Author’s Notes: Hey all! New story going here. I’m rather excited about this one, but I should warn you that it will become quite dark before it’s through. The rating is a rather heavy PG-13 for future scenes, but those are a while away. Anyway, like the summary states, this is a reunion fic of sorts set in Rivendell five years after the War of the Ring. A host of characters will be making an appearance, but they’re all straight from the books so they shouldn’t be too hard to keep straight. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and happy reading! Oh yeah, and I don’t own any of these spectacular characters, either. Tolkien does, lucky guy.

Fear No Darkness

Chapter 1: A Remnant of Shadow

Among the various peoples of Middle Earth—at least, among those who knew of such things—it was generally agreed that the Misty Mountains were aptly named. No traveler dared their fastness without becoming embroiled in their deep shadows of fog and cloud. Whether such darkness was natural or no had always been a matter of sometimes-violent debate among the Wise, but none could say with certainty if the mountain range as a whole held any actual enmity for living creatures or if their ill reputation was merely the accumulation of years of coincidental misfortune. There were many times when the mountains seemed harmless enough, and the shades of mist were few and far between. But there were other times when darkness and shadow grew, seeming to envelop all in a chilling grasp of deadly malice.

Certainly there were fell creatures in the mountains. The trail from Rivendell to Mirkwood known as Goblin Pass was testament to that through name alone. Wolves, also, patrolled the lower slopes of the range, and after the fall of Sauron and the death of Saruman, many of the orcs in the service of the great Enemy had fled to the Misty Mountains where they sought out dark caves and lived in bitter hatred of those who had caused their downfall. And perhaps it was their spirit that gifted the mountains with evil in the years following the Third Age, for their loathing was great and their anger could only be assuaged by war with those who had banished them. Hidden in the deep places of the mountains, they waited, and their thirst for retribution grew until it became as an evil coil, ensnaring their hearts to the point where they considered nothing else. They hungered for the day when they could feast once more upon man-flesh, and their dreams were filled with visions of a blood-splattered field and a broken white city burning in ruin.

But these remaining Orcs could not fulfil their dreams, for they were missing one crucial ingredient. They were missing a leader. Without one, they dared not march on the armies of men. They feared to venture from the safety of the mountains. As a general rule, Orcs chafed under authority and sought to defy it, but they needed it to turn them in the direction of their next target and to order their battles and sorties. On an instinctive level, most orcs knew this and unconsciously searched for some semblance of leadership to arise from the gloom. But there was no Orc strong enough to thrust all others under his heel, and there was no Orc wise enough to command their armies in the field against the battalions of men. And so the soldiers of Mordor and Isengard pined away the years, waiting for one to come who would lead them again to victory and allow them to taste the sweet fruits of success.

It was four years before an answer to their fading hopes appeared.

He arrived in the dead of night, taking the form of a lonely traveler astride a weary black horse. Riding under cover of darkness, he came seeking a stronghold and an army. Four long years had he wandered, searching vainly for a mere hint of a shadow that he feared had perished from the world. Hunted by all who served the new king and driven from a fortress that none had thought to see fall, he had lived as a nightmare in the twilight, taking what vengeance he could and waiting for a time when evil might rise again.

And so he had come to the Misty Mountains, following rumors that darkness still thrived and evil still lived. His spirits lifted as he drew near, for he could taste of the malice and hatred beneath the towering peaks. He sensed the hearts of the Orcs, and felt of their desire for revenge. Their dreams were nearly as cruel as his own, and he smiled with the realization that his long search had finally come to an end. His heart began to beat again with the coming of hope unlooked for. Not all was lost. There was still time to correct the flow of power and change the tides of time.

Spurring his faltering mount forward, the man who was not quite a man smiled. Any who saw this smile would have described it as the leer of a madman, and they would not have been far from the truth. There remained little sanity in this creature, and what reason still lingered had been corrupted long ago by tangled webs of dark sorcery. His black eyes sparkled with brutal intent, and wholesome things seemed to wilt in his presence.

An Orc scouting party found him just short of the mountains. Taking him for a foolish woodsman who ventured too far from safer lands, the tortured creatures attacked. In the beginning, there were five attackers. After a few minutes, only one remained. This last Orc groveled before the man who now wielded a black sword and seemed to pull the very essence of night within himself. The indignant horse stomped and snorted behind this stranger, but the man gave him no heed, instead advancing on his former attacker. The sniveling Orc backed up hastily and cast frightened glances at his four fallen comrades. Three of them had been Uruk-hai, survivors from the fall of Orthanc and mighty warriors. The other dispatched Orc had been an old comrade from the ruin of Mordor and a capable soldier in his own right.

"You dare to attack me?" the cloaked figure demanded, his voice filled with a sense of hidden power. He advanced with his sword drawn, and the light of stars and moon grew dim. Black shadows swam around the blade as though they were an integral part of the weapon, and darkness itself seemed to pledge its undying and eternal service to this stranger.

The surviving Orc cringed and cowered before the man who was not quite a man. He fully expected a blow to fall and end his miserable life—which might have been considered an act of mercy by many, the Orc included—but when he instead continued to live, curiosity wrestled against fear for control and at length he ventured a quick glance upwards.

For a brief moment, the waning light of the pale moon fell upon the shadows beneath the cloak, and darkness gave way to a face that the servant of Mordor had never thought to see again. With a gasp and a choking cry, the Orc dropped his gaze and abased himself on the ground, groveling and sniveling before supreme authority. "Master, spare me" he whined, hoping to placate this man whose talent for cruelty and torture was legend among the slaves of Barad-dur. "I tell you, master, that we did not know it was you. We were told that you perished with the destruction of the Great Eye and the fall of Lugbúrz!"

"You were misinformed," the man said evenly, evaluating the creature that cowered before him. After a grimace of disgust and a sniff of disdain, he took his coal-black eyes from the Orc for a moment and studied the darkness of the mountains. "There are many of you gathered here?"

The Orc hastily bobbed his head. "Many. And we live only to serve you, great master."

The man grunted, taking the Orc’s obeisance as no more than his just due. "I shall spare your miserable life this night, worm," he eventually said, his voice cold and dark. "Gather your kind. Tell them that I have returned. Send what captains you have to meet with me, and spread the word that our time has come again."

"As you wish, master!" the Orc said quickly, smiling in the darkness as an evil laughter echoed in his black heart. The spark of dying hope hidden within the ashes of his foul heart roared to life, and he licked his lips as visions of vengeance and retribution filled his mind. "This way. The entrance to our dungeons is not far."

Summoning his stallion, the man mounted and followed the twisted creature, not once looking back at the beasts he had killed. What was one Orc—or four—to him when far more awaited his command just a few miles away? And with these swine at his bidding, he would be able to exact such revenge as would befit the fallen Dark Lord. Plans would be set in motion, arrangements would be made, and when his enemies gathered in celebration of their victory, he would be ready.

And they would wish for death ere he was done.

* * * *

One year later…

"You are troubled, brother."

Roused abruptly from his thoughts, Elladan started slightly and looked about guiltily, somewhat embarrassed to be caught so unawares. "I did not hear you approach," he said, his voice husky in the evening’s cool air.

"You are ever the dreamer," Elrohir said with a light laugh, joining Elladan on one of Rivendell’s many balconies. "But your dreams seem shadowed this night. What disturbs your mind? Perhaps I can aid you."

Elladan sighed and stared out into the east, his sharp eyes tracing the edges of the Misty Mountains as they fell under the darkness of the evening. He wondered if he could craft an answer that his brother would understand, but how could he do so when he did not understand the answer himself? Relaxing his perfect posture, he leaned against the balcony’s railing and took his eyes away from the eastern mountain range, focusing instead on the cliffs that sheltered Rivendell. The sound of waterfalls and laughing elves as they sang and danced in the twilight reached his ears, and he felt part of his anxiety lift. But it did not wholly dissipate.

"Elladan?"

"I do not know, brother," Elladan murmured, returning reluctantly to the object of their conversation. "I…as of late, I have felt that the mountains are strangely dark. They seem ominous, as though they warn me of something that I cannot quite understand. Almost I feel I could grasp it," the half-elf whispered, his eyes narrowing and his voice sounding strained. "And then it is gone. Lost. I am left only with the sense that all is not right and that something dark goes forth." He shook his head and then glanced at his twin. "I doubt if any of that made any sense to you."

"I would be lying if I said I understood your feelings," Elrohir admitted. "But that does not mean that I do not heed their warnings. You have too often been right for me to dismiss your intuition as nothing more than fancy. But can you be specific at all? Do you know the direction or the form this danger might take?"

"I know nothing other than what I have told you," Elladan said, feeling a surge of frustration at his inability to interpret the foreboding of his instincts. "But I fear that it is somehow connected with the upcoming celebration. How that is I know not, nor do I know what evil would be powerful enough to cross into the borders of Rivendell, but something…something dark stirs in the mountains, Elrohir."

"King Thranduil and his escort came through Goblin Pass three days ago, and they reported nothing unusual," Elrohir said, brushing back an errant strand of dark hair that had fallen into his face. "Our scouts have heard nothing from the borders of Hollin, and Celeborn and the Galadhrim came through the Redhorn Gate with little mishap, even if they did tempt the wrath of Caradhras! All that remains is the Gap of Rohan, and Estel and our sister come that way. If evil lies in their path, surely they will defeat it."

"I do not fear for their safety," Elladan said, his voice quiet and reflective. "They have with them the hosts of Gondor, and Arwen could not ask for a better protector than Estel. We should know, for we trained him ourselves." He smiled slightly at that, remembering the young, adventure-loving child who had followed the twins through every dell and dale of Imladris before the burden and heartache of his heritage had been made known to him. "No," Elladan whispered, shaking his head and returning his thoughts to the present. "I do not fear for their sakes. But I still feel as though…" He trailed off and closed his eyes, searching his elven heart for something that would explain his misgivings, but he found nothing. "I know not," he said at length, opening his eyes and turning to face Elrohir. "Perhaps if father were still here, he could interpret my dreams and warnings, but I cannot put them into words myself. In truth, I do not know if I wholly understand any of them. But the evil comes from the mountains, Elrohir. I am certain of that much."

"Then we will watch the mountains, my brother," Elrohir promised. "Evil shall not take us unawares, and we will face whatever might come as we have ever faced the shadow. We will face it together."

The two brothers then fell into silence, taking comfort in the presence of one another and watching the valley of Rivendell as the clear voices of elves drifted through the darkening night. "I spoke with King Thranduil after dinner," Elladan said after a short time had passed. "He has received messages from Legolas that coincide with the letters we’ve received from our sister. Their company should arrive the day after tomorrow, crossing into our territory not long after the sunrise."

"The Wandering Companies in the Shire sent word that the hobbits have left and are on their way. By their reckoning, the hobbits will also arrive the day after tomorrow, but it will probably be late afternoon when they cross the Last Bridge."

"We shall have to send out a party to see to it that the hobbits do not stray from their path," Elladan laughed, some of his frustration vanishing in the face of his mirth.

"I do not think they will stray far as they know that food awaits them here," Elrohir said with a smile.

Elladan laughed harder and nodded his head in agreement. "Ah, I think you have it aright, brother. Yes, I have missed our friends the hobbits. They are filled with great strength and can endure sore trials that would break any mortal man, but deprive them of food in a land of plenty and they whither as a flower in the desert."

"Truly a great people, yet greater still are their stomachs," Elrohir said, joining in with his brother’s laughter. "But come. You seem to have recovered from your worries, and I would have us join the others in the Hall of Fire. There will be singing this night, and they tell me that many new songs are being crafted by our brethren from Mirkwood in honor of the celebration."

"Strange to think that the One Ring was cast into the fires of Orodruin only five years ago. In the distant past it seems to me, and yet not so," Elladan said, pushing off the balcony and turning away. "But you are right again, Elrohir. Now is a time for merriment and rejoicing. And since my dark mood has left me, gladly will I join you."

"Then let us go," Elrohir said, clapping a hand on his brother’s back and leading him away from the balcony and into the house. "We shall see what talents our kindred have and then aid them if we are able."

So saying, the sons of Elrond walked away from the dark night and into the comforts of the Last Homely House. Elladan thought once to look back but ultimately decided against it, opting instead for the laughter and merriment that echoed through the halls. But had he obeyed his instincts and glanced once more into the dark night, he might have paused. Just beyond the borders of Rivendell, shadows moved beneath the trees. Silent and stealthy, they patrolled the forests, seeming to search for something.

But Elladan did not look back, and thus he missed what might have confirmed his suspicions. And heedless of the darkness that lurked beyond their realm, the elves of Rivendell lifted their voices in song, celebrating the destruction of the Enemy in the distant land of Mordor and ignoring the evil that flitted on the edge of their own country.

* * * *

The morning sun rose swift and sure, sending shafts of light between the peaks of the Misty Mountains and rousing a large group of travelers who camped alongside a little known trail in the wilderness of southern Eriador. Horses were watered at a stream that babbled cheerfully beside their camp, some of the company began making preparations for breakfast, and others started packing away the sleeping rolls and checking the supplies of food and other provisions.

Feeling the brush of soft lips on her brow, Arwen turned over and sighed, listening to the morning speech of birds and sensing the rising of the sun though she had yet to focus her eyes and watch the progress of its light.

"Are you awake, Evenstar?"

Arwen mumbled something and reorganized her thoughts, turning them away from the landscape of elven dreams. "I am awake now," she whispered, smiling as she greeted her husband. Her smile faltered slightly to see that he was completely dressed and had evidently been up for quite some time. "Am I late in rising?"

"Perhaps a little," Aragorn teased, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "But the ride yesterday was hard, and we have not had a pleasant night since passing through the Gap of Rohan several days ago. I thought you could use the extra rest. Besides, we will not set out for a while. The horses are as much in need of rest as we are, and I would not begrudge them another hour or so."

"Even so, I would you had woken me earlier," Arwen said with a touch of reproach. "I would not have it said that the king of Gondor is burdened with an idle queen."

"He would be a fool who said such a thing," Aragorn whispered, bending over and kissing her cheek. "But I fear my duties must now take me elsewhere, so by your leave, I will depart." He stood and executed a perfect bow, waiting for Arwen’s permission to exit the small tent.

Arwen laughed and shook her head. "Be gone then, great king of Gondor. You need not wait here on a wife who is unable to rise with the sun."

"Ah, but what need is there to rise with the sun when the sun itself is captured in your beauty?" Aragorn said, and he left quickly ere Arwen could toss a blanket at him. She listened to his footsteps as he walked away and smiled to hear him laughing softly to himself. Her husband was in high spirits, and she strongly suspected it was because they were on the road and traveling. He served his people well and the crown of Gondor was a responsibility and a duty that he loved and revered, but there were times when Strider the Ranger would grow restless within Elessar the king. It was during those times that Aragorn would sometimes disappear during the night, slipping past the guards at the gate as though they were mere children playing a being soldiers, and vanish into the Pelennor fields. He was usually back before dawn, but of late, his nightly escapes had become longer and more frequent. This journey to Rivendell was probably something he desperately needed, and she was glad he was enjoying it so much.

Folding the blankets she’d wrapped around herself for the night, Arwen stood and dressed herself for the day’s ride. Flowing dark hair was caught back in a neat braid, and she donned a soft, creamy shirt and black trousers that fitter her well. Aragorn had once suggested the possibility of bringing her attending ladies with them, but Arwen had laughingly refused. In younger days when the world was not so dark, she had often accompanied her brothers on various trips to Lothlórien and also to the Gray Havens. She was quite capable of caring for herself in harsher circumstances, and though she was now a queen, she did not see the purpose in bringing servants where none were needed. Slipping on a tunic of deep blue, she pulled on her boots and stepped outside the tent, tipping her head back and receiving the fresh air of the mountains.

"Aur maer, Rîs Arwen," a light voice called behind her.

"A aur maer den, Ernil Legolas," she answered, turning and smiling at the lord of southern Ithilien as he bowed deeply before her.

"A beautiful sunrise," Legolas commented, switching to Westron out of respect for Gimli who came forward to join them. "I judge it shall be a pleasant day for travel. Was your sleep restful?"

Arwen laughed and shook her head. "And by that, you mean to inquire as to why I am so late in rising. Do not banter words with me, Legolas, for I know you too well."

"Then I will not," Legolas said with a smile. "Why did you not rise with the sun?"

"Legolas!" Gimli scolded, sending his friend a dark look. "What business is it of yours when the queen of Gondor chooses to rise?"

"Because she asked me if I would lend her my bow and arrows for archery this morning ere we left," Legolas answered. "And though I was more than happy to assist her in this, she did not meet me at the appointed place or the appointed time. I was forced to practice with only King Elessar for company, and he has not near the amount of charm or grace that his fair queen possesses."

"You did not tell me of this weapons practice," Gimli said with a scowl.

"It was not a weapons practice but an exercise in archery," Legolas answered. "Had I known you were interested in the bow, I would have invited you. But I did not think that the elegance of such a weapon was something that could be grasped by the minds of the dwarves."

"Your pardon, please, Legolas," Arwen said, breaking in before the two could start in on their famous and eternal argument concerning the superiority of elves verses the omnipotence of dwarves. "I fear I did not even stir when Aragorn rose, and had he not awakened me a few moments ago, I would still be sleeping."

"If you needed the rest, my queen, then all is forgiven," Legolas said with a quick bow. "Shall we make another attempt tomorrow?"

"No, not tomorrow," Arwen said after a minute of thought. "I will wish to leave and finish the last stage of the journey from the moment I wake. I wish that now, but Aragorn tells me that this company cannot hope to make Rivendell by nightfall."

"If we push the horses, I believe we can reach Rivendell several hours after dark," Gimli said, studying their location relative to the surrounding mountains. "And if you wish to arrive quickly, perhaps that will be the best way."

"Perhaps," Arwen said, moving aside as some guards passed by and began to dismantle her tent. "Were I alone in this journey, I would not hesitate to do as you suggest. But there are others here to think of who do not share my desire to see Rivendell by the end of tonight."

"Ah, but surely they would not refuse a request from their queen," Legolas pointed out. "And I also look forward to this reunion, for many of my kinsfolk from Mirkwood will be there and also the young hobbits. I look forward to seeing their faces again! Come, what say you Arwen? Will you not speak to Aragorn on our behalf?"

"Your behalf, you mean," Gimli said. "I would be quite content to wait an extra day if it means spending less time on a horse, particularly a horse over which you seem to have little control."

"Did you not tell me this morning that the rocks made for an uncomfortable bed?" Legolas asked. "And did you not follow this statement by a wish to reach Rivendell quickly so that you might partake of a softer bed?"

"I thought of your welfare in that, Master Elf," Gimli returned. "For while I am able to endure hardships, the royal blood of an elven prince might not take to conditions where there are no servants, no silk, and no gold."

Legolas arched a sculpted eyebrow at his friend and folded his arms across his chest. "May I remind you as to who has the larger pack on this journey? Come, Gimli, if that is to be the way of things, what do you keep in your bag that is of such necessity? For myself, I have a change of clothes, a whetting stone, and some items with which to repair my bow should the need arise. I cannot imagine what you are carrying, but it is heavy enough to suggest that half of the gems from the Glittering Caves travel with you. And yet you accuse me of having gone soft."

Arwen shook her head and walked away when Gimli began to respond. The two would be at it for quite some time and if she chanced upon them again before the order came to mount, she would undoubtedly be able to pick up on the thread of the conversation with relative ease.

Gondor’s queen made her way toward the horses and quickly found her own mount among those waiting to be saddled. Sensing her approach, Hasufel pricked up his ears and whinnied, tossing his proud head. Beside him, Aragorn’s old horse Roheryn shook his shaggy mane and snorted, anxious to begin the day’s ride. Arwen smiled and stroked Hasufel’s sleek gray neck, remembering Eomer’s words on the day of her wedding when he had given her this beautiful animal. He had claimed that if the king of Gondor would not take a proper horse, his queen at least must ride in style. In response, Aragorn had pointed out that even if the horses of Rohan could match Roheryn for speed, they would never match him for loyalty or courage, citing the Paths of the Dead as his primary example. This had led into a rather strange conversation comparing the horses of the Rangers to the horses of the Rohirrim that had eventually reminded Arwen very much of the arguments between Legolas and Gimli. By its end, neither Aragorn nor Eomer had convinced the other of anything, and the logic and reasoning used had turned several complete and totally irrelevant circles.

Hasufel butted his head against her, sniffing hopefully for a treat. She laughed lightly and pushed him away. "My apologies, dear heart," she said. "I have yet to seek breakfast myself. I will bring you something when I mount."

Clearly miffed, the horse snorted and stomped, scolding her for her negligence. Arwen laughed, gave his shoulder an affectionate pat, and then walked toward the food lines where a few stragglers were now seeking breakfast. Her approach was greeted with courteous bows and the line moved back so that she could precede the men. With a nod of gratitude, Arwen received her rations, which consisted of cheese, meat, wine, an apple, bread, and butter. Setting the apple aside for Hasufel, she wrapped the rest in a cloth and decided to go in search of her husband. Doubtless he would have already eaten breakfast or decided to skip it entirely, but at least she could partake of her food in his company.

She found him on the edge of camp where he stood watching the mountains with a strange degree of wariness. Moving to his side, she wrapped her arm around his and leaned against him. "You are troubled."

"It is nothing."

"Truly? It is unlike you to be troubled over nothing, my husband."

The king laughed quietly and shook his head. "There are times when I wish I was still a lonely Ranger who could be troubled without several dozen people knowing of it."

"Several dozen people do not know of it," Arwen returned. "By my count, there are only two of us here. And though my elven senses have dimmed somewhat, I think I can still trust them in this. Come; tell me what troubles you. Perhaps I can set it right."

There was moment of silence and then Aragorn sighed. "Legolas said something to me this morning during a brief session of archery," he started, removing his arm from hers so that he could wrap it around her shoulders instead. "He said the mountains were strangely shadowed. At the time, it seemed only an idle comment and he expressed no further concerns for the duration of the practice, but as we were retrieving the arrows, he looked again at the mountains and said the same thing."

"What do you sense from the mountains?" Arwen asked, leaning closer against Aragorn.

"Darkness." The king sighed and shook his head, narrowing his eyes at the looming peaks as though he could penetrate their mists with mortal sight. "But they have always seemed dark to me, and I know not if this is a mere continuation of that darkness or something new. What of you, Arwen? What do you sense?"

"Until a moment ago, I sensed nothing," Arwen answered. "Yet now that you speak of it, they do seem darker, somehow. Long did I dwell in Rivendell, and from its safety, the Misty Mountains were a dim threat. But I traveled abroad enough to know and sense of their malice. It was always present, as it is now, but I think Legolas might be right. There is a strange shadow over the mountains that I do not believe was there before."

"And so the opinion of two respected elves is that there is something brewing within the shadows of the mountains," Aragorn sighed. "How shall I not consider such a thing, and yet how shall I combat a threat that has yet to manifest itself in physical form?"

"I believe the threat is still dim," Arwen answered, watching the mountains carefully. "It does not seem to me that we have need for fear, but there is need for caution." She hesitated for a moment, uncertain if she should use this moment to speak of Legolas’s suggestion. But there was now justification for it aside from their simple desires to reach Imladris. It was not a purely selfish request. And perhaps this was the true reason behind Legolas’s request. Perhaps he had been reluctant to speak of the shadow but concerned for it all the same. "Aragorn…Gimli said it might be possible to arrive at Rivendell tonight."

"We would have to travel after sunset, but yes, it is possible."

"In light of this new darkness, would that not be a better plan?" Arwen asked, wrapping her arm around her husband’s waist. "The elves of Rivendell would protect us should a threat present itself."

"We are quite capable of protecting ourselves," Aragorn reminded her, glancing back at the guards and men who were finishing the morning’s preparations for travel. "Or do you think that I have lost some of my ability in combat because of years of rule?"

"Nothing of the sort," Arwen said, hastening to assuage the indignant tone in Aragorn’s voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him smiling at her and realized she’d been taken in. With a sigh and a shake of her head, she continued. "Aragorn, I would feel safer within Rivendell’s protective cliffs and elven boundaries."

"And this has nothing to do with a desire to see your brothers again?"

"Perhaps that is a part of it," she admitted.

Aragorn chuckled and drew her close against him. "If the horses are able, your request is my command," he whispered. "We will arrive in Rivendell tonight if circumstances permit."

"Thank you, my husband," Arwen said.

"You are more than welcome," Aragorn answered. "If that is all, we should give the orders to mount. I sense that the men are ready. And you may also want to tell Legolas that we will be arriving in Rivendell tonight." He sent her a sidelong look and his smile grew. "He is also interested in that possibility, is he not?"

"You are more elf than man," Arwen sighed.

"I have spent more of my life around elves than I have around men," Aragorn responded. "And you have yet to learn the art of dissembling. To most, you are as composed as any elf, but to knowing eyes, you are as an open book." He squeezed her against his solid form once more and then released her, turning back to the camp. "Come. If we are to make Rivendell in good time, we must leave now."

Arwen nodded and followed, pausing just once to glance at the mountains. Now that she stopped to consider it, there was something off about them. They seemed darker somehow, more sinister. But perhaps this was because she had been away for so long and had enjoyed the blessings of the White City. And yet…Legolas now lived in the shadow of the Ephel Duath, and if he thought the Misty Mountains seemed dark…

"Arwen?"

"Coming," she answered quickly, turning away from the eastern peaks. Perhaps it was nothing, and even if evil did stir, what harm could possibly come upon Rivendell? Not only did her brothers and other lingering elves still dwell there, but the hosts of Gondor would also be in attendance as well as elves out of both Mirkwood and Lothlórien. They were arguably safer in Rivendell than they were in Gondor. It is nothing, she told herself, pushing her thoughts away from the peaks. Their darkness is but an echo of past evil. With a shake of her head, she hurried after her departing husband and so missed the tendrils of shadow that began to detach themselves from the base of the mountains.

Aur maer, Rîs Arwen—Good morning, Queen Arwen.

A aur maer den, Ernil Legolas—And good morning to you, Prince Legolas.

Chapter 2: Reunions

Deep within a mountain cavern, a groveling Orc abased himself upon the floor. The badges of his high rank, seemingly at odds with his current humble position, reflected the dim light of torches that flickered haphazardly, struggling to burn in the dank hallways. Before him, a cloaked figure shrouded in darkness waited impatiently, his hard eyes glinting with ill-concealed malice and hatred.

"What have you to report?"

"Three of those you desire are in the group that passed through the Gap of Rohan, but they travel in a company of armed soldiers," the Orc captain said, his voice low and gravely with forced submission. "It would be difficult to take them alive, and we would lose of many of our own forces in the process. The other three are still on the Road by the last messages, and they travel without guard."

"And the three without guard are those most in need of it," the man mused with a slight trace of humor, though the news did not please him. He fell silent, his thoughts churning away through a mind as dark as night. It would not be difficult to dispatch his troops against the forces of Gondor. Most would be more than eager to test their skills against the men who had caused their exile. The two armies would meet, a great and glorious battle would ensue, there would be death on both sides, the stench of blood would rise from the fair forests south of Imladris…and none of his primary goals would be accomplished. Perhaps the Orcs could take the prisoners he desired, but the three he wished for most would not allow themselves to be taken alive if they could help it. They would sooner die upon the battlefield, and in sending his armies to fight them, he would grant them an honorable death at the hands of hated foes. No, that could not be. Something far worse had to be contrived for those who had overthrown the Dark Lord.

And yet, to loose such venom as he had prepared upon the three who traveled the Road…they were hardly worthy of its potent evil. But perhaps…perhaps this was in actuality better. Their eventual betrayal would be a great surprise, and their hands would be responsible for great dishonor because of the simple fact that none of them were warriors. Yes, therein lay the answers. The weak would destroy the strong, and the strong would be weakened by such an occurrence.

"Amass your troops," the cloaked man instructed at length, running this new idea through his head once more time and liking the possibilities it presented. "You leave tonight. Give Imladris a wide berth to the south and take the three who travel the East-West Road. And take care. No word of this is to spread to Rivendell!"

"It shall be as you command," the Orc promised.

"See that it is," the man said coldly, an unspoken threat sending shivers down the Orc’s spine. "Remember also that I want them alive. All of them. You may use them for sport as you see fit, but there can be no permanent damage or every member of your patrol shall answer to me. Now go. There is much that needs preparation, and the hour of our revenge draws nigh."

The captain nodded quickly, bowed, and left the room. Left alone in the shadows, the man who was not quite a man settled into a high-backed chair and drew within himself, summoning dark powers and darker evils. Soon, he promised himself, reining in his sharp impatience. But waiting was a very difficult task. He remembered well his humiliation before the heir of Isildur that fateful day when the Ring had been cast into Orodruin. Not a word had been spoken to him by the weathered Ranger, but dark eyes had caught his own gaze and pierced his soul to the very center. He’d felt weakened, humbled, broken…such things did not happen save in the presence of the Dark Lord, and there it was expected. To be bested by a mere whelp whose only claim to fame and glory rested in an aged sword and a renowned lineage…

No, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was much more than that. He was a warrior in his own right, and he had earned his renown. The man who was not quite a man had been present the day Sauron cried out and withdrew in horror from the palantír—an event few had lived to tell about as the Dark Lord’s ensuing wrath had been fierce—and it was later learned that Aragorn had been the cause of that disgrace. Within this shrouded man’s living memory, Aragorn was the only living thing to stand against Sauron directly and survive. Such will and courage were things to marvel at. Even the bearers of the Three might learn from such daring. Sauron certainly had, but unfortunately for Sauron, the lessons had come too late. His protégé and avenger vowed that he would not make the same mistakes.

Of course, all this was merely further fuel for the fires of vengeance. Heroes of the great tales were never victorious without a price, and though Aragorn had paid much of that cost in his long years as a Ranger, the man who was not quite a man was intent upon seeing that Aragorn was forced to pay again. For that matter, none who had aided in the overthrow of the Dark Lord could be allowed to live out the rest of their lives in peace. They were marked for destruction, all of them, and the remaining forces of Mordor and Orthanc would not rest until their revenge was complete.

The cloaked figure smiled as he gave himself over to the comforting embrace of darkness, and in that smile was a dreadful promise. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Meriadoc, Peregrin, Samwise…you are all that remain of the fabled "Fellowship." You will be the first to taste of the latent wrath of Mordor. You shall be the first to fall. And you shall fall by your own hands!

* * * *

Gimli dropped off Arod, pointedly ignoring Legolas’s offer to assist him, and sighed with relief as he felt solid ground beneath his feet. They had ridden hard for the entire day with but two stops, one for an early lunch and another to rest the horses in the middle of the afternoon. The rest of the time had been spent in a mindless gallop through forests, around streams, and over every conceivable bump that the lands south of Imladris had to offer. The poor dwarf was sore in places he could not even begin to describe, and it didn’t help that his elven friend seemed to be vastly amused by his discomfort. Loosening his belt slightly and letting his axe slip to the ground, Gimli stretched and attempted to walk without splaying his legs.

"Do you think Aragorn will press on?" he asked, hissing as he discovered yet another sore area.

Legolas laughed quietly and then shook his head, turning to watch the sun as it sank into the west. "I know not. During lunch, Arwen told me that it would depend upon the weather, the trail, and the horses. Arod is certainly able to race another few hours, as are Roheryn and Hasufel. But the horses of Gondor have not their stamina or speed, and we must be mindful of them."

"Can we be mindful of a dwarf while we are being mindful of horses?" Gimli asked, wondering if his spine had actually split into two pieces or if it only felt like that. He was partially convinced that a piece of his back had somehow detached itself and had been left somewhere along the trail.

"And of what should we be mindful, Master Dwarf?" Legolas asked, eyes sparkling with mirth and a hint of mischief.

"You may continue in complete ignorance as far as I am concerned," Gimli said warily, keeping a close watch on the elf. "But I would have King Elessar know of my pains and see that I am not pushed beyond my ability to tolerate my riding companion."

"And what of me?" Legolas demanded, his eyes still dancing with a dangerous amount of elven humor. "Have I not been forced to endure your company for days on end?"

"Nay, you have been privileged to enjoy my company for days on end, and if you cannot appreciate the greatness of that gift, it is no fault of mind," the dwarf returned, warming quickly to the game. "I have heard no complaints on my account from the guards of Gondor."

"Then it would seem that your ears are worse than I thought," Legolas said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It is beyond me how you could have missed the disparaging remarks made concerning the bundle of baggage that rides behind me. There have been complaints about its horrid smell, its foul temper, its uncouth manners, and its unseemly appearance."

"If your quiver is that bad then perhaps you should invest in a new one. I will gladly add my complaints to those of the men."

"If we are to speak of complaints, then let us—"

"Legolas? Gimli?" Aragorn moved into view, wearing an expression of exasperation while hiding his own smile at their argument. "When I gave you permission to ride with the company of Gondor, I did not think I would be forced to watch the two of you as one might watch young children."

"Children?" Legolas cocked a fair brow at this and folded his arms. "My liege, I was scouting Mirkwood centuries before your grandfathers were born. If anyone here is a child, I think it would be the youngest among us rather than the eldest. Perhaps Gimli might also fall into the category of children, but even according to elven standards, I have passed that stage long ago."

"I am 52 years older* than Aragorn, Master Elf, so let us not speak of me in terms of a child. And if we compare dwarven standards to elven standards and translate years relatively, then I am also older than you."

"Your actions do not say so."

"If by that you mean that I am still hale and need not a four-legged animal to assist me in traveling from one place to another, then you would be right."

Aragorn shook his head and cleared his throat. "If I could have but a minute of your time, Legolas, I would seek your counsel on something."

"Of course," the prince said, turning away from the dwarf and focusing his attention on Aragorn. Gimli smiled and decided to score himself the victor of that particular verbal sparring match. After all, the last words had been his.

"The horses are tired as are the men," Aragorn said, nodding in the direction of the main body of soldiers. "Reason would suggest we stop now for the night and arrive at Rivendell tomorrow morning. But you and Arwen have both spoken of a shadow in the mountains, and both of you seem anxious to move on. Can you tell me anything further?"

Gimli looked questioningly at Legolas, having heard nothing of this supposed shadow. Legolas shrugged apologetically at the dwarf and then turned back to Aragorn. "In truth, I do not know. I am not familiar with the ways of the mountains this far south, but in the north, it was only on rare occasions when the Misty Mountains were this dark. During such times, we took them to be ominous warnings of fell things to come, and rarely were we proven wrong. But now after the fall of the Enemy…" Legolas trailed off and shook his head, eyeing the mountains distrustfully. "My apologies, Aragorn, but I do not know what to tell you. You are the leader of the company, and the decision ultimately rests with you."

"What was it Frodo used to say?" Gimli mused. "Go not to the elves for advice, for they will say both yes and no. I think it went something like that. I would also add that one should not expect news or tidings from the elves, for they will only tell you what they think you ought to know. If you would know more, you must go elsewhere."

"And what do you think you ought to know?" Legolas asked. "Shall I tell you all that goes on in my mind concerning my people and myself? I have some suspicions concerning a small group of men who have moved from Belfalas into the most southern part of Ithilien, there are growing numbers of Orcs daring the pass of Cirith Ungol, your latest shipments from the Glittering Caves were a day late due to heavy rains that flooded Anduin, Faramir’s birthday was celebrated by all of Ithilien a few weeks ago, Eowyn has found a strain of athelas that is able to grow on the slopes of the Ephel Duath, the first trading party from the settlers along Lake Nurnen arrived one week ago and we negotiated a profitable arrangement for both sides, there continues to be a steady stream of immigrating elves who tire of Mirkwood and wish to live near the sea, I sent a delegation to—"

"I believe we understand," Aragorn interrupted. "Returning to the original question, is it your opinion that a threat stirs in the mountains? And how shall such a threat affect our company?"

The elf shifted slightly—something Gimli recognized as a sign that his friend was uncertain—and glanced again toward the Misty Mountains. "I know not, Aragorn," he finally answered. "If this area is similar to the area that runs along the western edge of Mirkwood, then my answer would be yes. Something evil does stir and we would be well advised to press on with all possible speed. But we are not along the western edge of Mirkwood and I do not know if this is but a remnant of darkness left over from the rule of Saruman or something else. Something darker."

"So says Arwen," Aragorn murmured. "And I fear my own senses cannot help me in this, for they feel nothing out of the ordinary. What of you, Gimli? What insight can you give?"

The dwarf blinked, somewhat surprised to be included in the conversation, and then turned to consider the mountains in question. "How far away is Rivendell exactly?" he asked at length.

"Two hours with fresh horses, three in our current condition."

Gimli nodded slowly, considering the information they had as he formulated his own opinion. "I fear I shall regret saying this," he started with a sidelong look at Legolas, "but I would not lightly dismiss elven instincts. Even if we err and there is truly naught to concern us, it would be wise to hearken to the voice of prudence. And if we arrive in Rivendell tonight, I will not have to listen to the snores of this elf or his muttered complaints when all sane creatures are sleeping."

"Snores?" Aragorn glanced curiously at Legolas. "I have not heard of an elf who snores."

"Nor has anyone else, because elves do not snore," Legolas said with a hard look at Gimli. "You woke yourself last night, Master Dwarf. I had nothing to do with it and was on the verge of crossing the mountains in search of a place where the sounds of your sleep were not rocking the foundations of Arda."

"I will have you know, oh great prince, that I have never snored before in my long life and…" Gimli trailed off and looked at Aragorn when the man started to splutter. "Is aught wrong?"

"Gimli, I remember very well a certain night along Anduin in which we were attempting to hide from Orcs and your snores kept rattling the boats," Aragorn said between laughs. "Frodo and Merry were paranoid that you would bring the Enemy down upon us, Boromir suggested drowning you, Sam was ready to beat you over the head with one of his pots, Pippin wondered if shaving off your beard might aid your breathing, and the only reason you met with no misfortune that night was because Legolas would walk over and kick you every time one of us rose to strangle you."

"As I recall, my foot was sore by morning," the prince said with a grimace.

"I should have known that you would side with an elf," Gimli growled. "After all, you married one."

Aragorn laughed and turned, his eyes searching for Arwen. "So I did. Well, enough of this. It is then your opinion that we ought to continue tonight and reach Rivendell ere we retire?"

"It is, and this opinion does not merely stem from a desire to reach Imladris quickly," Legolas said, his mood changing abruptly from mirth to concern. "It is as though something stirs in the shadows, and we are contemplated with malice. This feeling has been present for some time, but now it seems to be growing. And while I am uncertain as to its origin or its potency, I do feel that there is a slight danger."

"If such are your feelings, then I accept your counsel on this. Prepare to mount, both of you," Aragorn said, smiling at Gimli’s audible groan. "Under the darkness of evening we will cover the rest of the distance to Rivendell."

* * * *

Lindir drew his knife back against the whetting stone one more time, tested the blade, and smiled in satisfaction. Putting the stone in a pouch that hung from his belt and returning the knife to a sheath hidden by his boot, the elf stretched like a cat and rested his back against the broad trunk of a tree. Even though he was charged with guard duty this night, the evening was pleasant enough and he was actually enjoying the task. The moon was full and bright, the breeze out of the south carried a hint of warmth, and the forest was peaceful and still.

Relishing the feel of the slight wind and the teasing whispers of the forest, Lindir pulled one knee up to his chest and clasped his hands over it, allowing the other leg to dangle below the branch upon which he perched. A casual observer might have made the erroneous assumption that the elf was completely relaxed and somewhat negligent of his guard duty. Nothing could be further from the truth. Lindir was allowing his mind and senses to spread out along the path of starlight, extending his ability to sense an intruder. And while his posture might appear casual and lax, the elf was quite capable of responding to any type of threat with a speed that defied mortal sight.

For a long time he sat motionless, allowing his mind to merge with the speech of plants and the murmur of trees. Starlight glittered above, casting a silver glow upon the woods and speaking of a younger time when the elves had first awakened and had sung only songs of joy, heedless of darkness or death. A brief gust of wind rustled through the limbs above Lindir, and the branches creaked as they rubbed against one another. The elf frowned and tensed, sensing that there was change in this wind, and he began directing his senses rather than letting them drift at will. Getting to his feet and springing higher into the tree, he climbed to a vantagepoint and looked south, willing his far-seeing eyes to seek out anything that might trouble the borders of Rivendell.

As if by instinct, he looked first to the Misty Mountains. Long had they loomed as a source of trouble and doubt, and Lindir was of the opinion that their shadow seemed darker than usual this night. He could not say this with certainty, but a voice in the back of his mind had been whispering warnings for much of the day, and he’d learned to never ignore this voice. Evil still dwelt in those mountains, and if Lindir was any judge, it had actually intensified since the fall of Sauron. Perhaps it was not as widespread as it used to be, but what shadows remained were more concentrated. Darker, somehow.

Yet Lindir could see nothing specific within the hidden vales of the mountains, and so he turned his gaze southward to the dense forests that protected and hid the valley of Rivendell. His elven eyes swept wide, absorbing details and subtle nuances with an ease that a man might envy. It took only a few seconds for him to focus his attention on one particular section of the forest that lay southeast of his position. The boughs of the trees were thick and not even his eyes could pierce their shadows, but something beneath them moved. Many somethings, he amended as he continued to watch. And they move toward Rivendell.

Dropping lower into the tree, he quickly began maneuvering through limbs and branches and was soon leaping from tree to tree with the inherent grace of the Eldar. He passed as silently as the wind, and the only hint of his presence was his nearly inaudible breathing. Only another elf would have been able to pick out that sound, and for him to do even that, the other elf would have had to be standing quite near.

Landing smoothly in one large tree, Lindir stopped and took a moment to judge distances. He was not far from the disturbance now, and he could pick out the stamp of horses’ hooves and the clink of armor. It was a force of respectable size, and Lindir paused to consider the best way of approaching this situation. After thinking through and discarding several options, Lindir stepped back a bit and whistled sharply. A near-perfect imitation of a songbird soared through the night, and this call was answered in the distance by several others. Comforted by the knowledge that Rivendell would soon be alerted to its danger and that others were on their way to aid him, Lindir moved on to the next step in his plan: Delay.

Hurrying forward, he noticed with some surprise that this strange company had stopped. Had they heard his whistles? And if so, how could they have seen through the mimicry in the signals? He stopped his forward journey and listened intently. He was so near them now that he could hear voices. Men’s voices, he realized, feeling his confusion grow. Nor did he feel a shadow associated with them. But…the only company of men Rivendell expected out of the south was—

"Thia men, maethor o adarn!" a voice suddenly rang out.

Lindir felt a broad smile sweep over his face. They had not been expected to arrive this night, but their welcome would not be lacking due to the lateness of the hour. He quickly dropped from the trees and hurried toward them.

"Aiya, Arwen ar Estel!" he cried as soon as he caught sight of the company. One rider dismounted quickly from his horse and came forward, laughing joyfully as he embraced him.

"It is good to see you again, Lindir," Aragorn said, nearly lifting the elf off his feet with his enthusiastic greeting. "It has been too long, my friend. Far too long."

"Even for the Eldar, years drag while dear friends are away," Lindir said, stepping back and running critical eyes over the man. "It would seem that kingship fits you well," he finally said.

Aragorn laughed at this and clapped the other on the shoulder. "Perhaps. I trust we did not cause undue alarm? We heard the warning whistles and thought that perhaps our presence was not anticipated."

"Arwen’s letters indicated you would arrive tomorrow," Lindir answered, bowing before Elrond’s daughter who had also dismounted. "And when I first sensed your approach, I feared that Orcs had set out from the mountains, and so I alerted the other scouts along the border. But have no fear! Both of you are welcome at any hour in Imladris." And having said this, he turned away and whistled again. Most ears would not have discerned a difference between his first whistle and the one he gave now, but to elven ears there were words in such a call and he now announced the coming of expected friends. Once again, more whistles answered, acknowledging his message, passing it to other scouts, and sending their own greetings.

"My thanks for such a welcome," Arwen said, moving forward and slipping her arm around Aragorn. "It has been long since I returned home, and your consideration means much."

Lindir bowed again, gratified by her praise. "For the daughter of Elrond and the queen of Gondor, I could do no less," he informed her. "But come. I will be your escort, if you will have me. Though you both know the way, I would provide you with company for the journey and so further the welcome and courtesy that Rivendell extends to you."

"We would be glad of your company," Aragorn said, turning and signaling to one of his guard. "We also have spare horses and you may ride with us so that the last bit of our journey shall pass quickly."

"That is well," Lindir said, lowering his voice slightly. "I have no direct knowledge, but rumors within Rivendell say that Lord Elladan is troubled by the mountains. Extra watches have been called by Lord Elrohir, and in light of this, I would not have us linger in the darkness."

"I have also felt this shadow," Arwen murmured. "As has Legolas." She seemed to shiver and then her piercing eyes focused on Lindir. "And what of you, dear friend? What do the mountains say to you?"

"They say many things," Lindir answered with a suspicious glance at the dark peaks. "It seems to me that they are darker than is their wont, but I know not how that shall play out for Rivendell. And their evil seems more…more concentrated of late."

"Then let us press on," Aragorn said as a horse was brought forward for Lindir. "We are weary from our journey and look for a restful night, and I doubt we will find such rest if we linger here and speak of shadows."

Lindir nodded and sprang onto the back of his horse, noting that saddle and bridle had already been removed for him as a courtesy. Aragorn and Arwen were also quick to mount and the company soon started forward. Sensing that they were nearing their destination, the horses seemed to pick up their spirits and they moved quickly beneath the leafy trees. Lindir settled himself into the movements of his horse, pondering on Arwen’s words. Others had apparently felt this strange shadow, yet it seemed that no one had any definitive answers.

"So you greet Aragorn and Arwen, but you fail to notice an old friend from Mirkwood," a voice said, startling him from his thoughts.

Lindir grinned and looked over to find that Legolas has brought Arod alongside Lindir’s horse. "My apologies, young prince," he answered. "However, since your coming was not expected until tomorrow, I had not time for sufficient practice and I could only remember how to extend a welcome to important individuals."

Behind Legolas, Gimli snorted loudly and started laughing. "And how shall we evaluate our debate now?" the dwarf asked. "It seems to me that I have won."

"He said not which of us was unworthy of consideration," Legolas retorted, throwing the dwarf stern glance before turning back to Lindir. "So was it myself or the dwarf who did not deserve a welcome befitting an important individual?"

Lindir blinked and wondered exactly what the two had been talking about before they decided to drag him into the conversation. Lindir had been present at the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen and he remembered the rather unusual degree of camaraderie and friendship that was to be had between Legolas and Gimli. It had taken a day or so to accept it, but once he adjusted, he found that listening to the two of them argue about the virtues of elves and dwarves was actually quite entertaining. Unfortunately, when either one of them began searching for third party opinions, it was usually best to be elsewhere.

"I am afraid that I do not understand the question," Lindir eventually said, hoping this was sufficiently vague enough that neither Legolas nor Gimli could use his words against the other.

"You see?!" Gimli exclaimed, sounding as though a vital point had been made.

"That proves nothing!" Legolas shot back.

Lindir decided he had given exactly the wrong answer, but there was naught he could do about that now. Gently nudging his own horse away from Arod, he hoped that proximity to Aragorn and Arwen might somehow save him from becoming further embroiled in whatever it was that Legolas and Gimli were arguing about.

"So tell me of your journey," Lindir said, directing his words toward Aragorn. "What news do you carry from the lands in the south?"

"To begin with, all send their greetings," Aragorn said, glancing past Lindir at Legolas and Gimli and shaking his head with amusement. The two were locked in a heated discussion and appeared to have forgotten the existence of the rest of the world. "Reconstruction on Osgiliath and within Ithilien proceeds, but it is slower than we might like," the king continued. "Alas, the stain of evil will not leave the land without great toil on our part. Sauron’s influence is still felt in many parts of the south."

"Yet we still progress," Arwen said firmly, throwing her husband a look that Lindir could not interpret. "And that is something, for five years ago, many doubted that Sauron could be even overthrown."

"But the taint of evil remains," Aragorn murmured, comforted only slightly by Arwen’s words. "Even the Misty Mountains bear the marks of darker days, and the elves that come to Ithilien from Mirkwood tell us that even though Dol Guldur has been cast down, its area is still an abode of evil. Alas, I fear that some things may never be fully cured."

"Your fears are shared by the elves," Lindir said quietly and with a trace of that ageless sadness that seemed to belong exclusively to the Eldar. "We feel the waning of the world, and though our time here draws to a close, we sorrow for the evil that Arda has seen. Things will never be as they once were. What has been touched by sadness shall bear that sadness always, and no act of ours can alter that."

"But there is still great joy, and not all is forsaken," Arwen reminded them. "Take heart, son of Arathorn, and you as well, Lindir of Imladris. So long as songs are sung of victories, and so long as the innocent are allowed to live peacefully in their innocence, we have succeeded. Perhaps our lifetime will not see the Ephel Duath bloom with flowers, but future generations will someday achieve such a victory and our works will have made that possible."

To Lindir’s sharp ears, it sounded as though Aragorn and Arwen had endured this conversation before, a fact that did not surprise him greatly, for he had known Aragorn as a young child. His goals had ever been among the stars, visible but unattainable, and even in his tender years, he seemed willing to bear the weight of the world upon slender shoulders. And when things went ill as things were wont to do, Aragorn’s first reaction was to blame himself.

"Lindir, when you spoke of important individuals, did you use that term collectively or specifically?"

The somber mood that had fallen upon them was abruptly shattered. Arwen lifted a hand to cover her mouth, Aragorn rolled his eyes, and Lindir sighed. "I believe I used the term collectively, Gimli."

"And there you have it, Legolas," the dwarf said with a voice of triumph. "He was not specifically referring to Aragorn and Arwen."

"Meaning what?!" Legolas demanded.

"Meaning that you were excluded from such a group and I very well could have been included. His subsequent words concerning those unworthy of important greetings were directed to you for you were the one to address him. You have been singled out as an unimportant individual."

"Very well, Gimli, if you wish to persist in this belief, let us see where it leads," Legolas said. "I, a fellow elf, a prince of royalty in my father’s kingdom, and a lord in my own realm, have been considered an unimportant individual. How, then, shall you be considered, Master Dwarf? You are the son of Gloin, and while your father has renown among his people and is a direct descendent of Durin, he is not royalty. You are not royalty. You are not an elf. If I am unworthy, what are you?"

"It is unfair to bring your lineage into this," Gimli declared.

"And by that, you mean to say that it is unfair to bring facts into this," Legolas retorted.

"Facts?! If you wish to speak of facts, let us also consider factors other than birth."

"As you wish. Was it not you who nearly refused to follow me into a cave on the Paths of the Dead?"

Gimli grumbled something that sounded far from complimentary, but it was in the dwarf tongue and Lindir did not recognize the words. Legolas apparently did, though, for he began laughing hard. On the other side of Lindir, Aragorn snorted, also understanding what had been said.

"Estel?" Lindir questioned, hoping to receive a translation.

"A common curse among the dwarves," Aragorn answered, his lips twisting with a rather embarrassed smile. "It’s meaning, though, is rather lewd. Rest assured that you would not want to have it said of you by polite company. Or impolite company, for that matter!"

"I see," Lindir said slowly, his curiosity only growing greater by Aragorn’s refusal to explain what had been said.

"Thank you for not elaborating," Arwen commented. "Elrohir once used that curse against Elladan in jest and my father overheard him. The end result was…unpleasant."

Lindir’s curiosity was now growing rapidly, but he was not given the chance to pursue the subject for the sound of galloping horses reached his ears. Arwen straightened on her mount, also hearing the approaching riders, and a look of joy infused her face when she recognized the patterns and stride of the horses.

"Melethin?" Aragorn prompted curiously.

"My brothers approach," she answered with a smile that would put the sun to shame. "Noro, Hasufel," she cried, urging her horse ahead of the company.

"What is happening?" Gimli wondered, interrupting Legolas who’d been saying something about dwarven beards and Orcs.

"The lords of Rivendell approach," Aragorn answered, spurring Roheryn after Arwen, also eager to greet his foster brothers. "Forward," he cried, and though weary, the rest of the company obediently raced after their king, sensing that the long journey was drawing to a close.

"This means that we are close to a decent bed and a hot bath, yes?" Gimli asked, sharing the thoughts of the tired men.

Lindir smiled and nodded. "Great preparation has gone into making your resting place as comfortable as possible, Master Dwarf. We would not have you find our hospitality lacking."

"Good," the dwarf said. "You see, Legolas? They consider me and take pains to ensure my comfort."

"Yes, I see now. I’m sure the stable hands spent at least several minutes piling straw into a corner so that your sleep would be restful."

They are both hopeless, Lindir decided, turning his attention to the path before them. Hasufel and Roheryn were stopping and two elven horses had come into view. The riders of all four horses hit the ground running and the queen of Gondor was caught up in a hard embrace while the king was tackled to the ground. It seems I spoke too soon, Lindir amended. They are ALL hopeless. How is it that I retain a measure of sanity?

"Welcome to you, Arwen and Estel!" Elladan’s clear voice cried as he deposited Arwen back on the ground and helped Elrohir and Aragorn back to their feet. "And welcome to those who journey with you. You make good time while traveling, my friends. We did not expect you until tomorrow morning!"

"I fear I am to blame for pressing this company onward," Arwen laughed, trading places with Aragorn and wrapping Elrohir in a warm embrace. "My excitement was such that I could not wait another night before crossing Rivendell’s borders."

"What did we warn you about, Estel?" Elladan said with a smile. "She is one to have her own way and you must watch her closely or she will govern everything for you."

"I have already taken your warning to heart, but I feel it has done me little good," Aragorn responded, grinning at Arwen’s indignant expression. "But in truth," he continued, his tone growing quiet, "another factor pressed us on. Both Arwen and Legolas experienced feelings of foreboding and distrust concerning the mountains and we were anxious to reach safe borders. Tell me, have your spies reported aught on the subject?"

Aragorn’s words to his foster brothers were low but not too low for immortal ears, and a shiver stole down Lindir’s back. The king of Gondor had more or less already confided such fears and misgivings to the elf, but they seemed to take on new meaning when they were reported to the lords of Imladris.

Lindir watched with a degree of anxiety as a strange look passed between Elladan and Elrohir, and at length it was Elladan who answered. "The mountains have troubled me," he murmured, and now Lindir had to strain to hear his words. "We have increased the guard along the eastern border, but until we know more of what threatens us, I fear we can do naught."

"But such things are ill to hear when the world lies in shadow," Elrohir said, changing the subject with elven swiftness though he could not quite change the mood of the group. "Come. Welcome back to Imladris, Arwen and Estel. You have been absent too long."

"I thank you, my brothers," Aragorn said. Lindir could see the gratitude and excitement behind the king’s smile, but he could also hear the concern and wariness that had the mountains had caused. "Though I rule in Gondor, my heart will forever lie in Rivendell."

"Then let us hasten on so that your body may lie with it, for you and your company have need of rest," Elrohir said. "Even as we speak here, beds and rooms are being prepared."

Beside Lindir, Legolas stirred slightly and Arod tossed his head, betraying a restless energy to be off and doing. "Lord Elrond’s hospitality has certainly not waned in his absence," the prince of Mirkwood said quietly.

"Of what are they speaking?" Gimli demanded irritably, for the main body of men had stopped a respectable distance away and could not hear what was being said. "You who have elven ears should be mindful of the rest of us."

"You would accuse us of eavesdropping?" Legolas said, glancing back at the dwarf with innocent eyes.

"Elladan and Elrohir know very well that you can hear them and they are doing nothing to prevent that," the dwarf returned. "Therefore, it is not eavesdropping and you are at liberty to tell me what goes forth."

"They exchange pleasantries," Lindir answered before the prince of Mirkwood could with a verbal dart. "Your rooms are being prepared for you, and Lord Elladan has confirmed that he senses a darkness in the mountains. Beyond that, they say nothing that you do not already know."

About this time, the sons of Elrond and the king and queen of Gondor began walking back toward the mounted company. Elladan and Elrohir both called their horses over and Lindir sensed that his service as an escort was no longer needed. Dismounting and giving his borrowed steed a quick pat, he bowed low before Aragorn and Arwen as they approached.

"King Elessar and Queen Evenstar, I leave you now in the hands of my lords. With your permission, I shall return to my post."

"Thank you for your company, Lindir," Arwen said, mounting Hasufel and nodding her head in the elf’s direction. "Your welcome did much to cheer me and I am comforted by the knowledge that Rivendell is still protected by the sure senses of the elves."

"We shall have to find time for quiet talk in the Hall of Fire," Aragorn added. "There are many stories I would share and many questions I would also ask of you."

"It shall be as you wish," Lindir promised with another bow. "Until then, my lords. And Legolas, have an eye on that dwarf. He shall be besting you at words yet." And without waiting for a response, Lindir turned and vanished into the trees. As he made his way back to his original vantagepoint, he heard Legolas crying out in protest and Gimli laughing loudly. Lindir smiled and shook his head. Perhaps all elves should befriend dwarves. If nothing else, it would make for interesting conversations.

So thinking, he eventually reached his post, leaped into his chosen tree, and settled back down to keep watch upon Rivendell’s southern border. He was more alert this time in part to the warnings he’d heard from Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir, but aside from a general sense of unease stemming from the Misty Mountains, he sensed nothing unusual.

And just beyond the range of Lindir’s senses, hidden beneath the trees by an unnatural shadow, a large company of ill intent passed by. They journeyed not to Rivendell but to something else. And for all their vigilance, the elven guards of Imladris remained ignorant of this newest threat.

*According to RotK, Gimli was born in 2879 and Aragorn was born in 2931.

Thia men, maethor o adarn!—Appear to us, warrior of my father!

Aiya, Arwen ar Estel!—Welcome, Arwen and Estel! (This is one of my few attempts at Quenya, so I hope I didn’t mess it up too badly.)

Melethin—Beloved

Noro—Ride

Chapter 3: Morning in Imladris

The sky was beginning to glow with the coming dawn, and birds stirred in the vales of Rivendell, preparing to start a new day. The mountains loomed tall in the east, their silhouettes breaking the line of the sky and bewildering the eyes with jagged peaks. Caps of snow glistened as thousands of white diamonds and a slight breeze drifted down into Imladris from higher valleys, bringing with it the chill of the receding winter and the freshness of the coming spring. Life began to wake within the forests as the darkness was driven back by the dawn and night fled into the west, leaving promises that it would return when the sun finished its journey. Even in Rivendell, the darkness could never be denied forever.

But darkness was last on the thoughts of those who wandered Imladris this morning, for the air was clean and crisp and the music of dawn was as a balm to any that could hear its melody. The mountain shadows seemed a remote threat, and the elves awake at this early hour gave them no heed, choosing instead to walk beneath the trees, listen to the soothing sound of fountains and waterfalls, or, in the case of one elven prince, practice at archery.

Alone in a clearing, Legolas sighted along the shaft of a long arrow, gauging the distance between himself and the target. He adjusted his aim slightly when a breeze ruffled his golden hair and stirred the grass beneath his feet. Then the arrow was released, sailing through the morning air and implanting itself firmly on the tiny target he had selected more than one hundred yards away. With a nod of satisfaction, the elf drew another arrow and began searching for a different, more difficult target.

While he searched, his sharp ears caught the sound of light footsteps. They were not the footsteps of one who sought to walk by stealth but rather of one who was naturally quiet. Another elf, the archer decided, spotting a small, hanging leaf about two hundred yards away and choosing that as his next target. Drawing an arrow, he set it to the string and pulled it back, feeling the latent energy build as he bent the strong wood of Lothlórien. At the same time, his elven hearing informed him that the intruding elf was entering the clearing. Pushing this to the back of his mind, the archer focused on the target and released, watching the arrow as it flew straight and true, passing through the leaf and lodging in the tree behind it. With that out of the way, he turned around to see who had sought his presence.

"Your skill with the bow is impressive, Legolas."

The prince bowed deeply. "My thanks, father. Your praise means much to me."

"Long hours of practice deserve great praise," King Thranduil of Mirkwood answered with a smile. "And your bow has been of much use to others on your journeys. My praise is perhaps overdue, but naught could remedy that since you are scarce in the kingdom these days."

"Duty takes one where one must go, sire," the prince answered quietly, wondering if that last statement was a reproach of sorts. It probably was since he rarely received positive attention from his father without qualifications. "I govern my own people now," Legolas continued, "and as such my time is limited. But I need not speak of such things to you, father, who have ruled far longer than I have lived."

"Nay, you do not. I understand well the constraints on a lord’s time and energy. But come, Legolas. Let us retrieve your arrows and visit during the quiet hours of the morning." He moved forward and Legolas joined him, easily falling into step with his father’s long strides. "I apologize for not meeting your company when you rode in last night. I had retired early and did not expect you to arrive until today."

"That was our original plan, sire," Legolas answered. "But the horses were fresh and Queen Arwen was anxious to reunite with her brothers. I fear we startled the sentries by arriving so late at the night, but they lost no time in seeing that Elladan and Elrohir were informed of our arrival."

"Well, at least we have a brief time together now," Thranduil said, resting a hand upon his son’s shoulder. "Come, tell me of Ithilien. How goes your work and how fare our people there?"

"Ithilien blooms as a rose in the summer, father," Legolas answered, a note of pride and accomplishment entering his voice. "Birds and friendly beasts have returned to its woods and we have such dwellings as are needed. There is but one shadow upon us, and that lies to the east where the Ephel Duath stands strong as a barrier between Ithilien and Mordor. Alas, those mountains are still filled with darkness and fell creatures. I fear that many lifetimes of men shall pass ere they can be cured of the shadow." They’d reached one of his arrows now, and Legolas quickly drew the bolt from the bark of the tree and slid it into his quiver.

"In Greenwood the Great, darkness still hovers over Dol Guldur," Thranduil said regretfully, turning as they strode in search of another arrow. "During the War of the Ring, Galadriel laid low its foundations, but where its remains lie buried, shadows still roam. The evil of Sauron will endure for many a year, and ultimately it will rise again in new form. But this is ill talk on so fine a morning," he continued with a shake of his head. "Tell me more of Ithilien. With whom do you trade and how do you deal with the many kingdoms of men that surround you?"

"As for trade, sire, we deal primarily with Gondor," Legolas answered, feeling a touch of annoyance for his father’s implication that surrounding kingdoms of men might be a hindrance. "The Pelennor fields yield much in the way of crops, and we trade them such things as wine and fabric for their wares. We also have dealings in Lebennin, Belfalas, and Dol Amroth. Prince Imrahil, in particular, has been a valuable ally." Legolas did not mention the fact that they were also heavily involved in a joint excavation project in Aglarond with Gimli’s dwarves, exchanging aid for metals. His father would not approve of such an arrangement.

"Imrahil is of the blood of Nimrodel, is he not?" Thranduil asked.

"He is, father."

"Good. I would not see you completely encumbered by mortals. They can be wearisome at times and occasionally must be reminded of who is the superior race," Thranduil said.

Legolas forced his face into a blank, non-committal expression, something that the long years in Thranduil’s court had taught him to do. His father was an elf of strong opinions and strong prejudices. Even though Mirkwood maintained good relations with the kingdom of Dale, Thranduil was usually wont to speak of its men with disparaging remarks, and that was if he spoke of them at all. Isildur’s choice to keep the Ring after the overthrow of Sauron had soured Thranduil toward mortals beyond any reasonable hope of reconciliation. Legolas’s grandfather Oropher, ruler of the Sindarin elves, had been killed in that conflict during the first assault on Mordor, and in the end, Thranduil had led home only one third of the elves who had traveled beneath his command. The fact that evil had not been wholly destroyed despite the great sacrifice of the elves still gnawed at Thranduil, and it was his custom to blame all mortals for the mistakes of Isildur, mistakes that would be forever emblazoned in his memory. He had been horrified to hear that Elrond was permitting Arwen to marry Isildur’s heir, something Legolas had tried hard to keep from reaching Aragorn’s ears though he suspected that his friend knew anyway. There was very little that Aragorn did not know.

"It was well that I trained you to seek out the weaknesses of your opponents. This will aid you greatly in your dealings with men," Thranduil continued. "I suspect you will be able to trust Prince Imrahil as the blood of the elves is slow to thin, but remember to exercise caution always. Men are known for nothing if not their treachery."

Legolas’s original annoyance was beginning to grow. Aside from insulting a Race that the prince had come to respect, Mirkwood’s king was close to encroaching on Ithilien’s sovereignty. It was true that Thranduil offered only advice, but Legolas was slightly irritated all the same. Ithilien was his realm, not his father’s, and he would decide where caution was needed. "I think, father, that perhaps you do not know the men of Gondor well enough. In them lies the blood of Numenor, and they are honorable men in both their dealings and their actions."

Thranduil snorted at this. "Númenor, you say. What good did that blood do Isildur when he took the Ring from Sauron’s hand?"

"The weakness of one is not a reflection on an entire Race," Legolas protested, stopping their walk and turning to face his father with rapidly growing displeasure.

"Speak not of things you do not understand," the king said curtly, and Legolas bristled at his authoritative tone. "You were not yet born when my father Oropher led us beside the standards of Gil-galad. You were not alive when the hand of man allowed evil to endure."

"Perhaps not, sire, but I was alive when man aided in the Ring’s ultimate destruction. The elves had little to do with that battle and the weight fell to the men of Gondor in keeping the Enemy occupied while the hobbits crept into Mordor."

"And yet they would have fallen had not you, Elladan, and Elrohir intervened. Galadriel and Elrond also played crucial roles, to say nothing of Mithrandir, whom your men, dwarves, and hobbits lost in Moria!"

