Disclaimer: Nothing to see here folks. They aren't mine. Move along, move along.

AN: Apparently, I do my best fanfiction work when I have many other things to do and really should not be working on it at all. However, one of my original short stories was recently selected for publication, so in order to keep from exploding I decided to channel my happiness into an update. And, you know, rather a lot of squee-ing and babbling and bouncing, and all those other fun actions. But I digress. And so we go.

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A shriek rent the air. No one paid particular attention. Conversation continued on as normal, if a little louder in order to be heard over the continuing squeals.

"Aragorn."

The former Ranger ignored the plea with relative ease. His attention remained firmly and stubbornly on his wife, who was speaking with Legolas in Elvish. The light of the candles, enough to make anyone seem to possess a dusky-complexion, had no effect on her smooth skin. Rather it seemed to highlight the subtle angles of her bones, making her appear very fragile. Almost enough so that if he merely touched her—

"Aragorn."

Oh- and the way the light spangled on her dark hair, caressing the soft waves—

Another shriek. "Strider!" The deep baritone rolled the r's even more so than usual in irritation. This, combined with the old moniker, finally caused Aragorn to snicker and break his façade.

"What is it, Gimli?"

The dwarf looked at him in a manner that on anyone else could have been called petulant. He'd been tasked (however nervous and unwilling) with the entertainment of Eldarion, and the child gurgled happily up at him from the protective cradle of his arms. Gimli might have been more willing to smile if one of those tiny fists hadn't tangled itself into his beard where it was pulling with great enthusiasm. "You know what!"

Legolas did not appear to be paying any attention to the scene unfolding to his right, but a small smile lingered on his lips as he listened to Arwen's news of her brothers far to the north.

Aragorn stood in one fluid motion and deftly rescued the dwarf's beard from his son's little fingers. "I did warn you."

"You misrepresented the danger!"

He had of course done no such thing. Arwen had made a point about the dangers of the long red braids as well, but there was nothing on Arda that could convince a dwarf what was best for his beard. Nothing except perhaps Eldarion.

His son gurgled as they all looked at him, little face crinkling in a giggle. His fingers, deprived of their new toy, clenched into a fist. Baby blue eyes peered out from under long eyelashes and fixated on Aragorn's face. The former ranger felt a smile of his own rise up in answer. He would be hard pressed to name any greater feeling than that of having helped to create a life. This was his son, and sometimes the responsibility seemed greater than even the care of his city.

Legolas noted the soft expression and hid a smile of his own. There would be no little boy better looked after or loved than Eldarion. Catching the sheer contentment radiating off of Arwen as well, his smile broke free of its constraints. There would probably be no little boy who would be spoilt as much as Eldarion either. He himself was already wondering if Aragorn would let him teach the boy a bit of archery in a few years, after being gifted a small elven bow, of course.

A knock at the door and Aragorn stood. Undoubtedly, it was Milast, come to call him away from breakfast for another round of 'question the prisoner'. The man had been identified as Gideon Rothe, but there was nothing else that could be gleaned from him. He kept his annoyance from his features as he bent to kiss Arwen's forehead and allowed his son to inspect his finger in solemn wonder. But his mind whirled and stamped in agitation as he left the room and strode down the hall and out into the rain.

This was not how he'd hoped to repay Legolas. Two days had been by and gone, and they were no closer to discovering the nature of the attacks on his friend than they had been before. Gideon was jerked to his feet as the king entered the room, his too-thin limbs akilter and dwarfed by the shackles around his wrists and ankles. He was smiling though, the expression disarming even through the pock-marked skin and days of scruff growing on his cheeks, and Aragorn felt resignation rise. The man was not going to speak today either.

He was right. In the end, on the verge of losing his temper at the sheer uncooperative nature of the man, all that could be done was to sentence Rothe to a bare-minimum of ten years in the gaols for attacking someone of royal blood. If Legolas or his father wished to have the sentence extended, they were well within their rights. He was granted only a vague sense of satisfaction at seeing the damned smile drop away as Gideon was summarily escorted out of the room.

Perhaps once word got out how such an attack would be handled there would be less chances of it happening.

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Hilden stared blearily at the brandy just out of reach. "We need to get that royal brat out of the way," he said, or rather, slurred. "Won' get 'way with this…" He wished briefly that the bottle was a little closer. It did not occur to him that if he merely straightened his arm further his fingers would be able to fully close around the base of the bottle.

