brother’s chest when he found them again. Elrohir sat by them, holding his twin brother’s digits gently in his own. Legolas felt frustration when he saw what the King did: he gave his bodily strength to save his brother, placing his hands upon the wounds so he would live. The King’s Healing Hands could do much, but could they rescue an Elf who had been stabbed to death?

That was what Aragorn was doing when Legolas first found them, the Elf realized, and it nearly cost him his life. He had not seen Calendil return to taunt him, to wound him or to kill him. He had been a sitting duck, a prey for Calendil’s revenge should he have decided to execute that right there and then.

Instinctively though, Legolas knew the killer would not have murdered Aragorn like this. The game was still fresh and had barely even started. The arrow would have struck him in the shoulder had he not called out, or in the side. It would have wounded him and physically worn him out, but it would not have been deadly. Calendil had been too cowardly to try to stab the King. He had lurked in the shadows like a beast, aiming at his target when he knew he would not get caught.

Yet Legolas now felt guilty for causing the head wound his friend had been inflicted, knowing it might have been less bad had he not called out. His relief had been great when Aragorn had spoken almost immediately. For one second he had imagined the arrow protruding the skull, destroying his friend’s life.

"Aragorn…" Legolas approached the three brothers, afraid to disturb the strange reverie that existed between them. They formed a family and he was no part of it. He knew his best friend would give everything to return the Elf to the land of the living. Yet he wanted to stop Aragorn, knowing the King would sacrifice his own life without giving it a second thought.

A gaping wound on Elladan’s chest revealed the seriousness of his situation, one which Legolas feared the most, and one he had suspected when he saw them lying in the dark. Calendil did try to kill him, Legolas thought. After all, Elladan had been there, trying to catch him. They were all in danger, each and every one who befriended the King.

Aragorn gasped audibly when a bolt of reaction escaped Elladan’s chest. The wounded Elf sighed deeply, inhaling air as if he had not received it in many hours. Aragorn stumbled backwards as he let go of his brother’s chest, exhaustion overwhelming his wounded and fatigued body.

Elrohir gripped his twin brother tight, holding him against him and rocking him gently as he felt the strength return to his body. He cried. Valar, Legolas thought, Elrohir cries.

Legolas grasped his human friend, holding him tight against his chest so he would not fall to the ground a second time. "Easy," he said, "do not move. Just sit and restore your strength. Let your senses come back to you. Take deep breaths."

Aragorn’s hands leaned heavily on the ground as he fought against a wave of dizziness threatening to take him. He was exhausted. Legolas could see blood drip from his forehead.

Elladan stirred and opened his eyes as he lay in his brother’s arms, grunting slightly against the pain which held him in its grip. Aragorn barely noticed Legolas was supporting him. He almost wept when Elladan stared at him. He had held his brother’s life in his hands. He had felt it slip away as if it no longer belonged to him. He had gone deep to retrieve it for him, to bring him back where he belonged. He did not wish to go there again, not when his family was involved.

None of my beloved shall be killed by you, Calendil. This, I swear. The King’s determination was so fixed upon his face that it unnerved Legolas. The Mirkwood Elf could hear the unspoken words, understanding what they meant. Aragorn would go to the next level now, to take back what was his.

The King closed his eyes then and supported his head with both hands. So he sat, fighting against his own body. Legolas turned his attention to Elrohir, whispering, "We must seek help. I will call for Faramir’s guards. Stay here with them."

"They are already coming," Elrohir said, "look and listen."

The two Elves turned to find at least a dozen guards head for them, lead by Gimli and Faramir. The Dwarf’s shorter legs were as fast as the others, reminding Legolas of the many travels they had done together and the many miles they had run over mountaintops and deserted plains. It was the Dwarf who had retrieved aid and it could not have come at a better time.

"I thought you might use some help, laddies," the Dwarf said, his eyes finding Legolas’. The Mirkwood Elf smiled in gratitude and turned to Faramir, addressing the Steward so he would take charge. He liked this man a lot and had counted on his friendship in the past many times.

"The King is wounded," Legolas said, "and so are his brothers. Bring them to protection. I must find Lord Elrond."

Faramir was quickly by his King’s side, regretting he had not been here to aid them before. He had not known what Aragorn had planned and felt regret the King had not included him. Yet he understood. Had Aragorn not asked him to remain in charge? He had not wanted to endanger him too, knowing the City would fall without ruling if both of them were killed.

"My Lord," he said, gently helping the King up, startled by the feverish, haunted look in his dilated pupils. He had seen this before, when Aragorn saved his life by placing his healing hands upon his chest and saving him from the black breath. "How fare you?"

"Help Elladan," the King groaned. "Bring him to the best Healers."

"We shall, and you shall be aided too."

"Not now. Later." The King pushed away Faramir’s aid and stood on his own account, stretching his painful legs. His brain seemed to pound out of his skull and his hands were grazed from the cobble stones on which they sat, but he would not listen to the warnings of his body.

Aragorn’s hand touched Elladan’s face, willing his oldest brother to see him. Elladan’s eyes were open but he was in another world. He could not see his brother. "As long as I live, this shall never happen again," he whispered hoarsely. "This, I pledge to you, my brother."

Elladan did not reply, for he slowly sunk back into the dark. Already the healing process had begun, making it easier for the Elf to breathe. Elrohir helped the guards lift his brother gently and prepared to walk back with them to the Houses of Healing, knowing Aragorn was not ready to go yet.

Before going, Elrohir turned to his human brother and tilted the King’s face. In the Elf’s eyes it almost seemed as if Aragorn were younger again, going by the name of Estel. He seemed too vulnerable and yet too determined. He did not like the glare in his eyes, for he knew the King would easily take risks in order to protect his beloved.

"Come home soon," he said. "Promise me." Then he turned and left with Elladan, unwilling to let his brother out of his sight. All the time, his cautious and sensitive senses kept a lookout for moving shadows and the enemy at large.

Faramir stayed behind with six more guards, Gimli and Legolas. All watched Aragorn who stumbled into the direction they had come from, blindly leading them where the child had died. Legolas grasped his friend’s arm tight, only then feeling the sharp stings of pain that cut through his wounded hands. He had left a trail of his blood everywhere but he did not care.

"Come," he said, "I will aid you," and Aragorn did not protest. They used the same steep staircase again going up. Aragorn’s feet barely listened to what he was ordering them to do. He was exhausted beyond recall, yet not willing to give in to what he felt. Legolas would not let go of him.

Gimli walked behind them, watching the two friends he had shared so much with. The Dwarf’s body trembled in pure rage, horrified that only one man could hold such a grasp upon them. This was worse than a thousand Orcs – at least then they knew what they were facing.

In the house where it all started, they found Elrond sitting on the ground in the far corner of the upstairs room, some distance from the gaping hole in the ceiling. He had sent Gimli for aid earlier, sensing that his sons were in terrible danger. He could almost see it in his mind’s eye.

He looked up, his eyes filled with sadness when he saw them enter, knowing the truth could no longer be hidden. Aragorn was not ready to face reality but he would have to, for he was the link. Elrond’s eyes sought Legolas’, hoping to find a glimpse of reassurance from his friend that his other sons were well.

Legolas understood instantly and nodded calmly, his eyes distinguishing that this was not the time to speak of it. Elrond sighed invisibly and returned to the here and now, knowing his human son had need of his aid.

"The girl," Aragorn mumbled, disturbed, his pupils still dilated to Elrond’s distress. His son undoubtedly had a slight concussion; he winced against the light of the torches the guards carried. "How is the child?"

Elrond blocked his foster son’s view but knew he would not be able to stop him from staring at the child. All anger and fury had left Aragorn’s spirits. He sunk to his knees near his Elven-father and stared at the covered body. His hands reached for the blanket with caution, unwilling to pull it back yet.

He could not do it. He felt nausea overwhelm him and he struggled hard to fight it back. Yet he had to see her. He knew this night would haunt him forever in his dreams.

Elrond understood the King’s ordeal and placed his hand on his son’s shivering arm. Carefully and gently the Elven-Lord pulled back the blanket, revealing the girl’s face. Aragorn felt the ground tremble underneath him as he stared in shock at the child’s features.

Instantly he was thrown back in time, back to that moment five years ago when he had lost her so dramatically. He saw her bleed upon his hands again, watched her die again. He swirled through the room again, distressed and taunted by Calendil, laughed at and then stabbed.

He felt a rush of blood to the head as he noticed the back of this child’s head, her neck and throat sliced open and condemned into eternity by a sharp blade. The dark blanket underneath her had sucked up most of the blood. Her eyes were closed, her face pale. There was nothing that could be done to save her life. Her spirit had long left this room, even before they had first entered it. It was why Elrond had not stopped him in his frantic chase after Calendil.

Elrond moved to place the blanket over her face again but Aragorn prevented him. He could not stop staring at her. He placed his hands on the back of her head and closed his eyes, trying against better knowledge to heal her.

"It is over," Elrond said, but his son would not listen. Aragorn’s hands were so firmly upon her that they could see the digits turn white before they were coated in her blood.

"Aragorn, it is over!" Elrond repeated, his hands trying to pry her body away from his son’s hands. "Leave her be!"

Aragorn looked up when the blood touched his skin. He stared at her body and then at his father. There was no connection with her soul, not a single thread of hope left to return her to this world.

Gently he lowered her to the ground and let go of her, staring at the blood polluting him. Elrond tore a piece of cloth off his tunic and wiped the King’s hands with them, gently forcing his son to look at him.

"She is becoming so cold," Aragorn whispered quietly, standing. "So cold already …" He reached for the blanket and tried to cover her with it, but Legolas stopped him, taking over for him. He looked up and sought his friend’s eyes. The Mirkwood Elf shook firmly no and kept his hands in his, warming them.

In the back, Faramir and Gimli watched, knowing they were intruding in a lifelong friendship that had been built up on the day Aragorn became a member of Elrond’s family. This was a moment they could not interfere in. Both Elves knew how to handle the human, realizing his distress better than anyone. How many times they had sat together like that, Gimli did not know.

Once, a long time ago when Aragorn went missing and was presumed dead at Helm’s Deep, Legolas had shared a few tales with him. Gimli had not asked details, understanding the pain was too fresh and could not be shared. It was one of the reasons why Legolas had reacted so angrily when Aragorn seemed unmoved by the prospect of dying in Rohan. He could not understand how the human felt no fear of death and how he could easily sacrifice himself to the right cause.

Perhaps Legolas understood now, Gimli thought. After all they had gone through together to save this world from Sauron’s veil, the Elf had to know how the human felt. It was what made their friendship so great.

Aragorn found that his brain stopped working. The world turned into one black abyss, shedding its darkness over his very being. His legs buckled from under him. The King did not know he was sinking to the ground until Elrond’s strong hands stopped his head from hitting the surface and Legolas grasped his shoulders tight.

Together they lowered Aragorn to the ground so that he lay on his back. Elrond’s skilful hands explored the flesh wound on Aragorn’s brow. Aragorn’s eyes were open. His body shivered in cold and shock. Faramir removed his cloak and placed it over his King. He had ordered his guards to wait outside and now went outside to retrieve them. It was clear the King would not be able to make it to his home on his own account.

"What ails him?" Gimli asked, approaching them. The Dwarf tore up his tunic and set out to bind Legolas’ hands, not comprehending what had taken place earlier.

"He was struck by an arrow," Legolas explained, "and he gave his strength to Elladan. Elladan was …"

The Elf stopped, his eyes seeking out Elrond. The Elven-Lord understood; his eyes lit in despair. "So it was true what I felt," he spoke in sadness. "How fares my son now?"

"He will live thanks to Aragorn," Legolas replied calmly. "You shall see him soon, My Lord. He was already mending when his brother took him the Houses of Healing under care of the guards."

Aragorn’s eyes opened, finding the dark stains on the off-white ceiling that formed strange and small figures. For one moment he did not know where he was, until he turned his head and saw his father and his friends.

"Take me home," he spoke with a voice small and wounded. "I do not wish to be amongst the dead."

"You shall be home soon," Elrond replied soothingly.

Legolas reached for the girl’s body to lift her and take her to the Palace, when his eyes spotted it. A small wooden toy lay next to her. He picked it up. It was the body and face of a young girl he saw, carved by hand in a meticulous manner.

He knew what it was: a token for Aragorn that the games had only just begun. When the Elf looked aside, he realized that Aragorn saw it too and understood.

The silence was overwhelming. Not once over the past year had there been such quiet in Minas Tirith and it seemed to affect all who lived there. Most of all, it were the King’s Quarters where the quiet seemed strongest. One would walk on tiptoes through the corridors, hoping that one would not disturb the awkward reverie.

None knew how the King fared, for he had been brought back by his friends in a distressed mood, almost weeping. His eyes spoke of the heartache that bore like a knife through his chest, cutting out the most precious parts one needed to survive. Even though they had wanted to carry him back, he had refused to cooperate and stumbled back on his own account, almost proudly keeping his head high when he entered his Palace. He refused any help from the Healers or Elrond.

He insisted instead that they took care of Elladan. His brother had been stabbed in the chest once by the same blade that had taken the child’s life. Only much later would they learn how it had happened. The brothers had split up to find Calendil’s trace, listening to his footsteps. Elladan had picked up his trail quickly, allowing himself to be lured into the dark.

He could not remember how it happened, but he might have been startled by a sound, a noise, perhaps someone saying something and disturbing his concentration. He could not remember the knife plunging into his chest, or Calendil smiling as he killed him, hissing, "You are first, and then the rest."

He could also not remember how Calendil had shoved him to the ground and then waited; knowing Aragorn would find his brother. The King had come just like he expected. And he had taken out the King for the night, biding himself the time he needed to set up his next moves.

All knew Aragorn took the child’s death personally. He had informed her mother personally, too, telling her they had come too late. Herua had broken down, sobbing in the arms of the Elven-Lord who had come to aid his human son. All who watched felt their throats tighten as they stared at the scene.

She cried and screamed her daughter’s name with such ferocity it cut through anyone’s heart. Her chest heaved as she clung to Elrond’s clothing, pushing her face into his chest. He lifted her when she threatened to fall, cradled her when she needed the embrace.

Then Herua turned to the King and said strongly, "I wish it was you! I wish he had killed you then, as they told me he nearly did! If it were not for you, she would live!"

"Be still woman," Garé of the Council gently said as he took her out of Elrond’s grip and into that of the Healers who would sedate her and calm her. "Without the King, we would not have prevailed. None of us would now live. We would all be victims to the Dark Lord Sauron."

Herua spat on the ground before Aragorn’s feet, not listening to what anyone had to say. Then she was carried away. One could hear her sobs through the long corridors until they finally stopped when she fainted from sadness in Garé’s arms. They knew she had lost everything, even if she still had a daughter to attend to. In her world of blackness, she would never be persuaded to see the light again.

"She is right," Aragorn said afterwards to no one in particular. "He should have killed me then. It would have saved two lives already."

"Is your life worthless then in comparison to theirs?" Legolas asked, trying to get his friend to see the reality. "Is that why you all this attention to yourself? So he could kill you and be done with it?"

The Ranger’s eyes found the Elf’s bound hands. One of the Healers had removed every splinter until all that remained were small, bloody wounds that were treated one by one. If the Mirkwood Elf felt pain, he would not let on.

"I do not wish to see anyone hurt on my behalf," the King said, his eyes filled with sadness when he glared past Legolas at his wife. "I do not want to see my brothers killed; I do not wish anyone’s blood on my hands ever again."

"You cannot protect us."

"Then I beg of you to leave. Leave this City and return to safety!" With that, the King turned and left the room and was not seen in the Throne Hall since. He locked himself into his own quarters, allowing only the Elves, the Dwarf and Faramir inside. None of the Council or his subjects had seen him since, and that was six hours ago. But all knew he did not sleep and eat, not even when the full moon struck the early morning hour.

It was Elrond who found his foster son sitting on the windowsill staring outside, holding something in his hands only the King could see. Arwen and Legolas sat by the King’s side; Gimli had left to rest. Elrohir was by his brother’s side in the Houses of Healing where both now rested. Faramir had left too to be with Éowyn who had stayed with Arwen during the search for Calendil.

None could comfort the King; not even his wife who did not know what to do. She had watched him as he walked into his quarters, dried blood clotting upon his brow and his clothes torn and covered in Elladan’s and the child’s crimson red. He did not change, he did not wash up and he did not attempt to speak with her, avoiding her gaze.

"How is he?" Elrond asked in a hushed voice as he was let inside by his daughter. The Elven-Lord hardly ever let concern rule his voice but this time he took no effort to conceal what he felt. It made Arwen look up. She embraced her father, happy to have him by her side once more.

"Troubled. I wish he would rest, Ada. You must give him something to sleep, even if he refuses to take it."

"I am as concerned about you," Elrond said, touching his daughter’s face gently.

"Do not be, Ada," she said gently. "For, I am not the one who suffered tonight. Please, aid your son, for he needs your companionship and counsel more than he needs my presence."

Elrond stepped closer to the windowsill, watching Aragorn as his fingers played constantly and almost frantically with the wooden toy. His eyes were closed and his head leaned back against the stone wall supporting his back. Elrond could almost feel how the spirits of the King and the killer connected with each other, trying to share information they did not really wish to share. He knew Aragorn was trying to connect with Calendil once more, to seek out his whereabouts.

Elrond’s eyes narrowed as he inspected his son’s facial expression. And then he stepped forward and placed his hand on Aragorn’s upper arm, shaking him slightly. Immediately the King’s eyes opened. He knew exactly when and where he was, but the return to the present still came as a shock. Elrond could see the blood leave his cheeks for one moment and then return to fill his face with color. It was an unnatural color, one of fevers.

To Elrond’s joy, his foster son turned and faced his father, for the first time staring into someone’s eyes clearheadedly. The King was still stronger than ever, Elrond thought as he watched him, but he needed guidance and help. He could not handle this situation alone, even if he were to send away all of his beloved.

"He loved it," the King spoke, and the others looked up at him and listened. "He loved it that she looked like the little child that died in my arms; and he loved her. He knows that we are suffering. But we shall suffer no more. We shall find him, and we shall hunt him down and kill him. For, he is lower than any animal, any creature living underground."

Aragorn’s voice became sharper as his words became fiercer. They knew he was angry and it pleased them. They preferred him angry over upset. That emotion would bring him the strength that he needed to fight his nemesis.

"Do you know where he is?" Elrond asked. "The bond that exists between you must help you to find him."

"No. It is a dark place, a deep shelter, somewhere cold and dreary like the cell in which he has lived. He refuses to let me see it. I do not know where it is, but he is within the City walls. That, I can sense. I am too tired to see the details, My Lord."

"Tired, you are," Elrond gently replied, "and that is why I have come. You must seek rest now, for you will not help yourself and your people if you are weary and out of rest. Your friends will rest at ease too only if you have slept."

"My soul is too weary, Ada."

Elrond looked up when his human son used the Elvish word for father to address him, for he had not heard that from Aragorn in ages. It was almost as if they were back in Rivendell, back in the past where there was no talk of Sauron and the Ring that had changed this world.

"Then allow me to aid you. You suffer from fevers caused by that wound on your brow, and your spirits have endured great peril that will have their effect upon your state of mind."

Aragorn’s eyes sought Arwen’s and she nodded gently. His eyes then found Legolas whose eyes were filled with strain. He was exhausted but would not sleep as long as his friend did. Aragorn sighed deeply and then bowed his head in acceptance. "Please help me then, My Lord."

Legolas left and came back with a bowl of warm water and herbs fetched from the Houses of Healing at Elrond’s instructions. He found that the King had stripped off the bloodied clothes. His chest was washed by his wife and then he received night clothing. Arwen had washed his legs and his feet too and Aragorn let her, knowing it gave her comfort to care for her husband. He was too weary to protest anyhow.

Fully dressed, the King returned to the bed where he slept with his wife and lay down upon it, watching Elrond’s moves as the Lord bathed a large piece of clean clothing and used it to wash out the wound on his brow. It was but a graze and did not need stitches, but it had cut widely and left burn marks where the arrow’s head had struck his face.

Elrond finished treating the wound and handed his son herbs he knew very well. Aragorn had eaten them in the past, when his spirits were as exhausted as they were now. He did not object to eating them or to drinking the water that followed. It alarmed all three Elves in the room for they were used to remarks and upset.

Less than two minutes later the King’s eyelids grew heavy and he could feel his active thoughts slowly slumber away, going into the lands where there was no room for dreams.

"Sleep, My King," Arwen whispered gently, sitting by her husband until he drifted off into a soft sleep that would heal his spirits, if only for a little while. She then turned gratefully to her father and kissed his hand. Then she spoke to Legolas.

"My friend, you must sleep now for he will need you in the morning and you must find some rest too."

Legolas gently bowed his head. "With your permission, I will refuse to go, for I am too alert to sleep and do not need my rest as much as he does. I would like to stay."

"Then I shall take you from this room to find calming tea," Elrond proposed, looking at his daughter. "Will you be alright for tonight?"

"Aye, I will be now," she said. "My spirit is as tired as his, I will have no trouble sleeping."

"Then sleep you must," Elrond said and kissed his daughter’s brow. "Goodnight, Arwen."

"Goodnight, Ada. Goodnight, Legolas."

Elrond closed the door to his daughter’s room and left her alone with her husband, knowing she would watch over Aragorn. He trusted his son’s life in his daughter’s hands, for she had made him happier than anyone ever could. Their relationship was one of trust and love and he felt ashamed when he remembered his denial.

It did not surprise Elrond that Legolas leaned heavily against the doorpost outside the room, closing his eyes wearily as he rubbed his eyelids. The Mirkwood Elf had seen much tonight and feared just as much as they all had. He needed peace for a short while.

"I wish you would sleep as solidly as he," Elrond spoke.

"I know," the Mirkwood Elf replied, "but I do not believe I can find sleep now."

"Come with me then while I take another look at my sons and I shall make you that tea."

The two Elves made their way to the Houses of Healing where Elladan had received the largest, grandest room. Elrond had been very worried over his son when they arrived at the Palace, but his concern subsided quickly when he inspected the cut and found it to be healing already. Aragorn’s Healing Hands had done their work. It was a good thing, Elrond knew, that the King had been there to aid him, for Elladan would not have survived the ordeal otherwise.

Elrond feared that his sons were both too upset to speak over that which had happened, but Elladan’s spirits were positive and Elrohir seemed rested after devouring a warm dinner and speaking with his brother for many moments. Only then was he convinced Elladan would not suffer long from these events.

But he shivered to recall what would have happened had Aragorn not been there. Elladan would have bled to death. When Aragorn found him, he had already been slipping into the netherworld, finding the passage that was denied to Elves until they were mortally wounded. Elladan could actually feel it when Aragorn’s hands were placed upon his chest. He could see his human brother, could hear his voice and could sense the grip with which he pulled him back.

"How is Aragorn?" Elrohir asked.

"He is sleeping," Elrond replied.

"On his own account?" Elladan asked bemusedly, lying comfortable against the pillows that supported his head and back.

"No," Legolas smiled knowingly.

"I thought so. I wish he had come to see me tonight."

"He did," Elrond said, "he stayed by your side for an hour and then he left to fulfill his duties."

"He has told that poor woman of her daughter’s demise?"

"Aye, and she did not take it well."

Elrond prepared tea quietly and gave his two sons and Legolas a hot cup. They sipped it quietly. Elrond felt relief when Elladan seemed to feel better quickly. For many moments not a single syllable was uttered inside the room. They could hear the night owls cry and the moon and four candles were all that lit the room. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement and the decks soaking wet and glimmering.

Legolas realized he almost felt peaceful here. It was the first time in a day’s time he could feel happy again. It was unbelievable that all of this had started only a day ago. It almost seemed like a lifetime already.

"Ada, I will leave this bed tomorrow and search for him again," Elladan suddenly said, handing his cup to his brother.

"Why would you do such a foolish thing?" Elrond asked unmovedly. "Do you not know that you are too gravely wounded?"

"We are wasting our time here while we should be out there looking for him."

"We already are," Elrond said. "Faramir’s guards are searching every house for him. We can do nothing but wait now. Getting yourself killed is not the solution, my son."

"It is my fault that he slipped away. I should have been more cautious."

"We are not blaming each other," Elrond interrupted his son. "We are here for each other and we shall prevail. He cannot harm us if we stay true to ourselves and our cause. He shall not stay lucky."

"He is too clever to be caught like a wolf," Legolas interrupted the Elven-Lord. "We all know that!"

"So are we," Elrond retorted.

"Are we?" Legolas snarled, his voice rising. "Look at what has happened to us, to Aragorn. That man was caught five years ago and we let him get away. What will happen now? He is toying with us and laughing in our faces."

Elrond leaned back, unmoved. "Your head is not speaking, my friend, but your heart is. Your heart aches for Aragorn’s safety and welfare but you know that we are powerless right now. You must control yourself and be strong as you have been throughout the War."

"I do not understand how we can just sit here and do nothing," Legolas said. "Elladan is right, My Lord. We have to be outside searching for him."

"We are not just sitting here, my friend," Elrohir said gently. "You cannot go out there and hope to encounter him. It does not work that way."

"My greatest fear is that Aragorn cannot handle this," Elrohir suddenly said calmly. "I feel that his thoughts and spirit are fighting against his fears, against that which has haunted his dreams for many years. If he loses another child, he will suffer greatly."

"Aragorn will be well," Elrond spoke determinedly. "Of course he is rattled, but he has not turned his back and walked away. He has faced his worst fears already and he will continue to do so until Calendil is caught. In the morning he will issue a warning to everyone who does not already know what is happening. He will ask everyone to keep their children inside and guard them."

"Do you think that everyone will do so?" Legolas said. "His first warning was not followed."

"This murder has rattled their cages. They will listen now and lower the odds of Calendil finding a new victim. We must guard the Inns and any public place such as the markets. Everywhere where children go, there will be someone of us to protect them."