Legolas felt his anger begin to creep out of his control, but he curbed his tongue and tried to come up with a safe response to that. He could remind his father that he had also been in Moria. He could tell his father that it was he who had first recognized the Balrog for what it was and that it was also he who had shamefully dropped his bow at very the sight of the horrible creature. Not that arrows would have done them any good, but he was perhaps the only member of the Fellowship with even a hope of aiding Gandalf. At the very least, he could have distracted the Balrog, yet Legolas, like the rest of his companions, had been frozen by fear. The prince opened his mouth, intending to tell his father all these things, but then he stopped. He had never been able to share his weaknesses with Thranduil, and the dropped bow in Moria still made him cringe with guilt. It would not do to admit such a lapse in courage to the king of Mirkwood. "I think you do them a discredit, sire," he murmured, slightly angry with himself for not being able to tell Thranduil the full story of what happened. "My own role in the War of the Ring was small, and Elladan and Elrohir did not join us until late in the journey."

"Which is exactly why things remained so dark for so long. Had the sons of Elrond not ridden south with the Rangers, I fear that all would have been lost."

The conversation was going nowhere constructive, and partially because of his own upbringing, Legolas couldn’t supply the information necessary to debate his father. Yet even if he could confess his own weaknesses, the chances were that it would do no good. Shaking his head with the realization that his father’s mind was unalterable on the subject, Legolas decided to drop the issue for now. "So tell me of the affairs in Greenwood, sire," he said, moving toward both another arrow and a safer topic. "I would hear of my kinsmen."

"Life continues much as it has save that our realm is now expanded and Dol Guldur is no more," Thranduil answered. "There is change in the forest, though. Many of our people now look westward as if to the sea. But the sea-longing has not claimed them yet. Still, it is a strange thing." The king cast a shrewd glance at his son, having seen him flinch at the mention of the sea. "When Galadriel and I met at the destruction of Dol Guldur, she spoke of you. I learned that you had journeyed through her realm and taken refuge with the Galadhrim."

"What of it?" Legolas asked, having a fairly good idea of where this would lead and wishing there were some way of sidetracking his father’s thoughts. It seems a change in topics was not the best choice. The prince hid his feelings by turning away from his father and pulling an arrow from the tree in which it had lodged.

"She warned me that your journey would take you nigh unto the sea and that the sea-longing might be stirred in your heart. I feared her words for a time, but you linger still in Middle Earth and make no effort to leave these shores. Was the Lady Galadriel mistaken? What think you, Legolas?"

"I think she knew my heart better than I did," the king’s son answered quietly, starting back for the original clearing. He did not want to speak of this.

"And what mean you by those words?"

Legolas sighed and looked away from his father’s piercing eyes, turning his gaze instead toward the cloudy peaks of the Misty Mountains. "The sea-longing does stir in me, sire. It is a steady yearning and a fiery pain that cannot be doused. I wish it were not so, but what I wish seems to be of little consequence."

"So you do seek to pass the Havens."

"Nay," Legolas murmured, his eyes distant. "Nay, not yet."

Thranduil arched an elegant eyebrow and studied the youngest prince of Mirkwood with thoughtful scrutiny. "Legolas, two of your brothers felt this longing and nothing could bar their way once their hearts were set. What holds you here?"

Legolas hesitated. His father would never understand his true reasons for staying, but he had never lied outright to the king and did not think he could start now. Diversion and misinformation were tactics he used often enough, but bold-faced lie in answer to a direct question… "I do not ask you to understand, father," Legolas said at length, "for I fear you would not."

"Wouldn’t I?"

Legolas cringed slightly upon hearing the sharp indignation in Thranduil’s voice, but at the same time, he felt a flash of anger. He was no longer a child, and his father was overstepping his boundaries. It was true that Thranduil outranked him in elven hierarchy, but protocol and tradition did not give a more powerful elven ruler the right to demand things of another elven ruler. And since Legolas was now technically Lord of Ithilien and had been recognized as such by both Celeborn and Aragorn, his father no longer held direct authority over his actions.

"You have never felt this," Legolas eventually answered, quelling his temper but making his tone slightly more forceful. "You cannot know what might bind an elf to Middle Earth to the extent that even the sea-longing can be endured."

"Then indulge my curiosity," Thranduil said coolly. They were back in the clearing now and the king of Mirkwood stopped, turning and confronting his youngest son through narrowing eyes. "What binds you here?"

"Personal matters," Legolas answered, his own eyes darkening and his voice containing a note of finality that could not be mistaken.

"Passing years do not affect my mind as they might affect the minds of your mortal friends," Thranduil warned. "You have not the ability to hide things from me, son. I raised you and taught you despite my wife’s death at your birth. Your training comes from me, and a student shall not defeat the master."

"But I am a student no longer," Legolas hissed, stepping closer to his father. "And my mother’s death was no fault of mine. Ever have you sought to blame me for that, but if there is a fault, it lies with you. Had you listened to the healer, my mother might have lived."

"You tread dangerous ground, elfling," Thranduil warned, his voice cold and forbidding. "It is as I feared. The mortals have affected your mind."

"If they have, it has been to my good fortune," Legolas shot back, his voice rising in anger. "I no longer see the world as your twisted vision would have me see it. To you, men are but toys while hobbits and dwarves are completely beneath your notice. But I have lived among these Races, father. I have traveled with them, fought with them, laughed with them, and cried with them. Men are valiant, perhaps more so than elves, for shortened years push them to progress quickly and change what they can in their lifetime. Hobbits are stubborn, loyal, and as drawn to nature as any of the Eldar. And as for the dwarves, I have never seen a Race more devoted, more passionate, or more courageous, and I thank the Valar that your veil of prejudice was lifted from me so that I might name one elvellon."

"You have taken a complete leave of your senses! I had hoped that the matter of this dwarf was but a rumor of the minstrels, yet I see now that madness grips you. Not only do you associate with the heir of a man who was corrupted by the Enemy despite the death of his father and the sacrifice of the elves, but you have bestowed the rights of an elf-friend upon one of the grasping children of Aulë!"

"Speak no evil of Aragorn or Gimli!" Legolas commanded, elven anger now in full flow. "By sword and axe they fought the minions of Mordor and overcame enemies that would cause one such as you to swoon at their very sight!"

"How dare you dishonor me!" Thranduil’s anger rose to match his son’s and their voices carried loud in the morning air. "And not only do you dishonor me but you dishonor your kindred."

"If we speak of dishonor, dear father, then let us remember your march on Dale and the Lonely Mountain. How did that bring the elves of Mirkwood honor? Well do I remember the Battle of Five Armies, and because of your stubborn pride, hundreds of brave warriors were lost to us that day. And for what? For the emeralds of Girion! Explain to me how such trinkets could justify the slaughter of our kindred!"

"If you think to—"

"Thranduil! Legolas!"

King and prince froze as their names were called. As one, they turned and discovered that at some point during their argument they had acquired an audience. A growing crowd of elves was gathering on the edge of the clearing. Most of them had risen in the early morning to partake of the day ere duties required their minds to look elsewhere, but now they watched the royal blood of Mirkwood closely, fearing a physical confrontation was only moments away. Separating himself from the other elves, Celeborn walked forward and favored both father and son with a look that would curl a troll’s hide.

"We gathered to Rivendell for celebrations and rejoicing. We did not gather to fight amongst ourselves," Lothlórien’s ruler informed them tersely. "If you have more to say to one another, I suggest you do it behind closed doors."

There was a moment of awkward silence during which the tension in the air became a palpable, grasping thing. Then Legolas stepped away, taking the initiative and wishing to be far from his father at the moment. "I have nothing more to discuss, Lord Celeborn. My apologies," the prince said smoothly, bowing gracefully to the other elf. "And as I am the younger, I shall take myself elsewhere so that no trouble comes of this." Straightening, he cast a final, dark glare in his father’s direction and walked out of the clearing, ignoring the hushed murmurs that rose up behind him. His mind burned with anger and he was wondering how his father had ever come to be trusted with the rule of a kingdom when a painfully familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Legolas?"

The elf froze, hoping against all reason that the owner of that particular voice had not heard the argument in the clearing. Turning slowly, he swallowed hard and summoned a weak smile. "Good morning, Gimli."

The dwarf leaned against a pillar and folded his arms, deep-set eyes watching Legolas carefully. "Is it? Judging from your expression, the morning has been less than good." A strangely predatory smile crept over his face and he chuckled slightly. "And despite the fact that I am a grasping child of Aulë, your father might agree with me in this. What think you? Should we ask him?

"Gimli, I…" Legolas trailed off, unsure of how he could possibly explain his father’s actions. "What you heard…I know how you—"

"Legolas." Gimli’s soft tone stopped the elf in the midst of his stammered attempt at an apology, and the dwarf smiled again, this time a genuine smile with a touch of sadness. "Don’t." He sighed and pushed off the pillar, walking toward his best friend. "You are no more your father than Aragorn is Isildur or Elendil. His actions are not your own. Do not take responsibility for them."

"I am sorry you had to hear that," Legolas said quietly, looking back toward the clearing where elves were still gathered.

"Why?" Gimli followed his gaze and shrugged. "My kind has never been overly fond of your kind, and that feeling is more than reciprocated. You and I carried those prejudices once. Why should it bother me to hear them? Is that not in the past as far as we are concerned?"

"I fear that elves are more bound to the past than are dwarves," Legolas said sadly. His bright eyes closed and he shook his head. "My father remembers only the failures of men and the grief that has come to our kind because of it. He sees nothing for the future and so our people diminish. They have no hope for tomorrow as they are locked in yesterday." The prince sighed and then started walking toward the house, slowing a bit when Gimli began walking with him. "I must confess, though, that I am surprised by your reaction. You are usually quick to defend yourself."

Gimli laughed slightly. "I am equally surprised. I did not think to see the day when I would listen to ill talk and stand idle, especially if such ill talk involved elves and dwarves. But then, neither did I think to see the day when you would openly confront your father. Perhaps he spoke truly in one case. Perhaps I have affected your mind, and in turn, perhaps you have affected mine. I find I am more patient than other dwarves now, whereas I perceive that you have become bolder than other elves. But whatever the reason, I did not think I should give your father yet another excuse for hating dwarves by barging in where I was unwelcome. It would not have aided your cause and might have done more harm than good."

"Your thoughts are clearer than mine today," Legolas said, glancing back at the clearing. The elves were dispersing now, but the feeling of tension and anger still lingered. The prince sighed with the knowledge that he had in part caused such a mood to fall in fair Rivendell. And yet how else could I have acted? For I will be an Orc’s willing servant before I allow my father to restrict my rule in Ithilien. Legolas sighed again and shook his head. "Gimli, by your leave, I would take some time for thought alone."

The dwarf studied the elf’s bright eyes for a moment and then nodded reluctantly. "If you think that best."

"I know not if it is best, but it is necessary. My mind is in turmoil, and I must sort through my feelings."

"Then I will see you at the midday meal. But if you desire to speak with me, Legolas, you have but to call," Gimli said, concern coloring his voice. "Two may find counsel where one is lost, and I am more than willing to aid you."

"I know, my friend," Legolas answered, his voice soft and reflective. "And I am grateful. Thank you." And with that, he vanished into the house.

* * * *

Aragorn leaned over one of Rivendell’s many balconies and sighed. For his childhood and much of his youth, this had been his home. He had grown here, learned here, loved here, and grieved here. There was no room he had not explored, no tree he had not climbed, and no rock he had not overturned. This was home in ways that Minas Tirith could never equal. As much as he loved the White City, Rivendell would forever be closest to his heart. Returning here always held so many memories…

It was in this protected valley that Aragorn had first met Gandalf. The king smiled slightly, remembering that day. Newly returned from the Wild, he’d been only twenty-four at the time and still struggling to comprehend the awesome responsibility of the lineage that had been revealed to him just four years earlier. Aragorn’s meeting with Gandalf had been more a chance encounter than anything else—actually it had been a rather violent encounter as it involved a race against Elrohir cut short by a painful surprise collision—but despite the inauspicious circumstances, it had marked the beginnings of a long and fruitful friendship. Gandalf had immediately sensed the burden Aragorn felt beneath the weight of his heritage—as well as the burden he was upon the old wizard’s chest—and for his part, Aragorn had sensed a much greater burden upon the back of Gandalf—in addition to Elrohir on his own back.

"Ah Gandalf," Aragorn murmured with a sad smile, his whispered words hanging in the air as the morning mists lingered still in the valley. "Whither now do you wander? I wonder if you have at last found peace. And I wonder if you know just how much your presence is missed."

If anyone deserved a rest, it was Gandalf. For long, thankless years, he had labored on behalf of Middle Earth, rallying the elves, aiding the dwarves, defending the hobbits, and advising the men. His assistance had proved invaluable and Sauron could not have been defeated were it not for Gandalf’s efforts. He was certainly justified in departing over the sea with Elrond and Galadriel. And yet…Aragorn was just selfish enough to wish that the wizard had lingered in Middle Earth a while longer. Great had been their friendship, and now that Gandalf was gone, Aragorn felt as though an emptiness had come upon the land.

"It has changed much," a soft voice whispered beside the king.

Aragorn looked up as Arwen joined him on the balcony. For her sake, he had actually hesitated before making the long journey from Gondor. One does not refuse an invitation from the sons of Elrond or the lord of Lothlórien, but in spite of this, he had still paused. Arwen had looked forward to and rejoiced in meeting with her brothers again, but she also sorrowed over the departure of her father. Returning to Rivendell was bittersweet to her. She had spent generations uncounted in its peaceful solace, and coming back stirred memories of past years. She could recall the might and splendor of Rivendell when the elves still held great power in the eyes of all Middle Earth. Imladris was fading now, diminishing to a rustic colony of lingering Sindarin and Silvan elves.

Aragorn also noted the changes within Rivendell, but his senses were not elven senses and he did not doubt but that Arwen saw and felt a great deal more. Still, even a mortal could feel the dimming of elven laughter and the fading of elven song. In losing Elrond, Rivendell had lost the protective power of Vilya. Elladan and Elrohir remained as did some of the other elves, but the First-born had departed with the bearers of the Three and their grace and power had been taken from Middle Earth. Though still great and still seen as an elven sanctuary, Rivendell was no longer as it was. The outside world was changing, and Rivendell had begun to change with it.

"I fear that time has caught Imladris," a new voice said. Celeborn stepped out from the house and sighed slightly. In the years Aragorn had known him, he had never seen him show visible signs of weariness until now. The king of Lothlórien seemed old in a way that no elf should ever seem. His silver hair still shone bright as the stars, his face was still flawless in elven beauty, his eyes still sparkled with mirth, but there was something about him…something different. Aragorn narrowed his eyes, trying to define exactly what had changed. After a moment’s scrutiny, Aragorn decided that Celeborn was tired. It could not be discerned by sight, but Aragorn was convinced that this was the case. The elf was exhausted. Weary. Perhaps his loneliness in the wake of Galadriel’s departure was too much for him, for he had elected to stay in Lothlórien while she sought the Havens. His land had held him back, and bitter had been their parting. Aragorn wondered if Celeborn now regretted his decision to stay.

"You seem troubled," Gondor’s king eventually said, watching the elf closely in order to gauge his reaction.

"Troubled?" Celeborn frowned and looked out over Rivendell, turning so that the spring breezes swept his hair out of his face. "Perhaps. If I am, I am troubled for the passing of the land. These trees, these stones…they were laid down by the elves. We depart, but they remain. And they sorrow as we leave them, for we cannot take them with us."

"But I deem the sorrow is not as great here as it is in Lothlórien," Arwen said quietly, running sharp eyes over her grandfather. "I hear in your voice that you are more than troubled. You despair."

"Despair is a strong term, young one," Celeborn said quietly. "Take care in how you use it."

Arwen ignored the implied rebuke and continued to examine the full elf. "But it is true, is it not? You despair. You weary of Lothlórien, but you did not think to weary of it."

Aragorn slid a hand around Arwen’s waist, cautioning her against saying too much. But his fears proved groundless as Celeborn reluctantly nodded, confirming Arwen’s words. "You see what cannot be hid from keen eyes and trained minds," Celeborn said, his voice soft as the wind drifting over grass. "I do weary of Lothlórien. I have something of an announcement to make during the festivities three days from now."

Aragorn frowned and studied Celeborn intently. "And to what does this announcement pertain?"

"I would be announcing it now if I speak of it to you," Celeborn replied, a hint of mirth reappearing in his bright eyes. "And did I not just say that I intend to announce it during the celebration of Sauron’s destruction and the New Year’s birth?"

Aragorn ruefully shook his head and smiled slightly. "I should know better by now that coaxing a mystery from an elf is as profitable as pressing water from a rock. Keep your secrets then, but if you have need of anything, I am at your disposal."

"I thank you for that," Celeborn said, his voice sincere and grateful. "But at the moment, I believe we have other matters that demand our attention." He turned away and looked back into the house. "You may come forth now, Legolas."

Aragorn blinked and turned. Even Arwen seemed startled. Stepping out of the shadows and looking rather embarrassed at having been caught, Legolas moved forward and bowed low. "My apologies. I did not mean to disturb you, my lieges, but—"

Aragorn waved his hand. "Skip the formalities, Legolas. We have endured too much together to be troubled with them."

The prince’s eyes sparkled with hidden amusement. "Was not the attainment of Gondor’s crown the greatest goal and quest in your life? How is it that you seek to hide from the privileges it brings?"

"Perhaps I understand more fully why you could never be bothered to spend much time at your father’s court in Mirkwood," Aragorn answered. He was about to go on, but he stopped when something strange flashed through Legolas’s eyes. Aragorn’s brow furrowed. His first instinct was to call it resentment, yet how would that relate to the court of Mirkwood? But he was not allowed to question the elf as Legolas quickly changed the subject.

"I have come to beg a request of you," he said, his manner becoming stately and royal.

"And what would be this request?" Celeborn asked, changing his tone and demeanor to match the younger elf. To Aragorn’s eyes, it appeared that Celeborn knew or guessed something of this request, but for the life of him, the king could not fathom what.

"The hobbits are due to arrive this afternoon, but we are all well aware of their propensity for losing their way," Legolas said. "I would ask that Gimli and I be sent to guide them past the Ford of Bruinen and into Rivendell."

Arwen entwined her hand in Aragorn’s, signaling him that something was amiss. Aragorn squeezed her hand slightly in response, acknowledging the message. "We had planned to send out an honor guard from Gondor within the hour," he told Legolas, watching the elf closely. "Pippin is a knight in my realm and it would be a fitting greeting."

"Yes, it would be a grand gesture for Pippin," Legolas allowed, speaking slowly and deliberately. "But hobbits have not the appetite for finery and ceremony that men do. I think they would be better served if they were met by old friends. Such an act might be more to the liking of a hobbit and would better include Merry, Sam, and his family. An honor guard is an honor primarily for Pippin."

Aragorn frowned. Legolas’s wisdom could not be refuted, but Arwen was right. Something was definitely amiss. Today did not seem to be a good day for the elves. First Arwen, then Celeborn, and now Legolas. "We could send Gimli alone or with a small escort," Aragorn answered, choosing his words with care. "You could then stay and spend more time with your father and your kinsmen from Mirkwood."

There it was again. Aragorn was certain of it this time. Legolas’s eyes darkened with anger and distaste, but this time Aragorn could identify from whence this came. It was at the mention of the prince’s father. Yet before Aragorn could speak of it, the anger was gone, concealed quickly with elvish skill and driven back into the depths of Legolas’s mind. "It would be foolish to send only Gimli," the elven prince said with a smile that did not ring completely true. "He knows the way little better than the hobbits do. He would only aid them in companionship as they all became hopelessly lost together."

"You speak truly, Legolas," Arwen said, her rich voice breaking through the tension that Aragorn had not even realized was building. "I see no reason why plans cannot be altered. What say you, King Elessar?"

Aragorn nodded, reading much in his wife’s gaze. "It shall be so. Legolas, you and Gimli are tasked with finding our hobbit friends and getting them safely here. I wish you luck on this endeavor. It may not be the most dangerous mission you have undertaken, but doubtless it will be difficult to keep the wandering, hungry hobbits from straying."

"Thank you, my liege," Legolas said with a low bow. Nodding respectfully to Celeborn, he turned and left the balcony, vanishing into the shadows of the house.

"He desires to be away from his father," Arwen said quietly.

"And he desires to take Gimli with him," Celeborn added, his shrewd eyes following the departing figure of the elf through the house’s shadows until the prince turned a corner down a hallway. "Did you hear the of the confrontation this morning?"

"I did not," Aragorn said, his eyes narrowing. "I have heard nothing of such things."

"Nor have I," Arwen seconded.

"I cannot say that surprises me," Celeborn murmured. "It was quite early and few were up and about, but I fear Gimli heard much of it, for I saw him shortly afterwards. Doubtless they thought they were alone, but…" Celeborn trailed off and shook his head. "If Gimli did not hear it then, someone will have told him of it by now. Either way, he knows what happened."

"But I do not," Aragorn said, feeling as though Celeborn was speaking in endless circles. "Nor does Arwen. Would you care to inform us since it seems to be enough to drive Legolas from Rivendell?"

"I do not know if it is my place to say," the elf answered slowly, pausing to consider the matter.

"You have already said much," Arwen observed.

"I have said only enough to alert you to the situation," Celeborn replied.

"And yet we still do not know what that situation is," Aragorn pressed.

The elven lord of Lothlórien looked out over Rivendell and shook his head. "I fear it is not for me to tell you. If you truly seek answers, speak with Thranduil or Legolas. Or perhaps even Gimli. They can tell you better than I." And with that, Celeborn turned and vanished swiftly into the house, leaving a confused Aragorn and Arwen to ponder over his mysterious words.

* * * *

"Legolas!"

Shouldering his bow and a full quiver of arrows, Legolas stormed out of the main entry hall, hoping to find solace in the outside world. His walk was swift, and before the fury of his eyes, many elves blanched and turned away.

"Legolas!"

Checking his belt to see that his long, white knife was near at hand should it be required on the journey—or in the immediate future—Legolas quickened his pace. Footsteps hastened behind him and the elf gritted his teeth. He had hoped to vanish quietly this day, but it seemed that would not be possible and he had yet to find Gimli. Still, he continued on, pointedly ignoring the voice that called him. Perhaps he could elude pursuit and circle back to collect the dwarf…

"As your king, young prince, I command you to stay!"

Closing his eyes, Legolas stopped and cursed loudly in the dwarven tongue. It was a calculated slap in the face as well as a means of venting frustration. Under Gimli’s instructive tutelage during the occasional campfire disaster or boating mishap, Legolas had learned that the dwarves were masters of imaginative curses. And right now, the elf could think of no better way to express his anger than to cry for a large dragon to arise, steal his father’s gold, and then roast his liver on a spit for its offspring.

"You will turn and face me, Legolas," Thranduil commanded harshly with barely restrained anger, apparently somewhat familiar with this particular dwarven curse.

Narrowing his eyes to slits, Legolas turned and folded his arms across his chest, the picture of defiance. "And what do you have to say, sire, that you did not say earlier this morning. For unless your mind has altered, I see no purpose in speaking to you."

"That is not for you to decide, boy!" Thranduil fumed, his dark eyes flashing with fire. "Your actions this morning were unacceptable, and you continue to act as a mere child. If things do not change, you will be returning to Mirkwood with me."

Hot rage boiled through the prince’s blood, and before he knew quite what he was doing, he was advancing on Thranduil. So sudden were his actions that the king actually found himself backing away in a bizarre and discomfiting role reversal. "Listen well, father," Legolas said, his voice low, tight, and dangerous. "You may be a king and I may be a prince beneath you in the realm of Mirkwood, but I am no longer under your command. I lead the elves of Ithilien and you have neither the right nor the authority to order my actions. I am no longer a youth, sire. I have not been a youth since my days as a member of the Fellowship, and you would be wise to remember that."

"Your words are madness!" Thranduil hissed, furious that his youngest son was speaking to him in such a manner. "Control yourself quickly or I will be forced to summon the guards and restrain you."

"You would restrain me?" Despite the situation, Legolas found himself laughing. "If you wish a contest, I will summon the men of Gondor, for under Aragorn I am able to command them."

"You would not dare oppose me!"

"Will you chance that? Come, the choice is yours, oh king," Legolas challenged, making the title akin to an insult. "Shall we have blood spilt upon Rivendell’s fair grounds?"

"Legolas!"

Once again caught, the two elves froze and slowly turned to see a dwarf standing casually off to the side, the haft of his axe resting easily between his folded arms. Thranduil stiffened in anger, and Legolas felt himself grow pale with the knowledge that Gimli had overheard them for the second time that morning.

"If we are to heed Aragorn’s orders, we must leave now," Gimli said, his voice quiet and calming. "I have already found Arod and he waits near the Ford for us. I trust you are ready and have no further business in Rivendell?"

"How dare you—"

"I have no important business here," Legolas said, interrupting his father quickly and walking toward the dwarf. "Let us depart."

"A good day to you, great King of Mirkwood," Gimli said pleasantly enough to the older elf. He bowed and then turned away, falling easily into step with Legolas. Out of unconscious habit, Legolas shortened his stride slightly while the dwarf lengthened his. To even the most casual of observers, it was clear that the two had traveled together often and were completely at ease with one another’s pace and manner of walk. And Thranduil was far more than a casual observer.

"Legolas, if you—"

"I fear we must continue this another time, dear father," Legolas called back, and in his voice was a maddening calm that only served to further enrage the other elf. "Gimli and I have been ordered to provide escort for the hobbits who will arrive this evening." And having said this, the two vanished into the dense forest surrounding Rivendell, leaving Thranduil alone with his anger.

Elvellon—Elf-friend

Chapter 4: Evil in the Wood

Darkness poured through the forests west of Rivendell, flowing from shadow to shadow and tainting the fair woods with a foul stain of evil. The free creatures of the forests shuddered and fled before the onslaught that washed through their homes. The air grew still and the trees ceased their whispers as ironclad feet marched across their deep roots. Such evil had not been seen in this part of the world for nearly five years, and all living things trembled at the thought that the shadow of the Enemy had returned. Birds took to the skies, fleeing this new threat. Deer bounded through shaded runways, anxious to outpace the fell creatures that marched behind them. Those not able to run withdrew, hiding from the light of day in the hopes that this would also hide them from the sight of evil. Rumor spread quickly that ill things were abroad upon the land, and fear rippled through the forests as might waves of water ripple in the wake of a thrown stone. All soon knew of the coming shadow, and the woods became silent and still. Nothing dared to move, and nothing dared to breathe. The trees themselves waited with frozen hearts, hoping against hope that the evil would pass on and leave them in peace. And as the creatures of the forest recoiled in terror or fled in fear, a veil of darkness seemed to drop over all.

* * * *

Meriadoc Brandybuck abruptly pulled his pony to a halt. The animal shook its head, irritated at this sudden and seemingly needless interruption of a steady pace, but the hobbit paid it not heed. He sensed…a change in the surrounding forest. Something was different. He felt as though a shadow had been cast over his heart. His skin seemed to be plagued by a crawling cold and his right arm—the arm he had used to stab a Nazgul five years ago—began to throb slightly. A hint of darkness swept through his thoughts, and he shivered, wondering at this sudden change. It was vague enough and subtle enough that he could not say what exactly had happened or was happening, but something…something was not right.

"Merry?" Realizing that his friend was no longer beside him, Pippin looked over his shoulder at the knight of Rohan with confusion and a touch of exasperation. "Merry, did your pony throw a shoe again? I told you we should have stopped by that stream back there to look at his feet, but you insisted that—"

"There’s something out there."

Pippin frowned. "What do you mean? What’s out there?"

"I…I don’t know, but Pippin, something is out there."

Slightly behind the other two hobbits, Sam caught this last remark and frowned. There was a note of fear and concern in Merry’s voice that he didn’t like. "Rosie?" he said, turning back and addressing the hobbit riding a few yards behind him. "Wait here a bit, all right? I need to ask Merry and Pippin something."

Unable to miss the slight alarm in her husband’s tone, Rosie studied Sam a bit and eventually nodded. "Go ahead, then. I’ll wait. And Sam, if possible, ask them to stop soon. Elanor needs a slight break," she said, indicating the four-year-old hobbit sitting in front of her and playing happily with the pony’s mane.

"I’ll see what we can manage," Sam answered, spurring his own pony forward. Seeing his approach, Merry and Pippin both urged their mounts ahead a bit so that Rosie and Elanor were out of hearing. "What’s wrong?" Sam hissed.

"Merry thinks something’s watching us," Pippin answered, casting a curious look at the Brandybuck.

"No, I don’t think something’s watching us," Merry corrected, eyeing the forest distrustfully. "I have no idea if something’s watching us. But I do think that something’s out there. Actually, no," he said with a shake of his head. "I don’t think. I know."

"How? How do you know this?" Sam asked, feeling a shadow of fear clutch at his heart.

Merry sighed, wondering how he could put this into understandable and relatively coherent words. "I don’t know that I can really explain. But I feel cold. Faint, somehow. And something isn’t right. I can sense it. Something has changed and it’s not a change for the best. It’s almost as if…I feel as though…" He trailed off, realizing that he was not making much sense and deciding to give up on the attempt. He turned back to the forest, still sensing the approach of darkness, and he unconsciously began rubbing his right arm.

"Muscle twinge?" Pippin asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Merry blinked and looked down. "Well, no, but…it hurts. No, that’s not the right word. It doesn’t really hurt. It’s strange, actually. It almost feels like it did after…you remember, on the Pelennor after…well, after he came and I stabbed him and…and then…" Merry waved his hand, still at a loss for words. "Like that," he finished lamely. "It feels like that."

"Just like that," Pippin repeated slowly, studying his friend carefully.

"You mean after you and Eowyn killed the Witch-king? After that?" Sam pressed, chills of fear beginning to sweep up his spine. He silently thanked the Valar that he had left the year-old Frodo at home with the Gaffer, but the safety of Elanor and Rose now concerned him greatly.

"After that," Merry murmured, his eyes clouding.

"The woods are very quiet," Pippin allowed, glancing into the forests that surrounded the Road. "But the horses aren’t spooked and I don’t sense anything unusual."

"Don’t you?" Merry shook his head and blinked, seeming to come back to himself. "Maybe it’s nothing, then. But I still feel…I feel we should travel faster. I’ll feel safer if we get to Rivendell." He stopped and frowned, going back over what he’d just said. "I’ll feel safer when we get to Rivendell," he said firmly, hoping he could convince not only Pippin and Sam but also himself.

"Actually, Rosie was wondering if we could stop and let Elanor wander around a bit," Sam confessed. "But if you feel that—"

"No," Merry said with a shake of his head. "No, it’s probably just my imagination. I can never travel east and feel truly safe, I guess. Memories and all that. I’m sure you understand."

"What about just a quick break?" Pippin suggested, beginning to feel slightly edgy himself but hesitant to spread further alarm. "The ponies would probably appreciate it and I wouldn’t mind the chance to stretch my legs. If I remember rightly, there’s a clearing about half a mile down the road if Elanor can last that long."

"That would be fine," Sam assured him. "Merry, does that sound all right with you?"

"Yes, of course," Merry answered a little too quickly. Sam couldn’t help but notice how closely his friend continued to watch the forest. Still, it was only Merry who seemed to sense that something was wrong. Perhaps it was just the resurfacing of old memories. And I’ve enough of those to send us all scurrying for cover, Sam thought bitterly to himself. With a shake of his head, he turned his pony and beckoned to Rosie.

"We’re going to stop after about half a mile where there’s a nice clearing," he told her when she drew near. "How does that sound?"

"Wonderful, Sam," Rosie answered, fixing her husband with a rather disconcerting and strangely piercing gaze. "And when we get there, maybe we can all speak together without worrying about what Elanor might hear."

"There yet?" Elanor asked hopefully, looking up at the mention of her name.

"Not yet, dear," Rosie soothed. "A little longer. After a while, we can stop and you can run about." Elanor seemed satisfied with this and went back to playing with the pony’s mane, babbling happy nonsense as she did so. Rosie smiled at her and then looked up at Sam. "Let us continue."

Sam nodded, turned his pony, and started off at a quick trot, following Merry and Pippin who were beginning to draw ahead. But he couldn’t seem to help darting quick, furtive glances into the woods. And now that he considered the idea a bit more, the forests did seem a little too quiet. Perhaps Merry was right. He shivered and fingered Sting, which was strapped to his belt and lay hidden beneath his cloak. Rosie had frowned when he’d put it on at the beginning of their journey, but he would not leave it aside and he was glad now that he had it. If anything sought to harm his family, they would have Samwise Gamgee to deal with.

"Sam?"

Under Rosie’s questioning gaze, Sam shook himself and smiled reassuringly, hoping to allay any fears she might be developing, though he knew it was probably too late for that. Rosie was a sharp lass, and she could plainly see that something troubled her husband. Nor did Sam think that he could hide this from her, for he was now quickly reaching the conclusion that Merry’s instincts were right. One did not travel through Mordor without developing a sense of its darkness and influence, and Sam was beginning to feel what Merry had felt earlier. There was something wrong in the forest. There was something there that should not have been there.

Keeping a sharp eye out for anything that might assail them, Sam quickened the pace of his horse and loosened Sting in its scabbard. In any case, it never hurt to be prepared.

* * * *

Elladan pulled his horse to a stop and sighed, glancing back once at Rivendell and then turning his gaze to the south, following the line of the Misty Mountains. The atmosphere back in Imladris was one of tension and brooding, and Elladan had finally consented to follow Elrohir’s counsel. Actually, it was not so much counsel but a command in one of those rare instances where Elladan was reminded that although he was the firstborn twin, Elrohir was the military commander of Rivendell and not at all hesitant of using his authority as such. Shortly after the early morning argument between Legolas and Thranduil, Elrohir had found his brother agonizing over how to bring peace again to Rivendell and had bluntly ordered him in no uncertain terms to take a ride and clear his mind.

Elladan gave a short, mirthless laugh, for it seemed to him that he could only follow part of his brother’s orders. It had been easy enough to delegate his duties for the day and ride south on his favorite horse, but as for clearing his mind…well, that was a different matter.

What is wrong with me?! Elladan shook his head fiercely and dismounted, allowing his horse to wander in search of tender greens. He wondered if he was upset only by the morning’s argument that had unfortunately been witnessed by many elves. Disagreements and differences of opinion were common enough among the Eldar, for centuries of life will give rise to different ways of thinking. But contentious arguments, particularly between two of royal blood, were rare, and when they did happen, it was usually behind closed doors.

But Elladan sensed that the fight between Thranduil and Legolas was not the main cause of his unease, though it certainly contributed to his overall anxiety. No, the primary source was something different. It was something far more illusive, and he wondered if it might be related to the same feeling of foreboding he had experienced the night before Arwen and Aragorn arrived with their company. Experience told him there was no such thing as coincidence, but if that was true, then where was the relation? What evil went forth in the mountains and how did it affect Rivendell? And why did his feeling of darkness and shadow seem stronger today?

It made no sense! He had felt this way when the White Council had driven Sauron from Dol Guldur, which also happened to be the same year that Bilbo had found the Ring. And he’d felt this way when the Nine rose again and cross the Fords of Isen and later the Sarn Ford, driving the Rangers before them. And he’d also had great feelings of unease the morning before Glorfindel and Aragorn—along with three hobbits, Asfaloth, and an unkempt pony—raced into Rivendell bearing a wounded Frodo and the One Ring. So if the impetus behind my feelings is primarily Mordor and specifically the One Ring and the Nazgul, what is the source of my unease now? Elladan wondered, trying to quell his growing frustration. Mordor had been defeated. The One Ring had been destroyed. The Nazgul had perished with their master. What evil stirred in the Misty Mountains that could raise such feelings of foreboding and apprehension in the son of Elrond?

He was pulled from his thoughts rather abruptly when sharp elven hearing alerted him to something approaching with stealthy movements. Reacting completely by instinct, he loosened his sword in its scabbard—thankful for the ingrained warrior’s habit of wearing his baldric outside of Rivendell—and leaped into the nearest tree. Climbing quickly, his sharp eyes scoured the area and soon found the disturbance. Even with elven sight, it was difficult to make out exactly what was creeping ever closer to Imladris’s borders, but a sudden rush of evil and malice left no doubt in Elladan’s mind as to what this creature was.

An Orc! And so close to Rivendell. Yet…why? Orcs are not the greatest of military strategists, but neither are they so foolish as to brave an elven stronghold when it is known that many elves guard it. Elladan had no ready answers to his questions, but he did know of a way to obtain answers. Scanning the area before the hated creature and pushing aside—for the moment, anyway—his very personal loathing of Orcs, Elladan traced out its most probable path through the heavy forests and hurried forward on an intercept course.

If the Orc was quiet, then Elladan was as the shadow of death. Without so much as a hint of noise, the half-elf crept through the trees with no more disturbance than what a slight breeze might make. With his brother Elrohir, Elladan had been scouting the borders of Imladris since he’d been old enough to draw a bow, and he knew every tree and every stone. He knew where to place his feet and where to tread. He knew the moods of the forest and he knew how to blend his presence with the whispers of the plants, disappearing to all but the sharpest eyes. Another elf casually glancing his way would have been hard-pressed to mark his fleeting movements. Certainly the foul creature that Elladan stalked had no awareness of its own peril. Heedless of the hunter that moved swiftly toward him, the hulking beast continued unerringly toward Rivendell.

Elladan had now drawn quite close to the Orc, and he paused to consider his foe. Normally, he would not have waited a single moment to hurl a knife into the evil demon’s back, but the current conditions were rather unusual. First of all, this was no mountain goblin, and neither was it one of the Uruk-hai that occasionally escaped the vigilance of the Ents and wandered up from Isengard. This Orc wore a collection of mismatched armor that bore the ominous symbol of the Red Eye. But what is an Orc of Mordor doing west of the Misty Mountains? Elladan shook his head, attempting to decipher this unlikely turn of events. Perhaps the Orc itself was not from Mordor and had taken the armor from another Orc. But then how had the armor made its way here? Someone or something had to have carried it. Which meant that somehow, an Orc in the direct service of Sauron had left the ruin of Mordor and made its way to the Misty Mountains.

Laying a hand to his sword hilt, Elladan’s jaw tightened as he considered the implications. He and Elrohir had kept a close watch upon the mountains since Elrond’s departure, and they knew very well that the remaining Orcs were rallying together. But they had not imagined that Orcs of Mordor would find their way into this land without perishing in Gondor, Rohan, or Greenwood the Great. Such a thing should not have happened, yet it now seemed clear that such a thing had indeed happened. And Elladan was going to find out why. This grotesque spawn of evil might possess the key to unraveling the half-elf’s strange sense of foreboding.

Without a hint of warning, Elladan sprang from the trees and slammed into the Orc’s back. The creature tumbled forward, crying loudly and cursing in its foul tongue, but the half-elf gave it no time to mount a counterattack or to even roll over. His sword swept outward and before the Orc had even completely realized what had attacked it, the tip of a blade was pressing against its throat and a foot was pressing into the Orc’s back, keeping it pinned to the ground.

"You were unwise to come so close to Rivendell," Elladan hissed, struggling to control his emotions. The idea of vengeance for his mother’s torture in the hands of the Orcs was rising to the forefront of his mind, but he pushed those thoughts away, knowing that above all else he must stay focused. "What was your purpose here, foul creature?" the half-elf demanded. "What did you hope to accomplish?"

The Orc spat an oath in the grating language of Mordor and Elladan pressed his sword down, forcing the tip into the thick, leathery skin of the neck. The Orc quieted and Elladan quickly realized two rather important things. First, this Orc was not a leader or even a particularly well-trained warrior as he was not struggling and was opting for an interrogation rather than death. Second, because he was a subordinate and a weakling, he was probably not alone in the forest. No Orc would have made it so close to Rivendell unaided if he lacked sufficient survival skills, and there seemed to be a rather pathetic dearth of those skills in this particular Orc.

"Where is your company," Elladan pressed, twisting his sword a bit for emphasis. "Where have they gone and why are you no longer with them?"

"Elf," the creature snarled, turning his head to the side so that he could see Elladan’s face. "Cursed, evil elf!"

"Answer!" Elladan commanded, driving his sword even deeper.

The Orc cried out and stiffened with pain. "West," he sniffled. "They went west."

"Where? What was their destination?"

"The Road," the wretched creature whined, feeling the tip of the blade press further into his neck. "They make for the Road. Master wants prisoners. Fellowship," he hissed, his eyes darkening in anger. "The Fellowship must perish."

Several thoughts flashed rapidly through Elladan’s mind, none of them very pleasant or comforting, but he pushed them aside and concentrated on finishing the interrogation. "Who is your master? Why does he want prisoners? What does he intend?"

The Orc snarled and began to tremble, but he squeezed his eyes shut and refused to answer. It seemed a shadow passed over his face and he moaned within himself. "Master," he murmured, almost seeming to chant the word. "Master."

"Who is your master?!" Elladan demanded.

"No!" the Orc screamed, and he surged upward in a sudden and startling frenzy of fear and anger. Unprepared for this action, Elladan had no time to react or adjust his position and the Orc impaled himself upon the half-elf’s sword. For a long moment, time seemed to freeze, and then the Orc went limp. His black blood dripped onto the lush grass below him, staining and soiling the dark earth.

With a grimace of disgust, Elladan pushed the creature off his sword and hastily wiped the blade across the Orc’s armor before returning it to its scabbard. The sword was in need of far more thorough cleaning, but at the moment, there was no time. Whistling shrilly for his horse, Elladan was soon mounted and galloping madly toward Rivendell. His feelings had been right. Something dark had been stirring and it was now headed for the hobbits. And what’s more, it seemed to be something out of Mordor. Forces had to be sent out at once to counter this threat.

Hunching low over his stallion’s neck, Elladan whispered encouraging words and urged the horse to even greater speeds. But a sinking feeling was already creeping over his elven heart. They had waited too long to act against the growing darkness in the mountains much as the White Council had waited too long to attack Sauron in Dol Guldur. It was doubtful that anyone in Rivendell would be able to reach the hobbits in time to warn or protect them. Elladan could only hope that Aragorn had already sent the planned honor guard and that they would be able to find the hobbits in time and hold off the attacking forces long enough for reinforcements to arrive. It was the only chance they had.

* * * *

"How did you know that we were to escort the hobbits?"

Startled by the sudden break in what had become a rather uneasy silence, Gimli jumped slightly and looked up at his companion. "My apologies, I was not paying attention. What did you say?"

"I asked how you knew we were to escort the hobbits," Legolas repeated, guiding Arod skillfully as the fiery horse cantered down the Road.

"Ah." The dwarf paused to collect his scattered thoughts. "Celeborn found me having a late breakfast and told me of your request before Aragorn. Since it seemed that I was included, I thought it best if I get ready to go. At that point, Celeborn mentioned that you had already stormed outside and that your father seemed to be following you. So I thought it best that I make haste and meet you before you did anything you might regret." Gimli looked up at Legolas, wishing he could see the elf’s face. "I almost arrived too late."

Legolas sighed, and it seemed to the dwarf that his friend was making a point of not looking back at him. "Your timing was good, elvellon," the prince murmured.

"My timing was exceptional," Gimli corrected. "You were threatening to attack the forces of Mirkwood with the forces of Gondor, and I arrived in time to prevent a bloodbath."

"There would have been no bloodbath; I was merely testing his resolve," Legolas protested. "I have no doubt but that he would have summoned guards to restrain me, but he would have stopped short of an armed conflict."

"So you say now, but what proof had you then?"

"He is my father," the elf murmured quietly, his voice almost lost beneath the sound of lightly falling hooves. "I learned from him, followed him, honored him, loved him, and I still love him. I know him well, and my instincts said that he would not act if such action would be the cause of bloodshed."

"What of yourself, then?" Gimli asked. "Was your resolve such that you would have called down Gondor’s guards in your defense?"

Legolas laughed quietly. "No, I do not think I would have. We are very similar, my father and I. Very similar in many ways." The elf sighed and shook his head. "My apologies, Gimli, for not consulting you ahead of time."

"Consulting me?" Gimli echoed, attempting to follow the elf’s flitting mind.

"Concerning the hobbits and the task of escorting them to Rivendell," Legolas clarified. "I spoke to Aragorn without your knowledge and volunteered your services without your consent."

"If it sets your mind at ease, you had no need to seek for my consent. I was thinking of asking to escort them myself," the dwarf said, dismissing the need for an apology. "It will be good to see them again."

"Still, I should have sought your opinion on the matter before acting," Legolas said.

"Perhaps," Gimli allowed. "But as upset as you were, I would have been surprised had you done nothing. In truth, I was worried because you had not acted earlier. I would much rather be told to escort hobbits than told to clean up your remains after you challenged your father."

"You think I would lose?"

"As adept as you are with a sword, your father is many times your senior and has far more experience. Perhaps you could best him in archery but not with the sword."

Legolas smiled slightly and shook his head. "I shall have to work on that, then. I fear I will have other encounters with my father ere our stay here is done."

"We could leave early," Gimli pointed out.

"We could," Legolas acknowledged, "but such a departure could be taken for defeat. And by the Valar, I will not have my father thinking he still holds sway over me! I am an elf, a prince, and I have more than earned the right to govern a portion of my people without answering to a higher authority. He trained me for such a task! Why should he doubt me when I choose to put his training to the test?"

"You are the youngest of your brothers," Gimli said gently, hoping he would not incur his friend’s wrath with his words. "And as the youngest, I think he will always see you as…well, as a child. Did you not tell me that your two oldest brothers fought with Gil-galad? And that was many years before you were born, was it not?"

"What of it?" Legolas asked warily.

"You do not see it yet? Think, Legolas! I know you are not as stupid as you appear to be."

"I take issue with that remark, stunted one," the elf said sternly with a sharp glance backwards, but a twinkle of mirth had entered his eyes.

"Take issue with what you may, it is true enough," Gimli said, smiling slightly. "You were born after some of your siblings had already proven themselves as warriors. You were always learning from them, always looking up to them. You were always the youngest and always the least experienced. You had the lesser skills and though you can now best your three remaining brothers in archery, it is still something that you feel must be proven. Is that not true?"

"To an extent," Legolas agreed, nodding slowly.

"But why should that be? You have proven it before, yet it is still something you doubt occasionally. You view yourself as young and inexperienced when compared to your brothers. Why should it strike you as odd, then, that Thranduil feels the same?"

"You speak wisely, Gimli," the elf said quietly after a moment of hesitation. "I feel I must overcome the shock of this first before I consider what you have said."

Gimli snorted and shook his head. "You wound me, Legolas," he said, striving to sound sorrowful. "I had thought my words of advice would be well received, but you treat them as though they are nothing to you."

"Should they be something to me?"

Gimli laughed quietly but did not respond. He was not truly in the mood for banter, in any case. The two confrontations between Legolas and his father had disturbed him, for he knew his friend looked up to Thranduil and it was not easy to see the elf at odds with the king.

"Do not trouble yourself on my behalf," Legolas said quietly, easily discerning the reason behind Gimli’s silence. "This morning’s confrontation has been long in coming. I have agreed with few of his recent actions, but until recently, I lacked the strength of will to make my opinion known. For better or for worse, that has now changed."

"Yet he is still your father," Gimli observed.

"He is, and I will always respect him, though he has not been the best of fathers," Legolas sighed. He shook his head and grimaced. "Must we continue to speak of this?"

"I think you need to speak of this, Legolas," Gimli said pointedly. "If, as you say, this confrontation has been long in coming, then you have carried your grudges about with you for many years. Two arguments with your father will not suffice."

"You think I should seek him out and argue with him again?" Legolas asked with a humorless laugh.

"If not with him, then at least with me."

Legolas smiled but shook his head. "As generous as your offer is, my friend, I fear to burden you with my grief lest all the accusations of the dwarves against the elves are proven true. Do not worry, for it is no great matter. Rest assured that elves have carried grudges far longer than I have carried mine."

"If you are certain," Gimli said hesitantly.

"I am."

"So long as you warn me before you lash out," Gimli said, shifting his weight as Arod turned a sharp corner beneath them. "I am familiar with elven speed and have no wish to be caught unawares."

"When I strike, you will be the first to know," Legolas promised with a mischievous smile.

Gimli sighed, shook his head, and the two then turned to talk of other things. Gimli still felt that Legolas was upset, but knowing firsthand how stubborn his friend could be when he did not wish to speak of something, the dwarf saw no point in pursuing the subject. Looking back later, he regretted this decision. Legolas’s latent anger was such that the elf was not giving heed to his senses. Had he done so, he might have realized that they were being watched. He might have realized that evil lurked close by. He might have realized that darkness was closing behind them, cutting off their path back to Rivendell. But he didn’t, and elf and dwarf continued to ride along the road, oblivious to the danger that observed them from the shadows.

* * * *

Thranduil was not a happy elf. A single glance at the king of Mirkwood was enough to reveal that fact, and even an Ent would not consider such a pronouncement to be a hasty conclusion. Anger seemed to pulse from the king, and he was filled with an intense rage that was comparable only to the rage he had felt shortly after Isildur’s failure to destroy the Ring. And for a life that now spanned four separate ages, that was saying quite a bit.

"Nogoth," Thranduil murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. He’d credited his son with more intelligence than to risk a friendship with a dwarf. Legolas knew of the long feud between their two Races, and while the prince had never said much on the subject, he’d clearly supported the elven cause whenever he had spoken. Dwarves were ultimately untrustworthy, and Thranduil shuddered to think of the consequences when Gimli eventually betrayed Legolas. Legolas was not an elf of degrees or partial efforts. When he gave his attention to a task, that task would occupy his mind until it was finished. When he gave his friendship, he gave it with all the long ages of Arda in mind. The breaking of such a trust might well break Legolas.

Beyond that, this was a mortal friendship. In fact, most of Legolas’s close friends were now mortals, and that was also a matter of deep concern for Thranduil. He had witnessed the effects of such bonds when an elf-friend died and left the elf behind to grieve. Such elves rarely stayed in Middle Earth but instead took to the sea, hoping against hope that they would find healing in the Undying Lands. But the sadness he had seen in their eyes ere they left…it was enough to cause even the king of Mirkwood to cringe and turn away. Mortal friendships always ended in heartache. There was no other way around it. And to watch helplessly as Legolas became encumbered by so many mortal friends…it was almost more than the king could take. The prince was a grown elf and a proven warrior and he did rule his own people, but a father’s love and concern were everlasting. Thranduil could not sit quietly by and watch as Legolas locked himself into a path of self-destruction.

With a deep sigh that bespoke countless ages and a great weariness, Thranduil sunk onto a stone bench near one of Rivendell’s many archways. After Legolas had left this morning in the company of that dwarf, the king of Mirkwood had come here in the hope of finding solace. This particular area reminded him very much of a glade in Mirkwood where a mound stood in memory of his departed wife. She had died in childbirth shortly following a surprise attack of Orcs and Wargs. The healer had been hard-pressed to save Legolas, and there had been no hope for Thranduil’s beloved Loswaia. She had died in his arms, sheltered beneath the trees she had loved and protected in the king’s firm embrace. Her last words had named their son, and Thranduil had promised to see that Legolas grew to be a son that did justice to her name. Perhaps the king had been hard on the youngest prince, but it was only to ensure that Loswaia’s sacrifice did not prove to be a vain one. She gave her life to bring Legolas into the world. Legolas would not disappoint her.

Thranduil sighed again and reached out to caress a trailing vine that snaked down from an overhanging branch and had wrapped itself upon part of the bench. He had come looking for solace, but he had found only empty memories of past years. Memories that clung to him much as the vine clung to the bench. Memories long past even to one of the Eldar, he thought bitterly.

"Your thoughts run deep today."

Thranduil was not used to being surprised. He was a veteran warrior of many battles and had lived through more ambushes and sieges than even he cared to admit. But at the moment, with his mind so firmly caught in the past and his fears so concerned with the future, he had failed to track the present, and quiet footsteps had gone unheeded. With a glare that had never failed to send his guards scrambling for cover, Thranduil looked up and found himself face to face with Celeborn. The anger swiftly vanished from his face to be replaced by a look of caution.

"The spirit of Rivendell lends itself to contemplation," Thranduil answered with an arching eyebrow, daring the other to pursue this conversation.

Having fielded such looks from Galadriel for several millennia, Celeborn smiled and happily took up the challenge. It had been a while since he’d encountered someone as closemouthed as his wife, and he was eager to see if his skills of prodding and prying were still up to par.

"You were not particularly contemplative this morning," the leader of Lothlórien remarked, choosing a rather bold statement for his opening gambit.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed and he rose from his bench so that he might be at eye level with Celeborn. "There are matters into which even you might fear to look, Lord Celeborn. I advise you to turn aside and seek no more for answers."

"You advise me to turn aside?" Celeborn said softly, and in his voice was a veiled warning to the king of Mirkwood that he would do well to remember his place in elven hierarchy. They were both Sindarin princes, but Celeborn’s marriage to Galadriel had lifted him above Thranduil’s station and he intended to use that advantage to its fullest.

"By your leave," Thranduil answered, and in his own voice was a returned threat of sorts. He was not an elf to back away and he did not obey orders well.

"I deny you my leave, then," Celeborn said. "You and your son were quite vocal this morning concerning many issues. There was discussion of men, dwarves, Isildur, your wife Loswaia, elf-friends…have I missed aught?"

"If you have a point, I suggest that you arrive at it quickly," Thranduil said, fighting down a rising feeling of impatience. "The methods I use for training my son are not open to discussion, and they are beyond your jurisdiction, Celeborn. Do not seek to involve yourself."

"I would not even think to involve myself were it not for the incident this morning. Your argument has cast a shadow upon Imladris, and you insulted friends that are here at my request. As their host, it is my duty to see that they are treated with respect and enjoy their stay. Elladan and Elrohir were responsible for inviting Aragorn and Arwen, but it was I who invited Legolas and Gimli."

"Then I question your choice in guests," Thranduil said bluntly. "Or rather, one guest in particular. Dwarves were not made for Rivendell, nor Rivendell for dwarves."

"Whence comes your hatred, Thranduil?" Celeborn demanded, pinning the king of Mirkwood beneath a gaze that had always managed to capture even Galadriel’s attention. "This loathing of men I can at least understand though not condone, but the dwarves…what great loss have you taken at their hands?"

"You surprise me," Thranduil answered. "Moria stands at your borders, and it was the dwarves who woke the Balrog."

"That may be so, but it does not explain your own hatred. Your realm is far to the north and untroubled by the creatures of Moria. Why this grief with the dwarves?"

Thranduil’s eyes smoldered with anger and he opened his mouth to answer, but the words never had an opportunity to emerge. Horns began ringing in the air, warning the valley of Rivendell and summoning the elves to arms. Frozen for only an instant, Celeborn and Thranduil leaped into action and began racing toward the main clearing along with other elves who now poured from the house and the forest. Such horns had not been heard in Rivendell since the destruction of Sauron, and all felt that a peace they had worked so long to preserve was now shattered. The darkness that had been skirting the boundaries of Rivendell was no longer a nightmare that lingered on the edge of elven senses. It was a reality.

Elvellon—Elf-friend

Nogoth—A dwarf (This particular word also carries the connotation of being "stunted," so it’s something of an insult.)

Chapter 5: Ambush

Aragorn sighed deeply, drinking in the smell and feel of life around him, and leaned back against the smooth trunk of a tall tree. At his side, Arwen smiled and tipped her head back onto his shoulder, wrapping her flawless hand around his tanned, weathered arm. They had come here in a search for solitude and quiet thought, intending to discuss the distant shadow in the mountains as well as the morning’s disturbing argument, both having heard enough through rumors to piece together what had taken place between Legolas and Thranduil. But now, caught between sunshine and birdsong and seated beneath the restful canopy of green trees, they both relaxed into the eternal embrace of the elven stronghold, content to simply exist and watch as the world revolved around them.

"Not all beauty was lost in the passing of Vilya, melethin," Aragorn whispered, rubbing his cheek against Arwen’s soft hair. "There is still song here, though it may be more distant. But it is not gone from Middle Earth."

"I know, love," Arwen murmured, closing her eyes and allowing Aragorn to pull her closer. "This land has seen great darkness and great evil, and ever has it endured. It shall take more than the passing of the elves for its song to fade, or such is my hope. Yet you cannot deny, Estel, that there is a sadness here. A note of discordant harmony that does not ring true. And while it may be that for elves there is always a touch of sadness, it is greater now. Stronger and more pervasive."

"Alas that all things must fade," Aragorn murmured. "I fear that in defeating a great evil, we have lost much. It is a grievous price that we have paid, and it seems to me that your people are still paying much of the cost."

"Our time is over," Arwen sighed. "We battled the Enemy for many years and with our victory comes the price for our vigilance. We exhausted our strength so that man might have a world free from the treacheries of Sauron. It was something we did gladly and of our own volition, but now that the end has come, we taste the bitter dregs that are our reward."

Aragorn could think of nothing to say in response to that, and instead pulled Arwen even tighter against his solid form, trying to impart comfort through touch rather than through words. In response, Arwen relaxed slightly and some of the sorrow seemed to drain away. The day became brighter, the birds became more cheerful, and the breeze in the treetops whispered quiet words that soothed the soul and lulled the mind. For one fleeting yet eternal moment, it seemed that all was right with the world.

The moment did not last long. The peaceful solace was abruptly shattered by a horn sounding from the north. Frozen for only a moment, both Aragorn and Arwen shot to their feet and began running, listening with fearful dread as even more horns began to sound. Breaking away from their sheltering grove of trees, they made for the main porch where all others would be gathering to receive news and instruction. Elves were now running all around them and Aragorn saw some of his own guards following the rest toward the house.

"Estel! Arwen!"

"Elrohir! What madness is this?" Aragorn demanded, slowing his pace as his foster brother came up behind him.

"In truth, I know not. The only news I have been able to gather is that the scouts along the northern boundaries have been attacked by a large company of Orcs, but how many beset us or what their intentions may be, none here can say." Elrohir’s head suddenly whipped around and he slowed his pace. "Aerhen! Man siniath od e forn?"

An elf appeared at his side, sketched a running bow, and answered quickly. "Yrch, brannon! Law istin gwenyd tîn, dan doegm danar ar e coth dadar norn."

"My liege! What orders?"

Aragorn turned as Imhran, his second-in-command, reached his side and the king noted that most of Gondor’s men were gathering around him. He signaled them onward with a nod and a quick hand gesture, promising information once they stopped. Reaching Rivendell’s main porch, which had served as a meeting place for the White Council and eventually the council that had formed the Fellowship, Aragorn stopped and beckoned his men closer.

"Rivendell is under attack from Orcs along its northern border. None know the number of the attackers, but the elves are in retreat. We shall join our forces with theirs. Ready your weapons and await my commands." Turning away from his men, Aragorn’s eyes met Arwen’s as a silent query passed between them and she nodded quickly.

"I shall find the rest and direct them here," she said in answer to his unspoken question. "Go now, my brother bids you join him."

Aragorn smiled a quick thanks and turned, moving quickly to Elrohir, who was continuing to receive the reports of scouts sent into Rivendell with news. "They say fifty, possibly more," Elrohir murmured as Aragorn joined him. "Certainly not enough to take Rivendell, but it is sufficient to harry the scouts and force us into battle. What think you?"

"Something in this is not right," Aragorn said, going over the situation with the practiced scrutiny of one who has fought the enemy for years. "Orcs prefer to attack in vast numbers. They would not challenge Rivendell without a host many times greater than ours. They are cowards at heart and need the strength in numbers to counter their fear of death."

"Your thoughts are mine," Elrohir said, his voice quiet and contemplative. He was a point of calm amidst the continuing horns and cries of the elves and men around them. "Still, I see no alternative but to engage them. We will let them play their game and then we shall trap them with it."

"What goes forth here?"

Elrohir and Aragorn turned to find Celeborn and Thranduil striding toward them. Celeborn nodded a quick greeting at Aragorn, but Thranduil ignored the king of Gondor completely, something that Aragorn had grown use to over the years. Even when he had entered Mirkwood with the captive Gollum, he had been paid no more attention than what common courtesy required, and neither he nor Thranduil had been sad to part company. It appeared that in this regard, things had not changed, and Aragorn began to understand a little better what had driven Legolas to lash out at his father.

"Orcs attack our northern borders," Elrohir answered with a short bow to Celeborn and a respectful nod at Thranduil. "If you would be willing to aid our cause, it would be appreciated."

"The forces of Mirkwood are at your disposal," Thranduil promised.

"The Galadhrim have always stood with Imladris," Celeborn added proudly.

"I thank you," Elrohir said. "If you would, I ask that you leave half of your elves here under an able commander, for this attack is strange and I like not what it may portend. We shall ride into battle as the head of a spear. Rivendell’s own soldiers shall form its tip with Lothlórien and Gondor on the right and Mirkwood on the left. Summon your armies and let us ride to meet the foe."

"Elrohir!"

A voice rising above the din arrested Elrohir even as he turned to order his own companies, and Aragorn quickly swung around to find Elladan riding hard through the gathering elves in a frantic effort to reach the collection of leaders who stood in the middle. From the expression on the half-elf’s face, he did not bear good news. The sight of gathering elves armed with arrow, sword, and spear seemed to increase his alarm and he swung off his horse so suddenly that Aragorn had to step forward and brace the normally graceful Elladan.

"Estel, quickly!" Elladan said, fixing his piercing gaze on his foster brother and gripping his shoulders as he steadied himself. "How long ago did you send out the honor guard to greet the hobbits?"

A warning bell deep within Aragorn’s consciousness went off and an ominous shadow began to grip at his heart, but he pushed such things aside, intent on discovering what had so upset Elladan ere he turned his mind to other matters. "We sent no honor guard," he answered, watching the half-elf closely. "Legolas asked that he and Gimli be given leave to escort them. They left some time ago."

Aragorn could remember only a few instances in which Elladan had been at a loss for words. He could now add yet another mark to that tally. Elladan stared at him with open horror as though Aragorn was slowly mutating into a small oliphaunt.

"Elladan!" Elrohir broke through his brother’s trance as he stepped to their side, and the name seemed to galvanize the older twin into action.

"We must act swiftly!" Elladan commanded, turning his eyes to Elrohir, Celeborn, and Thranduil. "A company of Orcs has passed south of Rivendell and is seeking to make prisoners of the hobbits. Hurry and order your forces, for we must ride immediately!" So saying, Elladan turned and made as though to mount.

"Whence came this information?" Elrohir demanded, seizing his brother’s arm and holding him back.

"I found a lone Orc far south of our realm," Elladan said, a note of frustration entering his voice as he was made to stop and explain himself. "I forced words from him and he confessed that he was part of a larger party sent to capture the hobbits. But there is no time for further explanations. We must ride and speak as we travel. We can afford no delay!"

"Delay…" Aragorn repeated, his eyes moving to the north. "The attack upon Rivendell is only a delay. A distraction. That is why they attack in such small numbers. The bulk of their force is upon the Road."

"What is this about an attack upon Rivendell?" Elladan demanded, jerking out of his brother’s grasp.

"Our scouts to the north have been driven back," Elrohir explained, thinking quickly. His eyes narrowed as he turned with Aragorn to look to the north. "We must meet them with sufficient force to drive them back, but the hobbits…we cannot leave them to be taken. And if they ride swiftly, Legolas and Gimli will join them only to share in their fate."

"The force that defends Rivendell can stagger its companies to both protect the heart of Imladris as well as meet the Orcs that threaten the border," Celeborn said. "Such a strategy has been used before with success in Lothlórien."

"So be it," Elrohir said. "Celeborn, you will command the forces here. Elladan, Thranduil, and Aragorn shall ride for the hobbits."

"Nay, brother. I shall stay here and you shall ride," Elladan countermanded. "The defense is ordered in this valley, but upon the Road, the strategy will change swiftly and you have a better gift for that than do I."

"Whatever we do, we must do it now," Aragorn warned. "I shall prepare Gondor and the Galadhrim since it seems that Celeborn will not be with us. We shall rendezvous at the Ford. Choose who will lead Rivendell and then join us quickly." Saying this, he left the group and turned to his men, quickly finding Imhran in the gathering masses. Dividing his forces into two groups, he left Imhran in charge of the Rivendell contingent with orders to heed Celeborn’s word while sending the rest of them to the stables in search of horses. Seeing that all was in order, he quickly hurried after them, dark thoughts racing through his mind. It seemed that evil was never vanquished, and that there was no such thing as a complete victory. Despite the destruction of the One Ring, fell things still haunted the world.

"Elessar!"

Aragorn slammed to a halt and turned, blinking as his sharp eyes found Arwen and a saddled Roheryn. "How did you—"

"I met our men on the way to the stables," she explained, leading the horse forward and handing the reins to the king. "It seemed to me that you were in need of haste. Go now. Find our friends and bring them home."

"You are a wonder, Undómiel," Aragorn whispered, his eyes sparkling with gratitude.

"As are you. Speed, now, my husband," she murmured, drawing him to her for a quick kiss ere she moved away. "And let safety guide you."

"Until my return, melethin," Aragorn said, swinging into the saddle and feeling Roheryn’s restless excitement as the stallion perceived that they were once again on the hunt. Casting one last look at the radiant daughter of Elrond, Aragorn marveled that he had somehow won her heart, and then he turned away as he had done so many times in the past. Spurring Roheryn forward, he could not help but be reminded of the long years as a Ranger when duties forced him away from Rivendell. Arwen had always been the last to see him off and he had always looked last upon her figure before returning to the Wilds that had become a second home. With a shake of his head, Aragorn forced his memories into retreat, turning his mind to the present and running possible riding formations through his head in preparation for what lay before him.

