Nin

The Chieftain's Return

Rock Spire
It is only in places like this, high above the canyon floor, that one can understand the secret of Imladris' long and successful resistance to siege during the latter Second Age. To all intents and purposes, this place looks like a mere bare rock spire standing out from the main mass of the canyon wall, connected to the rim of the canyon by a narrow and treacherous ridge. But here, beyond an outsider's view, it is clear that this is no mere rock spire, but a carefully constructed fortress against which armies would break like water: high ramparts, from which archers could rain arrows on anyone trying to cross the ridge, its own spring for drinking supplies, and chambers dug into the rock behind the ramparts.

From here watchers can see practically the entire northern and western of the canyon and the lands beyond, and from this secret redoubt it is easy for patrols to slip unseen along the ridgecrest trail into the wild lands west of the valley.

Contents:
Aragorn
Elladan
Niriell
Olathlinn
Obvious exits:
Path Down

It is cold, here in this high place; though the lights of the last homely house east of the sea shine plain and bright not yet so far away, still it is bitterly chill. Winter comes even to Rivendell.
Sparse clouds high up cross a sky filled with a host of stars, amassed like some army set against the dark; blown by a leisurely wind, down out of the north, which whistles and rattles through the crevices and narrow ways of the gulleys far below.
Here indeed there rise the ramparts of the valley's ancient defence, hewn out of the very rock of the vale; a spire that rises to touch upon the crystalline heavens; guard is set here ever, ceaseless in its vigil and tonight, it is Elladan that commands the watch. Who else indeed could it be than one of Elrond's sons? Raven is his hair, bright his eyes, fair his face; his grey cloaks ripple and curl with the gentle touch of the breeze; beneath, his mail glitters by the starlight.

High above the ground, on aplace that seems almost impossible to reach, but that is sure nearer of the sky that she studies with the energy of some seeker looking upon a dusty book, Olathlinn lays on her back. Her hand waving in front of her like if she where measuring the distance between stars with her own fingers. From time to time, she turns on her belly side, noting something on a parchment that is place aside her and kept there by a rock. This space is narrow, but that seems not to worry the elleth, well folded in her cloak. She is mumbling and so captive in her work that she doesnt hear or see anything else.

But not all who are abroad this night go as brightly arrayed as the Son of Elrond.

For the North Wind bears more than whispers of the desolate lands; tales of barren plains and dark woods. In this hour, it carries the rumour of an intruder to those who stand watch.

And more than merely a rumour; a shadow darker than night's veil nigh the ridge, the rattle of a stone in the crystal air -- these things speak with a voice of their own.

The night is still and cold, the bitter chill blanketing the vale below. No sound comes from the pine woods, and only the wind whistles and moans quietly, relaying an unknown pain. And then... a rock tumbles down the path, then another, and the soft, light footsteps of a Firstborn can barely be made out over the laments of the wind. Niriell's head, veiled by the thick curtain of her dark hair appears from below, then the rest of the elleth's body follows, wrapped in a thick cloak to ward off the winter's chill. The tiny weaver pauses, dark eyes roaming the spire, and then she steps to the rock outcropping's edge, standing as straight and regal as a statue. The wind plays with her cloak's hem, making it flap loudly, and for a moment, the star-blanketed figure looks as if she was flying.

Strings sigh and staves bend; fully a score of elven arrows are drawn back, the archer's aims unerring, every point has the same mark: the shadow drawing near.
A pale hand rises, palm white against the moon's face; Elladan takes the battlement, glancing out into the night with eyes that pierce all shadow. Slowly his arm removes to his side, and again the bowstrings sigh in unison, as they are eased.
What it is that Arwen's brother saw, that dark figure ascending even to the spire; he does not say, swiftly though, he calls out for a messenger, that comes, and swiftly too departs, down towards the house, 'ere again the Herion looks to the marches of the north.

And at the pale glimmer of the hand in the moon-limned darkness, that shadow pauses; the sounds of its approach cease as if they had never been. A heartbeat it stays thus, and another -- and then, as the hand falls, it begins its slow approach again.

Only to be halted again half-way across the ridge where -- a strange sight indeed! -- an elf-maid lies and looks upon the wheeling stars. And this time, the silence is sundered by a soft exclamation:

"The folk of the valley keep a strange watch indeed this night!"