"Until Aragorn catches him," Elrohir spoke, emptying his cup of tea.

Legolas’ eyes narrowed and his voice became sharp as he said, "What do you expect him to do, Elrohir? He cannot perform miracles. What must he experience for you to see that he is only human?"

"Not just human, Legolas," Elrohir corrected him. "He is strong and has more sense of this than we do. He will prevail."

"After he has sacrificed his life," Legolas continued bitterly, pacing the room.

"He will not kill Aragorn," Elrond spoke gently. "He wants to finish what he has started and Estel will end it before that time comes."

"Or he will end Estel first."

"He will not!" Elladan shouted sharply, leaning up to face Legolas. "How dare you doubt our brother? Aragorn is stronger than Calendil. He will win!"

"This is not about winning," Legolas retorted. "This is about lives. He is not immortal. He already survived a stabbing once. He will not be that lucky next time."

"He will, for we will die first before allowing him to be harmed," Elladan snapped. "Do not doubt us, for we do not deserve that."

"I do not doubt you," Legolas replied, his voice calmer. "I doubt myself." The Mirkwood Elf turned his back to his friends. "You do not know what we have gone through during our quest for the Ring. You were not there when Aragorn fell off a cliff and we presumed him dead. I thought him dead a few times, when Helm’s Deep’s wall fell, when he was attacked viciously by several Uruk-Hai. I watched him be crushed by a troll, thinking he would never survive that. I do not wish to experience that again."

The others listened in shock, for they did not know what had taken place during the months the Fellowship traveled. Legolas’ eyes filled with tears as he whispered hoarsely, "We thought it was all over, did we not? We thought we had won. It is not fair."

"Life is never fair," Elrond interfered, calming the younger ones down. "But we must live with what is given to us. We are all here for the same goal. Aragorn is not meant to leave this world by Calendil’s hands. I trust in that."

The Elven-Lord walked towards Legolas, forcing the younger Elf to look him in the eyes. "I know what you fear," he said, "for your bond is as strong as, or even stronger than ours with him. He is your best friend and your family. But you shall not lose him."

"I wish to believe that," Legolas spoke quietly, "but I do not know if I can."

"You must."

"Then I shall," Legolas spoke bravely, stretching his back.

Elrond smiled, knowing his friend would not fail them all. "Go to bed now, my friend, for the tea’s effects will soon work upon you."

Legolas’ eyes lit in amusement. "You gave me herbs?"

"Aye, and I did the same to my sons." Elrond turned to the twins, smiling as Elladan muffled a yawn. "You must sleep now, morning will come soon enough. I might let you out of bed in two days, Elladan, if you behave."

His son smiled. "I will stay here," Elrohir said, "and keep my brother company."

Elrond nodded and bowed his head to his sons, respecting them for who they were. Legolas bid the brothers and their father goodnight and departed.

"Legolas."

The Mirkwood Elf turned by the door to see Elrond come towards him. The elder Elf took both his hands in his and looked at the bandages covering them. "You are a strong one, and one with a fierce spirit that seeks a warrior’s revenge. Do not let your anger guide you. Open your mind to new possibilities and allow the pain to enter. It might also be a helper, not an enemy."

Legolas nodded quietly.

"You are like my own son," Elrond continued. "I do not wish to lose you neither."

"You shall not," Legolas said touched.

The Elf left the room and walked to his own quarters near the King’s where he had resided for a year now. He had sworn a long time ago he would stay at Aragorn’s side until the King would depart this world at a hopefully very old age. Their bonds of friendship had only grown throughout the travel through Rohan and Gondor and would never be broken. Gimli, as their third companion, felt as strongly towards Aragorn who he still insisted on calling "Lad", to the Council’s despair. Nay, Legolas would rather die first than to let Calendil touch the King. He would kill him with his bare hands.

Legolas became aware of all the guards standing throughout the corridors. He could see them everywhere and they were quiet and discreet, nodding at him but not asking him questions or stopping him. He was known throughout the Kingdom and had earned their respect during the fights to save Gondor.

As he passed Aragorn’s room, he stopped and then walked further. But then the door opened behind him and he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find Arwen before him.

"Legolas," she whispered, "I need you."

Before he could reply, she pulled him inside her bedroom. Startled, Legolas followed to find Aragorn lying on the bed with a sheet covering his body. He was not asleep but awake, or so he seemed. When he saw Legolas enter, he sat up straight in bed and looked at the Elf.

"Legolas? Legolas, mellon-nin. Come here. Do you see her? Can you not see her?"

"See who?" Legolas asked in wonder.

"There. The child. She is not dead, Legolas. She is there, in the corner. Do you not see?" Aragorn pointed at an empty corner of the room, his glistering eyes seeing what he alone could see. "Aye, but she is dead. Her spirit beckons me. She comes to seek redemption."

Legolas’ eyes found Arwen’s, immediately understanding the King was looking right through him, not really seeing him. He did not see his wife either. His thoughts were far gone from the room, in another place that brought him into the depths of darkness.

"Go to sleep, Aragorn," Arwen whispered gently, but Legolas could hear by the sound of her voice she had already attempted to calm him for many moments. Entrapped in dreams he did not hear what she told him.

"Legolas, stop him. He is here. He is taking her." The King’s voice became a shrill sound that cut through the Elf’s bones. He could not stand it, for it was a sound unlike any he had ever heard. But he grasped Aragorn’s hand and held it tight, almost pressing his fingers deep into the King’s knuckles, hurting him gently to release him from his stupor.

"It is Legolas," he said. "You recognized me. You must sleep now, my friend, for it is but a dream that taunts you."

Now his eyes filled with fear. "Where is the child?"

"The child is asleep," Legolas whispered soothingly. "The child is well."

Arwen forgave Legolas for his lie. She watched as the King seemed to accept his friend’s words and finally calmed down. "So she is well then? We saved her?"

"Aye we did."

"That is good, is it not?"

"It is."

Aragorn turned his face to his wife. "Arwen, forgive me for failing you. I love you."

"I love you too," she said, kissing him gently. She rubbed his brow, feeling the warmth underneath her fingers. His skin ran a fever. Concerned she looked at him, knowing that his emotions were coming to surface during his sleep. She debated to bring in her father but Legolas shook his head. All he needed was rest. There was nothing anyone could do.

She pushed her husband back and pulled the blankets over him so that his body stayed warm. He grabbed her hand as she caringly touched his shoulder. "I had a dream about us," he said. "You were taken by him. You died in my arms."

"I am not dead, my love," she whispered. "Feel my skin."

He touched her face. Legolas sat back in concern, thinking about Herua’s accusation towards her King. Was he subconsciously living through that again? Was he identifying the child with the woman he loved most dearly? Or was he predicting the future – a future in which Arwen became this madman’s victim?

Aragorn leaned back in the pillows. His eyes never left her face, his hand touched her cheek and drew a line underneath her chin. His fingers ran slightly over her lips, touching the softness of them. Then the hand dropped to the bed and she lifted it and kissed his fingertips gently. She kissed his flushed forehead and soothed him in Elvish. "Sleep now. All is well."

"Stay with me."

"I would never leave your side."

"Legolas?"

"I will remain too," the Elf said, his head swimming with fatigue. He knew that Elrond’s light herbs were settling in and that he would soon be fast asleep. Arwen nodded in agreement and pointed at the large duvet standing underneath the window. Legolas waited until the King closed his eyes and watched as Arwen covered her husband even more so he would not be cold.

Then the Elf sat on the bench and lowered his head, feeling exhaustion sink in. Arwen covered him too with a blue blanket. "Thank you," she whispered in gratitude.

Legolas smiled and turned to his side so he could see them until his his eyes saw no more and his mind sunk away in dreams.

Arwen never went to sleep that night. She stayed by her husband’s side and did not speak for many, many hours, all this time watching him until her eyes were painful and her hands felt sore from rubbing them so much.

Calendil felt thrilled. How he wished he could have stayed to face Aragorn and end it right there. How he wished he could have killed the King with his bare hands and watch pure fear emanate from his eyes. Instead, he had seen the man’s franticness when he realized the Elf was dying or already dead. How he wished it were a painful death.

How he knew there would be more.

It did not matter to him that he was now bound to a basement much like the dungeon in which he had rotted away for several years. It was cold, dreary and damp inside and water leaked from all corners. He sat on dry blankets on a higher ledge and knew he would not die of cold. That was not his destiny.

And so he pulled up his legs close to his chest and smiled in the dark, listening to the footsteps of the King’s Guards who were exploring every house, every shed and every abandoned building. They would never find him.

He had taken risks as he rushed through the streets of the City but he knew this place very well. He had memorized the maps his aid had made for him, and he knew every nook and crane. He knew the City better than the King, or so he hoped.

He had taken small paths, steep stairs, rooftops and small corners forgotten by all. Then he suddenly came to a stop, panting as he reached the house. The dagger clung to his side with the blood of his two victims still upon the blade.

He spent most of the night hidden in the cellar, waiting for the early morning light that would bring him into another day, the second day of his coming. How appropriate that he would end the King’s quest so shortly after he had fulfilled it. His aid told him that the stories spoke of Aragorn’s hesitation to accept the throne. Well, he would solve that issue. If the King felt unease about his tasks, then he would need someone to end that for him.

Early morning brought enough light and more rain for Minas Tirith. Finally he dared to go outside again. He mingled with the ones preparing the market. He stole fresh fruit from one stand and warm bread from another, food that he ate quickly as he stood in a corner. When guards passed him he pretended to be aiding and carried boxes for an elderly woman who nodded in gratitude.

Then he scanned the market as it started and people came outside their houses to purchase their food. To his anger none of them brought their children. The market was devout of them.

He stole a black cloak hanging over a pole and curled it around his body. When the rain started pouring down, he shoved its hood over his face and hair. None stopped him as he made his way through the small streets on the lookout for his new prey.

He found her.

He followed her. And then he watched her.

*

Arwen watched her husband sleep. Tears slipped down her cheeks and rolled into the corners of her mouth before falling upon her hands. She did not wish to be here, not in such a state and under such circumstances. The shadows that were upon them had reminded her of something her father had said after Aragorn’s departure with the Fellowship.

No matter what, they would be parted. Even if Aragorn survived the Great War, the slow ticking of time or a quick death would separate them for eternity. She would be left mourning and grieving his death, and he would be in another world where she could no longer reach him.

She had never thought it would happen so quickly. She did not want this! She did not want for any of this to pass. He did not deserve this death when it came. And she knew it would come. She could feel it when she placed her hands on her husband’s chest and felt his heartbeat.

He reminded her so much now of the Ranger that he once was, especially the way he entered this room last night: dirty and with bloody clothing, not caring one bit about his health, but about that of those who cared for him. He was a King then, even if he were the clothing of a traveler and might have appeared to be disheveled, but she had loved him from the start.

He was the strongest man she knew. There was never any doubt in her mind that he was also the one whom she would die for, the one who would break her heart with his own mortal passing. She also knew that he was as mortal as any of them and would give his life for the good cause. This, she feared. She could almost feel the brush of death upon him as he slept. She wanted to shake him and tell him to leave it be, to let others resolve it. Yet she would not.

Arwen knew what came with her husband’s new life, as it had come with his old one: the dangers that sought out those who claimed the highest positions. They always caught the most wind. And she knew Calendil. She had seen the coldness in his eyes, heard the chills in his voice. He would not yield to anyone; he would not stop until someone stopped him.

She looked behind her to find Legolas watching them. The Elf did not speak a word but stood and left the two of them alone, reassured by her silence that all as well. Arwen knew her husband would wake soon and she wanted to be with him alone, to speak of things buried inside her heart.

Legolas placed his hand upon her shoulder before leaving, pressing it gently. She smiled at him in gratitude and watched him leave. Then she was alone with her sleeping husband whose chest rose slightly up and down. He no longer spoke in his dreams and she knew the fevers had gone.

It was time to speak.

*

Aragorn woke with a start, not knowing at first where or when he was. Then the throbbing headache came back to tell him what had passed. He turned his face and saw his wife. She held a cup of water.

"Be at ease," she said, "you are well. It is early morning and I have asked for some breakfast."

He sat upright in the pillows and looked out of the windows where cloudy skies hid the sun. "The weather seems perfect considering the circumstances," he grunted.

"I know," she merely replied. "How do you feel?"

He considered her question before answering, "Rather well. I am happy to see your face." He lifted his hand to caress her face. She smiled and held his fingers against her cheek. Then she gave him the water and watched him drink it.

"I have frightened you, have I not?" he asked in concern. "I am sorry."

"Do not apologize. You were upset and with good reason. But we must speak before you join the others."

"Are they waiting for me?"

"Most likely. You must make decisions, for they ponder what your next move will be."

He sighed. "I wish I had dreamt it all."

"Unfortunately, you did not."

"Calendil was not found, was he?"

"No, I fear not." Arwen hesitated before continuing, "They fear that he will strike again soon. The City is in uproar and wants to see its King. They are afraid you have fallen victim to him and do not believe the Council’s reassurance that you are alive and well."

Aragorn slipped slowly out of bed, stretching his legs and arms. Then he walked to the window and looked outside, spotting the market. "Life does go on," he remarked.

"It is not the same. They keep their children inside and under guard. They are terrified of this monster roaming the streets. They must see that something is being done."

He turned angrily. "What do they think I am doing?"

"My love, do not be upset. Their questions are normal and just. They want answers that only you can give them. They believe in you, as do we all."

"And you?" Aragorn asked. "What is it that you wish from me, my love?"

Her face somber, Arwen approached her husband. Her fingers found his long hair and stroked it, going past the cut on his brow. "All I wish for you is to return home every night and start a family with me. I am so afraid that this shall not happen. That one day they shall come to me and say that you have perished and all I can grief over is your body. I fear –"

Her voice stopped. She turned away in shame. "I am sorry, My King. I speak out of selfish reasons. I love this City, this Country, just as much as you do, but I do not want you to sacrifice your life over it. I fear that this is exactly what you are doing, for your actions were less than selfish and not meant for your own health. I wish that you would consider me in every move that you make."

"But I do," Aragorn whispered gently, taking her into his arms. "My love, there is no one I consider more than you. I want to give you a child to grow inside your womb. I want to share a new life with you, to have children that we will care for. I do not want this to end today."

"Then let it not end," she pleaded. "You asked your friends to part with you last night. Why do you not do this yourself?"

"It is my quest. I cannot turn my back to it. It is me that he wants. If I run, he will punish all those left behind. I owe it to my people to stay here. I owe it to you."

"Then do not take any more risks," she begged. "For I must see you again every day, and without the scars that are now formed on your body and soul."

"I promise," he said, embracing her and kissing her. He let his hands slide over her beautiful ears and kissed her eyelids gently. She leaned against him, holding him tight. He knew she had suffered greatly.

"I must bathe," he said, "and refreshen. If I am to face the Council, I want them to see I am not yet defeated."

"I shall call for hot water. Have breakfast with me first. We shall go see the others then."

Aragorn nodded and watched as a servant brought in a tray filled with fresh bread and heart-warming tea. The servant bowed and seemed pleased that he was alert and walking about.

"Your bath will be ready soon," the servant spoke and left through the other door leading into the separate bathing room that could also be reached from the corridor.

Aragorn and Arwen sat together at the small table by the window and ate the food eagerly. The King only now noticed how hungry he was. Every bite seemed to warm him, every sip of tea made him stronger. His hand constantly lay on Arwen’s, and she did not speak a word when their eyes met.

After breakfast, Aragorn retreated to the bathing room and allowed his body to sink deep into the warm water. Arwen washed his back and hair. Her hands gently caressed him, massaged him. When he dressed, she changed clothing too and combed her long beautiful hair. She dried his hair.

"Come," she said, taking his hand. "Let us find the others."

All who saw them saw the King and Queen of Gondor striding elegantly through the master corridor that lead to the Throne Hall. All who saw, rushed to notify the others. Soon the word spread around the Palace, and then out the doors and onto the market and through the streets and houses of the City.

"The King is back! He is well! The King is alive!"

By the time they reached the Throne Hall, the entire Council rushed to gather and find that it was true: Aragorn was alive. He was pale, scarred but alive and smiling self-consciously, eager to get work done.

The Elves were quicker than the humans were, for they had gathered earlier after Arwen’s message that they would soon join them. To Aragorn’s astonishment, Elladan had come with them.

"My brother," he said, walking over to the Elf who sat on a large chair and leaned pale and heavily into it. Elladan stood, embracing him.

"I owe you my life," Elladan spoke gently, "and I could not yet thank you."

"You owe me nothing," Aragorn said strongly. "Please, sit and rest. I am surprised your father allowed you to be up and about."

"Only to this gathering," Elladan confessed with a brave smile, "but I did not wish to miss the return of my brother."

Aragorn felt as if he had abandoned them for a long time. A pang of guilt shot through his body but Arwen, who knew exactly how he felt, squeezed his hand tightly and smiled encouragingly.

"I am sorry that I have frightened you all," Aragorn’s strong voice said, knowing he was overheard by at least forty and more, for the doors stood open and all the servants who were at work stopped to listen to what he had to say. "I was ill last night, wounded by an arrow that nearly took my life. All of that lies behind us now. I came to spread a warning to the man causing our problems. I came to tell you all that he shall not live to the end of the day, for he will be sought by each and everyone of you until his death is imminent. This is a warning to him and those who aid him: Beware, for as of now you too shall feel haunted."

A ripple of excitement surged through the crowd. Those who overheard the King, believed every word he said.

The King then turned to his friends standing by his side, scanning their faces. Faramir had brought Éowyn with him who smiled encouragingly; Legolas stood next to Gimli; Elrohir had found a seat next to his brother, and Elrond watched his foster son like a hawk. He addressed them.

"I fear for your lives," the King continued, "for Calendil has shown he will give no mercy to my family and friends. From now on, each and every one of you shall be protected day and night. I cannot be concerned over you when we need to find him. He is my focus now, and I will not stop until I have him."

A murmur again rode through the corridors. One had never heard the King speak so strongly. His voice was hard and almost cold, but strong as a King’s expression should be. They knew what his words meant: He would allow only himself to work as a prey or bait for the murderer who saw no mercy in his life.

Arwen squeezed her husband’s hand even harder. He turned to her and smiled at her, caressing her. "You shall not have to fear," he said. "This, I swear."

She believed him.

Aragorn then informed his Council that the search for Calendil would continue as before, and that Faramir was still in charge of the City’s every-day affaires. He then let the scriber note down a message that would be spread through the City for everyone to read and hear. The King was alive and well, and he would protect them.

Afterwards, Aragorn and his party returned to the small room they used to discuss their options. Arwen remained with Faramir, determined to take a part of the load upon her shoulders.

They sunk in chairs around the great, carved table and looked at each other. Elladan seemed ready to drop. Aragorn walked to him and said gently, "You must rest, brother."

Elladan did not object and allowed Elrohir to escort him to the Houses of Healing. When they left, Legolas noticed the tiredness on Aragorn’s strained face. "You are trying to get back into his head," the Elf spoke accusingly, noticing the off-glare in the King’s expression.

"Aye," Aragorn confessed.

"Stop that," the Mirkwood Elf pleaded. "There are other ways to go about this. You will only dwell in darkness more. Soon you will stop sleeping altogether. You do not want to go where he is dragging you."

"He must be in a cold and damp place, like a cellar or a basement. Hiding where no one will seek him. He will crawl in it like a rat, like the prisoner that he once was. We must look thoroughly inside the houses. He must have left a trail somewhere." Aragorn sighed. "He is inside this City and mocking us because he is so near. I wonder who is aiding him."

"Find the aid-giver and you find him," Gimli said.

"Aye, Master Dwarf."

"Legolas, I wondered if you might do something for me," Aragorn spoke slowly.

The Elf listened.

"You have the sharpest eyes and ears of those who live here. I want you to take a group of guards and search through every house again. Watch for hidden doors and passageways. He is here, and you will find him."

"I will," Legolas promised, looking at Gimli. "How about you, my friend? Will you go with me?"

"Yes!" Gimli retorted, standing firmly. "As long as you do not walk too fast, Master Elf."

"I promise," Legolas grinned.

Aragorn and Elrond watched the two friends depart. "I never thought I would see the day where an Elf befriends a Dwarf and the Dwarf jokes over his own height," Elrond said amused.

"There is still hope then, is there not?" Aragorn asked, smiling.

"There always is," Elrond replied. "Did you ever doubt that?"

"No," Aragorn said slowly. "Not with you by my side."

The Elven-Lord nodded calmly. "You are the one giving us hope, Estel. You always did, and you always will."

Aragorn smiled, wishing he could believe his father. Yet it felt as if all there was left now, was the certainty of Calendil’s next step: the conviction that he would find another victim one way or the other and take her life.

*

Calendil gently knocked on the door and waited patiently for it to open. When it did, a tall dark man eyed him cautiously and snapped, "Aye? What do you wish?"

"I came for the position," Calendil replied.

"How do you know about it?"

"I have friends here who told me about it. Do you still seek someone?"

The dark man ogled him cautiously, staring at his gloved hands and the freshly shaven face that did not reveal the amount of hair he usually had upon it. Without the hair, he looked almost human, were it not for the high cheekbones and the small dimples that ran over his skin. It was close enough though, especially with his long hair tied backwards.

"Do you know what we seek?"

"Aye, someone for your market stand. I can work every morning and all through the day if you will. I can begin right now if you wish."

"You look too grand for a salesman."

Calendil flushed, aware of the quality of clothing that he wore. He lowered his voice an octave and whispered, "I lost everything in the War, I fear. My house, my wife and children. I am alone now and this is all I have left."

"Alright, alright," the dark man grunted, not wanting to hear yet another story of losses during the Great War. He had heard enough of them. In fact, he too had lost relatives in the attack of the Uruk-Hai. "You can start. You will not earn much for I cannot afford to make you rich. These are still hard times. But if you work hard, I will raise your pay quickly. You can begin tomorrow at sunrise. Make sure you are there."

"I will be," he promised and smiled broadly, revealing some of his crippled teeth. "Thank you, My Lord. Thank you so much. I can start now if you want, to learn the trade. I will not ask for a pay for it. Just show me the ropes."

The dark man seemed pleased with that. "Go to the market. I assume you know what stand is ours. Look for Almé. She will help you. Your pay will come daily. I will visit you in the morning to see how you fare."

"Thank you, My Lord." He turned and strode up to the market where the booths were still stacked with fresh fruits, vegetables, meats and fish and found the stand his aid had told him about, the one that had left a leaflet they were in dire need of an extra hand.

He stopped in his tracks when he noticed a beautiful blonde woman. She was small in size and form, with the most gorgeous hair he had ever seen. Her clear blue eyes were honest and her laughter resounded throughout the streets when she spoke to her customers, clearly amusing them.

She looked up when he approached her. "Yes?" she asked, clearly trying to see if they had met before. She did not recognize him of course.

"I am Loma," he said, "I have been hired to work with you."

"Oh?" she replied with a laugh, "that was quick. Pleased to meet you, I am Almé."

"Aye," he said, "I know."

He held her hand a bit too long. She did not retort to it. Instead, she stared at his eyes and tried to see what kind of person he was. She noticed he would not take off his gloves and her eyes stopped at the features of his imperfect face. She was certain she had never seen him before, but she liked him.

"Well," she said after a silence, "no time like the present. Let me explain to you how we work." Quickly and professionally she set to work as she spoke of the small candy booth she ran together with the fruit stand next to it. "This is the favorite stand on the market for the children," she whispered as a conspirator. "This is where they spend their parents’ money."

"And right they are," Calendil replied with a wry smile.

This was the best booth indeed.

Now, after more than a year, the boy found himself facing his King and did not know what to do. Awkwardly he bowed and lowered his head, waiting for Elessar to speak. He did not expect the King to approach him, and so he was very surprised when Aragorn walked over to him and knelt by him, helping him to stand.

"Tell me your name," the King said gently, trying to put the boy at ease.

"I am Háleth, My Lord."

"Háleth?" Aragorn said, finding a familiar sound to it. "Ah yes, I remember. I knew a boy once with the same name. He fought bravely by my side in Rohan. Tell me are you also a brave child?"

"I do not know, My King. My father calls me a brat."

Aragorn laughed. "Is he right, Háleth?"

"I believe he is, My Lord," the boy spoke with a grin.

Aragorn asked the boy to sit and addressed him directly while his fingers toyed with the letter in his hands. Elrond and Faramir alone noticed the shivers he could barely control. The boy – given sweets to munch upon – did not.

"Who gave you this letter, Háleth?"

"A man, My Lord."

"Can you describe him for me?"

"Not really," the boy shrugged. "He was tall, like you, and he wore nice clothes like you. He had a cape and his face was covered with the hood and so were his eyes. He had a nice voice. He gave me a coin and asked me to give you this letter urgently. He said he was your friend and that you would be expecting it, that you would let me in to see you."

"Was there anything special about his hands? Were they different than ours?"

"I do not know, My Lord. They were covered."

"And what about his face? Did he have a lot of hair on it?"

"I do not know. I am sorry, My Lord."

"Do you know where he went then?"

The boy shook his head. "He came to me at my house."

"That is quite alright, Háleth. Why do you not go with Lord Faramir? He will give you another two coins to spend on sweets."

"Thank you!" the boy exclaimed, jumping off his chair and walking out with Faramir. Aragorn looked at Elrond, seeing the stress he felt in his own body expressed on the Elf’s face.

"Do not read it," Elrond said.

"I must."

"I will stay then."

Aragorn nodded, slowly opening the scroll that had Calendil’s handwriting upon it. He knew he would not like what he read.

Aragorn looked up. "The market," he said. "The only place where children can find sweets is there. We must go now, for it will end soon."

Elrond hurried out the door behind his foster son and waited while Aragorn warned Faramir and his guards, informing them of what was going to happen. Instantly a group of ten rushed outside to search the market.

*

"Well," Almé said, "that is it, I suppose. There is nothing else that you should need to know."