Roheryn needed little guidance as they thundered away from the Last Homely House, for the horse had ridden this trail countless times before and knew the terrain nearly as well as did Aragorn. It was not long before their hard gallop brought them to the Ford and he reined the horse tightly, watching as the men of Gondor began riding toward him from the stables. Not more than a minute or so later, Elrohir, Thranduil, and a large host of elves joined them. And as was his wont in times of crisis, Elrohir lost no time in taking control of the situation.

"By your leave, Estel, I have directed the Galadhrim to ride with Gondor, for neither of your companies is large enough to stand on its own," Elrohir hurriedly informed him. "You shall be upon the right, the elves of Imladris shall take the center, and Thranduil shall lead his elves upon the left. We ride abreast of one another as much as possible, and where circumstances dictate this cannot be, Mirkwood shall drop back so that we might better protect their archers. More plans we cannot make for Elladan knew not the number or the strength of those we ride to fight."

"As you advise, brother," Aragorn said, backing Roheryn up and turning the horse so that he might muster his riders.

"Is all in readiness?" Elrohir called after the forces were quickly arranged.

All was in readiness, and Aragorn felt a quick surge of pride for the discipline of Gondor’s guards that had enabled them to quickly fall into formation with the Galadhrim. Elrohir’s calculating eyes swept the assembled warriors and then he nodded. Crying aloud, the son of Elrond turned his horse into the Ford and raced away at a hard gallop. With yells to their horses, the elves and men followed him, passing quickly through the rushing waters and vanishing swiftly into the forests beyond the borders of Rivendell.

* * * *

Peregrin Took snapped a pair of hobbles to his pony’s legs and gave the beast a friendly slap, sending him to graze in the large clearing that lay adjacent to the Road. A yawn opened the hobbit’s mouth wide and he stretched luxuriously, enjoying the feel of soft grass beneath his feet again. Ponies were fine for traveling, but walking on one’s own two legs was a welcome change after a long ride. Maybe the dwarves were right to prefer travel by foot, though even they would also use a pony for long journeys. Well, one thing is certain, Pippin thought. I shall never be as one of the Rohirrim. They practically live in the saddle!

"Coming, Pippin?" Merry called.

"Half a moment," Pippin called back, seeing that Rosie was already beginning to pass out apples. Quite possibly the most attractive quality of halts during the journey was the prospect of food. And not the meager rations that Strider had limited them to on their journey to Rivendell over five years ago. These were hobbit rations, which meant they might very well serve as a full-course meal for a member of a difference Race. "Are you really so hungry that you could not wait any longer for me?" Pippin demanded when he reached the others.

"Oh, you’ve nothing to complain about, Pippin!" Sam laughed, tossing his friend an apple and handing over a water skin and a plate of salted meat. "We did save some for you, after all."

"Not nearly enough," Pippin said, staring sorrowfully at his dish. "I shall waste away to nothing if this keeps up. I wonder if there isn’t some foul plot among you to see me collapse by the Road."

"What in the Shire could we hope to gain by such a plan?" Rosie asked, keeping a close watch on Elanor as the child skipped and danced among the early-blooming wildflowers.

"I do not know, but I won’t trust any of you," Pippin stated. "I don’t doubt but what our genial Samwise has some conniving idea about snatching the remainder of the rations from those of us who don’t take care and keep our wits about us. Well, I’m on to you, Sam," Pippin continued, taking a huge bite out of his apple. "You won’t catch this hobbit sleeping, and if there’s more food to be had, I’ll have it!"

Sam shook his head and went searching through another saddlebag. "If you’re interested, some of Rosie’s traveling cakes are leftover from yesterday’s dinner," he offered.

"I’m interested," Merry piped up.

"You’re both in the conspiracy!" Pippin accused.

"You’re clearly losing what little sense you ever had," Merry returned, taking the saddlebag from Sam and pulling out a rather crumpled-looking traveling cake. He made a cursory inspection of the bag’s interior and then set it aside. "There are two more in there," he informed them. "So I guess that some of us will have to do without."

"I’ll do without," Rosie volunteered, rising and turning to go after Elanor who was beginning to wander a little too far away for her mother’s comfort. "And so long as you don’t mention those cakes to Elanor, I’m sure that she can do without as well."

Merry frowned and chewed on his own cake thoughtfully. "Well, that doesn’t sound very fair. Isn’t there some rule or other about women and children being fed first?"

"And into which category do you fall?" Pippin asked.

Merry shrugged and gave his friend a cheeky grin. "Pick one."

"I think you were right about that conspiracy, Pippin," Sam said, giving Merry a rather dirty look. "But I’m not in it." He seemed about to go on, but he stopped and looked toward the Road, his face taking on a look of intense concentration.

"Sam?"

Sam rose to his feet slowly, took one step toward the Road, and then swung around and called to his wife who had finally managed to corral Elanor. "Rosie, head for the trees!" Startled at first but hearing the urgency in her husband’s voice, Rosie obediently scooped a protesting Elanor into her arms and hurried toward the shelter of the forest.

It was then that Pippin heard the noise that had already alerted Sam. Faint but unmistakable, there came the sound of a horse galloping down the Road toward the hobbits. And though there was nothing to indicate that this rider might mean them harm, Merry’s earlier warnings about a darkness in the woods had set them all on edge. Loosening his blade in its scabbard, Pippin moved closer to Merry and Sam, taking comfort in the relative safety of numbers.

"Who do you suppose it is?" he asked, listening closely as the horse drew near.

"It could be anyone," Merry answered, pulling his sword from its scabbard. "It could be someone from Rivendell sent as an escort or maybe just a traveler making use of the Road. But with this darkness in the forest…I still don’t know how to describe it. But something is near. Something evil and we mustn’t be caught unprepared. It might not be this rider, but then again, it might be. I just can’t tell."

"The horse sounds too heavy to be an elven horse," Sam said, putting his sharp ears to good use. "Its stride is long enough, but the weight is off. It’s hitting the ground too hard."

"Well, we shall know soon if this rider has aught to do with us," Pippin warned, laying a hand to his sword hilt but not drawing it yet. Merry might be feeling anxious but Pippin saw no reason to be the one looking for trouble, and a naked blade was usually interpreted as an invitation.

The hobbits now waited in silence, watching and listening carefully. Merry shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and moved one foot back, looking as though he intended to lunge the moment the rider came into view. Sam appeared to be keeping a level head, though if he kept throwing such obvious glances over his shoulder, he would give his family’s position away. Pippin shook his head. To his mind, they were all overreacting, but past experiences in the Wild had taught them to expect the unexpected. More often than not, the expected was the exception rather than the rule. Still, they were very close to Rivendell and the only creatures they were likely to meet at this point in the journey were—

"Legolas!" Merry cried as a fiery horse from Rohan cantered into view. "Gimli!"

Elves, Pippin finished his thought, securing his sword in his scabbard and hurrying forward to greet their friends. And one dwarf.

Legolas had spied the hobbits even as the hobbits found him, and the elf now sent Arod into the clearing, slowing him to a walk and smiling at the excitement their coming created. "Gently now, or there shall be none of us left to return to Rivendell," Legolas cautioned with a laugh as he dismounted and was nearly mobbed.

"And what of the stout-hearted dwarf who kept our Fellowship grounded despite the whimsies and fancies of this elf?" Gimli demanded, dropping off the horse with an audible thud.

"Gimli, we would never have made it without you," Pippin exclaimed, wrapping the dwarf up in a warm hug which Gimli returned awkwardly.

"Well now, that’s better," he said, pulling away slightly and evaluating the hobbit with critical eyes. "I see you do not want for food in that Shire of yours," he added with a smile.

"Of course we do not!" Sam exclaimed. "And why shouldn’t we feast, seeing as we practically starved ourselves for six months while wandering around with beings who didn’t seem to think that eating was important. It’s beyond me how any of you can grow so tall when you never take the time to properly feed yourselves."

"Sam?"

A questioning call from the forest caught their attention and Sam quickly blushed and turned to the trees. "It’s alright, Rosie. Bring Elanor and hurry. There’s friends here that I want you to meet."

"Now that’s what you need, Legolas," Gimli said, nodding toward Sam’s wife who now walked forward with a young girl in tow.

"A hobbit?" the elf mused with a perfect deadpan expression. "What in Arda’s name would I do with one?"

"No, you beardless wonder! You need a wife!"

"Ah, a wife." Legolas smiled and shook his head. "Gimli, I have all the ages of Middle Earth to concern myself with that. You, however, do not, and I fear that I must aid you in the search for a companion ere I look to my own needs."

Sam cleared his throat and shot a reproving glare at both elf and dwarf, silently pleading with them to at least tone down their banter for the moment so as not to frighten Rosie and Elanor. He stepped forward to his wife and child who had just now joined them and turned to present them to his friends, looking for all the world like a king announcing the entrance of his queen and his heir. "Legolas, Gimli, I’d like you to meet my wife, Rose Cotton Gamgee, and my oldest child, Elanor. Rosie and Elanor, this is Gimli, son of Glóin, from the Lonely Mountain and Legolas, son of King Thranduil, from the forest of Mirkwood." Sam stopped and frowned. "Except that it’s now Greenwood, isn’t it?"

"Call it what you will, Sam," Legolas said with an easy laugh. "In some places, the name Mirkwood is probably still more fitting than the name Greenwood the Great." The elf then turned to Rosie and Elanor and bowed deeply and elegantly, calling into play his long and many years as a prince in Thranduil’s court. "It is my honor to meet the family of one so renowned and honored as the valiant Samwise, son of Hamfast."

Rosie shuffled her feet and looked rather embarrassed to be having a prince bow before her. By contrast, Elanor laughed and clapped her hands while Gimli snorted and would have pushed the elf over had Sam not sent yet another pleading look in his direction. Not to be outdone, the dwarf bowed in turn. "Gimli, son of Glóin, at the service of you and your family."

Pippin noted that Rosie was favoring both Legolas and Gimli with a look that seemed to straddle the border between curiosity and distrust, which was quite understandable. Being a very sheltered hobbit, this was the first time she’d ever met an elf, and she’d never had much contact with dwarves. Elanor, on the other hand, seemed to have none of her mother’s compunctions about these strangers and wandered forward with her eyes fixed on Gimli’s beard. Gimli stood completely still with an expression of patient amusement, and Elanor slowly reached out and tugged gently on the beard. Her brow furrowing, the four-year-old looked back at her father with question-filled eyes. "Bush?"

Legolas nearly fell over laughing. Pippin tried to smother his own mirth but eventually decided there was no point in doing so because Merry was already helplessly clutching his sides and seemed only moments away from breaking something with the force of his laughter. A smile tweaked the corners of Rosie’s mouth and Sam looked as though he had swallowed something extremely sour for as much effort as he put into keeping his face from breaking into a grin.

For his part, Gimli sent a dark glare at Legolas—who was now leaning against a confused Arod for support—and then turned back to Elanor. "Not quite," he said, kneeling so that the young hobbit could better see him. "This is a symbol of great power and strength. Those who are able to grow such wondrous things are sometimes mistaken for messengers of the Valar."

"Gimli!" Legolas reprimanded in between gasps for air. "Would you teach this child blaspheme?"

"Nay, dear friend, I would teach her the truth," Gimli answered flippantly, picking Elanor up and standing. The young hobbit wrapped her hands in his thick beard and giggled, tugging slightly on it. "You see your father?" the dwarf asked, nodding toward Sam who stood shaking his head in amusement. "He is a great hobbit, young one, but he must become greater still if he wishes to grow one of these. And as for the elf over there, well, I do not think he will ever be able to manage something of this magnitude."

"And may I be struck dead if ever I do," Legolas laughed.

"Can I grow one?" Elanor asked, her innocent eyes searching the dwarf’s dark ones.

"Only if you commit yourself now to follow a course of courage, strength, and honor," Gimli answered, his voice so solemn and his face so serious that it brought further peals of laughter from the onlookers. "If you do so, you, too, will be able to grow a beard as fine as mine."

"I have reconsidered, Gimli," Legolas said, trying desperately to control his convulsive laughter. "I feel you should now forsake women entirely, for if you were to be given offspring, you might very well bring about the downfall of Middle Earth."

"Well, let’s be off," Sam interrupted before Gimli could respond to that. "I’m guessing that you’re here to guide us to Rivendell, right?"

"Yes, you have guessed rightly, Master Samwise," Legolas answered, shaking his head as he watched Gimli continue to speak quietly with Elanor. "I now wonder if bringing the dwarf was a good idea, but as such, we are your escort."

"We wouldn’t want anyone else for an escort," Pippin told the elf sincerely. It had been almost five years since he’d last seen either Legolas or Gimli, and he’d forgotten how much he’d enjoyed their company.

"You accompanied my husband on his journey?" Rosie asked curiously, getting over her initial suspicion as she watched Elanor giggle at something Gimli was whispering.

"For the first stage of his travels, yes," Legolas answered. "We were parted, though, and I fear that his was the harder road. You are married to a hobbit of great renown, Rose Gamgee, for through his actions a great evil was finally banished from Middle Earth."

"I don’t know about that," Sam said with a look of extreme embarrassment. "And shouldn’t we be starting toward Rivendell if we want to arrive with time to get settled?"

"Yes, let’s get going," Merry added. "I can’t wait to see Strider and Arwen again. It’s a shame that Eowyn and Faramir couldn’t join us, but I suppose you can’t bring everyone out of Gondor. And with Isengard and Orthanc and the problems with Orcs they’ve been having, I guess you really can’t spare Eomer, either."

"They all wanted to come," Gimli said, finally tearing his attention away from Elanor who still had her small hands entwined in his beard. "And they send their greetings to you. But even I was hard-pressed to leave the Glittering Caves with all that goes forth there, and Legolas was almost prevented from coming as well. None of his kinsmen journeyed with him."

"There is much to be done in Ithilien ere we can truly call it home," Legolas said with a small shrug. "But I decided that I could be spared from the work for a few weeks."

"I can’t imagine a celebration without either one of you," Pippin said. "But Merry’s right. We should get going."

"Sam, I wonder if this little hobbit might like to ride with me for a bit," Gimli said, watching as Elanor began separating his beard as though preparing to plait it. "It might do her some good to be close to a dwarf, though I worry about the elven influence that comes with it."

"It’s fine with me so long as Rosie agrees," Sam answered, moving to retrieve their ponies.

"She can be a handful," Rosie cautioned, appearing to be somewhat leery of allowing Elanor to be cared for by these strange beings. "I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated."

"She will be safe upon Arod," Legolas assured her with a knowing look and an understanding smile. "And though his appearance may frighten you, rest assured that Gimli is quite harmless." The elf smiled when the dwarf grumbled slightly at this, but his smile suddenly faltered and he seemed to tense. Pippin felt a chill run up his spine, for he recognized that position. Legolas sensed something. Something unfriendly.

"Legolas?" Merry asked, also recognizing the look.

"We must go," the elf murmured, still watching the forest carefully. With a shake of his head, he called to Arod who had wandered away in search of grass. The horse came immediately, hearing urgency in the elf’s tone. "Gimli, hand me Elanor and then I will hand her up to you," Legolas instructed. "The rest of you, mount quickly. Let us not tarry here."

Having learned from experience that questions would only delay them, Pippin reigned in his curiosity and hurried to do as the elf bid. Merry and Sam joined him quickly and Rosie had no choice but to hurry after them, though she wondered about the cause of the sudden fuss. Before long, they were all back in the saddle and moving down the Road at a swift trot. Legolas kept Arod behind them, scanning the forest to either side with the wary scrutiny of an elf who has reason to distrust his surroundings. Pippin could hear Gimli hushing Elanor and speaking gentle words, and had he not been so fearful, he might have smiled at the dwarf’s interest in the child and offered some jest. But now was hardly the time for it, so he kept such thoughts to himself and vowed to catch Gimli with them at a later time. He could even ask Legolas for tips on how to structure his insults.

Unfortunately for Pippin, his train of thought was rudely interrupted when his pony abruptly reared beneath him, sending him tumbling to the ground. Sam’s pony also threw him from its back. Scrambling to his feet, it didn’t take him long to discover the reason for his pony’s fright. Ahead of them, streaming from the woods like a dark flood of evil, came line after line of Orcs.

"Back! Turn and flee!"

Pippin wasn’t sure who gave the order. He suspected Legolas or perhaps Merry, but with the jeers and yells of the Orcs now ringing in his ears, he couldn’t be certain. Seizing his pony’s halter, Pippin swung back on, trying vainly to keep himself from trembling. Memories of his time as a captive of the Orcs swarmed through his mind, and it was all he could do to stay focused on the present. He was relieved to see that Merry and Rosie had both retained control of their ponies and were turning them even as Sam remounted.

"Pippin! Take Elanor!"

The hobbit glanced up just in time to see Arod bearing down on him, and then Elanor was dropped into his lap. Bewildered, Pippin wrapped his arms around the squirming four-year old and then looked back at Legolas and Gimli, his eyes filled with questions.

"Ride!" Legolas yelled as Gimli dropped off the horse and swung his axe about, preparing to meet the onslaught. The elf pulled an arrow from his quiver and urged Arod forward even as he began to shoot.

Pippin didn’t have to be told twice. Much as he longed to aid his friends, he knew they would only hold the Orcs at bay long enough to give the hobbits a chance to escape. After that, Legolas and Gimli would seek their own safety, and they were both quite adept at taking care of themselves. Spurring his pony forward, he quickly caught up with Merry, Sam, and Rosie. "They’re going to hold them for us!" he shouted to Merry who looked as though he wished to ride back. "Hurry, we have to use their distraction now!"

But even as he said these words, Sam suddenly cried out and reigned his pony in hard. Pippin, Rosie, and Merry were hard-pressed to avoid him and their ponies skidded and reared as they attempted to evade a collision. When the dust settled, the icy hand of fear settled permanently over Pippin’s heart. A party of Orcs was marching in from the west, cutting off the road to safety and making straight for the hobbits.

They were surrounded.

Melethin—Beloved

Aerhen! Man siniath od e forn?—Aerhen! What news from the north?

Yrch, brannon! Law istin gwenyd tîn, dan doegm danar ar e coth dadar norn—Orcs, lord. I do not know their numbers, but our soldiers are retreating and the enemy presses us hard.

Chapter 6: Diversions

Celeborn sheathed his sword, slowed his horse, and gestured to Haldir who was riding behind him. At this signal, Haldir raised a horn to his lips and blew three loud blasts, signaling the disengagement of the elven forces. It had not taken much to drive the Orcs away, something that had aroused deep suspicion in Celeborn. A few volleys of arrows, a charge of spears, some scattered sword fights, and then the wretched creatures had fled as though all the wrath of the Valar was about to descend. The elves had suffered minimal casualties that would be healed by the morrow. It had been ridiculously easy, insulting almost, and that did not sit well with Celeborn.

Having lived with Galadriel for so long, Celeborn had learned quickly to evaluate and consider every possible facet of a situation. It was the tendency of a ring-bearer to see the invisible and know the impossible, and in order to stay on the same mental playing field as his wife, Celeborn had been forced to see as she saw and think as she thought. Consequently, when Elladan had brought the news that a company of Orcs had passed to the south, Celeborn had entertained several possibilities and even in the face of Aragorn’s intuition that both armies were connected, Celeborn could not accept it at face value as Elladan and Elrohir could. They had cultivated an implicit trust in Aragorn’s instincts, but Celeborn had learned from harsh experience and several ages that instincts were not always reliable. The White Council’s misplaced trust in Saruman was proof enough of that.

But it was beginning to look as though Aragorn had been right. The Orcs invading Rivendell had retreated far too quickly for the attack to be anything but a delay. A detour. A gambit to draw away the forces of Rivendell from the true threat. Now more than ever, Celeborn wished for Galadriel’s comforting presence. She had not always been with him on the field of war, but he had always been able to feel her mind near at hand. It was an assurance and a promise that no matter what happened, there was always hope. But that power was now gone, and Celeborn found himself aching for Galadriel in a way he had never believed possible. She had only been gone for a little over four years! Such time was as the blink of an eye to an elf, and yet…

"This was too easy. The least they could have done was pretend to fight."

Celeborn shook his head, pushing such thoughts to the back of his mind, and turned his horse to fall into step beside Elladan’s mount. "Their only task was to keep us here so that prisoners could be taken elsewhere," the lord of Lothlórien sighed. "And unfortunately, they were successful as far as the delay went."

"We could do nothing else," Elladan said with quiet indignation.

"No, we could not. Alas, our foe is one step ahead of us. And that is only to be expected, for they have made the first move."

"They have always made the first move," the half-elf murmured. "It seems that our eternal fault is to underestimate the enemy. We never accurately calculate their strength until that strength lays us low."

"Then perhaps it is time for a change of policy," Celeborn said, turning about and motioning Haldir forward. "Go among our kinsmen and find some capable elves who will be able to follow the Orcs from a distance. I wish to know the location of their lair and, if possible, the numbers that face us should we have need to come against them directly."

"By your leave, my lord, I shall follow these beasts myself along with my brothers, Rúmil and Orophin," Haldir answered. "And you may be assured that they will not escape us."

"Thank you, Haldir. But take care! You are not to engage the Orcs unless they give you no choice. Track them only and report back when you have found their hiding place. And before you leave, gather some of the Galadhrim and add a line of archers behind the border guards of Imladris to cover their retreat should the Orcs return."

"It shall be as your order, my lord," Haldir said with a short bow from atop his mount. Nodding respectfully to Elladan, he turned his horse, whispered quiet words to the steed, and hastened toward the northern border.

"I doubt very much that the Orcs will return," Elladan remarked after Haldir had left. "It is a possibility, of course, but after fitting all the pieces of this puzzle together, it seems to me that the capture of Rivendell is not in their immediate plans, else they would not have used their strength to distract us. They would have attacked directly without warning."

"Such thoughts occurred to me as well, yet I will leave nothing to chance." Celeborn pursed his lips, going over his list of possible explanations for what was happening and eventually shaking his head at the number of unknown he encountered. "Tell me more of what your Orc revealed," he finally said, turning toward the oldest son of Elrond.

Elladan frowned. "He was certainly not my Orc."

"The Orc who had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting you, then."

The half-elf grimaced and his eyes narrowed as he recalled the details of his conversation with the creature. "He was a lower-ranking foot soldier and a poor one at that. Once I pinned him at sword point, he gave up the struggle until he recalled the creature that commands these beasts. I believe he had been part of a larger company, and he said as much when I pressed him for information. He was probably a deserter, looking to feast on the spoils of war."

"And he revealed that the intention of his former companions was to make prisoners of the hobbits?" Celeborn questioned. Elladan nodded and the lord of Lothlórien pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Strange. What purpose would they have in capturing hobbits? The simple costs of feeding them in captivity would outweigh any benefit that might come of them!"

Elladan gave a short bark of laughter before sobering quickly. "The Orc did not mention hobbits specifically but rather those members of the Fellowship who traveled the Road," he explained. "In this case, that means Samwise, Meriadoc, and Peregrin, but hobbits were not specifically mentioned. The Fellowship of the Ring was."

"The Orcs are after Fellowship members, then," Celeborn murmured. "Odd. Most Orcs know very little about the role the Fellowship played. Even fewer can identify the Fellowship members. And to want them as prisoners rather than corpses…did he say aught else?"

"That the Fellowship must perish, but they were to be made prisoners first. After learning this, I demanded information on his leader." Elladan’s eyes strayed to his sheathed sword and he grimaced. "When I demanded too much, he surged upward in what appeared to me to be fear. He soiled my blade with his foul blood and I have still not had the opportunity to clean it properly."

"He killed himself?"

Elladan shook his head. "Nay, rather I think he was overcome by a terror so great that his fear for me was forgotten and he could no longer submit to my questions." The half-elf glanced at Celeborn, his deep, piercing eyes troubled. "The one who commands these Orcs is able to instill great fear in them. Never before have I seen such devotion save it be in the Uruk-hai, and many of them were raised by Saruman himself. For a lowly goblin to possess such feelings of fear and loyalty, even if that loyalty is forced…I like it not."

"Are there things about Orcs that you do like?" Celeborn asked, watching Elladan closely and hoping to draw out more of his reactions through jest. Of Elrond’s two sons, Elladan was by far the more perceptive twin, but he also happened to be the most close-mouthed. His confidences extended to his brother—with whom he shared practically everything—Aragorn, and occasionally Arwen. Beyond that circle, those who wished information from Elladan were forced to pry and search for it, and Elladan was not an easy nut to crack. But then, Galadriel had also been rather difficult at times, and Celeborn had always found a way to weasel past her walls.

In response to the question, Elladan laughed quietly and shook his head. "Things about Orcs that I like…" He trailed off and thought for a moment. "Once dead, they do not rise again," he eventually answered. "From my father’s tales of other ages, there are some creatures for whom that is not so."

Celeborn grimaced and nodded, trying to banish some rather unpleasant memories that had abruptly surfaced. "For that small fortune, we should be thankful. And because of this, Orcs fear death as some other creatures might not, which should tell us something of your Orc, or rather, the Orc you met. I find it strange than a goblin would forget immediate peril due to the fear of a superior. What do you draw from this, Elladan? Have you any suspicions?"

"Several, yet they are only intuition and guesswork. I would not weary the lord of Lothlórien with my simple musings." Elladan fell silent and Celeborn revised his opinion of the half-elf. If anything, Elrond’s son was more closemouthed than Galadriel.

"Elladan! Celeborn! How fare our people?"

Celeborn blinked and turned to Elladan. "I do not remember that you gave Arwen leave to assume command of Imladris."

"I had no need to. She usually assumes that responsibility on her own," Elladan said with a grin. He whispered softly to his horse and the stallion stopped as Arwen rode up on Hasufel. "We have driven the forces back, sister. Has there been aught to report in Imladris?"

"Nothing. It seems the attack from the north was the only attack upon your realm," Arwen answered. "Nor have we had any tidings from Elrohir and Estel, though doubtless they have yet far to ride." A note of fear and concern had now entered Arwen’s voice, and she look westward anxiously. "It is as you said, dear brother. The attack upon Rivendell was but a ruse and a distraction. The true danger lies upon the Road."

"Fear not for them, Arwen," Elladan said quietly. "Elrohir and Estel have both ridden into much danger before, and they have the archers of Mirkwood to back them."

"But we know so little about the danger they face," Celeborn commented, directing a rather pointed look at Elladan.

Elladan turned and gave Celeborn a look so familiar that the lord of Lothlórien wondered if he had not taken lessons from Galadriel. "I have told you all that I know," Elladan said quietly.

"But you have not told me all that you suspect."

"Were I to do that, we would be here from now until next year."

"Peace, both of you," Arwen interrupted, moving Hasufel so that she now rode between the two. "It is unfair to begin this conversation without me, for I have not heard what Elladan has to tell. My information has been garnered from Haldir when I can stall him long enough for talk. Come now, and speak with me. Tell me of your suspicions and your facts."

"Exactly what would you know, sister?" Elladan asked, and Celeborn blinked as he caught a subtle shift in the tone of the conversation. To his sharp ears, it sounded almost as though Elladan was preparing for a contest of sorts, and judging from the twinkle in Arwen’s eyes, she was just as eager as her brother for the challenge.

"I would know the reason behind your haste when you road into Rivendell today. Your horse was sorely pressed, and this most recent encounter with the Orcs has not helped him."

"I road swiftly to deliver a message."

"What was this message?"

"That Orcs were moving on the East-West Road and the hobbits were in danger."

"In danger of death or imprisonment?"

"Imprisonment."

"And how came you by this knowledge?"

Celeborn shook his head, slightly amazed at what was taking place. It was a game. Elladan gave only as much information as Arwen’s questions required, and Arwen made her questions so specific and leading that Elladan could not help but give some details away. From their phrasing and the way they anticipated one another, it was obvious this had been done before, and Celeborn wondered if it wasn’t a method of relieving stress. Arwen was no longer dwelling on Aragorn and Elladan was no longer dwelling on his feelings of imminent darkness. Perhaps this was what had occupied the children of Elrond during the long years of the Third Age when the shadow of Sauron pressed close to Imladris.

"An Orc told me," Elladan was saying.

Arwen blinked. "An Orc came up to you and volunteered this information?"

"No, I forced this information from it."

"I see. And what was the nature of this Orc?"

"A weak underling."

"From whence did it hail?"

Now Elladan paused as though debating whether or not to answer this question. Immediately seeing the pause, Arwen checked Hasufel and stopped, fixing dark eyes upon her brother. Celeborn also stopped, wondering why he had failed to ask this simple question. Apparently an advantage to the game that Arwen and Elladan now played was that every tiny detail was examined, and the lord of Lothlórien wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have used this game on Galadriel. But she would have grown irritated at the endless stream of questions, so perhaps it was best that he had relied more on intuition than on interrogation.

"Elladan?" Arwen prompted.

"Mordor," he finally murmured, and it seemed that the game of questions came to an end with this statement. "The Orc was from Mordor."

"Mordor!?" Celeborn exclaimed. This was a new and unwelcome development. All of the Orcs to the north had been Uruk-hai, and that was only to be expected as they were forced to attack in broad daylight. Bur Orcs from Mordor…if that was true and this Orc was the not the only one of his kind to come westward, how many other fell goblins from the destruction of Sauron’s realm had journeyed hither? And how many festered still in the dark Misty Mountains? "How did this Orc come to be here?" the lord of Lothlórien demanded. "Surely it would be impossible for an Orc to escape the watchfulness of Gondor! Beyond that, an Orc would have to pass by Rohan or Lothlórien in order to arrive here, and I can assure you that we have not failed in our vigilance."

"The plains of Rohan are vast, Lord Celeborn," Elladan answered. "It would be difficult to patrol their entire expanse so effectively that none passed without Eomer’s knowledge. And as for Lothlórien, your numbers diminish and you have not the power of Nenya to sense darkness, much as we now lack Vilya. It would not be terribly difficult for a single Orc—or even a small company of Orcs—to slip through your guard. And as for Gondor, Anduin flows past many shores and the darkness of Mordor still lies heavy upon the eastern bank. The escape of Orcs into the Misty Mountains is not inconceivable."

"You have given this much thought," Arwen observed, her voice quiet and reflective. "And I can see no fault in your reasoning. I wish it were not so, but it seems now to me that possibly many Orcs from Mordor may have found their way to the mountains. Perhaps this is the reason for their dark shadow. And is it possible that not only Orcs but men have come hither?"

"I see nothing to prevent them," Elladan said. "But I also see little reason for men to make the journey, for many hailed from Harad and they would see no purpose in traveling so far west when they have a desert of their own to conquer. But as you say, it is possible that some of the men have come here to trouble us."

"That may also explain this master who filled an Orc with such fear that he impaled himself upon your blade," Celeborn murmured, his eyes thoughtful. "Perhaps one of Mordor’s commanding captains has come to plague us, and it is he who lays the strategy these Orcs follow."

"I cannot fault your conclusions," Elladan said. "It may be that you have it aright. Yet I wonder what captain would wait five years before seeking vengeance. Such a passage of time is long in the world of men, though it seem like naught to the elves."

"It would take a man of immense patience as well as immense cunning," Celeborn answered. "And in this, we face a dangerous threat."

"Nor does it help that the Orcs have been given leave to breed and secure their strength while we have sat idle," Arwen spoke up, her voice sharp. "Why have you not dealt with the mountains before?"

"We knew not their strength, nor did we know the location of their stronghold, their plans, their weaponry, or their leadership. We still know not these things. It would have been folly to attack them, and it is currently folly to pursue them. Understand, Arwen, that we no longer have the strength in numbers that once graced this haven. We no longer have the protection of Vilya and the greatest of the elf lords departed West with father. Glorfindel no longer rides the roads and Gildor no longer sends warnings from the Wilds." Elladan’s hand tightened into a fist and Celeborn felt himself edging his horse away at the feel of frustration emanating from Elrond’s son. "We have not the soldiers, the arms, or the leadership that you have in Gondor, Arwen. We can do nothing but wait for the doom that is ours!"

There was silence after that, and it was some time before any dared speak. When at last the stillness was broken, it was done so by Arwen, her voice soft and apologetic. "Forgive me, dearest brother," she whispered, turning her head so that none could see her face. "I had forgotten how much has been lost to Rivendell. I have been blinded by the beauty of Minas Tirith and the newfound strength of Gondor. I can not see the fading of my own people."

"The fault is not yours," Elladan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Your life has led you down a different path, and for that you should be grateful. For now, at least, the sorrows that will come may be held at bay. And I am sorry, Arwen, for speaking so to you."

"Do not apologize," Elrond’s daughter said firmly. "We are all distressed by what has happened and what we have seen. Let us cease this ill talk and be thankful that Rivendell is safe for now. And let us pray that tidings from the Road may be as good."

The three fell into silence then, each lost in thought. Arwen’s words rang through Celeborn’s mind, but he could not bring himself to find hope in them. He had lived too long and endured too much for that. Elrohir, Aragorn, and Thranduil might ride with the speed of the eagles, but Celeborn sensed that plans had been laid long in advance. They would not reach the hobbits in time. Legolas and Gimli were just as likely to share their fate. With a sigh, Celeborn shook his head and turned his far-seeing eyes to the west. It seemed that the celebration in honor of the Ring’s destruction might now turn into desperate struggle and a time of sorrow for all the evil that had not been destroyed. And the thought occurred to Celeborn that no matter what they did, the evil they now faced would probably always remain.

* * * *

"Legolas, I think we may have a problem."

The elf shook his head and grimaced. "I will say this for you, Gimli. You truly have an eye for the subtle details that might escape the notice of others, and your skills in analytical thinking are beyond compare."

The dwarf grunted and backed up a bit, watching the Orcs closely as they streamed out of the forest. He and Legolas had already engaged them in battle, but with the steady trickle of foes from the trees and the fact that they were now completely surrounded, Gimli and Legolas had both backed off and now watched as their enemies gathered. The Orcs had not pursued them when they retreated abruptly and had merely continued to gather, an act that had sent the wheels in Gimli’s head turning vainly for an explanation. It didn’t help that Legolas seemed to be at an equal loss. The elf had dismounted and the two now stood shoulder to elbow, a defiant if hopeless challenge to the growing number of Orcs that surrounded the group of travelers. Behind them, Arod snorted and neighed, his voice colored by fear. Further back, the hobbits were also moving toward the elf and dwarf.

"Why do they not charge?" Legolas murmured. His bow was strung, but he did not shoot. What good did it do to strike one leaf in a forest?

"It seems as though they are waiting for something," Gimli answered, backing up even further and feeling Legolas move with him. He’d been thinking about that as well, and his thoughts had not been encouraging. There were no archers among the Orcs, or if there were, they had not made their presence known. As for weapons, he had seen a few rapiers and a smattering of knives, but most of their enemies seemed to sport staffs and clubs. "Legolas, I do not think they mean to kill us."

The prince shot him a look that clearly questioned the dwarf’s sanity. "And I suppose this is their way of inviting us to sup with them?"

"Look at their weapons, foolish elf! These are not weapons of death but weapons of restraint. They do not mean to kill us, they mean to take us prisoner!"

Legolas blinked and then studied the Orcs more closely. "You are right. They have no bows, only a few knives and swords…" He trailed off and looked back at Arod, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Legolas? Gimli?" a worried voice behind them called.

"Stand at our backs," Gimli ordered, sparing a moment to glance at the frightened hobbits. They Orcs were now advancing with painstaking slowness, making certain that no gaps were left in their line through which their victims might escape. The beleaguered companions drew together, and Gimli’s anger was forced up a notch when he heard sniffling from a small hobbit child. For her part, Rosie seemed to be possessed of an admirable courage, but Elanor clung to Pippin and buried her face in his chest, shaking with a fright that was grievous to see.

"Any plans?" Merry hissed, battling with his pony for control. The poor animal was half-rearing with terror and if the Orcs charged, it was doubtful that Merry would be able to fight for he would be too busy with the horse.

"I could clear a path for you," Legolas murmured, seeming to speak to himself. "There would only be a few seconds for you to escape and you would have to force your way through much of it. But on the northeast side of the Road, the line of enemies is thinner. Arrows would scatter them, Arod could press through them, and if Gimli leads the charge, you might succeed in breaking through this siege."

"But you would be left here," Pippin protested. "Absolutely not, Legolas. It will be all or none of us."

Gimli nodded his head in agreement and shot a look at the prince that was intended to reprimand him for even considering the idea, but he stopped. The elf was looking back at him, and in his gaze was a wordless plea. Legolas jerked his head in the direction of the hobbits, and Gimli sighed. He knew that particular look, and he knew it was hopeless to protest. If the elf did not gain his agreement, he would go ahead with the plan anyway. And in truth, Legolas was right. Their first priority was the hobbits, and if that meant a sacrifice was required, so be it. But the dwarf would sooner shave off his beard than allow his best friend to make that sacrifice alone. "I will not leave your side," Gimli said firmly, sending a stern glare in the elf’s direction.

Now Legolas looked as though he were about to protest and Gimli could see the indecision and hesitation racing through his bright eyes, but at length, he simple smiled sadly and gave a quick nod, apparently realizing the futility of arguing with the dwarf. "Listen closely, all of you," Legolas whispered, directing his words primarily to the hobbits. "On my signal, Gimli and Arod shall charge the Orcs near that copse of trees. I shall cover their attack with arrows and hopefully we shall create a distraction. Sam and Merry, you will rush the Orcs as soon as we have engaged them in battle." The elf glanced over his shoulder at the mounted hobbits, making certain he had their complete and undivided attention. "Rosie will ride directly behind you and you must shield her. Pippin, hand Elanor to her and you shall ride rearguard. Drive through their line with as much speed as you can. Do not tarry and do not pause to battle your opponents. Your only goal is escape. As soon as you are clear, make straight for the Ford. Do not slow down and do not look back. Ride as hard as you can away from this place."

"But—"

"Pippin!" Legolas hissed, twisting around and flicking his eyes at Elanor who huddled fearfully within the hobbit’s arms. "Do not argue with me. We have no time for it!"

"Fear not for us, Master Took," Gimli added, shoving down the spasm of worry and adrenaline that began racing through his system. "Remember, young hobbit, that I shall be with the elf. No harm will come to him. And no harm will come to me."

"Surrender!"

A harsh voice redirected their attention to the Road, and the surrounded friends turned as one to greet this new threat. Gimli felt his hands tightening on the haft of his axe and he forced himself to relax. It would not do for him to use his energy now when it would be needed later. At his side, he heard Legolas take a deep breath and he recognized it for a calming method the elf had used several times before. Confident that they were as prepared as they would ever be, the dwarf moved forward and fixed a defiant glare on the great Orc captain who had stepped away from the milling circle of foes.

"Surrender?" Gimli echoed, filling his voice with as much derision as he could muster. "Legolas, this foul, filth-ridden creature wishes us to surrender. What think you of that?"

"I think he fears to take on the prowess of an elf and the boldness of a dwarf, my friend," Legolas responded, drawing his notched arrow back slightly. "But perhaps that is true of all such lowly beings. They cannot endure the battles we would give them. Certainly such meager forces as they have here are no match for us. Almost they do not know club from bow."

"Yes, you have it aright. They are a pitiful, weakened, groveling race, are they not? Ruined, twisted…so unlike the elves who sired them long ago," Gimli said with a sorrowful nod, hoping Legolas would not be too offended by the reference. Perhaps it had been unnecessary to bring up the origin of the Orcs, but few things had the power to enrage the twisted creatures of Sauron like a comparison between them and the Eldar.

Probably realizing this, Legolas stiffened but did not protest. Instead, he picked the idea up and ran with it even as the Orcs were beginning to murmur around them with murderous anger. "You speak with great wisdom, Gimli. Verily, it is difficult to see that there are any similarities between Elves and Orcs. One race is strong while the other is weak, and I believe we all know which label can be attributed to which group."

"Yes, my friend, there can be no doubt about that. See how the Orcs tremble before us." One of the advantages of the continuous verbal sparing matches between the two friends was the ability to instantly conjure biting insults. Both Legolas and Gimli were now quite adept at spontaneous libel, and they had found it to be very useful for angering opponents and robbing them of reason. Not that Orcs have much reason to begin with, Gimli thought to himself with a grim smile.

"This is your last warning," the Orc spat, clearly enraged.

"No, it is yours," Legolas returned coldly, and at that moment, he released his arrow. The Orc captain fell before he truly knew what had happened, but the elf did not waste time to celebrate his kill. His arrows were flying swiftly now, picking off Orcs with a speed that could not be followed by mortal eyes. A narrow corridor gradually opened up, and without slackening his attack, the elf shouted the signal.

"Now! Arod, revio! Noro ter i yrch a drego an Imladris!"

Upon the elf’s command, the great war-horse of Rohan leaped forward, albeit he seemed to do so reluctantly, and charged the Orcs, neighing a fierce challenge and lowering his head to build up speed. Left with little alternative, Gimli raced after him. Leaving the elf’s side was one of the hardest things the dwarf had ever done, but he forced himself to do it. The Orcs before them were swept with confusion and fear as Arod met their ranks and reared, lashing out with hooves and teeth, but Gimli could see the Orcs behind the hobbits and elf out of the corner of his eye and they were beginning to surge forward as a response to this sudden attack on their comrades. He could only hope that Legolas would break off his frontal assault in time to turn and meet them.

Reaching the startled Orcs and sounding a dwarven roar of fury, Gimli’s axe quickly met with flesh and he hewed down the few Orcs who had thought to close the gap that Arod and Legolas’s arrows had made. The horse was already halfway through the line and fighting viciously. The Orcs seemed to be at a loss as to how to confront the creature, and Legolas’s continuing onslaught of arrows was certainly not helping them come to a speedy conclusion. Then Arod surged forward and broke through, whinnying triumphantly and kicking out with his back legs to send two more Orcs crumpling to the ground. The horse turned once and neighed, almost sounding as though he bid them farewell, and then took off down the Road with the speed of his sires, vanishing quickly around a bend in the distance.

One clear, four to go, Gimli noted, leaping aside as he countered a staff with his axe while a club swung down behind him. Legolas’s arrows had stopped and the dwarf hoped that the elf was now looking after his own safety, but he was too busy to pause and find his friend in the battle. Sensing the approach of hobbit ponies, Gimli swung harder, faster, and then threw himself out of the way as Sam and Merry swept through, both brandishing their swords. Rosie followed close behind, holding a crying Elanor and shielding the child with her body as best she could while clutching tightly to the pony’s reigns. Pippin brought up the rear, slashing at the attacking Orcs as he went, and crying for greater speed. The Orcs who had closed the path made by Arod were caught off guard by the fierce attack of Sam and Merry and soon either skewered by hobbit blade or swept away by the press of the charge. Pippin guarded well their backs as one Orc fell headless and another screamed amid the blood that erupted from his neck, pierced by the Took’s sword. With a cry of victory, the hobbits broke free of the encircling Orcs and spurred their ponies onward. They were through!

Gimli heaved a great sigh of relief at the same time that he tried to backtrack and join his elven friend, but the press of Orcs was too great and he found himself cutoff. In the few glimpses he managed to catch of the prince, Gimli noted that Legolas was now using his knife as well as a thin sword he’d managed to steal from one of the Orcs. It appeared that he was holding his own, but given the number of foes they faced, that wouldn’t last long. Gimli was unsure of how long he himself could last, and he redoubled his efforts to reach Legolas. They stood a better chance together than they did apart. Still, Gimli was forced to admit that it truly didn’t matter what they did. Side by side or separated by Orcs, defeat was still defeat. And with numbers like this, defeat was inevitable.

"The Shire!"

Gimli froze and was very nearly decapitated as a result. Ducking beneath a sword and blocking two clubs, the dwarf turned around and paled. Merry and Pippin were charging back in, hoping to create an avenue of escape for Gimli and Legolas. Their courage was admirable and Gimli felt a flush of pride for these hobbits, but it was a fool’s move. They could not hope to prevail against such odds and it would have been better if they’d kept going with Sam and Rosie, who were thankfully nowhere in sight. Beyond that, Merry’s horse was giving him problems again and Gimli winced as the pony nearly carried the poor hobbit straight into a swinging club. The Brandybuck ducked in time, but this could not continue.

Deciding that rejoining Legolas would have to wait a moment longer—the elf was still holding his own, after all—Gimli started hacking his way toward the hobbits, yelling at them to back off. It didn’t do any good, of course, for hobbits could be just as stubborn as elves when they set their mind to something. In fact, now that Gimli was shouting, the hobbits were beginning to drive toward him.

"We’re coming, Gimli!" Pippin called.

Gimli knew exactly what Gandalf would say in this situation. Fool of a Took, rang through his mind, and the dwarf was sorely tempted to make liberal use of that phrase while adding the name Brandybuck to include Merry. But before he could do so, a sudden yell froze his heart and he watched in horror as Merry’s pony reared up, fighting the reins and dumping the hobbit onto the ground. Pippin cried out and tried to reach his friend even as a swarm of Orcs descended upon the fallen hobbit. Numbers pressed both Gimli and Pippin back, and through the chaos, the faint cry of a stricken hobbit managed to reach their ears.

"Merry!" Gimli raged, trying to push forward but finding himself blocked. He turned back, searching desperately for Legolas in the hopes that the elf might be able to do something, but what he saw made him completely forget Merry’s predicament.

Legolas was having problems of his own as a hard blow to his elbow caused his rapier to fly from his hand and a follow-up strike disarmed him of his knife. Weaponless, the prince managed to dodge the next two blows and deflect a third, but even elven agility could not prevail against the odds he faced. A well-timed strike caught him in the back of the head, and with a startled cry, the elf staggered and fell.

Time seemed to grind to a halt and for one terrible moment, Gimli stood frozen by a deadly fear and a dreadful rage. Then the world snapped back into place and the dwarf let out a great roar, swinging his axe with a wrath that had many of the lesser Orcs racing for safety. Blinded by his mad need to reach the elf, Gimli fought with a fury that might have caused Smaug to back down. But even as his rage overtook his mind, one thought kept resonating within the dwarf. They were lost. He would never be able to save Legolas. Merry had already fallen. It was only a matter of time until Pippin went down, and Gimli could not hold out against such a press of foes. At this point in time, only an act of the Valar could save them, but if that was to be the way of things, then so be it. It would never be said that Gimli went meekly. Channeling all his hatred into the swing of his axe, Gimli cried aloud and plunged himself recklessly into the battle.

Arod, revio! Noro ter i yrch a drego an Imladris!—Arod, fly! Ride through the orcs and flee to Imladris!

Chapter 7: Sundered by Shadow

Hunched low over the neck of his horse Gaearsul, Elrohir whispered words of encouragement, urging his mount to faster speeds and greater strides. The hooves of the horses sounded loud on the road and the thrill and excitement of battle began to pound in the half-elf’s veins. Elrohir had always been the more adventurous twin with an eye for swift swordplay and a delight for the intricacies of strategy. By contrast, Elladan was more given to study and contemplation. He could wield a sword against the most formidable opponent, but his true strengths lay in the arts and philosophies. Elladan still followed Elrohir into battle and still continued to prove himself a superb warrior even by elven standards, but he would never hold a candle to his brother’s love of the spear and the lance. Elrohir did not glory in the loss of life, but he did enjoy the interplay of various plots and schemes, and he found the rush of a cavalry charge to be exhilarating. That same excitement overtook him now, and though it was tempered by rising fear for his friends on the Road before them, it was still a wonderfully stimulating feeling.

Beneath him, Gaearsul suddenly neighed loudly, and Elrohir’s attention became fixed on his mount, wondering at the stallion’s restlessness. Then an answering neigh called out to them from further west on the Road and a running horse came into view, skidding hard around a sharp bend. To Elrohir’s right, Aragorn swore and spurred Roheryn forward.

"Arod," the king of Gondor cried, and in answer, the frightened, skittish horse galloped toward them, snorting and shaking his head. Elrohir felt his heart sinking, and he noted the slash marks on Arod’s legs and sides as well as the conspicuous absence of the two individuals that Arod usually carried.

"We cannot stop to tend him," Thranduil said from his position on Elrohir’s left. "We must press on."

Catching the slight tremble in the king’s voice and feeling his own fear rise in response, Elrohir quickly nodded. "Posto sí, Arod," he ordered. "Posto a deri an min."

Arod seemed less than pleased with the commands, but his trembling, exhausted form would not allow him to follow the elven riders and he reluctantly moved aside as they swept past him on the road. Raising his head high, he neighed loudly and the elven horses answered his cry with high whinnies, assuring him that they would do everything in their power to see that his riders were returned to him. Then they were sweeping around the same bend that Arod had turned, and the horse of Rohan was lost to their sight.

Onward they raced, now compelled by an even greater fear for it seemed that Legolas and Gimli had found the Orcs that hunted the hobbits, but as for what had become of them, none could tell. Nor could any tell if the Orcs had also found the hobbits. A dreadful fear gripped the hearts of the company, but perhaps its greatest hold lay upon Elrohir. Memories long buried of his mother after her captivity in the hands of these fell creatures flashed through his mind, searing his consciousness and reminding him of his failure to protect her. He remembered his father’s grave face and the sorrow of Rivendell when she at last departed for the Havens. He remembered the mad quest for vengeance that had taken his mind for a time, and he remembered his brother’s comforting presence when at last he came back to his senses. Elladan had followed Elrohir as the younger twin obsessively sought the Orcs that had tormented and maimed their mother. Elladan had protected him when anger stole reason, and when at last the rage was spent, he had stepped forward and quietly consoled him. Of his own feelings and hurt, the older twin had said naught. He only spoke soothing words of comfort, and from them Elrohir had gained the strength to move on.

But now the memories of that painful time threatened to take his mind again, and he felt the rising hatred and loathing that had forced him from his senses and filled his thoughts with an insane rage. Shoving his feelings down, Elrohir bridled his anger and tried to direct it, creating of it a tool rather than becoming a tool himself. He urged Gaearsul to even greater speeds, and sensing the fear of his rider, the elven horse willing complied. Leaping forward and compelling the others to also increase the pace, the band of elves and men swept down the Road with a speed that would have impressed Gwaihir and Landroval had they been there to see it.

The Road narrowed ahead of them as it bent to skirt the southern edge of wooded hills, and the company came together, with Gondor, Lothlórien, and Rivendell sweeping into formation before the elves of Mirkwood. The sound of their horses’ hooves echoed loud off the hills and seemed to demand even more speed. It was a race against time, and elven horses were too proud to let any challenge go unanswered. Straining to their utmost and galloping with a swiftness that had the horses of Gondor stumbling, they turned another sharp bend in the road, and then the rules of the game abruptly changed.

Elrohir felt his heart leap into his throat as his eyes caught sight of what lay before him. Further back in the line, Thranduil cursed and Aragorn echoed the statement in a rare instance of agreement between the two kings. Riding madly down the road on two frantic ponies came a pair of panicking adult hobbits and one crying hobbit child.

There was no sign of anyone else.

"Sam!" Aragorn called sharply, and Elrohir raised his hand for the company to come to a halt. Horses snorted as they stopped their mad gallop and a feeling of dread swept over the group. Where were the other hobbits? Where were Legolas and Gimli?

Seeming to snap out of his fear at Aragorn’s commanding voice, Sam looked up and a look of relief swept his face. "Orcs!" he cried, slowing his frightened pony and reaching over to aid Rosie in controlling her mount. "Orcs on the Road! They surrounded us and ordered us to surrender."

"How were you able to escape?" Aragorn demanded.

"Legolas and Gimli made a distraction and we got away, but they didn’t," Sam explained hurriedly, a note of grief and guilt rising in his voice. "Then Pippin and Merry rode back to help them and Arod was already missing and Rosie and Elanor here needed looking after so I couldn’t go back even though I wanted to and—"

"Peace, Samwise," Elrohir broke in, silence the hobbit’s rambling even as he began to assemble the scattered facts they were receiving from Sam’s muddled mind. "What we need now is information, not recrimination. How far away are the Orcs and are they still on the Road?"

"They’re about a mile away, maybe more," Sam answered, turning and pointing to the west.

"And they’re still on the Road," Rosie added, filling in for her flustered husband though she was still quite upset herself. Elanor had stopped crying, but she clung tightly to her mother and would not let go.

"Aragorn, have some of your men and some of the Galadhrim stay with these hobbits," Elrohir directed. "They must stay alert, for there may be more than one company of Orcs in these woods. As for the rest of us, we ride on!"

Urging Gaearsul forward, Elrohir was dimly aware of hurried commands on the part of Aragorn as he split his company. But they could not wait for such matters to be ordered, for if there remained even a chance of rescuing the others, they could afford to lose no time. Of course, he could have simply ordered Aragorn to keep his entire group here, but the heir of Isildur would never obey such an order. Aside from the fact that he was now a king and would chafe under such assumed authority, he would never consent to allowing others to ride to the rescue when it was his friends whose lives were on the line.

There was now a new sense of urgency that whipped the company down the Road at speed that threatened to send all the horses tumbling, not just those of Gondor. Elrohir thought once about slowing the mad pace for the sake of their mounts, but any delay at this point might be costly. Even deadly. With a shake of his head, Elrohir pushed such ominous thoughts to the back of his mind. Such thinking only clouded the reactions of a warrior and distracted him from the battle. Firmly disciplining himself as he had been taught to do over the course of more than a thousand years, he loosened his sword in its scabbard, moved up on Gaearsul, and settled into the rhythm of an insanely fast gallop.

They were coming to a section of the Road that ran straight for several miles, and if Sam was correct in his reckoning, the Orcs would be somewhere along here. The anticipation and adrenaline of the coming battle flooded him, and he felt the same anticipation take shape in Gaearsul as the horse snorted and lowered his head in an attempt to squeeze just a bit more speed out of his faltering legs. Elrohir’s peripheral vision picked up Thranduil moving forward to make up for the loss of half the forces of Lothlórien and Gondor, and the elves of Mirkwood began to spread wide so as to hit the Orcs on a broader base. The archers drifted to the back of the ranks, and Elrohir heard the creak of bows as they were strung and bent, arrows already notched and waiting. On his right, the Galadhrim and men of Gondor began to catch up with the rest of the group and move forward along with Mirkwood’s forces, though they were a bit behind the others due to the delay with the hobbits. Elrohir had lost track of Aragorn and he glanced back, hoping to find him quickly so that they might fight together. After a moment or two of searching, he found his foster brother and started to motion him to the front of the pack, but as they rounded the last corner before the straightaway, all thoughts of strategy and planning were drowned in a sea of rage.

Elrohir had never before seen so many Orcs gathered in one place in Eriador. He might have expected this near Mirkwood, around Mordor, within the passes of the Misty Mountains, or even in the far south of Gondor where legions of dark forces still gathered. But in Eriador…such a thing had not been seen since Gil-galad and his father had driven Sauron east of the mountains. Exchanging a horrified glance with Aragorn, whose eyes were likewise filled with shock and loathing, Elrohir called to his troops and sent Gaearsul toward the Orcs with the cry of one mad and the challenge of one enraged.

The Orcs turned at the sound of approaching hooves, and what captains remained to them suddenly shouted in alarm. Without even pausing to offer a defense against the coming elves, the fell creatures began racing into the woods, deserting the field before Elrohir could engage them in battle. From the back of the company came a shower of arrows as some of the Galadhrim and a few of the elves from Mirkwood loosed their bows. Shouts rang out from the Orcs struck by their arrows, but as the company from Rivendell reached the scene of the attack, they realized the futility of pursuing their quarry. The Orcs had scattered as dry leaves before a windstorm, and though they had left clear marks of their passing in the woods, there were too many different directions for Elrohir and his contingent to consider following them now. And here was now another puzzle for Elrohir’s confused mind. Orcs did not abandon a battle like that. They would occasionally retreat or they might be startled into a short rout by fear, but to simply scatter…what had happened here? It was as if they had been protecting something and fled to ensure that something’s safety. But Elrohir was not allowed to dwell on such thoughts, for there were now other things to contend with.

Littered along the Road were dead Orcs of every shape and size. Elrohir instantly recognized the telltale markings of Uruk-hai captains. He also noted the presence of smaller mountain goblins and wondered how they had been forced to travel and fight in sunlight. Then there were other Orcs, not so large as the Uruk-hai but stronger than the Orcs of the mountains. Some of them bore shields marked with the symbol of a red eye, and Elrohir felt his blood run cold. Mordor, his mind whispered. What are Orcs of Mordor doing in Eriador? Unable to solve this problem at the moment, Elrohir shook his head and turned his attention to perhaps the strangest and most disconcerting sight of all.

A large, dense ring of slain Orcs encircled a shocked, shaking, fuming, blood-splattered dwarf who stood with an axe poised to strike. With dark eyes he stared at the elves in disbelief as though his weary mind could not accept the reality of their coming. Behind Gimli, curled into a tight ball on the ground and moaning piteously in partial consciousness, lay a hobbit. Pippin, Elrohir recognized. Further away were the bodies of two hobbit ponies, their necks broken by the cruel hands of the Orcs. Of Merry and Legolas, there was no sign.

"Gimli?"

Aragorn’s deep voice broke the silence that had descended like a shroud over those now gathered, and along with the silence, it also seemed to break whatever trance had come over Gimli. With a shuddering breath, the dwarf blinked and turned away from the elves to stare at the surrounding woods and hills, his deep-set eyes searching vainly for some sign of his attackers. For a moment, none dared to breath and all eyes were fixed on the dwarf, who had paled and begun to shake. Then all jumped as with a wordless cry, Gimli began charging toward the trees, shocking the elves with his suddenness and ringing their ears with the force of his shout.

Fortunately, Aragorn seemed prepared for such action and he had already spurred Roheryn forward. Guiding the horse quickly and skillfully, he stopped his mount directly in the dwarf’s path. Skidding to a halt, Gimli was temporarily thrown off balance, which gave the king of Gondor time enough to dismount and knock the axe from Gimli’s hand. For a moment, no one dared move and dwarf and man stared at one another as though each looked a stranger. Then a terrible rage swept Gimli’s and he surged forward, forgetting the axe that now lay behind him. But as before, Aragorn was prepared and he seized the dwarf by the arms, planting his feet against the force of Gimli’s charge. But such was the dwarf’s strength that Aragorn was actually pushed back several feet before he found a firm foothold and managed to restrain his friend.

"He is gone," Aragorn hissed, his voice cold and his face stony as he held the dwarf back by brute force. "Seeking your own death will not avenge him."

Gimli made no answer to this, but he seemed to go limp and slumped against Aragorn, ceasing his efforts to press forward. Elrohir let out a sigh of relief and then turned to direct his forces, intending to send some out on scouting parties while others examined the dispatched Orcs. But much to surprise, he discovered that Thranduil had already taken care of such details, and the king of Mirkwood had even sent Lindir to examine Pippin. Seeing that all was ordered and his attention was not required for the moment, Elrond’s son directed Gaearsul toward Aragorn and Gimli, wondering if there was aught he could offer in the way of comfort or help.

Nearing the two, his heart constricted at the open agony on Gimli’s face. Never before had he seen a dwarf betray such emotion, and Rivendell had played host to several companies of dwarves traveling between the Blue Mountains west of the Shire and the Iron Hills east of Lake-town. Apart from Legolas, Elrohir and Elladan probably had more contact with the dwarves than any other elf left in Middle Earth, but never had a dwarf so blatantly prostrated grief before him. Aragorn was now kneeling next to Gimli and had a firm hand on his shoulder, but he seemed to be searching for something more to do. More than that, he seemed to be searching for a way to bury his own grief and distress while he dealt with more immediate matters, but it was clear that the horror of what had happened was beginning to clutch at the king’s heart. Bringing Gaearsul to a stop, Elrohir dismounted and approached softly, fearful of disturbing the two.

But Gimli had been Legolas’s friend too long to not feel the pull of an elven gaze, and a mask quickly descended upon his face as he turned to watch Elrohir. Their eyes met for a brief moment ere the dwarf looked away, and Elrohir shivered at the despair and darkness slowly creeping over Gimli, hidden though it was. Elrond’s son moved to speak, stopped, and then shook his head. A battle had happened here, and they needed information. They were not going to get answers from Pippin in the near future, which left the dwarf as their only source. He is a warrior, Elrohir reminded himself. He knows to put grief behind him and he will understand our needs. Even if Estel is loath to seek them, we must have answers.

His mind made up, the son of Elrond took a step forward and then went down on one knee, bringing himself down to eye-level with the dwarf. At another time this move might have been mistaken for condescension and an affront to dwarven pride, but Elrohir felt that Gimli would understand the compassion and concern behind this gesture. Waiting until the dwarf looked back at him, he forced his face to assume a mask of calm. "Gimli, what happened here?" Elrohir asked gently.

"Orcs," the dwarf whispered after a moment of hesitation. He closed his eyes, took a steadying breath that seemed strangely elven, and then stepped away from Aragorn. "They were waiting for us and we were ambushed. There was nothing we could do to prevent it."

"Tell us," Elrohir implored, capturing the dwarf’s dark eyes with his own and ignoring Aragorn’s sharp looks. "We must know the details."

"We’d just come upon the hobbits and were speaking with them," Gimli answered, shuddering slightly as the weariness of battle began to creep over him and the adrenaline within his system faded. "All seemed well until Legolas sensed the Orcs. They were not yet visible, but that quickly changed. We were riding swiftly when they broke from the trees before us. Legolas and I attacked them, hoping that an offensive might buy time for the hobbits to retreat to a place of safety and hiding, but the Orcs were also behind us. We were surrounded on all sides. Rivendell was cut off, and there was no retreat to be had."

"How many were there?" Aragorn asked, and in his voice was a strange degree of tension that Elrohir had not heard since Halbarad had died upon the Pelennor fields.

The mask over Gimli’s despair was becoming more opaque now, and save for yet another deep breath that was strangely reminiscent of meditation techniques used by the Sindarin, Gimli seemed to resume his gruff, abrupt dwarven personality. "I do not know. They were milling about and I could not count, nor did Legolas give me a number. The elf and I broke off our attack in order to better protect the hobbits. It was strange," the dwarf murmured, his voice becoming soft. "They did not pursue us but rather allowed us to retreat into the middle of the circle. It was almost as if they did not want to fight us. We drew together and then…" Gimli trailed and shook his head, murmuring incoherent words beneath his breath that sounded very much like a rather foul dwarven curse.

"Gimli?" Elrohir questioned.

"Never give an elf leave to plan your escape," the dwarf eventually growled. "Legolas had the grand idea of cutting a path through the Orcs using arrows, Arod, and me. The hobbits would follow the horse and hopefully break free of the press. It was a wonderful idea except for the fact that the stupid elf would still be trapped inside the Orcs’ circle."

"I take it you did not go along with his plan?" Elrohir observed when the dwarf paused.

"Of course not," Gimli said indignantly. "Without me, Legolas does not know a hilt from a blade. I doubt he could even find his own quiver without my assistance, much less string an arrow. I let him know in no uncertain terms that if he was staying, then so was I. I am proud to say that I won that particular argument."

"What happened next?" Elrohir asked, trying to direct the conversation back to the flow of the battle’s narrative.

"They asked us to surrender."

"They what!?" This announcement seemed to shake Aragorn from his own cloud of grief and a bit of life entered his dark gray eyes as he studied Gimli and considered his words. "These were Orcs, correct? And they asked you to surrender?"

"We were rather surprised by it as well," Gimli said, sighing. "Of course we refused. That’s when Legolas began his attack. Arod charged, I charged, the hobbits broke free, and then I turned to fight my way back to Legolas." Gimli then stopped and shook his head, turning his eyes to the forest. "But I was cut off. I could not get back to his side. There were too many of them."

"There was nothing you could do," Aragorn murmured, sighing quietly and running a hand wearily through his dark hair. "There are some things that you cannot change no matter how hard you fight them."

"Gimli, you said the hobbits broke clear," Elrohir broke in, realizing that Aragorn was becoming too burdened by grief to think clearly. "How is it that Pippin was with you when we rode in? And what of Merry?"

"Merry and Pippin chose to come back," Gimli murmured wearily. "A fool’s idea, and Pippin will pay for it with the knock he received to his head. It was all I could do to keep the Orcs away from him after he fell. As for Merry…" The dwarf trailed off and a sudden trembling took his frame. "He went down just before Legolas did."

Elrohir glanced back at the sight of the battle and then turned to both Aragorn and Gimli, coming to the question that Estel was not prepared to ask. "Where are Legolas and Merry now?"

Aragorn rounded on his foster brother with the same forceful glare that had managed to wrest Orthanc’s palantir from Sauron’s grasp, but Elrohir was not watching the king of Gondor. His eyes were focused instead on Gimli, who seemed shamed and upset rather than grieved by the question. "The Orcs took them," the dwarf hissed. "I know not where. I could not prevent it, and they were rendered unconscious and so could not resist."

Elrohir nodded and then turned his sharp eyes to Aragorn, who was almost trembling with hope unlooked for. "They were not killed?" the man questioned.

"I do not think so." The dwarf’s voice was still a whisper and even Elrohir had to strain his elven hearing to catch the muttered words. "At the beginning of the attack, I noted that the Orcs carried primarily staffs, clubs, and staves. They were after prisoners, not corpses."

"Why did you not say so?!" Aragorn’s grief swiftly turned to anger and Gimli backed up in surprise. "From your face and your sorrow, I judged that they had perished at the hands of the Orcs!"

Understanding dawned and Gimli hastily shook his head. "Nay, they yet lived when the attackers fled, or so I deemed when I saw Merry flung over an Orc shoulder. My apologies, Aragorn. I did not mean to cause you grief. You should have asked."

"You should have made clear the fact that they were not killed!"