No one paid him any attention. The bar was mostly empty at this time of morning, and those who were around were not as interested in the drunken ramblings as they were in what Jorn was currently telling them. In fact, no one had been paying Hilden any attention for the past two days. The man was constantly inebriated, so much so that it would come to no surprise if he began sweating liquor. It was not even noon and there he sat with four empty mugs and half a bottle of brandy littering his table.

Jorn hadn't questioned the reasoning behind the bender. He'd taken the opportunity to clearly gauge the loyalties of the men, and he was pleasantly surprised by his results. There were seven of them that outright stated they would be willing to do anything he asked of them. Of the remaining men, a dozen would still back Hilden if it came down to it, and the other nine were on the verge of siding with the younger, more ambitious man. He was not particularly worried about them, confident that his plan to would ricochet him to the top. They would follow him. They would.

"I think the time's come to make ourselves known," he said. "They don't know what's about to hit them."

The seven loyal men shifted on their barstools in anticipation. Save Hilden, currently babbling about arrows and rear ends, they were the only ones in the bar. The building itself was old and clearly about to collapse in on itself. Jorn and Hilden had pooled their resources to buy it in the aftermath of the War, but had never really gotten around to fixing the damage done to it when the gates fell. The place had held up well thus far though and provided a tidy little income. Jorn handled the bar and the ordering of the alcohol, as he did most everything else, and the old meeting hall flourished.

"Well?" one demanded impatiently when it appeared no response was to be forthcoming.

The young Gondorian's lips curved up in a smile, revealing a gap between his front teeth that only served to make him look boyish. "We want recognition. We want to be noticed, known. We deserve to have a reputation that stands out."

Murmurs of agreement.

"That's why," and here he paused to meet everyone's eyes individually, so that they could see the confidence that boiled there, "That's why we're going to take the King's son."

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Legolas chuckled. Then he side-stepped, neatly avoiding the jab to the shoulder.

His dwarf companion huffed through his beard. The red strands were finally put back to rights after Eldarion had made a snatch for them twice more. Unfortunately for Gimli, Legolas kept catching him stroking the long braids protectively, which always sent him into a brief fit of undignified laughter. "It's not funny."

"Oh yes," the elf grinned. "Yes, it is."

He paused then to engage in a conversation with a silk merchant, and Gimli was struck by the sudden urge to give a good tug to the long blond braid that dangled to enticingly before his eyes. He suppressed the childish urge with great difficulty.

The rain had somewhat abated after lunch and the pair had taken to the streets despite the light mist that still fell. The cobblestones were slick with water and mud, making more than one person skid wildly and flail until their balance was regained. The elf of course made no such slips, even saving one elderly woman's hip from a harsh landing. Not that Gimli was sliding all over the place either, he was holding his own with no small amount of dignity.

"I found your mark on the gates," Legolas said off-handedly as he returned to the dwarf's side.

"Ha! You—" and he would have gone on to make much mockery of Legolas's observational skills if the elf's lips hadn't pressed themselves into a thin line and his eyes went flat. "What?" He had to scramble to follow the sudden long strides and his skin pricked as he realized that his friend was headed straight for a member of the city guard. Praying that another fight was not going to break out, he caught up just in time to see the elf bow.

"Dail."

The man looked taken-aback for only a moment before recognition sparked in his tired eyes. "Prince Legolas. How may I help you?"

If Legolas was miffed that a bow was not given to him in return, he didn't show it. "I wished to offer my condolences on the loss of your brother. He was a good man."

"Yes, he was." Sorrow crossed the man's strong face. "I wish we knew more about what happened."

Gimli huffed again, and Legolas mentally shook himself. "I'm sorry, Dail, this is Gimli, son of Gloin. Gimli, this is one of the men who rode out after me onto the plains. His brother was killed a week ago." The dwarf held out a hand and was pleased with the strong handshake he received in return.

"I've heard a lot about you in the taverns, Master Gimli. All complimentary, of course."

"It had better be," Gimli said, earning a startled chuckle from the guard. "I'd hate to have to go around correcting everyone."

"He would do it too, make no mistake." Legolas's smile was fond. He didn't fool the dwarf though: Gimli knew if it came to it, he'd have a companion helping him set the record straight.

The conversation quickly dropped back into a somber tone, Gimli offering his own sympathies and Legolas asking about compensations and wishing the whole family good luck and good health. They moved on five minutes later, after securing a promise from Dail that he would meet them for drinks in a week's time.

"He seems a good sort."

"He is. His brother was too." The elf sighed. "Do you know, I played a prank on them the first time I met them? I pretended that I was angry at them for not coming to my aid sooner. We laughed about it, but now I wish that I had not said it even in jest."