Calendil – now known as Loma – smiled and bowed his head. "You have been very kind to me, My Lady. Thank you."

"We should pack in. Everyone is leaving already. It is time to depart." Almé smiled at the young boy named Háleth who purchased a big bag of sour sweets for a coin. He was one of her regular customers but usually did not buy that much at the same time.

The boy looked at her and then at Calendil, who remained seemingly unmoved by his presence. "So you delivered my message?" Calendil asked.

"Aye, and he gave me two more coins!" the boy cried.

"That is good, my boy. Now run off."

The boy rushed off and sat on a stone bench sucking on his sweets. Almé smiled. "I thought you were not from the City yet you already seem to have made friends here."

"Aye, I am new. I moved in recently. What about you? You do not live inside the City?"

"No," she said, "I live in a small village outside the walls. My father is farmer there and cultivates the fruits we sell here. The sweets come from various places, some are made by me."

"I see," he said, his eyes fixed upon an older man holding a child firmly by the hand. "[Do] pray tell me, why there are so few children here today?"

"Do you not know?" she asked. "The King has issued a warning that we should all tread cautiously. There is a man hidden in the City who kills little girls. For what reason, we do not know."

"That is terrible," Calendil exclaimed. "Do they know who it is?"

"No. I am certain he is hidden somewhere and afraid to show his face. Those who discover who he is will undoubtedly kill him without remorse. People like that do not deserve mercy."

"Indeed they do not," Calendil spoke thoughtfully, putting his hand on her wrist unexpectedly. "Thank you again. Shall I see you tomorrow morning?"

"Aye you will. I am happy that Gram has hired you. It was getting lonely here."

"These stalls belong to him then?"

"Aye, we rent them. He is a nice man though. And I am happy he has chosen you," she added shyly.

"I will help you," Calendil offered, pulling the cart stacked with the remaining fruits and sweets. From the corner of his eye he saw guards spread around the market, looking through the stalls. They approached theirs slowly. He turned his head slightly to find Aragorn on the other side of him. The King’s eyes scanned the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

On impulse, Calendil pulled Almé’s arm through his. She looked surprised and then smiled as she took one hand of the cart and he the other. That way, giving support to each other, they took the cart down the hill, appearing careless about the guards.

Defiantly, Calendil passed Aragorn closely. His breathing nearly stopped when Aragorn’s eyes lingered shortly on him. Calendil turned to Almé and said something amusing to her, which made her laugh. Aragorn turned his back towards them and moved on.

Calendil nodded at the guards who let them pass easily and brought Almé home to the small village on the countryside, not so far from the Pelennor Fields. There were only twenty houses and nothing more. Calendil held his breath when he spotted the young children playing freely outside while their parents worked in the fields. They were so careless, so joyful.

His eyes fixed upon one child, a young girl whose resemblance with the first Minas Tirith-child startled him. Almé did not notice that he had let go of her at long last and no longer pulled the cart.

"Will you not stay for a meal?" she asked him suddenly, and he turned to her and felt a strange sting cross his heart. No one had ever asked him to stay for a meal before, not even his aid who despised him more than anyone.

"I –"

"Please, I would like to be your host."

His eyes found the little girl again. "Alright," he said, bowing his head. Then he followed Almé inside the small house she shared with her father and knew that he had found his prey. The sweets had led him to her.

*

Frustrated, Aragorn twirled around and around on the market square, staring at the empty carts and people leaving. Less than an hour after they had arrived, it had run on empty, leaving nothing but empty stalls that would be occupied again in the morning. The guards stopped everyone who passed them, looking at the men and trying to see if they were deformed. None were.

"We were too late," the King groaned in frustration.

"We cannot be certain he was even here, My Lord," Faramir said.

"Aye, but he was. He will follow the pattern he has created before. He will not step away from this now."

"Then what must we do?"

"Who is in charge of this market? We must find who sells sweets. Every stall where there might be children to spend their coins will be examined. We must find him before he finds a child." Aragorn turned around, spotting a familiar child sitting on a stone bench sucking sweets. He smiled when he recognized Háleth. The boy did not see him.

"I will find out," Faramir send, beckoning one of his Captains and speaking quietly to him. Then he turned to Aragorn. "My King, I fear we must bring you back to your quarters. If he is still here, you might be in danger."

"I will not run," Aragorn said firmly.

"This is not a matter of running, My Lord. Your safety comes first. You do not want him to win, do you?"

"You are right," Aragorn admitted, "but I fear that every second is one wasted. He will find a child soon. Perhaps he already has." The King passed Háleth and said, "You should be inside. This is not a safe place for you to be."

The boy smiled and bowed; his mouth sticky. "Did you find that man yet?" he asked.

"Who says I am looking for him?"

"I heard the guards talk about someone. Is it he who gave me that scroll?" the boy asked inquisitively.

"Aye, it is."

"He left with Almé."

"What?" Aragorn knelt by the boy, grasping his arms hard. "What did you say?"

"Yes, he was working here in the stall and sold me these sweets. Then he left with Almé, the woman who keeps it."

"Where? Where did they go?"

The boy shrugged. "Out of the City I think."

"Show me what stall."

The boy led them to it. Aragorn bit his lip when he remembered a man and woman leaving it. But that could not be! The man had seemed perfectly normal. That could not have been Calendil. But what if it had been?

Aragorn stood and turned to Faramir. "I will have a list shortly," he said. "I promise."

Shortly was not soon enough, Aragorn realized, not when every second counted.

*

Calendil took a seat at the table and watched Almé as she decorated it with an excellent meal prepared in only a few moments. Her father came in to eat with them, and so did her family members.

"Ale?" she asked, not waiting for an answer to pour it in.

He ate deliberately slowly, giving his eyes the time to find what he sought. Yet he knew he had already found it. He smiled broadly, telling the child, "I know a trick. Do you want to see it?"

"Yes!" the child cried out, clapping her hands in anticipation.

Loud poundings on the door startled Gram out of his afternoon nap. He was rich and did not need to work another day in his life. That gave him the luxury of doing whatever he wanted, including resting. He had a good life he knew, one he would not trade for any in the world.

Gram grunted as he stumbled to the door, still half-asleep. To his surprise and shock he was pushed backwards by strong hands. Then he stared into the faces of armed Royal Guards who entered his house and stood threateningly before him. After that, they made room for a man with dark, long hair and light eyes.

Gram instantly recognized the King.

"My Lord," he stammered, bowing his head. "What –"

"Search the house," the King said and the guards split up. Gram noticed that there were two Elves with them, one blonde and one dark-haired. The blonde Elf he had seen before, when they had come to search the house a first time. There was also a Dwarf, whom he recognized from before, too. His voice had sounded grumpy but he seemed kind enough.

"My King, I have nobody to hide," he said, "what is it that you wish from me?"

"We are seeking a man named Calendil. He was seen at your stand at the market in the company of a woman named Almé."

"I do not know of such a man," Gram said, "the name does not sound familiar. However, I did hire someone earlier today to work at the market as of tomorrow morning, and he went to work for free with Almé today."

"What is the name of this man?"

"I do not know," Gram said, "I did not ask."

"You hired someone whose name you did not request?"

"I never do. Most of them depart after a few days, tired of the hard work and lack of good pay. The only one that ever stayed on was Almé."

"This must be the man we seek. Can you describe him to us?"

"Tall, dark hair, he wore a cape with a hood but I could see he had dark brown eyes."

"Was there anything strange about his appearance? Did you see hair on his face and hands, deformities in his form?"

"Nay. I did not see his hands though. He wore gloves. I found that odd, for the forms of his hands were strange underneath the leather hiding them. I still hired him because he seemed eager to work hard and obviously needed the money. He said he had lost his wife and children in the War. What is wrong with this man? Surely he is not the one you are seeking. He would not dare to be this bold, would he?"

"He would," Aragorn said calmly, calling off the search of the house. "Pray tell us where Almé lives, for he went with her and we fear she might be in peril."

"She lives outside the City. I can show you."

"Come with us then but hurry."

Gram grasped a cloak and pulled it over his body. He slipped into boots. Then he walked out of his house. "We need horses," he said, "It is a short ride but on foot it would take at least half of an hour."

"We can use the horses at the gates," Faramir said, "come."

Ten guards, Legolas, Gimli and Elrond, Faramir and Aragorn and Gram rushed down the hill to the gates where the stables were and the Guards’ horses were kept. From there on, Gram lead them to a small village almost hard to see by the naked eye from the City Walls. It was hidden near the rocks between the fields where farmers grew their crops.

Gram brought them to the house of Almé where he had been a few times over the years she had worked for him. He secretly had an eye on her, knowing she would never return the favor. She did not care for an older man who lived inside the City, attached as she was to the countryside and her life there.

Now he wished he had offered marriage to her, for when they arrived, he feared that she had found death by the hands of the man he had delivered to her, and he would never forgive himself should she die because of that.

Great was the surprise of those who arrived that Almé left her house and smiled at the unexpected visitors. Indeed, she was very much alive and well and her eyes showed no concern. Gram could almost feel relief overwhelm him, but his feelings were nothing compared to those of the King who quickly dismounted his horse and walked over to her.

"Are you Almé?" Aragorn asked, grasping her by both arms. Surprised by Elessar’s presence, Almé did not even get a chance to bow.

"I am, My Lord," she merely said, and then she wondered why he seemed so distressed.

"Where is the man who came with you today? The one you worked with on the market?"

"Loma?" she replied. "He left after his meal. He went back to the City."

"He named himself Loma?"

"Aye. Is that not his real name?"

Aragorn did not reply; his fear and apprehension were rubbing off on her. "What is wrong?" she asked persistently. "Please tell me."

"He is the one we are searching for, the killer of many children."

"Children? Oh no …" To their surprise, Almé turned quickly and rushed to the fields where her family was working. The others followed swiftly, finding her looking around and counting the children playing between the crops.

"Sila! Where is Sila?" Almé’s concern voiced the fears the others felt. It was then that Aragorn knew that they had already come too late.

Within a few minutes all children were accounted for, except for young Sila, Almé’s niece. The child with the very black hair and dark features was gone and they knew she would not have left by her own account.

She loved her family. She would never abandon them.

*

A search through the village’s stables proved that one horse was missing too.

"This cannot be," Almé wept. "I brought that killer here! How could he have fooled me so?"

Gram took her in his arms and held her tight against him, caressing her hair and rocking her gently. She did not pull back. It was Aragorn who told her Calendil was a master at fooling people. He had done so with all of them on more than one occasion. She should not blame herself; he would have found a victim one way or another.

"He left on foot!" she continued. "I saw him depart. He waved at me. But I did not stay to watch him go. He must have turned around and snuck to the stables."

"He would not have ridden back to the City with his prey," Legolas spoke somberly. "They would have seen him coming from afar. He must be around here." The Elf looked up at the skies, seeing the dark clouds approach them. Soon it would rain again, making the search more difficult.

"The mountains would give him a good advantage point," Elrond suggested. "There are many caverns there he might have taken her to."

"We must move now," Legolas insisted, "the clouds are a foreboding. His foulness pollutes us all."

Aragorn mounted his stallion and steered it into the direction of the small range of mountains, letting his skills and instincts as a Ranger take over. He moved and then stopped, crawling over the ground as his fingers touched the soil.

"One trail," he said, "horse and rider. Come!"

The party hurried towards the mountain range, following Aragorn’s lead. Legolas’ sharp eyes found the trail too. He rode before the King, despite Aragorn’s warning to be cautious.

At the mountain range, they stopped. The trails lead them down a small path leading towards a small, nature-carved canyon. They heard a horse. Aragorn kept Andúril at hand and walked in cautiously, protected by the guards.

They stopped when they saw the horse without a rider before them. The animal stood calmly. The cavern in which it stood was empty and lead to nowhere. Frustrated Aragorn turned. "We must find footprints."

"There are none," Elrond said.

"Then where did he go? He could not have vanished into thin air!" Legolas exclaimed, looking up and then holding his breath. "Look, is that not another cave?"

All looked up and found what seemed like a small cave or cavern right above them. It would not have been difficult for Calendil to crawl into it and use it as an escape route.

Aragorn jumped until his hands reached the cave’s corners and pulled himself up with ease. He did not care for the other’s shouts that he should wait. Frantically he crawled inside and found himself staring into sheer darkness. If Calendil were here with his prey, waiting for him, he would not stand a chance. He could become a sitting target.

The King crawled forward anyhow on hands and knees, his fingers touching the stone outer walls of the small passageway. He hoped he would not bump into a body, or anyone waiting for him. Behind him he heard Legolas but even the Elves’ sharp eyes would not be able to see here.

The King suddenly noticed light before him. It was a small shimmer at first but then it became a larger form and it made him able to see. Aragorn moved forward until he saw where the light came from: the passageway ended in another part of the mountains, leading to a small exit way near the City. Frustrated, he groaned. This mountain range was one labyrinth of small ways and caves, just like the City’s streets formed a complicated web.

He lowered himself out of the passageway and looked around. Legolas jumped out behind him, standing on both feet with ease. Aragorn walked to the mountain’s exit and found himself not very far from where the others were. "Over here!" he shouted, startling the rest of the party waiting for news.

Elrond and Faramir rushed to him, seeing the frustration upon Aragorn’s face. "He is gone," the King said, "he can be anywhere by now with that child. There are many caves like this. He knew what he was doing."

The King pounded his hand against the rocks, shoving Andúril back in its holster as he rubbed his eyelids and tried to think.

"Let them search all the caves," Legolas ordered, "He must be here somewhere."

He was not, Aragorn knew. He could feel it. He was long gone. The King closed his eyes and tried to find the bond with the killer, hoping he would have access to what he was thinking, doing and plotting. Yet it almost seemed as if his head felt overcrowded, too full to concentrate on the murderer.

Aragorn walked away from the group and leaned against another wall, holding up his hand as Legolas approached him. The Elf stepped backwards, understanding what the King tried to say.

In his mind’s eye Aragorn had an idea of how Calendil thought and acted. He held the child close to him, having drugged her as soon as he got his hands upon her. He had to, for she would scream and alert her family. He kept her on the horse before him and steered the animal quietly where they were hidden behind the houses and out of sight. He knew the mountains had caverns he could use. He knew the King and his group were on their way to trace him. He did not have much time to proceed.

He kept the child alive as he left the horse and brought her through the dark to another hidden way, hoping it would lead him deeper into the mountains. He did not know where he was heading but he was willing to take the risk. He had nothing to lose after all.

A rush of excitement rippled through Aragorn’s body when the connection was suddenly made. Calendil’s kill would be meaningless if he could not allow Aragorn to find the child. He had to give it a meaning, a reason. He would not go far. He would be somewhere where he could watch them, where he could toy with them and become their superior.

Aragorn’s eyes flung open. His face almost automatically turned upwards and scanned the steep road running through the mountains. It slightly reminded him of the Dimwold road, only this one was formed by nature’s weather. Thousands and thousands of years of winter storms, autumn’s rain and a hot blistering summer sun had formed these patterns leading throughout the mountain’s heart.

"He is deeper inside the mountain where he can watch us," the King spoke with a voice that hardly resembled his own. "He must be higher than us, safe so we cannot kill him and will lose time finding an entrance to his shelter. Come!"

Aragorn’s words stirred the others. Legolas kept bow and arrows ready while his eyes looked upwards and tried to distinguish shadows in the dark smaller caverns above them. Elrond’s sharp senses searched for the same, eager to battle this human.

Aragorn heard the sound first, for it was all too familiar to him. "Stop!" he said, alerting the others. His eyes went upwards, trying to locate the source of the small set of noises. It sounded like a child’s whimper, a death cry.

"Sila!" the King’s voice resounded, echoing through the mountain walls. Legolas kept his bow and arrow aimed at a dark cavern’s entrance, only a few feet above them. They were in there, they all knew it. But how he had gotten in there, none knew.

"Calendil, we know you are there," Aragorn continued after a bout of silence coming after his first cry. "Show yourself and face your enemies." From the corner of his eye he saw Elrond give quiet instructions to the guards, splitting them to find the way into the cavern.

"If you want her, you must come alone for her," a familiar voice spoke. "And send your cowardly troops away. They will never find me."

"I will not," Aragorn replied determinedly, "for you are not a man of promises and I know you will kill her after all. Do not think you can escape this time. You are surrounded and trapped."

"Are you willing to give up her life then? I am certain Almé will be displeased with you. You are not the man you used to be, Aragorn," the voice replied. Legolas saw shadows move but none bore the form of a man. Calendil was deep inside his cavern; using the child as a shield should they find him.

Aragorn hesitated, knowing he would never risk the child’s life. He had to do something, anything at all, to save her. He closed his eyes as he calculated the risks. If he exposed himself, Calendil would kill him. If he refused to go, he would sacrifice the child without a fight. He knew he had no choice.

"Send the others away and I will come down to face you, Aragorn, King of Gondor. That is a promise. Tell the dark Elf to get the guards outside. The Steward of Gondor is a fool to believe he will find me. He will not succeed."

The guards hesitated and looked at their King and Steward for advice. Aragorn nodded towards them, looking silently at Faramir who understood he could do nothing. He sent the guards away but stayed behind with the others.

"You must go too," Aragorn said loud enough for the murderer to hear. "I will stay behind alone."

"Do not act!" Legolas insisted, his eyes seeking support from Gimli. The Dwarf nodded in agreement.

"Laddie, you are going to get yourself killed for nothing. This is what he wants. He will go on until he has taken your life. Do not sacrifice yourself."

Aragorn stepped closer to his friends, knowing Calendil was listening. He leaned forward so only they could hear him. "I will send you away but not where he thinks. Find a passage through those upper caverns and protect me from there. He will believe I am too eager to save the child."

"It will fail," Gimli grunted strongly.

"Nay, it will not. You have saved me many times before. You must understand I cannot allow that girl to die a meaningless death without having made the effort to save her. She does not deserve to be there. This is not her fault, not her wrongdoing. She is an innocent in a game that he has started and that we must finish. I do not have another choice, Gimli."

Gimli placed his hand upon the human’s arm. "Laddie, we did not lose you during the War and I will refuse to see you go now. I will hunt you down if you allow yourself to get killed by this … this creature. Do you hear what I say?"

Aragorn smiled, allowing Gimli to embrace him worriedly, his short body eager against the King’s chest. "Your threat makes me shiver. Now go."

Reluctantly Gimli left him, hurrying out of the caves. His breathing could be clearly heard throughout. Aragorn smiled restrainedly at them, his eyes hinting at the caverns above them. He knew Gimli had to stay behind for he would make too much noise. But the Elves could easily tread without a single sound through the passages until he found a good spot. He would save him.

Faramir left too, bowing his head to his friend in respect. "Faramir," Aragorn said, stopping him. "If something – if I fail – I want you –"

"Do not say it," Faramir spoke strongly. "We will see each other again shortly."

"We will," Aragorn smiled self-assuredly, embracing his friend. Faramir left just as reluctantly as Gimli had, feeling a strange dread that made him fear he would lose a good friend. He did not wish to think of the consequences, knowing he was not the one to rule this country on his own. He needed Aragorn, for the King’s wisdom and calm were what kept them all together in these hard times.

Then Elrond came to him, embracing his foster son. "Stay in the dark," he whispered into the man’s ear. "He is a coward and will not follow you there. Do not let the child lure your attention away. Do not let yourself be lured into his trap."

"I will not."

Then the Elven-Lord left and Aragorn remained behind alone, hoping that Legolas would find a shelter quickly from which he could help him. He placed his trust in the Elf, knowing that Legolas would not fail. All he needed now, was to stall time – and perhaps time was exactly what the child did not have. He stretched his back then and said loudly, "I am here alone, at your request. Now show yourself."

No reply came. Aragorn called out again, fearing he had already made a mistake and become an open target to the man who hated him enough to endure five years of prison biding his time. But then he heard a sound behind him and turned quickly, to find Calendil standing before him. The man was alone and aimed a bow at his chest with an arrow set to kill. This time, Aragorn knew, he would not miss.

"So we finally meet again," the King said.

For the first time since Calendil’s return, the two foes faced each other, taking in the other one’s features. No wonder we could not find him, Aragorn thought as he faced the man before him. He did not look one bit like the beast he once was. The removal of the facial hair, the covered hands and the almost upright way in which he walked were enough to fool anyone who had seen him back then.

He seemed almost kind, as if he were someone who could be trusted by Almé, an innocent woman who thought she had found a new friend and wanted to be kind towards him, inviting him into her home. She had had no reason to mistrust him, for his eyes seemed gentle enough.

Yet Aragorn knew that behind his expression lay the glimmer of death, the invitation to take the plunge into the deep end of sanity and not return. Should he succumb to Calendil now, would that not make an end to the darkness the murderer had spread in the White City?

None could know if Calendil’s rage would end with the death of his enemy. Aragorn feared it would not. Those who had once tasted blood would always return to it, for its call was stronger than anything. Calendil had said so himself. So why should the King of Gondor sacrifice himself freely, when he knew that it might ultimately change nothing?

Calendil did not move when he watched Aragorn, taking in his features. A smile toyed around his lips and he knew the King was surprised by his new looks. He had thrown the cape backwards so that his long hair and deformed features were visible, only they seemed acceptable now by the standard population. He was no longer hiding the beast behind the human skin. He had changed. By shaving, by shaping up, by transforming himself.

Calendil took his time to explore Aragorn’s changed appearances too, for he had not taken that time when they first met in the gardens. Gone was the scruffy Ranger whose looks did not seem to matter to him. In exchange appeared a man whose hair was trimmed and whose beard now was slight stubble, and who wore clothes worthy for a king. And it suited him: he had the manner of Kings about him and seemed calm and self-controlled.

Yet Calendil knew exactly how to find the right connection, how to set off the King whose brow wore last night’s scratch, whose body trembled in angry anticipation and whose voice alone spoke of the stress he was experiencing. Calendil knew he could make the King weep in an instant, prodding that part of his memory where it hurt the most.

It would not be so hard, he knew. After all, he was still the one playing the game and Aragorn only had the chance to follow. It was not time to give up his fun yet. He had a long way to go before that would happen.

"What is that you want from me?" Aragorn asked as he stood before Calendil. His sword rested against his leg but he did not attempt to grasp for Andúril, knowing he would be dead before he could even touch its handle. "Where is the child?"

"She is … resting. She lives, do not trouble your thoughts over her. You will see her soon."

"Are you going to let me help her?"

Calendil smiled; his sharp eyes keen on seeing Aragorn’s expression. Both men knew their adversaries and knew what to expect. Only, the King seemed much stronger now than he had back then when he did not know what to expect of his enemy. Experience and knowledge comes with time, and Calendil bore no secrets now for the man he had chosen as his opponent.

"I do not know," Calendil said calmly. "I suppose that depends on what the answers to my questions are."

"You have questions?" Aragorn replied. "What makes you think that I shall answer any of them? Is it my obligation to do so?"

"It is if you wish to see that child."

"I shall not reply to any questions as long as you have that bow aimed at my chest."

"Do you really think I would face you unarmed? I am no fool, Aragorn."

"No, you are a coward and always have been. It is easy to kill one with bow and arrow, is it not? You just have to let go of the string and watch how the weapon enters one’s body and kills him. It is almost as easy as standing behind someone and stabbing him in the back. Your cowardly behavior has always been a mockery and you will not change. It is also the reason why you pry on young children, for they are too defenseless to protect themselves." Aragorn’s voice rose as he stepped forward, challenging Calendil to let go of the arrow. "If you want me, then kill me now. I will not play your games when you refuse to face me and accept who you are."

Calendil seemed unmoved by the King’s sharp words. He did not react when Aragorn came closer until they were only a few feet from each other. The murderer’s bow and arrow were still aimed at the King’s chest.

"Kill me then," Aragorn challenged him defiantly. "You should no longer hide behind your darkness. Kill me and get it over with. That is what you want, is it not? It is what you spent your waking hours dreaming of."

Calendil laughed. "Your friends would be quite upset if they heard you like this, challenging death. Do they know that you are so eager to see the netherworld? Or are you merely stupid?"

Aragorn’s eyes found Calendil’s. He did not blink, making the murderer nervous. "Kill me now and get it over with. Or go forth and let me be. But I warn you that for every child that you take, there shall be a hundred soldiers watching for you. You will not leave our City alive. We are bound to fight you with all we have in our might and you will suffer the consequences of your actions. You have crossed the line."

"I fear no death, for life has never been my friend. I will challenge you, but today is not that day. I am not ready for that yet."

"Then why did you let me come to you?"

"I wanted you to know what I look like, who I have become. I wanted you to see that I am no longer a beast but a man who can walk in the crowds and be as innocent as any of them. I wanted you to know that I am through hiding behind my mask."

"Do it now then," Aragorn hissed, taking another step forward so that his chest was directly before the bow. "Challenge me now and stop these games, for I will no longer play them with you."

"No." Calendil stepped backwards.

"Do it!" Aragorn moved forward.

"No. Step back or I will shoot you. Pity me for who I was! Pity me now then for who you made me. I did not wish to come here to challenge you, but you made me. You were right, Aragorn: you were in my every waking hour and all that kept me up in that cell was the thought of killing you. But I will not do it here and now. I will choose my own time, my own hour."

"Like I said: you are a coward," Aragorn spoke in contempt and turned his back to the murderer.

"I order you to stand!" Calendil’s sharp voice screeched. "Hold your ground or I will kill the girl."

"She already is dead," Aragorn spoke numbly, his voice audible to only Calendil. "You killed her and left her body hidden in these mountains. I can feel no life from her. There is only death. Why should I pity you?"

"Look at me!" Calendil snapped. "Face me now or I will take the harshest revenge upon you. If you think you are facing demons now, you do not know yet that it can be far worse. Face me! Accept me for who I am and acknowledge my presence. I wish to be accepted by you, not ignored by you. This is who I am: this … this monster. I am created by mankind, by those who wish to ignore me. But no more! They fear me now because they know what I will do to their children. Fear is what I give them and it is far better than laughter and pleasure. But they do not know yet what true fear is."

