The Fallen

Thank you, Rangerlady, you're a complete gem!!!! I'm honored you like so well. *sniffle* And thanks to my other reviewers as well, few, but very precious. :) Enjoy!

*

To say that Vana awakened with a start was an understatement. Her heart pounded in her chest, her lungs constricted in fear and her limbs heavy as she batted away an imaginary foe, whimpering out and falling from the cot to the floorer eer eyes flew open into the dim of the dungeons, showing her the truth of where she was, but even yet she found it terribly hard to let go. When a hand touched her shoulder she stiffened away from it, turning to see the concerned eyes of the Steward of Gondor. In an instant her mind was filled with the images from her dream, bringing to her cheeks a flush.

He regarded her wide-eyed stare with a certain amount of understanding. “You dreamed of him?” he surmised, taking hold or arr arm again to help her to her feet.

Vana allowed him to do so, standing and brushing off her gown. Her throat felt dry, her tongue sticky and speech was a chore. “Yes, I dreamed of him.” The loathing she felt was tangible, as was the strange compulsion that came over her when she looked at him. A chill spread through her as she sat down. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to brush it all away.

Boromir bent down to the floor, taking something, then approached and took a seat beside her. In his hand he held a mug. “Water,” he explained, noting her curious glance. “It’s warm, but it works. Take a drink.”

She accepted it gratefully, drinking a large gulp and savoring each second as it slid down her throat. When it was gone she felt sorry and glanced at the floor. “I don’t suppose there was any food?”

Grunting and tossing the cup back at the floor near the edge of their cell, Boromir shook his head and leaned bac“Leg“Legolas feels starvation might be a good tactic. Cowardly bastard.” When she said nothing he continued to fill the silence. “What did you dream?”

The question caught her off guard, so bold it was for such a thing as she had dreamt. Vana blushed and rubbed her forearm thoughtfully. “Sauron, he ah…said I was his.”

“Ah.” His tone was hard. She looked to see him staring at the floor with a bothered expression. His fingers fidgeted as if he were caught up in a storm of thoughts he did not wish to see.

His quiet behavior put her off slightly, so she pressed for more. “What did you dream?”

He didn’t look up into her face, but his expression was stony and his voice still carrying all its aggravation. “It is not important.”

“Then why bother asking me?” she countered, not taking her eyes off of him.

Boromir frowned at her for it. “I was curious.”

“So was I.”

He rolled his eyes at her, waving his hand. “Why must evernvernversation we have turn into an argument?”

Vana balled her fists, feeling the urge to take him by the shoulders. Her mind opened a well of dream imagery at that thought and irritation swelled inside her like a river behind a dam. “Why must you be such a pig?” she retorted hotly, throwing herself up off the cot. “You’re so contrary and rude.”

Boromir’s eyes followed her path to the other side of their cell. He shrugged and kept fidgeting with his fingers. “I suggest youe ite it up with our host then. Perhaps he could get you a nice room in the next torture chamber.” The sarcasm dripping from his voice galled her.

“It would be a fair shade brighter than this,” she muttered, stalking back and forth along the front, as far away from him as she could get. She kicked the fallen up, wincing as it clattered along the floor and hit the bars on the other side of her. “Did Legolas return to bring us the water?”

The Steward shook his head and grunted, watching her. “No, he did not, in fact. He sent one of his lackeys and a merry little message speaking of the pain we would both endure if neither of us gave him what he wanted. Nothing new to me, of course. Though I caution you if it comes to physical torment, our black-Elf plays rough.”

She knew that very well and did not need a reminder. Crossing her arms and looking out at the dying torchlight, she sighed and thought upon him. She would have much preferred hise rae rather than Boromir’s in her dreams. Anyone but Boromir, for that matter, and she knew not why. He was not unattractive and she had met harsh males before. She had loathed Haldir of Lórien from the moment they met and still had allowed him a few kisses beneath the stars. Yet the idea of Boromir’s hands on her…she cast it aside each time she began to consider it.