"Peace," Elrohir soothed, glancing over his shoulder as peripheral vision caught movement. He grimaced when he saw that Thranduil was walking toward them. This was quite possibly the last thing Gimli and Aragorn needed. Still, there was naught to do about it save to build up their hopes and prepare them for a rather unpleasant encounter with Legolas’s father. Would that Elladan were here instead of me. He has more the stomach for delicate matters such as this. But there was nothing to be done about that, and so Elrohir set about doing what little he could manage under the circumstances. "Seek not to place the blame upon yourselves, both of you," Elrohir said, his voice firm. "What matters is that Legolas and Merry are not dead and we have a hope in seeing them again. All is not lost and hope remains with us so long as we allow it to. We must now discover the devices of our enemies and, if possible, their motives. Such things will aid us in the search for our lost comrades and hasten the time of our vengeance and their freedom." He then turned as Mirkwood’s king reached them and nodded his head by way of greeting. "How fares the hobbit?"

"Lindir believes he shall recover consciousness soon," Thranduil answered, not looking at Elrohir but instead running sharp eyes over Aragorn and Gimli. To their credit, neither flinched beneath the weighty stare, and Elrohir silently thanked the Valar that Aragorn had been raised among the elves and that Gimli had become an elf-friend. As such, both knew how to withstand the weight of an elven gaze, and this ability now saved them from further anguish. To show weakness before Thranduil was to condemn oneself.

"I see you have already sent out scouting parties," Elrohir continued, having a fairly good idea of what direction Thranduil’s thoughts were taking and attempting to sidetrack the older elf.

"Yes, I have," Thranduil answered, not taking his eyes from Aragorn and Gimli. It was, perhaps, fortunate that they were both there, for even experienced as they were, one alone might not have been able to withstand his accusing glare. "This is a strange place to meet, heir of Isildur," the king of Mirkwood finally spoke, and his voice was heavy with accusation and condescension. "Was it not you who sent my son on this mission with no more guard than a lone dwarf?"

Aragorn’s eyes hardened but aside from that he evinced no sign of the great anger Elrohir knew to be building within the king of Gondor. Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but the next words came not from him but from the dwarf who stood beside him.

"You underestimate your son’s abilities, great king of Mirkwood, if you think he cannot stand against a press of foes with no more defense than a lone dwarf," Gimli growled, laying a hand to the haft of his axe. "And you underestimate my abilities if you mean to belittle the defense that a lone dwarf might have to offer.

Thranduil glared at Gimli but made no answer, giving the impression that conversation with a dwarf was somehow beneath him. Turning his gaze fully on Aragorn, he caught the king of Gondor in a weighty stare that caused even Estel of Imladris to narrow his eyes slightly. "You did not answer my question, King Elessar. Was it not you who sent my youngest son into peril without so much as an honor guard for company?"

"King Thranduil, Lord Legolas requested specifically that only he and Gimli be sent," Aragorn said coolly. "And it is my experience that your son is more than capable of handling himself. Beyond that, we were unaware of any threat at the time that he was sent."

"Were you? Legolas and Arwen had both warned you of a deepening shadow in the mountains. And rumor has it that Lindir, Elladan, and Elrohir also expressed concern. Yet you failed to heed these warnings, much as your ancestor did despite the great sacrifice of the elves."

"Thranduil!" Elrohir said sharply, but before he could say more and before Aragorn could rise to his own defense, it was Gimli yet again who spoke up.

"How long have you sequestered yourself in Mirkwood with no thought for the outside world?" Gimli demanded, his voice becoming cold as a winter in the Misty Mountains. "Through your son I have learned that elven eyes are keen, yet your sight seems to be clouded. How is it that you have raised such an elf as Legolas? For his sake have I held my anger in check, but I see no need to watch my tongue now. You stand in the presence of heroes who have more than earned their renown, and yet you think only of prejudices and offenses long past. You may be my senior by thousands of years, Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, but by your words, you are a child."

Elrohir froze, his eyes darting to Thranduil as the king drew back in rage at the dwarf’s words. No one had spoken thus to the king of Mirkwood since the death of Oropher, and ancient elven eyes glittered as they pinned Gimli beneath all the weight of an elven lords’ wrath. But the surprises were not finished for the day, and Elrohir cringed when Aragorn suddenly began to speak, shifting Thranduil’s gaze from Gimli to himself.

"You forget yourself, my fellow king," Aragorn said, and in his voice was a hint of the commanding tone that had caused even the dead at the Stone of Erech to obey his will. "You remember not to whom you speak, nor do you remember our labors in freeing Middle Earth of Sauron’s shadow. Have I not reclaimed the throne of Gondor? And has not Gimli aided in the destruction of the Morannon and Barad-dûr? As for your earlier words, Thranduil, son of Oropher, I am not my ancestors. It is the nature of my Race to change over time, and change can be for the best. It seems that the you have forgotten that as well, and it would be wisdom to consider such things ere you speak again. Come, Gimli," Aragorn said, turning to the dwarf. "Let us see how Pippin fares and whether we may lend Lindir our aid." And with a polite nod to Thranduil and a hidden smile for Elrohir, the king of Gondor turned away. It took Gimli a moment to follow for he had to give Thranduil a taste of what it was to receive a dwarven glare, but he eventually did turn with a last look of utter contempt for Mirkwood’s king.

And so we are divided, Elrohir sighed, watching a plethora of emotions race across Thranduil’s face. From both within and without, forces seek to divide us. We have lost Legolas and Merry to Orcs. We have lost cohesion and unity to prejudice. Shall we also lose the alliance between elves and men? Mayhap Elladan’s shadow does more than hide the forces of darkness. Perhaps it divides those of us who would be allies and so weakens us.

"He should never have been raised in Rivendell," Thranduil said flatly, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side. "And that dwarf should be expelled from Imladris at once."

Elrohir lifted a fair brow at this and fixed a stony gaze on the Sindarin king. "Choose your words carefully, Thranduil, for Estel is as a brother to me. I will tolerate no ill talk of him. As for Gimli, did you not hear the king of Gondor? He has earned the respect of all the free peoples of Middle Earth. Neither I nor my brother will deny him anything, and you presume much in recommending such action to me. See that you do not overstep your boundaries, king of Mirkwood, for Rivendell is far from your own realm."

Thranduil stared in shock at Elrond’s son. "Have the mortals also blinded you?"

"Strange as this may seem to one such as you, I believe the dwarf to be right," Elrohir said bluntly with a strained laugh. "Keen elven sight may be, but yours is clouded." And with these final words, the son of Elrond turned away from Thranduil, unable to tolerate the prejudices that still pervaded elven thought.

Posto sí, Arod. Posto a deri an min—Rest here, Arod. Rest and wait for us.

Chapter 8: The Return

"Peregrin Took?"

Pippin sighed and wondered why he was being called. Surely it was too early to begin the day. And even if it wasn’t, his head felt as though he’d spent far too long a night at the Green Dragon. He would need to sleep this one off, and he would not be able to do so if he rose. Ignoring the voice that called to him, he grunted and tried to roll over.

"Master Took, we are departing and you will be more comfortable if you are able to sit a mount rather than ride while strapped to a saddle horn from Gondor."

That last sentence was a bit too complex for Pippin’s muddled brain to comprehend, but he understood the general meaning. Someone was leaving and he was expected to come along. He also received the impression that the time of departure was a thing of some urgency. He didn’t know why he was supposed to come along, but if this speaker insisted, then the speaker would have to wait a minute or two more. Pippin had no intention of exacerbating his headache by popping awake and marching out the door.

"Here, let me. I have had to do this before. Pippin? Come, Pippin, you must rise. We have spent far too much time here."

Aragorn? This was an interesting development. What was Aragorn doing here? Shouldn’t he be ruling Gondor or fighting Orcs or riding horses? No, that was Eomer. Eomer was the one riding horses. But Aragorn rides horses, too, he reminded himself. The hobbit sighed. He didn’t feel that the situation was making much sense and it was beginning to frustrate him. And was that a note of tension he heard in Aragorn’s voice?

"Pippin, you shall receive no dinner if we do not leave now."

Pippin had always suspected Aragorn of having a hidden penchant for cruelty. His suspicions were now validated, and he groaned, struggling to open his eyes despite the pounding of his head. Light flashed before him as figures hovering above shifted positions, and the hobbit winced as the light made his headache worse. But he had begun this process and he would see it through.

"Come, knight of Gondor. I bid thee rise, for your king is waiting."

Trust Aragorn to bring politics into this, Pippin thought disparagingly, feeling that the former Ranger had always been a little too formal. Why couldn’t everyone be like the hobbits? Life was meant for merriment and food, not dour conversations and meager rations. But these thoughts were not helping him, and so Pippin pushed them to the side, finally managing to open his eyes and blinking in surprise at what he saw.

"Where am I?"

"You are on the Road and were headed for Rivendell." Aragorn’s concerned face hovered above his, and the king’s gentle hand brushed across his head, looking for injuries. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Merry!" Pippin shot to his feet far too quickly for his own good, and were it not for steadying hands behind him, he would have fallen. But his weaving form was braced and the world slowly righted itself before his bleary eyes. With a gentle shake of his head, he tried to stand on his own and eventually managed it, turning around to thank whoever had steadied him. He was met by an elf with light eyes and dark hair, and a flash of familiarity hit him, though he could not say where he had seen this elf before. "Thank you," he murmured, still studying the elf until he realized that his staring might be interpreted as rudeness.

"You are most welcome, Master Took," the elf answered with a quiet laugh. "But take care the next time you change positions so quickly!"

"Lindir? Can he be moved?"

The voice had come from behind the dark-haired elf, and he hesitated, looking at Aragorn questioningly. Aragorn’s face became as a stone and he nodded ever so slightly. Taking this as an answer in the affirmative, Lindir looked back over his shoulder at another elf that reminded Pippin very much of Legolas with the exception that this elf was taller and seemed…weary. And angry, too, the hobbit realized. But…it’s a sad sort of anger. He’s worried about something.

"He can be moved if you so desire it, King Thranduil," Lindir answered, keeping a comforting hand on Pippin’s back. "But as to where he shall be moving, I know not. What say you, Lord Elrohir? Where go our companies and what of the travelers?"

"You may want to involve these travelers in your discussion," a gruff voice broke in. Gimli wandered near Pippin and gave him a quick smile as a way of congratulating him on his return to consciousness before turning his attention back to the two elves. "I have no desire to return to Rivendell unless I may do it in the company of he who rode with me. That being the case, I intend to stay here and begin searching regardless of what the vaunted elves decide."

Pippin sensed Aragorn stiffening at this comment and the hobbit wondered what had happened to make Gimli sound so upset with the elves. If he didn’t know better, Pippin would have said that the dwarf sounded exactly like he did during the first stages of the Fellowship before he and Legolas became friends. The other elf—Lindir, Pippin reminded himself, now recalling that he’d seen him several times in the Hall of Fire before leaving with the Fellowship—seemed not to care what the dwarf thought. But the elf who’d been named as King Thranduil was now glaring darkly at Gimli with enough loathing to turn Pippin’s stomach.

"I had hoped that the negyth had finished causing grief to me and my kindred. Were you not satisfied with the death of my wife, or must you now take my youngest son as well?"

Gimli’s grip on his axe tightened and Pippin fully expected him to lunge at Thranduil but a third elf—Elrohir, the hobbit recognized—stepped between the two before aught could happen. "I have chosen some of my own elves to linger here and do what can be done in the way of tracking these Orcs. As for the rest of us, I suggest we return to Rivendell and learn how our brethren fare in their own battle with the Orcs. I know some of us long to stay here," he added with a pointed look at Aragorn and Gimli, "but I see no profit in such a move. I counsel rest while it can be obtained, and the hunt may be resumed on the morrow."

"I journeyed the length of Rohan on foot in pursuit of two comrades lost to Orcs," Gimli said quietly, his voice cold and stubborn. "If need be, I shall do so again in Eriador though none run with me."

"But in Rohan you lacked forces to back you, Master Dwarf, and there lay a clear trail before your eyes," Elrohir argued. "Here that is not the case. The Orcs have scattered north, south, east, and west. We do not know not which group was the main party, nor do we know their ultimate destination. Let others search these things out, for until we learn this information, we cannot act. Once details are found, we may pursue our enemy, and then will your axe be most welcome."

"He is right, Gimli," Aragorn sighed reluctantly. It seemed to Pippin that the king found the words distasteful but true. "We can do no good by searching now. The elves are as capable as the Rangers in this, and their senses shall not fail us. Let us save our strength for the real pursuit. Beyond that, we must see the remaining hobbits safely to Rivendell."

Pippin watched Gimli carefully for his response, but the dwarf only closed his eyes and grunted slightly. The hobbit had no idea what the translation for that might be, but Aragorn appeared satisfied. Sensing that this particular conversation was at an end, Pippin decided that it was time for answers of his own and he wasted no time in letting fly a stream of questions. "What happened, Aragorn? Where’s Merry? When did you get here? Did you find Sam and Rosie on the Road? Was Elanor all right? What about Legolas? What happened to him? Did the—"

"Peace," Aragorn interrupted with a brief but sad smile. "I see that some things will never change, my dear friend. You are as inquisitive as I remember. Patience and we shall answer all things on the ride, but we must now prepare to leave. If you will permit it, you shall ride behind Elrohir and Gimli shall ride behind me. We must journey with haste, for when we left Rivendell, we left it besieged."

"Rivendell is under attack?" Pippin gasped, his mind remembering the fair trees and archways of Imladris. "But who would attack it? We defeated Mordor!"

"We defeated Mordor, yes, but evil still lives," Gimli answered quietly. "You should know that well, Pippin, for only an hour ago it struck you down."

"Yes, and now I want to know what happened to everyone else!" Pippin exclaimed, growing frustrated as his confusion mounted. "If it isn’t Mordor, then who is it? Who attacked us and who attacked Rivendell? And where are the others? What happened?"

"Did I not promise answers during the ride?" Aragorn said, smiling in thanks at Elrohir as the half-elf brought Roheryn over to the king. "Calm yourself, Pippin, for your words make little sense and were I to give you answers, you would not be able to comprehend them. I give you my word that we will speak of this and much more on our way back to Rivendell."

Pippin knew a dodge when he saw one, but he also knew there was probably a reason for it. He’d witnessed the confusion that followed the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and he knew from experience that analyzing what had happened after a battle took time. Consequently, the hobbit firmly quelled his impatience and said no more, following Aragorn silently as the king trailed after Elrohir. Gimli fell into step beside him, and from the dwarf came a feeling of rage and anxiety so palpable that Pippin began to edge away. There could be only one explanation for that, and some of Pippin’s questions began to be answered, though the answers only gave rise to further questions. Something had happened to Legolas. But what?!

"Come, Sir Hobbit," Elrohir called, and Pippin shook himself out of his thoughts. "By your leave, you shall ride behind me. We shall keep King Elessar close to us so that you may exchange words and learn of what has happened."

"I have dispatched Mirkwood scouts to keep your own elves company," King Thranduil said, having followed the group. "I do not slight the abilities of Imladris, but understand that one of the missing is my son."

Pippin darted a quick look at the king of Mirkwood, his mind quickly processing what had been said. One of the missing…that means they’re missing, not dead. So there’s still hope for Legolas. But he isn’t the only one, either. And Merry isn’t around! The other one must be Merry!

"You are, of course, welcome to direct your forces however you wish," Elrohir told Thranduil, and Pippin caught a strange degree of tension in the half-elf’s voice. "And I doubt not that additional eyes will prove useful. But we must now away, and we can discuss further operations from Rivendell once we are assured of our kinsmen’s safety." Elrohir then turned his head and whistled in a way that Pippin had heard Legolas do with Arod just after the War of the Ring. Before long, a sleek white horse came into view, tossing its head and walking straight to Elrohir. "Here is our mount, Peregrin Took," the son of Elrond said, turning to the hobbit with a smile. After stroking the horse’s arching neck, he turned, bent down, and cupped his hands. "If you will allow it, I shall boost you onto Gaearsul’s back."

"I don’t know how else I’d get up there," Pippin said, wishing for his nice, small hobbit pony. But mustering his courage, he put one foot in Elrohir’s hands and found himself practically flying upward. He landed with a hard jolt on a firm back and Gaearsul snorted in what might have been amusement. Then Elrohir was seated before him, having mounted so gracefully and so suddenly that Pippin almost assumed that he’d simply appeared out of thin air.

"I trust we are ready, Master Took?" Elrohir said with a backward glance at the hobbit. Off to his side, Aragorn and Gimli were already mounted on Roheryn and looked to be anxious about moving out. For a brief second, Pippin could picture Legolas instead of Aragorn seated before Gimli on that horse, and instead of Roheryn he saw Arod. Then the vision was gone and Pippin was left with reality.

"I am ready," he said quietly, looking up at Elrohir. "A hobbit is always ready."

"We will find them," Elrohir promised, reading the distress in Pippin’s eyes. "And when we do, let their captors beware." And having said this, Elrohir turned around and called to Gaearsul. The horse whinnied and sprang forward, leading the host of elves and men away from the clearing where Orc corpses still littered the ground and where two of their friends had been lost.

* * * *

Rose Cotton Gamgee gently stroked the golden hair of her daughter and hummed a low, soothing song. It was a song that her own mother had once sung to her when dark storms had pressed near and she had cried in terror. By now, Elanor had calmed down and was slowly drifting into a peaceful sleep. She had little need of the song, but Rosie did not hum it solely for her daughter. Much of it was for herself.

She had never seen beasts so hideous as those Orcs, as Sam called them. The cruelty and malice in their eyes drove pins into her heart. And the way they had looked at Elanor! Not a shred of compassion or guilt had flickered in their countenances. They were monsters. Beasts. Rosie shivered, her sharp mind providing her with every minute detail from her first encounter with Orcs. She had listened eagerly to Sam on those rare occasions when he would share some tidbit from his adventure and she was always ready to listen to Pippin and Merry regale one another with daring tales of heroism, but she now realized that the tales had been censored and she’d been spared the worst parts. And she doubted not but what the Orcs she’d just run from were but a small part of what her husband had endured in following Frodo to Mordor. Rosie had no basis for conceptualizing Mordor, but the legends and rumors she’d heard as a child gave her enough knowledge to know that her Sam was made of very stern stuff.

Glancing at her husband who rode abreast of her, she wondered just how much he had seen and how much he had suffered. Before marrying him, she had never left the Shire nor had she ever had the inclination to do so, but only a few months after Frodo’s departure, she and Sam had journeyed to Bree. After this first trip, they had made an almost a yearly anniversary of it, for despite all his words to the contrary, Sam had a touch of the travel bug and needed to get out of the Shire occasionally. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Pippin or Merry, who rode away from the Shire at least once a month, but that was to be expected from a Took and a Brandybuck. A Gamgee was another matter. Still, Rosie actually enjoyed the excursions, though she could never quite bring herself to trust the towering men that loomed over them every time they visited. Even Mr. Barliman Butterbur—whom Sam seemed to consider something of a strange friend—was frightening to Rosie.

The sound of voices caught her attention and she looked to see that Sam had begun speaking with one of the guards from Gondor. These soldiers…they were unlike any men she’d seen in Bree save it be the Rangers, and she’d only seen two of them from a distance on one of their trips to Bree. These men were solemn, proud of bearing with grim faces, and to even an unschooled eye, it was evident that their weapons were ready for use and that when called into such use, they could be handled with deadly expertise. Rosie found herself shying away from them, but it was more from awe than from fear and distrust. These were men not to be trifled with, and yet they still evinced signs of compassion. After the main host had ridden away down the Road, those remaining had given her and Sam nearly half an hour in which to rest and collect their scattered bearings. One had even offered to take Elanor for her and soothe the child while she soothed herself. She had refused, of course, but it did say something about the character of these guards.

And as for the elves…how did one describe an elf? They seemed completely beyond her ability to comprehend. Young and old, joyous and sad. They were walking contradictions, and Rosie shook her head, attempting to understand these strange beings that rode with them. Her husband seemed comfortable enough around them. Perhaps she should ask him to explain. Or perhaps the elf she met before the Orcs attacked…Legolas…perhaps she could speak with him. He seemed to be more approachable than the elves that surrounded them. That is, perhaps she could speak with him if he came out of this alive. She’d been astonished to watch him fire his bow and she’d been entranced by the deadly dance of the dwarf’s axe, but she was not a fool and she knew that they were hopelessly outnumbered. She had protested when Merry and Pippin turned around to ride back, but she knew from the determined look in their eyes that nothing would stand between them and their friends. And that also said something about the characters of Legolas and Gimli. Merry and Pippin were willing to die for them.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, dear?" Rosie whispered, hunching over to listen to Elanor.

"I’m hungry."

"What is it, Rosie?" Sam called.

"We’ll eat soon," Rosie promised Elanor before looking up at Sam. "She’s hungry," she answered with a hopeless shrug. "I don’t suppose that you have anything to eat, do you?"

Sam grimaced and shook his head sadly. "With all our hurry to leave, I think the food ended up on Merry’s pony."

"Master Samwise? If the child is hungry, she may have some of this."

Rosie looked over just in time to see an elf toss her husband something wrapped in a green leaf. Sam smiled in thanks and hurriedly unwrapped it, revealing a small golden cake. "What is it?" Rosie asked, caught between curiosity and suspicion.

"Lembas," Sam answered with a smile, breaking off a corner and handing it to his wife for inspection. "This kept me alive for much of my trip with Frodo. Marvelous stuff, but after months of it, I found myself wishing for a change in diet."

Rosie tasted the piece she’d been given and her suspicious expression quickly changed. "This is wonderful, Sam! How could you possibly grow tired of it?"

Sam shrugged and glanced over at a few elves who’d begun to laugh. "When it’s the only thing you eat and you eat it twice a day for months on end, anything can become tiresome."

"Food?" Elanor asked hopefully, her tiny hands reaching out for the cake Sam still held. Her father broke off a larger piece and gave it to the child, smiling when it was quickly devoured.

"You like that?"

Elanor gave him an enthusiastic nod and reached for more, causing Rosie to laugh. "Gently now, or you’ll spoil your appetite."

"Is it possible to spoil a hobbit’s appetite?" one of the elves asked.

Sam laughed quietly and turned his attention to the Galadhrim. "It takes some doing, but yes, it is possible to spoil a hobbit’s appetite."

The elves looked as though they were ready and eager to pursue this conversation, but as one they suddenly stopped and a few looked behind them on the Road. Gondor’s men paused for a moment, surprised by this abrupt halt, and then Sam inhaled sharply. "What is it?" Rosie asked.

"Horses," Sam answered, even as the sound of rapid hooves began to reach Rosie’s ears.

"Do you know who it is?" she asked, wrapping a protective arm around Elanor.

Sam shook his head and glanced toward the elves. "I don’t, but I reckon that they do. Elves have a way of knowing things, and they don’t seem too upset. Maybe it’s Strider and the others."

As if on cue, a group of horses thundered around a bend in the Road far behind them. Searching the ranks, Rosie quickly found Pippin clinging to the back of a dark-haired elf and Gimli the dwarf riding behind the man that Sam had referred to as Strider. The elf named Legolas seemed to be missing, but there were a number of elves riding toward them and it was possible that she just did not recognize him. But there was no explanation for not seeing Merry, and at the moment, the Brandybuck was nowhere in sight.

They waited in tense silence as the riders approached, everyone having recognized that the returning company was smaller in size than the one that had set out and that not all could be accounted for. The faces of those leading the group were grim, and riding behind the tall elf, Pippin looked as though he might have been crying. Beside her, Rosie heard Sam’s breath catch in his throat and she could not bring herself to look at him, fearful of the despair and heartache she might see.

Her husband spurred his pony forward, his movements slow and reluctant. The approaching company stopped and for a long moment, nothing was said. It was Sam who broke the silence, and Rosie almost didn’t recognize his voice. He sounded weary, sick, and hopeless. It was as though he had given up. "What happened, Strider?" he asked thickly. "Where are the others?"

"I am sorry, Sam," the man called Strider answered, his voice quiet and sad. "By the time we reached the Orcs, they had already taken Merry and Legolas. We attacked, but they scattered too quickly. We left some of the elves to scout the area. They will find the main company of Orcs and we will mount a counterstrike."

"Taken?" Sam questioned, his brow furrowing. "They’re not dead?"

"Prisoners," Gimli spat, and Rosie shivered at the sound of despair and fear that pervaded his gruff baritone. "The Orcs were sent not to kill but to capture."

"We will find them, Master Samwise," the elf seated before Pippin promised, his eyes were cool and confident as they looked first at Sam and then at Rosie. "Elladan and I failed to find our mother in time to save her spirit, but we will not make the same mistake twice. By the Ring of my father, I swear that we shall find Merry and Legolas."

"It wasn’t enough, was it?" Sam whispered, rubbing his eyes. "Destroying Sauron wasn’t enough. Evil still lives."

"Evil has existed since the first notes of Ilúvatar’s song, and it will continue to exist until the song is finished," the elf answered. "Its survival is no fault of yours. Do not lessen your deeds, Master Samwise, for the Valar themselves praise your accomplishments."

"Besides, have you ever heard Elrohir promise something he can’t give?" Pippin added, leaning around the elf to flash Sam his most reassuring grin, though to Rosie’s sharp eyes, the smiled looked forced. "Legolas can take care of himself and Merry…" The hobbit’s voice suddenly cracked and he shook his head sharply, quickly regaining his composure. "If I know Merry," he continued, struggling valiantly to maintain control, "those Orcs are in more trouble than they bargained for. They’ll probably give him back to us just to get him off their hands."

Sam smiled and nodded, his own expression coming off just as forced as Pippin’s, but at least they were making an attempt to remain calm. "You’re right, Pippin," Sam said. "Merry’s probably eaten them out of hole and lair already. And Legolas will have talked their ears off about trees and stars, right Gimli?"

The dwarf grunted and looked away, his dark eyes searching the eaves of the forest. Before him, Aragorn sighed, and nudged Roheryn forward. "Come. The hour grows late and we can do no more here. Let us return to Rivendell and assure ourselves of its safety. From there, more plans can be made and we can better see to the rescue of our friends."

"For my part, I would wish to learn more of this trees and stars talk," the elf called Elrohir added, attempting to lighten the situation. "Am I to understand that hobbits and dwarves have no appreciation for the things that grace Arda?"

"How could they?" another elf said sharply. Rosie cringed at his voice and shivered. This elf was very tall, his shoulders were broad, and the golden hair of his head seemed to shine with an inner light. But for all his fairness, his eyes were cold and unforgiving. "They are mortals, Elrohir. What do they know of the greater things in Arda?"

More than one elf began murmuring at this, but Elrohir held up his hand for silence and Rosie shivered again, but this time out of respect rather than fear. "You have Imladris’s welcome and hospitality, King Thranduil. Do not abuse such a gift. I will hear no more prejudices from you. I respect you as an elven lord of great renown as well as my elder and my father’s ally, but do not test the strength of such bonds."

A very tense silence descended and Rosie found herself twisting her pony’s reins in her hands. Not understanding what was happening but sensing that something was wrong, Elanor looked up from her wafer of lembas and studied the gathering of elves and men with the wide, innocent eyes of a hobbit child. Searching one face after another, her somber, serious countenance suddenly brightened and a wide grin swept her face.

"Bush!"

The tense silence abruptly dissolved into confusion, and Gimli blinked, realizing that he was being addressed. Aragorn glanced from hobbit to dwarf, the corners of his mouth twitching as he attempted to imagine what brought this about, and then the elves began to laugh. There were even a few grins among the sober guards of Gondor.

"That’s right, young one," Gimli said quietly as Aragorn brought Roheryn alongside Rosie’s pony. "A very full and a very fine bush. Have you begun to grow yours yet?" There was still a touch of worry in the dwarf’s voice, but he did manage to smile at Elanor

"Up," Elanor commanded, lifting her arms out to the dwarf and wriggling against her mother’s protective grip. Gimli looked hesitantly at Aragorn and Rosie, but Rosie was having problems holding the young hobbit and had to give in, as Elanor was clearly intent on reaching Gimli.

"This is a side of you that I have not seen," Aragorn commented with a small smile as he reached down and lifted Elanor up, placing her in Gimli’s lap.

"The young must be taught to honor courage and strength early," the dwarf replied testily, wrapping one arm around the child as she happily entwined her hands in his beard and leaned against his chest. "What better example of courage and strength could you ask for? Time around me shall do her good."

"I doubt not that Legolas had much to say about this," Aragorn said, his smile faltering.

"He will answer for his words," Gimli promised. "Should we not be on our way so that we may see about getting that elf out of the Orcs’ hands and into mine?"

"You speak wisely, Gimli," Elrohir said, moving his horse toward the front of the company. "Let us depart. Rivendell awaits and plans must be made. Forward!"

With his cry, the host set out, keeping the pace slow enough to accommodate the hobbit ponies but still fast enough to strain those ponies to their utmost. The mood of the company had lightened considerably thanks in part to Elanor, but a shadow of fear and dread still hung over them. Evil had touched what was meant to be a time of celebration, and the stain of this incursion would not soon vanish.

* * * *

Standing beneath an old tree near the Ford, Arwen could not help remembering other times when she had stood thus. For years, the daughter of Elrond had looked for the coming of Aragorn beneath this tree in Imladris or beside another like it in Lothlórien. A mortal might say she had spent a cumulative of many years engaged in simply standing beneath a tree, and though her elvish sense of time did not truly measure the passing years, she would be inclined to agree with a mortal assessment of her wait. It had been many long years and many severe hardships before she and Aragorn could claim what was now theirs. And just as they were given the chance to enjoy a reprieve from the onslaught of evil, evil had come again.

Behind her came a gentle snort and then Hasufel nudged her shoulder. Catching his strong, gray face in her hands, she stroked his muzzle and leaned her cheek against his. "Only a little longer, dear one," she whispered. "They shall come soon and then you may return to your manger. You have my word."

The horse nickered softly and moved away, lowering his head and sniffing at the tender shoots that were beginning to sprout from the rich, dark earth. Arwen sighed and trailed her hand along his back, wishing that she might be as carefree. There were times when she cursed the burden of her heritage and the responsibilities of Aragorn’s lineage. It seemed to her that the simple folk received more joy and satisfaction in a day than she would receive in a lifetime. While they went on about their lives, she and Aragorn played politics with Khand, Harad, and Rhûn in order to protect these simple people. She spent sleepless nights pouring over treaties and agreements while Aragorn rode far with companies of armed men in an attempt for foster alliances and cow enemies. And ignorant of all this, the simple people laughed, cried, and celebrated.

I was raised and taught to lead, Arwen reminded herself. The responsibility is mine for the knowledge is mine. And in fulfilling my obligations, I allow the simple people to remain simple. So her father had told her and so Aragorn had explained it, but despite their words, she sometimes wished she did not have the knowledge necessary to deal with foreign kingdoms and internal strife. Then she could be as the simple people. But such a gift was denied her, and for better or worse, she was Arwen Undómiel, the Evening Star of her people and the queen of Gondor. She had waited years before she was allowed to wed Aragorn, and she could certainly wait a few hours for his return to Rivendell.

Arwen leaned against the tree, pressing up against its bark and vaguely sensing that life within with elven senses diminished by mortality. Elladan had tried to dissuade her from standing here, saying they had no way of knowing when Elrohir and Aragorn would return. But after returning to the main porch with Elladan and Celeborn and spending an hour or so with them as they plotted counter-strategy, Arwen had found that her mind was wandering as her thoughts continued to stray to her husband. After a moment of internal debate, she had excused herself and come here, ignoring Elladan’s objections. Elladan always was too protective of me, she thought with a sad smile. She knew well the reason for her brother’s obstinacy. There was the possibility that something had gone wrong on the Road, and if she waited here for the return of Aragorn and for some reason he did not come, she would be the first to learn of it. Elladan would seek to shield her from that, absorbing the news first himself and then attempting to relay it to his sister in a way that would make it less painful.

But Arwen did not wish for the easy path, as Elrohir had learned and accepted over time but Elladan had not. And so she stood here waiting, knowing that she might be the first in Imladris to hear of a dreadful defeat but also knowing that she might be the first to hear of great victory. Either way, she intended to wait by this tree until news came from the west, and if that wait took all night, so be it!

Fortunately for both Arwen and Hasufel, such a wait was not required. At that moment, the thudding sound made by galloping hooves reached their ears. Arwen stepped away from her tree and moved closer to the Bruinen River, struggling to hear to the sound of approaching riders over the sound of rushing waters. There were many running horses, she could tell that now, but of what kind they were she did not know. Still, the chances were heavily against this being a company of strangers and Arwen felt a small surge of impatience as she watched the Road beyond the river, mentally willing that first horse to come into view.

Sensing that this long wait next to the river might be coming to an end, Hasufel moved toward Arwen and perked his ears up, watching with her as the sound of hooves drew closer. After a moment or two, he lifted his head high and whinnied, calling to his comrades and bidding them to make haste, for he was tired and wished to return to his stable. Answering neighs came back to him and as the sun began to sink into the western horizon, a white elven stallion suddenly broke from the trees and galloped toward the Ford, closely followed by elven riders, guards of Gondor, and two hobbit ponies.

Arwen’s eyes immediately went to Aragorn’s face, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the simple knowledge that he was alive and seemed unhurt. But her relief vanished quickly as the company drew closer, for she could see the lines of tension around his mouth and eyes. Pressing her lips together tightly and steeling herself to hear the worst, Arwen turned and swiftly mounted Hasufel, prodding the horse forward to meet the returning warriors.

The riders were now crossing the Ford. The cold river water was high with the beginning of snowmelt from the mountains to the north and the hobbit ponies were occasionally swimming, but the rest of the company had the hobbits surrounded and there was no fear of their being swept down stream. Now that the returning group was so close, Arwen stopped Hasufel atop the eastern bank and made a quick count. It did not take her long to realize that this company was smaller than the one that had set out. Her heart began to sink and then she focused her attention on exactly who was returning.

Her first shock was seeing a riderless horse following the leaders closely. "Arod," she murmured, and then she began searching the returning riders in earnest. She soon found Pippin behind Elrohir and Gimli behind Aragorn. The dwarf had a sleeping hobbit child before him, which confused Arwen. Shaking her head, she pushed the matter aside for the moment and looked to the riders of the hobbit ponies, picking out Sam and a hobbit that she assumed to be Sam’s wife. Rosie, she told herself, remembering letters she and Aragorn had received from Frodo and Gandalf ere they left for the Havens. Arwen then searched the rest of the company, finding King Thranduil and other familiar faces, but there were two very important people she could not find. Legolas and Merry were missing.

"Aragorn?" she called softly as Roheryn stepped out of the river and shook himself slightly. Aragorn looked up at her call and his face softened for a moment.

"Have you been waiting long, melethin?"

"No longer than you have been waiting for me," Arwen replied. It was the answer she had always given when Aragorn returned from the Wilds, just as his was the question he had always asked when he found Arwen waiting for him. For one brief moment, the years died away and they returned to a time when they were young and nothing was impossible. Innocent years that whispered of the simple life Arwen had only recently longed for. Then the moment vanished, the years of hardship and pain fell back upon them, and the realities of the present demanded their attention.

"Hare fare our people, sister?" Elrohir asked, moving Gaearsul up the bank and stopping him next to Hasufel.

"The Orcs were driven back, but their retreat was so sudden as to be suspicious," Arwen answered. "We believe that our early guesses were right—the attack was only a delay. Lord Celeborn has dispatched scouts of Lórien to patrol the forests and determine where the foul creatures’ lair might be, but I judge we shall not hear from them for some time. Beyond that, Lothlórien’s archers now stand ready behind the scouts of Imladris should Orcs attack again, and defenses are more in order so that we may respond quickly."

Elrohir nodded, absorbing the information easily, and then turned back to survey the company he had led. "I suppose you wonder what has befallen us."

"Your numbers are fewer than when you left," Arwen said, backing Hasufel up slightly as Aragorn sent Roheryn up the embankment.

"Fewer, yes, but our own company suffered no casualties," Elrohir answered. "We have sent out scouts and trackers, and they now trail the Orcs we found upon the Road."

"And what of those you rode to meet?" Arwen asked, looking to Aragorn. "How do they fare?"

Aragorn sighed and glanced over his shoulder at Gimli. The dwarf seemed isolated and withdrawn, his eyes locked on the innocent face of Elanor as he gently rocked her sleeping form. With a shake of his head, the king of Gondor grimaced and looked back at Arwen. "We did not arrive in time. Legolas and Merry were taken prisoner."

Arwen’s voice caught in her throat. She stared at Aragorn in horror before a muffled sob behind her caught their mutual attention. Elrohir twisted around and laid a consoling hand on Pippin’s back as the hobbit struggled to control his emotions. "We went through this before," Pippin whispered, blinking his eyes rapidly. "We thought we’d never have to do it again, and this time, I’m not with Merry. He hates Orcs. Merry hates Orcs with a passion for what they did to us and all they put us through. And they were under orders not to harm us! What if that’s not true now? What if—"

"Peace," Aragorn soothed. "We do not know the answers to your questions, nor could we do anything to change the situation even if we did."

Pippin sighed and nodded, still struggling to regain a tenuous control over his volatile emotions. Arwen’s heart went out to him, but she could offer no words of comfort. She remembered when her own mother was captured by the Orcs and she remembered the rage she had felt and how she longed to ride with Elrohir and Elladan as they pursued the goblins into the mountains. Trying to take her mind off the hideous memories, she looked about for a change of subject and found it in the hobbits who were now encouraging their ponies up the embankment toward the rest of the gathering company.

"Welcome back to Rivendell, Samwise Gamgee," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady and calm.

Sam looked up, surprised at being addressed, and his eye widened. "Thank you, Queen Arwen," he stammered, at a loss for what to say to the beautiful half-elf.

Arwen smiled. "To the companion of the Ring-bearer, I am but Arwen. Would you introduce me to this hobbit who rides beside you, Master Samwise?"

Sam blushed and turned to Rosie, who was staring wide-eyed at Arwen. "Rosie, this is Arwen, daughter of Elrond. She’s Aragorn’s wife and queen of Gondor. Arwen, this is Rose Cotton Gamgee, my wife. And over there in Gimli’s arms is Elanor, my daughter."

"A lovely wife and a beautiful daughter," Arwen said, nodding her head at Rosie by way of a greeting. "You have been greatly blessed, Samwise."

"I also have a son," Sam said proudly, drawing himself up slightly. "His name’s Frodo, but we left him home with the Gaffer for this trip." His smile faltered and he blinked, glancing at Gimli and Pippin. "It’s a good thing we did, too. I don’t know as I could take putting him in harm’s way. Rosie and Elanor is enough already."

"Come," Elrohir said, breaking the silence that descended at Sam’s words. "The sun is setting and night is an ill time to speak of such things. We shall rest for now and resume our counsels in the morning. Places have been prepared for all and it is my wish that you take what sleep you can." He said this with a hard look at both Aragorn and Gimli. Aragorn shrugged and gave him a half-hearted smile, but Gimli was still staring at Elanor and refused to meet the half-elf’s eyes. Elrohir sighed and turned Gaearsul, moving the horse forward toward Rivendell. Arwen followed and Aragorn quickly assumed a position beside her.

"Are you truly well?" Arwen asked, scrutinizing her husband.

"In body, yes," Aragorn answered with a heavy sigh. "But I fear my mind is filled with misgivings. This was no ordinary attack. Our own movements were known to the enemy, and he means to do something with the prisoners that have been taken. What the result will be I cannot guess, but we must act quickly or I fear it will be too late."

"I share your fears," Arwen whispered, smoothing a portion of Hasufel’s mane. "But without the reports of the scouts, we are powerless to move. We must know more of our enemy."

"Which is why I shall leave tomorrow morning," Aragorn said. "I know that this celebration was supposed to allow us at least a few moments of peace, but I will not sit idle while others search for dear friends. My apologies, Arwen, but I can do no less."

"And I would expect no less." Arwen smiled and reached over to squeeze her husband’s solid arm. "With your keen eyes and skills, our friends shall be returned to us soon. Have faith. You have not come so far only to falter now."

"Your words bring me hope, Arwen, as do they always."

"It is you who is hope, Estel," Arwen answered. "But let us no longer speak of this. As Elrohir said, it is ill talk for night when things are already shadowed. I would let our silence be our comfort, and I would enjoy your company while it remains beside me."

Aragorn smiled and nodded, his hand reaching out to Arwen. She immediately slid her hand into his and together in a silence that spoke louder than words, they returned to Rivendell. The night was still dark and the world was still shadowed, but it seemed that a ray of hope gleamed brightly that evening, for hope will live so long as there are those who believe in it.

Negyth—Dwarves (Plural form of nogoth, which means "a dwarf" but carries with it the connotation of being stunted.)

Melethin—Beloved

Chapter 9: Scattered Paths

Haldir held completely still, frozen in position and concealed by the dense foliage of the tree in which he waited. In another tree close by, he could make out the form of his brother Rúmil, who was also completely silent and still. The woods around them trembled under the onslaught of a darkness that was anything but natural, and beneath them, a group of eleven Orcs stomped past, heedless of the elven eyes that followed their movements. Speaking quietly in their guttural tongue, the Orcs soon disappeared to the north, heading toward the ancient kingdom Rhudaur, where the threat of trolls had kept long held Rivendell at bay. None knew if trolls still haunted those forsaken forests and hills. Some had ventured theories that when Sauron’s darkness fell, perhaps it also destroyed the evils left in Eriador. But after seeing as many Orcs in this single night as he was accustomed to seeing in a month of guard duty along Lothlórien’s western borders, Haldir was fairly certain that trolls probably still roamed those ancient hills to the north.

The forest was silent again, but the feeling of oppressive darkness did not leave and even the stars seemed dim. Straightening from his crouch, Haldir dropped out of the tree and crept onto the trail left by the foul Orcs. He heard Rúmil move in the branches above and knew his brother was quietly following the Orcs from the trees, attempting to learn more of their movements and destination. Haldir followed silently on the ground, looking for clues they might have left behind in their passing. After several long minutes of this, his sharp ears caught the sound of Rúmil jumping down from a tree ahead of him and he looked up as his brother approached.

"They are veering east and will skirt the southern boundary of Rhudaur," Rúmil reported with a shake of his head. "I wonder if their only job is to wander at will, for it seems that none of the Orcs we found have a set destination."

"Perhaps we should call Orophin back," Haldir murmured, glancing to the west. Several hours ago, they had come across a large body of thirty Orcs. Orophin had left to pursue them while Rúmil and Haldir followed a trail that seemed to indicate the presence of an even bigger party. But after an hour of searching, Haldir had realized that the trail they followed had been made by several groups of Orcs passing this way. And under the darkness of night as well as the darkness of an unnatural shadow, Haldir could not determine the numbers of Orcs, whether they had been the same Orcs, or even if they’d been going the same direction as their comrades.

"What is their plan?" Rúmil hissed, clenching his hands in frustration.

Haldir shook his head wordlessly, going back over the situation. This scouting mission had been among the oddest and most confounding tasks he had ever undertaken. Their objectives were simple enough: find the trail of the Orcs, estimate their numbers, and discover the location of their lair. The first part had been easy. Too easy, in fact, for they found not one, not two, but many different Orc trails weaving in and out of the lands north of Rivendell. And the multitude of trails made it impossible to estimate the number of Orcs that had passed through this area within the last twenty-four hours. They had come upon several small parties of Orcs, but there were so many of them and they were so scattered that they provided no method of estimating the size of the entire body. And as for discovering the Lair…Haldir sighed. Rúmil was right in this, for it seemed that many of the Orcs had no direction and were under orders to simply wander. It was quite an effective way to foil the elven scouts who tracked them, and not for the first time this night, Haldir wondered who commanded these Orcs.

"Come," Rúmil suddenly said, brushing past Haldir with an angry air. Rúmil had never been a particularly patient elf, and especially on missions where success kept slipping further and further away, his temper had a tendency to flare up. "Let us find Orophin and hear what he has to say. Dawn is not far off and we should head back to report our findings."

"Or lack of findings," Haldir sighed. As the oldest of these three brothers, it was his job to keep them in line but that proved to be a difficult task given Rúmil’s lack of patience and Orophin’s excess of patience. Orophin was want to follow a task well past the time when such a task could be accounted finished, seeking out every possibility and every conceivable twist in a situation. Haldir seriously doubted that Orophin would agree to head back to Rivendell, particularly when all they could report was that the Orcs seemed to be scattered far and wide across Eriador with no apparent direction or base. But Rúmil was clearly coming to the end of his patience, and Haldir wondered how the inevitable confrontation would play out.

"Are you coming or do you prefer simply to stand here?"

This will most certainly be interesting, Haldir thought, obediently and silently falling into step behind Rúmil. The moment Rúmil began throwing insults around was the moment his patience snapped. It was also the moment Orophin usually became absolutely quiet, allowed his older brother to expend all his anger, and then calmly refused whatever course Rúmil suggested. As the youngest of the three, it was curious to Haldir that Orophin possessed the most patience, but such was the case and that patience extended not only to guard duty and scouting missions. It also covered arguments with his two older brothers, and even Haldir had occasionally found himself at a loss for words when confronting Orophin. It would not be easy to convince him to leave off this search and return to Rivendell.

But at the same time, Rúmil was one Lórien’s best scouts. He had hunted Orcs since he was old enough to draw a bow, and his skills far surpassed both Haldir’s and Orophin’s in his ability to sense the intentions of Orcs and their direction. If he believed there was nothing more to discover here, he was probably correct. Of all of them, he had spent the most time along Lórien’s northern and western borders. He could sense an Orc when it was still several miles away, and with a single glance he could tell its breeding, its capability, and its objective.

Haldir ground his teeth together as he followed Rúmil’s fleeting form. The decision would ultimately be his to make, for his two brothers would be unable to convince one another and he would be looked to as the deciding vote. And mother told me it was my job to lead them, he thought with a shake of his head. More often than not, I but follow, and when they do consider my presence, it is to ask me to decide what they cannot.

They now passed the point where Orophin had separated to follow the other Orc party, and Haldir turned his mind to searching the ground for tracks of those Orcs, hoping that the trail did not split. If it did and Orophin left nothing to indicate which direction he took—a failing Orophin occasionally had—then he and Rúmil would be forced to either split up or choose one of the trails and follow it together. Haldir supposed they could always whistle for Orophin, but the Orcs on the northern boundary had been Uruk-hai, and they were not so easily fooled by elven whistles. The signals might reveal their position and turn the hunters into the prey and the prey into the hunters.

"I sense Orcs to the side," Rúmil suddenly hissed. "Continue on the trail and I shall join you momentarily."

"Go carefully, brother," Haldir warned. Rúmil nodded curtly and then leaped into the trees, disappearing from sight quickly. Haldir now slowed his pace somewhat, for he no longer had Rúmil to watch his back for him while he watched the trail. With senses trained on both his surroundings and the path left by the Orcs, it became more difficult to navigate but not impossible. Haldir had played this game many times in Lothlórien, and never yet had he lost.

After several more miles of quick but careful tracking, Haldir came to a halt and inwardly groaned. The Orcs had separated, going three different directions judging by what he could make out in the darkness. Haldir swiftly climbed into the surrounding trees, searching for a sign left by Orophin to indicate which party he followed. As fate would have it, he found nothing, and Haldir immediately began forming a reprimand even as he cursed quietly with frustration. The last time this had happened, he and Rúmil had spent the better part of the day looking for Orophin while an Orc hunting party blundered across the Nimrodel and almost into the Celebrant before they were caught and killed.

Movement on the ground caught his eye and he froze, searching the area. The movement reappeared and he let loose a breath he’d been holding. Dropping out of the trees, he waved Rúmil over. "I trust you found more Orcs?"

"It was a small party, one I could have dispatched with ease."

"Lord Celeborn expressly forbade—"

"I know and I did not act, though I was sorely tempted," Rúmil said with a slight growl. "In any case, they pose no threat to us and are traveling in the opposite direction. Have you found aught here?"

"The trail splits into three directions," Haldir said, indicating the paths taken by the Orcs. "Unfortunately, Orophin left no indication as to which trail he followed."

"Elbereth!" Rúmil swore, throwing his hands up into the air. "Will he never learn?"

"I suspect it will take several centuries for lessons to truly have an effect," Haldir sighed with a shake of his head. "He becomes too obsessed with his quarry and forgets such precautions as must be taken for the sake of prudence and safety. Be that as it may, we now come to a difficult choice. Shall we both take separate directions and assign a time for returning here should we find naught, or shall we choose ourselves a trail together and pray it leads us to our errant brother?"

Rúmil was silent for a moment, his expression rather vacant and his head cocked to one side as though listening. "I sense no Orcs in the immediate area."

"That will change should we whistle," Haldir warned, seeing immediately where his brother’s train of thought was leading. "And there is no guarantee that Orophin will be able to signal back, for he may be near the Orcs himself."

Rúmil assumed a scowl that Orophin had once dubbed his dwarven expression and folded his arms across his chest. "We will cover more ground if we separate, yet we run the risk of losing one another. And I have not your talent for tracking. If a trail diverges, in this darkness I may miss it."

"Dawn is perhaps an hour away," Haldir said. "We could take a trail together and if we find nothing, we could return and split, for then we would have daylight and you could better see the signs by which you track."

With a nod, Rúmil turned to evaluate the three separate options. "Which way do you think we should go?"

"The center track seems to be the one most recently used as well as the one most of the Orcs have taken. Let us follow that trail for a bit and see if it leads us to any answers. Come!"

Haldir set out and Rúmil dutifully fell into step behind him, keeping a sharp eye out for Orcs while his brother sped along the trail. They had gone perhaps a mile when Rúmil suddenly laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and stopped him. "I believe Orophin is just ahead, but it is difficult to tell."

"Up," Haldir whispered, leaping into the branches above and moving aside as Rúmil did the same. They continued silently, keeping sight of the Orc’s trail through the glimpses they caught between the thick boughs of the trees. It was yet early in the spring, but the winter had been mild and foliage was thick, further complicating matters. But it did provide the elven scouts with places to hide, and for that they were thankful.

A sigh of relief suddenly escaped Haldir as a lithe figure suddenly leaped into the tree branches before the two brothers, but he quickly schooled his expression into one of anger and disappointment. "The trail split a mile ago, brother. Why did you not leave us a sign to indicate your chosen course?"

Stepping into a patch of moonlight, Orophin blinked and then offered a sheepish smile. "My apologies, brothers. But I have something you both must see. Hurry and follow!"

"Orophin, we can do no more good out here, for these Orcs are but decoys," Rúmil said, beginning to lay forth his reasons for returning to Rivendell. Haldir silently groaned and began looking around for somewhere to sit this argument out until he was needed, but Orophin’s response surprised him and he found himself being drawn back into the conversation.

"You are right, Rúmil. Most of these Orcs are decoys, but I believe that the Orcs I have followed are heading home. Their trail disappears into darkness, and I cannot see whither they go. Come, you must look upon this!"

Orophin’s brothers exchanged baffled looks. "Their trail disappears?" Haldir echoed.

"It is like a shadow, but it is not a shadow," Orophin explained, dropping to the ground and starting off. "Come!"

Once again, Haldir and Rúmil exchanged puzzled expressions, but their only choice was to follow unless they wished to leave their youngest brother in the forests north of Rivendell. "I am tying him up and leaving him home the next time we are asked to scout an area," Rúmil growled, leaping off his branch and landing in a low crouch before starting after Orophin. Haldir sighed and followed, wondering exactly what Orophin had been babbling about.

By the time Orophin stopped long enough for his brothers to catch up with him, they were close enough to the southern boundaries of Rhudaur for Haldir’s nerves to be on edge. There was definitely an ill feel about that reeked of trolls, and Haldir’s eyes roved from shadow to shadow while his mental clock counted down the seconds to the safety of sunrise.

"Here," Orophin whispered, his voice low. "Follow this trail and you will see what I mean."

"We should not be here, Orophin," Rúmil hissed, apparently just as nervous as Haldir was. There were still several minutes until sunrise and the presence of malignant evil was so palpable that it sent shivers up and down their spines.

"So long as we are careful and quiet, we will be safe. Is that not what you tell me when we venture beyond the safety of Lórien?"

Trust Orophin to use our own words against us. Haldir grimaced, glanced helplessly at Rúmil, and then bent his eyes to the Orc trail Orophin indicated. Relying on Rúmil’s sharp senses to warn them all of danger ere they stumbled into it, Haldir forged ahead swiftly, knowing that the sooner they observed whatever it was that Orophin wished to show them, the sooner they could leave.

And then it happened. Just as Orophin had said, the trail vanished. Haldir stopped short, staring at the ground before him in confusion. The Orc trail clearly led to this point and insofar as his highly honed tracking abilities could determine, the Orcs had been traveling this direction and had not turned back. But the trail on the ground stopped cold right here. It did not proceed further forward but vanished into the unnatural darkness of the night. Haldir cast a suspicious look up into the trees, almost expecting to see a large company of Uruk-hai leering down at them, but there was nothing. Yet such a thing was impossible! Orcs did not simply vanish into thin air, and unless the laws of nature and fortune had taken an abrupt change for the worse, Orcs did not fly. Where had they gone?

"You see?" Orophin whispered at his side. "I was following these Orcs using their trail, for there were enough of them that I took no risk of being seen. But when I reached this point, I could still hear their fell voices yet the trail simply…ends."

A highly suspicious Rúmil bent down to the ground, running a hand experimentally along the rich soil. "I can feel that Orcs have come this way. The very earth groans at their passing. And yet they have left no mark. What devilry is this?"

"Perhaps the sun may aid us," Orophin said, nodding toward the Misty Mountains. A glimmer of light was beginning to appear over their peaks and Haldir felt a sigh of relief escape him as the fear of trolls dwindled. The foul creatures would be forced to hide in dark places now, and so long as he and his brothers stayed in open areas, there was no need to fear them.

Shafts of sunlight were now streaming past them through the heavy boughs of the trees, and Haldir turned to examine the trail more thoroughly. But what he saw made him gasp and he took an involuntarily step backwards. Before him, waves of darkness undaunted by the growing light seemed to ripple across the ground, moving back and forth over the path of the Orcs in a wide swath and enveloping all in the chilling grasp of an unnatural shadow. It was as though a black cloud of mist coated the earth, masking the ground against even elven sight and sending shivers of fear up and down the spines of the three elves. Retreating slowly, they watched together in horror as the glory of the morning was stained by this ugly wave of shadow.

"Back," Haldir hissed at length, taking the arms of his stunned brothers. "We must report this to Lord Celeborn. This is not something we can confront on our own."

* * * *

As the first rays of the sun glanced off the rooftops of Rivendell, Aragorn girded Anduril about his waist and stepped out onto a balcony. Fate seemed to be playing an interesting game, for Aragorn swiftly noticed that it was the same balcony where only the day before, Legolas had begged leave to escort the hobbits. The king of Gondor cursed quietly, remembering that moment and his fateful words that had, for all intents and purposes, doomed Legolas and Merry to the torments of the Orcs. Thranduil was right. Given the warnings he’d already received about the shadow in the mountains, he should have sent the honor guard with Legolas and Gimli as extra protection. How could he have not seen this? And why had he not hearkened to the voice of prudence? Aragorn cursed again, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. Gandalf had warned him of this. Five years ago, Gandalf had cautioned him against hasty action, but he had not remembered when he granted Legolas’s request.

If I may counsel you in the use of your own, do not use it—yet! Be wary!

When have I been hasty or unwary, who have waited and prepared for so many long years?

Never yet. Do not then stumble at the end of the road. *

"Alas, dear friend, it was not the end of the road but the path that lay beyond. It is there where I stumbled, and now others must pay the price for it," Aragorn murmured, remembering that conversation over Orthanc’s palantír. He leaned his arms against the balcony railing and settled his head on the smooth wood, sighing with frustration and guilt. So cut off from the rest of the world was he that he jumped when a pair of soft hands began kneading the tight muscles of his shoulders, though he swiftly relaxed as the massage became deeper.

"Now is not the time for recriminations, Elessar," Arwen whispered gently, moving her hands down his back and smiling as Aragorn relaxed completely beneath her touch. "Legolas and Gimli chose to meet the hobbits. You are not accountable for their decisions. Had you sent the honor guard, they would still have gone, for Thranduil drove them to it."

"An honor guard might have prevented their capture."

"Perhaps," Arwen said, moving her massage down further and attacking the lower back muscles. "But you do not know that with any certainty and so blame has no purpose. This was not something you could have prevented, my husband. One way or another, our hobbits friends would have been attacked on the road. The attack was news for even my brothers, and they have been wardens of Imladris for centuries. If you must indulge in guilt, at least share that guilt with others."

"You know me too well to ask that of me," Aragorn sighed, straightening and snagging Arwen by the waist. Pulling her to him, he moaned as her body melded against his solid form and her lips captured his in a kiss born as much from need and sorrow as from passion. They stayed locked thus for perhaps a minute before Aragorn reluctantly pulled back. "I must leave, love. Already I rue the night spent here when it might have been spent looking for Legolas and Merry."

"Then come, for I shall walk with you to the stable," Arwen said, taking Aragorn’s hand and moving away from the balcony and into the house. "I gather you have not informed Imhran or your guards of your intentions," she said as they walked through the twisting corridors.

"Nay. This country is strange to them and they would be of little use in the forests."

"I see. You do know that I shall require recompense for placating them after they demand to know where you have gone. And I do not think I can stop them from following you if Imhran takes it into his head to do so. He can be as stubborn as you, Estel."

"As for the recompense, you shall have it and more when this is over," Aragorn promised with a sly grin and wink, which gave Arwen cause to blush though her eyes sparkled mischievously. "And as for Imhran, he may do as he wishes, though unless he enlists the aid of Elladan and Elrohir, I doubt he shall be able to find me."

The words had barely left Aragorn’s mouth when they turned a corner and stopped. Waiting rather impatiently in the main hall stood Gimli, Imhran, a few of Gondor’s best guards, Elrohir, Elladan, and Celeborn. Aragorn shot an accusing look at Arwen, but she shrugged and shook her head, indicating that she had no part in any of this. A laugh caught their attention and they turned as Elrohir smiled, albeit his smile was laced with worry and fear.

"You are too predictable, Aragorn, though I do admit that we were beginning to worry. It is unlike you to start so late in the day and we wondered if you had not left in the middle of the night." He cast a curious glance at his sister, but Arwen’s face was innocently blank.

"Might I ask what all this is?" Aragorn demanded.

"No more and no less than what is needed," Elladan said. "As we speak, we are gathering trackers and scouts from Imladris. They shall meet us by the Ford and from there we all shall join the hunt that takes place in the wilderness of Eriador."

The king of Gondor said nothing for a moment, wondering why he hadn’t anticipated this, and then a smile broke over his face. With a shake of his head, he laughed and clapped Elrohir on the arm. "Come then, for your company is welcome."

"But you cannot all go," Arwen said, her dark eyes locking on those of her brother. "These Orcs have already shown no compunctions about attacking Imladris itself and we can ill afford to be caught with our defenses elsewhere should they choose to attack again."

"We have discussed this already sister, and it has been decided that Celeborn and I will stay with the bulk of the forces here in Rivendell," Elrohir answered, and Aragorn winced to hear the reluctance in his voice. Rivendell was the last place Elrohir wanted to be at the moment, for if there were foes to be followed and enemies to be fought, his place was on the battlefield, not in the fort. But necessity dictated their stations now, and on a hunt, Elladan was actually the better twin. His senses were unrivaled and his ability for anticipating an enemy’s movements was uncanny. Beyond this, Aragorn was getting a sense of guilt from Elladan that he’d felt only when the twins spoke of their mother, Celebrían. It seemed that Elladan was attempting to assume full responsibility in failing to sense the attack of the Orcs and was looking to make amends. Whatever the case was, be it guilty conscience, abilities, or a combination of the two, Aragorn could not deny that he was more than glad for his foster brother’s company.

"Then if our forces are gathered and our plans are set, let us depart," Aragorn said, loosening Anduril within its scabbard and moving toward the door with Arwen at his side. "The sun rises and I would see us on the trail ere much more time passes. Who shall be traveling with us?"

"A few of your own men," Elladan said. "Myself, Gimli, perhaps fifteen more or so from Imladris though that number is uncertain. Thranduil expressed an interest in coming as well, but he was called away ere you arrived and has not been seen since. And perhaps that is for the best," Elrond’s oldest son sighed, sharing a frustrated look with his twin. "The tension that arises whenever he and Gimli are in the same area is something not easily stomached, and Elrohir tells me that you have not made a favorable impression with the king of Mirkwood, either."

"The king of Mirkwood deserves all he receives and more," Gimli growled, speaking for the first time since Aragorn’s arrival and fingering the blade of his axe as he walked. The company stepped into the sunlight and all blinked at the sudden change in brightness, but Gimli’s eyes remained as hard as ever. "I have tried to convince my people that our grudge with the elves is foolishness, but there are older dwarves who balk at this and I see now that the same is true of the elves."

"Not all older elves fall into your category, Gimli," Celeborn said. "Though I also held many grievances with your people, Galadriel did not and through her eyes I learned differently. There is hope for both our peoples, friend dwarf. And there is also hope for today. Seek the stables and mount! Elrohir and I shall keep careful watch from Imladris, and if we have aught to report, we shall send word immediately."

"Hold!"

Everyone froze and Aragorn wondered if Rivendell’s front porch might not be cursed. Only yesterday there had been several unpleasant interruptions while they discussed battle plans on the porch, and it was starting again this morning. Turning, the king rested his eyes on Thranduil who was quickly making his way toward them with another elf in tow. The other elf appeared to be an archer by profession judging from his stance and the thickness of his gauntlets around the forearm where the string might hit if a bow was fired in haste. His hair was dark like the hair of most Mirkwood elves, and he seemed distressed.

"News has come," Thranduil said tersely. "Lindir has sent back one of my scouts with information, and I would that you should hear it ere you set out this morning." The elven king glanced back at the archer who bowed gracefully to the company ere he began to speak.

"Ithildae I am called, my lords and lieges, and I have much to tell you. We spent many hours searching during the night under Lindir’s command but the trail was strange. The Orcs split into many groups and wandered far and wide, almost without direction, until we followed a trail that led us far to the south. Then it turned almost due east, as though making for the mountains, but the moment we began to follow it, a wave of darkness seemed to sweep the land and our eyes were confounded. It is like nothing I have ever seen before, and I have hunted in Mirkwood’s forests since the Second Age. Almost it reminded me of Dol Guldur, save that the evil did not seem to be as intense or concentrated."

"You describe this darkness as a wave?" Celeborn questioned, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"As wind makes waves upon the waters of the Long Lake, my lord," Ithildae answered. "I watched this darkness ripple and churn, and it spread as spilled ink across a parchment. The trail was lost to us and it encompassed such a wide area that we feared to make a guess as to where the trail might be."

Aragorn frowned, his mind spinning into high gear and quickly searching through thousands of facts garnered from years of study in Elrond’s long library as well as more recently acquired information from Minas Tirith’s horde of scrolls. But despite his excellent memory and vast array of resources, all he drew was a blank. Judging from the expression on Arwen’s face as well as the expressions on the faces of his foster brothers, they also knew not what to make of this strange report. Thranduil and Celeborn, on the other hand, seemed to know far too much and their faces were grave.

"Elladan, do you swear that you know nothing more about the master of these Orcs?"

Startled by the sharpness in Celeborn’s voice, Elladan blinked and nodded. "I have told you all that I know and most of what I suspect. I—"

"We need everything that you suspect, son of Elrond, now!" Thranduil ordered.

Sensing movement next to him, Aragorn glanced down and discovered that Gimli had moved up and seemed about to jump into the conversation. His concern for Legolas was overpowering his caution and he looked less than interested in the present conversation. Dropping a hand to the dwarf’s shoulder, Aragorn put just enough pressure in the grip to inform Gimli that he was not the only anxious one here but that something odd was taking place and it was best to learn all they could. The dwarf stopped his forward progress, but he sent Aragorn a warning glare. He would not suffer this to continue much longer. Legolas and Merry were in the hands of the Orcs, and every minute was precious. For his part, Aragorn was in complete agreement with Gimli, but saying so would not aid them. Instead, he summoned as much patience as he could and turned back to the conversation only to find that it was swiftly devolving into a political debate.

"You presume much, King Thranduil, to address the leader of Imladris so when you are a guest in Rivendell," Elrohir snapped, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Were it not for your inadequacies in compensating for the loss of Vilya, you would have dealt with these Orcs long before now. Mirkwood has survived for millennia without protection such as Vilya or Nenya could provide, and it seems we are now stronger because of it."

"And yet it was your forest that provided a haven for Dol Guldur and the creatures that ventured forth from that fortress," Celeborn returned angrily. "Slight not what you do not understand, Thranduil. The Elven Rings are far beyond your comprehension."

"If I may be permitted to remind you, Lord Celeborn, Dol Guldur was due east of Lothlórien. Were I any judge, and I am, I should say that Dol Guldur was more your responsibility than mine."

"Peace, all of you!" Aragorn stepped forward, separating himself from both Gimli and Arwen in the hopes that any censure he was about to receive would not fall upon either of them. "Do you hear what you say? You speak of Dol Guldur and the Three. Our mission this day is to discover the plans of the Orcs and liberate two captives if it can be contrived. All other talk is foolishness, and it seems to me that the eldest among us, Celeborn and Thranduil, are using it as a diversion in an attempt to avoid discussion of unpleasant things. But the time has passed for secrets and I would know what I face so that I may confront it. Speak, or if you will not speak, cease this idle chatter and allow the rest of us to fulfill the duty we took upon ourselves. I, at least, have not forgotten where our priorities lie."