Aragorn turned to find the man right behind him, his bow and arrow lowered for a mere second as his words came in deep thought and his eyes almost showed a despair only an innocent human could wear. The King did not move, knowing this was his chance. He approached Calendil calmly, stretching out his hand. "I shall face you and acknowledge you as you wish, if you will accept your punishment."

Calendil seemed to contemplate that. Then he said, "Why should I be punished?"

While focusing on Calendil, Aragorn’s sharp hearing picked up the presence of an Elf. He could almost feel it on his skin. It was Legolas who had come back as he had promised. He watched them from a distance, waiting for the right time to strike. The King stepped backwards to give the Elf the room to shoot.

"Because you are what you are. You have killed. You have hurt. Accept that too and we will forgive you."

Calendil laughed bitterly. "I do not need forgiveness. I need acceptance. Have you not heard what I said? I am not to blame! It is you who has made me like this, you who forced me to kill."

"Nobody forced you but your dark soul," Aragorn spoke softly, hoping and praying that Legolas was ready. He stepped backwards once more, his hand resting casually on his sword. "You have brought this upon yourself and I will not take the blame for that." Aragorn carelessly took another step, hoping he was out of reach, giving his friend the perfect aim. One last step, he thought … one last move.

It was then that Calendil’s eyes narrowed and his mind grasped what was taking place. He lifted the bow and arrow and shot it randomly in Aragorn’s direction, feeling a strange pain shoot through his body at the exact same time. Caused by two arrows shot at the very same second, both hitting their targets hard.

The murderer screamed and clutched his side and then stumbled backwards and crawled into the shadows where a third arrow had missed and crashed upon the rocky surface. Leaving barely a trail of blood, he vanished in the dark.

Legolas’ body trembled in fear from where he sat as he stared at Aragorn on the ground. With three large jumps he was out of the cavern and onto the hard surface, not even missing his footing as he clutched his bow and then dropped it and his quiver to the ground.

"Help!" he shouted so loud that his voice was transported through the rocky passage outside, echoing against the walls. "Help us!"

Then he sunk on his knees by his friend’s side, his hands fumbling on the arrow pierced through the King’s shoulder. He remembered the arrows embedded in Boromir’s chest, ultimately killing him. He could not lose another friend like this!

Aragorn did not reply as he lay on the ground. His face had a white pallor, his body did nothing – not even tremble – and his voice would not speak. Legolas sighed in deep despair, furious at himself for acting too late and furious at Aragorn for challenging Calendil in the belief that he would not try to kill him. His frustration heightened with the knowledge he had wounded the man but not killed him, giving him ample opportunity to walk away. It had been Calendil’s sudden release of the arrow which had disturbed Legolas’ concentration, surprised at the murderer’s quick reaction.

When the others rushed back into the passage, Aragorn stirred. His eyes fluttered and opened, unable to focus. He seemingly struggled with his ability to stay awake, but groaned in pain when Elrond reached him and tore the fabric around the embedded arrow to look at the wound.

"He ran that way," Legolas said, pointing at the passage way behind him. Faramir and his guards set out, leaving Elrond, Gimli and Legolas with Aragorn who slowly came out of his stupor and into a new world of pain. The King’s eyes remained unfocused, terrifying Elrond. But then his vision returned and he seemed lucid enough to stop their worst fears.

"Hold him steady," Elrond said, "I must remove the wood and leave the arrow head until we are home. It is too risky to pull that out now. I don’t have the correct tools here."

"No," Aragorn grunted as his body trembled from shock, his eyes finding his father’s. "Find … the … child."

"It is too late for that," Legolas whispered to Elrond. "Is it not?"

"You do not … understand. She … she was alive when he … when he left her. She is … I can feel her … She lives."

Legolas stared at his friend, grasping his hand. "How do you know?" he asked, strained.

Aragorn smiled, closing his eyes. "I saw … his mind. She is … up … there …" The King’s hand pointed at the small cavern where they had first heard Calendil’s voice. "Go … go!" Elessar’s voice stirred Legolas. He left bow and quiver and then started the short climb up, certain that the cave was empty but for a child’s body.

But when he climbed inside the cavern, he held his breath and stared at the child who lay bathed in blood, but was still alive. Her breathing could barely be heard and seemed almost invisible for the human eye, but the Elf picked up on it quickly. "She lives!" he exclaimed. "Valar, she lives!"

Carefully Legolas pushed his hands upon the child’s chest, seeing the single stab wound Calendil had hastily given her. He had been so eager to speak to Aragorn that he had changed his usual way of killing and left her for dead, believing she would soon truly perish.

But she lived. Her will was strong enough to live and breathe and she did. Yet she would not for long. She needed the strongest Healer possible to pull her through this, for she had lost a lot of blood and the stab wound was close to her heart. Legolas realized it was like seeing Elladan again, lying for dead on that small City square.

Legolas cautiously pulled her into his arms and held her head against him, tilting her and then moving back towards the quickest exit out of the cavern. He would have to jump down with her but thought no second time over it. As light-footed as he had made his way up, he now brought her down in his arms.

To his surprise he found Aragorn’s eyes still open and relatively alert. He knew the King was waiting for the child, willing himself to see her and know that she lived. He was helped into a sitting position by Elrond and Gimli and leaned heavily against the rocks.

The Dwarf now stood back and watched as the Elven-Lord worked on his son, stabilizing the shoulder. They had broken off the wood, leaving the arrow head embedded in the flesh. Aragorn fought back the pain and willed himself to ignore it, focusing instead on the purpose of their being here.

"She lives," Aragorn said in wonder, staring at the child that Legolas cautiously placed upon the ground next to him. Elrond immediately turned his attention to her, finding the deep wound that threatened to take her life.

Aragorn stared at her, willing her to open her eyes and speak, but she did not move. "She lives! Does she not? Legolas?"

"She will not for long, I fear," the Elf spoke truthfully. "She is mortally wounded."

"No. She will live!" Aragorn pushed himself up on one hand and ignored Gimli’s pressuring words to keep him calm. He watched as Elrond opened his pack and applied herbs upon her wound and did everything possible to aid her, but even he could not. She would not live long enough to exit these caverns. Not even Elrond’s strength would be able to return her from the abyss. Only the hands that had once stopped the black breath’s influence upon Faramir would be able to do so.

"She needs the hands of her King," Aragorn said firmly, knowing that she would slowly stop breathing.

"You are far too weak to aid her," Elrond said strongly. "I cannot allow you to do this. You have already given away so much of yourself when you aided Elladan. I cannot risk you to do it again in such a short period of time."

"No, it is but a flesh wound, and I have recovered enough after Elladan. Do not stop me, Ada." Aragorn’s voice betrayed he was already far beyond their reach, preparing mentally to aid the child whose life he held in his hands. He would fight against Calendil until his last breath, he knew. He would sacrifice himself to save a child.

Yet in the back of his head rested the pledge he had given his wife. He would come home tonight and be with her, and she would not have to fear that he would kill himself trying to do right. He had sworn to have a family with her and to see his children grow up. Nothing in this world would stop that from happening. He would tread gently.

Carefully Aragorn placed his good hand upon the wound, chewing on the athelas his father gave him at the same time. His clipped left wing seemed almost useless. The pain kept him alert and in this world, in fact aiding him. Aragorn willed his hand to do its work as it had done many times before, pretending he was in the peaceful surroundings of the Houses of Healing, instead of here in the midst of the cold mountains. Only this time he had to go further than ever before, feeling that the release of the child’s soul was near.

If the child was aware of anything happening around her, she would not be able to say so. Her eyes were closed and remained closed while he used the Kingsfoil to fight against the wound’s worst trauma, and when he placed his hand upon her forehead and told her to wake.

"She is nearly spent," the King whispered, his voice drawing away and from afar, as if he were in another world roaming its roads and hoping to find a passageway out through the dark vale covering it. The kingsfoil pressed upon her chest seemed to have no effect.

They heard his voice become faint as he spoke her name over and over again, urging her to return to his beckoning and call. And finally she opened her eyes and returned to the light handed to her by her King. Sila’s eyelids blinked, and she found herself surrounded by three different races concerned over her welfare.

Aragorn’s hand let go, his head bowed forward so none could see his face. His hand rested on the ground, supporting his weight. He was the one spent now and he did not move or speak. All stared in wonder at the girl saved, finding her eyes clear from pain or the empty void sucking her in.

"What has overcome me?" Sila asked with the small voice belonging to a child. "I feel strange."

"Do not trouble yourself," Elrond whispered soothingly, stroking her face and hair. "We shall bring you home soon."

On the other side of the girl, Aragorn fell backwards without a warning, his body caught by Legolas who gently placed him on the ground. His eyes rolled backwards in their sockets; his body gave up the fight. This time, the King did not reply to any beckoning and would not do so for a long time.

Arwen stood on the stone steps where her husband had been crowned a year ago and overlooked the City. Her face alone expressed her fears since her body seemed to be calm and in control. Her hands clung together before her and she waited, and waited, and waited. She had no one of her kin to speak to, none who could really understand how she felt. Yet she felt reassured knowing her servants stood behind her in sympathy and waited alongside her. And next to her was Éowyn, whose expression tried to hide the concern she felt for all.

For hours now it seemed as if the clouds would burst open and shed their rain like a thick, foggy blanket over the City. Then it finally happened. It was almost as if every cloud opened up at the same time, dropping its tears over the world in an everlasting dense sensation. And before long, most that were still standing outside going about their business rushed inside and stayed there. Only Arwen remained where she was, and she refused to return inside. She hardly felt the thick drops of rain falling upon her.

"We must go inside," Éowyn said next to her, touching Arwen’s arm. "Standing out here catching a cold will do you no good."

I will not get ill, Arwen wanted to say, only to realize then that she did not even know if she could become ill. She had not seen a stroke of sickness in the year she belonged to the mortals but that did not mean she could not suffer from it as they could. She did not know if it could happen to her, or if she still had the Elves’ immunity upon her.

"Nay, I will stay. But you must go inside," Arwen murmured, not willing to explain to those surrounding her how afraid she was that Aragorn would not keep his promise. He had pledged to her he would remain safe but how could he when others might decide his fate for him?

So Éowyn stayed too, affected by her Queen’s reluctance to go inside. She had befriended Arwen from the start and they called each other by their first names when they were alone, but in matters of the Court they were polite as were custom. To the end of the world with customs, the daughter of Rohan thought. Who cared about any of this when the men they cared for might be in peril?

As much as she loved Faramir, Éowyn bore almost the same level of respect for her King. She had long forgiven him for not returning her affection for him, knowing his heart was promised to another woman. And how could she abhor Arwen who would do anything for anyone in this City? Her Queen had the greatest heart of all with the compassion only a female Elf could feel. She was strong and self-controlled and knew what she wanted. She knew the country as well as her husband and could negotiate with anyone and give calm back to those who had lost it. Arwen was remarkable: a woman who had given up her immortality to be with the only one she had ever loved. Éowyn felt pleased to be her friend, almost flattered that Arwen would only listen to her in cases like this.

"Arwen," she said softly, ignoring the Court’s rules and receiving a surprised glare from the servants standing behind them. The Queen turned her head and faced Éowyn. "They will come back. They are well. I can feel it. They shall return soon."

"Faramir is well," Arwen said quietly, "but I cannot feel my husband’s waking spirit. Wherever he is, he is not with us at this moment. I cannot reach out to him."

Her words startled Éowyn who remembered so clearly the fright she had felt when Aragorn had been missing in Rohan, presumed dead. His friends had mourned him then, assuming they would never see him again. Would they grieve for him now? Was there reason to grieve? The lady of Rohan could not imagine this land without Aragorn, not when he had fought so hard to restore it to its original might. He belonged on that throne as the King he was. It was meant for no one else except those of his bloodline, and right now there were no children to follow into his footsteps. No, he could not have perished.

"He is well," Éowyn hastened to say, eager to stop her friend’s thoughts of doom. But Arwen no longer heard her. She stood frozen for a moment and then rushed off the steep steps in the thick rain, hurrying towards the party on horseback that climbed eagerly up the levels of Minas Tirith to the King’s Halls. All faces were directed downward and shielded against the rain. All were covered in hoods and cloaks.

Two horses had two riders. Arwen knew who leaned heavily and out of reach against Legolas immediately. She noticed that when she saw Gimli – Legolas’ usual companion – sitting behind Faramir who arrived first. She ignored the first horse and aimed her direction at the second that the fair-haired Elf rode, holding Aragorn against him.

It did not merely rain but pour by now, wetting the clothes of the horsemen and of those who came out of their houses when they heard the large group return. Curiosity won over the desire to stay inside. Arwen barely saw her husband’s pale face from a distance and scurried forward, almost tripping over her dress had Éowyn not grasped her.

With her hands holding up the skirt of her gown Arwen hurried towards the party, stopping to watch Faramir quickly dismount his horse and help lift Aragorn off Legolas’s. Her husband did not move when he was gently held by the Steward until Legolas too dismounted his stallion. The rain did not wake him.

"To the Houses of Healing," the Steward ordered and before long the Healers came to take over his burden. Carefully they lifted Aragorn on a small gurney and brought him inside. Arwen turned to find her father carry someone else; someone that seemed like a small child. And there were a woman and a man amongst the riders she did not know. They looked like brother and sister. Their focus was entirely upon the child. They followed Elrond as he delivered the child in another man’s arms.

Then Arwen realized what had happened. "She lives," she whispered, staring at her father who turned to her in the rain and stretched out his arms. She slipped into his grip and held him for a brief moment.

Elrond nodded. "Aragorn healed her, and gave away his life’s strength to do so. He is – he is not well, Arwen."

His words frightened her. She felt blood leave her cheeks. Then she no longer stared at the child but hurried after her husband instead, ignoring the rain that soaked her clothing and hair. She could not care if she did catch a cold now. Nothing really mattered, except Aragorn.

She did not have to search for Aragorn, knowing where they would have taken him. It was the room previously occupied by Elladan who had retreated into his own quarters now to rest and heal. Another one saved by King Elessar, Arwen thought before concentrating on the here and now.

She stumbled inside the room to find at least four Healers at work on her husband’s body. She could tell he was far away from here, for she did not sense any token of life emanating from him. Wherever he had gone to retrieve the girl, he had not returned from there yet himself.

They made way for her and watched her as she took her husband’s hand in hers and squeezed it. She could tell his face was untouched, except for the wound inflicted upon him yesterday. His beard had stubble, just like she remembered it for years and years. His lips were drained from every color and so were his cheeks. Her eyes fell upon the arrow embedded in his shoulder. So close, she thought. So close to losing him. Let him be spared, Valar. You have spared him once. Spare him again.

Then she leaned over him as she had done in her dreams a long time ago when she felt he was in need of her presence and whispered for all to hear, "The Valar’s Grace is still upon you. You shall not wither. This is not your time."

To their astonishment, the King opened his eyes and faced her but they knew soon he did not see anything. He was trapped in the dream woven by her words and had given no thought to escaping the void yet. But his voice could be heard when he replied, "I give the Grace back to you, to the one who has given up her immortality. Take it back."

"I shall not," she said, stroking his wet hair and kissing his damp lips. "You are not to go. Not yet. Not for a long time. We shall share it both until we are old enough to die."

His body rendered a sigh and then his eyes closed again. But he seemed calmer somehow, and his breathing became more regular. Arwen felt Legolas stand behind her. His presence comforted her. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. They both knew then that Aragorn would be well now.

On the other side stood Gimli, leaning heavily upon his axe, swearing to use it only on he who had caused this. The Dwarf never thought he would care so much for a human, but he did and he could not stop himself. His frustration grew at the acknowledgement that there was nothing he could do about it. Then his eyes caught Arwen’s and he returned to calm suddenly, as her expression read exactly that. She bowed slightly, understanding how he felt. Gimli smiled nervously, his eyes darting. Then he bowed back and released some of the pressure straining on his shoulders.

It was Elrond who removed the arrowhead from his son’s shoulder, using his ancient healing skills to do so. He cut open the flesh and skin and pried it out as gently as he could, not daring to give his son any herbs to keep him asleep. He need not have worried, for Aragorn seemed too far away to realize what was happening to him. He remained calm throughout the process and did not stir when the knife cut into his flesh.

The wound was not fatal and would probably give the King only minor discomfort after a day or so, to the relief of those present. Some feared for a while that his arm would forever be maimed but it would not come to that. The damaged nerves would soon heal, especially with the King’s swift healing abilities. Afterwards, Elrond boiled kingsfoil in water and allowed its scent to clear the room’s air. The smell finally stirred Aragorn.

When the King looked up after some time, he found himself lying on a bed with at least four soft pillows and the gentlest sheets that could ever caress his body. The wound – wrapped and bound – was hidden under clean and dry clothing put on his body by the Healers. His left arm was indisposed and rested in a sling, the arm lingered on top of the sheets with the hand held by a familiar grip.

Arwen.

Aragorn’s face turned aside and he found her with the most serious expression on her face, quickly changing into the broadest smile he had ever seen. Then she stood and kissed his brow, turned and told her servant that the King was alert and her friends and family should be notified.

Only the Chief Healer remained behind when Aragorn spoke again, finding it hard to find the right words. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. Arwen knew that. She did not need to be a Healer to see the state of her husband’s mind, for she knew him better than anyone. She also saw he was trying to be brave. He could fool anyone, she thought, except her.

"How do you feel?" she asked, caressing his face gently.

"Like I was trapped inside a mountain," he quipped. "What has happened?"

"You saved the child and nearly gave up your life’s grace for it. But you shall heal well and quickly. All you need now is some rest. By tomorrow you will hardly realize what has happened."

"I am sorry," he whispered, unable to face her.

"What for?" she asked. "How could I be upset with your actions when you have come back to me as you promised?"

"I did not expect to come back carried by someone else."

She smiled. "If it is any comfort, it was Legolas who brought you back."

He chuckled. "It is alright then."

Arwen rose from her seat when her father, brothers and friends arrived. Soon the room was filled with those who loved Aragorn and would die to protect him. It filled her heart with pleasure to see there were so many who cared for him. She wished she had been there to be by his side, to fight with him against the murderer twisted in his own despair.

They had not found him, Legolas told her. They had searched the caverns and passages and found nothing but a few drops of blood that lead nowhere. Both Aragorn and the child needed to be brought back as soon as possible for care and they could not afford to stay behind. Six guards had stayed to look until darkness fell but they too returned empty-handed. They had brought the child’s father and aunt, the woman named Almé who had been caught off guard by Calendil.

The child fortunately would live and that was what Arwen told her husband before the room became crowded. She would not suffer long from the wound inflicted upon her. Tomorrow her father would take her home already. It calmed Aragorn to know that they had proven Calendil wrong: they could defeat him and would, every single time.

Arwen watched her husband as he spoke to the others, showing them beyond his exhaustion that he was well and smiling bravely. She knew all too well – as did they all – that he was merely showing them not to be concerned over him. But she was. She had listened to his confused dreams last night about Erëa and the other children. She had watched him toss and turn when he was supposed to sleep from Elrond’s herbs. His will and mind were stronger than the medication given to him and it frightened her.

Aragorn was one of strong will. He had shown his self-control in the worst of situations, in the heaviest of battles. He had been willing to sacrifice himself to defeat Sauron, throwing himself into the battle with the fierceness of someone believing he would not make it. It had not stopped him.

How then would he stop himself now?

Let someone stop him before it is too late, she thought. Let someone end this ordeal. It must be ended.

Aragorn’s eyes found hers. She smiled bravely and returned to the bed. It would all be well, she swore as her eyes found Éowyn’s, the only one who could really understand what she was going through.

It would all be well. Or she would make it well.

That, she swore.

The evening passed in peace as the City took deep, reassuring breaths and convinced itself that they were safe. After all, had Legolas not wounded – perhaps even killed – the murderer? Perhaps they would be free of his wrath now, freed from anything that might else have taken place.

And did their King not keep his promise to keep them from harm? He had saved the little girl’s life, giving her a new chance to grow up. She would rest comfortably in the Houses of Healing by her husband’s side and sleep until morning came. And when she returned home, the King’s Guards would protect her until they knew for certain that the murderer had been killed.

In the morning the Royal Guards would set out again to the mountain range in search of Calendil’s body. Even though there was no sign or trace of him, everyone was certain he had perished, not having survived an Elf’s arrow. The City was safe once more and their King would rule it as he had done for the past year. He had kept his vows.

As for the King: every report leaving his private quarters revealed he was improving by the hour. He had eaten, he had rested and he was already up and about again, making slow progress as he tried out his sore limbs and regained that which had been taken from him: The strength that one needed to go about their every-day business.

Other reports said he was constantly surrounded by his family and friends was speaking with them for many hours as they recaptured the events and convinced themselves that Calendil was really dead.

None who lived outside the royal walls knew, however, that Aragorn doubted that Calendil had really died. Even though he could no longer feel that connection to his nemesis, he still did not sense that reaction of relief he was certain he would feel when it was over. Therefore he remained cautious in his words and actions, demanding guards to stay at the child’s side and others guarding the City this evening.

When everything grew dark though and the day neared its ending, nothing seemed to happen. The City remained calm and quiet, and those who had children kept them inside and locked their doors, hoping that in the morning the news would come that the body of the killer had been found.

It was so that Legolas of Mirkwood – one of the two heroes of the day – retreated into his quarters against his own wishes, finally catching up on a bit of well-needed rest by the orders of Elrond of Rivendell. The oldest and wisest of Elves had insisted on a general resting period for all, sensing that most ran at the end of their ropes and needed a quiet night.

Despite Legolas’ insistence that he was truly well and did not feel the need to sleep, he did do as he was told and finally found his bed around the stroke of midnight, sleeping almost solidly as soon as his head hit the pillows. The same went for the Rivendell twins, of which Elladan was still recovering from his ordeal. His twin brother – who shared a room with the older one to keep an eye out for him – brought him grumpily to their quarters where they too fitfully fell asleep after a short period of time.

It was not only the Elves that sought rest, but also the humans living in the Palace. Faramir and his wife Éowyn retreated early into their quarters after Faramir pledged to rise at dawn to bring the troops back to the mountains for the new search. He was not at ease when he walked to their private quarters but found himself exhausted and in dire need of some rest. His wife gave him enough comfort to sleep and she held him while he tried not to dream of old foes and forgotten pains. Faramir too carried a past not forgotten and always found it difficult to find a good night’s rest. Tonight however, he slept almost as soon as he slipped under the covers.

Gimli the Dwarf had retreated together with Legolas, sending his best friend to bed and then going to his own adapted quarters where he slept solidly on a hard bed of stone. He had no need for soft pillows and a good mattress. All that was required was a slab to sleep upon. The Dwarf was the second-to-last to say goodnight to Aragorn, standing by his friend’s bedside and saying in his own typical manner, "Now you rest again, laddie, or I will knock you out with my axe myself."

Gimli was one of the most loved figures in the palace, with his grumpy gestures and his well-intended remarks that always came out sounding as if he tried to insult someone. As the servants watched him leave, they smiled at each other and bid him goodnight, knowing he would be up as one of the first in the morning.

In a room only two doors down Aragorn’s, Sila slept fitfully in a small, warm bed similar to her own. She barely suffered from her wound and felt at home in the palace. When she woke once more and found her papa by her side, she asked for the man who had placed his hands on her chest.

Her father requested to bring her to the King and was granted that request. On his arm she had been brought into the room to see Aragorn on his sickbed. There she smiled and looked at him and said that he was in her dreams and that she believed he had taken her by the hand and brought her home. He merely nodded and told her that this was so. A bond of friendship was created right there, making the child feel even more at home in the palace. But she yearned to be home too so she could play in the fields with her brothers and sisters.

Elrond of Rivendell was the one who left Aragorn and Arwen last, knowing he could never get his daughter to leave her husband’s side. They had brought in an extra bed for her so she could sleep next to him. Aragorn was not to return to his own quarters yet, since the Healers wanted to keep an eye on him for the night. Even though they no longer feared for his health, they hoped that he would have a good night’s sleep and feel better in the morning. They wanted to give him something to rest comfortably but he refused as he found no struggle to capture sleep on his own account.

Elrond watched his son cautiously and felt better only when Aragorn laughed a few times and clearly showed he had not endured harsh suffering from the events. The fact that Sila had come out alive was more than enough healing for him.

When he left, Elrond knew that his son would be alright but that it would take some time. He did blame himself for the events and perhaps he was right to do so, even if they occurred without his consent or participation. He had unwillingly formed a bond to a man whose path he had crossed only once. Was anyone really to blame then?

The Elven-Lord softly closed the door behind him and nodded to the guards standing before it. Then he retreated into his own chambers, knowing he would rise at dawn to see to his son again.

Finally Arwen remained behind and kissed her husband, her presence enough medication to endure any pain that he might experience. She did not lie on the extra bed but crawled into his instead, cradling him gently. They fell asleep together, he scenting her gentle perfume and hair, she scenting the last of the raindrops that had fallen upon him earlier.

Both hoped for a good night’s sleep, and for peace, knowing that it might be disturbed at any moment.

*

Then the night slowly became morning and the King was the first one to wake rested after a strangely peaceful night. He thought he had dreamt everything for a while, wondering about where he was and why he felt so sore. Then he saw Arwen lying in his arms, her body pushed against him and lingering in his arms. He knew now he was not in his own bed but in the Houses of Healing, betraying that it had not been a dream.

Slowly Aragorn pulled himself free from her grip, allowing her body to slide a little until it rested on its own on the bed. She was exhausted, for she slept without as much as a sigh or a stir. He knew that her concern for him had made her extremely tired, and it alarmed him to see how pale she was.

He kissed her softly and covered her with the blankets. His left arm rested still in a sling and lay flat against his chest. He could feel his fingers tingle as if they were eager to be used again. Gently he removed the sling and moved his arm, feeling a slight ache in his shoulder that could be ignored. He felt well, really. And hungry.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him he had not eaten overnight and was now famished. He stretched his sore legs and back and turned to face Arwen. It was early morning still; she would not be awake for a few hours at least. He did not want to wake her.