Niriell whirls around at the sound of a male voice behind her; dark eyes roam the night looking for the source of the exclamation. Gathering the cloak tighter around herself, she steps forward. "Who goes..." she begins quietly, the breaks off, realising that the approach of a stranger would have alerted the Tirith, and yet all is calm. The weaver's eyes dart over the still figures of the guards, then open wide as a memory sparks and she recognises the voice. "Estel?" she asks quietly, unsure, looking up into the dark.

Something finally gets Olathlinn attention, something glimmering....then something flapping in the wind...she peers into the night. Seeing nothing that can worry her but some quick movement oF what seems to be a messenger. But when she is talked too, she startle and blood drain at this moment from her feature. She is frozen and cannot say anything else, facing the "stranger" that seems some how familiar, she calm herself down and offered but a shy "Well met!"

"It is I," acknowledges the gloom-shrouded Man. For tall as one of the Firstborn though he may be and his form veiled from sight by a great cloak, the voice betrays him -- rough as if with great weariness or pain.

And to the one before him he nods then, "Well met, if strangely. But it would be better met yet if you could summon the captain of the night's watch."

Olathlinn unfroze suddenly in a drole of way, she gets on a runNing and desappear elven side as if she where having fire at her heel."Sure!" echoe behind her.

" I am here," Elladan pre-empts Aragorn's request, even as he comes down off the trail from the spire, wherefrom the guardsmen look on warily; " A strange watch indeed;" the peredhel cries, " But is this not a time of peace? However restless?" At length he draws up close, all the while his eyes upon the newcomer; " The days since last we met lie heavy on you, Son of Arathorn;" says he simply, though he smiles, " But ever are you welcome in my father's house. Come, set aside your burdens awhile."

Thick dark hair swings like a curtain around Niriell's body as the tiny weaver steps yet closer, glancing up at the human's weary face. "Your journey must have been a long and hard one, Estel. Is there something I can bring you? You look..." a smile plays on the elleth's lips and is gone again. "Utterly human, I am afraid." The maiden smiles fondly, remembering the human child the Man had once been, a human child that grew into a man towering her by over a foot.

Grey eyes glint within the shadow of his hood, star-lit and bright -- and then, the Man lowers the cowl. Aragorn son of Arathorn stands revealed, and his mien is glad.

Yet, his visage is drawn and haggard, and the joy of the meeting is but a glimmer upon it. And when he speaks again -- in the clear tongue of the Firstborn -- the shadow that is upon him can be felt more clearly yet in its cadences:

" Heavy indeed. But not so burdensome that I can find no comfort in this return. Well-met I say again, to you Elladan -- and you, Niriell."

And he clasps the Half-Elf's shoulder in passing. But his grip lingers for a moment longer than it might; it is almost as if he braces himself with his kinsman's strength.

And then he is tall and straight again.

" Come now;" says Elladan to both; turNing to gesture up the path, " Soon it will be light; take what rest you can at the summit, there are lodgings there for the guards, and food if you will have it. Already I have sent word to the house that you are here, and on the morrow when we go thence all shall be prepared for you."

The weaver's gaze travels over Estel's clothing, worn and travel-stained, and something akin to a smile or a cringe appears on her lips. "Many things will need to be prepared," she says evenly, although her eyes are dancing with suppressed mirth. "Among other things," and she sniffs delicately, "a bath, I think. Do call on me if you need help with mending your clothes," she continues pragmatically. "And my offer stands, do you need something from the house at this point? I was always quick."

" Nay."

The wind whips the Dunadan's cloak about him, wrapping it around his lean form in one moment and spreading it akin to the wings of the great Northern Eagles in the next. And in the wan light that touches the ridge with gentle fingers, the black stain that darkens his tunic at the shoulder may now be discerned.

" I fear I cannot wait so long."

" And I do not doubt that I will need all the help you can give," he says to the elf-maid then, with a weary smile.

" I want for nothing, Nathril;" Elladan answers for his part, voice in equal metre; he too smiles, though, on review of the Dunadan's garb. " Repair can wait; there are vestments more fair, or at least less worn, in the guardhouse; we shall see what can be found." Though, 'ere he starts up the path, his eyes cannot help but see the mark that mars his kinsman's breast; he stops, " You are wounded?"

" An orc-dart."

And in that stain, the answer to the riddle can be read -- the hard lines of the Dunadan's visage, the weight that furrows his brow and burdens his voice. For it is beyond the power of mere weariness to draw such a price from the Son of Arathorn, hardiest of all men.