There was silence at Aragorn’s words and none spoke until Gimli’s gruff baritone broke the tense stillness for them. "Aragorn speaks for me as well. If you have naught to do but argue amongst yourselves, I shall take my leave and look for my companions, one of whom happens to be the son of a king who currently graces our presence this morning. I would have departed long ago, but Elrohir insisted on waiting for everyone. Yet I will wait no longer, and if you cannot settle this dispute, I shall leave you to it."

"What would a child of Aulë know concerning—"

"Silence, Thranduil," Celeborn ordered, his voice heavy. "My apologies, Aragorn and Gimli. You are correct. We do not wish to speak of this, yet it seems it cannot be avoided. But first, I would know the answer to Thranduil’s original question. Elladan, will you tell us all of your suspicions?"

Elladan nodded, ignoring Elrohir’s angry mutterings. "I know not exactly what you wish to hear, but I will relate to you my suspicions based on what I observed." Elladan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, bringing to mind every detail and every guess. "I believe this master to be human," he finally said. "Something in the voice of the Orc that I found impressed this upon me. I have no concrete basis for my belief, but nonetheless, it is a theory I am entertaining with some seriousness. I also believe the master comes from the ruin of Mordor. As you all learned last night, the Orc I confronted was from Mordor and I sensed a reverence and fear born of long service when he spoke of his master. This leads me to believe the master was known to this Orc for quite some time, and as such, Mordor would be the logical point of origin."

"A human from Mordor," Celeborn sighed. "And one who was known in the hierarchy of Sauron’s dominion, else he would not have been able to command the respect and forced loyalty that this Orc was willing to give him. Have you any other ideas to share with us, Elladan?"

"You have heard the others," Elrond’s son answered.

Celeborn nodded and looked over at Thranduil, but the king of Mirkwood had his eyes fixed on the west and was doing an admirable job of ignoring everyone else. With a sigh, the lord of Lothlórien looked to the others and Aragorn felt a shiver run down his back. Celeborn appeared to have aged in the past few minutes and the change was unnerving. Arwen stepped forward, wrapping her hand around Aragorn’s and fixing piercing eyes upon her grandfather. "What have you learned, Lord Celeborn? What do we face?"

"I cannot say with any accuracy, but…" Celeborn hesitated, reluctant to go on.

"Black Númenóreans," Thranduil hissed, his cold eyes darting toward Aragorn. "This darkness is of them. At least one of this lineage has risen from the ashes of Mordor. Your people trouble us yet again, son of Arathorn. I would say that is quite an accomplishment. Very few houses of man have been able to haunt the elves for so long."

"Then let us hope that I shall trouble these Black Númenóreans as much as they seem to trouble you, King Thranduil," Aragorn replied, allowing a hard smile to creep over his face that was but a thin veil over a dangerous threat. "And now that we know our enemy, let us seek him out. We have lingered here far too long."

"You speak wisely, my brother," Elladan said, directing a pointed look at Thranduil as he uttered that last word. "Come. We shall mount and follow Ithildae. He shall lead us to this darkness and from there we shall seek our lost comrades. Forward, my friends. Let us be off!"

*This dialogue was lifted directly from TTT, p 255 of Ballantine’s 50th anniversary edition.

Chapter 10: The Ties That Separate

"I don’t understand why it has to be you!"

Samwise Gamgee sighed as he fastened Sting securely about his waist and pulled on a thick leather jerkin. It was meager protection against the blows of Orcs and the swords of evil men, but it was better than nothing. Taking his cloak—the same cloak that had been given to him in Lothlórien—he fastened it about his neck with the silver-laced leaf brooch of the Galadhrim. It was time and he was as ready as he would ever be.

"Sam!"

"I have to, Rosie," Sam whispered, glancing over at his wife with eyes that spoke of deep worry and immense sadness. "Bless me, I can’t sit here and do nothing while others look for Merry."

"But they all left at dawn!" Rosie protested, her face a mixture of anger, frustration, and sorrow. "What can you do that they can’t? You told me yourself that the elves and Strider were the best trackers in the world. Why do you have to go with them? Why can’t you stay here and wait for news?"

"Because Merry wouldn’t stay here and wait," Sam answered, moving toward his wife and gently wiping a tear from her eye. "How can I do any less for him than he would for me? Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Pippin," he added, cracking a weak smile. "You never know what trouble he’ll get into."

As if on cue, a rap sounded on the door to their room and Pippin stuck his head in. "All ready, Sam?" The Took was wearing the armor of a knight of Gondor, and the determination and resolve in his eyes sent chills down Sam’s spine. Pippin had been captured by the Orcs before, and it was made clear by appearance alone that he was not about to let Merry remain in their clutches without making a valiant attempt to free him.

"Half a moment," Sam answered. He turned back to Rosie, his eyes begging for at least understanding if not acceptance. For a long minute, she looked back at him with her heart torn, and then she finally nodded.

"You’ll do what you have to, Sam. You always do," she said, wrapping him in a fierce hug. "Just remember to come back to us. We’ll be waiting for you."

"I’ll always come back to you, Rosie," Sam promised. They stayed locked in an embrace for a moment longer and then Sam reluctantly drew away, wiping a suspicious moisture from his eyes. He glanced around the room and quickly found Elanor, who was playing in a corner with some toys that Elrohir had found leftover from Aragorn’s childhood. Moving toward his daughter, Sam knelt beside her and trailed a gentle, weather-beaten hand down her face.

Elanor looked up at the touch and smiled. "Hi, Daddy." Her small brow furrowed as her eyes took in his cloak. "Where are you going?"

"Daddy has to leave for a little while," Sam answered. "Will you look after mother while I’m gone?"

Elanor nodded, her golden curls bouncing with the movement, and she stood up to wrap small arms around her father’s neck. "Daddy comes back soon," she said firmly before planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

"As soon as I can," Sam whispered, enfolding his daughter in a tender hug and feeling as though his heart would break. "You be good while I’m gone, all right?"

"Very good," Elanor promised.

"That’s my girl," Sam said. He pulled back and smiled at her. "Now mind your mother. If you’re very good, when I come back maybe we can ride one of the big horses."

"With the bush?" Elanor asked hopefully.

"Yes, with Gimli. I’m sure he would like that," Sam laughed, tousling her hair and rising. Elanor giggled and then went back to playing with her toys. Sam sighed and turned back to Rosie. "I’ll be back soon."

"Take care of yourself," Rosie said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You’ve been lucky in the past, but that doesn’t mean your luck will always hold."

Sam nodded, hesitated, and then pulled Rosie into another hug. Tangling his hands in her dark hair, he gave her a quick but deep kiss and then stepped away, hastily clearing his throat. "If you need to send word, speak with Elrohir. Like as not, he’ll figure out soon enough where we’ve gone. And if I send word, I’ll send it through his brother. I promise that you’ll hear from me." And with that, knowing he was in danger of never leaving if he tarried even a minute longer, Sam turned his back on his wife and child and hurried out the door.

"You don’t have to come," Pippin said quietly, following Sam as the hobbit all but ran down the hall.

"I can’t sit here and do nothing," Sam said, slowing a bit and allowing Pippin to catch up. "I have to follow my heart. If I’d listened to it up on that pass by Cirith Ungol…" Sam trailed off and shook his head. "I learned then, Pippin. My heart’s smarter than my head. And right now, it’s telling me I have to go."

"Well, I’m glad for the company because the last thing Aragorn said to me before I went to bed last night was to stay in Rivendell, and I don’t know how we’ll explain this to him," Pippin said.

"And what would you be explaining to Aragorn?"

Both hobbits froze and turned reluctantly around to find Elrohir standing casually behind them as though he’d been there all along. And maybe that’s not too far from the truth, Sam thought, remembering several instances in the Fellowship when Legolas would suddenly appear behind them and then mention that he’d actually been there for quite some time.

"Sam?" Pippin prompted, glancing at the other hobbit for an explanation.

"Pippin and I are joining the search," Sam said firmly, getting straight to the point.

Elrohir said nothing for a long moment, studying the hobbits with piercing elven eyes, and then his gaze softened. "Some of us wondered why you were not with us this morning when we set out."

Sam let out a deep breath he’d been holding, and he felt Pippin relax at his side. "Thank you," Sam said, intensely grateful that he would not have to argue his way past one of Elrond’s sons.

Elrohir nodded and smiled. "We have kept some hobbit ponies in Rivendell in the event that your kind should ever visit us again. I see that this policy now turns to our advantage. Come. We shall see to your provisions, and then I will lead you to your mounts."

"We have provisions," Pippin revealed somewhat guiltily. "We raided the kitchens last night."

"Ah, so you were the thieves." Elrohir laughed quietly and shook his head. "Estel suspected it was so, but when you were not with us this morning, we doubted if you had planned that far in advance. Still, you must understand that one does not steal from Rivendell’s larders with impunity." This last was said with a grim look, but Sam caught a twinkle of mischief in the half-elf’s eyes.

"How are we going to be punished, Mr. Elrohir?" he asked.

Elrohir made a show of thinking about that question and then appeared to come to a conclusion of sorts. "You shall not travel alone to join the search parties. You shall take with you a guide. Lord Celeborn shall manage things in my absence and I shall ride with you, for I have need to speak with my brother."

"That sounds like a good punishment," Pippin conceded. Sam nodded in agreement. He had secretly been worried that they would be unable to find the others once they made it past Rivendell’s borders.

"I am glad that you approve," Elrohir laughed with a shake of his head. "Let it never be said that Imladris is unfair in justice. Come, then, since all is in readiness. We shall ride to find our friends." Saying this, Elrohir swept past the hobbits, and Pippin and Sam were quickly forced to keep up with the elf’s long strides as he led them through the twisting corridors of Elrond’s home and out onto the many paths that threaded about the surrounding forest. They were making good progress and Sam had almost figured out just how many steps he needed to take to equal one of Elrohir’s when the half-elf suddenly slammed to a halt and turned, breaking into a jog.

"Sam?"

"Why in the Shire are you looking at me? I don’t know what he’s doing anymore than you do."

"Should we follow him?" Pippin asked.

Sam shrugged. "We need a guide, so I don’t think we have much choice. Unless you want to wander around in the woods with all those Orcs."

"No, I don’t suppose that would be a good idea. In any case, getting caught ourselves wouldn’t help Merry." Pippin sighed and shook his head. "I should have been stronger."

Sam blinked, uncertain as to what had brought on this comment. "Stronger? Stronger when?"

"During the battle. I should have seen it coming. Merry’s pony had always been skittish. If I’d stayed closer to him…" Pippin trailed off and turned away, muttering something beneath his breath.

Sam understood all too well what Pippin was going through. Vivid memories of Cirith Ungol came to his mind, and as he had many times in the past, he wondered what would have happened had he not hidden Galadriel’s phial after breaking through the web. Would Shelob have still come after them? Would he and Frodo have been separated? Would the spider’s poison have been spared his master? But Sam had learned—thanks in part to many conversations with Gandalf and Aragorn—that questioning the past did not change it. It was good to learn from one’s actions and it was good to plan for the future, but censure for past deeds had no place in the present. Unfortunately, Sam didn’t know quite how to impart this knowledge to Pippin, and so he did the next best thing. Laying a hand on the Took’s arm, he squeezed it slightly and then tugged. "Let’s follow Elrohir. We’ll get them back, Pippin. You just have to keep believing."

Pippin sighed and nodded weakly, murmuring a quick thanks before turning away. He gestured for Sam to proceed him, apparently not quite trusting himself to speak, and Sam willingly obliged, hurrying off in the direction Elrohir had gone. His sharp ears caught the sounds of Pippin falling into step behind him and he sighed. He would have to ask Strider if he could talk to the Took. But first things first, and before he could get to Strider, he would need to find Elrohir. Setting his senses to this task, Sam hurried down the twisting paths and looked about carefully for the half-elf.

"Sam! Over there."

Sam stopped and followed Pippin’s pointing finger until his eyes rested on Elrohir. He nodded and started to run, but then he stopped, realizing that Elrohir was not alone. Celeborn stood with him, and before both of them were three elves that Sam instantly recognized from his first night under the trees of Lothlórien.

"Is that Haldir?" Pippin hissed at his side.

"And Rúmil and Orophin," Sam said with a nod. "I wonder what they’re doing here. They don’t look too happy."

"Let’s get closer. Maybe we can hear what they’re saying."

Sam shot Pippin a rather disapproving glare. "The last two times I tried eavesdropping didn’t exactly work out for the best. The first time, I had Gandalf threaten to turn me into a frog and fill the yard with grass snakes, and the second time, Lord Elrond sent me off with Mr. Frodo into Mordor."

"But this isn’t Gandalf or Elrond," Pippin reasoned. "Come on, Sam, let’s get a little closer. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?" And without waiting for a response, Pippin took off, darting behind trees and columns while unerringly making his way toward the gathered elves. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Sam shrugged and followed, hoping they wouldn’t get into serious trouble for this breach in etiquette.

The hobbits were able to get quite close with a relative measure of safety, for the elves seemed wholly involved in their discussion. And judging from facial expressions, it was a discussion that did not bode well. Unfortunately it was a largely unintelligible discussion for the hobbits because most of it was taking place in Sindarin. And though Frodo had taught Sam a bit of the elvish language before leaving with Gandalf for the Undying Lands, it had been primarily Quenya and Sam’s grasp on it was sketchy at best.

"Now what?" the gardener demanded with an incriminating look at Pippin. "We’re too close to approach them now. They’ll know we were spying."

"We can always back up and come in like we were merely following Elrohir," the Took answered with a shrug. "But let’s stay here for a minute. I want to watch this."

Sam sighed. "We can’t stay for long," he said. "Elrohir will wonder where we’ve gotten to and it won’t be long before he comes looking for us. If he finds us here—"

"Samwise? Peregrin? You may come out now."

The hobbits froze, startled by the sudden summons, and then Pippin shrugged. "Look at the bright side," the Took said with a lopsided grin as Sam gave him his best glare. "At least we’ll find out what’s going on."

Shoving the knight of Gondor before him, Sam made his way out of the foliage and sent a sheepish look at Elrohir. "We were just wondering what—"

"Next time, ask. I would have thought you had learned your lesson long ago," Elrohir answered, though there was no censure in his gaze. He turned back to Celeborn and gestured for the elf to continue.

"As I was saying," the lord of Lothlórien began, speaking in Westron so as to include the hobbits in their conversation, "I have seen this before but it was during the Second Age. I knew not that this ability was kept, though doubtless there are records of it somewhere. When Thranduil’s scout came in, I suspected the cause but feared to make any accusations or judgements. It appears Thranduil’s conclusion was right, though. A Black Númenórean from Mordor is at work, and he has learned from one of the most powerful necromancers known to Arda. His powers have been put to use and we shall be hard-pressed to overcome him."

"Can the darkness over the trail be penetrated?" Elrohir asked.

"Whoever follows the path must clear his mind of all thoughts and simply follow by instinct. It will require keen eyes and an inborn talent for tracking. Second guesses will only cloud the trail, and he who follows must act instantly on whatever impressions he receives. And we must hope those impressions are correct."

"Then it is fortunate we have Estel and Elladan," Elrohir said. "Perhaps they can see in the darkness where we cannot. The perceptions of my twin and the skills of my foster brother may be able to counter this shroud of darkness."

"We must hope so," Celeborn sighed. "But the danger does not stop here. This Númenórean wants something, that much is clear, but I have yet to fathom what. He wishes to make prisoners of the Fellowship, yet I do not understand his purpose. He does not wish us to follow our friends, eliminating the possibility of bait. A demand for ransom or surrender would have been made known to us by now." The lord of Lothlórien shook his head and frowned. "I like this not. His motives are strange to me and until they can become clear, I fear to press the attack."

"Yet we cannot sit here while our friends lie in torment," Elrohir said sharply. "We must act and act quickly!"

"I agree, but what action shall we take?" Celeborn asked. "What awaits us at the end of the Orcs’ trail? What treachery is planned and what shall we face when we again find our friends, if fortune so favors us? Something dark is stirring, son of Elrond, and I fear what may come of this."

"But we cannot wait for answers while our friends are made to suffer. I will not allow it!"

There was silence for a moment as Celeborn and Elrohir glared at one another, but eventually Celeborn looked away and sighed. "You are right, Elrohir. It seems our only option is to follow what clues we have. We will have to find the lair of our enemy, with or without the knowledge we need."

"By your leave, my lords, Rúmil, Orophin, and I can ride to the searchers in the south and tell them of your counsel," Haldir volunteered.

Celeborn was quiet for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, do so. For the trail in the north is too near the trolls for our safety. We shall be better served by following the southern route."

"I shall ride with them," Elrohir said. "Peregrin and Samwise shall accompany us, for I promised to lead them to Estel and the others. Does this seem well to you, Master Hobbits?"

Sam had been attempting to follow the conversation and learn what was meant by the constant references to darkness over the trail, so he was startled by Elrohir’s question. Pippin seemed to have been doing the same, but he recovered from his surprise faster than did Sam. "That will be fine," the Took answered, speaking for both of them. "When do we leave?"

"Immediately," Elrohir said, turning and starting off in the direction of the stables.

"Is this wise?" Celeborn asked ere Elrohir could get very far.

"Do you think any would be able to stop them from following?" Elrohir responded, and Sam bristled at the notion that he and Pippin would be confined to Rivendell. Beside him, Pippin tensed and sent a dark glare over his shoulder at the lord of Lothlórien.

Celeborn laughed quietly, seeing the reaction of both hobbits. "Then I wish you success. Be careful, my friends, for there is much at work here and the enemy’s plans have been laid well in advance."

"Fear not for us, grandfather," Elrohir answered as Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin joined him. "We shall send word of our findings and I shall begin sending some of the scouts back for rest. Mordor could not prevail five years ago, and it shall not do so now. Come," he said, turning to the hobbits. "There are friends to be found."

"Didn’t I tell you this would all work out?" Pippin asked, hurrying after the half-elf.

"I suppose," Sam allowed. "But all the same, I don’t think I needed to know all that about the darkness. Sometimes it’s better to stay ignorant."

* * * *

Merry’s pounding head was only one of several problems the hobbit discovered as he swam toward consciousness. His shoulder felt as though it had been severely dislocated and only recently popped back into place. He was also shivering violently as though from cold, something which immediately puzzled him. He could sense no chill in the air, yet he continued to shake as though struggling to warm himself. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he wondered if there was another, more elusive coldness against which he fought. His mind seemed to be shrouded in darkness, and he found that attempts at analytical thinking were difficult and almost painful. If he stayed quiet and continued to make observations, he was fine. But the moment he began to conceptualize or question, shadows loomed in his thoughts and it felt as though a huge weight descended upon his chest.

At length, the confused hobbit managed to get his eyes open, and he continued in making his observations, attempting to analyze what he saw and struggling to draw breath as he did so. He was in a room of darkness. He thought he could catch the flickering red of torches on the edges of his vision, but their light was faint and did little to aid him. He lay on his back and his arms were stretched out over his head, chained to the wall by tight, iron manacles. That was interesting. Where had anyone found shackles to fit a hobbit? Forcing his chest to rise and fall as he considered this new oddity and marveling at how calmly he was accepting everything, Merry shifted his head to the side and tried to better examine his surroundings.

There were the torches. Resting in iron sconces along a dank, soot-coated wall, they flickered dimly in a darkness that was not quite natural. By their light, Merry discovered that he was in a cell or prison of some kind. Black, metal bars crisscrossed one another and barred him from a narrow hallway beyond his small room, obscuring the torchlight and threatening to throw the hobbit into a despairing emotional spiral. Whoever had put him here did not mean for him to escape.

Merry wondered if he should attempt to sit up. The chain to his manacles was long enough that he might be able to manage it, but he eventually decided against the attempt. He was tired, aching, confused, and he couldn’t breathe properly. Besides that, there was no compelling reason to rise. At the moment, lying down seemed to be just as productive as sitting up.

A slight moan to his side startled the hobbit and he turned his head a little too quickly. Closing his eyes against the ensuing headache, he forced his mind to think of nothing and felt himself relax as breathing became easier. After a while, the pain subsided enough to be bearable and Merry opened his eyes again, looking to the side once more but doing so at a slower pace.

A small gasp managed to escape him when he beheld who lay next to him. Also lying on his back with his arms stretched out over his head and chained to the wall, a battered looking elf groaned again, seeming to struggle toward consciousness.

"Legolas?" Merry whispered, wincing as his voice echoed in the dank prison. He feared his hushed whisper might bring guards down upon them, but much to his relief, nothing happened. Deathly silence settled over all as the echoes of his voice died away. Slightly reassured by this, Merry tried again. "Legolas? Legolas, can you hear me?"

There was no response from Legolas. The elf had his eyes closed, which meant he was either greatly exhausted, in pain, or unconscious. The hobbit decided it was probably a combination of the latter two, though exhaustion might well play into it. He felt quite weary himself, and the inability to draw adequate breath was not helping matters. Yanking slightly against his chains and feeling no give in the cold metal, he looked back over at the elf and grimaced. He did not want to be the only conscious one in this cell.

"Legolas!" he tried again, raising his voice this time despite the warnings in his heart about keeping quiet and still. "Legolas, you have to get up!" Merry stopped and thought about that for a minute. Considering how they were both chained, it was doubtful if either one of them could stand, though if they stretched enough they might be able to sit. "You have to wake up," the hobbit amended, wondering if it really mattered what words he used since the elf didn’t seem to hear him anyway. "Come on, Legolas," he tried again. "Open your eyes! Just for a moment, at least! Tell me what you think of these accommodations. Maybe you can talk to the innkeeper."

At last, Merry received some kind of response. The elf groaned and stirred slightly, the metal of his chains clinking softly on the floor. Holding his breath while hope flared desperately in his frightened mind, the hobbit watched as Legolas groaned again, louder this time, and turned his head restlessly.

"That’s right," Merry encouraged. "All the way, now. Look at me, anyway, if you can’t manage anything else. I know you can do at least that."

Slowly—far too slowly for Merry—Legolas shook his head, shifted his arms, and eventually opened his eyes. For a long time, he did nothing but blink and stare, seeming to absorb his surroundings. Then he glanced toward the hobbit, the firelight making his gray eyes take on odd overtones of red.

"Merry?"

"I’m glad you’re awake, Legolas," Merry whispered with a sigh of relief. "I don’t know how much longer I could have lasted without company. Not a particularly nice room they’ve given us, in my opinion. I think we should see whoever is in charge."

"Perhaps," the elf murmured absently, looking toward his hands and tugging experimentally at his manacles. His sharp eyes flicked over the prison, taking in Merry, the chains, the bars, the torches, and anything the hobbit might have missed. "How long have we been here?"

"I just woke up," Merry answered, still struggling to breathe. "I don’t have any idea as to how long they’ve kept us down here or how long they plan on keeping us here. I just know that I really don’t like this place."

With a grimace, Legolas jerked against his chains again and then seemed to decide that they were not going to move. "Do you know what happened to our companions?" the elf asked after a moment of silence.

Merry sighed and shook his head. "I don’t remember much. Pippin and I came back to help you and Gimli. Sam, Rosie, and Elanor were safely away, and they didn’t need looking after so we though we’d lend a hand with the attack. But my pony had other ideas and somehow I fell off his back. I think I was hit in the head after that, but I don’t really remember." The hobbit sighed again, his frustration evident from his tight jaw and his breath coming in labored gasps. "Legolas, there’s something about this place. Something…something is very wrong."

Legolas frowned and closed his eyes, his expression going blank for a moment. "There is darkness here," he eventually said. "A darkness that seeks to infiltrate my mind. I cannot think without shadows seeking to thwart me."

"I have the same problem," Merry said. "It’s hard to breathe and—"

"Hush!" Legolas suddenly ordered, his eyes flying open and darting toward the bars on the other side of the room. After a moment, Legolas pushed himself backwards, putting slack in the short chain that bound his wrists to the wall. Merry watched him anxiously and copied his movements, wondering what new devilry the elf could sense.

For a long time, nothing happened, and Merry started to relax. But Legolas kept his eyes glued to the other wall, and his expression discouraged any questions from the hobbit. "Orcs," he finally whispered, his face twisting with disgust and hatred. "Orcs approach us."

"Just orcs?" Merry asked, picking up on a strange undertone in the elf’s voice.

"I do not know," Legolas admitted, continuing to listen intently. "But I sense that the orcs hold back as if in the presence of a great commander. Their usual speech is subdued, and I hear tones of respect, strange though that may seem."

"How far away are they?"

"I do not know. I am not familiar with the layout of this place," Legolas said. "But they are close. They are very close."

"What are we going to do?" This was a question that should have asked long ago, but the darkness in Merry’s mind had muddied his thoughts and obvious actions had become obscured. Watching expressions roll across Legolas’s normally passive face, Merry realized with a sinking heart that the elf had not considered the question, either. Apparently the strange darkness was having a similar effect on both of them.

"I do not know," the elf eventually answered.

"That makes two of us," Merry mumbled. How many times now had Legolas just said the words ‘I do not know’? Far too often for my liking, the hobbit thought grimly. And if he doesn’t know what to do or what’s going on, how am I to figure it out? Merry shook his head and then suddenly stiffened as something beyond the cell bars caught his attention. "Do you see that, Legolas?"

The elf nodded slightly, watching as a hint of greater light crept into their room. "Torches. They approach," he whispered, lowering his voice to the point where it was barely audible.

"Are you sure you can’t think up a plan really fast?" Merry hissed back.

"Take no actions of any kind," Legolas cautioned. "Say nothing and do nothing."

That sounded easy enough to Merry and he quickly nodded. "Right. Say nothing and do nothing. Do you think it would help if I pretend to be asleep?"

Legolas shook his head, hissing slightly as this increased his already painful headache. "They know we are awake," he answered. "This shadow over our minds has a source. Whoever or whatever is behind this darkness felt us stir, and deceptions on our part will avail us nothing. But until we know our enemy, we cannot act. For that reason, we must let him make the first move."

"Ah, I see now. The plan is to watch and wait," Merry concluded with a sigh. "I guess I can work with that, but I think we need a better one."

Legolas smiled slightly. "I shall endeavor to prepare a more comprehensive plan when I learn more of our captors," the elf promised. "But until then, do nothing to draw attention to yourself. We may be only pawns in a greater plan, and if this is the case, we might lull them into a false sense of security by appearing meek and submissive."

"I hope you’re right," Merry whispered. "Because I’m hungry and I don’t think they plan on feeding us in the near future."

The elf laughed quietly, though his voice held no real mirth, and then they both fell silent, wary and watchful as the light began to grow brighter. After a short wait, Merry could pick up the harsh voices Legolas had heard earlier, and he was forced to agree with the elf. Having been a captive of the Orcs before, he could attest to the fact that they were always talking and always arguing unless they were threatened with bodily harm. But while these orcs were indeed talking, they were dong so quietly as though they feared to incur wrath. Nor were their tones proud or argumentative. They were hushed and afraid. Merry wondered what could cow an Orc so, and with a sinking heart, he realized he was probably about to find out.

After another few minutes of waiting, the Orcs came into view. Merry tried to count their numbers, but they were moving and jostling one another enough that the hobbit eventually gave up. His best guess numbered around twenty, though, which made the odds ten to one. Not good, he decided. Even for a knight of Rohan and an elf.

Upon seeing the prisoners, the orcs started to jeer and laugh, but they did not approach, staying near the far wall and occasionally glancing out of the room as though waiting for something. Legolas shifted uncomfortably beside him and Merry felt a flash of fear for the elf. Most of the orcs’ jibes were directed at the prince, and if Legolas were given to them for sport, he would not last long.

Then the orcs went abruptly silent, and a shiver of fear took Merry at the same time that a cold darkness seemed to creep over all. The flames in the wall sconces spluttered and hissed, and almost as though he were a part of the shadows, a hooded figure clad in a swirling cloak entered the room. The feeble light glanced off black armor beneath the cloak, and a long, sheathed sword swung from a baldric. Darkness seemed to follow this creature of evil and the torches dimmed until they were barely visible. He turned toward the elf and hobbit, and a flash of eyes could be seen in the shadows of his hood. Merry had the impression of cruelty, malice, and an evil cunning. More shivers crept along his spine and he cast his eyes away, unable to meet the dark gaze that seemed to sear his flesh. The hobbit looked instead toward Legolas, hoping to find some sense of peace, but he froze at what he saw on the elf’s face. Legolas was staring back at their captor with a look of both horror and recognition. The elf’s lips moved in a silent plea to Elbereth, and as he did so, a terrible laugh filled the room.

"Release them."

The cold voice froze the marrow in Merry’s bones, but he quickly had other things to worry about. At the commands of the cloaked figure, the orcs opened the cell door and streamed in, swarming around him. He was released from his chains, jerked to his feet, and his arms were seized and twisted cruelly behind his back. The hobbit choked down a cry when his recently set shoulder throbbed in protest to this treatment. He was shoved forward onto his knees and held by at least three different orcs. A thud and a soft gasp beside him caused him to look over and he cringed at what he saw. Legolas had five orcs holding him, and their gripping hands were forcing his arms painfully high behind his back. A sixth Orc seized the elf’s hair and pulled his head back until it almost touched his spine. A sharp blade rested against Legolas’s delicate throat and bit slightly into the skin, making a thin, red line.

"Move even a little, swine, and I’ll gut you like the elven pig you are," the Orc with the knife hissed.

"Bring them forward," the hooded form ordered.

Merry was dragged unceremoniously to his feet, but if he thought his treatment was harsh, he revised that opinion when he saw what was happening to Legolas. The elf was pulled upward at the same time an Orc with a metal gauntlet slammed his fist into Legolas’s side. There was an audible cracking sound as ribs broke beneath the blow, and the elf’s breath caught as he tried to hold back a wail of agony. His knees buckled beneath him, and for punishment the same Orc delivered a hard blow to the prince’s stomach. This time, Legolas could not forebear crying out as he doubled over, and the orcs laughed, hauling him bodily forward while he moaned in pain.

"Take them to their separate rooms," the figure instructed. "Remember, though, that no permanent damage can be afflicted, and they must have regained consciousness by the time I arrive."

Merry’s heart leaped into his throat, and he looked wildly at Legolas, hoping the elf had received some miraculous, last minute inspiration. But Legolas only looked back at him with pain-filled eyes and labored breathing, and then they were dragged away from one another. Merry’s orcs practically lifted him into the air as they turned him from the elf. Behind him he could hear the muffled sounds of a struggle and eventually he caught the sound of an elven cry. Then something rammed into Merry’s back and he stifled a yelp of surprise and pain only to release a much louder scream when one of the orcs holding his right arm twisted hard and broke it with a loud snap. Fighting against this pain, Merry screamed again when the process was repeated with his left arm. Darkness swam before him as his body began to go into shock, and the hobbit gratefully surrendered himself to blissful unconsciousness where this horror could at least be partially ignored if not wholly endured.

Chapter 11: Veils of Darkness

It was the considered opinion of many mortals that elves create their environment and that their reality is determined by their mindset. An elf in good spirits seemed to have the ability to make the sunlight brighter, the sky bluer, and the forest greener. For his part, Thranduil found the notion rather amusing while at the same time indicative of the general ignorance that seemed to pervade the race of mortals. The things of the world were masters unto themselves. Possibly they responded to the emotions of elves in some small way, but they were certainly not bound to the Eldar race, as many believed. Elves, on the other hand, were very much influenced by their environment, and perhaps the saying could simply be turned around and so made factual. A dark cave had the power to wilt even the most powerful elven warrior while a serene forest was a blessing and a balm to the spirit of the grief-stricken. During his many years upon Arda, Thranduil had become very aware of his own surroundings and their affect on his mood, but never had he felt the influence of his environment as strongly as he did now.

Before him, writhing in coils of eternal shadow, the forest floor was almost a mirror to the darkness swirling within his own heart. His youngest son, the last child of his beloved wife, was gone. Taken by Orcs. And his final words to this son had been spoken in reckless anger. Glancing around to ensure that he was not observed, Thranduil sighed and his perfect posture was broken as his broad shoulders slumped and he bowed his head in grief and torment. A hand rubbed his brow and he closed bright elven eyes, murmuring a quiet prayer to Elbereth on behalf of his realm’s youngest prince. What have I done, Legolas? What have I done in driving you from Rivendell?

"Sire?"

"How goes the search, Ithildae?" the king asked, quickly reassuming his commanding presence and sending a warning look at the archer in the event that the other elf might venture inappropriate questions.

"Elladan has discovered something, my liege," Ithildae replied, wisely showing no sign that he had caught the king in a moment of private sorrow. "I thought you would wish to be informed."

Thranduil nodded and waved his hand in dismissal even as he turned and searched the gathered elves, looking for Elrond’s son. Elladan had become rather distant since this search began. It seemed as though something greatly troubled him. There was a feeling of guilt and recrimination about the half-elf, and it was possible that he blamed himself for not acting against the shadow earlier, a failure that Thranduil was quite willing to grant him. But there was more to it than simply self-condemnation. It was as though this darkness affected Elladan more than it affected the rest of them, and perhaps that wasn’t far from the truth. Thranduil had noticed over the years that Elladan seemed particularly susceptible to changes in his environment, more so than even full-blooded elves. And with the feeling of evil so close and so pervasive, he might be having trouble focusing his senses and consequently withdrawing from those around him. And for this reason alone will I fail to mention that I hold him accountable with Isildur’s heir for the loss of my son, Thranduil thought grimly, knowing that darkness in one’s heart was far worse a punishment for Elladan than anything that the elven king of Mirkwood could concoct.

Eventually spotting Elladan at the far edge of the group—and noting with some despair that the king of Gondor stood with the son of Elrond—Thranduil steeled himself and moved toward them. Anger still throbbed within his veins at the thought that Aragorn had sent Legolas into danger virtually unprotected. He trusted his son’s abilities for he had seen those abilities in action, but one elf could never hope to stand against an entire battalion of Orcs no matter how skilled that elf was. Even Glorfindel might balk at such odds. And as for the defense that Gimli had been with Legolas… Thranduil shook his head in disgust. Dwarves were mighty in battle, that was true, but they were wholly untrustworthy. They could not be relied upon to watch another’s back, for their minds were flighty and their attention short-lived. Thranduil held both the dwarves and the Orcs fully responsible for the death of his wife, and never again would he trust any children of Aulë. And after Isildur’s treachery in the face of what his own father had sacrificed, it was a foregone conclusion that men were also untrustworthy. Why, then, does Elladan place so much faith in Aragorn? Thranduil wondered as he neared the two. It seems that Elrond’s wisdom failed these last years, and it fails even more in his sons.

"Ithildae reports you have discovered something, Elladan," Thranduil said upon reaching his destination.

"News travels quickly," Elladan replied, barely sparing the king a glance. His eyes were intent upon Aragorn, whose gaze was strangely blank and who looked as though he was about to topple over.

"News does not travel quickly enough, young one, for word of what your discovery is has yet to reach my ears," Thranduil said, his voice filled with reproach. If there was one thing Thranduil could not stand, it was secrets that were kept from him. He had an insatiable need to know everything that went on, a need that had been born of seemingly endless years fighting Orcs, Wargs, spiders, and countless other denizens of darkness in Mirkwood. Without the aid of an Elven Ring to protect his kingdom, Thranduil had been forced to demand much of his people, and among those demands was the right to know anything and everything that happened within the realm. To his credit, Thranduil was alone in his ability to preserve an elven land against Sauron without a Ring of Power, but the cost of such preservation had taken its toll. His temper was short, his prejudices were set, and he had very little tolerance for those who stood in his way. And Elladan was coming very close to incurring Thranduil’s full wrath.

Seeming to sense something of the emotional turmoil within Mirkwood’s king, Elladan turned and studied the other elf. "I am not yet certain of this potential discovery, and I saw no purpose in bringing it to your attention until there was something definite to relate."

"I believe we have had this conversation before," Thranduil said quietly, his eyes narrowing. "What is it you suspect?"

"As of yet, I do not know enough to suspect anything," Elladan answered. "And as for discovering something, that remains to be seen. In any case, it is more Estel’s discovery than mine."

Thranduil’s eyes shifted to the man and deep prejudices immediately flared to life. But even as his mind began to close itself against the possibility that Aragorn might have anything constructive to contribute, a tiny voice in the back of Thranduil’s head spoke up in warning. His son’s life hung in the balance, and he could not afford to overlook any chance to bring him home. It was far-fetched, but maybe…just maybe…this mortal could be of use to them. Legolas was a young elf and sometimes acted more with his heart than his head, but Thranduil trusted his judgement for the most part and if Legolas had made a friend of this human, that did say something. Of course, Legolas had also made a friend of a dwarf, something Thranduil could not understand no matter how he twisted his mind around that particular puzzle, so perhaps the young prince was still in need of instruction and advice in this area. Still, even Thranduil would admit, albeit reluctantly, that the men of Isildur’s line did have heightened senses and abilities. Perhaps he could allow himself to trust this human somewhat. But he would bear careful watching, all the same.

While these thoughts rolled through Thranduil’s mind, Elladan stood silently by, watching and waiting with the eternal patience granted almost exclusively to the Eldar. And when the king of Mirkwood finally focused on the son of Elrond again, Elladan gave him the barest hint of a smile and nodded toward Aragorn. Taking a deep breath and ignoring the indignant outcries of his pride, Thranduil turned and addressed the man. "King Elessar?"

For a moment, it seemed that Aragorn would not answer, but after a time, he closed his eyes and shuddered. He swayed slightly and Elladan was quick to support him, leading him to a tree and pressing him against it. Confused and more than a little concerned that something was going awry without his knowledge of what that something was, Thranduil followed.

"Aragorn?" he tried again, feeling rather sick at the thought that he was placing his trust in a mortal.

Aragorn sighed and opened his eyes, raising a hand to his head and rubbing his brow. "Thranduil?"

It could not be said that Thranduil knew very much about humans, but he was not completely ignorant. His kingdom was a primary trading partner for the men of Dale, and beyond than that, he had fought beside men under the standards of Oropher in the failed attempt to destroy Sauron’s evil at the end of the Second Age. He had seen men wearied and injured, and he had learned to recognize some of the signs that accompanied the peculiar mortal phenomenon of sickness. He now identified a few of these signs in Aragorn and wondered at it. "You do not appear well, son of Arathorn," he eventually said, thinking that perhaps he should have learned more of men in the past.

Aragorn gave a short bark of laughter and shook his head. "Let it never be said that elves are unobservant."

Thranduil bristled slightly but managed to restrain his growing temper. It was a difficult task, for Thranduil had never been a particularly patient elf when Orcs were concerned, and the fact that his youngest son was held captive by these foul creatures only exacerbated the problem. But with an iron will and a great deal of effort, the king of Mirkwood shoved his feelings to the back of his head and tried to assume a logical interior to match his outer façade of calm and dignity. "May I assume, then, that you are ill?" he ventured, impressing even himself with the steadiness of his voice.

"Weary would hit nigh unto the mark," Aragorn answered, pushing off his tree and waving away Elladan’s silent offer of assistance. "I think I may have discovered a way to see through this darkness."

"You can follow the Orcs?" Elladan asked.

"Perhaps." Aragorn sounded rather hesitant, and Thranduil was forced to curb his impatience once more. "If I clear my thoughts and try to sense rather than see the trail, I feel as though one is there. Yet whether or not I can follow it, and whether or not this trail is even the correct trail, are things that I do not know. It could be a diversion set to turn us from the true path." Aragorn grimaced and glanced into the darkness. "Would you attempt to sense the trail, Elladan?" he asked at length. "For your senses are keener than mine, and I would know an elf’s opinion on this."

Elladan frowned but nodded. "As you wish, brother. I know not for what I search, yet if you think it shall help…" The half-elf trailed off and looked out over the swirling darkness that clouded the forest floor. Sensing this might take a while and needing something to pass the time, Thranduil amused himself by counting the leaves in the tree overhead while his fists clenched and unclenched at his side. As the minutes ticked by, it was becoming more and more difficult to restrain himself and his rage. At this point, he had more in common with Gimli than he did with Elladan, Elrohir, or even Celeborn. Thranduil would never admit to such a thing, of course, but this line of thought led him to stop counting leaves and instead glance about for the dwarf. To his surprise, the stunted creature was nowhere in sight, and elven curiosity began to surge with him.

"Where is the dwarf?" he eventually asked.

Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "I know not. Shortly after we dismounted, he disappeared. As to where Gimli is now, I cannot say. I have not dispatched any to search for him as we cannot waste the manpower, and he is more than capable of taking care of himself. Still, I cannot help but wonder what he is doing or where he is."

"One can never trust a dwarf," Thranduil said flatly, glancing about again but still not finding any sign of Gimli. "The friendship of a dwarf means nothing, for they are often wont to break what promises they make and destroy what vows they speak. You would do well to send him away from us, son of Arathorn."

"King Thranduil, I have journeyed with Gimli over many leagues and many days. He is a courageous and stalwart companion, and were I given the option of taking one thousand of your archers into battle behind me, I would decline in favor of having Gimli and Legolas at my side."

"You are young and you are a man," Thranduil said, turning away from Aragorn as a means of dismissal. He did not need to be lectured by a youth who would be dead ere the next acorn fully matured. He was Thranduil, son of Oropher and king of Mirkwood. He was quite capable of taking his own counsel, and no mortal would tell him what could and could not be done. After the Battle of Dagorlad, and later the loss of his wife, no mortal could ever be truly trusted anyway.

"When last I left you, you were standing about doing naught. I see now no change for the better."

Speaking of mortals… Thranduil was forced to summon some of his last patience in order to turn and watch as a dwarf stomped out of the trees, a crude axe slung over one shoulder. Gimli looked about him with a mixture of frustration and rage, eventually grunting and shaking his head.

"You disapprove, Master Dwarf?" Aragorn asked.

"Our friends are in the hands of the Orcs, yet you do nothing to save them," Gimli snapped, anger beginning to redden his face.

"Peace, Gimli," Aragorn said just as Thranduil was preparing something truly scathing to say. "If I may ask, what have you been doing while we have been searching for a trail?"

"I have done some searching of my own out in that darkness."

"You traveled in that?!" Aragorn demanded, gesturing to the waves of black mist that hid the ground.

"You believe Legolas and Merry to be somewhere beyond it, do you not? Therefore, it seemed only logical that I should follow."

Thranduil blinked and took a closer look at the dwarf. None of the elves had ventured to set foot in the swirling shadows, for the feel of evil was palpable. Yet this dwarf claimed to have traveled through them. The king of Mirkwood narrowed his eyes and studied Gimli carefully. Perhaps there was something different about this creature. Or perhaps he is as other dwarves and lies to us about his travels.

"Gimli, we do not know enough about what we face to take chances like that," Aragorn said, and even Thranduil was impressed by the amount of anger the king managed to put into his statement.

"Then when shall we be allowed to take chances?" Gimli shot back. "Perhaps it was a risk to brave the shadows, but has not Legolas taken similar risks for me?"

Aragorn shook his head, but it seemed to Thranduil that the king’s attitude was slowly turning to one of weary acceptance rather than one of anger and condemnation. You shall never rule effectively if that is your policy, he thought to himself. Subjects and underlings must be controlled. One cannot allow oneself to fall prey to weakness and compliance. Such thinking led to the corruption of Al-Pharazôn and the downfall of Númenor.

But it did not appear that Aragorn had learned this lesson—a fact not greatly surprising to Thranduil—and the man eventually sighed as his anger at Gimli drained from his face. "Tell me of your journey in the darkness, then," Aragorn said. "I trust you discovered something of note, else you would not have returned."

"True enough," Gimli said. "First of all, this darkness…" The dwarf trailed off and shook his head before continuing. "The darkness is a grasping thing. While walking through it, I felt faint and confused. As though my mind was not truly my own. There is evil there, and it is powerful."

"We can feel that much from here," Aragorn said, his anger briefly resurfacing. "You did not need to walk about in it to tell us of this."

Something flashed through the dwarf’s eyes, but his patience held and he kept his tongue in check with an effort that impressed Thranduil. "There is more in the darkness than simply evil, Aragorn," Gimli said, his voice soft yet tempered with steel. "The trail to our friends lies hidden in it. But I may have found a different trail that we might use, since it seems that the earth and its signs have betrayed us. Where the trees press close together, there are broken branches that indicate the passing of a large company."

"Broken branches," Aragorn echoed with a shake of his head. "Gimli, do you truly think I have not considered this option? Yes, there are places where the trees are close together and branches may be broken, but such places are not frequent enough to provide a reliable trail. Beyond that, a strong wind or a racing stag might be responsible for the snapping of limbs. It does not necessarily indicate a party of Orcs."

"And have there been many strong winds or large, armed parties of stags racing through these woods?" Gimli demanded.

Aragorn’s eyes became hard, and when he answered Gimli, his voice was cold. "There are strange happenings this day, Master Dwarf, and nothing in these woods is as it seems. I would feel better following a clear trail on the ground rather than guessing haphazardly at broken sticks. If our choices go awry and we lose the trail, such delays could be more dangerous for Legolas and Merry than the current delay. Your haste may cost them what little hope they have. Think on that ere you press us for a change in plans."

There was silence for a moment, and it seemed as though all of Arda waited. The waiting ended after a time when Gimli’s shoulders slumped and he looked away with a sigh. "My apologies, Aragorn. I spoke from my anger, not from my wits."

"And that is to your credit, for we will have need of such passion and fury," Aragorn responded. "Only hold it in check a while a longer. It will be more than welcome when the time comes."

Thranduil rolled his eyes at these words. Dwarven fury was destructive, true enough, but it was often misguided and uncontrolled. An enraged Gimli would probably run full into a tree and knock himself cold ere he struck his first Orc. When emotions clouded their judgement, dwarves were little better than stunted beasts.

"You are right," Elladan suddenly spoke up, reminding them all of his presence. Blinking his eyes as though waking from a deep sleep, he stepped backward with a shake of his head and staggered slightly. "There is a trail, and we may follow it if our minds our clear, but the moment our thoughts stray, the way is clouded."

"What is this of a trail?" Gimli demanded, eyeing both Elladan and Aragorn with suddenly renewed suspicion.

"There may be a trail hidden beneath the darkness for eyes to see that can," Aragorn answered. "But I know not if it is the true path of the Orcs or a detour sent to lead us astray. What say you, Elladan?"

"I do not know it either," Elladan sighed with a shake of his head. "Only one thing is certain—we must proceed with caution. Númenórean blood is slow to thin, and we know not what surprises our adversary may have already planned."

"Then let us take those surprises in stride," Thranduil said, feeling his patience come to an end. He had been wary of venturing into the dark cloud, but if a dwarf could do it, so could an elf. An opportunity had presented itself, its discovery had been backed by an elven voice, and Thranduil was ready to set out. "You claim that you can follow a trail hidden in this blackness. Let us follow it, then, and see whither we are led."

"Patience," Elladan soothed, his voice low and calming. "We know not if this is a trap. This might very well be another deception intending to lead us away from the true trail. We cannot afford to make a mistake of that magnitude, for such mistakes could be costly."

"Elladan is right," Aragorn said quietly, looking out over the swirling darkness. "There is too much at stake to rush into this. We must proceed carefully. The situation is urgent, but at this point, the need for accuracy outweighs the need for haste."

"What would any of you know concerning the need for urgency and haste?" Thranduil spat, elven eyes flaring with anger. "None of you here understand what I face. I remind you that my youngest son is in the hands of the Orcs, and I—"

"Yes, your son, my friend, a member of the Fellowship of the Ring, the lord of Southern Ithilien, and the youngest prince of Mirkwood," Gimli interrupted, his voice rising to match the king’s. "Legolas bears many titles, and all of us here can lay claim to him through either friendship or kinship. I assure you that this grief is not yours alone, king of Mirkwood, and others here suffer as well. Perhaps it is different for you as a family member, but know that we all bear a measure of sorrow at his absence."

"And what would a dwarf know of elven sorrow?"

"More than you, King Thranduil," Gimli shot back. "While you hide in your forests among the Silvan and Sindarin, I speak with the Noldor and taste of the beauty of Lothlórien, bittersweet in its fading. I have seen the sea longing awakened in your son, and I have now battled this curse with him for five years. Can you say the same? Can you even say that you and he parted on favorable terms? It occurs to me that your last words to your son were spoken in anger."

"If you say another word, dwarf, I shall personally rip your heart from your chest!"

"Enough!" Elladan cried, jumping between the two. "Silence, both of you. Your arguments do not aid us, and if anything, they only serve to make the darkness stronger. If you cannot speak civilly, then do not speak at all!"

Thranduil rounded on Elrond’s son, fully intending to completely unleash his building fury, but the sudden sound of hooves interrupted him. With narrowed eyes, the king of Mirkwood took a step backward and conceded the round, conscious of the growing number of looks from surrounding elves and men.

"Elladan! Estel!"

Elladan’s brow furrowed and he stepped away from Thranduil to turn and look for the coming riders. The foliage was thick enough that sight was difficult even for elves, but the voice that had cried out was unmistakable, and Thranduil wondered what had happened in Rivendell for its guardian to desert his post, even if Celeborn was still there.

"Elrohir?" Aragorn called out, his voice curious.

"Elrohir, what brings you here?" Elladan asked, moving to catch Gaearsul’s head as the stallion thundered through the underbrush and came to a rather abrupt stop.

"New tidings from the north and counsel from Lord Celeborn," his twin answered, dismounting and moving aside quickly as three other horses pushed their way through the dense underbrush. Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin leaped off their mounts and were then joined by two hobbit ponies and two exhausted-looking hobbits.

"Sam, you have a family to think of!" Gimli reprimanded. "Why aren’t you back at Rivendell with them?"

"Because I would never forgive myself if I didn’t help look for Merry and Legolas," the hobbit answered staunchly, drawing himself up and meeting the dwarf’s stern gaze.

"And we’re not going back, no matter what you do," Pippin added, joining Sam in glaring at Gimli. "There’s no use trying to protect us, anyway, because we’ve both been through enough to know what we’re facing out here. And we want to face it."

"What was the last thing I told you ere you left for sleep last night?" Aragorn asked, his voice stern.

Thranduil watched these proceedings with an air of impatience—something that now seemed to be a constant for him—and eventually turned expectantly to Elrohir. The king had no qualms about hobbits in general and actually respected Bilbo and Frodo after his own fashion, but worry and fear for his son was combining with his general dislike for mortals and giving him an edge that did not allow for the distractions in which mortals seemed to engage. "What tidings do you bring?" Thranduil asked Elrohir, trying to ignore the debate now developing between the hobbits, the dwarf, and the man.

"Firstly, Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin have somewhat to report from their scouting in the north," Elrohir said, nodding toward the three Galadhrim. Haldir made a short bow and began speaking.

"We had followed many trails left by Rivendell’s attackers, my lords and lieges," he began, including Aragorn in the formalities even though Aragorn was still arguing with the hobbits. "And we were nigh unto losing hope, for it seemed that the Orcs wandered without purpose. Or if there was purpose, it was to burden us with an impossible puzzle. But even as we considered returning to Imladris, Orophin discovered a path that led into darkness. It is much like the path you face here. In fact, to my eyes the two are identical. But returning to my tale, we knew not how to combat this darkness and so sought out Lord Celeborn and Lord Elrohir for counsel."

"And Celeborn was able to identify this darkness based on the details brought to him by Haldir and his brothers," Elrohir said. "He confirms that it is the work of a Black Númenórean—or at least one who has studied their arts—and we now know the purpose of such a shadow. According to Lord Celeborn, this veil of darkness was used in the Second Age to disguise trails and confound those who would track them."

"Know you anything of this?" Elladan asked, looking toward Thranduil curiously.

"Celeborn was more involved in the affairs of man than was I. I know much of the Black Númenóreans, but I do not know specifics," Thranduil answered, quickly searching his memory but drawing a rather embarrassing blank.

"Fortunately for us, Lord Celeborn does know specifics," Elrohir said, and Thranduil bristled slightly at the imperious tone in the young half-elf’s voice. "According to him, the true trail lies beneath the darkness but must be sensed more than seen."

"Then our path could be the correct one," Aragorn said, having finished scolding the hobbits and apparently also having tracked the conversation of the elves even though his concentration was elsewhere.

"At last, wisdom from higher authorities," Gimli exclaimed, joining the others in their discussion. Pippin and Sam now stood quietly behind the dwarf, watching the conversation with rapt attention. "Let us follow the trail."

"It may still be a trap," Elladan cautioned.

"Do we truly have any other options?" Gimli demanded, and for once, Thranduil found himself in complete agreement with the dwarf. It was a rather disconcerting experience and the king quickly evaluated his mental state, looking for signs of insanity. "Celeborn’s counsel indicates that our path could be the path of the Orcs!"

"What is this of a path?" Elrohir asked. "Have you found something already?"

"We seem to be one step ahead of you, brother," Aragorn said. "Elladan and I have discovered a trail, but we feared it was a decoy. And while that may still be the case, at least we have some assurances from Celeborn that perhaps we would not be remiss for following this trail, as Gimli has now pointed out."

"Then if we are to follow it, let us follow it!" Gimli exclaimed, and for the second time that day, Thranduil wondered if he were not going mad.

"The dwarf speaks wisely, strange as that may seem," Haldir said with a sidelong glance at Gimli, and Thranduil sighed in relief with the realization that he was not alone in agreeing with the stunted creature. "Time is our enemy, as it has always been, my lords and lieges, and if we are to pursue those who have taken our comrades, we must act now."

"Then come," Elladan said, turning to the darkness and shivering slightly. "Let us pursue this trail and see where it may lead us. And Valar willing, it shall lead us to our friends."

* * * *

The scream of a whip mixed with the jeers and taunts of Orcs to provide a horrific cacophony of sound. He could feel warm blood running down his back, and his head had dropped forward to rest limply against his bare chest. Laughter and cruel jests surrounded him, but he ignored them as he ignored all else. He was a prince, the last son of Thranduil, and his tormentors were beneath him. Their cruelties were but the pounding of rain upon an immovable stone. They could not hurt him. They could not touch him.

At least, that’s what Legolas kept telling himself. He wondered how much longer he would actually manage to believe that lie.

There was one spot of joy, though. He had yet to express his discomfort verbally, though facial expressions indicative of pain were no longer something he could hide. Still, so long as he could keep back the cries in his throat that begged for release, his tattered dignity and pride were still somewhat intact. It was a small consolation of sorts, and in a remote corner of his mind, Legolas laughed at his enemies for their failure to break him.

But at the same time that part of him was laughing, the more rational portion of his mind was evaluating the situation and coming to rather grim conclusions. The Orcs had been commanded to refrain from permanent damage, and so far they had obeyed those orders. Painful as his current condition was, Legolas’s elven healing ability was already stemming the flow of blood. Even the humiliation of being their captive was something that could fade with time. But why was permanent damage forbidden? What greater purpose lay beneath all of this? Why did he and Merry need to retain the ability to recover? Such policy was certainly not in keeping with general Orc practice, and it was obvious from their taunts and threats that the twisted goblins wished to do far more to the elf than was currently allowed. Yet they restrained themselves, and Legolas wondered at this. Even fear of a vindictive master could give way to an Orc’s desire for sport, but these hideous creatures seemed to know that something more awaited the prisoners. But what? What greater evil was planned and how could it be thwarted? More than that, what was planned for their friends? The attack that had led to Legolas’s imprisonment had been well coordinated, and it was obvious now that these Orcs sought revenge for the fall of Mordor and Isengard. The cloaked man who led these creatures would be after the others. They had to be warned.

And as for the man himself…a man who was not quite a man, it seemed… Legolas wondered if he was perhaps mistaken. His first glance beneath the dark hood had revealed a specter from the past that should have perished with Sauron’s fall. It should have been impossible for this particular man to survive Mordor’s collapse. How was it that he—

Legolas’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard two Orcs step forward, and he belatedly realized that the whipping had ceased. With a mental sigh, the elf turned his mind more or less back to the present and tried to steel himself for whatever they planned next. Doubtless they would attempt to make up for the fact that they’d gotten no real outcry from him yet. Sometimes it did not pay to maintain dignity, and Legolas decided that this was one of those times.

His hands were released from the manacles that dangled from the ceiling. Dropping like a dead thing, the elf landed heavily on his side and with effort bit back a hiss of pain as jagged shards of broken ribs rubbed against delicate lung tissue. Legolas lay quietly, lacking both the energy and the will to move. If he was to be repositioned for some new game, the Orcs would be more than happy to reposition him themselves. A few moments later, he sensed the approach of one of the larger Orcs and felt himself rolled onto his back. Clenching his teeth as the raw skin of his bare back came into contact with the rough, gritty floor of the cell, he opened his eyes and watched the Orc quietly, trying to guess what was to come.

The elf’s right arm was lifted into the air and the Orc kneeling beside him studied it with an almost academic detachment. "So this is what draws the bow that kills our kind," he murmured, his foul voice grating on the elf’s fine hearing. The Orc ran his hands over the pale skin in a cruel parody of a caress, and Legolas forced himself to repress a shudder of revulsion. Then the Orc tightened his grip on the limp arm, clutching both the elf’s hand and his forearm. Looking Legolas straight in the eye and wearing a horrible grin, he slowly began to twist.

It took a long, painful minute for the bones to finally crack beneath the mounting pressure, and during this time Legolas hardened his gaze to stone while furiously beseeching the Valar for strength that he might be able to keep back the moans and screams that were once again building in his throat. He forced himself to lie still, knowing that fighting would only bring greater torment, but when the wrist finally snapped, the pain was too great. His breaking wrist, coupled with previous tortures, was more than Legolas could take. A cry of exquisite agony burst from him, echoing off the dank walls as it was joined by the triumphant yells of the Orcs.

Struggling to control himself, Legolas dimly sensed his most recent tormenter move to his other side and pick up his left arm. The breaking process was repeated amidst pitiful whimpers of pain from the elf, and when it was over, he could not move his hands.

"How many arrows will you shoot now?" a harsh voice slurred in his ear, and then the Orc stepped away as others approached, pushing a brazier of burning coals and bearing a length of iron, the end of which glowed red with heat. The horror in Legolas’s eyes could not be hidden as a wave of burning heat swept over him, and like prey before a merciless predator, he watched helpless as the end of the iron rod was brought closer and closer.

It was not long before elven screams echoed through the cavernous hallways again.

* * * *

The sensation of cold stone against his back woke Merry from a world of disturbing and horrific dreams. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he wondered if waking up was actually an improvement. When the hobbit became more cognizant, his ultimate conclusion was a very firm and resounding No! His broken arms were stretched above his head and chained tightly, and he was secured face-up upon a rough bench hewn from the rock wall. His feet were also chained and the hobbit lay naked and vulnerable, just as he had when the Orcs had tormented him. A shiver of cold crept over him and at this shiver, his abused skin and muscles cried out in protest. Choking back a cry of pain, Merry slowly opened his eyes and wondered what new activity the Orcs had planned.

He was rather surprised to discover that he was alone in his dark cell. A single torch was the only source of light, and it flickered fitfully, attempting to burn despite the damp drafts that blew in and out of the open door at one end of the room. Merry harbored no false hopes that he would be left to himself for long, but at least for now, he could enjoy a brief respite.

Closing his eyes, he tried to relax, though it was hard because his body was growing cold and his bruised, swollen muscles were beginning to tighten. Two ribs were broken, and when he was suddenly taken by an involuntary shiver, he could feel their shards tearing against his lungs. Blood tickled the back of his throat, and Merry stubbornly fought down a cough, knowing that the motion of such an action would only make matters worse in addition to possibly drawing unwanted outside attention. For this latter reason, Merry also stifled the moans and whimpers that were collecting within him. Legolas had said he must not draw attention to himself. It seemed a little late for that, but at the moment, the hobbit had nothing else to go on and he stubbornly clung to the elf’s last words of advice much as a drowning man might cling to the wreckage of his ruined ship. Merry’s muddled mind could construct no coherent plan of its own, and the strange shadows and darkness that seemed to hover just below his consciousness were certainly not helping.

For a moment or two, Merry wondered what had happened to Legolas but ultimately decided that he was better off not thinking about it. He couldn’t remember his own trials without cringing at the dark images that cropped up in his mind, and he didn’t want to extend that darkness by imagining what had become of the elf. Instead, he cleared his mind and did something for which all hobbits have a strong, innate talent. He thought of nothing.

Time seemed to slow and lose its meaning, the surrounding world faded to a dim picture with no relation to reality, and Merry’s mind became a blank. Nothing mattered and nothing could affect him as he achieved a mental state that would rival even the meditative silence of the elves. Hobbits most often used this trick when eating so as to consume more food without acknowledging the consequences of an impending stomachache, but Merry now used it to forget himself. He used it to forget everything and for a brief moment, he existed purely in the present with no past and no future to hinder him. Other races, had they known of this talent, might have envied hobbits greatly, for it was in part due to this ability that hobbits could endure so much and still continue. It was this ability to ignore both future and past that had enabled Frodo and Sam to journey through the desolation of Mordor. It was this ability that had given Bilbo the strength to finally discard the Ring of his own free will. And it was this ability that now allowed Merry to rest despite the screaming of his body.

Unfortunately, the rest was short-lived. Footsteps sounded in the black corridor beyond his room, drawing Merry from his peaceful world of nothing, and the hobbit shivered again in spite of himself. Now was certainly not a time to show weakness, but he seemed powerless to do anything else. He tried to shove down his rising fear, burying it deep within himself where none could see, but when a dark shadow stepped into the doorway, Merry knew it was no use. His skin was crawling, his hands were cold as ice, and his stomach churned with nausea as all reason fled his mind.

"My greetings, Meriadoc Brandybuck." There was a slight clink of mail as the shadow stepped into the room, and it seemed that the lone torch dimmed in response to the presence of this man. The hood of the cloak was slowly lifted, and Merry found himself looking upon the visage of a nightmare. This creature, though he might at one time have been human, was no longer truly a man. The skin of his face was unnaturally pale, and lines creased his forehead and eyes while scars wound their way down his cheeks. Depthless black eyes glittered with a fiery insanity, and it seemed that tendrils of darkness had coiled themselves within this man’s being, surging and pressing for release.

"Who are you?"

Merry did not even realize he was asking the question until the words left his lips, but once spoken, he could not retract them. Unable to help himself, he pressed his back harder against the cold stone beneath him and whimpered slightly. His pride and will railed sharply against this action, but Merry was quickly losing what little control he had.

"Who am I? Ah, so you were not the halfling who stood before the Morannon that day. Doubtless, though, you have heard of me. Yes, I am most certain you have heard of me. They believed me dead upon the field, those who found me, and so left me as carrion among the corpses of the Orcs." The man who was not quite a man leaned toward the hobbit, and with a sense of helpless desperation, Merry tried to back away only to discover that he had nowhere to go. "I was among the most trusted advisors to the great Eye. Long ago, I was taken from Harad where my people have hidden for years, cursed by our Númenórean blood to live in exile or hide our lineage. I was taught by Sauron himself, the Necromancer, the Dark Lord, and through his training I have come into my own, Meriadoc, son of Saradoc. I was known as the Mouth of Sauron, but now you shall become the mouth. I have a message for your friends, young hobbit, and you and the elf shall deliver it for me. But there are things you must learn before you will be ready to deliver this message. What say you, knight of Rohan? Shall we begin the lessons?"

"Whatever you do to me, I was one of the Nine Walkers," Merry said bravely though his heart was pounding so loudly in his chest it was a wonder that the sound of it did not echo about the room like the drums of Moria.

"Yes, a member of the famous Fellowship, a group of witless, hapless fools who blundered their way to victory with the aid of chance and the fickle graces of fortune," the Mouth of Sauron sneered, and Merry decided that he was in trouble. Not that he hadn’t been in trouble before, but it was quickly becoming apparent to the hobbit that he was actually in more trouble than he’d first decided. "You will find the other Fellowship members soon, I promise you that. But you are not yet properly prepared." Hands the temperature of ice water came to rest on either side of Merry’s face and the hobbit squeezed his eyes shut and steeled himself, somehow knowing that everything he’d faced before was going to be as nothing compared to whatever was about to happen.

Pain suddenly assailed his thoughts and a darkness so black it eclipsed even the very hope of light slammed into him, demanding access to his mind and his agency. Skidding backward in his mind, Merry braced himself and tried to fight back, but at that moment, the Mouth of Sauron seized one of his broken arms and twisted. The sudden physical pain cost Merry his tentative hold on reality, and he felt himself pushed further back while darkness rose to claim him. Words began to seep into his mind, orders and suggestions. Merry couldn’t understand most of them as they were clouded in a dark speech that seemed to weave an entangling web within his mind, but he felt himself wishing to obey what was told him.

NO! his mind screamed, recoiling at the darkness that now filled his entire world. For his defiance his other arm was twisted brutally and the hobbit cried aloud in pain, once again faltering before the wave of evil. It tore through his mind, taking advantage of his distraction and planting seeds of shadow throughout. The pain grew and the world began to spin violently as Merry felt himself flung through a blackness that seemed to shatter as a mirror crashing into the ground. Shards flew past the hobbit, tearing and cutting, and Merry heard himself screaming. For a moment and an eternity, the hobbit struggled against the shadows that dragged him toward a pit of darkness that had suddenly materialized. Somehow, through means he did not fully understand, Merry realized that if he fell into that pit, he would never recover. This knowledge gave him strength, and despite the pain of his body and the agony of his mind, he resumed the struggle. His screams became louder in response to his fight, the darkness closed in as a predator over a kill, and Merry knew death was but a breath away.

And then everything stopped.