Barefoot, he decided to leave the room and go to their own quarters first, finding clothes to put on. Then he would go downstairs to the kitchen area and gather some breakfast that would settle the first hunger. As he opened the door, two guards sprung up and greeted him stiffly. He smiled and said good morning to them. As he walked down the corridor to his private quarters, they followed.

"No," he said, "stay there and guard my wife. I will come back shortly."

They obeyed him and returned to their posts next to the guards protecting the child’s room, understanding he would not leave the building and stay within its safe compound. Aragorn continued his pace and walked swiftly to his private rooms where he found clothes to put on. He dressed in a burgundy tunic and pulled on his favorite boots. Then he left his quarters again and stopped at the windows looking down.

This morning there would not be a market as people waited for news – any news at all that would tell them they were saved. The Steward had forbidden the market for today, hoping that tonight they would have returned with Calendil’s body, found in the mountains. Aragorn prayed it would be so.

The King made his way to the kitchen area where the first servants were already at work. Surprised, they stared at him as he entered. He smiled at them and asked for a light breakfast. Shocked, the master servant aided him, sitting him at a table where he watched them work. It always amused Aragorn to see how people treated him differently now that he wore a crown. He still felt the same old Strider, the one who was often unwanted in pubs because he came from ‘dangerous folk’.

The King ate fresh bread covered in melting butter and farm-made jam spread thickly upon it. Resting his left arm, he used only his right but he could feel its strength return by the waking minute. If people had feared for his life only twelve hours ago, it could not be seen now. He was strong and conscious of his ability to heal fast.

Aragorn sipped two cups of tea and then left the kitchen, thanking the staff for feeding him. They bowed and watched him as he walked out, pleased that their King felt so well.

In the main hall he bumped into a few guards who ogled him curiously, for he was alone and unattended. He ignored them and walked upstairs alone again, realizing how much he hated feeling so protected. He had always minded to his own affairs and taken care of his own.

Aragorn stopped at the end of the corridor where his private quarters lay and looked out over the tiled terrace. If only he could know for a fact that there was no more danger. If only he had seen him dead. It would lift the burden off his heart.

The King heard soft noises throughout the building of people waking up. Soon enough the rooms would be filled with every-day clatter and people going about their business. He wanted to use the last minutes of peace and quiet to be with his wife.

Aragorn left his quarters for what they were and returned through the long corridors to the Houses of Healing. The main rooms were on the ground level, with his room being last in the row. The King’s feet continued their swift pace when he stopped suddenly, startled.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. Something was very … very wrong.

The guards were gone. All four guards standing before the two doors had left. He could not see them anymore, not in the corridor and not near the windows leading to the terrace. Alarmed Aragorn felt a cold hand grasp his heart. Arwen!

The King rushed to his old sick room and pushed the door open, calling out her name. "Arwen! Arwen!"

She did not lie on the bed. In a panic the King hurried towards the bathing area and forced the door open. She was nowhere in sight. In despair he rushed out of the room, calling out for aid. It was almost as if he were alone until suddenly – from all sides – people seemed to come for him.

"Where is she?" he cried out, "where is Arwen? Has anyone seen Arwen?!"

None replied, but the Houses of Healing were in uproar. The King called out for his wife, alerting those who had thought that everything was well up until now. Then his sharp eyes spotted it: the trail running from the corridor over the dark carpets to the room across the hall.

The cold grasp became even tighter as Aragorn stumbled to the door and pushed it open. Behind him there were screams and shouts when the servants saw four bodies lying on the ground, all dead from a single stabbing wound to the throat.

Panic overwhelmed Aragorn. "Alert the guards!" he yelled. "Alert my friends. My wife is missing. Help me find her!"

But then he turned and saw her standing in the corridor, her face even paler than before with her dark, large eyes staring at him. "Aragorn," she whispered hoarsely and restrained, "where did you go? I searched for you."

Aragorn almost fainted from pure relief, red swarming before his eyes as he rushed towards her and grabbed her in his arms, holding her tight against him. He was holding her, he was touching her. Oh Valar, he could not believe it!

But then the cold returned to his heart when he knew exactly what had happened. He let go of his wife and felt his legs shiver as he pushed through the servants towards the second door. Opening it, he knew what he would find. The King stood frozen in the doorway, standing like that for a long time before his legs gave him permission to move once more. He stepped inside the room and walked to the bed where Sila’s body lay, covered by a white sheet through which her blood seeped.

By her bed lay her father and Almé: both had died before their bodies hit the ground. The child had watched them die before he had come to her side and told her that she would see them again soon.

He had given her a merciful death, one that was swift and fast and would not have made her suffer. Aragorn pulled away the sheet and revealed her face, almost peaceful in its death. So pretty she had been in life, and so beautiful she still was in death.

He placed his hands upon her chest and closed his eyes as he tried to connect with her being, but he knew it was to no avail. This time she would not be returned to her life, for she had departed it too quickly. Aragorn removed his hands from her body and looked at them, recognizing the past in that very moment.

He could never escape it. Never.

Aragorn felt Arwen grasp him tight from behind, her voice whispering, "No … no," over and over. He could feel her tears against his back wetting his tunic. He could feel her body tremble in pure despair. That second, he distanced himself from her, knowing that his very presence alone could take her very life. He had not forgotten his brief moment of pure fright when he thought her gone.

He would not let this happen to her.

Never.

He would rather die first.

Whispers became shouts and cries. The peace had departed, leaving a blanket of doubt over those who remained behind. The murderer was not dead! But how could that be? How could he have survived the Elf’s arrow? He had to be an immortal, or at least stronger than life itself. He defied everything and everybody and lived. He lived!

The rumors spread almost as quickly as the doors to Sila’s room were opened and those who worked directly for the King saw her body or caught a glimpse of the uproar. It spread like a fire, going through every single room and reaching the City within five minutes.

He lived! The murderer lived!

Aragorn stood frozen in the child’s room with his wife behind him, grasping him. It was he who moved first, his eyes strangely focused on the child’s body. He could not see anything else, embedding the memory of it into his spirits forever. He had failed again. He had allowed a killer to enter these rooms and take the life he had sworn to take.

But no more.

The King let go of Arwen’s grip and turned his back towards her as he exited the room, barely seeing her or anyone else. He sped through the large hallways and left those who were too slow to follow him. He pushed himself past guards and servants, not seeing any of them. He was fast and strode with large paces, pushing aside anyone who tried to stop him.

"Find Lord Faramir!" Arwen cried behind him, and she too began to run, knowing she could not keep up with her husband, and realizing exactly what he was thinking at that moment. She knew she could never keep up with him, but her franticness gave her wings and she managed to be almost as fast as he.

He slammed the door to their quarters behind him and locked it, and she knew she would not be allowed inside. She could not hate him for it, feeling the pain that he went through. She knocked repeatedly on the door, urging him to open it, knowing that he would not.

Within five minutes those who had not been awake before ran through the King’s House trying to cope with the return to an awful presence. It was Arwen who woke her father, brothers, Legolas and Gimli. It was she who alerted them of what had happened. She could not get her husband to respond so she tried to find those to whom he would listen. Then she became fearful. Why did he not respond? Why was he so quiet?

Soon everyone tried to get the door open, knowing he would not listen to them. "Step aside!" Gimli grunted, getting his axe ready. Before anyone could stop him, the blade split the wood, knocking its lock out of the door.

Legolas pushed the door open, finding the room empty. Faramir was the first to enter, looking at the open door leading to the bathing room. "He is gone," the Steward said, knowing Aragorn had taken the second exit that lead out of the bathing room into the corridor.

Legolas knew Aragorn had taken it when Arwen went to search for aid, determined as he was never again to involve any of his friends. What could they do to persuade him that this was what they wanted too? They would never desert him, no matter how far the darkness would lead.

"He would not have gone without telling us," Arwen spoke urgently, believing her husband would not be that rash. "What if Calendil was in here?"

"There would have been a sign of a struggle," Elrond soothed her. "There is none. Aragorn left on his own account."

"He would not! He promised me!"

"He feels this is what he must do alone," Elladan spoke gently. "He fears that we are subject to Calendil’s wrath. You said he was very distressed when he thought you were missing. You know that he fears the worst when it comes to you."

"I will not be harmed," Arwen spoke softly. "But he will be."

"Nay, he will be well," Elrond said. "He will not let Calendil take charge. He is stronger than that. His spirits have not been broken."

"How do you know?" Arwen retorted sharply. "You did not see his face. He was … Ada, he was so strange. I have never seen him like this. It was almost as if he were possessed by only one thing: to bring Calendil to justice. To death."

"Then that is what he must do. It is time that this killer is stopped, for it seems as if he has had the privilege of surprise for too long."

"What then? Let Aragorn be? Let him walk to his fate?"

"Of course not," Elrond smiled, touching his daughter’s face. "We will search for him."

"Where? Where is he?"

"He cannot have gone far," Faramir interrupted.

On the bed they found a letter. Arwen sunk down and opened the scroll, frightened of what she would read. On it she found the same, strangely accurate and neat handwriting that belonged to the murderer.

Come there where you love to be, it read. I have another child.

"Where he loves to be?" Arwen repeated, staring at Elrond.

"The secluded garden."

"Let us go then."

Arwen turned to find Legolas gone. The Elf had taken off without their knowledge, swiftly leaving the room when they did not see. The rest of the group left the room and hurried through the corridors towards the small garden Aragorn loved to use, hoping they would not find what they feared most.

*

Legolas had left without waiting for them, his feet carrying him faster than anyone’s through the large corridors filled with marble statues. His feet barely hit the ground and left no sounds whatsoever. Dread filled his heart. He knew he could be too late, just as he had been in the mountains. None knew how much he blamed himself for Aragorn’s misfortune, still cursing at his confusion when he shot Calendil. If he had aimed better, if he had been faster, Calendil would now be dead and they would have been freed from his revenge.

And now the murderer still lived. How could he have failed his friends so? He should have killed him. He should have struck him in the heart and taken his very life. He should not have missed. But one arrow did not always kill. He had seen that at Helm’s Deep. When the enemy moved too quickly or was too strong, he could not always kill. If Aragorn was killed today, it would be on his conscience. He alone was responsible for it.

The Elf barely breathed as he made it to the small garden and used the door Aragorn always handled when entering it. It was locked. He could not go through it! He rattled its handle and called out Aragorn’s name. He knew he would not be allowed in, or at least not through this way. Aragorn would not let him be endangered, and Calendil would surely not risk it either. He needed to find another way in.

Legolas thought quickly of his other options and then went for the only other one left. He knew Calendil would use the second passageway and lock it too to close him in with Aragorn. The Elf cursed his friend for allowing himself to be lured into Calendil’s trap, at the same time admiring him for it. Perhaps he was not lured at all, but taking the risks to end this once and for all. He knew Aragorn all too well. This was about them and he was determined to end it as quickly as he could, even if it meant finishing last night’s ordeal when he was unfit and upset.

Legolas hurried up the stairs to the first floor and crossed the corridor towards the reading room, hoping he was right. He was. Below him on the lower level he could see into the gardens. He saw the bench Aragorn usually sat on, and the pots and plants that surrounded it. He saw the wild roses grow up the walls and the peonies that Arwen loved so much.

But the beauty of that quaint garden now surpassed Legolas as he spotted Aragorn standing still in the garden, holding Andúril tight. He saw the King’s back and not his face, but he could tell how Aragorn clutched his beloved his sword as the sole protection against Calendil.

He did not see the other man, but he could tell Aragorn was speaking. He was challenging the other one who hid in the shadows and remained out of sight. Legolas grunted, for he knew he could not open the window without being spotted below. Yet he had to, for he could not shoot his arrows through the glass and risk hitting Aragorn should the arrow suddenly change its course.

Very gently, the Elf pried open the window, hoping it would not creak as he pushed it wider to give him access to the open air. As he did, he could hear Calendil’s voice. The murderer spoke quietly, his voice almost drifting off. He was speaking in a strange tone of voice, almost like one would speak to a good friend.

Perhaps that is what he thinks, Legolas thought to his shock, he thinks of Aragorn as a friend.

"I want to show you how easy it is," Legolas heard him say. "And perhaps then you will understand who I am and what I am made of."

"I have no interest in your thoughts," Aragorn replied. "Where is the child?"

Legolas’ sharp ears followed the trail of Calendil’s voice, noticing suddenly that Aragorn could not see him either. The King’s face moved from left to right, as if trying to track him down. Calendil was hidden and he had the advantage of that position. He had obviously told Aragorn to stay where he was, and he must have had a weapon aimed at him or said that he possessed one.

Legolas slowly tilted his bow and tried to find the moving shadows, hoping that Calendil would make a misstep and move forward. If he did not, Legolas knew he did not stand a chance of helping his friend. Then, there was nothing but hope that Aragorn would not be a sitting duck waiting for the slaughter.

"Where is the child?" he heard Aragorn repeat and he did not know if his friend sensed his presence.

"Soon," Calendil replied from his shelter, and then there was a slight stir of shuffling feet. Legolas’ sharp ears picked up another sound, one that did not belong here. And then he saw the dagger come at him, moving out of the shadows towards him, thrown with full force into his direction – aimed by someone who was skilled with weapons.

How did he become to be like this? Legolas wondered while his thoughts rendered to nothingness. The Elf had no time to dive away, no place to go but backwards. It happened so fast he could not even move his feet into that direction. Transfixed he watched the weapon reach for him, beckoning his body to accept it as its new home. And then it struck him in the belly, slicing through flesh and skin until it embedded itself into him.

The Mirkwood Elf found himself staring down as his hands reached for the weapon stuck in his body. He did not understand why he did not feel any pain. That seemed to belong to someone else, to someone who was not in this room. Strange, he thought, it does not hurt to die.

He heard Aragorn shout for him and then there was nothing. The voice became a futile sound in his deafening ears, a sum of what he had become: another victim to Calendil’s wrath. He had failed Aragorn once more, making the situation worse instead of improving. He had done him wrong.

Then Legolas fell forward and his body leaned for a brief moment against the windowsill before dropping out of it, falling one story down and tumbling until his body struck the cobble stones hard and he lay flat on his back with his hands still grasping for the dagger. He might as well die at Aragorn’s feet, he thought. He might as well go in this beautiful garden.

He saw nothing then. Not the light of day that was strong and cleared out now that the rain had stopped after three days. Not the fog that the dawn had made as a leftover of the storms. Not the beautiful wild roses and peonies that were Arwen’s favorite. Not his friend who shouted his name and reacted shocked at watching his descend.

He saw absolutely nothing.

Aragorn sat on his knees and wept. He did not know he was crying until he felt the tears slide from his face and make their way to his hands. They were soon covered with them and he could taste the salt that lingered on the sides of his mouth. He no longer cared that Calendil watched him, no longer felt fear of the killer’s intentions. He cried over his friend, shedding his tears and showing them to the world.

Calendil had taken his best friend and left him with nothing. Legolas’ eyes stared into nothingness, finding the blue skies above them but not seeing them. It was a beautiful day, Aragorn thought. People should not die on beautiful days. They should perish on rainy, cloudy days that were meant for death. Not like this. Not at his feet with the world standing by and doing nothing. None had watched Legolas fall but Aragorn could sense they were approaching them and would soon realize the truth.

"Mellon-nin," Aragorn whispered for Calendil to hear, touching his friend’s face. "Rest in peace." Then he closed the Elf’s eyes and turned, shivering in anger and pure pain as he directed himself to the man he could not see. "I hate you," he hissed. "I hate you with all my being. Show yourself now or I will step into your shadows and pull out the very heart of you."

"My game was not intended for your friends," came Calendil’s voice, "but you dragged them into it and brought them in danger. You should have seen this coming. You knew your friends would try to save you."

"You should not have stopped him! He did no one harm."

"Should I have let him kill me then? After all, he came to slaughter me and to rescue his friend. How noble of him to be killed for you," Calendil replied in mockery.

"He could not have killed you, for he did not know where you were. Neither do I for that matter," Aragorn shouted, leaving his friend where he was as he approached the place he expected Calendil to be. "How could you do this? How can you kill an innocent whose blood has been spilled to save this world? He has fought hard and bravely to protect humans from the darkness. You do not know what you have destroyed."

"Do you grief over his death more than you do over the children?"

"Do not ask me such questions for I will not answer them. I grieve over all of them. None of them deserved this."

"But you do not grief over me."

"Why would I?" Aragorn spat, stepping forward. "You have taken all that is dear to me."

"I kept your wife alive."

Aragorn paled, clenching his fist around Andúril. "Aye, My King," mocked Calendil. "I watched her as she slept and I did not take her, or kill her. I spared her. Be grateful that I did, for my urges were great and I felt the need to take her life."

"If you had taken her, I would have cut you into a thousand pieces, watching you die a slow and gruesome death," Aragorn hissed. "Do you think I should be grateful to you now? What kind of beast are you?"

"One who demands your respect! Face me now, Aragorn and admit that I am the better of you."

"Never," Aragorn grunted. "Never!" The King stopped, his sword ready. "I asked you to finish it yesterday and you did not. You are the coward that I said you were."

Calendil smiled in mockery as he stepped out of the shadows and revealed himself. He held no bow and arrows this time. He seemed unarmed and lifted both hands into the air. "I am an innocent now," he said. "Will you kill me like this? Will you run your sword through my body and destroy me when I cannot defend myself?"

"No," Aragorn hissed, stepping forward and lifting Andúril so that it rested against the man’s chin. Calendil did not attempt to flee. He stood there and let himself be taken prisoner. "I will not kill you because I am not a coward like you."

"That will be your downfall then," Calendil spoke gently. "For how can you keep me alive when you know what I am?"

"Turn around and face that wall," Aragorn said. "I do not wish to see your face again."

"Kill me," Calendil almost pleaded.

"You took another child. Where is she?" Aragorn demanded, his eyes refusing to look at Legolas, trying to concentrate on the here and now.

"Kill me and you will not find her. But you will save all the others that I will not destroy. It is your choice: One life for all the others, my friend. What say you? Will you take the trade?"

"Where is the child?"

"I do not have her."

"You lie."

Calendil laughed. "You are right. I lied." The man’s hands were clenched shut. "I do have her," he admitted. "And I want to give you a fair chance of finding her before I kill her. That is what I came to tell you. You are upset because you lost poor little Sila, are you not? I can see it in your face. I will not do that to you again, My King. After all, are we not friends? I must give you the advantage of finding her, must I not? I shall give you that opportunity then. She is in a room where she might soon die unless you find her before that time comes. So I am offering you a head start so you can save her life. That is what I owe you."

"Turn around," Aragorn grunted, lowering his sword slightly.

Calendil turned and faced his foe. He smiled when he saw Aragorn’s strained expression. "If only you could see yourself now, Aragorn, King of Gondor. You have been misled by only one man and not a thousand guards could protect you from me. They will not be able to save your future either. You will die knowing that."

"Where is the child?"

"If I tell you, will you let me go?"

"I will not play your games," Aragorn hissed, approaching the man as he shoved his sword against the murderer’s chest. "Where is she?"

"Tie me up. Take me away. Bind me and throw me in a dungeon. Because I will escape again, and you will not find me. I reassure you of that, my friend. We shall meet again."

"I am not your friend." Aragorn pushed the man forward towards the door leading into the Palace. He remained cautious of Calendil’s every move, but the man did not seem to bother struggling against him. Like a lamb he waited patiently until Aragorn moved him to the slaughter bench.

Calendil reached for the door as if offering to open it. Then his leg kicked backwards, almost striking the King who foresaw the killer’s move and evaded him. Calendil’s moves were fast and calculated. With one solid pull, he freed his right hand and arm, shoving Aragorn against the brick wall. He turned around quickly, hitting the King’s jaw. When the second blow came, Aragorn lifted his arm to protect his face, and hit Calendil back full into the face. He did not want to use his sword, knowing all too well the enemy could not be killed. He could not risk the life of yet another child. He needed the murderer alive. Yet he clung hard to it, ready to use it nonetheless.

The murderer struck the ground and stayed there. Aragorn reached for him and pulled him up with his right hand, ignoring the sharp pain that emanated from his left arm. Calendil swayed on his legs, uncooperative and bleeding through his clothes. The blood seeped through on his side, undoubtedly from where Legolas had shot him yesterday.

As the King pulled him roughly up by his tunic, Calendil’s right hand moved quickly and shoved itself over Aragorn’s face, pushing something against his nose and mouth. His left hand dug deep into Aragorn’s shoulder, sending sharp bouts of pain through the man’s thoughts. Andúril fell to the ground. Almost immediately the King started losing consciousness as a sharp scent protruded his nostrils and took away every common sense.

Both men fought hard for dominance and it was Calendil who slowly won. Aragorn kicked backwards and struggled with both hands, pushing himself hard against the killer’s side, kicking him there where it hurt the most. His body sighed heavily as Aragorn felt he would lose the struggle. He leaned forward, telling himself not to fight it.

It worked, for Calendil loosened his grip slightly and thought he had gained control again. Aragorn slipped forward and then struggled away from Calendil’s strong grip, kicking him a third time. This time Calendil shouted in pure pain and rage, dropping the rag to the ground.

He kicked the King once, sending him forward while Aragorn struggled with his senses. But then Calendil felt a grip upon his shoulder and a dagger clutched against his throat, and he could hear a faint hiss in the Elf’s voice as Legolas grunted, "Let go of him or I will slice your head off your shoulders."

In pure shock the killer let go of Aragorn. The King fell forward on hands and knees, struggling hard to return to his senses. Slowly he won the battle. As his sight returned, he saw a very pale Legolas holding the dagger that had struck him against Calendil’s throat. The other hand he held against his abdomen where blood seeped through a large cut. The Elf staggered on his legs but Aragorn knew he could easily slice the murderer’s throat.

"What took you so long?" Aragorn smiled wearily.

"I was delayed," the Elf whispered hoarsely, continuing to hold one hand firmly against his abdomen.

*

The King’s Quarters were once more in uproar when the locked door to the private garden was opened to allow the group so closely involved to Aragorn. They stood in shock at what they saw, for the one whom they perceived first was Calendil. Immediately they feared the worst: he had killed their King or wounded him, left him for dead.

The murderer did not react to any of them as they grasped him tight by both arms. Then a sigh of relief surged through them all, for behind him was Legolas who pushed Calendil forward while holding a dagger in his hand. There was blood upon the Elf’s digits and his clothing, and he was pale and distraught. But he lived and seemed very vivid, so Elrond noticed relieved.

Faramir’s guards took over, holding Calendil tight and binding his hands. The murderer did not glare at anyone but kept his eyes lowered and refused to witness his captors. He did not speak.

For a while then they were still concerned over Aragorn for they could not spot their King. It was Legolas they saw and not the human. But then a groan came from behind the Elf, and a voice they all recognized at once.

"Take this filth away," Aragorn’s voice spoke weakly and Arwen felt her heart lift as she heard her husband’s voice, and they entered the secluded garden to see him. "Bring him to the Throne Hall and keep him there under close guard."

"The Throne Hall?" Faramir exclaimed, "My King –"

"He has another child," Aragorn interrupted him quickly, stepping forward so that he could be seen by all. They noticed his grey pallor and awkward staggering but did not comment on it. The King placed his hand upon Faramir´s shoulder and spoke quietly so only he would hear, "Faramir, do not let him lure you. I beg of you to stay by his side and not let him out of your sight. He is cunning and knows what he is doing. I must speak with him soon. I trust him only into your hands."

"Then take him to the dungeons where he belongs," Faramir spoke strongly.

"He has escaped them once. I will not risk that again. Please, my friend," Aragorn replied wearily. Faramir bowed and left with the prisoner, his eyes filled with concern for his pale lord. Faramir’s guards surrounded Calendil and brought him forth bound, giving him no ample opportunity to escape.

Then the King turned towards Legolas and said to Elrond, "Please Ada, I ask of you to take him inside and help him to heal. He looks well for a dead Elf, does he not?" The last sentence was said with a wry smile and Legolas grinned despite the situation in which they were.

"A dead Elf?" Elrond asked, not understanding.

"Calendil threw a dagger at me through the upstairs window," Legolas winced, "and Aragorn made him believe I was dead, undoubtedly suspecting he would try to escape once more. Imagine his surprise when a dead Elf stood behind him with his own dagger against his throat."

Elrond smiled. "You two are cunning, but it did the trick. Come Legolas, let us patch you up and see to that abdomen of yours."

"And his head," Aragorn added, "I am certain he will deny having cracked his skull on those cobble stones."

Legolas grunted but did not object when Elrond supported him and brought him inside, followed by Elladan. It was obvious the Elf suffered his pain in silence but none commented on it. He He did well. They had conquered. They had won!

Arwen, Elrohir and Gimli remained behind to stay with Aragorn who did not make a single effort to move out of the gardens. Arwen embraced her husband, holding him against her. Over her shoulder Aragorn could see Gimli’s inquisitive glare. The King closed his eyes briefly, leaning heavily against his wife.

"My Lord, are you well?" Arwen asked, surprised by the lack of reaction coming from her husband. She could feel him sweat against her skin and it frightened her. There was something wrong.

Aragorn nodded slowly and turned away his face. "I am. I will come inside shortly. Give me a brief moment to sit here and recover."

"No," Arwen said determined. "I shall stay."

The King looked up knowing he could not fool his wife nor his brother and friend. It was then that his body gave up the fight against the dizziness inflicted upon him by Calendil’s rag. The King’s knees gave up and he found himself sinking into her arms.

"Help me," Arwen whispered, and her brother and Gimli lowered Aragorn to the ground. A second later the King felt someone tugging at the sleeve of his tunic but he was too far gone to respond. The King moaned and tried to get his arms and legs to move but they would not. Arwen’s fingers searched frantically for her husband’s throat, finding a steady and firm heartbeat.