" I slowed the poison, but I did not have the means to banish it. And I dared not turn aside from my path to hunt for herbs that could do so."

The weaver's brow creases in worry. "Shall I fetch a healer?" she inquires sharply of Elladan. "Or maybe you should not wait till the morn, and have Estel in the infirmary now. If you cannot leave your post, I could accompany him down, perhaps." Her keen gaze travels over the Man's shape, assessing and judging his condition.

And at this, Aragorn laughs. Fleeting though it may be, more white-plumed breath upon the pitiliess wind than sound, it eases the grimness of the moment.

" All the long leagues from the Hithaeglir to this valley I have travelled in a week. I do not lack the strength yet to cover this last distance."

" There is no need to send for a healer. Come, we will go down. And if Elladan cannot leave his duties here, then you shall be my guide, Niriell."

" I would tend you here; sooner than have you walk another mile; it will be midday next, 'ere we reach the healing halls." So Elladan counsels, but rather lends Aragorn his arm, knowing too well the Dunadan's pride may forebear his sense; "Lean on me, at least, to weary yourself further is to quicken the poison, and I would not wish to bear you to my father upon a bier."

If Niriell thinks something about the foolish pride of males, her face does not show it; such thoughts will forever stay her secret. She does not repeat her offer, but hovers nearby quietly, waiting to see if she can be of assistance. Though her common sense tells her that the Man is perfectly able to tend for himself and has easily survived decades so far, her lips are still thin with worry.

" I would not wish to be borne to your father upon a bier," replies the Dunadan drily.

" If you have the means here...it shall be as you say." And he takes the offered arm; yet, he does not lean heavily upon it but walks tall.

And there is little that may be veiled from his sight -- even now -- for as he passes Niriell, his gaze lingers a moment upon her. And he says then:

" I have taken such wounds before. Do not fear! There are none save Master Elrond himself who may claim to be more skilled in leechcraft than his sons."

"You may as well tell me to stop breathing," Niriell replies drily, falling into step behind the males. "'tis my inborn arrogance that lets me view mortals as being in constant peril. I know full well that the Herion can tend your wounds, but do not tell me to stop worrying. I am good at worrying," she adds, a light smile on her lips.

" There is one other;" Elladan notes, " Yet I should not wish to trouble her so, as to see you harmed;" so saying, he guides Aragorn up along the path towards the peak looming above, the battlements about the spire, where flicker the warming fires of the post. " Skilled I may be; but I cannot draw out poison by touch alone! It is well that we keep stock of supplies in all our fastnesses."

And at Niriell's words, there is a glimpse of that weary smile again -- but the Dunadan does not reply. The pain of the poison that burns through him, held at bay so long with a will of iron, rises in a black tide; his eyes are bright with it as he walks beside Elladan.

Thus, he hoards his strength as a miser might and does not spend it upon banter. And to Elrond's son, he merely says, " Well indeed."

Duinlas climbs up from the birchwoods below.
Duinlas has arrived.

A goodly pace makes Elladan up the trail, though it is well-hid treacherous; too well he knows the way, often having trod it over the long years of his life.
Soon enough the level footing of the ramparts is near to hand, and the guardsmen watching their approach have already set fires and water in the quarters recessed into the rock of the spire.

Behind the Man and the Peredhel, Niriell pauses, fingers absently tracing the veins on a nearby rock. "Can I be of use?" she asks the Herion, "or would you rather I left?"

Glancing back over his shoulder, Elladan answers; " You can be, indeed." With his free arm, he gestures toward the spire; " In the storerooms there are linens and wrappings of all sorts. Go, if you will, for we shall needs make a poutice to bind the wound."

But all this while, the Dunadan is silent. And at last, they reach the nearest shelter delved from the very bones of the spire itself. And here -- where the keeNing of the wind is but a stone-muffled murmur and the chill is banished by the golden warmth of the fire -- Aragorn halts and unclasps his cloak. Letting it fall to the ground, he lowers himself slowly until he is seated with his back braced against a wall.

And he looks up at Elladan then, with arched brow. No words are needed between these two.

A sliding of rock on rock betrays Duinlas' step not far behind the group. He holds his hands up as eyes glance at him, and he calls out, "Peace, Friends. I heard the rumor of you while I was near, I came to see what brought you-" his voice stops as he spots the Dunedan and his eyes widen in slight surprise, "Is all well?"