The mental pain ceased, the darkness disappeared, the shadows fled, and Merry was left with the physical complaints of his body that seemed trivial in view of what had just happened. The icy fingers that had pressed so hard against his temples fell away, and as tendrils of darkness began to disperse within his mind, Merry fell into an exhausted and a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 12: Hope for Escape

Arwen was not accustomed to impatience.

As an elf, even during the long years of Aragorn’s absence and Sauron’s growing shadow, Arwen had never truly felt the passage of time. The stretch of many years behind her and the promise of endless years before her should she elect to choose the path of her father made it impossible to completely understand what even the passing of a day meant to men. But now, shorn of her elven immortality, Arwen began to comprehend why men were so quick to act and so easily dismayed by the loss of time. To them, every second was a gift that ought not to be wasted, and the passing minutes she now experienced, each one filled with worry and fear, were a distress and a puzzle to her. Her anxiety over the fate of Legolas and Merry was coupled with her growing awareness of time, and these forces combined to create situation of anguish the likes of which Arwen had never before experienced.

And beyond that, I am pacing! she realized with something akin to horror, noting how her feet had followed a path back and forth between Rivendell’s various balconies. Elves did not pace. At least, elves did not usually pace and the few occasions upon which she could remember an elf pacing were those involving extreme worry and grief. Her father had paced while waiting for Celebrían to regain consciousness after Elrohir and Elladan liberated her from Orcs. Celeborn had paced when the White Council finally acted against Dol Guldur, for his warriors bore the brunt of the work and Galadriel suffered greatly while drawing upon Nenya for power to protect their people. But other than these rare instances, Arwen could not recall that elves paced. Yet she was pacing now and was further disconcerted because of this.

With a shake of her head, Arwen firmly stopped her wandering feet and took a deep breath, attempting to calm her mind. But peace seemed far away and the queen of Gondor was eventually forced to give up her faltering attempts at meditation, resigning herself to the fact that she was anxious, worried, and there was very little she could do about it. But surely there is somewhat I can do to relieve these feelings even if I may not totally rid myself of them, she thought. I am not the first to harbor such fear and frustration, and there must be ways of dealing with this. Mortals have lived with this all their lives. Thinking for a minute or so, Arwen at length decided that what she needed was distraction and purpose. She was doing naught to aid her husband at the moment, and should she engage herself in such a cause, surely her worry and anxiety would abate somewhat. Or so I hope…

Resolved upon this new course of action—and realizing she should have thought of this earlier—Arwen set off on a search for Celeborn and Elrohir. They would surely have some project or task that required her assistance, and even if they did not, speaking with them might calm her nerves to the point where she could find something to do on her own.

Stopping to inquire of a few elves, it did not take her long to discover that Elrohir had left Rivendell with Sam, Pippin, and three scouts from Lothlórien in tow. Curious as to what would cause her brother to leave his appointed post, Arwen began searching in earnest for her grandfather. Information regarding him was more difficult to come by for he seemed to have disappeared after seeing Elrohir off, but after a concerted effort, Arwen eventually found herself before the doors of her father’s massive library.

It had been long since Arwen had entered the library, and she wondered if it had seen much use since Elrond’s departure. She felt certain that Elladan visited this place often, and Elrohir probably joined him, but with the eldest of the elves now gone and the threat of Sauron’s evil destroyed, there were few in Imladris who would have much interest in searching the records of the Ages. Lifting the handles of the tall oak doors, Arwen pulled them open and was greeted by the smell of parchment and leather. It was a familiar smell and a comforting one, for many were the nights she had spent in here at her father’s side, listening to his rich voice relate stories of the past or simply sitting with him as he studied. Oftentimes, Elladan would be with them, and they would talk long into the night, rejoicing in one another’s company and reliving the younger days of Rivendell when Sauron was driven east of the Misty Mountains and it seemed that the darkness could be defeated.

Focus, Arwen told herself sternly with a shake of her head. This is not a time to reminisce of the past but a time to prepare for the future. Nostalgia has no place here. Disciplining her thoughts, the daughter of Elrond stepped into the wide room filled with tables and tall shelves, her eyes sweeping the area for Celeborn.

She eventually found him in a remote corner of the library where the scrolls and manuscripts were so old that the pages cracked and splintered if even the slightest breeze brushed against them. Celeborn was completely intent upon a volume of history before him, and for a moment, Arwen was content to stand quietly and watch as the lord of Lothlórien poured over the ancient book, the title of which had long ago disappeared from the leather cover. Celeborn’s silver hair glistened in the light of a tall window behind him as sunlight flickered through the trees that stood as sentinels outside. Memories flooded through Arwen yet again, and for a brief time, it seemed as though her father had returned and lost himself in the library, seeking the answers to a shadowy riddle or searching for a way to fight the darkness. Almost she could see Glorfindel searching the shelves and selecting parchments that might be of use while Elladan peered over her father’s shoulder and Elrohir brought meals from the kitchen. Then the moment passed, the figures of years long gone faded from sight, and Arwen returned to the present. With a sigh for what would never be again, the daughter of Elrond shook herself slightly and stepped forward, clearing her throat.

Celeborn jumped, and in spite of herself, Arwen could not hide a smile. It was a measure of how involved the other elf was in his studies and also spoke of the situation’s seriousness, yet Arwen could not quite contain herself. She had never seen her grandfather taken by surprise like that, and she wished Galadriel had been there to see it. Celeborn scowled at her for her mirth, but there was no censure in his gaze and more than a little humor in his deep eyes.

"Your father and brothers trained you well. I did not hear your approach."

"You were distracted, my lord," Arwen answered. "I am certain that I could not do it again."

"Are you? I am not." Celeborn smiled and shook his head. "It is well that there were no others here to see that, else I should not hear the end of it. Celeborn the Wise, husband to Galadriel and defender of Lothlórien, taken completely unawares in quite possibly the quietest place in all of Arda—Rivendell’s library."

"You are kind to humor me," Arwen said, pulling up a dusty chair and taking a seat.

"There are those who would call me weak, but I will take kindness as a compliment," Celeborn said, a strange twinkle in his eye. "And you are kind to create allowances for me. But you did not come here to surprise me, or I hope you did not. What is your errand, Arwen?"

"Answers, for one. For another, purpose." Arwen sighed and looked down at her hands where they lay folded in her lap. "I fear that I have become impatient with our lack of progress, and I look to change that," she confessed after a moment, feeling Celeborn’s sharp eyes upon her. "I would learn what we face, and I seek to help us through what means I have."

"You say you are impatient? Strange. Does mortality weigh so heavily upon you?"

Arwen bristled slightly and straightened in her chair. "If I may be permitted to remind you, the king of Gondor and the lords of Imladris are currently in the surrounding forests looking for a large party of Orcs that have—"

"Peace," Celeborn interrupted, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Peace, child, I meant no disrespect. In any case, you are not alone in your impatience." The lord of Lothlórien sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. "Your brothers also seem to be anxious for action, and Thranduil…Thranduil has never been particularly good at waiting. But I am at a loss as to what you would have me do for you. The others are venting their impatience by searching the woods and wading through shadows. Shall I send you forth to join them? And if so, will you defend my actions to Aragorn when he comes seeking my head for placing you in danger?"

"As for the danger, I am perfectly capable of defending myself should aught happen," Arwen answered with a mixture of pride and indignation. "Aragorn knows that well, though he is by nature very protective. But I had not thought to leave Rivendell, for I know well that my place is not with those who track. I have not been fully trained in the ways of the hunt, and I would hinder rather than help them."

"Then what do you propose?" Celeborn asked.

"I would help you in your efforts," Arwen responded. "You have managed to occupy yourself here in Imladris, and I would share what burdens you have. Surely you have need of some assistance."

Celeborn was silent for a moment and then he smiled. "You have your father’s wisdom, Arwen. And I will readily admit that your help would be welcome here. However, I must warn you that if you struggle with patience, this is tedious work. Do you still wish to aid me?"

"So long as I can keep my mind occupied, I shall be happy," Arwen promised. "And if I may aid you in the process, so much the better. But if I may pose a question ere we begin, why has Elrohir left Rivendell? And what tidings did Haldir bring with him when he and his brothers came back from the north? For I learned of their return yet they seem to have left again."

"Shadows," Celeborn said, his voice quiet and his eyes strangely blank. "They brought tidings of shadows that flow across the ground as water might flow in a meandering river."

"The same shadows that Thranduil’s scouts reported?" Arwen asked.

"I believe so," Celeborn said. "But Haldir was able to give me better details as to the nature and appearance of this darkness. We knew before that it was most likely the work of a Black Númenórean, but Haldir’s words confirmed it. And more than that, they gave me a clue as to the level of expertise and power of the enemy we now face."

"And for what purpose did you send Elrohir south?"

"I did not send Elrohir south. Rather he went south of his own accord after leaving Rivendell in my care," Celeborn corrected. "He was guiding Samwise and Peregrin as well, for they wished to join in the search. Hobbits." The lord of Lothlórien chuckled and shook his head. "Would that Gandalf were still with us, for perhaps he could aid us in understanding the little ones. Great is their courage, and greater still are their hearts. Would that all of Arda could be as they."

"You speak truly," Arwen agreed. "Their ways are simple, but they do not lack for charity or compassion." She smiled, thinking of her own experiences with hobbits, and then turned her mind back to the matter at hand. "Well, now that I have my answers, grandfather, let me see if I can aid you in your own search for answers. Am I correct in assuming that we seek for a way to track in this darkness?"

"Nay, for I have dealt with such darkness before and have sent word with Elrohir as to how this darkness may be defeated."

Arwen frowned, puzzled. "Then for what do we look? Do you have more information of which I am unaware? For I see no leads that we might follow."

"Perhaps not, but a thought occurred to me as I spoke with Haldir and his brothers. I am puzzled, Arwen, that our unknown enemy would seek to make prisoners of the Fellowship. And I am puzzled that he has not made demands of ransom or surrender. He plans something for his captives. He plans something dark that will eventually involve the rest of us, yet his intentions are still a mystery."

"Such thoughts have also occurred to me, but where shall we begin searching?" Arwen asked. "To seek through endless records of possible spells and incantations seems fruitless."

"But the records need not be endless, as you say. There are clues that might limit our search. For example, whatever is planned must require time, for our enemy has gone to great lengths in order to ensure that we do not follow him. He does not plan for us to rescue our friends in the near future. But he obviously means for us to have contact with them again, else he would have killed them already and had done with it."

"This is well and good, my lord, but that does not seem to narrow the field sufficiently," Arwen said. "Nor does it give us a place where our search might begin."

"Then we must start where all searches ultimately begin," Celeborn answered, gesturing to the books in front of him. "We must start with a search for origins. The beginning of a story often holds the key to deciphering the story’s end."

"But for what origins are we looking?" Arwen pressed. "The origins of this shadow? The origins of the Black Númenóreans? Perhaps the origins of Melkor or Sauron?"

"Nay, rather the origins of spells that might be used on prisoners. Spells that require time and spells that would be useful should prisoners ever meet again with their old comrades."

"And an example of these would be…"

Celeborn sighed and turned back to his book. "In truth, I know not. But an answer must be here, and when we find it, we shall know it."

The daughter of Elrond frowned and studied the lord of Lothlórien. "This is unlike you. You know something, do you not? Something is guiding you in this, but you are hesitant to say what."

"Think of it as intuition."

"But you were never one to trust solely to intuition," Arwen said, her brow furrowing with concern and confusion. "That was grandmother’s role. You were ever the practical one, pursuing all possible explanations before accepting the most logical one."

"Then think of this as the pursuit of a possible explanation," Celeborn said, his eyes skimming over a page so quickly that one might wonder if he read the words at all.

"But this is not the pursuit of a possible explanation," Arwen protested. "To all appearances, you are chasing shadows, and if this is truly the case, then there is something terribly wrong." Arwen stopped as a thought occurred to her. "Have you had aught to eat today?"

"I partook somewhat last night."

"And what of sleep?" Elrond’s daughter pressed. "Have you rested?"

Celeborn sighed and looked up at her, his face taking on a look of guarded annoyance. "There has been no time for it. What of you, young one? Have you rested?"

"Did you attempt this behavior when Galadriel was still here?" Arwen demanded, ignoring her grandfather’s return question. "For I know well that she would not tolerate this."

Celeborn chuckled and the irritation vanished from his eyes. "Nay, she was very strict when it came to my health. But even Galadriel could not see everything, and there were times when sacrifices were necessary. Worry not, child, I know my limits. I have passed them before and have no wish to relive the consequences. Now, do you intend to help me or shall you continue in your efforts to distract me?"

Arwen sighed, directed a stern glower at her grandfather, and then took one of the large books from the table. "Tell me again what I should be looking for."

* * * *

Swirling images of pain and torture were the first things to greet Legolas as he slowly journeyed from a blissful void toward the realm of consciousness. It was not a journey he really wished to make, but his body seemed to have other ideas. Despite his fervent desire to remain ignorant of both his surroundings and his situation, Legolas was slowly waking up.

Nor was this waking process a kind one, for the elf was quick to discover that there was not an area of his body uninhibited by pain. Cracked and broken ribs squeezed painfully at his lungs. A strange ringing filled his ears and his head pounded from one too many punches. His back was a raw mass of welts from cruel whips. Burn marks could be traced on both his arms and his legs. His wrists were shattered. His stomach had been deeply slashed by a blade, though Legolas could not clearly remember that happening. One knee was severely wrenched and throbbed ceaselessly. And to top it all off, he was thirsty.

Thirst, he thought to himself with a touch of insane laughter. I am thirsty. Of all the things to notice, I realize that I am thirsty. He idly wondered if he might not also be hungry, but a sudden surge of nausea from his heavily bruised abdomen quickly laid to rest that possibility.

Still, thirst was something he could deal with. He’d been thirsty before, after all, so he tried to concentrate his mind on worrying over that detail. It was his hope that his body’s other complaints might fade into background noise, but such was not to be the case. As he drew closer to full consciousness, the wounds on his back began to sting and throb, demanding at least a small part of his attention. At this point, the elf also realized that his clothes had been returned to him and that sometime during unconsciousness, he’d been dressed. The thought came with a feeling of wrenching disgust, but this were replaced by more immediate problems as Legolas realized that his garments were sticking to the open sores of his wounds. Even the light rise and fall of his chest was drawing pain. This caused an involuntary wince and shudder, which set off more cries from his ribs. He drew his arms down in an attempt to hold his chest and provide some support for his ribs only to have his broken wrists set up a clamor of their own. With something akin to a strangled sob, Legolas attempted to suppress the pain by taking his mind elsewhere, but this only led to further complications as he immediately began contemplating his current situation and his newly revealed enemy.

The Mouth of Sauron…

How had that man survived the fall of Mordor?! Aragorn had personally led a large group of scouts into the forsaken land after its fall, searching for remaining Orcs and dealing death to Sauron’s closest supporters. It was not inconceivable that a few evil creatures had escaped, particularly those who were stationed around the pass of Cirith Ungol or those who were somewhere on the eastern side of the Gorgoroth Plateau. But those who had been in the vicinity of the Morannon…how could the forces of Gondor have missed Sauron’s herald?!

Although, now that he considered it, Legolas couldn’t seem to remember finding the lieutenant of Barad-dûr among the dead. Not that he had looked particularly hard. The grounds had been littered with the dead or dying, and finding one man among thousands had not been very important or very feasible. And it had been generally assumed that the Mouth of Sauron had perished with the fall of the gates, for that was how many of the Orcs and trolls met their end. Apparently, the forces of Gondor had been gravely mistaken. Like the Ring, the elf thought with a painful sigh. It was also generally assumed that Isildur’s Bane had perished from the world, and it was almost too late when we learned differently. Shall we never cease to underestimate the enemy?

Legolas moaned softly in the darkness, trying to banish the memories of the past and concentrate on something else, but neither the present nor the future seemed to be any better. His current injuries rendered him immobile, and if there came a chance to escape, he would be completely helpless. And if this was what he felt like, then—

Legolas stopped himself before he could consider what condition Merry might be in. That the innocence of hobbits should be marred by the cruelty of Orcs was a grievous thing to the elf, and he hoped that Merry had found refuge in unconsciousness long before the torture began in earnest. But of course, Merry would have been awake and aware when the Mouth of Sauron had entered. The Orcs had been ordered to see to that, and they would never dare disobey such a command. And if the hobbit’s meeting with Sauron’s lieutenant had been anything like the elf’s encounter with the dark man shortly after the Orcs had finished their foul games…

Screams abruptly shattered the air beside the elf, and the silence broke into slicing shards of glass that pierced Legolas’s soul with every wrenching cry. Jarred into almost complete consciousness, Legolas flinched violently and tried desperately to lock down his hearing in an effort to ignore the torturous wails that shot up from an abused hobbit. Stricken by the piercing agony in Merry’s voice, Legolas sought to focus solely on his injuries to the exclusion of the outside world, but still the screams rang through. Swoon, Merry! the elf pleaded desperately, wishing he had the strength to speak these words aloud. By the Valar, if there is any mercy left in this accursed world, let him swoon! But the horrible cries continued, growing in volume until Legolas felt his heart would be torn asunder. Loud they echoed off the walls, answering one another in a raging cacophony of sound that threatened to destroy Legolas’s sensitive elven hearing even as his emotions were shredded by the agony caught up in those eternal screams.

And then, just as quickly as they had begun, the screams stopped. For a brief time, silence fell over all.

But Legolas was given no time to wonder at this, for not more than a moment after Merry had stopped screaming, a wave of darkness slammed against the prince, seeking to invade his mind and poison his soul. With elven stubbornness, he struck back, barring the shadow from his thoughts. In a way, this was much like the battle he had fought with the Mouth of Sauron while lying helpless and fettered. Legolas had won during that particular meeting, or so he thought, but he had the uncomfortable premonition that in this encounter, he would not to be so successful.

The darkness came again, this time bringing with it a burning fire that began consuming the prince from within. Legolas heard himself moan despite his efforts to hold back any outward sign of his pain, and he tried to stifle his tongue and retain mastery of his physical reactions. But as the fire intensified and combined with the throbbing pain of his wounds, he eventually lost control and began to scream as Merry had. Still the shadows beat at the walls he constructed around his mind, and still he held them off, but the exquisite pain that encompassed his entire being in flame could not be ignored. It seemed to be taking all the physical complaints of his body and amplifying them tenfold. Wailing in agony, he soon exhausted what strength had been left to him and was forced to retreat to a far corner of his mind in the hopes of retaining an inkling of sanity.

This seemed to be the opportunity for which the shadows had been waiting. Darkness swept over the elf and a new pain entered his body. The terrible fire vanished, but he felt bones begin to move and scrape against one another. Piercing agony shot through his wrists and a great weight pressed down on his chest. He screamed again, lost in shadows and battling vainly against the darkness, but his will was thrown aside and his mind became a void. The darkness had forced its way into his soul and it would not leave without a fight. Blackness crept over him but he could not attain the bliss of unconsciousness because of the physical pain that engulfed his entire being.

And then it stopped. Everything stopped. Silence fell, and the pain subsided. Only the shadow of darkness remained, probing at the prince’s heart and clutching at his thoughts with icy fingers. It was still in his mind, having never left after forcing the elf to abandon the playing field, and Legolas feared he might now never free himself of evil’s stain.

"Legolas?"

Called by a tentative voice that seemed to reach vainly for hope, the elf opened his eyes and found himself looking into Merry’s worried face. The flickering torchlight soon revealed to him that he was back in his original cell and that he and Merry were once again alone. With a soft sigh, the prince of Mirkwood tightened his jaw and bleakly wondered what came next.

"Legolas, can you sit?" the hobbit asked.

Legolas nearly laughed aloud as his sanity teetered precariously on a ragged edge. Could he sit? With his ribs tearing at his lungs, he doubted he could even give a verbal answer to the question. He took a breath to make the attempt anyway, but he abruptly stopped, puzzled. There had been no pain. Moreover, his head no longer hurt. Even his wrists had stopped throbbing. Slowly, afraid of what had happened, he raised himself up on an elbow.

"I don’t understand it either," Merry whispered. "One minute I’m hoping I’ll die, and the next minute, I’m healed."

"Healed," Legolas murmured, holding his arm out before his eyes. Even in the dim light, he could see that the burn marks and scars had disappeared completely. All the wounds incurred from the Orcs were gone. But why? How? And at what cost? The elf shook his head, still very aware of the presence of evil in his mind. The shadows that now hung over him must have been responsible for healing him, and in his weakened physical and mental state, he had been unable to resist the darkness. And now that it had broken into his mind…

"The door is open," Merry suddenly noticed. "Legolas, they’ve left the door open!"

The elf pulled himself from his thoughts and glanced up. The hobbit was right. The door to their cell had been left open. Neither had the Orcs shackled the two prisoners. Elven instincts on alert, Legolas searched the shadows around them for any sign of movement, but he found nothing. What was going on?

"I don’t like this," was Merry’s whispered contribution.

"Nor do I," Legolas murmured. It was a trap. It had to be a trap. But what was the purpose of such a trap? Did the Orcs really want the prisoner’s to attempt an escape so that they could be hunted down later? It made no sense! Was it some strange lesson in humiliation? A training exercise for mountain goblins? The biggest mistake ever made by Orc security guards? Struggling to make sense of an impossible situation, Legolas slowly got to his feet, somewhat fearful that the healing was only a temporary measure, and then walked forward hesitantly. Still he found nothing. As far as his senses could tell, he and Merry were alone.

"We know one thing at least," the elf said at length. "Pippin and Gimli were not taken by the Orcs. Through means of which we know naught, they managed to escape. If it were otherwise, they would have been kept with us so that we might enjoy one another’s torment."

"That’s good to know," the hobbit said, quiet relief evident in his voice. He walked to the elf’s side as though fearful of being left alone in the shadows. "I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy."

"Yes, it is a consolation of sorts," Legolas murmured, thinking that he had a few enemies upon which he would gladly wish this torture.

"So now that we don’t have to worry about our friends, let’s worry about us," Merry said. "I might not be an expert on Orcs, but I was captured once before and I don’t think that open door is normal."

"I have only hunted Orcs," Legolas said quietly, considering the unlocked cell. "Until now, it has not been my misfortune to fall into their hands. At least, not for any extended period of time. Still, in this we are agreed, insofar as our limited knowledge grants us insight. They are waiting for us to do something. That door was not left open by chance."

"But what are they doing? And why? Is this a sick game to them? It’s as if they want us to leave, but that doesn’t make any sense! Are they just playing with us right now? And if so, why?"

Grimacing with indecision, Legolas moved gingerly toward the open cell door, expecting to be assailed at any moment. But the dark caves remained as silent as ever, and Legolas tried to ignore the way their stillness made the walls seem to close in. He peered outside the cell and looked down the dark corridors, but as before, he could still see nothing. The elf rapidly harked back through long years of exacting training under his father’s stern captains. He had hated them at the time and he could not say he now looked back on them with a great deal of fondness, but he was grateful for their lessons, harsh though they had been at times. Unfortunately, their tutelage was not doing him any good at the moment. They had never discussed the possibility that one’s captor might deliberately leave the cell door ajar.

"I do not know what our enemies want," he eventually whispered, feeling Merry’s presence close behind him. "But I will not turn aside any possibility that we might lead us to escape. Whatever game they are playing, let us see if we cannot beat them at it."

"Then I’m right behind you. I’m good at games, and besides that, I’m hungry again. But I don’t fancy waiting around for a meal," Merry said, and Legolas smiled, thankful that the hobbit trademarks of unquenchable optimism and eternal lightheartedness were holding up well in Merry. They made the darkness easier to bear. "So, which way do we go?" the hobbit wondered.

"One way seems to be as good as another," Legolas murmured, loath to admit that he had no idea which direction to take. "I have been in Orc caverns only once before, and then I did not venture far. But from what I remember of that experience, this network of tunnels will eventually join a larger tunnel, and that tunnel should lead us to the outside world. It is for this larger tunnel that we must search."

"In other words, we wander until we find something promising," Merry translated. "Legolas, I would have thought that someone who has lived as long as you have lived could come up with a plan that sounded a little more encouraging, but I guess I was wrong."

Legolas sighed. "If you have a better idea, Master Hobbit, please feel free to suggest it."

"I don’t or I would," the hobbit said. He stepped out of the cell and stopped as though waiting for something to sound an alarm. "Right or left?" he eventually asked, both relief and worry coloring his voice. "When the Orcs hauled me off, it was to the right. I didn’t notice anything that looked like an exit, but I swooned not long after we separated. By the time I woke up, I was in a little room and the Orcs…" Merry trailed off and shivered. "I’m just glad they didn’t make me stay conscious for very long."

"To my misfortune, I was very conscious for most of the experience," Legolas said quietly with a slight shudder that could not be suppressed. "Alas, I saw nothing resembling an escape for us in the left passage, though there were many tunnels."

"Then let’s go right," Merry suggested. "Maybe there was something I missed while I was unconscious."

"Perhaps," Legolas allowed, though he seriously doubted it. He knew nothing of Orc tunneling techniques, but if they were anything like the dwarves’, the prisons and holding cells would be far from the entrance. Gimli had taken great pains to see that Legolas was intimately familiar with the traditional layout of a dwarven stronghold, and the elf was forced to admit that such knowledge had served him well during his visits to the Glittering Caves. Now he hoped that the Orcs mirrored somewhat the patterns of the dwarves, for if they did, the journey might become easier. "Right it is, then," the elf finally said, stepping forward and taking the lead. "But stay close, my friend. Something evil is at work here, and I fear that we are doing exactly as it would have us do."

"I love the way elves become so optimistic when things are dark," Merry muttered.

Legolas decided not to respond to that. The accusation was accurate enough, in any case, and there were more important things to worry about. Despite the lack of evidence before his eyes and ears, Legolas had the feeling that their movements were observed and, to a certain extent, even encouraged. It was not a comforting notion, but there seemed to be nothing that could be done about it. Choking down a growing fear that they were playing right into the enemy’s hands, elf and hobbit started forward into the darkness.

Chapter 13: Riddles in the Dark, Answers in the Light

Despite the warmth of the bright sun overheard, Peregrin Took wrapped his cloak firmly about himself and shivered. He stood knee-deep in a mist of darkness, and its disorienting chill was enough to dim the afternoon sun. His pony had refused to enter this flowing shadow and Pippin had whole-heartedly agreed with the horse’s sentiments, but the elves, Aragorn, and Gimli were pressing forward and Pippin wasn’t about to be left behind. True, all of the men of Gondor had stayed behind with the horses at Aragorn’s insistence—though Imhran had protested somewhat over this—and there would have been little shame if Pippin had elected to stay with them. Like the Gondorrim, he could not move about in the trees to escape the darkness and was forced to endure it without hope of relief. But the Took refused to stay. He had fought against being left behind far too often in the past to lose the battle now. Besides, Merry was somewhere beyond the darkness, and were their places exchanged, the Brandybuck wouldn’t hesitate a bit about braving the shadows for Pippin’s sake.

"We’re coming, Merry," Pippin promised, his voice soft as he stared into the surrounding forest and tried not to imagine all the types of creatures that might be lurking in the darkness. Aside from the cold, that was another problem with these swirling shadows. They had a tendency to play tricks on the mind. It was actually a very strange mist when one took the time to analyze it, and having nothing better to do, Pippin had analyzed it several times over. It was not something that one could physically feel. There was no sensation of touch as one walked through it. It was as an intangible shadow wholly within the realm of the mind. It made the day cold and dark as well as bewildering and confusing the thoughts of all who touched it, but the dark mist itself seemed to lack substance.

"I don’t fancy the pickle we’ve landed ourselves in now, Pippin," a voice at his side growled, and Pippin looked over as he was joined by a shivering Sam. "Strider and Elladan don’t seem to be making any headway, and this shadow, or whatever it is, can’t be good for us."

"Orophin offered to take us up into the trees if it became too bad," Pippin said, glancing around for the warden of Lothlórien.

"What good will that do us?" Sam asked. "In the trees or on the ground, it’s all the same. We’re just baggage, Pippin. We’re not doing them any good."

The Took frowned and turned to his companion, studying the other hobbit carefully. "Didn’t Rosie tell you something like that before you left? She said you wouldn’t be able to do anything here. But that didn’t stop you back at Rivendell. What’s wrong now?"

Sam’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but he made no answer and instead turned away, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Sam?" Pippin prompted.

"I don’t know, Pippin," the other hobbit finally whispered. "I just feel…I don’t rightly know how I feel. But…"

"But you don’t like feeling helpless, and that’s how you feel right now," Pippin finished for him with a sigh. "I know exactly what you’re going through. I’m going through it, too. But Sam, if we head back to Rivendell, it’s a sure thing that Strider won’t send for us when it comes time to do battle. This is the only way we can be involved. We just have to wait for something to happen, and when that something does happen, we won’t be useless anymore." A feeling of rage powerful enough to blot out the shadows took Pippin’s heart, and he smote the hilt of his sword. "By the Shire, those Orcs will be sorry they ever thought about touching Merry! I swear it on the blood of all the Tooks!"

Sam looked up quickly, apparently startled by Pippin’s harsh tone, but he nodded slowly. "You’re right, Pippin, and I think that, deep down, I always knew that. But that doesn’t change how I’m feeling. And it doesn’t help, either."

"Maybe it’s this darkness," Pippin said, feeling some of his anger drain away at Sam’s words. He glanced at the mists swirling around their feet and shuddered slightly, feeling the disorienting chill creep back over his mind. "Should we ask Orophin about that tree now? We can stay there until Strider and Elladan figure out which way to go next."

"It would probably be for the best," Sam said with some reluctance.

"Right." Pippin turned his eyes upward, searching the leaves overhead for a sign of Orophin. Or any elf he knew, for that matter. Almost without exception, all of the elves were somewhere up in the trees for the darkness seemed to have a draining affect on them. Gimli had expressed no discomfort and Aragorn was too busy tracking the illusive Orc trail to complain about anything, but the elves were clearly uncomfortable on the ground with the swirling shadows. As any sane being should be, Pippin thought to himself, still searching the trees. "Orophin?" he called out after a moment, deciding that looking for a particular elf was rather fruitless because at the moment he couldn’t see any of them.

There was a murmur of movement above them, so faint as to be just on the edge of hobbit senses, and then Orophin and Haldir dropped to a low branch just over the heads of the hobbits. "Greetings, Master Peregrin," Orophin greeted, and Haldir inclined his head by way of acknowledgement. "Is there aught I may do for you?"

"Sam and I were wondering if we could take you up on that tree offer," Pippin said. "This darkness is getting to be a bit much for us."

"Of course, my friends," Orophin immediately said. "Haldir, have you any rope?"

Orophin’s brother arched one delicate eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. "As you can plainly see, I have naught by my bow and quiver with me."

"You did not bring some on the horses?" Orophin asked.

"I did not see a use for it," Haldir replied. "And if I had, the rope would currently be back with the horses beyond this unnatural shadow."

Orophin sighed, glanced around the trees, and then looked back down at the hobbits. "Then I suppose we shall have to do this ourselves."

"We?"

"I cannot carry two hobbits into the trees by myself," Orophin reasoned, and without waiting for a response from his startled brother, the elf leaped off the branch and landed in a low crouch next to Sam. He shivered and hissed at the darkness that seemed to cling to his being, but his focus remained on the hobbits. "Come, then. I shall carry Master Samwise and Haldir shall take Master Peregrin."

Haldir murmured something rather unsavory about this arrangement in Sindarin, but as Orophin had already picked Sam up and leaped onto the lowest branch he could find, there was little Haldir could do about the situation. With what Pippin assumed to be some kind of a curse, Haldir let himself down off his branch and landed silently next to the Took.

"Let us finish this ordeal quickly," he muttered, his eyes darting about the forest floor. "This darkness is not natural, and I have no wish to endure it."

"I couldn’t have said it better myself," Pippin answered, hastily clambering onto Haldir’s back. "All settled here."

"Good." And at that word, Haldir launched himself back into the trees. For a brief moment, Pippin felt as though he was flying, and then leaves were dancing past his face. Closing his eyes and tightening his hold on Haldir’s neck, he sighed as he felt darkness flee his body to be replaced by the light of the elves.

"Pippin?"

Pippin opened his eyes and looked over at Sam, who was propped between two branches and clutching the thick limbs with all the strength in his body. "Comfortable?" Pippin asked innocently.

"Down you go, Master Peregrin," Haldir instructed, kneeling so that the hobbit might place his feet upon the branch. "I advise you to stay here, for I have no wish to retrieve you again."

"Thank you," Pippin said, transferring from Haldir’s back to the tree. A moment of vertigo took him, but he caught himself and forced several calming breaths into his lungs. "That foggy mist down there…well, it isn’t good to stand in for too long."

"I understand all too well, young one," Haldir said. "Let us hope, though, that your dwarven friend may endure it. For if he wishes to seek refuge in the trees, he shall have to do so on his own. I refuse to assist a dwarf in such a manner."

"Do you fear that your strength might fail you in such an attempt?" Orophin asked, a teasing smile upon his lips.

"Dwarves do not belong among trees," Haldir said sharply, his eyes flashing slightly. "And it is only by King Elessar’s good will, as well as the good will of Lord Elrohir and Lord Elladan, that he is here."

"Lord Celeborn holds no quarrel with Gimli," Orophin pointed out as Pippin attempted to cement his balance so that he might participate in this conversation. "And he was favored by the Lady ere she passed over the sea."

"You are too young to understand, brother," Haldir said.

"And you are too old to change."

Pippin had to stifle a laugh at that particular statement. It was actually something he’d heard Gimli say to Legolas once when they were discussing the merits of pipe-weed. Or rather, Gimli had been discussing the merits and Legolas had been informing the dwarf as to all its disadvantages. As Pippin remembered, it had been one of their more entertaining debates and had ultimately resulted in a room full of smoke from Gimli’s pipe. Arwen had protested rather emphatically, fearful that the smoke might linger into their wedding day, and Aragorn had ordered all the windows in the citadel to be opened.

"Begging your pardon," Sam interrupted, still clinging tightly to the tree’s branches, "but Gimli’s been a good friend to me as long as I’ve known him, and if Legolas were here, he’d tell you the same. There’s no call to be putting him down just because he’s a dwarf."

"Sam speaks for me, too," Pippin said, finally getting his balance. "Gimli was one of the Fellowship, and he’s just as much a hero as Strider and Gandalf."

For a moment, there was silence in the trees, and then Haldir said something in Sindarin and left, vanishing into the foliage as if he were a part of it. Orophin watched him go with something akin to sadness and then shook his head. "My apologies, on his behalf," the elf said at length with a sorrowful sigh. "He and Rúmil like not the changes that have come upon this world. The time of our people is ending, but they cannot accept it."

"What about you?" Pippin heard himself asking ere he could stop his words.

Fortunately, Orophin found the question amusing rather than offending. "What of me?" he echoed, a small smile finding its way onto his face. "Verily, that is the question each much ask, I fear. For myself, I would see the elves keep their honor and depart in peace, though some of us will linger as long as we are able. The woods of Lothlórien and southern Greenwood are fair and great, and I would not leave them yet. But the years are passing quickly now, and all things must wear to an end. It will be a hard ending for the elves." Orophin fell silent, his eyes vacant. "There are some who believe that elves may learn to live among men. Prince Legolas is among these. His father, by contrast, is one who believes that elves may remain secluded and yet still carry with them the power of times long past. I know not if either is right, but for those of us who dwell in Lothlórien, I fear our only choice is to pass over the sea. The time is coming, and no act of ours shall hasten or delay its arrival."

"I’m sorry," Sam whispered, watching the elf with sympathetic eyes.

Orophin laughed, his somber mood vanishing as quickly as it had come. "Nay, there is nothing for which you must be sorry, little one. The time of the elves has been great, and many deeds, both wondrous and grievous, have we done. It is now your time, the time of the mortals. But I fear I must leave you now, for I have duties to Lord Elladan and King Elessar. If you have need of aught, call." And with this, the elf turned and left, following the path of his brother and vanishing from mortal sight.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence, and then Sam sighed. "Now what?"

"What do you mean?" Pippin asked.

"We’re in a tree!" Sam exclaimed as though that would explain everything.

"You wanted to be in a tree. We’re not wading through that stuff down there," Pippin said, gesturing to the ground.

"I don’t know as this is any better," Sam grumbled, wrapping his arms tighter about his branch.

Pippin rolled his eyes and was about to say something about the mushrooms being bigger in someone else’s field, but a sharp whistle caught his attention first. Jerking his head around and almost falling in the process, he soon heard other whistles and then the unmistakable whine of flying arrows.

"Orophin!" he cried.

"Peace, little ones!" Orophin was suddenly back on their branch, his bow in his hand and one arrow already notched. "Orcs have come upon us, but we did not sense them until now. This darkness has clouded our minds and diminished our senses. Yet fear nor. We shall drive them. Await my return!" Orophin suddenly loosed an arrow and then leaped away. Below them, five Orcs suddenly surged forward, three of them falling with arrows embedded in their necks.

"I had hoped to never see one of those again," Sam whispered.

"Steady, Sam," Pippin encouraged, watching the battle closely. A few of the Orcs had realized that most of their adversaries were hidden in the trees and were now attempting to climb, but swift elven arrows were making short work of them. Others, though, had found prey upon the ground. To Pippin’s dismay, a dwarf suddenly stumbled into view, his axe stained with the foul blood of mountain goblins. Four Orcs followed him, surrounding the dwarf and advancing slowly. Before he even realized what he was doing, Pippin let go of his branch and landed awkwardly outside the circle.

"For Merry!" he cried, lunging forward and neatly dispatching the closest Orc. Taken by surprise, the Orc’s comrades turned to see what this new threat was, giving Gimli the chance to slay the rest of them.

"Pippin!" the dwarf roared as he relieved the last Orc of its head with one furious swing of his axe. "Pippin, this is the same foolish behavior that landed Merry in the hands of these beasts!"

Pippin’s blood boiled and he turned raging eyes upon Gimli even as his short sword caught a new advancing Orc in the stomach. "Merry and I were coming to save you and Legolas, and in that we were only doing what you would have in our place. I would rather face an army of darkness than the knowledge that I abandoned my friends. I could not leave you then, and I will not leave you now!"

The dwarf swore loudly in his own tongue but there was naught he could do about the situation. "Stand at my back," he finally said. "But stand not too close or you might feel my axe if a swing goes awry."

"Where is Aragorn?" Pippin asked.

"I was forced away from him," Gimli spat. "The Orcs swept us apart. Nor could Elrohir stand at his side, for Elladan was succumbing to the darkness of this mist. Before the Orcs attacked, Aragorn was trying to convince him to take shelter in the trees. Pippin, back!"

The dwarf’s startled order took Pippin by surprise, and he hastily moved out of Gimli’s way as three Orcs converged on the dwarf. A rush of anger took him and thoughts of vengeance on Merry’s behalf clouded his hobbit sense of self-preservation. With a cry that was more akin to a fierce knight of Gondor than a simple hobbit of the Shire, Pippin threw himself into battle, killing one of the Orcs but also earning himself a blow to the head by another that knocked him several yards away.

With his ears ringing, Pippin staggered to his feet and looked for Gimli only to discover that he had larger problems. Two more Orcs had been pressed their way and were now converging on the hobbit. Backing away quickly to prevent them from flanking him, Pippin brandished his sword and tried to swallow his sudden fear. A yell from above arrested his attention and with astonished eyes, Pippin looked upward as Sam came dropping out of a tree and landed on the back of one of the Orcs. Elven arrows suddenly sprouted in the chest of the other Orc while the blue-flamed Sting finished Sam’s enemy.

"What are you doing down here?" Pippin demanded after he recovered from his initial surprise.

"I’ll have you know that I’m asking myself the same question," Sam answered with a glare. "At least now I know that I was right when I told Rosie that you needed looking after. You’re nearly as bad as Mr. Frodo!"

"Samwise Gamgee!"

"I was saving Pippin, Gimli," Sam yelled back at the dwarf, his eyes smoldering. "So you needn’t lecture me on taking precautions. It’s Pippin as needs your lecture."

The dwarf rolled his eyes and shook his head, mumbling something about hobbits behaving like elves, but the words were quiet enough that Pippin couldn’t quite catch them. Nor was he given the chance to question Gimli, for Orophin and Rúmil dropped into view above them.

"The Orcs are in retreat," Orophin reported while Rúmil looked restlessly to the east. "Those you slew here were among the last. Our forces are attempting to follow, but the darkness is making it difficult. Senses dull and confusion sets in when we draw too far from one another. I wonder if the fact that we are in a group somehow lessens the power of the shadows, for surely it must be difficult to prey upon the light of so many elves when they are gathered together."

"Group or no group, the darkness has still dealt us a grievous blow," Rúmil said quietly. "We should have been able to follow those last Orcs and so shorten the chase. But perhaps that would not have aided us, for the trail that Lord Elladan and King Elessar were following is not the direction in which these Orcs retreated. And judging from what we have already seen, I suspect they seek to lead us away from the true goal." The elf swore quietly and then muttered something to his brother in Sindarin before leaping back up into the foliage and hastening away. Pippin had no idea what Rúmil had said, but apparently Gimli did, for the dwarf stiffened as though he had been struck and turned dark eyes toward the place where Rúmil had disappeared.

"My apologies, Master Dwarf," Orophin murmured, moving further out on his limb until he was directly over Gimli. "He did not mean it."

"And know you the intents of your brother better than he?" Gimli demanded, rounding on the elf. Orophin winced slightly but met the dwarf’s glare with a calm that reminded Pippin instantly of Legolas when he was set on proving something to Gimli. And this calm seemed to work, for Gimli eventually dropped his eyes and sighed. "My apologies in return, Orophin. My anger was not meant for you."

"I know that well, Gimli son of Glóin, and I know also the reason for your anger," the elf said, his words soft as he tried to convey comfort. "You have no fault in my eyes, and Legolas is fortunate to have such a friend as you, elvellon."

Gimli froze at this and blinked. "Very few elves call me by that title," the dwarf said slowly. "Are you certain you do not err in this?"

"Legolas named you elvellon, did he not? I met the prince once while the Fellowship of the Ring was yet whole, and I judged him to be an elf with a sound mind and a good heart. If he elects to name you elvellon, then elvellon you shall be, and no prejudices of the older elves shall stand in the way. Have hope, Gimli, son of Glóin. If I, an elf of Lothlórien, can come to accept a dwarf as a friend, then favor and fortune are still at work in the world." And with these words, Orophin gave them all a bow and leaped higher into the trees, following his brother.

"What was that all about?" Pippin asked, his brow furrowed with confusion.

"Elvellon means elf-friend, doesn’t it?" Sam said.

"Yes, it does," Gimli murmured. He stood silent for a moment and Pippin wondered what he had missed in the conversation, but the dwarf gave him no chance to ponder on it. "Come," Gimli said roughly, securing his axe in his belt. "Let us see how Aragorn and the others fare. And if there are more Orcs to be had, then I wish to be present."

* * * *

Cloaked in a darkness so thick it might well serve as a covering, the Mouth of Sauron leaned against a cave wall and sighed. The surviving Orcs from the most recent attack had reported in. Their loss to the search party was truly no surprise, for the simple mountain goblins stood no chance against vengeful elves on the hunt. In addition to this, there were not enough Uruk-hai to make up for the weak skills of the mountain Orcs, and the Orcs from Mordor were needed here in the caves to help with the prisoners. Thus, the attack had consisted of many incapable Orcs and a few enraged Isengard half-breeds. Defeat was expected, and the Mouth of Sauron would have been shocked if his forces had actually bested the elves.

What was surprising, however, was just how far the Rivendell search party had penetrated into the darkness he had placed to serve as a hindrance. There were elves that had lived through the Second Age in Imladris, and it had really only been a matter of time until they recognized the sorcerer’s trick that had blocked the trail of the Orcs. But the Mouth of Sauron had not anticipated that they would recognize it so quickly, nor had he expected the elves to make so much progress in following the trail. Clearly there were trackers of great skill and perception at work, and it did not take much to hazard a guess as to whom those trackers might be.

Aragorn, naturally, for there were rumors and legends of his talents as a Ranger in addition to his known leadership abilities and skills as a ruler of Gondor. And beyond Aragorn, the Mouth of Sauron strongly suspected that Elrohir and Elladan, Elrond’s sons, were somehow involved in tracking the Orcs. They had spent much time riding with the Rangers, and centuries of tracking lent itself to great gifts and talents in that area. In addition to this, Elladan seemed to have inherited his father’s gift of foresight, making a more dangerous adversary at the same time it rendered him susceptible to more subtle attacks of darkness.

Then, of course, there was King Thranduil who had somehow managed to maintain an elven homeland without an Elven Ring to aid him. The Mouth of Sauron shook his head in disgust. For long it had been suspected by some of the Nazgul that one of the Three lay hidden in Mirkwood, for surely a kingdom of elves bereft of a Ring would be unable to stand against Sauron. Yet their suspicions had all been proven false, and unaided, Thranduil had held Dol Guldur at bay long enough for Lothlórien to intervene. That ability said much of Thranduil’s skills, and he would be an asset in trailing the Orcs through the shadows for he knew what it was like to live on the boundary of darkness. So perhaps, with all these skills combining behind a common purpose, it should not have been such a surprise that the searchers were quite far along the trail. But it had still not been anticipated, and as such, it was going to create problems.

The Mouth of Sauron rubbed his brow and tried to calculate how much time was left to him for preparing the prisoners. Much now depended upon the heir of Isildur and the lords of Rivendell, but the former lieutenant of Barad-dûr did not know enough of their abilities to hazard a reliable guess. Would that I had learned more of them and their gifts, he sighed, at the same time knowing that such a thing would have been nigh unto impossible. He had waited as long as he was able, studying out the movements and policies of all his enemies, but the Orcs beneath him had grown restless for vengeance with each passing day. Even their fear of him would not hold them at bay forever, nor would there be another gathering of powerful elven lords and Fellowship members for quite some time. He’d been forced to act before acquiring all the information needed, and it was now pressing his timetable together.

But the process cannot be rushed, he moaned silently. The transition between prevention and compulsion is not one that can be hastened. Yet if I am unable to completely infect their minds, this attempt will be for naught.

The Mouth of Sauron was used to taking gambles. Living in the same tower as Sauron was a gamble in and of itself, and the man who no longer remembered his name had grown accustomed to the risks associated with prolonged exposure to a temperamental necromancer equipped with an all-seeing eye. Yet now, the risks were slightly different. His plan was a last, desperate gamble to seek vengeance for Lord Sauron’s fall and hopefully reestablish the power and prestige of Mordor. This latter was a dim and rather unattainable goal, but the powers of darkness were ever hopeful and ever optimistic. Not for nothing had evil survived in direct opposition to the wishes and policies of the greatest Valar, and there was always an inkling of hope that evil would continue to survive in all its dark glory and power.

"Master?"

The Mouth of Sauron reluctantly roused himself from his mental meditations and turned his attention to the outside world. "You have something to report?" he said, his cold voice seeming to lower the temperature of the room.

The Orc standing before him cringed and took a shuffling step back while nodding hastily. "I was to tell you, master, that the prisoners are nearing the main tunnels. Within an hour, they shall be in sight of the outside world. And the sun will still be out."

Raising an eyebrow at this last statement, the Mouth of Sauron stayed silent and studied the poor Orc until the creature was nearly writhing before him. "And you would refuse to follow them into sunlight should the darkness prove incapable of holding them?"

"No, we follow your orders alone!" the Orc exclaimed, his voice gravelly with forced submission.

"See that you remember it," the Mouth of Sauron said quietly. "Come, then. I will personally mark their progress and hopefully hasten the shadows within. As for you, gather the fifth regiment of Uruk-hai and send them forth to guard the entrance. If the prisoners manage to somehow fight against us, there will be no escape for them."

The Orc nodded, sketched an awkward bow, and hurriedly left. The Mouth of Sauron watched until the creature vanished into one of the off-shooting tunnels, and then he stirred himself and turned. It was beginning to look as though the prisoners would have to be rushed through the rest of their training, though what consequences that would have, the Mouth of Sauron could not say. He had never been forced to hasten this particular process, and he feared what might be the result. He could easily lose both elf and hobbit to death, or their minds might not be completely turned, leaving the way open for rebellion and dissension. Still, it was a risk that could not be avoided, and a gamble that had to be taken. With a sigh and a shake of his head, the Mouth of Sauron shook the last vestiges of tension and worry from his frame and turned his mind to the wanderings of an elf and a hobbit as they stumbled through the darkness of an Orc stronghold.

* * * *

Celeborn sighed and turned over a dusty page in his thick volume of history from the middle of the First Age. On the other side of the table, Arwen was engrossed in a scroll that looked as though it had something to do with the fall of Anárion. From all sides of history we come at this, yet we are no closer to learning what must be learned. Arwen was right. This search is endless.

Arwen had actually been right about several things. This search was entirely out of character for the Lord of Lothlórien. He did not randomly peruse texts for answers but pondered out the problem, meditated upon it, and then devised logical solutions. Only when he had established a clear set of possibilities did he turn to the books. He had been the balance to Galadriel’s intuition, and together, with the aid of instinct and intellect, they had been able to defend Lothlórien from both the minions of Dol Guldur and the darkness of Mordor.

But now all that had changed. Perhaps he was compensating for the fact that Galadriel was not beside him. Perhaps he had simply lived in Middle Earth for too long and had lost his sanity. Perhaps he had become too reliant upon Nenya in serving as a temporary wall against evil while he searched for a more conventional means of defying Sauron, and he sought to overcome that reliance by speeding up the process. Perhaps it was a combination of all these things, but whatever the case, Celeborn now found himself driven to search the records of history.

It was not as if he searched completely without a purpose or goal, though. He did have an inkling of what to look for, but it was little more than that. In truth, it was actually just a nagging feeling that this had happened before. The entire situation seemed painfully familiar, but for the life of him, the lord of Lothlórien could not fathom why. He did not remember encountering similar circumstances in the past, yet this strange feeling persisted and was most insistent that he had indeed come across this before. Sometime during the course of his long life—a live that spanned Ages—Celeborn had either been faced with these same circumstances or had been brought tidings concerning this. And with each passing moment this feeling neither diminished nor left him, leaving him to conclude that his instincts were right and that he must follow their promptings.

Yet how am I so certain when I cannot even remember the details regarding the event?! The Lord of Lothlórien rubbed his face and shook his head. Even if he was following an instinct, he was coming to the realization that he could not simply chase it as Galadriel might have. He would have to go about this his own way, and that required sifting through this strange feeling and discovering something of its source. Very well, then. Let me first narrow the search. During what time might I have witnessed these events or heard of something similar taking place?

Celeborn leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, his brow creased in thought as he began to tick off dates in his memory. It would not have been during the Third Age; I believe that to be a safe assumption. There are enough elves about who would have also remembered if something similar to this had happened in the recent past. That leaves the Second Age, the First Age, and the years during the Ages of Stars.

Celeborn sighed, unused to working with vague hunches and uncertain guesses. It was not during the Ages of Stars, he eventually decided. It seems to me that Galadriel stood at my side when we faced either this situation or the tidings regarding this situation. Nor do I think it happened in the First Age. Celeborn rubbed at his temples as intuition began to take hold again, and the Lord of Lothlórien decided to simply let his mind wander over the span of time until something started to click. It was a completely unprecedented move for him, but having watched Galadriel do something akin to this many times in the past, he decided it couldn’t hurt to at least make the attempt. After the First Age, then. This leaves only the Second Age to search.

Celeborn shook his head and groaned within himself. Only the Second Age? By the Valar, such a search may still take several lifetimes. But there was naught to be done about it, and Celeborn was now getting the feeling that whatever he was trying to remember had indeed taken place during the Second Age. Once again, he could not pinpoint the origin of this feeling, but it refused to leave him alone. Very well then, I shall search my memory of the Second Age, he acquiesced, wondering briefly where his sanity had gone. The Second Age…would this have happened before or after our move into Eregion? Celeborn considered that for a moment. It was after we settled Eregion, he decided. There was much turmoil and upheaval in the beginning of the Second Age, but I do not think that circumstances such as these ever reached my knowledge. After Eregion, then. In fact, I believe this to have happened after Hollin and Celebrimbor…after Moria, too…after Tar-Minastir and the fleet of Númenórean ships… after Imladris was established as the new elven stronghold in Eriador…even after the first appearance of the Ringwraiths…

Belfalas…

It was as if a voice had spoken to him, and Celeborn jerked his head up, half expecting to find that someone else had managed to enter the library and take him unawares. But he saw naught except for the top of Arwen’s head as she studied a new collection of scrolls that illustrated the founding of Eregion. Yet Celeborn was quite sure that he had not found the answer to his quandary himself.

I wonder…Hesitantly, with eyes narrowed in suspicion and the beginnings of a wild but desperate hope growing within his heart, he loosed his senses and allowed his mind to momentarily drift away from Middle Earth. And floating just beyond his reach in the ethereal world of elven dreams, he caught a flash of golden hair that would put to shame any metal crafted by man or dwarf. And to his ears came the sound of rich laughter that had been all too rare in Middle Earth.

Ah, Galadriel, he thought blissfully, returning to himself and slowly shaking his mind out of his daze. Your spirit is always present in my heart, and I thank you for now gracing my dreams as well. Belfalas it is, then.

With no small amount of effort, Celeborn managed to take his thoughts away from his wife and turn them again to the problem at hand, feeling much better now that he had more of a concrete idea with which to work. He cycled his memory back to the latter half of the Second Age when he and Galadriel had left Rivendell and moved to Belfalas, settling an area that would eventually be known as Dol Amroth. What had happened during their stay there that might be likened to their current situation? After a moment of further meditation, Celeborn eliminated the possibility that his feeling of familiarity might stem from an event that had happened at Belfalas itself, which meant that he must have heard about something happening elsewhere.

What was Gil-galad doing in Lindon at this time? Nay, I think it was not he, for I just reviewed his personally history as recorded by Glorfindel, and I saw nothing in it that triggered my memory. What of Elrond in Rivendell, then? Or Amroth? Valar, for all I know, Oropher and Thranduil might have been playing with some shadow or another in the Misty Mountains. They always were doing something odd with the Orcs there. Or perhaps the darkness came not from them but from Moria, or Umbar, or Harad, or even Valinor! Perhaps it…

Celeborn suddenly stopped, blinking with sudden realization as pieces of the puzzle seemed to tumble into place. Or even Valinor…

He glanced down at the books before him, eyes narrowing as intuition hardened itself into something akin to certainty. With new resolve, the Lord of Lothlórien pushed most of the books aside and then selected a series of manuscripts that lay beside his chair. His guess was still only a guess, and it needed to be validated ere he would feel comfortable acting upon it. But it was a guess that made sense, and more than that, his instincts were crying out that here at last were the answers he sought. And that was enough for Celeborn. More research was required, more books would have to be sought, but it was a beginning. It was a start. And at this point in the game, that was all that mattered.

Author’s Notes: Quick explanation for something that has come up and seems to be an area of concern. There seem to be as many stories concerning the lives of Galadriel and Celeborn as there are names for Aragorn. As such, I’ve gone with what seems to me to be the most plausible story of their background and run with it. My assumption is that Galadriel did not meet Celeborn until after the Age of Stars, lived in both Hollin and Rivendell, and settled Belfalas during the last years of Númenor. Hope that explains any vague references that Celeborn used.

As for other questions, the reference in Chapter 12 to Legolas’s only venture into an Orc cave has no basis in canon and is actually a reminder for me to include it in a story that’s been zinging around the back of my head lately. It will be some time before this story ever sees the light of day, but…yeah. That’s what where the reference came from. It’s a pre-LotR story that involves most of the characters on a very distant, detached basis. Odd and it’s going to give me trouble, but…right. That’s all about that.

Chapter 14: A Fine Line

Merry wondered how long he and Legolas had been wandering. The cave system they navigated—or tried to navigate—might easily pass as a giant labyrinth with the ability to confound and confuse even a stout dwarf like Gimli, to say nothing of a hobbit from the Shire and an elf from the forests. During one of their few hushed conversations, Legolas had even admitted to Merry that they’d traced two complete circles immediately following their initial venture out of the cell, but the hobbit had no idea how Legolas had been able to tell. To him, all the cave walls were beginning to look the same, and the only difference from one area to the next was the different dance of the fire in the wall sconces. Yet Legolas had assured Merry that he was mentally mapping their course and now had a fairly good idea of the cave’s layout around their prison cell. For the last hour or so—the hobbit had begun to lose track of time as everything continued to look the same—the elf had promised him that they were making significant progress.

Which means what? Merry wondered, watching Legolas wearily as the elf slid cautiously around a corner and checked to see if there were guards about. Since leaving their cell, neither elf nor hobbit had seen or heard any sign of Orcs or the Mouth of Sauron, and this was beginning to set Merry on edge. Legolas might believe that they were making significant progress, but what if they were only significantly progressing their way straight into a trap? I suppose the fact that we’re walking into it with our eyes open is something, Merry decided. But a trap is still a trap, and I don’t want to be put back in that cell again.

A light touch on the hobbit’s shoulder drew his attention back to the present, and he looked up as Legolas nodded slightly, the signal that meant the way was clear for now. But watching the elf closely, Merry was beginning to detect a vague uneasiness in the prince’s gray eyes. It had taken quite a while to notice it, but as they continued to travel and also continued to meet no resistance, Merry became more and more certain that Legolas even more unnerved by this than he was. Their listening stops had become longer and more frequent, turning corners was becoming a far more cautious process, and the elf’s hands kept straying to his back as though searching for his bow and quiver. These were interesting signs that Merry had noticed over the course of their wanderings, and he found them to be a series of fascinating insights into the elf’s mind. But this was neither the time nor the place to be musing about such things, and the hobbit firmly shook his head free of superfluous thoughts as he followed Legolas into their new hallway.

At last, Merry saw definitive signs of change. There was no doubt in his mind that this was new and promising territory. Countless smaller tunnels branched away from this particular hall, and the hall itself was half again as wide as all their previous tunnels. There were also more torches lining the walls, and the arch of the ceiling overhead was so high as to be beyond the light of the flames. Merry looked hopefully at Legolas, and the elf nodded in response, though his eyes were cautious. Dropping down to one knee, he beckoned Merry close and leaned over to whisper quietly in the hobbit’s ear.

"If my reckoning is correct—and I pray that it is—we are not far from the entrance of these foul caves. This tunnel appears to be a main thoroughfare, and it should take us outside. But here we must be especially cautious. I know not why we have met with no guard, and I fear what they may have in store for us. Yet whatever the consequences be, we can ill afford to ignore any chance of escape."

"We’ll make it through," Merry hissed back, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. A strange reluctance was coming over him at the prospect of braving this corridor, but he knew not from whence this feeling came.

"Together," Legolas promised, placing a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder and squeezing quickly. "Together we shall flee this place."

Merry nodded and the elf smiled, but the smile did not exactly transmit confidence. To the hobbit’s observant eyes, it seemed strained and forced as though the elf was wearing a mask to cover his true feelings. At this thought, Merry’s hope began to die, but he mustered his brightest return smile and Legolas seemed satisfied. Rising, the elf turned and they began inching their way down the hall.

By now, Merry was used to the tedious process that Legolas had insisted they use while traversing these dark caves, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Though he easily understood the reasoning behind their extreme caution, it was still a frustrating procedure. Elf and hobbit would walk forward for a few minutes and then pause to listen. This took another minute or so and then they would move again. Whenever they came to an off-shooting tunnel, they would stop until Legolas was certain that the way was clear. They moved quickly when they did move, but the periods of waiting seemed to stretch so long that Merry occasionally wondered if they were truly moving anywhere at all. At this rate, it might well take them several years to find the entrance.

So lost in thought was the hobbit that he didn’t see Legolas stop in front of him, and he ran full into the back of the elf. Staggering backwards with a slight grunt, he was about to send the prince a dark glare when a hand clapped over his mouth and he was shoved up against the wall.

"Do not make a sound," Legolas breathed, his voice so quiet that Merry could barely make out the words. Not daring to even move, the hobbit held completely still, wondering what could have triggered the elf’s acute senses. Legolas still had him pinned to the wall and his hand had not released the hobbit’s mouth, but Merry didn’t struggle. After a long minute of waiting, Legolas relaxed marginally and let the hobbit down.

"What happened?" Merry asked, making his voice as soft and quiet as possible.

"We are not alone," Legolas whispered, his large, gray eyes searching the caverns around them. "We are being watched."

"Orcs?" Merry wondered fearfully, his own eyes wide as he tried to pierce the tunnel’s dark shadows.

"I know not, though I suspect it is so. In any case, the watchers hold naught but malice for us. And yet our progress is unhindered. They are content merely to watch." Legolas fell silent, his eyes narrow and his jaw tight. "I like this not, Merry," he murmured at length. "They have planned something, and by pursuing our course, we but oblige them."

"But what else can we do?"

"Naught, but we must further increase our caution. Something dark and fell is intended, and we are to be the unfortunate recipients."

Merry could have easily figured that out on his own—in fact, he already had—but he didn’t tell Legolas that. The elf was on pins and needles, and the hobbit felt a flash of pity for him. The fact that they were still in the caves couldn’t be helping, and Legolas seemed to be far more sensitive to this darkness than his hobbit companion was. "So what happens next?" Merry asked. "Can we lose them?"

The elf grimaced and slowly shook his head. "I know not how to lose them when I know not who or what observes us. But we cannot tarry here, that much is certain." Legolas lifted his head and closed his eyes, holding perfectly still for some time, and Merry began to wonder if Legolas had forgotten what he’d just said about not tarrying. But just before the hobbit could remind him of his words, Legolas opened his eyes and turned. "I smell fresh air."

"Fresh air?" Merry echoed hopefully. "That means we’re close. We’re very close."

"Hush," Legolas hissed, suddenly moving into a crouch. "The enemy is drawing closer. I feel him, yet I cannot see him." The prince’s eyes narrowed, and his breathing seemed to become rapid. "I fear, Merry, that we have exhausted what time we may have been given."

"Then let’s go!" Merry urged. "Let’s move out before they move in."

The elf sighed and shook his head. "It may already be too late, but we must take what chances fate and fortune grant us. Come, Merry. Run!"

Legolas took off down the corridor, caution now thrown to the wind. Rather surprised with this abrupt change in tactics, Merry’s heart began to sink even as he raced after the elf’s fleeting form. If Legolas saw no more use for caution, they were in trouble. But at the same time, Merry realized there was nothing he could do about it, and so he pumped his legs faster and tried to keep up.

Skidding around a corner, a shaft of sunlight suddenly caught Merry’s eyes and hope flared brightly within him. It was day outside! They might still be able to escape! Tears of joy filled his eyes, and at that moment, the hobbit decided he had never seen anything more beautiful than the beams of sunlight shining through the entrance to the caves. His eyes could not see anything beyond the cave itself as the light was too bright for that, but he could see the light and that was enough. With a sob of relief, he surged forward, almost stumbling in his haste to escape the caverns of the Orcs.

But his joy was short-lived, for not more than a few seconds after seeing the light of the outside world, a sudden wave of fear and nausea swept through the hobbit. He stumbled and fell, recoiling from the brightness of day as darkness swept over his mind and forced him back. He heard Legolas cry out and curse bitterly, but Merry didn’t have time to worry about the elf or even answer him. He was facing a realm of shadows within his own mind, and he was losing the battle to maintain control. Where had this sudden darkness come from?! His thoughts had been his own a moment ago, yet now…

With a pitiful whimper, Merry tried to force himself forward toward the light, but his body refused to respond. Phantom pain beat down upon him as the darkness called to mind the now-healed tortures of the Orcs, and a strange fear of leaving the cave and betraying the darkness caused the hobbit to cower back against the wall.

"Legolas?" he hissed, clutching at his head as throbbing agony exploded behind his eyes.

"Run, Merry! By the Valar, run!"

The hobbit managed to look over at the elf, who was sprawled on the floor much as the hobbit was. "What is happening to us? Why can’t we leave?"

"Try. You must try," Legolas growled, pushing himself off the ground and turning his head toward the sunlight. But even as he did so, he cried out and shuddered, sinking back and covering his eyes.

"A worthy attempt, my friends. A very worthy attempt. But alas, it was ultimately doomed to fail."

Merry froze, his heart nearly stopping as he recognized that voice. Raising his eyes, he shivered as he looked into the madness of the soul now known as the Mouth of Sauron. He tried to speak, to spit, to scream, to run, to do anything! But his traitorous body seemed unable to respond, and he lay there helpless before the man who was no longer quite a man.

"What did you do?" Legolas rasped as he struggled to move away from the creature of darkness.

"I? I did nothing. It was you who did it, elfling," the man answered, his voice quiet and far too confident for Merry’s liking. "It was you who invited the darkness into your soul. You allowed it to heal you. You gave it space in your mind for it to right what your brethren the Orcs set wrong."

"Shadows have no claim over me," Legolas declared harshly, making one final attempt to lunge forward but falling heavily to the ground as soon as he raised himself off the floor.

"Don’t they? We shall see. Oh yes, we shall soon see. Now, let us return you and your small friend to the deeper caverns where the light of day shall not torment you so. I have many more lessons yet to teach you, and time presses on."

With a last desperate effort, Merry threw himself forward, hoping to somehow flee this place. But even as he moved, his legs collapsed beneath him and his mind screamed in terror at the darkness that threatened to consume him should he take one more step. Crying out in frustration, Merry beat his fist upon the ground, desperate for the will to move, but it did not come. Instead, he felt the cold hands of Orcs upon his arms, and he was lifted into the air and turned around. The light of day faded behind him and with it faded the hope in his heart. Before long, all was darkness.