"I will get help," Gimli said.

"No." Arwen stopped him by the touch of her hand and looked for her brother’s aid and support. "He did not want anyone to know Calendil had gotten the better of him. We will not tell anyone, for it will go around the servants once more."

"But he is ill."

"Nay." Arwen’s sharp eyes found the rag on the ground near her husband’s feet. Even from a distance she could smell the sharp herbal scent that came from it. "Calendil must have given him quite a fight before being captured. Aragorn is sedated. He will wake up soon. Give him a moment."

Arwen touched her husband’s cold hands in hers and found to her surprise something between his fingers. Astonished she took a piece of wood out of them, staring at the small carved object for a moment before tucking it into her sleeve. Her husband’s eyelids fluttered and she leaned carefully over him. "It is I," she whispered, "Arwen."

Aragorn looked up and smiled wearily, his hand touching her face. "I am seeing two of you," he muttered.

"You inhaled those herbs, did you not?"

He nodded.

"It is alright. Do not try to speak. I will take care of you."

"Take me inside," he whispered, "to my room. Let none see. There is no time. He has a girl, Arwen … He has another child. There is no time …"

"You must take time," Arwen said quietly, "you cannot face him like this."

"Just an hour then," Aragorn muttered. "But he must not know."

"He will not."

Elrohir helped to lift his brother onto his left foot and lowered his arm over his shoulder. From a distance it almost seemed as if Aragorn had hurt his foot or knee, for Elrohir kept him so that the King could spare the other leg. How he did it, Aragorn did not know, but he managed to keep his eyes wide open and smile at those that they passed before arriving in his room.

There, Elrohir and Arwen gently placed him on the bed. Elrohir fetched his father in silence and watched as Elrond examined his son and found him sound asleep. As Arwen had predicted, Aragorn was merely sedated and would soon wake. Then Elrond returned to the Houses of Healing where he mended Legolas.

None of the servants ever knew what had happened in that garden. All they knew was that the killer had been captured and waited for his questioning. That was enough.

The room was engulfed in a deep hush, despite the fourteen people that it counted. All who stood inside did not speak, except for the two opponents who faced each other like warriors and ogled each other suspiciously. They were surrounded by all the others, standing in the midst of a circle to watch them both, to keep them clear from either from each other or outside harm. Not that anyone from the outside could actually enter the room. All those who did not belong in and around the King’s Quarters were kept out, and again they were forced to listen to the treadmill of rumors that escaped the Palace’s thick walls.

None of the two opponents seemed to notice much of what went on around them. For them all that existed was each other and the way they opposed each other. Their thoughts were dark, the way they addressed each other forceful and strong. They both knew the other would not give in unless he wanted to. Aragorn knew that Calendil wanted to, for he had an eager look in his eyes that told he wished to share memories and new information.

They had found him waiting for the King in the Throne Hall, glaring at the beauty of it all and pretending not to care. But Calendil did care and it was exactly what Aragorn had been hoping for. His eyes shone with jealousy, thoughts were filled with rage when he realized that this was what now belonged to Aragorn.

When he had recovered enough, Aragorn had wanted to show Calendil what it was like to be him, what he had and what he would not share with the killer. Therefore he had asked the Council to be there when the murderer was being questioned, as well as all the Elves, including Arwen. Aye, even Arwen who would not have taken no for an answer as it were.

The King had wanted to let him see what he was up against: a group of people strong and challenging, high and mighty and above him. No matter what the murderer did, he would never have the friendships that Aragorn had. Calendil now saw it was not one man he battled but an entire group ready to take him on and show him he would not win.

"Tell us about the child," the King said, breaking the silence as his eyes challenged Calendil. "You have taken her and told me that time is running out for her, but that is not true, is it? You lied to force me to act fast."

"Nay," Calendil smiled. "She is safe. She might starve to death but that will not happen for at least another week. I was kind: I left her some water. So you see, you have some time to find her. But I am certain you will not. I gave you the opportunity to take a clue to her whereabouts and you did not accept it."

"Is she here in the City?"

"Aye, she is."

"Who is she?"

"Just a girl," he shrugged and then he smiled, "but I do compare here with another child though: A little girl that I have taken from Cameth Brin and who looked exactly like her. I think she was the only one who knew I was going to kill her."

"Did she plead for her life?"

"Of course she did. She promised to do anything that I wanted. I told her that I already had what I wanted and it frightened her. She mocked me, you see. That is why I chose her. She saw me in the Citadel and laughed at my face, my hair, my appearance. She thought I was a freak, an animal. She told her friends to mock me too. They threw rocks at me and pushed me in a corner, telling me to die because I was not worth living."

"How did you find her and take her?"

"I took her on a small playground behind the market square where all the children come together and play ball. I watched her as her big sister left her alone with her two friends. Finally she remained alone. I walked over to her and she mocked me once more. When I took her, she did not mock again."

"Where did you kill her?"

Calendil laughed. "In my shelter of course. She was the first I took there. In that small stinking cabin I murdered her and I realized that was the best place to keep them for a while and then move on to the next one." He raised an eyebrow and stared at Aragorn. "Are you not going to ask me if I have a shelter in your City, My King?"

"Do you?" Aragorn asked calmly, not missing a beat.

"Of course I do."

"Are you going to tell us where?"

He laughed. "Do you really think I am going to make it this easy upon you?"

"Aye, you are," Aragorn dared to say. "You want us to know about your latest victory, for if she dies without us knowing you will not be able to show off your talents, your gift for death."

Calendil laughed. "Maybe," he shrugged. "Maybe not. Do not think I will hand you my life on a silver platter, Aragorn. I know that without that child I am useless to you. You cannot wait to run that blade through my chest, can you? But you will not do it as long as I alone know where the missing girl is. Aye, I know that by now you have searched for her, but you have not found her. You know where I took her out of her bed and have brought her to a place unbeknownst to her father. You know that I have left the father mortally wounded and that he will not live to see another day."

Aragorn did not reply, shocked by the manner with which Calendil bragged of his accomplishments. Never had he seen a man so cold. I cannot do this, he thought wearily, I am not fit to sink into this man’s thoughts and hope that I can stop him. I am too weak.

Calendil looked around at the others, happy that he had startled Aragorn and made him silent for a few moments. "Why do you not say anything?" he grunted. "You let your King do your work for you and stand here and say nothing. Do you want me to challenge him? Do you want me to kill your King for you? Just say the word and I will. Tell me that he is hated and I will slash his throat."

"Do not address them!" Aragorn spoke sharply, stopping Faramir who wanted to speak in his upset. The King raised his arm and stopped his Steward. "I am the one you must speak to, for I alone can save your life. I control the justice over these lands. You will look me into the eyes and tell me the truth, for there is nothing that will keep us from holding you alive, and we shall find the child anyhow. You are of no use, no matter what you think."

"You will not," the murderer retorted with a smile. "And you do need me; otherwise I would be dead by now. You want to believe there is a chance that I might confess to her that I might save her. You think that I will change my mind and be a good little boy, do you not? You hope for the best but expect the worst."

"Aye, I do," Aragorn said calmly. "And I do believe that you will share her with us, Calendil. Otherwise your quest is over."

The murderer just smiled, not saying another word. Then he sat down on the ground as a token that the conversation was over. He actually sat by Aragorn’s feet, challenging them all. Frustrated, Aragorn ordered him to be lifted on his feet and taken away to the dungeons. Surrounded by at least ten guards, the murderer was brought to his cell and left his enemies behind frustrated.

Fatigued, Aragorn sunk onto the throne, his hands burying his face. Surprised, the rest of the group stared at him but did not comment on it. All had noticed the weariness in his eyes and the way he reacted to everything. He was overstressed, withdrawn from them and not willing to share what he thought or felt.

Before, they had noticed that he did not let himself be embraced by them and he refused every proposal to speak to them and share what he felt. He had been different when he woke up from the short drug-induced sleep Calendil had inflicted upon him. Arwen had noticed that the second he drew eyes upon her and then did not smile.

That was what was wrong with him, she realized: he no longer smiled. His eyes spoke of sadness and the deep impact of what this murderer had done. His face was weary and pale, his reactions to what they said almost out of this world. He was slow in his moves and seemed too tired to bother. Yet when he went to speak with Calendil he showed only his strong self. His weaker being was the one that he did not want the killer to notice.

Elrohir exchanged a worried glare with his brother, and it was the younger twin who stepped forward first and showed his human brother his care. "My friend, it looks like you need a bit of a rest," he said. "You are tired and weary."

"I am," Aragorn confessed with a bitter smile, "but there is no rest for those who hold the life of others in their hands. We have no time, for that little girl needs us and we must give her our every moment. Already there has been too much time lost."

"Do not blame yourself for spending a few moments to yourself," Elrohir said quietly. "This goes beyond anyone’s strength."

"Even that of an immortal?" Aragorn asked coldly. His brother was not taken aback by it, having heard Aragorn’s nightmares while he slept. Even under the influence of a strong herb, the former Ranger had let go of his fears, often whispering or shouting them. Elrohir had quietly listened to them all and confessed to his sister that he did not know what to do, a remark Aragorn had overheard as he slowly recovered.

"Just be there for him," she had replied in the darkness of Aragorn’s bedroom. "Of his two brothers he relates the most to you, for you were both considered less strong than the others. You always found yourself in the shadow of your more outspoken brother. He knew that and understood it, having felt less inferior too because of his race."

"I never felt less superior," Elrohir had said, "but I must confess that it is always Elladan who seems the stronger of us both. I admire my brother for it, but I fear that at times my own identity gets lost because of our relationship."

"That is the way your human brother feels too," Arwen had replied gently, staring at her semi-sleeping husband. "By becoming King, he has given up a part of himself. He is no longer a Ranger, no longer a wanderer. He is now what makes this City great and it still frightens him, for he believes he cannot live up to the expectations. No matter who he is now or what he has done to come this far, he does not believe he is worthy for the task."

Elrohir had understood. How he knew how his brother felt, for he felt it too. He was to go to the Undying Lands soon and it frightened him to leave this world and go into the unknown. His father and brother did not seem to give second thoughts to it, but he did. He feared that he might not be happy where they were going, for he would miss everything of this great Middle-Earth.

Now, inside the Throne Room that belonged to Aragorn, the two brothers connected for a short while, their thoughts entwining with each other.

"Even an immortal would suffer greatly," Elrohir spoke gently, not fazed by Aragorn’s sharp remark. "Come brother, and rest your thoughts for a while. I will stay with you if you will let me."

Aragorn stood but did not leave the room. Instead, he faced his Council and Faramir, and all could see that he struggled to become himself again. It feared the Steward that Calendil might have pushed him to the edge and that he might not be ready to return to them when it was over. Yet there was no doubt in his mind that Aragorn would bring this to a good end, even though it may not be called that good anymore. After all, every life lost was a life wasted.

He is breaking, the Steward thought with pity in his heart. He truly is falling apart. Aragorn’s eyes found his Steward. For a moment, Aragorn nodded gently as a token of understanding between the two of them. Then his eyes became unfocused once more and stared about the room for something to say to his people.

Startled by the lack of speech from his King, Faramir scraped his throat and said, "What do you wish for me to do, My King?"

Aragorn’s face turned towards him and his eyes sought him out once more, and he opened his mouth to speak and found that no words came out. He did not know what to say. "You are right," he suddenly said, and he turned his attention once more to Elrohir. "I should rest for a while. I advice you to do the same while I think about this situation."

Then he left the room without any of them and the Council faced each other and mumbled. It was Gimli who grudgingly said, "The King is right. We should all rest and come back later. It is getting late and the night time will bring no relief."

"What about the child?" Garé asked strongly. "Are we not going to try and find her?"

"My guards are already searching for her at the King’s request," Faramir interrupted the Council Member, determined to protect his King. "There is nothing more we can do for now."

The Elves and Dwarf departed from the room and left the humans behind. Garé grasped Faramir’s sleeve and said, "We are losing our King. What are you going to do about it?"

"We are not losing him," Faramir emphasized strongly. "He holds his grounds."

"Nevertheless, prepare to become this country’s new Ruler," Garé grunted, leaving the room with the rest of the Council in his trail. Faramir remained behind shocked, and turned and stared at the empty throne. It was one thing to think about the consequences of these events, but it was another to say them aloud.

Were they right? Were they losing their King? He did not wish to think of that. Growing up, he had never dreamt of being this country’s Steward. He had always thought Boromir would receive that honor but his death had changed everything.

The responsibility had always frightened Faramir, leaving him with doubts over his own abilities. A Steward was the second most important position in this country. If Aragorn died without heirs, the throne would go to him, for the line of Kings would once again be broken.

But when push came to shove, would he be able to do it? Would he step into Aragorn’s shoes and take over? The King had asked him to do so a short while ago, giving him the control over his lands while he concentrated on Calendil. Would he be ready for the responsibility should Aragorn perish?

Faramir shivered. He did not want to think of Aragorn’s death. He could not imagine the King not being here, not sitting on that throne. He was one with this country, the one who ruled them all. He needed to be here. The Steward sighed and cleared his thoughts of the cobwebs, determined not to think into that direction. It would not happen. That, he vowed. He would rather give his own life to save his King, and he would tell Aragorn so. He loved his King, for Aragorn had given him stability and a life he could only dream of when he was growing up under his father’s dark shadows.

He would go to him, Faramir decided. He would tell him he could count on him and plead with him not to let himself face this alone. Aragorn liked him, he knew. They were friends. He would speak to him as if he were a friend today and forget for a few moments that the dark-haired man wore the crown.

The King did not go to find the rest he so desperately needed. He knew he could not, for his thoughts were too tense. Outside Legolas’ room, Aragorn waited for a moment to recapture his own self and then opened the door. He knew he could not fool Legolas and he did not want to. He needed his friend. The bedroom inside the Houses of Healing was beautifully decorated with exquisite gowns and antiques that expressed its beauty and perfection. It was a fit room for an Elf to heal in, one that would bring him quiet and peace while recovering.

It was what Legolas needed, for the stabbing wound would keep him bound to his bed for at least another day. He rested comfortably now after Elrond had helped him with the aid of old Ioreth whose care had brought the Elf almost back to his old self. Nonetheless they told him to stay calm and heal on his own strength.

The Elf looked up as soon as the door opened, and so did Ioreth. The woman smiled when she saw her King, remembering how she had helped him heal Faramir when he was so gravely wounded after the Ring War, touched as he had been by the black breath of Sauron.

One year ago, Ioreth had watched the stranger come into the Houses and sit by Faramir’s bed, growing pale as he placed his hands upon the ill-stricken man. He looked like a Ranger from the North, she had immediately discovered and she was shocked to hear that he was the missing heir to the throne of Gondor. But when he approached her and asked for her help in such a gentle and calm manner, she knew he was the real thing.

She watched him then as he healed Faramir with the help of a little athelas and his own hands. It was she who had warned the others that the King had truly returned and that he was inside her Houses, healing their Steward. The word had spread quickly and those who still doubted, doubted no more when they saw how the Ranger healed a lot of them, those who were presumed lost to the world. It had worn him down but he had not given in as he took away their illnesses. Since that day, Ioreth and Aragorn had become friends.

"Dear Ioreth," Aragorn said, embracing her. "It is always good to see you, even under such grave circumstances."

"What circumstances do you speak of?" the old lady asked with a smile, "your friend is almost as good as new. Why were you not here to heal him yourself?"

"I knew I could leave him in your good hands, along with Lord Elrond."

"It was good that your Elven-father was here to take the burden off your shoulders," she commented, taking in her King’s pale features. "You look as if you could use him yourself."

"That is only my appearance," Aragorn smiled wearily; "I am doing well considering the circumstances."

"You could have fooled me, my Lord King. Tell me what I can bring you. A cup of herbal tea or a sleeping aid to take away your thoughts for a few moments? Will you do as I say when I ask you to?"

"You are worse than my foster father," Aragorn smiled. "Dear Ioreth, I must beg you to leave us be for a moment, for I must speak to my friend in private."

"Of course." Ioreth bowed slightly and then left, asking no questions.

Aragorn closed the door behind her and then returned to the bed, his eyes as tired as ever. He did not sit on a chair but chose the side of Legolas’ bed instead, facing his best friend.

Immediately Legolas opened his eyes, proving to Aragorn he had overheard the conversation. "What is it?" the Elf asked, taking in Aragorn’s concerned gaze. "What ails you?"

"Nothing physical," Aragorn confessed, "but I am so tired, my friend."

"I know," Legolas said, "and I wish I could do something more than to lie around here. I do not want to be in this room when you are hurting. I must be by your side to help you. I have vowed to do so for the rest of your life."

"I prefer to have you in here than out there where your life is in danger no matter what you do," Aragorn confessed. "It will lift at least one burden off my shoulders."

Legolas lifted an eyebrow. "Is that what you think?" he asked curtly. "You are not the one endangering our lives, my friend. You are not the one to protect me because I can easily look out for myself."

"You did not get that protection when you were trying to help me. And you did not look after yourself, for you were stabbed."

"I made an error of judgement. I underestimated him. We conquered though, did we not, thanks to our little scheme? We have him now. There is no more danger. It is over and he shall not prevail."

"It is not over," Aragorn whispered, his eyes dark.

"What are you saying?"

"I do not know what I am saying," the King grunted. "I cannot think anymore, Legolas. I just feel that we have not yet won. My mind is a twist, I feel as if I am lost in an abyss, gone from this world already. I live in despair and guilt, for I feel responsible."

"Why?"

"How can I ever face myself after what he has done? He started this to get back at me. I am the cause of his murder spree. We should have killed him five years ago when we had the chance; we should not have given him the opportunity to destroy so many lives. We have failed so deeply, so hard. How can I ever forgive myself for that?"

"You are the only one blaming you, Aragorn. Do you not see? The only one who can forgive you is yourself. We cannot do that for you. Do not struggle so hard with guilt. You have not given yourself the time to heal and you hurt. I can see it. You try to hide what you feel from your wife, from your family. Why do you not let them in? Why do you fight so hard against yourself?"

"It is all I can do to protect them," Aragorn whispered in tears. "I must keep them out of harm’s way at all cost, like you. I prefer to have those I love a thousand miles away so he cannot get them through me."

"Let them protect themselves. This is not your task. Come, sit by my side and close your eyes for a while. Let yourself find the peace you need, if only for a moment. Calendil is in your custody and he shall not escape. The child – wherever she is – must wait for a moment. You will collapse before you reach her if you keep up this pace. Stay put, Aragorn."

"I shall," the King said quietly. Then he sunk into the chair next to Legolas and looked at his friend, not once smiling. It disturbed Legolas. He had rarely seen his friend like this, only once a long time ago when Aragorn thought Arwen was lost to the world. Then he had done rash things, taken chances with his life that he should not have done. That was a long time ago though, and the darkness that once rested in his eyes had left him shortly after the world returned to normal.

Now it was back.

"Rest," Legolas repeated and he watched his friend sink deeper into the chair, noticing the loss of weight that sunk in his cheeks and made him lankier. It was barely visible but present. How many times had Aragorn eaten over the past days? The Elf did not know. Legolas would bet his fortune that no one knew.

The Elf waited until the King’s eyes drooped and finally closed. Then he slipped out of bed and pulled back the slightly crumbled sheets. He opened the door, knowing the King’s brothers would be near. He had sensed them from afar and he was right. He beckoned them inside and pointed quietly at Aragorn. Carefully, Elrohir lifted his brother off the chair and placed him upon the bed. The Mirkwood Elf gently covered his friend with the blankets, leaving him fully dressed on the bed.

Then the Elf settled in the chair next to the bed and the king’s brothers did the same. Arwen, Gimli and Elrond then entered the room, and they too gathered around the bed. The last one to come in was Faramir, searching for Aragorn. All stared at Aragorn in silence, hoping that for once his dreams would remain undisturbed. They knew they would not be. How could one rest with such a burden upon his shoulders?

In his cold and damp cell, Calendil rested against the wall and smiled mockingly. Night was falling and he knew Aragorn would not return to him before dawn. He had seen the emptiness in the man’s eyes when they last spoke and he knew he was slowly winning.

The torment became too much for any human to bear, even a King who reigned his country and restored it to its old pride. The cell he was in was wet and damp and reeked of rats. It had not been used for a year. Calendil smiled and thought of the child he had stashed away.

If only they knew, he thought … if only they knew.

They walked in fog. Cold and dreary their surroundings were, and they felt chilled to the bone. Aragorn pressed the child closer to him and removed his cloak, giving it to her. She pulled it tightly around her and looked up at him, her blue eyes filled with expectation.

"Are we safe?" she asked. "I hear a fell voice."

"We are," he replied, calming her down. "Just rely on me and I will keep you safe."

But the further they walked into the fog, the thicker it became and soon they could not see a hand before their eyes. "Stay by my side," he whispered, and he held his sword ready.

Then he felt her no longer against his side and he looked down, finding her gone. "Where are you?" he shouted, and he saw the shadow of her as she was pulled into the mist by invisible hands, grasping her away from him.

Then the fog turned blood red and he saw the body come at him, thrown back towards him. He fell backwards and she was on top of him, her face covered in crimson red.

Her skin was carved up.

Bathing in sweat Aragorn whimpered, instantly calming when he noticed he lay on soft pillows in a room warmed by the sun’s morning light. His senses immediately registered the presence of several people in the room, but when he looked up, he noticed they were all fast asleep. To his shock and pleasant surprise he found all of his friends and family here. They had kept watch, no doubt. He was the only one lying in a bed. The rest of them had found rest on the ground, on chair and seats.

Rattled by his dream, Aragorn quietly slipped out of bed and tiptoed out of the room. The second he opened the door, a hand on his shoulder startled him. His heart beat faster as he turned and saw Legolas. The Elf smiled. "Do you really think you are going to face him alone?" his friend whispered.

Before Aragorn could reply, Legolas had already closed the door and shut them both outside. "I am going alone," Aragorn said.

"No, you are not."

Aragorn noticed his friend was already dressed, having anticipated the King’s next actions. The former Ranger smiled and did not stop Legolas. "Come then, but do not wake the others. They are all so tired."

Legolas did not reply, seeing a new force of strength in Aragorn’s eyes. The King had come up with a plan, he knew. Together, the friends made their way to the dungeons where Calendil was guarded in his prison cell. The guards stepped aside when their King approached and allowed him access into the cell.

"Leave us alone," Aragorn demanded.

Calendil rose, his body stiff and sore from lying on the cell’s cold stone floor. "That took you long enough," he said.

"Where is the girl?" Aragorn asked, "this is the last time I am going to demand this from you. If you do not reply to my questions, I will have you convicted and executed before the week is over. Your time is over and this is my final offer."

"What if I accept?"

"You will live then. You will be tried but I promise you that you shall not be executed."

"And spend my days in this dreadful hole? Do you not think I wish to die first?"

"No. You are too eager to live, no matter what you say. You want to thrive on your memories, relive them over and over again. If I take away your life, you have nothing. There will no memories in the darkness that comes after death. That is not what you want."

Calendil thought of that. "What do you want from me?"

"The child."

"You cannot have her."

"Then it is over." Aragorn turned his back.

"You need me to find her!"

Aragorn smiled over his shoulder. "You said it yourself: One child’s life against all of those that can be saved. What choice do you think I have?"

"You would let her perish then?"

"I would, if it means stopping you."

Calendil smiled slowly. "So you are not unlike me then, are you? You pretend to be so much better but you would have a child die so slowly, so painfully. You are worse than I. Can you live with yourself at night if you do this to that child?"

"I will learn to live with it," Aragorn said slowly, "but will you be able to accept the fact you will not watch her die? The loss of watching her die of her will be scorching your very soul, and you shall regret not having been the one who murdered her, and it will make you fear the end of you when you face your executioner, and I will show you no remorse. Guards!"

Silently Legolas watched Calendil’s face whereas Aragorn had turned away from him and refused to see him, giving him dissatisfaction. It was apparent the killer was struggling with his own emotions. If he gave them the child, he would seek another chance to escape and kill her. He would thrive on the possibilities at hand. But if he would give up on her now and face a certain death, he would burn all of his bridges and have no hopes left. He would grasp onto anything offered to him now.

"Alright!" Calendil gave in. "You will get her."

Aragorn turned and faced him. "Where is she?"

"I will take you to her."

"No deal. Tell us where she is."

"I bring you, or you will not get her. I do not believe in your deals."

"I do not lie," Aragorn spoke sharply.

"I will go or she will die."

"Alright," Aragorn agreed. "In one hour. If you lie, I will personally cut your throat."

Calendil smiled, knowing he would not do that. The murderer sat down against the wall. "You would do well in bringing me a decent breakfast first, or I might forget where I put her."

Aragorn stared at him in contempt and spat on the ground, causing Calendil to laugh heartily. The cell remained locked. Outside of the dungeons, Legolas grasped his friend. "You are not serious!" he exclaimed. "If you let this wolf out of the cage, he will devour us all. You cannot risk it!"

"He will be surrounded by twenty guards. He will not get a chance," Aragorn said strongly. "Legolas, this is what we must do – one last thing. Then we can convict him and be rid of him forever."

"You cannot bury him and hope to forget him, Aragorn. You should not have promised him his life. He is too dangerous to be kept alive. He already escaped once, he might do it again."

"Perhaps he is not as much of a risk as we think, Legolas. He is dangerous because we treat him that way. We make him feel mighty. But if we put him to trial and afterwards no longer give him the attention he so craves, he will be forgotten quickly. What the people of this city need is closure, and we must make certain that they can rest easily. If it means that we have to guard him for the rest of our lives, then so be it. But he will not see the light of day again. He will forever be buried away, living the life of a skeleton who has forgotten it is not dead yet."

"You could also forget about your promise and be rid of him."

"No, I shall not do that. I believe in justice and promises, even to a criminal such as him. He deserves nothing less, despite what he has done. I will treat him with the respect he had not for those children."

