It was already dark when he heard the key turning in the lock. The door opened slowly. Delioron watched as the slim silhouette of a woman entered the darkness of the room, sitting and waiting quietly in the dark, like a predator patiently awaiting for it’s prey to come closer. The figure pushed the door shut behind her and turned towards the table, towards Delioron. Unable to see his immobile figure in the dark, Elwil searched through her pockets. When she found a match she scraped it against the wall.
When the light of the match illuminated her pale features, half-hidden under the rain-soaked hood, Delioron had a moment to take in how beautiful she was. He had almost forgotten how tall she was, how feminine and full her figure. She flinched but didn’t make a sound. She stared at him with her deep blue eyes wide open, frozen still like a statue. Her face blanched, but still she didn’t move, didn’t drop the match.
”Go on”, Delioron said. ”Light the candle.”
Like a sleepwalker Elwil stretched her shaking hand to light the candle on the table. She dropped the match just before it burned her fingers.
”What?” she asked helplessly. It was the only thing that sprung into her mind. She turned her gaze from Delioron and saw the dagger on the table. She turned her head in the other direction and saw what he had done to her room. ”What?” she asked again, in a whisper.
Delioron didn’t answer. He watched her shivering in her soaking wet cloak, hands clenched into tight fists by her sides. Slowly she took a step back, then another. On the other side of the door she turned to touch the cloak hanging on the wall. She saw how he had methodically sliced the cloak to shreds. She looked down and saw how he had destroyed her shoes.
”You bastard”, she said, as if in wonder. ”Why?”
Delioron took the dagger from the table, stood up and pointed at the chair. ”Sit down.”
Elwil hesitated, but Delioron showed no sign of relenting, no sign of anything but infinite patience and quiet menace. She walked to him slowly and sat down on the chair. ”Why?” she asked again, looking at him. There was still fear in her eyes, but also defiance. Defiance was not good.
”Who are you?” he asked.
”You bastard”, she replied.
”Who are you?”
Elwil didn’t say anything. She stared at Delioron, eyes filled with hatred and scorn. Delioron’s face was expressionless, his eyes devoid of all emotion.
”Who are you?” he repeated, in a flat and monotonous voice. Elwil couldn’t shake the thought that if somebody could make a machine that talked, that’s what it would sound like.
”What do you want from me?” she snapped angrily.
”Who are you?”
”Elwil of Gondor.”
”Who are you?”
”Elwil”, she repeated, frustration creeping in. ”A scholar from Bree. A historian. You know that, Delioron, I was your student once. What have you become?”
”Why are you in Bree?”
”I am here to study. The history and culture of hobbits. I want to write a book about them. I told you this already.”
”Who is the other Delioron?”
”I beg your pardon?” Elwil’s eyes shifted slightly, and Delioron noticed that. ”I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she had been caught up with a lie, and she knew it.
Delioron’s left hand reached past Elwil and grabbed the painting on the table. Slowly he turned the picture so that the boy was now staring at Elwil. His blue eyes were strikingly similar to hers. Her eyes started to tear up, and she swallowed.
”You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”
Delioron remembered how Navelwort had used those exact same words only a few days ago. Maybe it was the truth. ”Who is the boy?” he asked.
”You filthy pig. You slime!”
”Who is the other Delioron?”
”I have no idea what…”
”Who is the boy? Who is the other Delioron?”
”I’m not going to tell you anything, you swine, you…!”
Slowly Delioron leaned in closer to Elwil’s face and lifted the dagger up so that she could see the blade. He brought it closer to her eyes until she had to squint to see it. Then he pressed the blade against her neck, very gently. He did not cut her, but she could feel the gentle weight of cold steel against her throbbing jugular vein.
”Elwil”, he said in his low, flat tone. ”I want you to tell me about the people who sent you here, and the people you came here with. If you cooperate, then perhaps you may live. It depends on your story. I am not interested in vengeance. I just need to know who is setting me up, and why. Do you understand?”
Elwil stared at him, eyes wide with fear now, shivering. The blade felt very cold against her skin, but she was afraid to move her head.
”The other Delioron tried to kill me last night, but failed”, he continued. ”He is dead now. The innkeeper told me the man came with you some weeks ago. He signed up as Delioron and pretended to be a trader from Bree. You two pretended like you didn’t know each other, but the innkeeper saw you together. Why is that? Two nights ago you came to me, a woman from my past, and went to bed with me. Why did you do that, Elwil? And then you disappeared for the whole day and night as the false Delioron tried to kill me. Where did you go? What did you do there? Who did you meet? Who is the boy? Do you understand me, Elwil? Tell me that you understand.”
”I… I don’t understand”, she said, her voice but a hoarse whisper.
Delioron shook his head, like a patient teacher to a slow child who has given a wrong answer to a simple question. Then he told her everything all over again, exactly the same way, with the same flat tone. And then: ”Tell me that you understand.”
Elwil nodded.
”Say it then.”
”I understand.”
”If you tell me what I need to know, I will let you live. I will give you a day to get out of Bree. I promise. If you don’t, I will slice your throat. That’s a promise too.”
”You wouldn’t kill me.”