* * * *

And I believed that keeping all the councilors in Minas Tirith happy was a chore, Aragorn sighed. The king of Gondor was straddling the limb of a large tree while bracing Elladan’s head and shoulders. At the same time, Elladan’s twin was driving himself mad with worry. It was a rather unique situation, and had the circumstances been different, Aragorn might have found it vastly amusing.

Shortly following the Orcs’ retreat, Elladan had collapsed and the elves had pulled him up into the trees. Trailing after them, Aragorn had attempted to rouse his foster brother but had met with no success. Neither had he met with any success as far as his efforts went to calm Elrohir. To add to the problem, Gimli was still on the ground and demanding that they continue to follow the trail of the Orcs. Interestingly enough, these demands were being echoed by Thranduil, though both the king of Mirkwood and the dwarf refused to acknowledge that at the moment they were of very similar minds.

But fortunately for Aragorn, Thranduil and Gimli seemed to have disappeared for the time being, leaving the king of Gondor alone with the twins. Aragorn wasn’t sure where the two had gone, but so long as there were no sounds of battle, he could safely assume that Thranduil and Gimli had parted ways and were not seeking to kill one another. That was one less thing for Aragorn to worry about, but this brief reprieve was beginning to seem like less and less of a blessing as Elrohir became more and more of a problem. The anxious son of Elrond was turning into a difficulty bigger than the one presented by having both Gimli and Thranduil on the same search team.

"Elrohir, leave off your pacing!" Aragorn finally exclaimed, unable to take any more brotherly worry. He held the same fear himself, but he was not allowing it to drive him from branch to branch in a most unseemly display of impatience. Elves did not pace, and Elrohir’s visible anxiety was only escalating the feeling of fear and uncertainty in Aragorn.

Looking up when his name was called, Elrohir blinked, glanced about in confusion as though unaware that he had been pacing, and eventually sighed. "My apologies, Estel. I fear I am not currently myself."

"Understandable," Aragorn answered, biting back a rather scathing retort with effort. "But please try to contain your pacing to a single branch, or even two if one will not serve."

"I shall try to cease pacing altogether," Elrohir promised, moving behind Aragorn and bending over the king so as to better inspect his twin brother. "How does he fare?"

"I believe he shall regain consciousness soon, for he seems to be stirring slightly. But as for what consciousness means, I cannot say. His collapse was sudden, though not entirely unexpected. He was showing signs of this even before the Orcs attacked."

"My brother always was too perceptive for his own good," Elrohir sighed. "I fear such a close study of the shadow upon the ground was more than he could bear." The half-elf fell silent, but he remained a steady presence over Aragorn’s shoulder. Aragorn wondered if this was an improvement over the pacing.

"Perhaps you should speak with your captains," the king suggested at length. "Mayhap they have some insight into the battle that we have not considered."

"And by that, you mean I should leave you alone and find something that will occupy my time," Elrohir retorted. "I am not a fool, Estel. I can see through your words, and beyond that, I know you too well for you to lie to me."

"Then if you know me as well as you say, you will also know that I am uncomfortable with you hovering over my shoulder. Allow me some room to breathe, and show your brother the same courtesy!"

Elrohir made a sound that could have been a laugh and stepped back, hopping onto a limb above Aragorn and moving until he was directly over Elladan. "Once again, my apologies. I realize that I am being difficult, yet I know not what else to do. I have already spoken to the captains, we cannot follow the trail until Elladan recovers or you leave off tending him, and Gimli and Thranduil have disappeared which means no one must act as a buffer between them. I have nothing to occupy my time."

"I understand your problem," Aragorn answered. "But that still gives you no pressing cause to stare over my shoulder at your brother."

"I am no longer staring over your shoulder at my brother," Elrohir said. "I trust this position will be suitable for you?"

"So long as you do not start pacing again."

Elrohir smiled and nodded, turning his eyes to Elladan’s face and watching his brother closely. "This alters the situation, Estel," he said after a quiet minute or two. "Given the effects of the darkness upon Elladan, he cannot be allowed to stay here for any great length of time. And I doubt that we can allow him to merely watch the search from the trees, for you know that he will wish to involve himself in whatever goes forth upon the ground."

"You speak truly, Elrohir," Aragorn sighed, having already considered the problem. "I fear our only viable option is to send him back to Rivendell. How that is to be accomplished, though, is something I cannot fathom. He will not go willingly."

"Then let us give him greater excuse to take his leave," Elrohir suggested. "Not all are necessary upon this search, even if the Orcs attack again. We suffered no casualties from the last assault and can easily spare some of the scouts and guards. Let us say that we are establishing a search rotation. Some shall retire and spend the night in Rivendell while others continue the hunt. Then the two parties shall make an exchange come morning. In this way, Estel, even you might find sleep, for having received rest, Elladan should be able to trail the Orcs for a time without suffering too greatly and you may retire."

"A good idea," Aragorn said, nodding thoughtfully. "But whom shall we send back to Rivendell? None here will wish to go."

"If nothing else, I suggest we separate Gimli and Thranduil," Elrohir said, lowering his voice and glancing about the trees for the king of Mirkwood. "We can ill afford to have both of them in the party. If they are not attacking one another, they are raising the tension within the group. They are too close to the situation for objective thought, and though they are more than entitled to participate in the search, it would be safer if they did so separately."

"And for those same reasons, the hobbits should also be sent back," Aragorn added. "Or Pippin, at least, and Sam has his family to think of. But I am curious, Elrohir, as to how we shall convince either Thranduil or Gimli that they need to retire and return to Rivendell for the night."

"Ah, but we shall not be doing the convincing. That task falls to you, dear brother."

Aragorn blinked and stared at the half-elf. "Somewhere in the course of this conversation, I believe you have left me behind. Explain to me why I shall be the one doing the convincing."

"Because I shall be focusing my arguments on Elladan. You are then tasked with selecting others to accompany him. Elves and your own men are easy enough, for they are at our command. But Gimli, Pippin, and Sam…that is another matter. And if I were you, Estel, I would not speak to Thranduil concerning this. I do not think he likes you."

Aragorn rolled his eyes and shook his head. "My thanks for the insight. I might never have discovered that on my own."

"You are welcome, of course."

Aragorn’s ensuing search for a suitable response to Elrohir’s elven smugness was interrupted by a groan from Elladan as he started to stir. Bending over his foster brother, Aragorn lightly patted his cheek and called to him. "Elladan? Elladan, it is time to wake."

Elladan murmured something too quiet for even elven ears and began to move restlessly, prompting Aragorn to capture his arms while Elrohir jumped down and took hold of his feet lest their brother fall from the tree.

"Elladan!" Elrohir called. "Come, my brother, open your eyes. The darkness is below you now. You need not fear it."

With another groan, Elladan ceased his struggles and the lids of his eyes began to flutter. After a breathless moment, bright, blue eyes opened and the oldest son of Elrond glanced about. Aragorn released his grip on Elladan’s arms, though he kept one hand on his shoulder should his support be needed. Elrohir moved back and watched intently, waiting for a sign that his brother was well.

"What happened?" Elladan eventually asked, blinking rapidly as though trying to clear his vision.

"We were beset by Orcs and then you collapsed," Aragorn answered gently. "Do you remember aught?"

"I…I remember the Orcs," Elladan murmured, closing his eyes. "And then the darkness seemed to grow. There were whispers of…of turning back and shunning the light of day. Whispers of how one could not leave the caverns."

Elrohir frowned and looked questioningly at Aragorn, but the king of Gondor could only shrug in response. With a slight grimace of concern, Elrohir leaped onto a branch above and indicated that Aragorn should move back. With a nod, Aragorn obliged and eased away from Elladan, enabling Elrohir to leap down directly behind his brother.

"Come, Elladan, let us see if you can stand. And then there are things about which we must speak. Estel and I have discussed the possibility of a rotation for the searchers."

Seeing that he was no longer needed, Aragorn turned around and moved to the trunk of the tree, climbing down it cautiously. Much of his childhood had been spent in the trees of Imladris, but even with this to back him, Aragorn had not an elf’s skill in the heights and care was required. He had fallen too many times and endured too many jibes from watching elves to not know that.

At length he was back on the ground, and he winced as the shadows swirled to greet him. He’d heard Orophin offer to take the hobbits and Gimli up into the trees while they regrouped after the attack, but Gimli had refused while Sam and Pippin elected to stay with the dwarf for the time being. Aragorn supposed such a thing was only to be expected. Even Legolas had never managed to coax Gimli into a tree after they’d left Lórien, though certainly not for want of trying.

"Are we ready to move forward again?"

Speaking of Gimli… Aragorn closed his eyes, attempted to achieve a state of mind that would be conducive to persuasion, and eventually gave up when the darkness around him continued to cloud his thoughts. Deciding he would have to do without, he turned to the dwarf and braced himself. "Soon, my friend, but I fear that not all of us shall be moving forward together."

"An advance party," Gimli said with an immediate nod, his eyes flashing with fury. "I shall join. Let the Orcs who attacked our group know the fury of a dwarven axe. There shall be none of them left to weary and slow our search."

"No, we are not sending out an advance party," Aragorn said, glancing around for the hobbits. Spotting them a few yards away, he beckoned them over and wondered if Elrohir would trade duties with him. It might be easier after all to convince Elladan to go back than it would be to convince Gimli.

"How is Elladan?" Sam asked.

"He is recovering, but I fear the darkness is taking a great toll upon his mind. His time spent in it while striving to understand and comprehend its secrets has dealt him a grievous blow, and he must be sent back to Rivendell for a bit so that he might recover. Elrohir and I believe he should stay the night and then return in the morning, relieving myself and those with me. In this way, we will be better rested when we come upon the lair of these foul creatures."

As he had spoken, Aragorn’s eyes had kept straying to Gimli’s face, watching for signs of a reaction. And Gimli had not failed to give him one. The dwarf’s eyes were hard as steel, his face was tinged with red as fury began to build within him, and his hands were clenched so tightly around the haft of his axe that his knuckles had turned white. "I am not going back."

"You want us to go back?" Pippin suddenly questioned, looking as though the conversation had escaped him entirely. "But you just said that Elladan was the one who needed to rest."

"We all need to rest, Pippin," Aragorn explained. "The search cannot be abandoned and we must be ready to repel any further attacks, but I do not think we are near the Orcs’ lair yet, for it would be folly for them to linger so close to Rivendell even with this cloak of darkness to protect them. As such, we do not need our full force in attendance, for we are not likely to encounter any group of enemies greater than the one we so recently defeated. And since not all of us are needed here, it seems only prudent that some should seek rest while it can be obtained."

"I am not going back," Gimli repeated, his voice hard and uncompromising.

"Elladan needs to return," Aragorn continued, ignoring Gimli for the moment and focusing his words on the hobbits in the hopes that they might understand. "Half of the elves shall return with him. I will stay to follow the trail, and Elrohir will stay to command the forces along with Thranduil. You three, on the other hand, should return to Rivendell for the night and then join me again in the morning."

"You may command the forces of Gondor, Aragorn, but you do not command me," Gimli growled. The dwarf was visibly livid with the idea that he might abandon the search for Legolas and Merry, and his face was turning a rather strange shade of red. Not that Aragorn blamed him, for he knew his own reluctance would probably get in the way come morning when Elladan returned. With a shake of his head, the king of Gondor sighed and turned his attention back to Gimli, attempting to gather rationale that the dwarf would understand.

"If you do not rest now, Master Dwarf, then you will need rest later. And later may be the time when Legolas’s escape is at hand. I would not have you—"

"I will take my own counsel in matters relating to my health," the dwarf snapped. "And I say that I am perfectly capable of continuing the search."

"Gimli, I implore you not to argue this," Aragorn sighed. "It is doubtful that we shall get far tonight, and a weary axe is no weapon against evil. We will need you rested. And if you require further reasons, my friend, tempers are running high. Your presence is not helping, particularly where a certain elven king is concerned."

"If the elves cannot tolerate the presence of a dwarf, that is not my concern. I have allowed for their inadequacies throughout this search, and I see no reason why they cannot make room for a dwarf who is ready to avenge the capture of his friends."

"Gimli!" Aragorn said sharply with a glance upward to see which elven ears might be hearkening to this conversation. "Gimli, listen to me very carefully. You are not needed here. And not only are you not needed but you make the situation worse. It is difficult enough to follow a trail hidden by darkness. We do not need the distractions that dissension and internal arguments will provide."

A tense silence fell, and king and dwarf stared at one another for several long minutes, striving for a dominance of wills and finding that neither could gain against the other. Aragorn dimly sensed Pippin and Sam backing away as though fearful of being caught in a fight. And perhaps they are not wrong to fear such a fight, for Gimli’s hands are upon his axe and I seem to be clutching Andúril, Aragorn realized, wondering if the darkness that swirled about them might not be responsible for this sudden breakdown in a rather strong friendship. With effort, the king released his sword and forced himself to relax his stance, watching Gimli closely and challenging the dwarf to do the same.

Fortunately for Aragorn, the gamble paid off. Gimli suddenly blinked and passed a hand over his eyes as though waking from a deep sleep. His axe clattered to the ground where it was immediately seized upon by tendrils of darkness and hidden from sight. Gimli and Aragorn watched together with a mixture of fascination and horror as the cloud appeared to become violent as though it was angry. For a moment it seemed that it had formed into something tangible and solid, capable of dealing physical blows. And then it dissipated, returning to its former state.

"My apologies," Gimli murmured, starting to bend over and retrieve the axe but hesitating before his hand could submerge itself in the darkness. "I had not realized the danger."

"You see now?" Aragorn questioned gently, still rattled by the incident. "Valar, even I am affected. This is why we must begin to rotate the searchers. It would be folly if we were to all stay."

"I do not wish to abandon the hunt," Gimli muttered, but his voice was now uncertain.

"None do," Aragorn assured him. "And you do not abandon the hunt, for others carry on in your absence. You merely take a much needed break and return refreshed with your strength ready should it be needed. Gimli, you can better help Legolas by resting now. We will not find him tonight, nor is it likely that we shall find him tomorrow. The search goes too slowly for that, and my heart tells me that the lair of these foul creatures is still far away. Rest, son of Glóin. And if you do it not for yourself, then do it for your friends."

There was a long silence during which Gimli looked away out into the darkness. Aragorn waited tensely, hoping that his words could convince the stubborn dwarf and wondering if Elrohir was finding Elladan to be this difficult.

At length, Gimli shuddered and nodded slightly. "If you counsel rest, far be it from me to dispute your wisdom," the dwarf said quietly.

Aragorn snorted. "You have disputed my wisdom often in the past, Master Dwarf."

"The council of a man is sometimes strange to the mind of a dwarf," Gimli answered with a shrug and a slight smile. Bending over, he hastily retrieved his axe and straightened quickly. "When do we depart back to Rivendell?"

"Now wait a minute," Pippin interrupted. "You might be going back, but that doesn’t mean that I am."

Aragorn released a silent groan and turned to the hobbit. He had expected problems with Gimli, but he hadn’t expected Pippin to also refuse returning. "As a knight of Gondor, Peregrin Took, you are technically bound to—"

"Don’t!" Pippin interrupted, his eyes flashing. "Don’t even think about ordering me back. Even you can’t do that. Merry needs me and I—"

"Merry needs you with your wits intact, or as intact as they ever are," Sam broke in unexpectedly. "I’m going back to see Rosie and make sure all is well with her. You’re going back to make sure you don’t crack like a nut."

Pippin blinked and Gimli stepped to his side, placing a hand on the young hobbit’s shoulder. "If I can take a moment to rest, you can also take a moment," the dwarf said. "And we will return at dawn to continue the hunt. Tomorrow will be soon enough for us, my friend."

Pippin’s face went through a variety of expressions, most of which Aragorn couldn’t even begin to decipher, and then the hobbit nodded reluctantly. "Just for tonight, though," he said. "And only because we’re still so far away. But this search better get faster or you’ll all have to answer to me."

At any other time, the hobbit’s statement might have been highly amusing. But at the moment, with the situation what it was, Aragorn saw no humor and he solemnly nodded in answer to Pippin’s threat. "I shall do everything in my power to see that Merry and Legolas are found quickly. Have no fear of that, Master Peregrin. They are my friends as well."

"I know," Pippin sighed. "And I’m sorry, but—"

"Peace," Aragorn assured him. "All is forgiven." The king of Gondor flashed the hobbit a reassuring smile and then stepped back, glancing once into the trees. "Gather what things you brought with you and prepare to depart. You shall start back once Elladan is able to travel."

"He is able now," a voice called down, and Elrohir dropped into view, followed by Elladan, who looked less than pleased at this turn of events. "I have also divided the elven forces and spoken briefly with King Thranduil. Those that were selected to return are prepared." Elrohir then looked expectantly at Elladan, who sighed and shook his head.

"This goes against the yearnings of my heart," he muttered. "But since it seems you have all conspired against me, I have little choice. Take care, Estel. This darkness affects even you."

"I shall watch myself," Aragorn promised.

"And I shall also watch him," Elrohir added. "Now, it is time for you to take your leave of us, brother. Or must I escort you back into safer lands?"

Elladan glared at his twin, but there was weary acceptance in his face and he quickly turned away. "Come," he said, addressing his words to elves in the trees as well as Gimli, Pippin, and Sam upon the ground. "I wish to make the Ford by nightfall and so ensure that this foolish division serves at least some purpose."

"I think you had the more difficult task," Aragorn murmured to Elrohir as the company moved off, with Elladan staying low enough in the trees that Gimli, Pippin, and Sam could follow his movements.

"The decision was ill to receive, but I overheard part of your discussion and I would dispute that observation," Elrohir returned, leaping out of the tree so that he stood next to his foster brother. "Elladan is stubborn, but I believe Gimli is worse."

"To say nothing of Pippin," Aragorn added.

A clearing throat above caught their attention, and both looked up as the stately form of King Thranduil revealed itself. "Are we prepared yet to continue the search, Elrohir?"

Elrohir sighed and looked over at Aragorn. Aragorn nodded slightly and turned away, moving toward the area where they had last sensed the trail. He could hear Elrohir answering the king of Mirkwood, but he blocked their voices from his mind. Thranduil was not going to be pleased that their search now relied almost exclusively on Aragorn’s judgement. But Elrohir was reluctant to drop his mental shields and expose himself to the darkness as was necessary to do in order to sense the trail, and all other elves felt likewise. Aragorn and Elladan had been alone in tracking the Orcs, and now it was solely up to Aragorn. Perhaps now is the time to show Thranduil the worth of a mortal, Aragorn mused quietly, placing a hand upon a tree and preparing to brace himself. Or perhaps now is simply a time to ignore him. And with this final thought, Aragorn cleared his mind and lowered the guards that had been in place ever since he was a child in Rivendell.

Shadows and evil, as tangible as any physical shape, swept toward him and Aragorn stood his mental ground, preparing for their attack. This task did not become easier as time went on, but at least it became more of a routine and the initial fear in facing such darkness had died away. Aragorn grunted as the first wave of shadow slammed into his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he willed it to part around him, separating the darkness much as the darkness wished to separate him. This was not unlike the battle he had fought with Sauron over the palantír, but fortunately the evil he now faced was not quite as focused as Sauron’s powers had been. It was for this reason and this reason alone that Aragorn was able to stand against it time and time again.

The second wave of shadow had now reached him, and he parted it as he had done with the first wave, sweeping it away from his mind. Before the third wave could gather itself together for another attack, Aragorn reached within himself and willed the might of Númenor and the powers of his lineage to strike first, creating a light in the darkness where before there had been none. And for a brief moment, ere the shadows could coalesce and obscure reality, the trail of the Orcs became visible.

Slamming his shields up again and shutting himself off from the mists of darkness, Aragorn took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"Estel?"

Aragorn nodded slightly and felt himself braced by strong hands as Elrohir moved to better support him. "Southeast," he murmured, turning his head in the direction of the Orc’s trail. "For perhaps two miles, it runs straight with no sign of turning. We may follow it that far before checking it again."

"I will send the other elves ahead while you recover," Elrohir answered. "Will you be able to endure this on your own for the rest of the night?"

"I must," Aragorn sighed, rubbing his head. "What other choice have we?"

"None, but we need not move so quickly if you have need of rest."

"I may have need of rest, but what needs press upon Legolas and Merry? Nay, Elrohir, their plight is far worse than mine shall ever be. We must make haste, or I fear it will be too late."

"Then lean upon me, Estel, if you insist on this course," Elrohir ordered, pulling Aragorn’s arm over his broad shoulders and locking his own arm around the king’s waist. Too tired to put up a sustained protest and knowing he would need all of his resources for the next confrontation with the darkness, Aragorn reluctantly allowed Elrohir’s assistance. Thus together, half-elf and king, they moved forward through clinging shadows as night drew its cover over all.

Author’s Notes: For those who keep wondering, "Fear No Darkness" happens five years after the War of the Ring, while "Land of Light and Shadows" takes place seven years after it. And the two stories are loosely joined, something that will become more evident in later chapters. But reading one is by no means a requirement for reading the other!

Before doing anything else, I’d like to dedicate this chapter to Dwimordene, who gave me some wonderful insight into the relationship between Celeborn and Arwen. However, in the process of writing their section, I think some of her beautiful ideas became…muddled. So my apologies to her if this is the case. But I am still VERY grateful for the assistance and hope I haven’t brutally destroyed her insights too much.

Chapter 15: The Shadows Deepen

Arwen rubbed her eyes and leaned back in her chair with a weary sigh. Whoever had taken the trouble to detail each and every facet of history within memory of the oldest elves had possessed no talent for either storytelling or writing. Unfortunately, there did seem to be a plethora of talent for turning the reasonably interesting tale of Círdan and the founding of Mithlond into a history so boring that even the most studious of wizards might shrink from reading it. Arwen almost suspected that an Ent had penned the words she now read, and the daughter of Elrond wondered how this particular volume of history had survived without being torn apart and burned by desperately bored readers. Not even the endless council meetings of Minas Tirith compared to this.

"Remind me again what our purpose here is," Arwen muttered, brushing an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.

"You see now what your father was forced to endure when the Enemy pressed near," Celeborn said with something that might have been taken as a quiet laugh. "Think you that Imladris was defended by the strength of your brothers and those who had beheld the light of Valinor? Not even an army consisting of Glorfindel and all his kindred could have held the forces of Mordor at bay had your father not been constantly seeking for new ways to thwart Sauron."

"I know that well, Lord Celeborn," Arwen sighed. "Many were the sleepless nights that my father spent in this library, and at times I spent them with him, seeking to aid in whatever way I could. Yet in those instances, the purpose was clear and the goal was set. Here, I know not for what I search, and I fear that in skimming these passages, I shall miss some vital detail that you might covet."

Celeborn was quiet for a moment, and then he spoke again, his voice somewhat hesitant. "If it aids you in any way, you might focus your readings around the time of Númenor. In particular, I am currently interested in the rule of Ar-Pharazôn and the corruption of Númenor’s nobility."

"Thranduil would have a ready explanation for their corruption," Arwen murmured, returning to her book and flipping through several hundred pages before finding the chapters devoted to Númenor.

"He does, actually, and I have been forced to listen to it on several occasions," Celeborn remarked with an undercurrent of amusement to his voice. "The son of Oropher never ceases to amaze me with his leaps of logic and his complete acceptance of rumors involving the disgrace and the fall of men. I must admit, though, that Thranduil’s oldest son, Celebas, does a most humorous impression of his father’s diatribe on the fall of Númenor."

Arwen laughed and shook her head. "I have seen Prince Celebas do this. I might add that Legolas does a very good impression of Thranduil ranting about the dwarves. Gimli is also quite adept at responding to this by giving his own father’s opinion of the elves."

"I shall have to ask the dwarf to perform that, for I would be interested to see if Glóin’s opinion of our people has changed since his son became an elf-friend."

"It has not changed much," Arwen said, turning a dusty page and coughing slightly. "And I gather from conversations with Legolas that Gimli has become somewhat estranged from his father over their friendship. From what Legolas has managed to glean, and that is little enough since the dwarf is not disposed to speak of it, Gimli’s return to the Lonely Mountain after the War of the Ring was a rather awkward return for all involved. He was met with much celebration and honor, but there was very little in the way of welcome from those who mattered most to the dwarf."

Celeborn sighed and shook his head, though his eyes never strayed from the scroll he was currently reading. "Alas that such friendship should be met with such scorn. I had hoped it might serve as a bridge between elves and dwarves. Perhaps we might have mended old hatreds ere all the elves fled Middle Earth. But perhaps such things are only a fool’s dream, and the elves will depart with animosity still running between us and the children of Aulë. And it seems to me that the word children could also be used to describe the elves, for in this petty feud we are all children."

The lord of Lothlórien fell into a thoughtful silence and Arwen sensed that the time for idle talk had passed. With a weary shake of her head, Elrond’s daughter turned her eyes back to the endless stream of writing that tracked the gradual corruption of Númenor’s last king, Ar-Pharazôn. The account was based on records left by Elendil and written by someone who had apparently never be forced to read his own work. It was dry enough to make Harad look like an ocean of water. Forcing herself to read, Arwen tried valiantly to remained focused, but her mortal body began making demands for sleep and rest. Her elven spirit revolted at this, but a heaviness was descending upon her mind and she wondered how long she would be able to last.

"Perhaps you were right," Celeborn suddenly said, his voice low and scarce to be heard. "Mayhap this is foolishness."

Arwen looked up in surprise and frowned. She had never heard her grandfather sound so despondent and wondered at the sudden change. "A moment ago you seemed to think that studying Númenor would help. Has that now changed?"

"Nay," he murmured. "It is still my best guess, and yet…I thought I remembered something, but I have found nothing to corroborate my theory. And time drags on." He turned away and shook his head. "If we do not find answers soon…"

"My lord, you were determined and filled with purpose not more than an hour ago," Arwen said, watching Celeborn carefully. "What has happened to alter this?"

The silver-haired elf glanced down at the scroll before him and smiled mirthlessly. "Perhaps I am merely caught in memories. In just a short time I have gone over the history of the Ages as I remember them, and in remembering, I am reminded of those who stood with me. Gil-galad, Celebrimbor, Glorfindel, Celebrían, Elrond…"

"And Galadriel," Arwen added quietly.

"And Galadriel," the lord of Lothlórien echoed after a slight pause.

"You miss her," Arwen said softly, aware that she now trod upon somewhat dangerous ground.

"As you no doubt miss your father," Celeborn answered, his tone indicating that the discussion was closed.

"But for you it is different," Arwen pressed, not yet ready to forsake the conversation. "I miss my father, yes, but my brothers still remain and my love for Aragorn is powerful enough to overcome the feelings of heartache. But you have not these things, grandfather. My mother forsook Middle Earth years ago, all of your kin save Thranduil are gone, and now Lothlórien is fading."

"Arwen, if there is a point to this, I suggest you arrive at it."

"My point is this," Arwen said, ignoring the warning note in Celeborn’s voice. "You miss Galadriel, and this is interfering with your ability to find answers."

Celeborn was silent for a long time and Arwen began to fear that she had pushed him too far, but at length, her grandfather sighed and shook his head. "You are right, young one. I do miss her. My heart longs for her presence. As I peruse these writings, I am reminded of the many years we lived together, staving off evil side by side until at last the One Ring perished and Sauron was vanquished. For thousands of years we relied upon one another’s strengths. And now it is as though a part of me is gone."

"And you seek to replace that part somehow," Arwen guessed.

The lord of Lothlórien nodded slightly. "I would gather the facts, receiving reports from the scouts and doing a bit of scouting myself. She would then interpret what I had learned, forming causal links backward until she arrived at the source and could interpret motives. She was inductive. I was deductive. She would decipher the reasons behind an attack and the methods used. I would then take what she found and predict future incursions or skirmishes and how they might best be avoided."

"But now you are trying to take on her role as well as maintaining your own," Arwen said. "You are looking at the effects and trying to determine the causes as well as attempting to determine from the causes what other effects will be."

"And you think I am not up to the task?"

"Nay, I said not so!" Arwen hastily amended before she caught the teasing gleam in Celeborn’s eyes.

"If you had, you would be right," Celeborn sighed. "I have now a focal point around which to center my studies, but I can not seem to go further."

"You mentioned Númenor," Arwen said.

"I did," Celeborn said. "And I hold to that, yet…" He shook his head. "It happened in Númenor, of that I am certain."

"But what? What happened in Númenor?"

"Whatever it is that we face now."

"And what makes you so certain?" Arwen pressed.

"A passing thought. A whisper. In truth, I do not know, Arwen, but I do know that this happened in Númenor."

"And you are specifically interested in the time of Ar-Pharazôn," Arwen said quietly, unconsciously slipping into the game of questions that she and Elladan would play. "Why that period?"

"It is that period that is most likely to yield results," Celeborn answered.

"Why?"

"Because of the corruption and the darkness that spread like a plague and eventually drove Elendil to these shores."

"But what forms of corruption and darkness would have survived the ruin of Númenor?"

"Any that Sauron used, promoted, or was aware of," Celeborn sighed. "For he also survived the ruin of Númenor."

"So you believe that whatever we face will have roots in something Sauron did or influenced," Arwen concluded. "Think you that Ar-Pharazôn himself was corrupted by unnatural means?"

"Perhaps to an extent, but I think it rather unlikely that unnatural means were necessary," Celeborn answered with a shake of his head. "I met Ar-Pharazôn many years before Sauron was captured. Even then, he was far too proud for his own good. You will recall that he seized the throne through illegal means. No, it would not have taken much for Sauron to convince him that the Eldar upon Aman warranted his enmity."

"But Ar-Pharazôn did not rule Númenor alone, and thus we come to the nobles who sat upon the councils," Arwen said. "Elendil and his sons escaped. Did they leave a record of unnatural occurrences? Perhaps this is what makes you so certain. Perhaps you remember such a record."

"I have skimmed all that Rivendell has in the way of their works, but I saw nothing," Celeborn murmured. "Yet…mayhap you are right, Arwen. I think this is somehow related to one of the council members. Perhaps…" Celeborn’s brow furrowed and he fell quiet, his eyes narrowed as his gaze became rather blank. Deciding not to press him for the moment, Arwen turned over a dusty page in her book and went back to studying, her own mind turning rapid circles. Silence dropped over the library as each became lost in thought.

The silence was abruptly shattered when Celeborn uttered a short oath and slammed his fist upon the table. Startled, Arwen almost jumped in her chair and turned sharp eyes to her grandfather. "You know what we face?"

"Perhaps, but I pray I am wrong. Still, it makes sense and would fit well with the intentions as we know them. And it would be well within the power of a Black Númenórean. Only time will bear out my predictions, though." He stood abruptly, letting the scroll before him roll shut, and began searching the shelves of the library in earnest.

Arwen studied the older elf for a moment, torn between the restraint her upbringing called for and the curiosity that plagued younger elves. In the end, curiosity won and she followed Celeborn as he swiftly glanced through Rivendell’s vast stacks of books, scrolls, and miscellaneous parchments. "Am I to be given an explanation?"

"I would hesitate before spreading unfounded rumors," Celeborn answered absently with what seemed to be a conditioned response.

Arwen bristled slightly. "I am hardly one to partake in idle gossip, nor do I spread rumors, as you call them. Beyond that, I have now spent a good amount of time aiding you in your search for answers."

Celeborn blinked and looked at his granddaughter, as though realizing for the first time that she was with him. "My apologies, Arwen," he said after a moment. "I did not think before I spoke."

"Apology accepted, of course. But if you would, what have you discovered that so vexes you?"

There was a moment of silence before Arwen received an answer, and when the answer eventually came, it was not exactly what she had been looking for. "Prepare two of the healing rooms for patients, and add restraints to the beds."

Arwen’s mouth gaped open as she blinked in surprise. "Restraints? Are we to be caring for Orcs?"

"Nay, but in all cases, prudence is called for. And see that sleeping draughts are also well stocked. Beyond that, I wish to know exactly what medicines are stored, and doses must be measured out for a being of hobbit size."

After a long, studying look at the lord of Lothlórien, Arwen eventually nodded. "It shall be as you say, but I am still waiting for an explanation, my lord."

"And you shall receive an explanation, I promise, once I have reviewed as many facts as I can find in this place. Then mayhap I might put some order to this madness. But my thoughts are not yet organized, and I fear to spread alarm. But when I have unraveled this mystery, you shall be the first I tell. Now go, Arwen, quickly. Time is of the essence and things must be made ready."

For a moment, Arwen hesitated. Celeborn’s vague words had already begun to spread alarm in her mind, but she sensed that no more information would be forthcoming. Celeborn had lived too long to speak of things that were not yet substantiated. Elrond had done the same thing from time to time, hiding many things from even his children until the time came when secrets could no longer be kept. At length, with a final nod for the elven lord who was now lost in the books again, Arwen turned and left the library. The sooner things were prepared, the sooner she could confront Celeborn again.

* * * *

"Gimli, you’re going to fall," Pippin warned with a large yawn.

"Mind your own pony, Master Hobbit," the dwarf grumbled, blinking his sleepy eyes open.

Slightly ahead of the hobbits and Gimli, Elladan glanced back and sighed. The horses were tired, the searchers were tired, and night had come, yet none of them wished to return to Rivendell, which was now within mortal sight. There was a very strong feeling of reluctance within the group. Most of them were warriors and understood the necessity of delegation and obedience, but it was still quite clear that the hearts of all wished to be back on the trail.

Indeed, there were some who, though they could not be on the trail itself, were still in the forest. Imhran, captain of Gondor’s forces under Aragorn and Faramir, had refused to leave until Aragorn himself emerged from the shadows. He and his men would not disobey their king’s orders by entering the darkness, but neither would they leave until they knew their king was safe. It was a tiring business that they undertook, but it seemed that all the forces of Gondor were determined in their course.

Men are strange creatures, Elladan decided wearily. He glanced back into the forest where Imhran and the Gondorrim waited for their king, and as he did so, his sharp eyes caught sight of Gimli’s nodding head, Sam’s closed eyes, and Pippin’s mammoth yawns. But then, so are dwarves and hobbits. And elves, too, I suppose. Valar, we are all strange creatures to push ourselves beyond reasonable limits when there are others who might carry on while we rest. That had been the argument that ultimately convinced Elladan to return to Rivendell, much though he wished he could stay with Estel and Elrohir in the darkness. Actually, he did not wish to stay in the darkness, but he wished to stay with his brothers, particularly when each step they took brought them closer to the Orcs.

But that is not my place at this time, Elladan sighed. My place is home where I shall rest, though what rest I might find this night shall surely be lost in pondering over our enemy.

The sudden sound of splashes suddenly caught Elladan’s attention, and he belatedly realized that they were crossing the Ford. Perhaps I am wearier than I first thought, he mused, wondering how he had missed seeing the subtle signs that signaled the direction to the Ford. It is fortunate that the horses know the way so well or I might have found myself lost in the Rhudaur far away in the north. And I have it on good authority that trolls make for rather poor traveling company.

As his horse surged up the banks and out of the river, Elladan glanced behind to see how Gimli and the hobbits were faring. Swollen by snowmelt, the River Bruinen was running swiftly today, but the half-elf need not have feared. The ponies were swimming the river well and elves slightly more aware of events than Elladan were crossing parallel to them further downstream so that they might be prepared should aught happen to the smaller horses and riders. The water was forded without incident and the riders continued on.

If we are forced to rest, I suppose we must make the most of our time, Elladan sighed, raising his hand and moving the group into a fast trot. Let us arrive quickly and retire soon so that we might rise with our minds refreshed by the morning.

A few minutes later, the elves, hobbits, and dwarf crested a hill, bringing into view the Last Homely House. Its lights twinkled in the darkness as the sun dipped below the horizon, and for a small moment, Elladan felt peace steal into his heart. He allowed this feeling to tarry a bit, sensing that he was in great need of it, and then he shook himself as they began the final part of their journey home. He could not afford to dwell in the peace that Rivendell offered, for war and Orcs loomed upon the borders. Still, Elladan felt strangely invigorated by his brief indulgence and he made a mental note to take such opportunities with more regularity. It might mean greater endurance in the long term.

Having heard their approach, elves now came from the stables and the riders dismounted, allowing their horses to be led away and cared for while they saw to their own needs. Feeling weariness brought on by too much exposure to darkness, Elladan almost stumbled beneath the leaping arches as he climbed the steps that would take him to the main porch. Behind him, the other elves were dispersing, but the sound of footfalls on the main path informed Elladan that Gimli, Pippin, and Sam were following him. No doubt wondering when we may return to the forest and resume our search, Elladan sighed. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a clear answer for this. Elrohir had been rather emphatic that no one should leave Rivendell until after sunrise, but Elladan was already suffering pangs of guilt for his brief respite. Surely he could not allow this to continue until after the sun cleared the mountains. Combating mysterious shadows was a far better prospect than combating his own guilt.

"Elladan?"

Elrond’s son glanced up quickly, and despite his dark mood a smile slipped onto his face. "You are ever a welcome sight, dear sister."

Arwen smiled and embraced Elladan briefly, but though her eyes shone with joy upon seeing him, Elladan could feel the tension in her body and wondered what was going on in Rivendell. Now that he stopped to think about it, the anxiety was not exclusively Arwen’s. It seemed the very air held its breath, and there was an atmosphere of fear and waiting that had rarely been felt here before. Elladan turned sharp eyes upon his sister as questions rose in his mind, but she spoke first, seemingly reluctant to dwell upon her own concerns.

"What news from the south, Elladan? How goes the hunt for our friends?"

"Slowly," the half-elf sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Each new step in the trail must be wrung from the grip of shadows, and it is exhausting work. Estel and Elrohir now lead the hunt, for I fear that the darkness was too much for me."

"Then to return was wise," Arwen said quietly, her eyes staring intently at Elladan. "Do not blame yourself, brother, for I know well that you do. You were ever the responsible one, and whenever aught went wrong, you always took the blame regardless of fault. But this is beyond your control, and to invite guilt is to invite failure. You distance yourself from your true feelings by hiding them in a cloud of guilt. Have you not said as much to Estel upon occasion? Valar, Elladan, look at me! Are you listening to my words?"

Hearing the frustration in his sister’s voice, Elladan opened his eyes and sighed. "I know you speak the truth, yet I cannot change my nature. And it is my nature to carry what responsibility I have until such responsibility is fulfilled."

"And is it always your nature to labor under a shadow that is of your own making?!"

"This discussion accomplishes nothing," Elladan said, injecting a note of finality into his voice that he desperately hoped Arwen would heed. "Tell me of Imladris, for I sense that all does not go well here."

Something flashed in Arwen’s eyes, but what that something was, Elladan could not tell. It was gone too quickly. "Lord Celeborn thinks he may have found something in the library," Arwen eventually revealed.

"Something pertaining to the hunt?" a gruff voice asked.

Elladan nearly jumped, for he had forgotten that Gimli, Sam, and Pippin had followed him. Glancing back, he noted that all three were standing quietly behind him, listening intently to the conversation and making observations of their own. "I have already discussed eavesdropping with the hobbits," Elladan stated, his voice laced with steel. "Must I also discuss the subject with you, Master Dwarf?"

"Nay, Legolas has spoken with me often enough," Gimli answered, his voice casual but firm. He then turned his attention to Arwen and repeated his earlier question. "So Lord Celeborn thinks he has found something to aid our hunt?"

Arwen hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough for Elladan to mark the pause. Judging from the way his eyes narrowed, Gimli had also seen the brief lapse in focus. "I know not," Arwen murmured, turning her head and looking back at the house that now lay shrouded in the shadow of night. "He was not looking for something to aid the hunt but rather something to explain why Orcs would wish to capture members of the Fellowship. At least, that was the impression I received from him, but his mood was strange. Fey, almost. I am worried."

"You were with him, then, in the library?" Elladan asked.

"For a time," Arwen answered. "He wavered between frustration and obsession. I had never seen him so desperate and yet so hopeless. And then, when it seemed that he had almost given up, it was as though he suddenly received the answer. I think he remembered whatever it was he had been looking for, but I know not for certain. In any case, I have now been dispatched to stock medicinal supplies, particularly sleeping draughts, and to add restraints to some of the beds in the healing quarters."

"Restraints?" Pippin’s voice was slightly higher than usual, an indication of his stress and mounting frustration. "Why do the beds need restraints?"

"I asked Lord Celeborn that same question," Arwen said. "I received no answer that satisfied me. Instead, he spoke of the need for prudence."

"Prudence," Gimli spat with a dark glower. "If we hearken to prudence, we shall never find Legolas and Merry. Perhaps I shall seek Celeborn out myself and demand answers."

"You would demand answers of Lord Celeborn?" Elladan asked with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You may find this difficult to believe, Master Dwarf, but there are times when my grandfather can be even more difficult than the Lady Galadriel. Demanding answers of him can be likened to pressing blood from a stone. It is futile at best and dangerous at worst."

"I should have stayed with Aragorn," Gimli grumbled quietly, folding his arms across his chest.

"But you said—"

"I know very well what I said, Master Peregrin, and I still hold to that. The darkness has an ill affect on those subjected to it, and in order to help our friends, we ourselves must be whole. Yet it is hard knowing that they suffer as we rest."

"If we could rescue them quickly, we wouldn’t have to worry about spending too much time in the darkness," the hobbit muttered angrily. "It’s beyond me what we can hope to gain here in Rivendell."

"Begging your pardon, Pippin, but that’s actually easy to see," Sam jumped in, speaking for the first time since leaving the hunters in the forest. "What we’ll be gaining here is sleep, and lots of it. If I’m not mistaken, we’ll be starting out into the woods again in the morning, so that should set your heart at ease." The gardener looked to Elladan for confirmation.

"That was my original plan," Elladan said slowly, "but now I am beginning to reconsider my thoughts." He looked back at Arwen. "You say Lord Celeborn wishes for sleeping draughts and restraints?"

"It was practically the only information I received from him that was not in the form of a riddle."

"Sleeping draughts and restraints," Gimli muttered darkly, his eyes running over Rivendell as night crept over the valley.

"Peace, son of Glóin," Elladan warned, watching the dwarf carefully out of the corner of his eye. "We shall accomplish nothing this night, for all solutions are too far from our grasp. Let us do as Elrohir and Aragorn have counseled. We shall rest now and take what sleep we may find. One hour before sunrise, we shall meet here and once again resume the hunt."

"Good," Sam breathed. "Then by your leave, I think I’ll go find Rosie. She gets a bit worried at times and I don’t want to be on the wrong end of her tongue, if you understand me."

"Then I bid you a good night, Samwise," Elladan said with a nod toward the hobbit. "And a good night to Peregrin and Gimli as well. Come, Arwen. If you will have me, I would aid you in your tasks and then see to my own rest."

"Your aid would be most welcome, brother," Arwen answered with a knowing look. "Perhaps we shall exhaust your nervous energy so that you might better sleep this night."

"Perhaps," Elladan conceded with a small smile. He shot a farewell glance at Gimli and Pippin, neither of whom had moved, and caught a glimpse of Sam disappearing into the darkness next to the house. It seems not all of us shall find rest this night, he sighed to himself, recognizing traces of his own despair in the countenances of Gimli and Pippin. But if the return to Rivendell served to strengthen at least Sam, Elladan decided to count it as profit. And doubtless other elves would also be refreshed by this respite in the hunt. He only wished that he could be refreshed as well.

"Elladan?" Arwen questioned gently.

"Coming," he murmured, trying to shrug off his melancholy and focus on the present. "Sleeping draughts, you said?"

"I did. We have some dried ôlgalenas leaves, but it would be wise to obtain more."

"Then I shall find some and prepare them."

"There is also the matter of the restraints," Arwen said quietly, sounding as though she was testing him.

"I remember," Elladan said shortly, walking toward the house and only slowing his stride slightly when Arwen fell into step beside him.

"Grandfather said these measures were primarily for the sake of prudence," Arwen murmured. "A precaution and nothing more."

"But a precaution against what, Arwen?" Elladan demanded, the tight control over his inner thoughts and feelings slipping marginally. He stopped and turned to Arwen, causing her to stop as well and face him. "What possible need will there be under any circumstance for restraints?" Elladan asked. "Did not Celeborn tell you anything concerning this?"

His sister was silent for a moment, her luminous eyes searching his. Then she sighed and shook her head, turning away. "You need not answers, Elladan. You need rest and escape from guilt. This darkness is no fault of yours. The shadow of evil is far older than either of us, and when we are gone, it shall remain. It has deceived many of the great ones in the past. Your inability to detect its presence is not a sin. Now come and aid me. Or sleep. In truth, I care not what you do so long as you cease to dwell in your world of self-pity."

A spark of anger flared within Elladan, but it was swiftly doused by the knowledge that Arwen was right. But then, she usually is, he thought wryly. With resignation on his face, Elladan laughed quietly to himself and wrapped a brotherly arm around Arwen’s shoulders. "My apologies, dear sister. I think I shall come to aid you, and by doing so, I believe I shall aid myself. My thanks for your words. Your thoughts are clearer than mine."

"As is usually the case," Arwen snorted, but her eyes were kind and she smiled at him. "Then let us depart so that we may both have time for sleep, for I am also weary."

"It shall be as you say," Elladan promised. "But speak with me as we walk. Surely Celeborn told you more than what you have revealed. Surely there was a purpose to his search."

"Ar-Pharazôn," Arwen answered, her voice carrying a touch of confusion. "Toward the end of our search, the focus was upon Ar-Pharazôn."

"Ar-Pharazôn?" Elladan echoed with a frown. "What does the last king of Númenor have to do with our current situation?"

"I believe Celeborn was looking for means of corruption, for he seemed intent on discovering things related to the downfall of Númenor. But again, I cannot be certain."

"So our grandfather searches records of the Second Age," Elladan said after a moment of silence. "He believes this evil to be the product of something that happened several millennia ago." The son of Elrond shook his head, and his voice became bitter. "Would that we could have prevented this."

"We have been over this," Arwen sighed. "And going over it again shall not change what has happened. Guilt is useless, and we need not its burden. Now come, brother, and let us not speak of these things again tonight but concentrate on the tasks given us. Perhaps hope shall rise again with the sun."

"Perhaps," Elladan murmured, glancing back out at the valley that now lay shrouded by night. "I suppose that anything is possible."

* * * *

Until now, Legolas had never been in complete darkness.

He had been in caves, of course. One could not befriend a dwarf without entering a cave at least once during the duration of that friendship. And before his friendship with Gimli, there had been Moria. Additionally, there had also been the darkness of Sauron over Minas Tirith, the shadow of Dol Guldur upon Mirkwood, and almost the entire expanse of the Paths of the Dead. Dark places and dark times, all of them, and all known well to the elf. But never had Legolas found himself in a place where even the light and hope of companions as well as his own inner light as an elf seemed to be extinguished. Here, not only was there a total absence of light, but there seemed to also be a total absence of life. His soul felt as though it had faded away until it was but a mere flicker of flame set amidst the cooling embers of a dying fire. A chill the likes of which Legolas had never experienced crept over him, and it seemed to the elf that evil took on a tangible form and loomed over him, intent on devouring what little essence remained.

And for the first time in his long life, Legolas was mortally afraid.

This was another new experience for him. The elf had experienced fear many times. The sight of the Balrog in Moria had raised terrible memories of stories that older elves would tell the younger generation just before bed. It had also raised memories that were more born of heritage than anything else, and the elf had been very afraid. And all throughout his life, Legolas had lived with the fear of failure, the fear of the unknown, the fear of Mordor…but never had he been mortally afraid. He had faced death before, of course. That was nothing new. And he had been nigh unto death several times through mishap or misfortune. But never had he feared it. That is, never had he feared it until now, for if he died at this moment, Legolas sensed somehow that he would remain trapped in this darkness. He would not be able to find his way out, he would not journey to the Halls of Mandos, and he would become the property and the plaything of evil for as long as time endured. And this knowledge, coupled with his rather dangerous circumstances, caused such turmoil and anguish within the elf that he was almost on the verge of a full-fledged panic attack.

Fortunately, a small measure of calm and sanity remained to him, and retreating deep within himself, Legolas tried to summon his fading reserves of energy to strike back at the darkness that sought to control him. But the darkness was content to sidestep his blow and dance around him, secure in the knowledge that its prey would not soon escape. Fighting away the feelings of desperation and hysteria, Legolas tried to rationally assess his predicament, but coherent thoughts were beginning to slip away from him as fear took a firmer hold. He had to get out. He had to flee. He had to escape! But how? He knew not where he was, why he was here, or in what direction safety might lie. And the more he realized the hopelessness of his predicament, the more he pulled back and the more the darkness encroached.

Focus! he screamed at himself, hoping to stir some form of resistance. But resistance seemed to be in short supply while the darkness was certainly not lacking for strength and patience. Time, also, was currently on the side of darkness, and Legolas was all too aware of this. Frantic for anything that might aid him in driving the shadows from his mind, Legolas directed his senses toward his surroundings, hoping that a better grasp on reality might aid him in regaining his bearings.

Sight was a lost cause, as the elf had already discovered. Wherever he was, there was a complete absence of light and his keen elven sight was of no use to him. But other senses there were at his disposal, and Legolas quickly put them to work. Judging from the surrounding smell, he was still somewhere in the caverns of the Orcs. The air was dank and musty, and there was an odor lingering in the room that spoke of the unwashed filthiness of many goblin bodies as well as not enough ventilation. Cringing slightly, Legolas wondered if this new knowledge might not be making things worse, but he had no other option.

Touch came next, and it was through this sense that Legolas began to gain a better idea of where he was. Cold stone lay beneath his back and his arms were stretched above his head. Tight chains had been locked about his wrists and ankles, and an experimental tug revealed that he would not be going anywhere in the immediate future. His fettered position reminded Legolas immediately of his first mental encounter with the Mouth of Sauron, and a chill crept down his back. It didn’t help that there was also a sharp chill in the air, indicating that he was deep underground. Again, he sighed mentally.

Finally, the elf focused his attention on sound. Initially, this seemed to be just as fruitless as sight, for the only sounds he could hear were the sounds of his own labored breathing and the rapid pounding of his heart. But gradually, as he adjusted his senses to ignore these particular noises, his acute ears began to pick up on something else. It was a faint sound that seemed to tread the boundary between real and imagined, but as he continued to listen, Legolas became convinced that it was no trick of the mind. He could hear breathing that was not his own. There was someone else in this room with him.

Immediately, Legolas’s mind shifted into action and he ran through possible beings who might be sharing this room with him. The sound of breathing was too soft for him to identify who it was, but the elf decided there were only three plausible options. It could be Merry, it could be an Orc, or it could be the Mouth of Sauron. And if his current run of fortune was any indication, it would undoubtedly be one of the latter two.

Unable to tell who shared his room and wary of betraying the fact that he was now awake, Legolas stayed quiet for another minute or two in the hopes that the stranger might reveal himself. But there was no change in the breathing, and Legolas eventually decided that he would have to make the first move. He was beginning to harbor a faint hope that the room’s other occupant was Merry, for surely anyone else—or anything else—would have already acted. Steeling himself in the event that his hopes might prove false, Legolas drew a breath and called out softly.

"Merry?"

Now his ears caught a soft rustle of heavy robes and the unmistakable clink of chain mail as someone moved in the darkness. With a sinking heart, Legolas realized his initial instincts had been correct. Wherever Merry was, he was not here.

"You are awake," a soft voice observed, and at the sound of this voice, the temperature in the room seemed to dorp several degrees. "I had begun to wonder if you would sleep the night away. Your hobbit friend woke some time ago, and if he has regained consciousness again, he is no doubt anxious about you. It is unusual for an elf to stay unconscious for so long. My apologies if I was the cause."

Legolas had no idea what to say in response to that and so stayed silent. The man from Mordor’s ruin paused as though waiting for some kind of answer from the elf, but when there was none, he chuckled slightly. Legolas’s keen hearing heard him move above him, and then a touch colder than death came down to smooth the hair away from his forehead. Despite himself, the elf jerked away from the man’s hand, but this only resulted in a greater chuckle, and he heard the Mouth of Sauron seat himself on the stone slab where the elf lay.

"You still think to fight me?" The voice seemed vastly amused and a shiver of fear went down the elf’s spine. "You forget, elfling, that you allowed the darkness to enter your mind. Without it, you would still be broken and bleeding in your cell. But you chose otherwise, didn’t you? You consented to its healing power. And then you obeyed its first commands by not leaving the cave system. Do you really think you can cast it aside now?"

Once again, Legolas made no answer to the Mouth of Sauron, but this time, an answer was not expected. Hands came down to rest on either side of the elf’s face, and slender fingers positioned themselves on his temples. Legolas tried to jerk away, but it seemed as though strength suddenly fled him. He found himself completely unable to move.

"Nay, none of that, my friend," the Mouth of Sauron whispered. "Relax and allow me to work. Open your mind to me. I will be but a moment."

Sauron’s lieutenant fell silent then, his hands tightened around Legolas’s face, and the elf stiffened as the darkness about him suddenly seized his mind. This was nothing like the shadows he’d fought before, for they had merely hovered on the edges of reality. But now, evil’s presence was unmistakable, and Legolas found he was no longer the master of his own thoughts. Driven deeper into the recesses of his mind, the elf scrambled for some way to slow his retreat, but the darkness would not be denied and pounded away relentlessly at whatever walls he attempted to construct.

"What do you want?" Legolas eventually gasped, struggling to reassert at least some semblance of control over the situation.

"You, my friend. But there is no longer a need to struggle as you are doing. Relax. This will not take long since you have already granted me access." There was silence for a moment more, and then the Mouth of Sauron spoke again while shadows continued to strike against the elf’s defenses. "Good, elfling. You are afraid. You fear the darkness, and rightly so."

"I fear nothing," Legolas hissed, hoping the quiver in his voice and the tremble in his limbs might go unnoticed.

"Only fools fear nothing."

"Fools or those who have nothing to fear."

"Those who have nothing to fear are those without hope, for from hope is born fear. Tell me, elfling, are you truly without hope?"

Legolas gritted his teeth, grasping for an answer to that. The darkness was further clouding his thoughts and the questing probe of evil within his mind was becoming harder and harder to resist. "I have no need of hope, for I have a surety of knowledge."

At this, the Mouth of Sauron began to laugh. "A knowledge of what, my friend? That you will escape? That the darkness shall be thrown off? I say to you, Legolas, son of Thranduil, that even were your friends to find this lair now and slay every Orc ever spawned within the shadows, you would be lost to them. There is no help for you, and your only refuge can be found in the twilight. Now, let us cease this talk and go about our business. There is much to do and we have only just begun."

Legolas, though, had other ideas. He had no intention of allowing the Mouth of Sauron to "go about his business" and he mentally braced himself for whatever was about to happen next. But for all his efforts, he was completely unprepared for the onslaught that swept over him. With a mental scream, he felt the light of his soul buried beneath a realm of shadows, and as Legolas faded away into darkness, the room was illuminated just long enough for him to catch sight of a triumphant smile gracing the Mouth of Sauron’s face.

Author’s Notes: Once again regarding the meeting of Celeborn and Galadriel, I believe it was shortly after the Age of Stars. However, it’s interesting to note that in some of Tolkien’s later manuscripts he had both Celeborn and Galadriel coming over into Exile together, which means they met before the First Age. I’ve tried to write with an interpretation that doesn’t exclude other interpretations (meaning I’ve made it all rather vague) so take it as you will.

The method Aragorn uses to find the Orc trail is from my own imagination. I kind of sat back and wondered exactly what happened when he confronted Sauron through the palantír, and that’s what came out. So I figured I’d use it for something.

Quick note before I start. This chapter is probably not as angst ridden or anxiety driven as the other chapters in this fic, but I felt that it was necessary for the characters. They needed something like this and so did I. Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 16: Midnight Musings

Samwise Gamgee gently swung the door to his room open, shielding the candle with one hand so as not to disturb anyone. It was dark and silent inside, and for a brief moment, the hobbit was reminded of the clinging shadows that had drifted about in the forests south of Rivendell. He shivered and thrust that thought away. He was back with Rosie and Elanor now. That was all that mattered. He wasn’t about to taint their minds with the things he’d seen while hunting for Merry and Legolas.

Setting the candle on a large chest, Sam turned with the intention of finding his pack and changing into nightclothes, but as he faced the bed, he stopped, surprised. It was empty. Concerned now, the hobbit began a thorough search of the room, yet he found no sign of where his wife or child might be.

"But…but we’re in Rivendell," Sam murmured to himself, surveying the room with confusion and a bit of fear. "And nothing would come into this valley but what Arwen and the other elves would know it. And Rosie wouldn’t leave Rivendell with Elanor. Not without protection, at least. She’s too bright a lass for that." The hobbit scratched his head, took one more glance at the room, and then picked up the candle. Hurrying out into the corridor, he paused for a moment to gather his bearings and then started for the main hall. Perhaps someone there might know where Rosie and Elanor were.

"You seem distressed, Master Samwise. Is aught wrong?"

Sam jumped and berated himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. When wandering about in a land of elves, it was always good to glance about every minute or so to see if there were any elves sneaking up on you. Not that all of them would sneak up on you for the fun of it, though there were some that did and seemed to find great amusement in doing so. But most elves didn’t try to sneak up on people. At least, that’s what they told him. It just seemed to happen because they were so quiet.

"Master Samwise?"

Realizing he had become lost in his thoughts, Sam turned and bowed to an elf behind him. He recognized the elf, but he couldn’t place the name at the moment. "I…I was looking for Rosie. My wife. Have you seen her?"

"Ah, no one has told you?" the elf asked. "I believe she left a message for you, but it appears that the message has become lost. Fear not, my friend, for I know her whereabouts and shall lead you to her."

"She’s all right, isn’t she?" Sam asked, fear coloring his tone. "Nothing happened to her, did it? And Elanor? She’s fine, too, isn’t she?"

"All are well," the elf reassured him. "Your beloved was merely in need of thought and contemplation. Much has happened to her since leaving the Shire, and it took time to sort through all that has transpired."

At this, Sam felt a pang of guilt slice through his heart. What had he been thinking? While he was off playing in shadows with Pippin, Rosie was left alone to deal with memories of the Orcs and the battle. Sam remembered all too well the first time he met an Orc. It had been in the Hall of Mazarbul where the Fellowship made a desperate stand before Balin’s tomb. And even with all that happened afterwards such as the fall of Gandalf and the peace of Lothlórien, that memory continued to haunt Sam for many days. There was something about confronting a living, breathing Orc that completely destroyed innocence. Not even the Black Riders could really compare, for they were too otherworldly. Once their presence was gone, they were almost as ghosts and shadows of the imagination, too horrible to actually be real. Orcs, on the other hand, were far too real to dismiss, and their hideous natures were as poison to innocent souls. Somehow, in the chaos of everything that happened after Legolas and Merry disappeared, Sam had forgotten that this was Rosie’s first encounter with the Orcs and that she would need help in dealing with it.

"Master Samwise?"

Once again startled out of his thoughts, but certainly not out of his guilt, Sam jumped and then sent a sheepish expression toward the elf. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to get distracted like that," he explained. "It’s just that I remembered when I…or when we, rather…can I see Rosie now?"

The elf laughed, and at his laugh, some of Sam’s fears began to ease. After all, Rivendell was probably the best place in all of Middle Earth to deal with Orc memories. "As I said before, dear hobbit, all is well," the elf said, his eyes twinkling in the dim light of the halls. "It was many years ago, but I also remember my first encounter with an Orc. Rest assured that we have done everything in our power to comfort and aid your wife. We should be very poor hosts were it otherwise. Come! We shall test our hospitality by your judgement of our conduct!"

Saying this, the elf began walking, and Sam was forced to double his stride in order to keep up with the elf. They passed silently through many twisting corridors and many large rooms. It might have been bewildering to the untrained eye, but to Sam, there was suddenly a great air of familiarity about their journey. The hobbit had walked this path many times during the months that he and Frodo had been guests in Imladris, and he now knew exactly where Rosie was. And had I chosen a place for her to be, I don’t know as I’d have chosen any better than what the elves chose. Bless them, when they do something, they know how to do it and do it well! My Gaffer would be proud.

The elf that Sam had been following eventually stopped outside a tall set of doors and then gave the hobbit a quick bow. "Unless she has taken herself elsewhere, your wife is within. I now bid you a good night, Master Gamgee, and I urge you to seek sleep at some point. It seems to me that you are greatly wearied."

"I’ll do that," Sam promised, placing a hand on one of the door’s large handles. "Have a good night yourself, and thank you."

"It was my honor," the elf assured him before turning away and vanishing into the darkness.

Left alone, Sam stifled a large yawn and then pulled the great door outward, grunting slightly at the effort. A red light fell upon his face and a pleasant sensation of warmth crept over him. The hobbit smiled and sighed, feeling as though somehow he had just returned home. It had been years since his last visit to this place, but Sam had never forgotten the Hall of Fire.

Pulling the door further open, Sam’s eyes first came to rest upon the roaring hearth where the eternal flames for which this hall was named leaped high into the night, banishing the darkness and dancing in rhythm to the stars that twinkled above Rivendell. It seemed as though all the waters of the River Bruinen were suddenly set loose, and a flood of memories washed over Sam. Songs and tales sprang to mind, as fresh and vivid as they had been when he’d first heard them in this hall. Laughter and voices called out to him, and for a moment, he walked in living memory. He could see all of them again—Frodo, Bilbo, Boromir, Strider, Elrond, Merry, Pippin…they came to life around him, joking and singing as though the past had come again to Rivendell. Or perhaps he had returned to it and it had never left. Joy swelled within Sam’s breast, and he took a step forward, ready to embrace the memory as reality.

And then the vision vanished. The hall was empty once more. Silence fell again.

With a sigh of both gratitude and regret, Sam shook his head and moved forward, reminding himself of his mission. Looking around, he quickly spied two figures against the far wall, both hidden partially by a pillar. Smiling in relief, Sam started toward them, and at his approach, one of them looked up, immediately sending him a grin that would put the sun to shame.

"Daddy!"

As Elanor came bounding to him, Sam dropped to one knee and caught his daughter in a firm embrace, feeling all lingering effects of shadow drift away to be consumed by the roaring fires. "Hello, beautiful. Were you a good girl while I was away?" Sam asked, squeezing his daughter tightly.

"Very good," Elanor answered, pulling away and bobbing her head. "Daddy, the elves said I was pretty."

"And you are," Sam said, affectionately tousling her hair. "You’re the prettiest lass in all of Rivendell and in all of the Shire, or my name’s not Samwise Gamgee." Sam rose and smiled at Rosie, who was now moving toward the two. "And did you take care of Mommy for me?" he asked with a wink at his wife.

Elanor nodded again, her smile growing. "Mommy said I was a big help."

"And you were," Rosie confirmed, closing the distance between them quickly and wrapping Sam in a firm hug. "I feared you wouldn’t come back," she whispered.

"Now, Rosie, there’s no call for that," Sam said awkwardly, returning the embrace fervently. "Seeing as I was with the best protection you can find nowadays, there was no reason to worry."

"I worried anyway and I’ll worry when you leave again tomorrow."

Sam blinked and pulled back. "I didn’t say anything about—"

"I know, but that’s what will happen," Rosie sighed. "You didn’t find Merry and your elven friend, did you? If you had, we’d have heard about it. And since you didn’t find them today, you’ll be going back out there tomorrow. I know you too well, Samwise Gamgee."

"I can’t sit here and do nothing," Sam murmured, feeling as though his heart was torn in two.

"And I don’t expect you to," Rosie said. "I love you for who you are, Sam, and if you didn’t go back out into those woods, you wouldn’t be yourself. I’d be holding you back, and I wouldn’t do that. But I’ll worry every minute you’re away. Those…those Orcs…they…"

"Hush," Sam soothed, pulling Rosie back into a tight hug. "Those Orcs are none too bright, but they’re too smart to come into Rivendell. You’re safe here, and I’ll be safe with the elves. Elves don’t like Orcs, and they won’t let them get away with anything if they can help it." They were silent for a moment, all things around them forgotten, and then Sam drew back. "How are you? And don’t lie, Rosie lass. How are you really?"

"I’ll be fine," Rosie answered with a slight smile. "The elves here…they’re wonderful for talking. They’ll listen to everything you have to say, and when you’re done talking, you feel better for some reason. They said I should wait for you in this hall, and I think it’s helped. I don’t feel alone here."

"You never were alone, and you’re certainly not alone anymore," Sam said firmly. "I know what you’re going through. I went through it, too. And it will pass, Rosie. It will pass."

"Daddy?"

Elanor’s inquisitive voice reminded Sam that he and Rosie still had an audience. With a quiet chuckle, he moved out of the hug, though he still kept his arm possessively around Rosie’s shoulders. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"Where’s the bush?"

Sam started to laugh, and he felt Rosie’s shoulders quivering as she began laughing as well. "I don’t know. I think he went to bed, which is where you should be going."

A look of extreme stubbornness took over Elanor’s face, and she folded her arms in a very familiar expression of indignation and determination. "I’m not sleepy," she declared.

"It’s long past your bedtime," Sam reasoned, "and you had a busy day today, I’m sure."

"The elves are still up," Elanor pointed out. "And they had a busy day, too."

"Elves are different," Sam tried to explain. "They don’t need sleep like you and I do."

"Just because I’m different doesn’t mean that I’m sleepy!"

"You can stay up just a little longer," Rosie broke in with a sigh. "But not much longer. Is that clear?"

Mollified for the moment, the little hobbit nodded. "Then can I go play?"

"For a bit."

Elanor grinned and ran back to the far wall, dropping down to play with the toys that Elrohir and Elladan had dug up for her. Confused, Sam shot an inquiring look at his wife who merely smiled in return.