Kneeling beside his kinsman, Elladan first reaches to his belt, his hand to return grasping a silver flask; " No, indeed!" he answers Duinlas, without turNing; " But it would be less so, were you to go to the spring and draw a basin of water," he decants his head sharply, before handing the flask to Aragorn. " Drink," he bids the wounded Dunadan, 'ere he looks to the man's shoulder.

Duinlas hurries out, obeying the command of the Herion, his brow furrowed in concern, his voice barely audible as he consents, " I shall make haste."

And at Duinlas' entry, the Dunadan glances to him; the reply however, he leaves to Elladan. And taking the flask, he drinks briefly from it ere handing it back.

LeaNing his head back against the wall, he closes his eyes even as his kinsman sees to the wound. At length, he asks quietly:

" Any word of Elrohir?"

Light, quick footsteps announce the return of the weaver. Hair streaming behind her in the wind, the maiden is clutching a pile of bandages and cloths to her chest, lightly skipping over stones and rocks. The pale pre-dawn light is clittering in her wide open eyes. "Here," she says, kneeling next to Elladan, her breath calm even though she had been runNing.

" None;" Says Elladan, not sharply but with brevity, his fair features are a focus of concentration, and he draws aside Aragorn's tunic even as Niriell returns, exposing an ugly wound beneath a worn compress that he tears off; the skin is slick with pus and blood, such is the working of the poison.

Elladan gives a hurried aside to Niriell; "> Thankyou;" he gestures, " Tear the softer linen; short strips."

Duinlas returns shortly after the word, his arms burdened with a large basin of fresh water. His lower torso and legs are quite wet and it appears to have been from spilling an over-loaded basin on himself. He approaches and sets the basin near the Man and Peredhel, his face masked neutral, but his eyes betray his alarm at the sight of the poisoned wound. He, however, remains silent.

Niriell complies silently, eyes and fingers quite focussed on her task. Yet the lines on her brow and the tightly pursed lips betray her worry.

" I had hoped..." Elladan continues, looking back to the arm and shoulder; " That you might have some for me; he is long away, on what errand I have not heard." At his ministrations, at any rate, the Dunadan might start to feel the pain lessen in his side.

"I thank you," the Dunadan says -- whether to Niriell or Duinlas, it is not clear. But his eyes do not open and he questions his kinsman no further, lapsing instead into silence.

And as Elladan tears the compress from his wound and begins to tend to it, Aragorn's lips tighten. Yet, he makes no sound and gives no reply yet.

As Duinlas brings up the water, Elladan, with some of the cloth that the Nathril has torn, cleans the wound, not before adding a daub of the same stuff that Aragorn had sipped from the silver flask, which he sets aside, followed in short order by the bloody rags.

In the ruddy glow that gilds the shelter, the Dunadan's face is pale; his brow touched with a faint sheen of sweat. But as his kinsman sets the rags aside, Aragorn sighs deeply and his mien is eased somewhat.

Thus a few heartbeats pass. And then of a sudden, he speaks:

" I met him in the foothills of the Hithaeglir but ten days ago. He was upon the trail of an orc-band that had come down from the mountains. But it split and took different paths then...we parted ways thither and I pursued those who had gone north while he, those who turned south."

" I had hoped that he would have reached here before me."

A picture of quiet concentration, the weaver sits back with the remaiNing cloth strips in her lap, silently waiting to see if she can be of any more help, and quite willing to sit quietly if not.

" Not so, alas;" Elladan answers, ceasing about his ministrations but for a moment; " But it shall not trouble myself that it he has not returned..." he continues, with an odd certainty to his voice as he says: " He lives yet." Then he wads up the remainder of the cloth that Niriell has torn, wets it in the basin, and, with a bandage he binds the poultice about Aragorn's shoulder tightly.
Sitting back on his haunches, Elladan smiles a wan smile; " It is done; Now, sleep. At noon we shall make our way down into the valley."

Duinlas smiles at the comment and raises an eyebrow, " I was preparing to head back myself, since I have much to do, is the Dunedan's return unlooked for? Or, I think I should ask," he adds quickly, " should it remain unlooked for?" Obviously it is a good idea to tell a singer whether to keep his mouth shut or not.

" News of his return is already bound to my father's house;" Elladan observes the Linnor's loquacious mood; " News of his condition need not travel likewise."

Content now, it seems, to let his kinsman tend to these matters, the Dunadan lies back with his cloak for a pillow. The hard ground offers scant comfort perhaps, but for one used to hardships such as he, it is enough.

And silence descends, save for the crackling of the flames.