“He may play rough,” she replied absently, looking down at her slender fingers as she toyed with her g “I “I will say nothing.”

To that Boromir said nothing, no snide response or jest, no words of agreement or doubt. Vana listened to his breath and gave him a sidelong glance in curiosity, only to find those eyes on her again. He looked away when she caught him and again she wondered what it was he had dreamed, but if he were so against telling her then far be it from her to push. Not that she cared, anyway. Not truly. Let him keep his own counsel, just as long as he did not darken and use it against her or the kingdom of Gondor.

“How are you feeling?” His question was sudden, throwing her out of her thoughts. She turned with a knit brow, seeing his half-lidded concern.

“I feel wonderful, starving down here in a cold, dank prison with you as company,” she responded before she could consider it.

A half-smile wandered onto Boromir’s face, immediatelylacelaced by a yawn. He had the manners to cover his mouth as he did it, but did not refrain from speaking. “It could be worse.”

Vana eyed him at that. “How?”

His smile widened. “You could be starving down here in a cold, dank prison with yourself as company.” When she turned away coldly he laughed.

She leaned against the cell door, listening to the movement behind her and fighting the urge to see what he was doing. In the end, however, curiosity won out and she turned, seeing him stretched out along the cot. She heard in her memory the sounds of rain falling, the thunder rolling and could almost feel it on her skin. He was lazily watching her, his expression growing offended at her startled look. “What? Do you expect me to stay awake with you and hold your tiny hand? I need rest also.”

Aggravated, she turned away and sighed, hating this place.

*

The feel of this place was evil indeed. No orc, nor any other servant of the dark barred his path, but they were watchful. Elrond looked around him at rem remnants of Minas Morgul, noting the torn down efforts at rebuilding the city to reflect the forgotten beauty of what had once stood here. Apparently Legolas had changed his tastes since so long ago at the Council. He could see carvings in a bastardized form of both Black Speech and Elvish scrawled across the wall, reading things he would not utter. Sorrow filled Elrond’s heart as he took in all there was to see here. This was a fallen place housing a fallen Elf. That the Lord of Rivendell did not doubt any longer.

A dark form moved from the doorway, coming towards him with a fast, purposeful gait. The guards around him drew their swords, but Elrond cautioned hesitance, for any sudden threat could bring down death upon his grandson. The form came before his horse, bowing gently and beneath a black hood he saw a woman’s face, once beautiful, battered and marred. Her eyes hardened when she saw that he was not Aragorn. “Where is King Elessar?” she asked him in a rich, harsh voice.

The Lord of Rivendell drew a patient breath. “He was otherwise detained,” he decided to say, revealing nothing. “Will Prince Legolas speak with an old friend?” Diplomacy had been the key he had planned to use, but he feared instead it would bring about his own undoing. If Legolas was blackened he would not negotiate and Elrond did not possess a force large enough to storm this keep.

The woman smiled and opened her arms, motioning towards the entrance. “Most assuredly, Halfelven.”

Elrond shook his head. “Out here, preferably.”

Her gaze became abstracted, her head tilted as if she were listening to someone else, someone he himself could not hear. Her lips twitched in amusement when she came out of it. “Prince Legolas wishes you would not spurn his affection so. You will not be harmed. He says there is too much to speak of and to force you to remain outside would be terribly rude.”

One of the guards leaned forward on his horse close to Elrond. “Do not do it, my Lord. This place has a foul feel to it.”

“Indeed,” Elrond agreed with a frown. He looked up along the walls, seeking any sign that Legolas was watching them. “Tell Legolas if he wishes to speak perhaps he should come then to Minas Tirith and speak there.”

The small force began to turn their horses, finding behind them a rider in black, his dark sword tall and threatening. He was quiet, needing no words to display his intent. The woman came forward, taking Elrond’s reigns from him. “The Prince if Ithilien insists you come in. You will come to no harm, Halfelven.”

Frustrated, but keeping it veiled behind his eyes, Elrond nodded with a set jaw. He looked up across the grass towards the hills where a rider waited, motioning that he should return to Minas Tirith and report Elrond’s doubts concerning the talks. When he turned back he was not cordial. “Very well. I will speak with him. Lead the way.”