Discomfited, Gimli looked up at the elf and the solemn air that surrounded him. "I'm sure that they didn't take it personally."

"They didn't. But I still—" He broke off as his friend's gloved hand landed on his forearm.

"Let it go, lad. What's done is done, and you cannot change anything about it now. They accepted it in good humour and moved on. You should do the same. Move on."

Another sigh, but the slender shoulders straightened and the blue eyes regained some of that stubborn spark. "Wise words from a good friend. Thank you, Gimli."

"Don't go spreading it around," Gimli grumbled.

A smile appeared and the sun itself might have peeked out of the heavy clouds. "I shan't. Word might get back to my father that a dwarf had good advice. I fear he would drop dead from the shock."

Gimli retorted sharply and they wandered down the street, engaged in banter so biting that some folk actually stopped to stare.

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It was very late (or very early, depending on one's view) but Jorn was not in the least bit tired. Rather, he was thrumming with pent-up energy and elation. His plan, mad as it was, was working.

He'd chosen to slip in under the cover of deep night, just five hours into the new day. His reasoning, as explained to some of his more skeptical followers, was simple: not only would the dark mask their movements, but it was also the time when the king's guards switched shifts. Far easier for several men to slip inside and lose themselves in the shuffle. Another thing, he thought as he gleefully downed a man from behind, was that no one was expecting someone to have the sheer nerve to attempt what he was doing. It was a time of peace and prosperity, and Gondor was flourishing under Aragorn's reign. No one would see this coming.

He peered in all the doors he passed, unsure which one actually contained the little heir. They did not creak as he swung them open and closed, and he thought that there was some sort of humour that such a small detail for the comfort of a king would be the very thing that allowed unwanted visitors such easy access to the rooms beyond. He liked all of his door hinges to be ungreased for that very reason: it was very handy to know exactly when someone was entering his room.

Two empty bedrooms and three more unconscious guards later he found the nursery. The walls glowed pale green in his lantern light, and the elaborate cradle looked almost otherworldly in the flickering light. His heart pounded in his temples and his mouth went dry. He motioned for his three cohorts to remain at the door as he padded silently across the room. If luck was with him, the little brat would be in the cradle instead of sleeping between his two parents. Everything depended on luck. If this attempt failed, they would never get another chance at this.

He was so expecting the crib to be empty, that his luck had run out, he nearly didn't see the little bundle of cloth with a tuft of dark hair poking out the top. The tiny prince was deeply asleep, an arm flung carelessly up over his head. Jorn smiled.

He shot a glance over his shoulder at the double doors he assumed led to the royal bedchamber. This was to be the trickiest part of all. To make a single noise, to rouse the baby and elicit so much as a whimper would be devastating. The king was a former ranger with senses honed to a razor's edge, the queen an elf. He had no doubt that if he so much as breathed too heavily he would have two very angry parents with access to very sharp weapons on his hands.

Recalling all his years as an older brother, he reached into the crib and slid his hands under Eldarion's head and body. His skin tingled. He was touching royalty. Ever so carefully, he lifted, bringing the blanket up too, and cradled the baby against his chest. Eldarion fussed, eyes squinching tighter and jaw dropping. Jorn froze in sudden terror, but the prince merely yawned and slipped back into sleep without much fanfare.

He retreated to the hall and jerked his head toward the exit. They had to leave now, every second they tarried their chances of discovery grew more likely. "Jorn," murmured one of the men as they stepped into the cool night air, "are you sure this is a good idea? I don't—"

"Shut your mouth, Kynder," Jorn hissed, furious that he had to remind them of the need for silence. They continued on. Passing the guest house, the young leader let out a breath, began to think that they were going to get out of this, to make a name for themselves. He didn't much care whether the image was good or bad. People would remember him either way. And then, someone tripped over an unconscious guard and swore loud enough to wake the dead.

Jorn swung about. "Rade, you imbecile! Get up, you idiot, get up!"

Rade was flushing enough to see even in the dim light of the lantern. "Sorry," he mumbled through a split lip oozing blood. "Didn' see 'im."

Eldarion's weight was growing heavier by the second and paranoia crept in to make itself at home right in the back of his skull. Jorn opened his mouth to curse the boy and his lineage to come for three generations when the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up.

A voice, lilting in the distinct elven accent and deadly enough to drain blood at ten paces. "Put him down."

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AN: Thank you very much to those who reviewed the last chapter. There are only five chapters and an epilogue left to go. Happy Spring Break to everyone who has one sometime this month or next! Don't do anything I wouldn't do. (And I would do quite a lot…)