Legolas did not agree but he did not comment on it now. There was hope that those who would speak justice over Calendil would choose to end his life. "Come," Aragorn said, placing his arm over Legolas’ shoulder. "Do not look so glum. It will soon be over."

Legolas wished he could believe him. "We must speak to the others," he said, "see what they say."

"No," Aragorn interrupted him determinedly. "We are doing this ourselves."

"Aragorn, no!"

"We are," the King spoke stubbornly. "Faramir will give us our guards and help us, but I shall not allow my family to be involved. If you do not agree, you can leave. But I am going to do this before the morning hour wakes everyone and endangers even more lives. I want this to be over. Are you with me or not?"

Legolas grumbled. "I am with you," he said.

"Come then. I must speak to Faramir quickly. He has to work fast."

Legolas followed his friend upstairs to the quarters where the Steward of Gondor lived with his wife. Within ten minutes, Faramir had gathered twenty trustworthy soldiers who would bring Calendil to the place where he kept his last victim.

*

The only sound heard this early in the morning in the whole city was the rattling of the chains that bound Calendil’s feet and hands. The chains ran from his wrists to his ankles and from there to two guards who held him between them. He could walk for himself but they were in small and awkward steps.

They constantly pulled him forward, urging him to move faster. Of course he took his time. He did not like it when others gave him orders or demanded things from him. He would not be bullied, not even when he was the one losing out.

Aragorn walked behind him, making sure Calendil could not see him. When the murderer tried to move his head to look over his shoulder, he was stumped by Faramir who was right behind him and would make certain to block his view. The Steward was determined to keep his King out of harm’s way should Calendil have tricks up his sleeve.

But what could he do? He was bound and tied and surrounded by enough soldiers to guard ten people. He would not be able to run, not this time. He was the lion caged. Yet Aragorn did not trust him. He kept a close eye out for anything out of the ordinary, fearing that Calendil might not have been alone after all. What if he had people waiting for him to aid him? What if someone felt sorry enough for him, or admired him enough, to try to free him?

But nothing happened.

There were no incidents as Calendil guided them to the third level of Minas Tirith, to a small empty compound similar to the one they had first found him in.

"We have searched this building," Faramir said, "I remember it for its painted walls. If there was a child here, we would have seen it."

"There is a small hole in the right wall," Calendil replied, pointing his right index finger towards a thick wall on the downstairs level where indeed, an old bed stood before a small hole that barely seemed big enough for an animal to crawl through. "She is behind there."

Aragorn stepped forward and ignored Calendil as the guards started shoving the bed aside. He looked at the small hole and turned to the murderer. "There is no way you could have put her in there."

It was then that Calendil slowly smiled and raised his face to meet Aragorn’s startled look. "Oh, but she is. She is just not in one piece."

*

Ten guards brought Calendil back to the dungeons before the people of the City awoke while the others remained behind to chop away the wall hiding the body of a small child. Aragorn prayed Calendil had been lying but he had not told the untruth. The scent of decay was upon them.

"It is getting worse," Legolas said, holding his hand before his nose as he watched the guards find the mutilated body of the child. Several of them rushed outside to vomit, not able to stomach what they saw. It reminded them of the day the Orcs had thrown chopped-off heads over the walls of Minas Tirith, showing them they had the upper hand.

"He is out of control," Aragorn agreed, his face numb and his eyes void of emotion. "We must stop him."

"You gave him your word."

"In exchange for a living and breathing child."

"Do you really think he cares?" Legolas asked. "Again he has played with us, giving us hope when all hope was long lost. This girl was long dead before he challenged you. He wanted to see how you reacted, and he rattled you again. All he deserves now is death."

"He does," Aragorn agreed. "And you are right. His final trick has been played. It is over. Soon, there will be no more talk of Calendil. Let us go home, Legolas."

Faramir watched Aragorn and Legolas leave, their faces so distressed he felt sorry for them. Aragorn had held genuine hope the child still lived, and it had caved in like a house of cards. Calendil’s final card trick, Faramir thought angrily. But no more. He would personally make sure this man never saw the sun again. He would give him the darkest cell in the deepest dungeon and feed him with old bread and stale water. He would keep him alive for as long as he could, making his existence a living hell.

It was the little revenge they had.

Less than an hour later, after the child’s body had been brought to the Houses of Healing where her father had perished during the night, Faramir made his way back to the dungeons.

It was there that a shock rushed through him, for he found the two regular guards keeping an eye on the prisoner dead. Their throats had been cut, giving them no chance of survival. The kill was swift and clean. And the prisoner was gone.

Faramir turned, aware of a shadow standing in the dungeon. He grabbed his sword and moved forward, lifting a torch off the wall. "I know you are here," the Steward said. "Show yourself!"

Out of the shadows, Calendil appeared.

"Keep your hands up. Step forward."

Then something hard struck the back of Faramir’s head and the Steward fell to the ground without as much as another sound. The last thing he saw were Calendil’s feet. The last thing he heard were two voices arguing over his fate. Faramir thought he was already dead. But then the feet stepped over him and Calendil left.

And then Calendil’s voice said, "Did you bring her as I asked?"

"Aye," the other voice replied.

All morning Aragorn had worn the same torn clothes he had on last night, with Legolas’ blood still upon them. He had not given himself time to change or clean up and he knew he looked like the Ranger he had once been. No wonder his subjects stared at him so, he thought as he cast a glance at himself in the mirror.

"Almost like home," Elladan had dryly commented during a short shared breakfast with those closest to him. The mood was dark yet hopeful at the same time, for Calendil was locked away and would not harm another soul. It almost seemed enough to celebrate, Legolas thought wryly as he watched Aragorn eat a slice of fresh bread. The King’s eyes were still somber and he still did not smile, but there was a glimmer of relief.

"So that is what I smelled," Elrohir quipped, trying to lighten the mood. "I thought there was something familiar about you, brother."

"I did not have time to bathe," Aragorn admitted, "but you can rest assured I will be doing it now. And take some rest at the same time."

"Good," Arwen smiled, seeing it as a token of hope. Behind her stood Éowyn, who had not left her side. Her husband was taking a little time for himself for the first time since this had started and she felt happy that he did. "Go bathe but have some more breakfast first. I will have hot water sent to your room."

The same light glimmer of hope remained during breakfast and all those who were there knew that soon there would never be negative talk of Calendil again. Finally Aragorn stood, excused himself and left for his room. This time nobody advised him to take a guard. Aragorn took deep breaths of relief as he realized that he was free at last. No more guards wandering about him, watching his every move. No more friends worrying about him. His family could rest assured now too that life had returned to normal.

The King felt his spirits lift as he crossed the corridors and greeted his guards and servants. Before his room stood one guard who greeted him and looked on when he walked in and smiled at the sight of the broken door, caused by Gimli’s axe. He closed it as well as he could, whistling when he saw his own appearance in the mirror. No wonder he reeked. He had not shaved in days and his hair reminded him of those days at Helm’s Deep. It was time to become a King again.

Aragorn took his top tunic off and walked into the bathing room, his mind filled with dozens of thoughts as he felt the warm water in the tub. It was just perfect. He actually looked forward to relaxing for a few moments before having to organize the trial and returning to his normal duties.

His face still showed the bruises of the past days and his arm was still sore and aching, but he was doing well. He would soon return to his normal self, healing faster than most humans did.

The King returned to his room and selected clothing as he softly sang.

*

Faramir knew the voice that argued with Calendil but he could not bring it home. His head pounded terribly, constantly reminding him that something had happened and he needed to move quickly. Finally he stood on shaking legs, realizing where he was and what had taken place.

The Steward crawled up and stumbled outside, calling for the guards who stood further away. Soon after, the Steward was brought to the Main Halls where he was seated in the Throne Hall. The guards called the alarm. Within five minutes everyone of importance was gathered, except for Aragorn.

"Where is the King?" Faramir demanded to know. "His life might be in peril."

"He is upstairs taking a bath and freshening up," Arwen said distressedly.

"We must go to him and guard him once more. Calendil might be anywhere by now."

"Surely he would not be that crazy," Elrohir said, trying to calm down the Steward.

"Oh, but he is," Elrond replied.

*

Aragorn stood frozen as he returned from the bathing room, staring at Calendil and the child he held before him. A living, breathing, frightened little girl struggled in his grip, trying to get free. She was terrified beyond a doubt.

The King felt unexpectedly calm, despite the shock bringing him into reality. He could see that Calendil loved every second of her fear and relished upon it, happy that she struggled so hard that he had to choke her even harder. One hand was around her throat and the other one held a knife that he shoved against her side.

"What do you think?" he asked the King. "Do you think you can save her before I kill her?"

"Where did you get her? How did you get out?"

"Too many questions, My King," he mocked. "Here we are and I must say that I just love the smell of your fear. It is all over you, on those bloodied clothes you were wearing before and in your appearance. Let us say that I had a little help from a friend who brought me a precious gift."

"The one who has been hiding you since you arrived here. He is a guard, is he not? Nobody else could have gotten so close to you in the dungeons. He must have been there, having free access everywhere."

Calendil smiled.

"Is he the guard waiting outside? I have seen him several times before, roaming through the buildings. He stood guard at our meetings. He fed you information, did he not?"

"Very smart, Aragorn. Get on your knees, if you will. For we must speak and I do not want you to jump at my throat."

Aragorn did as he was told, his eyes not letting go of the child. He smiled at her, trying to reassure her. She smiled back, somehow comforted by his presence. The King raised his hands in the air, waiting for the next step.

"I must say you really have been quite careless, my friend," Calendil said. "That is always your problem. You think you can solve everything and anything with the snap of a finger. Do you not know that being a King does not help against people like me? Have I not shown you already I can live through anything?"

"All that helps, is your death," Aragorn said calmly, not persuaded to play the monster’s games. "I see that now."

"You have had your chance two times and you let your honor and pride get in the way. I told you to finish it, did I not? Did I not ask you to kill me? The longer you wait the more bodies you will have to pick up. I am not going to stop, Lord Aragorn. I will not stop until you stop me. I cannot stop. I want more – always more and more. And more."

"Where does it end?" Aragorn asked softly. "Does one of us have to die for you to be satisfied?"

"I could have killed you a thousand times before, and I never did."

"You need me as much as you need this thrill," Aragorn spoke. "You did not come here to kill me now, just like you had not planned to kill me whenever you faced me. You came to gloat. You want a witness this time, do you not? You want always more, as you say. You want to kill her in front of me and let me see that you are still the stronger one," Aragorn said, his voice filled with loathing. "But I will not play these games. You can find another victim to do that. I have had enough."

Calendil smiled and stroked the child’s face with the point of his knife. "Look at how pretty she is, and how afraid. Will you not save her then? Do you want to know her name? She is called Alia, and look how fair she is. Look at him, child, and see your King. He is shaking, do you see that? He is a coward and will not aid you."

The girl struggled and he kicked her slightly. She rested against him after that, his hand still around her throat. He could squeeze it shut just like that and end it right there. She was smart enough to know that. Aragorn’s eyes met hers. For a few moments they were entwined, both wanting the same thing.

Then she struggled once more, striking with her foot backward against Calendil’s leg. At the same time, Aragorn moved forward and reached out his hand for the child, pulling her away. Surprised, the murderer held up the knife, expecting Aragorn to attack him. But the King pushed the child behind him and yelled at her to run, shoving her towards the door.

The child moved fast. Calendil shouted, throwing the knife at her back. His head filled with pure, red rage as he threw the weapon at her, crying out her name. In the same fraction of a second, Aragorn took one step to the left, literally placing himself between the child and the knife.

"No!" Calendil yelled, his voice hoarse yet loud. Aragorn felt the blade enter the soft flesh of his chest, sinking to his knees. He heard the door open and close behind him, and Alia screamed loudly as she ran through the King’s bedroom.

The murderer’s voice pounded through Aragorn’s ears, numbing him as much as the weapon’s touch. "What did you do?"

Calendil grasped Aragorn hard, holding him upright with the knife embedded in his chest, preventing him from falling to the ground face forward and pushing the blade deeper into his own chest while doing so. "What did you do?" he repeated, crying out in pure frustration.

Aragorn smiled, blood dripping out of his mouth. "I took away … your thrills," he smiled as his eyes rolled up in their sockets. Calendil cursed. Frantically the murderer tried to revive the King as he pulled the knife out of the flesh and pushed both hands on the gaping wound to stop the bleeding. This was not the way he had planned it!

"No!" he cried out. "Damn you, Aragorn!"

Calendil turned his head as the door to Aragorn’s bedroom was crushed open. He swiftly locked the doors between the bathing room and the bedroom and made for the window, leaving the body. He knew he could not get out through the second door; they would wait for him. He would have to jump down and make his way through the private gardens.

Calendil crashed the window open and pulled himself through it, jumping when the door to the bathing room crashed open. He could hear shouts and as he fell one story down, he could sense something sharp hit him in the side. The pain was red hot. As he ran, Calendil held his side, watching the blood seep through it. Aragorn’s blood mingled with his own. It left a trail, and then it stopped.

Calendil ran, and he ran, and he ran, and he felt sad, for he had not wanted this to end. He wanted more, always more, and more. And now, perhaps, there would be no more.

The Elves and Healers of Gondor had not given up however. Hands pushed on the bleeding wound while others tilted his face to the side so the blood could drip out of his mouth and not choke him. Then more hands examined the wound, trying to look into it to see if it had destroyed the heart. If that were the case, all hope would flee the room and the King would not live up to his reputation of security and safety.

Then Elrond forced his ear over the King’s mouth and tried to capture the faint, rasping breath that escaped Aragorn’s lips. The heart beat strongly despite the wound, making him sigh, relieved, for one mere moment. But then the tension returned when he realized that there was work to do, and it would not be easy. The King’s – no, his son’s – life was in peril and he would not rest before he had saved it.

"It is the lung," the Elven-Healer said. "The knife punctured it. We must move him quickly, for he does not have much time. He will bleed to death if we do not act rationally and quickly."

More hands carefully lifted the King onto his own bed; not daring to bring him to the Houses of Healing, for that journey was too far and would destroy his chances of survival. Elladan had already left to search all that his father needed, and to bring Ioreth with him. She, as one of the eldest and strongest Healers of Minas Tirith, would be a good aid.

The King’s body suddenly shivered violently; his skin felt clammy and the rasping became harder as Elrond worked on the chest to see how deep the cut ran into the lung. He feared they would have to open the chest and mend the damage on the inside. If that were so, he did not dare to sedate Aragorn, not knowing how much the heart could take.

The room was crowded – too crowded to his liking. The Elven-Lord felt as if the oxygen itself was being sucked out of his body.

"Everyone out!" Elrond cried out without even looking up, "except those who need to be here."

The room emptied quickly as Faramir ordered the curious servants outside and ushered out the Council who had gathered in the room and stared at their King. Faramir was in charge now and he would not take no for an answer. When Éowyn came rushing in, disturbed by the uproar, he took her in his arms and whispered to her what had happened. Tears filled the woman’s large eyes, her attention focused on her King. Then she turned and left once more, calming down the servants who wept for their King’s demise when he had not even left these parts. Her voice alone stopped some of the panic.

Faramir kissed the heavens for such a wife, and tried to go back in. But Garé grasped him by the shoulder and said, "How is he? Will he live?"

"I do not know," Faramir replied. "Pray for him." The Steward was already returning his attention to the room of the ill, when Garé clutched him even more tightly holding him back with the least of efforts.

"Do not walk out on me," the Council Member said sharply. "You are the King now, for as long as he is not able to be, and perhaps even beyond. This land needs your ruling. Come to the Throne Hall. We must speak together and make decisions."

The Steward impatiently shrugged Garé off and walked back into Aragorn’s room, once more stopped when he noticed that he would really be of no use there. He could just stand back and watch and hope for the best. It seemed unbearable.

So, he closed the doors after he had walked outside as the last one leaving. He knew Garé was right, but he did not wish to face it. He knew the King was now physically unable to rule his lands, and they would depend upon him, the Steward. The heavy burden rested on his shoulders and he dreaded the dozens of questions he would get thrown into his lap.

Let him be spared, the Steward thought quietly before marching to the Throne Hall to perform his duties, leaving message to the guards that he had to be informed as soon as there was news of change. In his thoughts, the King lived, and he would treat his interim-position that way. He could not accept the possibility that the throne would forever be his.

Behind him, Garé smiled and followed him, satisfied that the Steward at least saw what his responsibilities were and acted accordingly.

*****************

"Blankets," Elrond ordered inside the room, trying to calm the shivering body. "Throw them over his legs and feet. Bring me the hot water from the bath tub. Hold him down."

Then the Elven-Lord caught a glimpse of Arwen. She stood in the corner of the room with her hands held against her chest. Her eyes were large and void of tears, yet her very breathing declared her upset. He beckoned his daughter closer but she would not come to persuade her that her husband was still alive. She would not move. He knew she was in shock.

"Elrohir –"Elrond got his son’s attention and nodded towards Arwen. Instantly understanding, her brother came over to her and held her tight, giving her some of his own body warmth to take away the cold that held her in shock. Arwen hardly noticed it, even though she instinctively clutched her brother’s arm.

Legolas brought on as many blankets as he could find and draped them over Aragorn’s lower body. From the corner of his eyes he saw how Gimli carried water in a bowl into the room, placing it on the table next to the bed. The Dwarf’s eyes caught Aragorn’s pale face. His Elvish friend could see the distress in his expression.

"We did not travel across Middle-Earth to end up here," the Dwarf growled. "We thought we had lost the laddie once and we did not. I do not wish to go through that again."

"You shall not, Master Dwarf," Legolas spoke in support and pressed his friend’s shoulder. "He will live."

"Pray it is so," Gimli said, sinking down on a chair. After that, he did not speak another word for many hours. But all who saw him, noticed the small eyes filled with fear.

As soon as Elladan returned with four Healers including Ioreth, the preparations to undo the damage started. Even though Aragorn was not with them in his state of mind, Elrond feared he would wake up during the procedure. Even so, he dared not to sedate him. All he could do was pray the King would remain away from this world until they were finished.

Elrond opened the chest around the wound further and found the tears to the lung, causing massive internal bleeding. Quickly and efficiently Elrond set to work, using Ioreth’s expertise to aid him. The Healers knew what to do and set about doing so, repairing the lung more quickly than they had ever done. They removed as much blood as they could. Then Ioreth stitched up the wound and placed herbs on it.

Elrond wrapped the chest and placed his hand on the King’s brow.

"He is very warm," he said, "we must prepare for high fevers during the next hours. Let us hope he is strong enough to resist them."

"He shall be," Legolas said, "for he is not ready to depart this world. His work has only just started. No one will take him from us."

Even though the Mirkwood Elf’s voice was determined and strong, he did not believe it for himself. After all Aragorn had gone through, would this not be the end of it? And then the doubts appeared: What if Aragorn did not wish to remain alive? He blamed himself for the events. What if he felt his own death would make an end to the tragedies?

For many hours from that point on, the room’s reverie remained undisturbed, unless it was Aragorn speaking from his sickbed. He would sometimes groan, whisper, and even yell at things they did not see. His body would convulse and his chest would go up and then in his rasping attempts to breathe would grow stronger. Then he would speak once more in the Common Tongue to those who were not even present in the room, and then he would cry out in pain as he tried to clutch his chest.

The fevers spiked to an unseen height and for a long time they thought he would not make it. Elrond ordered the blankets to be removed and replaced them by wet towels and sheets, wrapped around the King’s body. He placed a wet towel on Aragorn’s brow, and soothingly approached him in the language he had used when the human was only a small boy and would suffer from infection. It calmed Aragorn down and finally he would speak no more.

What he had said though, was enough. When he shouted during his dreams at Calendil and recalled what had happened, they were mortified. Elrond knew he had to speak with his son about these events, for he could not grasp the fact that Aragorn would have sacrificed his life.

But Arwen did, and it was she who said that the King’s actions and decisions were to be respected, and that none who were in this room now, would ever tell the truth to anyone else. The pact was made in that room and all those who were there knew they would keep the truth to themselves.

Then Arwen turned to her father and asked to pray that Aragorn would have forgotten what had taken place. It would make his recovery easier.

After a long morning had followed an exhausting night, the good news finally reached Faramir, Steward of Gondor. The King lived!

*

Aragorn woke on the second day to stare at several people standing in his own bedroom. The faces were a blur. All were looking at him, waiting for him to awaken and to see how he would react.

For a moment, he thought they had not noticed he had opened his eyes, but then Legolas said, "He is awake."

Instantly, Arwen reached for his hand and pressed it against her chest. "Aragorn, it is I. Do you know where you are?"

"At home," he said hoarsely after a while.

The room instantly relaxed and the King could see bright smiles on hopeful faces. He recognized all of his friends, Healers, Faramir, Garé and Loran of the Council. Then he remembered why he was there and what had happened. He recalled every moment of it, horrified.

"Calendil!" he exclaimed, instantly alert. "I have got to go." Aragorn knew the man had once more escaped; he could feel it in his bones. Already he was trying to escape his bed when Elrond determinedly stepped in and held him back.

"No," the Elven-Lord said strongly. "You cannot leave this bed for at least a week."

"I must go – do you not see?"

"I do see, but you are still remaining here. You were stabbed, Aragorn. Your lung was punctured."

"I am fine," Aragorn said determinedly, his voice tired. "My Lord, he is going to find another child. He will punish me for keeping her alive."

"He was wounded when he left," Faramir quickly said, "we have everyone searching for him. He shall not go far this time."

"He is strong."

"Do not trouble yourself over that now," Elrond spoke. "You cannot afford the stress. You must lay still, Aragorn, or it will cost you your life."

"I must move!"

"No." Elrond’s voice did not take no for answer as he looked at Ioreth and silently ordered her. Understanding, the old Healer opened Aragorn’s mouth and placed herbs in it. The King knew the taste of them and tried to spit them out. Elrond knew and kept his hand underneath the man’s chin, closing his mouth as he looked into his eyes.

"You are going to rest," the Elven-Lord said strongly. "That is all you have to do now."

The sedative herbs worked almost instantly. Aragorn could feel his eyes droop and his voice sink away as sleep overcame him. Then his head slumped back on the pillows while his hand still clasped Arwen’s. "He will come soon," the King whispered, "he knows …"

Then the voice died away and the King slept. Elrond sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead, relaxing his shoulders. "He is stubborn," he said with a smile, "but so am I."

Only now, Arwen noticed that her father was shaking from fatigue. Legolas grabbed him by the arm as he swayed. Elrond nodded in gratitude. "We are all fatigued," Legolas said. "And we should all get some rest for as long as we possibly can. Lord knows Aragorn will be causing a commotion when he wakes up again. We shall need all the strength we need to keep him calm."

Elrond smiled. "Aye, but we can handle him, can we not?"

"Go," Faramir said. "And I shall stay with Éowyn. I want you all to find your beds and sleep. That is an order. He will be safe."

Arwen glared at the Steward as if she did not want to be ordered around, but then she smiled and embraced him. "You are a good friend, Faramir. And you are right. Wake me at once when he is alert, should I not be here."

"He will sleep at least eight hours," Elrond reassured her. "That is enough for all of us to sleep a while."

With that, the party of Elves departed and retreated in every bedroom that surrounded the King’s. They all left the doors open, knowing they would awaken at the slightest stir escaping Aragorn’s lips. Faramir looked at Legolas and Gimli, knowing they would not leave.

He was right. Éowyn could not help but smile when she saw the two other hunters sink into chairs and wait. She had not expected anything else from them. Then she clutched her husband’s hand. Faramir smiled at her and nodded quietly.

After that, it became quiet.

Aragorn opened his eyes to find his wife’s looking back at him. She smiled. "Good morning," she said, "how do you feel?"

"Tired," he admitted, trying to move his body. His chest ached and he knew it was bandaged heavily. The King tried to remember what had overcome him, and it hit him soon enough when the pain shot through his body.

"Easy does it," she warned, holding him down before sinking down on the side of the bed. He noticed they were alone, a rarity given to them these days. He took in her features, remembering once more why he loved her so much. She was strong and she came across as such.

"How do I fare?" he asked.

"Better than two days ago."

"Two days?"

"Aye. Ada has kept you asleep for as long as possible, knowing what a bad patient you are. But the wound is mending well and your breathing has become easier over the past night. You shall be out of here quickly. You were very lucky."

"I know," he admitted. "I am sorry, Arwen –"

"Do not say it," she whispered, placing her hand on his lips. "You have done the right thing."

"Have I?"

"Without you, that little girl would have been lost."

"How do you know what I have done?"

"You spoke of it in your nightmares, and the child told us what she had seen. She was quite upset but unharmed. She remains under heavy guard until we have found him. She will not be left out of sight."

Aragorn’s eyes lit in memory. "He has an accomplice! Arwen, one of the guards freed him. I am certain of it!"

"We know, my love," she spoke. "There could not have been anyone else. Faramir is questioning every one of them. He will find him."

"He is a good man," Aragorn spoke thoughtfully. "A wise man – a great leader …"

"So are you. He needs you. He says he does not want to be you. He wants the second position, to be a councilor, an aid, a helper. He does not want the throne."

"His father would have wanted him to have it. Perhaps he should have."

"Is that why you threw yourself in front of her? Did you think that you were expandable?"

"Everyone can be replaced."

"Not you," Arwen spoke strongly, her eyes fierce. "Aragorn, what you have done is brave but rash. You should not put yourself down. You have accomplished so many good deeds over the past year. Do you not see that these people need you?"

"They lived well without me," he spoke calmly.

"No, they did not. For years they were waiting for their King to arrive. They knew the rumors and the stories and they were hopeful that the King would erase their darkness. And he did. You have fulfilled all of their dreams and you do not even know it."

"Arwen –"

"And what about me?" she interrupted him. "Would you leave me without a fight?"

"Never," he spoke fiercely, "but I had no other choice. I saw no way out. I wanted to help her, and that is what lived in my thoughts. She made it, did she not? And so did I. Have you found him?"