She ignored his clipped tone, pulling his wary steed towards the main entrance. Behind he heard the murmurs of the soldiers, superstitious whisperings, curses against Legolas and the like. He would be inclined towards the latter, but his heart troubled him sorely. He could remember Legolas as a light-hearted youth back at Imladris when all of this began. The kind Elf that had sung songs and made merry within the Hall of Fire was now gone.

He dismounted when told, allowing his horse to be led away, whispering gentle Elvish phrases to soothe the beast into submission. The woman seemed irritated by his speech, turning on her heel and stalking towards the opening entrance. He wondered what had befallen her, what had befallen all that dwelt here when Legolas fell. This was an unhappy place, the evidence was clear in the stark surroundings.

Within it was kept dim, to what purpose Elrond did not know. He followed after the girl without a second thought to danger, thinking on the child that may be within these hallThe The force of guards were kept outside, shut out when the entrance was barred. He was sent against the darkness alone, drawn in to a door not far away where once opened he saw Legolas pouring wine. The Prince of Mirkwood was dressed in dark colors, the emblem of the White Tree on his state robes torn off to leave a black field of darkness. He wore a smile as he turned, handing Elrond a goblet, greeting, “My lord. I did not expect you here, but then, neither did I truly expect Aragorn. A pity.”

Setting the goblet down, Elrond folded his arms together and took a seat near where Legolas had placed himself. “The pity is what I see here, but that is not what I have come to discuss. Tell me of my grandson, Legolas.”

The prince smiled at his boldness, taking a long drink, then leaning back. “Straightforward. A good thing, but not nearly as fun as trading banter would have been. Eldarion is safe.”

His suspicion confirmed, Elrond glanced at the sword belted at his waist, then back up. “Then he is here. Return him to me.”

Legolas had followed his gaze to his sword, but was not concerned. “I will, gladly when I have what I wish. Aragorn must come here to claim him himself. A simple thing.”

“But not so simple as you would have us believe, I suspect,” Elrond replied with a breath. He ran his finger along the rim of his cup, watching the blood colored liquid within respond to the delicate vibrations his movements brought. “I’ll not play the fool, Legolas. Tell me what it is that Sauron demands.”

The Prince of Mirkwood seemed very amused at this. A smile spread across his lips, those dark eyes brightening at some inner mirth. “Ai, Elrond, you were never one to play the fool as I recall. Will there be no attempt to coddle me back to the light?”

The Lord of Rivendell cocked his head and looked up. “Do you imply you would respond to such a thing? I will not waste energy on this while my grandchild is in danger.”

“You believe I mean Eldarion harm, then?”

“I believe you mean anything and everything harm, Legolas.” Elrond sighed and watched the younger Elf a moment, weighing him. “What turned you away?”

The light in those eyes dimmed. Legolas averted his eyes contritely and took a drink of wine. “The terms are these. Aragorn will come and bear the Ring that Sauron has given him. He will bear it on his hand, Elrond. There will be no mistakes made concerning that. Sauron wants only to live in peace.”

At that statement Elrond laughed, unexpectedly and in doubt. The prince set his jaw and glared as he recaptured his composure as quickly as he had lost it. “Sauron wants nothing of the sort. I know it and so do you, so bite back your lies. You would truly give over to this madness? Against your own friend whom you counted once as near as a brother?”

The Prince of Mirkwood smiled gently, those eyes betraying something more than what once had been there. Age-old wisdom belonging to a being as dark as the depths of night. “You are but a babe, Elrond. But you will understand as I do.” He looked to the dark woman waiting near the door. “Tell the soldiers outside my door they may return to Minas Tirith with a message. Lord Elrond is well and awaits King Elessar’s coming with the Ring he possesses. Failure to comply will result in Elrond’s death in the span of two weeks time.” He turned back with a cold expression. “You will be made comfortable, but I must insist on your staying.”