”It wouldn’t cost me anything, Elwil”, he said calmly. ”I have killed helpless, unarmed people before, men and women alike. Many times. That’s how I have survived all these years. And I intend to go on surviving. Do you understand?”
When Elwil met Delioron’s colorless eyes, it was like a door opening into an indefinitely large, cold and empty room; and Elwil understood he meant everything he said. She nodded.
”Then tell me what I need to know, Elwil. Who are you?”
”Two years ago”, she said, her voice tired now. ”In Minas Tirith. I met a man. I went to work for him. He was… is… the Warden of the Green. Named Parthadan.”
He had feared it, he had been prepared for it, but to hear those words – that name – still felt like a punch in the stomach, but his face remained expressionless, his eyes dead and emotionless.
”You know who he is”, Elwil continued. ”You work for him too. He told me… about the things you have done for him. For Gondor. He told that… you are suspected of being a traitor. Of selling secrets to Sauron. My mission was to… seduce you. To become your…. friend. To get information from you. Because we knew each other once.”
Delioron pulled the dagger off her neck, but didn’t put it away.
”You work for Parthadan?”
”Yes.”
”Describe him to me.”
”Short, stocky. Short, fleshy nose. Long gray hair. Middle-aged, but older than you. Maybe ten years older.”
”How long have you been working for him?”
”Two years.”
”Why was I sent here?”
”I don’t know.”
Delioron moved the dagger closer to her eye and asked again: ”Why was I sent here?”
”I don’t know! I was told… that I didn’t need to know that. There were lots of things he wouldn’t explain to me.”
”Who were the men you came up here with?”
”Men? What men?”
”A group of people from Gondor arrived in Bree. One man and one woman took rooms in the Prancing Pony. The rest camped out in the woods outside of Bree and have never set foot inside town yet.”
Elwil looked genuinely confused. ”I… I don’t know anything about any men. I came here with Bragol, nobody else. And it was a long ride here, but I didn’t see anyone following at any point.”
She could have been lying, but Delioron had already caught her with a lie once, and Elwil wasn’t that good of a liar. So either the group of men had arrived separately, or Demrîng had lied about them for some reason.
”Was Bragol the one who posed as Delioron?”
”Yes.”
”Did Bragol work for Parthadan as well?”
”Yes.”
”Why did Bragol try to kill me?”
”I don’t believe he did any such thing! There was no mention about killing anyone. That makes no sense! Why would he try to kill you when I was supposed to seduce you and find out your secrets?”
”Then where did you disappear? Where did you spend the night? You were away all day, all night and most of this day too. What have you been doing all this time?”
”I was in the Scholar’s Stair Archives. I really am a scholar. I spent all this time reading and making notes about everything there is to know about hobbits in Bree. Bragol promised me we could go to the Shire after… we had found out if you were a traitor. If you were a traitor. That part was all true what I told you before. The archivist in the Scholar’s Stair… likes me. He lets me sleep there on the bench if I want to. I’ve spent nights there before.”
”And why now? In the middle of your mission to seduce me?”
”Bragol said… that it would be better if I didn’t come back to the Pony that night. ’Don’t come back before tomorrow evening’, that’s what he said.”
”Did Bragol offer any reason for this?”
”No.”
”Were you and Bragol lovers?”
”We… became close, yes. It was a long ride from Minas Tirith to Bree, and he was young, good-looking and fun to be around.”
”And it never struck you as odd that Parthadan would send me, you and Bragol all the way to Bree, just to find out if I was selling secrets to Sauron? To Sauron, in Bree? I mean, wouldn’t this setup been much easier and cheaper to orchestrate in Minas Tirith?”
But Elwil was barely listening to him now. Now that she had had some time to recover from the initial shock, another kind of shock was slowly sinking in. She stared at Delioron and shivered. ”Bragol… he’s really dead. You really did kill him.”
It was Demrîng, but you don’t need to know about him. ”Yes. It was self-defense. He tried to kill me first.”
”Lies. You’re a liar!”
”Yes, but not about this. And he killed another man here too, the day I arrived in Bree. Bragol ambushed him in his own home and sliced his throat. Butchered him like a pig.”
”No!” Elwil shook her head. ”I don’t want to listen to your lies!”
”Who is the boy in the picture?”
Elwil’s face distorted into a pained grimace, and tears ran down her cheeks. ”You rotten, heartless bastard! He’s nothing to you! Do you have to defile everything you touch?”
”Who is the boy in the picture?”
”He is my boy! My child! And he’s dead, you hear me – dead! I had him long ago, and he died long ago! Long before I met Parthadan. He’s nothing to you.”
Some of Elwil’s words had wounded Delioron, but none of it showed on his face. Parthadan. Parthadan had set him up and decided to sacrifice him as a pawn in a game he did not yet understand. By the Valar, Demrîng had spoken the truth!
Slowly Delioron slipped the dagger back under his belt. Elwil saw that but didn’t make a move.
”Do you know a man called Navelwort?” Delioron asked.
Elwil shook her head.
”Have you ever heard of a man called Sharkey?”
”Never.”
”Alright. Now. Tell me again about Parthadan and about the things he told you when he sent you to spy on me.”