"No, we have not."

Aragorn groaned in frustration. "Where is he, Arwen? How can he hide in this City so easily? He must be right under our noses and we do not even know it. He is so near, I can feel him."

"Wherever he is, he has not killed in two days."

"He is waiting for me. He wants me to be there, because that is the thrill of it." Aragorn shuddered at the memories. "I saw him, Arwen. When I lay there on the ground and lingered between life and death, I saw him lean over me. He pulled the knife out of me and kept his hands on my chest to stop the bleeding. He tried to save my life."

"To what purpose?"

"He has not finished what he set out to do. He will go out with a blast, but it will be at his own terms. He was upset when I took away his thrills." Aragorn pushed the sheets aside and moved up, wincing as he did.

"Where are you going?" Arwen asked sharply. He turned sideways.

"I need to walk," he said. "My legs are sore and I feel stiffened up."

"You are not to leave this bed."

"Arwen, I am fine. Look at me."

"Aragorn, two days ago you were on the verge of death. If you do not listen to me, then at least listen to your body. What is it that you want to do? Face Calendil like this? He will take you out in a second. You are not fit to do anything, let alone fight a man who has killed over and over."

"Every second is a second lost. We all need peace of mind, Arwen. I alone can give us that."

"Aragorn –"

"He is right," a voice came from the door. Both were startled by the voice, for they had thought they were alone. Aragorn turned to find Garé standing in the doorway. The Council Member moved forward, bowing in the process. "My Lord King, I am happy you are alive and well. I apologize for the disturbance but we must speak urgently."

"Who gave you the right to barge in here and disturb my husband?" Arwen asked coolly. "Leave now. The King is in no shape to do anything."

"He must," Garé insisted, using Aragorn’s interest in him as a means to continue what he had to say. "We are running out of time, for I have received a note from Calendil. I fear that he is impatient, My Lord King."

Garé stepped forward and moved the scroll into Aragorn’s hand, leaving the room as quickly as he had entered it. Aragorn and Arwen stared at each other as Arwen rang for a servant and demanded their friends and family to be gathered in the room.

She noticed that Aragorn’s hands were trembling when he held the scroll. Quickly she moved forward and removed it from him. "No," he said, out of breath.

"Yes," she said, even though she knew that she could not persuade her husband to rest, not even when his life depended on it.

Although she knew that Aragorn was right and he was the one who could stop this. She did not want disaster to strike. They had come too close to losing him already, and she felt that they were walking on a very thin rope as it were. And Valar forbid, if she had to choose between the life of a child and that of her husband, she would choose to save Aragorn. A feeling of guilt immediately surged through her. Was she, as Queen of Gondor, not obliged to care for her subjects first?

And still, still she could not bear the thought of losing her husband. Not like this or in any other fashion. She knew all too well that one day their ways would go separate and he would lose his fight against human life as it were. Old age would claim him and make her a grieving widow, forcing her to mourn amongst the withering trees as all of her kind had left. She could not bear the thought that their given time together would end so soon, after only a year of happiness.

No, that could not be and she would not let it happen!

Aragorn smiled. "You have a determined look on your face that tells me that I am in trouble." Gently he caressed her face. "You are so strong, Arwen. So beautiful, so caring and so strong. How I wish I did not have to hurt you, my love. I wish for everything to be as it were, and that Calendil had never come. But he did, and we must face what has been given to us. If I do not, I have the deaths of more upon my conscience. I vow to you that this is not going to happen."

"Why you?" she asked with tears in her eyes. "Why us? Why this?"

"We cannot foresee the tragedies in our lives."

"Have we not gone through enough? You should be rewarded for your fights, not punished for who you are."

"This is not about punishment, my sweet Arwen."

"Then what is it about?"

"Power, of course. Power over who lives and who gets to die, over that which is strong and weak. That is what distinguishes us from him. He wants the power that I was given, but he does not understand what to do with it. Imagine such a being controlling a city. He would destroy all that is good and leave the evil."

"I know that," she said before the others rushed inside and finished their private conversation. "But how I wish he would only destroy himself."

*

The King’s bedroom became a beehive of activity as everyone gathered around to speak with him and convince themselves he was still very much alive. Already Aragorn’s cheeks were painted with a slight color that took away the ghastly pain he had felt upon him for so long.

His hands tapped impatiently on the bed when he explained something and he stirred more than once to find another sitting position. It pleased Elrond to no extent to see that his son’s fast healing abilities had once again helped him. It was a good thing he was not just a human, the Elven-Lord thought secretly. For such a wound would have killed him otherwise. And look at him now, sitting here and speaking with authority when his Council asked him questions.

With every waking moment – despite the fatigue Aragorn obviously felt and experienced – he became stronger and more powerful. And strangely enough, Elrond saw a new form of strength inside of him, as if he had gone through the worst of nightmares and come back unscathed. Whatever had happened, it had done him good.

Then Elrond realized what it was that pleased Aragorn so: By throwing himself before the girl, he had taken away Calendil’s advantage for the first time. And again for the first time he had been able to save a child’s innocent life. It was like a token he wanted to give to his opponent: Brace yourself, for there will be no more killings. I am now in charge and you will suffer under my hands.

Aragorn’s glare caught Elrond’s and the Elven-Lord smiled slightly, his eyes telling his son that he knew what he was thinking. And it was so that the Lord of Rivendell did not oppose Aragorn when he said he would leave his bed tomorrow and return to normal duties.

The King’s declaration let hope flare through the room and beyond. Those who were happy, cheered. Those who were weary and thought he was not yet fit, muttered amongst each other but did not remark. It was Garé’s somber glare that caught Elrond off guard but he did not pay further attention to him until he suddenly stood and left the room.

"Faramir, my friend," Aragorn said, beckoning his Steward closer. "Pray tell me, what is wrong with Garé?"

"He is merely concerned over your health, My Lord."

"He did not seem so happy to see me better though."

"He has been acting strange," Faramir spoke thoughtfully. "He is very concerned over his City and Gondor. I believe that he feels you might not be well enough to return to your duties. He keeps on insisting that I should take over."

"Interesting," Aragorn thought as he looked at his wife who still held the scroll. Then she stood and gave it back to him, and Aragorn opened it and read what it said, his voice constantly weakening as he grew more tired.

"So he is alive," Aragorn said calmly, "and he waits."

The King’s eyes searched the room as he leaned back and closed his eyes, exhausted, temporarily forgetting the moment of triumph that had warmed his heart so. But just as Elrond moved forward to feel if the fevers had spiked once more, he opened his eyes again and smiled a warm, genuine smile. "Well then," the King said calmly. "Let him wait."

Then he closed his eyes again and fell asleep as if his soul itself had shut down to grant him the rest that he needed. Gently Elrond covered him and turned to Faramir. "Make this place a fortress," he said.

Two days, in which nothing could be done. Two days of waiting, expecting and hoping. And then the end. And nothing. Nothing!

Two days ago, Calendil had just barely made it to his shelter, clutching his hand against his abdomen and hoping that the blood would not leave a trail leading directly to him. He had been lurking in the back streets, waiting for the darkness to arrive. When they shot him, he had not been able to go to his hideout, knowing they would catch him immediately. And so he had blended in with the crowds, using all of his expertise.

It had taken Calendil all he could not to topple over and lose consciousness altogether he made it to his safe harbour. The wound was deep and the injury large and he would have died if he had not held the strength of two men in his mutilated body.

Damn them for shooting him! And when he closed the door behind him and sunk forward into his safe nest, he looked up at the one helping him all this time and grunted, "You have to save me. Save me, Garé!"

For a long time, the Council Member did not move. But then he bent forward and stared at Calendil who barely held on long enough to beg for his life. Then the monster lost his fight and he slumped to the ground. Sighing, Garé grasped him and pulled him further into his own quarters at the back of the Royal House where Aragorn lived. The small hidden second door that gave out into the gardens had been perfect for Calendil, giving him access all over.

They would never find him here; Garé smirked as he pulled the murderer to the rug in the middle of the room and rolled him onto his back, scanning the wound with an experienced eye. It was deep, but it would not kill him. He had been getting too careless, moving in and out of the royal rooms as if he owned them. His hatred for Aragorn began to grow, yet it was fuelled with a strange sense of admiration too. He wanted to end the King’s life on his own terms and now he had nearly died trying to save him instead. Such ironies of life.

It was their mutual hatred that bundled the forces of the Council Member and the murderer. And there was so much more Garé did not want to think about. He sighed as he removed the tunic and washed the wound, stitching it unsteadily while Calendil was unconscious.

He had no herbs so he would have to steal those later to hold down the fevers. But he did not have much time; for he would be missed at the Council should he not appear. Garé left Calendil the way he was and departed, hoping he would not come back to find a corpse. It would be impossible to explain that.

All that evening, as they waited for news of the King, Garé prayed that Aragorn would be dead. He hated the King. He hated him more than anyone he had ever hated in his life. How dare that Ranger from the North come and take over? How dare he play boss now when he did not even know Gondor’s ways? And how dare he take an Elvish woman here and marry her?

For a year now Garé had been fretting over the circumstances, not understanding that he was the only one who seemed to struggle with these events. The others seemed to be just fine with the fact that a complete stranger had entered their City and taken over. And all because he had the right line of blood. It was not right, and he would show them. It was Denethor’s son that belonged on the throne, not this stranger.

Soon, everyone would see that, when Aragorn had died and the throne was once more for the line of Stewards. All they had to do was to remove Aragorn and give Gondor´s citizens back what was theirs to begin with.

Garé smirked that evening at the prospect of hearing of Aragorn’s demise, but the smile was wiped off his face when he learned that the King would live, thanks to his father Elrond. Be damned that Elf! Garé cursed. Be damned the ones who came to aid the Ranger.

Garé walked home that night feeling murderous. If Calendil did not keep his end of the bargain, he would kick him out and do it himself. And then, as he arrived at his home, he found Calendil sitting upright and sweaty. Garé gave him the stolen herbs to devour and watched him closely as the murderer chewed them and took deep breaths.

"He lives, does he not?" Calendil then asked hopefully, and Garé thought he would go mad. He had had the chance to kill the King and had not done so. Fury engulfed him as he hissed, "Aye, he does."

To his shock, Calendil smiled and then lost consciousness. And Garé knew he had misjudged the situation: Calendil was dying. And it was the irony of fate that he would die near the King’s quarters, in the same Palace where he lived. It was the irony of the story that all this time, Calendil had sheltered here, right under their noses.

The next day, Garé knew Calendil was going to die. He could see it in his face. The murderer was withering away, his body seemed to fight against the wound’s consequences and darkness seemed to take over already. He was pale, sweating and yet very calm.

Garé dared not to stay at his Palace Quarters for too long and came back and forth bringing herbs. Food would not go into Calendil’s mouth; he could not digest it. Water did not aid either.

"You are dying," Garé remarked coldly, unforgiving. "If I do not bring you to a Healer, you will not make it."

"I know," Calendil replied, opening his feverish eyes. "And you know what? I do not care."

"So you do not wish to live?"

"I do," Calendil confessed, "for I feel that it is not over. But I shall not make it, and you must take my place and take over my tasks."

"Me?" Garé exclaimed. "Never! I am not a murderer."

"Oh, but you are," the murderer smiled. "After all, we are brothers."

Garé paled. "So they say, but we do not share anything but our blood and I do not wish to be reminded of anything else."

Calendil smiled. "You were always the one who thought he had it all. I fear though, big brother, that today you are about to lose everything you have ever known. It is time for a new life."

And then, the great murderer was no more, but none knew. Garé stared at his brother as he died, not feeling anything. After all, the only thing they really did have in common was their blood; blood that came from their father when he made Garé with his first wife and Calendil with his second. After that, their ways had departed a long time ago, until the day that Calendil received a message in his prison cell in the Citadel asking him if he was interested in making a deal.

Calendil had happily accepted.

Slowly, Garé calmed down. He knew now that this was his fate. In order to rid himself of Aragorn, he would have to do it himself. Calendil had failed. With all his stories, his promises and his threats, he had not succeeded, ultimately allowing a strange sense of care to take over and destroy him. That would not happen to Garé!

His heart void of pain and distress, Garé left his brother where he was and returned to the Palace with a newly written message. Calendil could not write a single word. It was he, who had written the notes to the King. And he would continue to do so.

Garé wanted to remove his King and he would use every means necessary to do so. That was his vow to this world, the promise he made to himself. The Stewards of Gondor would rule again. And Faramir would be the one sitting on that Throne, guided by Garé and his council.

"Do not rest in peace, brother," Garé mumbled as he left the corpse and returned to his duties.

*

Faramir entered his King’s room to find Aragorn fully dressed and ready to go. "My Lord," he exclaimed, quickly stepping forward, "are you well enough?"

"I am," Aragorn smiled, placing his hand upon his friend’s shoulder. "Do not trouble yourself. Tell me, what news from the City?"

"There is still no trace of him," Faramir confessed, "and I do not know where else to look, My Lord. We have searched every single house, every building and every possible hideout of this City. He must be a ghost, for he vanishes without a trace every time."

"I see," Aragorn spoke thoughtfully, ignoring the slightly throbbing pain in his chest. He was quite fatigued still, for the few days of rest had done nothing more than to have him accept one more injury to the already sustained list. He knew he could not fool his family, but he could fool his friends. He was quite good at that.

"Come," Aragorn said, "it is time to face the Council and hope they have more bright ideas."

"Speaking of the Council, Garé seems to be back to his normal self now. He is eager to see you."

"And I am to see him," Aragorn smiled. "He is a bright man with clever ideas. I just wished he would not be so pessimistic about the outcome of this situation."

"He is merely looking out for his City, My Lord. He only wants the best for it."

"As do we all. I cannot blame him though. He has been through a lot, as most have who have lived here during Sauron’s attack. Let us hope that he will keep his faith in a good outcome this time."

"I am certain that he will," Faramir smiled.

"Tell me, where are my other friends and relatives?"

"Right here," Legolas said, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. Beside him stood Gimli, his hands resting on his axe. Both looked like guards, armed and ready to fight.

"What is this?" Aragorn asked bemusedly.

"From now on you are not going anywhere without us," Legolas said firmly, "not to take a bath, not for a quick bite to eat and certainly not for meetings outside of your home. We are staying with you."

"As are we," Elladan spoke behind Legolas, making way for his brother and him. With a smile Aragorn witnessed the four of them, knowing they were indeed never going to leave him be. The thought pleased him.

"And then there is me," Arwen interfered, entering the room with a smile. "And my father." She turned to allow Lord Elrond in.

"If you are all constantly coming with me, then I fear the Throne Room will be too small," Aragorn smiled, but his eyes hinted of gratitude and relief.

"You tried to protect us many times," Elrond spoke calmly, "and now it is our turn. Calendil may try to take on one man, but he cannot take us all. He will be brought down, and this time, he will stay that way."

"I shudder," Aragorn retorted with a smile, staring at his friends with warmth in his eyes. "And how I hope he shudders too."

*

Garé watched her and wondered what it felt like to kill someone with his bare hands. His fingers twitched to try it out, even though he was terrified of his own feelings. Had some of it rubbed off on him then? He wondered. Would he really be capable of replacing Calendil just like that?

He did not want to. Oh Lord, when he watched the child, he knew he did not dare to kill her. She was sweet and innocent, just like the child that he had lost twenty years ago. She would have been thirty now, and a beautiful woman.

But he could kill an adult. He would have no problem with that.

He eyed the servant as she brought him a cup of wine, offering it with a smile. He was attractive and the women liked him. For years they had tried to wed him, for he was a rich widower with gold that could settle them into an easy life. All this time he had refused, clinging onto the memories of his beloved who had died in the same cart accident as his daughter. He knew he could never let her down, even though he had become hard and unmerciful after her demise.

The servant held her breath when he grasped her hand and leaned closer into her, aware that others were looking at them. He relaxed then but whispered only for her to hear, "Meet me in an hour in the private gardens. Do not tell anyone."

She flushed and turned away, and it was as if she had heard nothing. But when he walked into the gardens, watching his King return to his normal duties despite the injuries he had suffered, Garé was eager to try out his kill.

They all thought Calendil was still alive and he would let them believe that for as long as he possibly could. He kept that in mind when he walked to the private gardens, eager to look around to make certain no one spied on him. He had never done this before and felt nervous.

She was a gorgeous woman with long black hair and a slim figure, breasts that perked forward and firm legs. She had dark eyes and a fierce glare and she seemed too proud to be a mere servant. She smiled sensually when she watched him come, certain that she had finally won him over.

They were in the gardens now where Calendil had attacked the Elf and the King. These were the King’s and here he would find the woman, or someone would. It was Garé’s message to him that it was not yet over.

She moved into his arms when he stretched them and he scented her hair and her body and he felt regret that he would end such beauty. But then his hands were around her throat and he squeezed them tight without thinking of anything but his revenge for the King. It was Aragorn’s throat he was closing and it was the former Ranger whose life he was ending.

And with that thought he hardly heard her last whimper before he closed off the air from her lungs and let her die. She struggled one last time, then she jerked and then she fell and her tongue stuck out of her mouth and she was gone.

It was that easy.

Now he knew.

He smiled when he turned and left the gardens. Then he returned to the Throne Hall and joined the others for the final discussion.

The King showed himself to his subjects, proving to them he was alive and well. His chest was still wrapped in tight but none saw that. No one noticed that he sometimes had difficulty to just stand still, for the pain made him wince now and then. But then someone of his friends would grasp his arm and support him and he would pretend that nothing was wrong.

He did not want to show anyone his weakness, even though he knew that everyone could see it. His face was still pale and his eyes alone spoke of the physical pain he was in. Yet, as Elrond had suspected, he had grown stronger mentally and was ready to meet his foe.

The cheers he heard were enough to keep his chin straight up, and he smiled at his people as he walked through them, guarded by his friends who watched out for any sign of Calendil. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen, however, and everyone relaxed when Aragorn returned to the building where he would be safer. His eyes caught the worried look of Marta, one of his most faithful servants who cared for him almost day and night. She stood in the back, her eyes fixed upon him with a care that startled him. He knew she had a daughter of eleven. What if it were her? Would she still care for him then? He pulled his gaze away from her reluctantly.

"They are happy now," Aragorn sighed as he sunk tiredly onto a chair. "Hopefully they will trust me again."

"They have never stopped trusting you, Aragorn," Faramir said determinedly. "They all prayed and lit candles for your safety, hoping you would be well."

Aragorn looked up, surprised at this news.

"Why do you look so shocked?" Faramir asked amusedly. "They love you, My Lord. You are their King."

"I have only been here for one year," Aragorn said. "I did not think they would care that greatly."

"You are their Lord, their leader. My father – my father was too, so long ago, but then he stopped caring for them and became his own madness. He was subjected to the darkness and he paid for it. You chased that darkness away. They find themselves in your debt, for you have given them hope and the chance for a future."

"I could not stop a killer from running havoc," Aragorn said calmly. "I would not blame them for hating me now."

"Nobody hates you. None ever will. You brought peace and that is what they remember." Faramir knelt by his King’s side. "My Lord, I would give my life for you if you would ask me to do so. Do not underestimate yourself."

Aragorn smiled embarrassedly, not knowing what to say. Then his eyes caught a glimpse of his Council, surrounding him. Their eyes too spoke of confidence in him, and he nodded his head in gratitude. "Your loyalty will not go disregarded," the King said. "I thank you all."

At that moment, the doors were thrown open and a guard came storming in, out of breath and distressed, "My Lord King, there has been another murder!"

Immediately the room was in uproar. Aragorn stood, his heart sinking. Calendil had not kept his word, he thought. He had vowed to wait for him, and now he had murdered another child.

"Where is the child?" Aragorn asked.

"It is not a child, My Lord. It is one of our servants."

The large group made their way to the private gardens where it had all begun. Aragorn remembered his first fight with Calendil here, the way they had struggled when he was unexpectedly attacked. Had he known then that it would end this way, would he have fought to the death? But how had he been able to do that, when the murderer had had all the advantage?

Now here lay the body of a beautiful servant that Aragorn vaguely recognized. He did not know her name but knew she served the Council their dinner and worked in the kitchen. An unwed, attractive maiden she was and here she had found her demise.

Aragorn leaned next to her, paying attention to the tension in his surroundings. All watched him as he laid his hand on the woman and closed her eyes. Then he looked her up and down, noticing the bruises on her throat.

"This is strange," he said, touching the skin. "My Lord Elrond –"

The Elven-Lord sank on his knees next to him and saw what the King saw. "It is a different type of murder," he said. "She was killed with bare hands, choked to death."

"So I thought. What does this mean? That we have another murderer?"

"I do not know," Elrond said, "but it would be unwise to state we might have two when we know that only Calendil has run havoc through this City. It would be terrifying to accept that possibility."

"He might have gone further," Aragorn said calmly. "He said he was not finished yet. Perhaps the blood did not appeal to him anymore and he wanted a taste of the personal kill. And what better way is there than to throttle someone with your bare hands?"

For a few moments it remained quiet in the area, and all waited for Aragorn to speak again. But they saw his eyes shut down to the world as if he were in another place. He was withdrawn in himself, darker than ever.

Then it was over as quickly as it had begun. Aragorn stood and faced them. "Something is not right," he said. "I cannot feel him anymore."

"What do you mean?" Faramir asked.

"Before, I could sense him. He was a dark vision in the back of my mind, like someone I constantly had with me, a shadow that I could not shake off. From the moment he came here, I could feel him. Now he is gone. Whatever connection we shared is no longer there."

"Are you saying that he is dead?" Elladan asked hopefully.

"I do not know," Aragorn shrugged. "I just know he does not let me connect to him anymore. I must try again later. It might be these injuries and the herbs that have kept me asleep for so long. My head is still a bit foggy."

"Are you certain?" Garé insisted. "Try again."

Aragorn shook his head, once more touching the body. "No," he said, "it is gone."

Then he left the scene, moving past Elrond, brushing Arwen’s arm in the process. She could feel the heat radiate from her husband’s body and knew he had overdone himself. All morning he had been in Council meetings, refusing to rest. She hated it when he retreated into his own dark world where even she could not get access. She had seen him do it before and now he was trying to voluntarily get permission to step into this world again.

She hoped and prayed that the connection with the murderer was gone, for it would bring him some peace of mind. He needed that so badly, she knew. Tears sprung to her eyes but she made sure none saw. She turned and walked after her husband into the building, hoping he would not retreat from them again as he had done before. To her relief, he stood waiting for them and smiled weakly at her.

"Are you well, my husband?" she asked politely, knowing the Council would hear them.

"I am," he said, and he took her in his arms and kissed her, forgetting all protocol. As he held her, he could feel something. Something stirred inside of him, like a foreboding he had once seen when he thought she would die. Her fate had been bound to the Ring then, and he had seen her on her deathbed. This time, he saw something else – she faded before his eyes, as if she was still bound to a fate worse than anything humanly possible.

Then he moved away from her, his eyes filled with darkness when the handle inside his head turned, allowing himself access into the unknown he had shared with Calendil. It was back! The connection was there again, but so much harder. He gasped at the pain struggling in his head, tugging at his brain that already seemed overloaded.

Suddenly he pushed her from him, and she placed her hand gently on his left arm, trying to guide him out of what he was seeing. But he would not let go of the vision, pushing her away from him firmly. When he opened his eyes again, they were darker and he did not see her. He was far gone from here.

"Ada!" Arwen called out, getting her father’s attention. It was Legolas who reached them first and he shook the Ranger hard, grasping his arms tight. The King would not listen to him, having allowed his thoughts to wander too far off.

"Aragorn," Elrond interfered, his hand grasping his son’s face, trying to get him to see them. But then he realized that Aragorn had made a connection to something he saw, and that something would feed them information.

"He is different … different, but still the same … the same," the King’s voice came, his body leaning against the wall where Elrond pushed him so he would not harm himself. Faramir tried to steer the Council out of the room but they would not be sent away, staring at their King whose voice continued, "She was the first one … the first thrill …"

"Who, Aragorn?"

"Different … hands … different voice … different … everything is … different. Everything is –" Aragorn’s eyes closed, catching a recapture of all that had overcome them over the past days. All the bodies mingled into one another, every single being becoming one child with a thousand faces. And her blood – their blood – spilled over his hands. He saw them all, and then he only saw the one he had not saved five years ago.

He pushed his hands before his eyes, rubbing them fiercely as he cried out, startling them all. The connection was so close! It was almost as if he were in this very room, hitting him hard with the images. He could feel him so close … and yet, so different.

Aragorn opened his eyes again, seeing Legolas in a blur standing before him. They were all here, and they were all so vague. The pain was enormous, wearing him down, paralyzing him so that he thought he would never be sane again.

"Aragorn, look at me," Arwen said firmly, standing so he would gaze her straight into the eyes. "I am right here. Concentrate on me. Do not listen to what he is doing to you."

Elrond grabbed his arm tight. "They are not dead because of you. He wants you to think that. Do not listen. Come back to us."

Aragorn blinked his eyelids, staring at Elrond. Arwen instantly saw his eyes had returned to normal. The Ranger’s body sagged, as if he had lost all strength. Elrond and Legolas grasped him, lowering him gently onto a chair. "Fetch water," Elrond ordered and a servant rushed off.

The Council started to murmur as Aragorn remained seated quietly, thanking Legolas as he gave him constant support. Suddenly the King seemed to restore most of his strength, for the color returned to his cheeks and his eyes became clearer. That which had created the connection was gone.

"It is over," Aragorn said, shaking his head in confusion. "And it was so strange."

"What did you feel?" Elrohir asked, ogling his brother carefully.

"I was with Calendil and then I was not. Two halves of the same body – the same blood. There was a connection but it did not feel like him. It was stronger, coming from a dark soul who hates me more than anything in this world."

"So it is another soul than Calendil’s?" Arwen asked quietly.

"I do not know." Aragorn shook his head. "It was so confusing."

Arwen saw her husband’s demean