"This place is so peaceful. I really don’t want to leave just yet, Sam, and I don’t see any harm in letting Elanor stay up a little later. She’ll probably fall asleep on her own in a minute anyway."

"And force me to carry her back to our room," Sam grumped, smiling to show his playfulness. "But you’re right, Rosie. This place is…well, I don’t know as any words rightly describe this place, but I wouldn’t mind staying here a bit longer, either."

"Good," Rosie said, wrapping her arm around her husband’s waist as she began walking after Elanor. "I wanted to share this room with you. They told me it was called the Hall of Fire and that there’s always a fire here."

"Even in summer, or so they say," Sam murmured. "I once spent about two months here in Rivendell, and I don’t know as I found any place better than this one."

"There are…memories here," Rosie said, seating herself upon a bench and leaning against Sam as he sat next to her. "Good memories and bad memories, both, but…it feels like everything that ever happened is somehow with us in this room."

"Wonderful folk, elves," Sam sighed, pulling Rosie against his body and closing his eyes. "To look at them, you wouldn’t expect all this memory and heartache. But when they start to sing…it’s the singing as what goes to your head. Or rather you heart, I guess I should say. And they have songs about everything. Fancy songs, simple songs, long songs, short songs, happy songs, sad songs…they’re all there and they’re all sung. I don’t know as would I ever tire of them. The elves don’t seem to, never mind that they’re always singing them. Even Gimli grew fond of elven song by the end of the journey. He’s the dwarf that Elanor’s taken such a fancy to. Now there’s a puzzle and no mistake. At the start of our journey Gimli wouldn’t so much as look at an elf, but now he’s riding behind Legolas wherever they go, and you never see one but you also see the other. I never did understand what happened and they don’t talk about it much, but…" Sam suddenly trailed off, aware that Rosie had become very heavy against his side. Glancing down, he discovered that somewhere during the course of his monologue, she’d drifted off to sleep. An expression of peace was plastered over her face, and Sam sighed, smiling slightly and brushing away a strand of dark hair that was tickling her nose. "The Gaffer always did say I talk too much," he murmured, stifling his own yawn. "And bless me if I haven’t put you to sleep with it. I should probably wake you and take you to bed. You an Elanor both."

But another yawn took hold of Sam’s face before he could act on this thought, and a sleepy warmth was creeping over his body. Ah well, it’s probably for the best, he reflected as his mind began to drift. And it’s not as if I haven’t fallen asleep in here before. And with this, Sam allowed his eyes to close and his mind was taken away into strange dreams, touched by hobbit memory but blessed by elven sanctuary.

* * * *

Merry decided that the next time he and Legolas took a journey to the world of the unconscious, the elf should have to wake up first. It was clearly his turn. Merry had been the first one awake after their initial capture, he’d been the first one awake after their first encounter with the Mouth of Sauron and his rather enthusiastic troop of Orcs, and he was the first one awake now. This didn’t sit well with the hobbit, particularly since he didn’t like to be the first one awake. It was always easier if someone else woke first, figured out what was going on, and then filled him in on the details later.

Unfortunately, Legolas showed no signs of stirring in the immediate future, which meant that Merry was left to puzzle out the latest mystery on his own. This actually wasn’t as much of a challenge as it could have been because the current enigma was very similar to the last one. In fact, it was exactly like the last one. The door to their cell had once again been left open, there was nothing in the way of shackles or fetters to hold the prisoners back, and as far as Merry could tell, they were very much alone in the dungeon. Again. And we all know how well this worked last time.

With a sigh, the hobbit sat back against a wall and drew his knees up to his chest, resting his chin upon them. He supposed he could have gone exploring on his own, but he really didn’t want to venture into the dark caves without Legolas. The elf had a presence and a poise that was very comforting. Even when he’d confessed that they were going in circles, Legolas had been possessed of a quiet confidence that never seemed to fail. And this quiet confidence was an invaluable asset when fumbling through black corridors and foul dungeons. Without it, Merry feared that he would lose his courage and his mind, so he settled back to wait for the elf to wake, humming softly to himself. He probably should have been more concerned about their future than he was, but since there didn’t seem to be anything he could do at the present time, he didn’t see any sense in worrying. It was something he’d learned from Frodo on the quest to destroy the Ring. There was no point in worrying about the things you couldn’t change. It was the things you could change that should be worrisome.

Which is not to say that Merry was comfortable in his cell. Far from it. Deep down in his heart, he was terrified. He had no idea what was happening, he had no idea what was planned, and he had no idea about what the future held. But he wasn’t letting these fears take over his mind, which gave him a calm that was very much at odds with his present surroundings. He was still rather unnerved by what seemed to be a growing shadow in his thoughts, but since it was more or less dormant at the moment, Merry decided it wasn’t worth stewing over.

Still, I suppose that I ought to think about something or do something productive while I’m awake and alert. Otherwise I’ll do nothing but sit here and stare at that torch over there. Not that sitting by the wall and staring at the torch was necessarily a bad thing. It was certainly a far better prospect than running into a band of Orcs or the Mouth of Sauron out in the tunnels. But torch-watching was becoming a rather tedious activity, and Merry decided that for the sake of his sanity, he probably needed to do something else with his time. As for what that something was, well…that was another matter. Perhaps if I sit here long enough, something will occur to me.

With this thought, Merry continued to stare at the torch, eventually becoming lost in the dance of the flames while his mind was slowly drawn back through time until arriving at the failed escape attempt. Deciding that this place was as good a place as any to start, Merry shrugged and began calling to mind pertinent details. Exactly how long ago had that been? An hour? A day? A week? Time had ceased to hold meaning for the hobbit, which was strange, especially since hobbits used time to signal the start of meals. Merry hadn’t eaten during his stay with the Orcs, but he could not say that he was hungry. Not really hungry, anyway. He was hungry in the sense that he knew he’d missed several important mealtimes, but his stomach was not clamoring for food and his body didn’t seem to mind that fact that he hadn’t eaten for a while.

And no drink, Merry realized, thinking the situation over a little more carefully. I’ve had nothing to drink, but I’m not thirsty. And I’m not nauseous. That can’t be the problem. If someone put some turkey and potatoes in front of me, I’d gladly eat them. But I’m not hungry. I wouldn’t need to eat them.

Scratching his head, Merry frowned and glanced toward Legolas. He’d have to ask the elf about this. There was something very strange going on, but for the life of him, Merry couldn’t figure out what. The thought occurred to him that perhaps Legolas wouldn’t know what was going on either, but that was too discouraging for the hobbit and he dismissed the notion, ignoring the fact that the elf had already admitted that he didn’t know what was happening.

With that problem now stored away for a time when Legolas was awake to discuss it, Merry returned to the task of figuring out just how long ago he and the elf had tried to escape. In the end, his estimate was three or four hours. Maybe five. When he woke and discovered himself back in the cell after a rather unnerving meeting with the Mouth of Sauron, his back had been stiff from lying on the ground in an awkward position but not painfully so. He couldn’t have been lying there for long. That problem solved, Merry took a moment to celebrate and then moved on to a far more daunting question: What had happened to them at the entrance of the cave? Why hadn’t they been able to escape? And what had been the purpose of letting them leave the cell in the first place?

Merry could have gone on in his questions, but then he would have to confront the mystery of what exactly the Mouth of Sauron was doing to them and he didn’t want to think about that. He had a feeling that the answer would be unpleasant, and he’d rather leave the task of figuring that out to Legolas. The elf was probably better at handling unpleasant situations than he was.

But how was he to know what had happened at the cave’s entrance without knowing what the Mouth of Sauron was doing? Rubbing his head and cursing as he felt the beginnings of a rather large headache, Merry wondered how Aragorn made this all look so easy. The king of Gondor only had to glance sideways at a situation, and then all the details would suddenly became clear to him. It was uncanny and the hobbit was more than a little envious of this ability.

A quiet mumble suddenly drew his attention away from his thoughts, and Merry looked hopefully at his cellmate. Legolas moved slightly and one hand came up to rub the side of his head, but then he quieted and fell motionless again.

"Legolas?" Merry tried, refusing to let hope die so easily.

But the elf made no response, and the hobbit sighed with the knowledge that he probably had another hour or so to himself until the elf woke. Legolas didn’t look very good and probably needed the sleep. But what if sleep is bad for him? Merry wondered, wishing Aragorn was here to decipher everything. My own dreams aren’t too comforting right now and there’s something dark in them. Something keeps telling me to…to do things, only I can’t remember what those things are right now.

Becoming disgusted with thoughts that didn’t seem to be going anywhere, Merry groaned and rubbed his temples. He was no closer to answers now than he had been when he’d started. For all his musings and all his ponderings, the hobbit still knew only one thing for certain: The next time they were unconscious, it was definitely Legolas’s turn to wake up first.

* * * *

The Hall of Fire was silent and still when Gimli entered. High above him, the eternal stars glittered and sang, harmonizing with the flames that surged up from the blaze at the end of the room. During his stay in Rivendell prior to the formation of the Fellowship, Gimli had spent much time in this hall. His father had strongly disapproved, but Gimli had been strangely drawn to the place. He’d made a point of avoiding it when it was frequented by elves, but in the early morning hours when all others were asleep, Gimli would often rouse himself and creep into this unique room for quiet meditation. It seemed as though his thoughts became tangible entities here, easier to see and sort, while distracting emotions were soothed by the crackle of the perpetual fire. Gimli had never been able to look upon a forge in quite the same way ever since, and he had occasionally wondered if fire might not be the elves’ connection to the foundations of Arda, where flame and heat shaped the structures of the world. Of all the wonders of Rivendell, the Hall of Fire was a place that a dwarf would most appreciate, and unable to sleep, it was here that Gimli had come in a seemingly fruitless search for answers and dreams.

With a tired sigh that spoke of far more than simple weariness, Gimli moved to stand before the raging fire, watching as tongues of flame leaped and hissed, waving slightly when a gentle breeze wafted through the room. Losing himself in their hypnotic dance, Gimli’s mind began to drift to other fires, and he saw himself seated in the wilderness next to Legolas, speaking quietly as the campfire died away and the night turned cool. He could almost hear the elf singing softly to himself as the stars lit the sky, and Gimli felt himself lulled to sleep by the gentle cadences of an elven song. He heard Legolas laugh and say something about ballads being used as lullabies, but by that point, the dwarf was too far gone to give a response. Then Legolas would cover him with his own cloak and a thick blanket, resume his singing, and Gimli would drift away on the tides of strange dreams.

With a shake of his head, the dwarf moved reluctantly out of memories and back into reality. He still harbored doubts about returning to Rivendell, but Gimli’s mind was possessed of a cruel logic that asserted itself once in a while. It had been at work during the long chase across the plains of Rohan and had made him suggest stopping for the night, contrary to the obvious wishes of Legolas and the fears that they all shared. And this logic had come to him again in the face of Aragorn’s arguments, pointing out that he would do Legolas no good if he collapsed on his feet in the middle of a battle. It was better to rest during the long wait rather than worrying and stewing over things that could not be rushed.

And beyond these reasons, Gimli had seen that Aragorn would not be gainsaid in his decision to send the dwarf and the hobbits back to Rivendell. And as stubborn as he was, even Gimli would hesitate before he challenged Aragorn when the man had set his mind upon something, especially if Aragorn also happened to be tired, frustrated, worried, and away from Arwen. In any case, Gimli had been of little help on the search itself, and he was not too proud to admit that the tension between himself and Thranduil was partially his fault. At least, he was not too proud to admit it to himself, but he would build a forge in a tree ere he would ever admit it to anyone else, even Legolas.

Legolas…

Gimli did not like feeling helpless. Dwarves were not supposed to feel helpless. They were fierce warriors and industrious workers, always finding something to do and always having two or three other projects in mind even as they labored away on something else. But at the moment, Gimli could only think of the searchers in the darkness and how he was powerless to aid them. Somewhere beyond the shadow was his friend, yet how that friend could be found was beyond the dwarf. Glancing up through gaping windows at the stars that seemed to dance forever while remaining blissfully ignorant of life’s cruelties, the dwarf offered a silent plea for help. But the night kept its silence and made no answer.

Passing his hand over the sharp blade of his axe where it rested in his belt, Gimli shook his head and sighed. If Legolas could see him now, the elf would laugh. Here was a dwarf, a master of metal and stone, staring at the fire and the stars with an intensity and interest that only an elf would show. And much as he hated to admit it, Gimli longed to hear that mocking laugh and listen to the teasing jests that would be tossed his direction. He wished to field the insults and return them. He wished for their endless banter and battle of wits that could drive even Aragorn to distraction. He wished to be continually looking up at the elf and envying him for his height. Durin’s beard, he wished for his friend!

"By the Valar, Legolas, where are you?!" Gimli cursed, slumping down onto a nearby bench and running a hand over his face as frustration, fear, and anger got the better of him. "Where are you, my friend, and how can I reach you? How do I come to your aid?"

"Bush?"

The dwarf jerked up in surprise at the tentative voice, for he had believed himself to be alone. Making a quick survey of the room, his quick eyes soon spied three figures in a far corner, hidden by the shadows of pillars. Leaning against the wall, Sam was fast asleep and snoring slightly. Rosie’s head was pillowed on his lap, a look of relief spread across her slumbering face. By contrast, their daughter was wide-awake and gazing at Gimli with curious eyes.

"Good evening, little one," Gimli finally answered, managing to force a smile onto his face. Elanor smiled back and waved. "Would you join me?" the dwarf invited, patting the bench next to him. Elanor giggled and nodded, scampering across the room and scrambling up onto the bench. Her first action was to grab for the beard, and Gimli chuckled as he lifted her into his lap. "Still fascinated by this? I suppose you haven’t seen many beards during your short life, have you?"

"Pretty," Elanor said with a smile, entwining her small hands in the thick hair and resting her had on Gimli’s chest. The dwarf snorted and began to laugh.

"Pretty? Ah, little one, if only Legolas was here now. It would do him good to hear an honest and accurate opinion." The dwarf sighed, his thoughts darkening and his eyes glancing again at the stars that his elven friend loved so much.

"Why are you sad?" Elanor asked, staring at Gimli with the innocent and heartfelt concern of a child.

Gimli smiled slightly and pulled the little hobbit closer to him. "I have a very dear friend, and he can’t be with me right now," the dwarf whispered, saying things he would never imagine saying to anyone else, least of all Legolas. "I miss him very much, and I am worried about him."

"Where is he?"

"I wish I knew, Elanor," Gimli murmured. "I wish I knew."

"Maybe he’s scared and he’s hiding."

Gimli bit his lip, not wishing to think about the possibilities. "I hope that is not the case, dear one. I have never seen him hide from anything."

"Maybe it’s a game. I know lots of good hiding games."

"I pray it is merely a game," the dwarf whispered, closing his eyes and turning his head. "Yet if that is so, it has lasted far too long, even for him."

"I can help look for him," Elanor volunteered. "I know all the good places to hide. I found some this morning!"

"I am certain that you did," Gimli sighed, unconsciously tightening his arms around the child. "And I would greatly appreciate your help, but my friend is many miles away. We would have to travel far and the road would be too long for you. You must stay here and look after your mother and father. They need you, much as my friend needs me. Yet you have my thanks for the offer, Elanor. It was generously made."

"Mommy says I’m good at helping," Elanor said, pulling back slightly and studying the dwarf’s face. "But you’re still sad." She was silent for a moment, her lips puckered with thought, and then a smile lit her face. "When I’m sad, daddy tells me a story and then I’m not so sad. Maybe if you tell me a story then you won’t be sad, either."

Gimli laughed quietly, his mood lifting momentarily, and he shifted so that he could lean back against a wide pillar. "A good idea. I think I would enjoy that very much. What kind of story would you like?"

Elanor thought about that for a moment, her small brow furrowing in concentration. "A story about your friend," she finally said.

"You want a story about my friend?" Gimli repeated, no longer certain that he could do this. But Elanor nodded firmly as she snuggled up against his chest, and Gimli realized that he was beaten. Though he was a victorious veteran of many battles, a single look at Elanor’s determined face told him that he could not hope to win this one. "A story of Legolas," he finally murmured, trying to collect his scattered thoughts that seemed to darken with each passing minute. "Well, little one, Legolas is an elf. And elves are…elves are different. They’re not all there, if you understand me. But Legolas…Legolas is a very special elf for all that he can be the most irritating, annoying, stubborn, and foolish being on Middle Earth."

"What’s irritating mean?"

Gimli smiled as several memories suddenly sprang to mind. Perhaps this could be entertaining after all. "Listen closely, Elanor. Listen and I shall tell you a story about an elf and a dwarf who ventured into a dark forest filled with strange, talking trees. And by the story’s end, you will know what irritating means."

* * * *

Surrounded by darkness and pale as the moon that hung overhead, Aragorn swayed slightly on his feet as his eyes drifted shut. A soft moan escaped him, and then his knees began to buckle. Swift as one of the Mearas, Elrohir leaped to the side of his foster brother and caught him, supporting the weakening frame and holding him upright.

"Northeast," Aragorn murmured, struggling to open his eyes. "They turn northeast for a bit, perhaps a mile. It could be even further, but my last sense of the trail was not clear. I will have to check again after we have journeyed a mile."

"Then we must see to it that you do journey a mile for some time," Elrohir said firmly, turning bright eyes into the treetops. "King Thranduil? Northeast for one mile. Estel and I shall meet you there in a moment."

A form moved in the darkness above, and the finely chiseled face of Mirkwood’s king was briefly illuminated by moonlight. "Time presses upon us, Elrohir. Do we know the trail beyond that mile?"

Elrohir gritted his teeth and wished fervently that Elladan had been able to stay with him. His twin had always been better at dealing with Thranduil than any other elf in Rivendell. Even their father, shrewd as he was, had never been able to quite match Elladan’s talent for subtle dissuasion and casual meddling when it came to Thranduil. And now forced to deal with the king of Mirkwood himself, Elrohir was coming to realize just how precious and rare his brother’s gift was.

"The trail must be checked again beyond that mile, King Thranduil," Elrohir eventually answered, "but Estel must be given a chance to recover. He has suffered the darkness to encroach upon his mind far too long now, and it is taking its toll upon him."

"I shall be fine," Aragorn murmured weakly, struggling to break away from Elrohir’s restrictive hold.

"Hold your tongue or I shall personally carry you back to Imladris," Elrohir shot back. "You are not fine, brother. You need rest and you need to reorganize your mental defenses. This darkness has completely sapped your strength."

Aragorn grunted and started to respond to this, but his eyes glazed over slightly and a look of confusion crossed his face. Sensing that the man was about to fall, Elrohir readjusted his grip and leaned Aragorn against his own body in order to better support his weight.

"Perhaps Elladan should be summoned back from Imladris," Thranduil suggested. "I remind you that two lives hang in the balance, and we have not the time to wait for King Elessar to recover."

"I remind you that Elladan is also recovering, King Thranduil," Elrohir said, tightening his grip on Aragorn as the king began to sway to the side. "He can no more confront the darkness at this time than can Estel. Unless you or one of the elves beneath your command is willing to make the attempt, then I fear we have come to an impasse. Patience and waiting are our only options."

"Patience and waiting have cost us too much in the past. We cannot resort to them now," Thranduil shot back. "If the mortal is incapable of trailing the Orcs, other measures must be sought."

"Such as?" Elrohir challenged.

"Dispatching teams of elves throughout the woods. If the groups were of sufficient size, the darkness would not overcome us and we would cover greater ground."

"But for what purpose?" Elrohir asked. "Think you that Legolas and Merry are still being held above ground and in the open? Nay, that will not be so. Not with one of Númenórean blood behind the attack. There is something planned in this, and should we separate, I fear we would but oblige he who orchestrated this great darkness. Nay, we must hold to this course, however long it may take. Only by so doing shall we discover the Orcs’ lair."

Thranduil was silent for a moment, his eyes dark as he studied Elrond’s son. "You have hunted Orcs before, young one," he eventually said, his voice quiet. "Your mother was taken captive and you were forced to free her. Tell me this, if you can. During what portion of her confinement did Lady Celebrían sustain her most severe injuries?"

Elrohir felt Aragorn stiffen against his side, apparently sensing the direction of the conversation despite the haze within the king’s mind. Tightening his grip on both his foster brother and his temper, Elrohir shifted Aragorn to the side and started walking, hoping to distract Aragorn by forcing him to move. "You ask a difficult question, King Thranduil," Elrohir said at length when Aragorn’s attention had left the conversation and moved to the task of putting one foot in front of the other. Thranduil trailed them as a silent shadow in the trees, and Elrohir fervently wished that this silent shadow would slink back to Mirkwood.

"Nevertheless, there is a purpose to the question, Elrohir, and so I ask again. At what point in your mother’s captivity did the Orcs do the most harm?"

"During the latter half of her captivity, just ere we slew the Orcs that guarded her," Elrohir whispered harshly, his mind now forced back through time to that horrid day when he and Elladan had finally found the place of their mother’s captivity. It had been a miserable, wretched experience, and one that Elrohir had desperately tried to forget.

"And why do you suppose that was?"

"Because they knew we were coming and sought to drive us to madness by her cries," Elrohir answered, stopping and closing his eyes. Aragorn stopped beside him and once again started to fall as the darkness overcame him. Sensing that his foster brother was on the verge of collapse, Elrohir sighed and then swept Aragorn into his arms, ignoring the weak protests that indicated that Aragorn was still somewhat aware of his surroundings. Searching for a suitable tree, Elrohir leaped into a set of low branches and found a sturdy limb upon which to prop the king of Gondor.

"You say that your mother’s torment was a direct result of your attempts to rescue her?" Thranduil asked, joining Elrohir on the lower branches as Elrohir tried to make Aragorn comfortable.

"Some of it," the half-elf conceded, his voice a quiet murmur as foul memories stirred within his immortal heart. "They also…they had…that was not the only time that they…" Elrohir shook his head and cursed his inability to speak of this. In truth, he’d never been very good at talking about this, and it was partially for this reason that he was still so haunted by the experience.

A hand upon his shoulder startled him, and he looked up in surprise at the king of Mirkwood. "My apologies, young one," Thranduil whispered, and in his voice was a strange note of compassion that took Elrohir by surprise. "I did not know the event was still so painful for you, else I would have chosen another example."

Because of a mixture of regret, longing, anger, and confusion choking his throat, Elrohir could not respond, but he nodded slightly in gratitude. After a few swallows, he managed to regain some of his composure and turned to Thranduil, his gaze empty and expressionless. "I trust you had a purpose in raising these memories, King Thranduil. Speak of that purpose, I pray you, so that I may feel that this has not been merely an exercise in torment."

Looking slightly uncomfortable—an extremely rare look for the king of Mirkwood—Thranduil grimaced and sighed. "It has been my experience—and I have unfortunately had quite a few experiences—that Orcs do not excessively torment a captive elf until that elf is on the verge of death or liberation. This is not always the case for there are exceptions to everything, but as a general rule, it holds well. Orcs wish to keep their prisoner alive for as long as possible so that they might prolong their sport. With this idea in mind, it is easy to see that our current strategy is folly. We draw closer to the Orcs’ lair by following their trail, true, but the Orcs will be expecting this and watching for us. The fact that they were able to find us earlier today is evidence enough of that. If we continue on this course and press too close for their comfort, they shall release their anxiety by visiting torment upon Legolas and the hobbit, and they will kill them both ere they allow them to be rescued."

"But Legolas and Merry shall surely die if we fail to find the lair," Elrohir answered, still trying to shove foul memories to the back of his mind. "And that is exactly what shall happen if we fail to follow the trail."

"Have you so little faith in the elves of Mirkwood?" Thranduil shook his head and hissed slightly in frustration and anger. "We fought against the darkness of Dol Guldur for centuries, unaided by the Three that sheltered Lothlórien and Rivendell. We know better than any how to deal with Orcs, for that has been our lot in this world. My warriors can recognize an Orc stronghold better than they can recognize their own homes, for in many cases, they have spent more time in the presence of the Enemy than they have spent in the presence of their family. Think, Elrohir! You know this to be true, and you know that I am right. We cannot follow the trail all the way to the dungeons themselves. At some point, we must leave the sure path and seek our own way so as to preserve the advantage of surprise. Why not now while we are delayed upon the trail?"

"Because we are not yet near the lair," a weak voice mumbled.

"Rest, Estel," Elrohir commanded absently, mentally wrestling with Thranduil’s logic.

A snort indicated Aragorn’s thoughts on this particular command, and before Elrohir could stop him, the king had struggled to a sitting position, clutching tightly at the branch beneath him but supporting his own weight. "You are correct, King Thranduil," Aragorn said, his voice slowly gaining strength. "We cannot pursue this trail to its end. But there are too many areas to search, and I fear the delay that it would cause should we leave the trail now."

Thranduil’s eyes flashed and he studied Aragorn for a good minute before finally releasing the man from his piercing gaze. "You may continue in the path of folly if you wish," he said to Elrohir, "but my warriors and I shall work at finding release for those who have been taken captive."

"I need only a moment, Thranduil, and then we may resume our search," Aragorn said quietly. "Patience."

The look of anger and frustration was growing in Thranduil’s face, and Elrohir found himself shifting closer to Aragorn in the event that the king of Mirkwood decided to lash out at the man. "We must work together in this," Elrohir reasoned. "Divided, we lose strength."

"But it seems that Rivendell is incapable of seeing clearly," Thranduil snapped. "This slow and methodical way is well and good when it serves its purpose, but the time has come for more decisive action."

"Perhaps," Aragorn murmured, swaying slightly but still managing to maintain his sitting position. "Yet through my reading of history, I seem to recall that this exact reasoning was used once before and with disastrous results. Was it not Oropher who refused to hearken to the counsel of Gil-galad and began the attack prematurely while the other elves opted for a slower siege and a more methodical form of attack? And was this not the cause—"

"Silence," Thranduil snapped, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You speak of what you cannot possibly understand. And what would you, the heir of Isildur, know of respecting counsel given by—"

"Enough," Elrohir interrupted, realizing that things were about to go downhill rapidly. "King Thranduil, I have no wish to argue this with you, for I have not the talent to do so. If you choose to take your forces elsewhere, that is your affair and there is naught I can do to hinder you. But I strongly urge you to postpone at least until morning. Elladan shall return then, and perhaps he shall bring word from Lord Celeborn, who is undoubtedly studying this matter. And discussions such as this will be clearer by the light of day. I like not the darkness that hangs over us, and I believe that it would be wise to wait on a decision to separate until the sun is overhead."

A rather tense silence settled over the three, and the anger sparking between Thranduil and Aragorn was almost enough to blot out the darkness altogether. At length, though, Thranduil turned away and nodded sharply. "For now, Elrohir, we shall delay. But my counsel stands and come morning, my warriors and I shall seek a different path. If you wish to join us in this, you are welcome, but if not, then I urge you to return to Rivendell. By following the trail of the Orcs, you put my son in jeopardy, and I will not allow you to do that." And having said this, Thranduil inclined his head and leaped upward, catching hold of a branch and twisting into the shelter of the treetops where he vanished from sight.

Elrohir sighed and tried to allow the tension to drain from his shoulders, but before he could do so, a rustling sound from behind caught his attention.

"Estel!"

"If Thranduil means to go ahead with this, we must make better progress tonight," Aragorn answered, struggling to his feet and nearly falling.

Catching his foster brother by the arm, Elrohir fixed a stern glower upon his face and forced the king of Gondor back down on the branch. "We will make no progress if you collapse as Elladan did. Rest a moment more and then we shall resume the hunt."

"I am perfectly capable of seeking the trail now and—"

"Estel, if you leave this branch, the consequences will be dire," Elrohir said firmly.

"I’ve heard better threats from hobbits," Aragorn retorted, struggling back to his feet.

Recognizing in his brother an attitude of extreme stubbornness that not even Elrond had ever managed to overcome, Elrohir finally gave in. "If you insist," he murmured. "But we shall make our way forward in the trees."

Aragorn blinked and frowned. "That is the slower way."

"Good."

"Elrohir, I—"

"We go by the trees or not at all," Elrohir said firmly, his own stubbornness coming into play with a vengeance. "Valar take you, Estel, for I will not endure much more of this. Now, we can do it my way and rejoin the others on the trail in due time, or you can sit here and recover. Which shall it be?"

For a moment, there was no response. And then Aragorn began to laugh. "A fine pair of fools we make, Elrohir."

"One fool there is at least," Elrohir snorted.

"You take after Elladan in that," Aragorn answered.

"And I believe that I taught you everything you know."

"As I said before, a fine pair of fools we make." Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "Let us stay in the trees, then, but let us make as much haste as possible."

"Or as much haste as you are capable of," Elrohir amended with a wry grin.

Aragorn laughed but gave no other response, for his attention was now focused on keeping his balance as he began to navigate the tree limbs. Elrohir sensed that the king of Gondor was recovering rapidly now that he was out of the misty shadows, but he kept a hand on Aragorn’s arm just in case aught should happen. They continued thus in silence for a bit, each lost in thought, and then Aragorn spoke, his voice quiet and anxious. "Thranduil is right. We cannot follow the trail to the lair itself. They shall know of our coming long before we can arrive to save the captives."

"But we have no way of knowing when to leave the trail and seek our own paths. Should we leave it prematurely, we could lose the Orcs entirely, and such a delay would prove costly."

"True enough, and therein lies much of the problem. But I feel that we are drawing close. Come morning, I think we may want to seriously consider Thranduil’s suggestion. Elladan may be able to better sense how close we are. We should confer with him."

"I doubt that he will know any better than you."

"Perhaps not, but I would feel better obtaining his opinion before deciding upon anything."

"As would I," Elrohir readily agreed. "Careful here. The branch is weak."

"Like ourselves," Aragorn murmured, moving cautiously and stepping only where Elrohir indicated he should step. "We are weak for we are not united. This must change."

"I am open to suggestions."

"As am I."

Elrohir sighed and shook his head. "Then I counsel that we speak no more of this until dawn. For we are both at a loss, and the night weighs heavily upon our spirits. Perhaps the sun shall see a change for the better."

"Or perhaps it shall only see more individuals with more questions," Aragorn muttered ominously. "But I will heed your words. Come. The night wears on, and I would seek the trail again."

Author’s Notes: For those of you asking about it, the origins for all the Black Númenórean stuff are something of a mix, both in this story and in the story Land of Light and Shadows (apologies for a shameless plug). Some of it is coming out of my own head, some of it is coming out of the Silmarillion. If you want to know about a specific thing, ask and I’ll track down the source.

And the point has been brought up that Elladan and Elrohir should not bear the title Half-Elven because their mother was a full elf, making them Three-Fourths elven. I fear that I must respectfully disagree with this claim. If you go with this interpretation and then trace history, you’ll find that the children of Elrond are actually Thirteen-Sixteenths Elves.

Don’t believe me? Watch.

Elrond is the son of Eärendil who is the son of Tuor (man) and Idril (elf). Thus, Eärendil is a Half-Elf. Then Eärendil marries Elwing. Elwing is the daughter of Dior Elúchil who is the son of Beren (man) and Lúthien (elf). So Dior Elúchil (not to be confused with Dior the ninth ruling steward of Gondor) is a Half-Elf who then marries Nimloth (elf), making his daughter Elwing a Three-Fourths Elf. Then Elwing the Three-Fourths Elf gets together with Eärendil the Half-Elf and produces Elrond (and Elros) who is consequently a Five-Eighths Elf. To finish the genealogy, Elrond then married Celebrían (elf) and out came Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen. And with a Five-Eighths Elf parent coupled with a full elf parent, the children are…(cue drum roll)…Thirteen-Sixteenths Elves.

Confused? Don’t worry about it. You can actually forget the entire preceding paragraph, because it really all comes down to what it means to be Half-Elven. The Half-Elven title doesn’t refer to lineage proportions but rather to the fact that Elrond and all his children have the choice to either become mortal or immortal. They’re caught halfway between two worlds, so Half-Elven. Why not Half-Man? I’m not as certain on this one, but I think that it’s because elf is the default. Until Elrond and company make their choice, they might as well be elven, so it makes more sense to refer to them by that.

Chapter 17: Rise Again

Celeborn was an elf of great strength and even greater endurance. One could not live through the hardships and the trials that he had without having the energy and the perseverance that he possessed. As such, Celeborn was unused to feeling weary or tired. He knew fear and anxiety all too well while grief and sorrow were both frequent visitors, but exhaustion was something else. Nevertheless, from time to time, Celeborn would become fatigued, and he now reluctantly conceded to himself that this was one of those times.

He was still in Rivendell’s library, sequestered among the books and the manuscripts that had grudgingly yielded a few answers to the questions that continued to plague his mind. Taking a small break from his research, Celeborn stood, stretched, and moved to the large, arching windows that looked out over the valley of Imladris. The world was still veiled by night, but an elven time sense told Celeborn that dawn was not far away. The sun would climb over the top of the mountains in a little over an hour, and the day would begin. By then, he had best be prepared with answers, for Arwen would return with persistence renewed.

Yet how shall I explain anything with what little information I have? It is still not more than a hunch. Only a possible idea that happens to agree with the facts as they are known. There is no strong evidence that what I now remember is happening to Legolas and Merry! The lord of Lothlórien groaned and caught his head in his hands in a most unseemly display of exhaustion. By the Valar but I am tired!

With a weary sigh, Celeborn turned slightly and leaned back against the window’s wooden frame, wondering exactly where his fatigue came from. It probably stemmed from the fact that he was not using his usual methods in pursuing answers but rather adapting Galadriel’s tactics and making them his own. It was working to an extent, but it was telling on Celeborn’s nerves. Had the investigation proceeded normally, he would have traveled to see the darkness for himself and then garnered information from all who came into contact with it. Depending upon what he learned, he might then have returned to the library or he might have lingered for further study. In any event, he would have never begun his search in the library with only the vague inkling that this had happened before. Yet this was exactly what had happened, and Celeborn decided that Galadriel was wholly to blame.

He seemed to sense a hint of laughter at this, and he grunted as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Doubtless his exhaustion was highly amusing to Galadriel, particularly because of its source. This was not a weariness of the body but rather of the mind, yet it was telling on Celeborn physically as well as mentally. Still, at least now he had a better idea of what they might be facing and could prepare for some of the problems that might arise if Aragorn and the sons of Elrond were successful in freeing Legolas and Merry.

And with Pippin, Gimli, and Thranduil to help them, Celeborn sighed, Legolas and Merry will be liberated, or all our hosts shall die in the attempt. Those three in particular shall make certain of that. The elf smiled rather mirthlessly and shook his head. When Thranduil caught up with the power that had taken his son, all of Arda would undoubtedly tremble. The son of Oropher had a temper that could put Sauron to shame, and despite what he might do or say, he loved his youngest son fiercely. In Celeborn’s opinion, he loved him a little too much, and his need to control Legolas and keep him from harm’s way had led to many of the arguments and ill feelings that seemed to have come between the two. And as for Pippin and Gimli…well, there were legends about dwarven loyalty as well as horrific tales regarding what happened to those foolish enough to violate said loyalty. And Pippin had appeared ready to take on a Balrog for the sake of his lost friend.

Celeborn sighed again and shook himself out of his thoughts. There was still much to be done and much needed in the way of preparation. Beyond that, he had to speak with Elladan ere the elf left to rejoin the others in the forest. It would be a busy day for all, if nothing else, and by its end, things in Rivendell had to be ready.

Quickly gathering up the scrolls and books he had used, Celeborn placed them back on the shelves and in the bins where they had been stored. Once all was again in order, the lord of Lothlórien turned and left the vast library. He had learned all that he could from the records of the ages, and it was now time to put that knowledge to use. Trying to ignore the weariness that clung to him like a shroud, Celeborn closed the library doors behind him and set out in search of Elladan.

* * * *

The early morning air had a bite to it and Pippin pulled his cloak firmly about himself as he hurried toward the Hall of Fire. A strange thing had happened this morning that was probably never to be repeated: Pippin had risen from his bed on time. Inexorably pleased with himself, the hobbit had met Elladan and some of the other elves upon the main porch exactly one hour before sunrise and had surprised them all with his promptness. While waiting for others to come, Lindir had reported that Sam and Rosie had spent the night in the Hall of Fire and were probably not yet awake. Pippin had immediately volunteered to rouse them, and Elladan, sensing the hobbit’s enthusiasm as well as his need to show off his rare punctuality, had easily given his consent.

Concern for Merry momentarily allayed, Pippin grinned to himself as he hurried through the quiet halls. He’d beaten Sam in waking, and now it was his turn to do the rousing. For most of their journey with the Fellowship, Sam had been awake long before Pippin, and there’d been more than a few quiet remarks on this fact from the normally unassuming gardener. During their stay at Rivendell before setting out on the quest, Sam had picked up the ability to rise with the sun, and he took great pleasure in making sure that others who did not wake so easily were very aware of his talent in this area. Feeling anticipation build, Pippin chuckled to himself and imagined what kind of face Sam would pull when he found out that Peregrin Took had gotten up first.

Finally reaching the Hall of Fire, Pippin prepared himself to give Sam some good-natured ribbing, pushed the doors open, and then blinked at what he saw.

On one side of the room, shadowed somewhat by a pillar, a sleeping Sam leaned up against the wall with Rosie’s head pillowed on his lap. A small collection of toys lay scattered about them, but their daughter was nowhere near her parents. Instead, she was on the other side of the room curled up in Gimli’s lap, her hands wrapped securely in his beard and her head cradled gently in the crook of his arm. A small smile graced her tiny face, and her sleep reminded Pippin of a peace and innocence that he had once known. Sadness and nostalgia flared briefly within the hobbit, and he thought back with longing to the carefree days of his youth before he had learned of Mordor and the Ring. A glance at Gimli drove home the lesson that he was not the same hobbit who had fled the Shire, nor would he ever be gain. Like Elanor, the dwarf was also asleep, his head lolling to one side, but there was a sense of alertness about him that spoke of his years as a warrior. His free hand hovered near his belt where his axe might rest during long journeys, and beneath closed lids, his eyes flickered and darted about restlessly. Even in dreams, Gimli was never completely at ease.

With a slight sigh, Pippin shook his head and momentarily dislodged his dark mood. He then turned his mind to the question of which sleeper he should rouse first. After evaluating his options, Pippin moved toward Sam because waking Sam was not usually hazardous to one’s health. Waking Gimli could sometimes be an adventure that made Bilbo’s encounter with Smaug sound tame.

Walking quietly, Pippin soon reached Sam’s side and shook him gently, taking care not to wake Rosie as he did so. "Sam? Sam, it’s time to go." Sam mumbled something and shifted, raising one hand to bat at Pippin’s arm. Pippin sighed and shook Sam again, harder this time. "Sam! Come, Sam, Elladan won’t wait forever."

The other hobbit grunted and blearily opened his eyes. He stared for a moment at Pippin as though certain he was seeing things and then shook his head. "What time is it?" he asked.

"One hour before sunrise," Pippin informed him cheerfully. "And you, Master Gamgee, are late."

Sam groaned and rubbed his face. "Who woke you?"

"No one."

Sam stopped and turned incredulous eyes on Pippin. "No one?"

"I am perfectly capable of getting up on my own," Pippin answered loftily.

"No, you aren’t."

"Yes, I am."

Sam sighed and shook his head, easing Rosie’s head off his lap and laying it down gently. "I don’t have the energy to argue this. Let’s get going." Sam lumbered to his feet, stretching as he did so, but then he paused and looked around. "Where’s Elanor?"

"I think she found a playmate," Pippin said, turning his head toward Gimli and nodding.

After a moment of shocked silence, Sam grinned and started to laugh. "Now there’s a sight I never thought to see. I sure wish Strider was here for this. He’d enjoy it, no mistake about that."

"So would Legolas," Pippin murmured, his mood darkening slightly. "Come on, we have to wake Gimli, and we’d best do it before any of the elves decide to come check on us. He wouldn’t forgive us for letting them see him like this."

"No, but you can bet that it would be a treat," Sam said. "Now, how does Legolas usually do this? I know there’s a trick, but I don’t know as we can imitate it."

"I think Legolas always wakes Gimli from a distance. Or at least, that’s the way he did it when we were still in the Fellowship. But we don’t have elven reflexes or an elven reach, so maybe we’d just better call to him."

"Will that wake him?" Sam asked.

Pippin shrugged. "We won’t lose anything by trying."

"No, I don’t suppose we will." Sam sighed and then moved across the room, stopping several feet away from Gimli and looking over as Pippin joined him. "Who wants to go first?"

"Gimli?" Pippin called, taking the initiative. "Gimli, we have to go. You have to wake."

A muted rumble was their only answer, and Pippin looked helplessly at Sam, hoping the gardener had a better idea. He didn’t want to go in and shake Gimli because the dwarf would occasionally wake in a foul mood and assume that any incursion into his personal space constituted an enemy attack.

"Gimli, we have to find Legolas," Sam spoke up quietly, and Pippin mentally kicked himself for not thinking to use Legolas’s name. "You wouldn’t want to miss out on a chance to rescue him, would you?" Sam continued. "Think of how much you can tease him about it later."

The dwarf murmured something in his sleep about elves and then shook his head slightly. With a deep breath, Gimli slowly opened his eyes and looked up, squinting sleepily at Pippin and Sam.

"Good morning," Pippin offered.

Gimli sniffed and muttered something about disrespectful hobbits, but then he seemed to realize that he had something in his arms. Glancing down at Elanor, the dwarf stiffened and then looked up at the hobbits again, an unreadable expression clouding his face. Not knowing quite how to react, Pippin held completely still and hoped someone else would take over the situation. It was Sam who eventually stepped forward and started things moving again.

"Elanor?" he called, and Gimli raised the child to a sitting position as she slowly woke. Bright blue eyes blinked open slowly and a yawn stretched her mouth wide as she arched her back and stretched luxuriously, still somewhat cradled in Gimli’s arms. Elanor then entwined her hands deeper into the dwarf’s beard and began looking about the room. "Hello, sweetheart," Sam said quietly as the large eyes eventually fell upon him. A smile broke over Elanor’s face and she wiggled out of Gimli’s gentle hold to give her father a hug.

"Hi, Daddy!"

Sam winced at her enthusiastic shout and glanced over his shoulder even as he returned the embrace. "Hush, Elanor," he said gently. "We don’t want to wake Mommy. She’s still sleeping."

"Oh." The little hobbit drew back and her eyes darted across the room to where Rosie lay quiet in peaceful oblivion. Her voice now lowered to the level of a child’s whisper, she turned back to Sam. "Mommy sleeps a lot, doesn’t she?"

"Sometimes," Sam answered with a small smile. "I think that she’s very tired today. Did you have a good sleep last night?"

Elanor nodded eagerly as Sam pulled back and stood, her golden curls bouncing on her head. "The bush told me a story about the irritating one."

Sam blinked. "The irritating one?"

Elanor nodded again. "He’s an elf," she explained sagely, her face solemn as though she imparted to them great wisdom. "They’re all irritating. But you can’t say that here, because there are lots of elves around and if you tell them they’re irritating then they become more irritating."

Pippin snorted, unable to help himself, and glanced at Gimli. The dwarf had an innocently bland expression on his face that turned Pippin’s snorts into laughter. He received a rather stern glare for this from Sam, who jerked his head back in the direction of Rosie, but Pippin noticed that the gardener was having a difficult time controlling his own laughter.

"Come on, Elanor," Sam said at length, his voice strained by hidden mirth. "Let’s see how Mommy is doing."

"The irritating one?" Pippin questioned as he and the dwarf followed behind Sam and Elanor.

"It is a fitting enough name for the elf," Gimli answered casually. "I saw no reason for withholding the truth from so perceptive and quick a mind."

"The bush and the irritating one," Pippin murmured with a shake of his head. "At this rate, at least in Elanor’s eyes, you and Legolas will have as many names as Strider."

"NO!" a small voice suddenly exclaimed. Jumping slightly in surprise, Pippin looked over at Sam who was now down on one knee trying to reason with his daughter.

"Just for the day, beautiful," the gardener was saying. "You’ll be in charge again and—"

"No!" Elanor said firmly, folding her arms tightly and assuming a look of extreme stubbornness that immediately reminded Pippin of Sam. "I’m coming, too."

"Elanor, you can’t come," Sam reasoned. "There aren’t any toys to play with and most of the time we’re just be walking about. You wouldn’t find it any fun."

"The bush will be there," Elanor pointed out, looking at Gimli for confirmation. When the dwarf hesitated, she raced over to him and seized his beard in a grip so strong it would have impressed a troll. "I want to stay with the bush!" Elanor declared, glaring at Sam as though daring him to defy her wishes. "He can tell me stories."

With both Pippin and Sam at something of a loss for words, Gimli sighed and picked Elanor up. "Peace, my little friend," the dwarf murmured in a voice so soft that Pippin was hard-pressed to hear him. "Peace." Moving over to the sleeping Rosie, Gimli knelt and set the hobbit child on her feet, smiling slightly as she pressed close to him. "I am truly sorry, Elanor, but I must go now and you must stay. In this we both have a duty. You remember the friend I spoke of? He needs me and I promised to stand with him in darkness and light. I must keep that promise, and I can’t keep that promise if I tell you stories. Do you understand?"

"But I can help you find him!" Elanor protested.

"Little one, this task is not for you. Your role lies elsewhere. If you are looking after your mother, then I need not worry about her and can concentrate on finding my friend. But if you are not here, then I will have too many things to worry about. Do you see now?"

Elanor’s large eyes were still filled with rebellion, but Pippin could see the beginnings of acceptance. She studied the dwarf carefully and then pursed her lips as though coming to a great decision. "If I stay here, will this make you happy?" she eventually asked.

"Very happy," Gimli solemnly confirmed.

With a reluctant nod, the little hobbit backed away and relinquished her hold on Gimli’s beard. "And you’ll find your friend? The irritating one?" Elanor asked.

"Valar willing, yes," Gimli answered with a few rapid blinks.

"Then I’ll stay here," she announced, looking rather satisfied with herself.

"Thank you," Gimli said. "I have no doubt but what you shall be of great assistance here in Rivendell. And now I must go, Elanor. I thank you for your help last night." He paused then as though about to say more but instead of speaking he swallowed, turned away, and walked out of the Hall of Fire, stopping briefly under the main door to send the hobbits a look that sternly warned them about the consequences should the details of this scene be shared with anyone.

"And I thought only Orcs could glare like that," Pippin muttered with renewed respect for the dwarf.

"I know I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side right now," Sam said, checking to see that Sting was secured about his waist. "I wonder if the Orcs know what they’ve gotten in to." With his sword firmly belted in place, Sam leaned over Rosie’s sleeping form and kissed her cheek gently before turning to Elanor. "You be good," he said quietly, brushing his hand across her brow. "I’ll probably be back tonight."

"With the bush and the irritating one," Elanor ordered sternly.

"I’ll try," Sam promised, his voice solemn. He gave his daughter a quick kiss and then stepped away, taking a deep breath before turning to Pippin. "I think I’m ready to go now."

"You could stay," Pippin pointed out as he started moving away from the family.

"No, I couldn’t," Sam sighed. "I traveled through most of Mordor, and I know what Orcs can do. I’ve seen the way they treat even each other. And I’ll not be leaving any of my friends to deal with their likes alone."

"We’re hardly alone, Sam. Half of Imladris is out on the hunt, as well as most of Mirkwood, Lothlórien, and everyone that Aragorn brought up from Gondor."

"Well, you never know as when another sword might come in handy," the gardener answered. "And anyway, I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t go, and I couldn’t face Merry knowing that I didn’t try to go after him with the others. I don’t care that I can’t fight like soldier or track like a Ranger. Merry needs help, and I’m here to give him what little aid I can."

Pippin nodded, knowing exactly how Sam felt. "Then let’s go," he said, clapping the other hobbit on the back. "If we hurry, you might even be able to catch a quick breakfast before Gimli and Elladan get too anxious about starting."

* * * *

The predawn darkness lay heavy upon Rivendell. The winds that usually blew out of the mountains and into the valley were strangely absent this morning, and it was as though all of Arda held its breath. As though waiting for something, Elladan sighed to himself, resting his arm upon the hilt of his sword. Most of the elves had gathered now, and they waited only for the hobbits, Gimli, and a few other elves who were seeing to supplies. But more than that, we wait for answers. And we also wait for consequences.

Elladan had not had a pleasant night. After aiding Arwen in seeing to the medicines, he’d attempted to seek rest. But his mind had been troubled, and when at last he drifted into dreams, the darkness followed him. After an hour of uneasy sleep, he finally woke and rose, sensing that there would be no rest for him. Instead, he’d strolled among the gardens and fountains, seeking solace in the company of the stars. It was not quite the rest that Elrohir had envisioned for his brother, but it seemed to be enough. The clinging shadows had faded and Elladan felt light and hope once again in his soul. But the darkness had not vanished entirely, and as the group prepared to once again set out on the hunt, reminders of what they faced were slowly draining the spirits of the elves.

It is high time we left, Elladan decided, glancing around at the elves who waited with him. Should we delay much longer we shall manage to dim all our hopes ere we know the progress of those who hunted through the night.

"The promise of a new day is ever the promise of new hope."

It took a great effort to prevent himself from jumping, but somehow, Elladan managed it. He had been quite lost in his own thoughts and had not sensed the approach of anyone. Yet as he turned, trying to compose his face into a calm mask that belied his surprise, he found that a very unexpected elf stood behind him.

"Your father was very fond of saying that," Celeborn murmured, glancing toward the Misty Mountains. "He found great hope in the morning."

"My father was ever the optimist," Elladan said.

Celeborn smiled slightly. "And you do not share this?"

"My brother is wont to share it from time to time, and Arwen has certainly inherited this gift. For myself, though, I deem that fate is too fickle a mistress to trust in the light of the morning. Evil merely hides by day. It does not vanish."

"In that, you follow after Círdan’s philosophy. He found his hope in the evening, looking to the stars for guidance. Morning was an uncertain time for him." Celeborn fell silent, sharp gray eyes surveying the other elves, and then he turned back to Elladan. "I would have a quiet word with you for but a moment," he said, his voice soft but his tone firm.

"You have discovered something?" Elladan asked, trying to remember all that Arwen had told him the night before.

"Perhaps." Celeborn moved to the side and Elladan was quick to follow as the lord of Lothlórien slowly drew him away from the other elves. "It is by no means a certainty, but I believe I may have an idea as to what our foe intends," Celeborn continued, his voice low. "Still, I would like to be more confident of my guess ere I speak overmuch of it. Turn your mind to the Orc you confronted just ere you learned of the plan to waylay the Road. You mentioned that a fear of his master kept him from speaking. Tell me exactly what happened at that moment."

Elladan pursed his lips, wondering slightly at the request but nevertheless going back over his memory of the event. "I was forcing answers from him at the point of my sword, but he ceased to speak when I inquired after his master’s identity and purpose. It seemed to me that he was overcome with a great fear. He trembled and shook, almost heedless of my presence."

"And you say this was a lowly Orc from Mordor?" Celeborn asked.

"As well as a deserter, or so I believe. He knew the whereabouts of his company but was seeking other spoils."

"Yet he still had great respect for this master," the lord of Lothlórien murmured, narrowing his eyes. "He was willing to abandon his comrades, but he was not willing to betray the one who ultimately commanded him. He sacrificed his own life for a Black Númenórean who probably never acknowledged the creature’s wretched existence."

"It is obvious you see a conclusion in this reasoning, my lord," Elladan said, feeling the bite of impatience. "But to me your words are an enigma. Can you speak plainly?"

"I know not," Celeborn answered, seeming to now talk to himself. "Very little in this is plain. It is becoming clearer to me, and yet there is still just enough doubt…" He shook his head slightly. "Beware the darkness, Elladan. I doubt that there is a need to tell you this, but I must emphasize just how dangerous these shadows are. Open yourself to them with great caution. And when you are forced to confront them, remember and retain all that you hear and see."

"Arwen mentioned that you were studying the history of Númenor," Elladan said, hoping to draw out more information from his reticent grandfather. "Did you learn something from this search?"

"Nay, not specifically. But it did trigger my memory. It was something that Elendil told Gil-galad and Elrond, and Elrond later told me. I have not thought of this in years, and I doubt very much that it is specifically mentioned in any of the annals of history, for so many more grievous things were happening at the time. As such, my information is scant and has been obtained indirectly." Celeborn shook his head and sighed. "What know you of Amandil?"

Elladan frowned, surprised by the question, but nevertheless he quickly recalled what he could of Númenor and tried to answer Celeborn’s query. "Amandil was Elendil’s father, and it is said that he sailed to the Undying Lands in search of the Valar’s blessing. But he never returned from his voyage, and none in Middle Earth ever learned what became of him."

"What of his early years?" Celeborn pressed. "What of the years before he sailed? And even before he withdrew to Rómenna?"

Wondering exactly where this conversation was headed, Elladan turned his mind backward, digging through facts and rumors that had been buried by passing years. "He was perhaps the last of the Faithful to sit upon the council of the king. But when Sauron corrupted Ar-Pharazôn, Amandil was cast from the council. It was then that he retreated to his stronghold in Rómenna."

Celeborn nodded slowly and watched his grandson with careful eyes. "Then let me remind you of certain things, and by so doing, I hope that you, your brother, Thranduil, and Aragorn might be able to unravel this puzzle. Then shall we compare our conclusions, and perhaps independent evaluations shall prove all. Amandil and Ar-Pharazôn were great friends when they were young. And though Amandil had clearly allied himself with the Faithful, that friendship persisted for years until Sauron was released from his status as a prisoner of Númenor. Keep this in mind, Elladan, and also remember that Sauron stayed close to the king even after his influence over Ar-Pharazôn was clearly established."

"I know not what you hope for me to accomplish with this information," Elladan said, feeling extremely confused and hating it. "These things I knew already. Why do you bring them up again?"

"Why indeed?" Celeborn murmured. "For those answers, I fear you are alone. I will not help you lest I taint you with my own suspicions. I need another mind in this, Elladan, for I do not trust my own reasoning."

"As you wish, my lord," Elladan sighed, sensing that he would get nothing more from Celeborn. A stirring among the elves caught his attention, then, and he turned toward the house as the doors opened and three figures emerged. "Your pardon, grandfather, but the last of our company has now arrived."

"And you wish to depart," Celeborn said. "Go, then, but be wary. And think on what I have said."

"I shall," Elladan answered. "We all shall." And with that, he bowed to Celeborn and moved toward Gimli, Pippin, and Sam. "I trust you are prepared?" he asked.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Elladan, but I was wondering how we were going to find the others," Sam said. "It took us most of yesterday to get as far as we did in that darkness. Are we going to have to go through that again?"

"Nay, Samwise, we have taken thought for this. The trail upon the ground is hidden from us, but elves are not easily led astray in the wood, and we will be able to find the place where we last left our comrades."

"But what about beyond that?" Sam asked. "Will they send someone back for us? Or maybe they have someone waiting?"

"We have also taken precautions in this," Elladan answered, schooling himself in patience. "A trail should have been left in the trees by our companions, and we shall follow it to them. Have no fear, Master Hobbit. We shall not strand you in shadows."

"And now that your question is answered, Sam, let’s be off," Pippin said, anxious to start. "Are we waiting for anyone else, Elladan?"

"You three are the last. Your ponies are already saddled and stand with our horses, and we shall ride until we meet with the men of Gondor. The horses shall then be left in their care and the care of a few elves of our company while the rest of us continue on foot. I trust this is satisfactory?" Elladan asked with a slight twinkle in his eyes.

"As much as can be expected when dealing with elves," Gimli answered gruffly. "Now let us be on our way. The day grows lighter and I would rejoin the others upon the trail ere the sun rises over the mountains."

"Then come, friends," Elladan said, raising his voice so that he now addressed all gathered on the porch. "There is much to be done and little enough time for the doing. We ride to the aid of our companions, and may the Valar strike any that stand in our way."

The surrounding elves cried aloud in response to this, and as one they left the porch and mounted, a song of war and vengeance rising as the light of day began to creep into the valley. Attempting to muster hope from this display of unity and purpose, Elladan composed his face and raised his hand in farewell to Celeborn. The lord of Lothlórien returned the salute, but his face was grave and his eyes troubled. Turning away, Elladan tried to shove this image to the back of his mind as he spurred his mount forward and shouted to the elves behind him. But as they left Rivendell, Elladan could not quite shake the feeling that something very dark was at work. Something darker than any suspected. And this feeling persisted as the elves, hobbits, and dwarf vanished into the cover of the trees to merge with the shadows of the early morning.

* * * *

Legolas first became aware of faint whispers. They surrounded and engulfed him, yet he could not understand their words. At first, it could almost be likened to the sea longing, which was a constant presence in the back of the elf’s mind. But as time went on and the whispers continued, Legolas decided it wasn’t like the sea longing at all. The sea longing was somewhat pleasurable in a haunting sort of way, and it was capable of producing a bittersweet joy. But these whispers… The elf shivered. Their words were dark and cold, and though he did not comprehend what they said, Legolas knew they spoke of evil. He tried to shut them out of his mind, but when he did so, they seemed to close more tightly around him. A creeping chill filled his heart, and he seemed to teeter upon the edge of a precipice.

"Legolas?"

The elf gasped, feeling the dying embers of hope spring to life. Here was a voice neither imagined nor cold. For Legolas it was a lifeline, and he clutched desperately at it, following it toward consciousness much as one would follow a clear trail in a darkened wood. He groaned slightly as he tried to muster the needed energy, for the whispers were loath to release him. But eventually, after a bitter struggle, they seemed to give in and fade into the background.

But they did not go away.

Still painfully aware that he could hear these dark whispers, Legolas managed to open his eyes, and he found himself staring up at the concerned face of Merry Brandybuck.

"Are you awake?" Merry asked hesitantly.

"I am," Legolas sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position and shaking his head. The whispers were still murmuring in the back of his mind, and they were distracting as well as unnerving. "How do you fare, my friend?" the elf asked, trying to keep his mind off the voices.

"I’m still here, which I guess is both good and bad," Merry shrugged. "It means I haven’t escaped, but it also means I’m not dead. Which can also be both a good and a bad thing."

"Do not wish for death," Legolas said sharply, instantly remembering his newfound fear of death. "The situation is not so bad as to wish for that. We shall yet escape."

"I know," the hobbit sighed. He grimaced and looked away, not meeting Legolas’s piercing eyes. "They’ve left the cell door open again."

"Have they?" Legolas glanced over and saw that Merry was right. "I suppose we shall have to take this opportunity, then, and attempt to reach the outside world. I remember the way, I think. It will not take as long as it did last time."

"Legolas, I’m not hungry."

The elf blinked, wondering exactly what that had to do with anything, and then the significance of Merry’s statement sunk in. A hobbit was almost always hungry unless an extremely large feast had just ended. And a hobbit was especially hungry if he hadn’t been given anything to eat or drink for quite some time. Merry hadn’t. Nor am I hungry, Legolas realized with a shiver. The last time he’d eaten had been in Rivendell, two days ago. And his thirst was now gone as well.

"What happened to us?" Merry asked, interrupting the elf’s thoughts. "What happened to us up there? Why couldn’t we escape? I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t move. I was too afraid of leaving the caves. The sunlight was actually painful. It was like…I don’t really know what it was like. What happened, Legolas? What was it? And why aren’t we hungry?!"

"I do not know what happened, Merry," Legolas murmured, getting to his feet and studying the open door of their cell. "Nor do I know what is currently happening. Do you…" He hesitated, unsure of his next words. "Do you hear whispers? Voices? Coming from the shadows?"

The hobbit frowned and cocked his head to the side. "No," he said at length, his expression unreadable. "What about you?"

"I…I am not certain." Legolas frowned and closed his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts. "I believe so. It is as though they linger on the edge of my mind, yet they are a constant presence. And they speak of evil, but I cannot understand their words."

"I do feel a…a darkness," Merry said, waving his hand vaguely. "But no voices. Nothing like that. Do you feel all right?"

"Given the circumstances, I feel as though I am well," Legolas murmured. "But we both know that is not true. Neither of us is well, my friend, for we do not feel a need for food or drink. Yet we have been given nothing to sustain us. And neither of us could abide the thought of leaving the caves when we last attempted to escape."

"It was almost as if I was obligated to stay," Merry said, sounding as though he spoke more to himself than to the elf. "But there was more to it than that. I was afraid of what would happen if I left. But I don’t really know what I was afraid of." The hobbit fell silent and studied the open cell door. "Why did they do it? Why did they let us get so far and then stop us? And why are they doing it again?"

"I know not, Merry. I know very little about our situation. But I fear that duty binds us in making another attempt at escape. If we do not, we submit to the darkness, and I shall not give in so easily."

"But if we don’t figure out what they’re doing and why, then we’ve already lost," the hobbit protested. "We can’t fight them on their terms, they’ve made that clear enough. So we have to figure out what their terms are and change them."

Legolas blinked and glanced over at Merry. "You are not the same hobbit who set out from Rivendell five years ago, Master Brandybuck."

"Are any of us the same?"

"Nay, I suppose not. Still, your words are words of wisdom, but I am at a loss as to how to go about seeking the knowledge we need."

"Don’t you have any guesses?" Merry pleaded. "Anything at all?"

"My suspicions are but grasping shadows," Legolas murmured, wondering if it was just him or if the voices were growing louder. "They have no basis. No foundation. There are no facts to back them."

"But they have to be better than anything I have because I don’t have anything!"

Legolas hesitated a moment, knowing that Merry needed something but uncertain of what to give him. He had several ideas, actually, but they were as stray arrows lost in the night, aimed with little care for direction and shot only for the sake of shooting. He was just as lost as the hobbit insofar as explanations went. And yet Merry was begging for something from one to whom he had looked for guidance. "I think," Legolas said slowly, choosing his words with care, "that we are meant to see our hopelessness. We draw nigh unto our goal only to be pushed back. They seek to break our wills in this, and in some ways, I would deem it to be more effective than physical torture."

"Then why did they do that, too?" Merry asked, his voice lowered to a whisper.

"For one, to allow the darkness entrance into our minds," Legolas answered. "For another, to satisfy the desires of the Orcs. It goes against an Orc’s nature to leave a captive elf whole and unspoiled. Not even the Mouth of Sauron can change the nature of his servants in that respect."

"But we were healed. Why?"

"Because we allowed the darkness to enter," Legolas said quietly. "It healed us. And using this gift, we made our way to the entrance of these caverns only to discover that leaving was against the will of the darkness that now holds us in thrall."

"So why are they doing it again? Wasn’t once enough?"

"Apparently not. Perhaps it is a test of sorts to see how much of a hold the darkness has. But I do not know, Merry. There are many things here that I do not know."

"I don’t suppose you’ve figured out what the purpose is behind all of this."

"Nay, and I fear to guess. But as I have already said, we must at least make an attempt to leave this place."

"I know," the hobbit sighed. "But I can’t help the feeling that this is exactly what they want us to do. And that doesn’t sit well with me. But I don’t have a better idea, and I don’t want to stay here. So I guess that means we should go."

Legolas nodded and moved forward, examining the open door and listening intently for signs that Orcs might be near. But as before, there was nothing. Legolas could not sense the presence of any enemies in the nearby tunnels, and had it not been for the voices that still murmured their dark words, it would have been completely silent. "Do you feel ready for this again?" the elf asked, glancing over his shoulder at the hobbit.

"No, but I don’t think I ever will. Let’s just get it over with," Merry answered, moving past Legolas into the hall. "Should we take the same way we took last time?"

"I do not know the other way," Legolas said. "I can at least guide us if we use the same path."

"Sam once told me that there’s something comfortable about routine," Merry muttered. "But I don’t find this particular routine to be very comfortable. Still, I guess we should take what we can get."

Not knowing how to respond to that and deciding that Merry wasn’t really expecting a response anyway, Legolas sighed and moved forward. He felt the hobbit fall into step behind him, and together, they once again braved the darkness of the tunnels. But this time, a stream of whispering voices followed the elf, and as he ventured further away from the cell, their voices became louder and louder.

Author’s Notes: First of all, some points about Amandil, Elendil, Ar-Pharazôn, and the fall of Númenor. Most of my information is coming straight out of the Akallabêth, which is purported to have been written by Elendil himself and can now be found in the Silmarillion. I’ve also drawn a little bit out of Unfinished Tales as well as Appendix A in The Return of the King. So if anyone is interested in pursuing this topic (and I highly recommend it) there are your sources. But be advised that I am adding my own spin on the things that happened in Númenor, though everything should still fit into canon.

Also, some of you might be wondering why Celeborn is using the name Ar-Pharazôn rather than the name Tar-Calion. But I submit that since Ar-Pharazôn dared to set foot on the Undying Lands, the Eldar do not refer to him by his elven name. Think of it as a rejection of sorts, even though the fall of Númenor happened well over three thousand years ago. (3246 years ago to be precise, if I did my math right.) Elves have long memories and even longer grudges. Anyway, that’s my theory, so take it for what you will.

Next, there have been quite a few questions about what happened to Thranduil’s wife. I am pleased to announce that the entire story behind the fall of Mirkwood’s queen, Legolas’s birth, and Thranduil’s resulting grudge against the dwarves is making an appearance in the next chapter, so hold on to your curiosity until then.

Finally, Donna Marie Lewis has brought to my attention a grave error in my math concerning the children of Elrond, so let’s correct that right now. Lúthien’s mother was a Maia. (Hits self in forehead with hand.) Right, so let’s redo the genealogy. Okay, Thingol (elf) gets together with Melian (Maia) and has Lúthien Tinúviel who is Half-Elf, Half-Maia. She then finds Beren (man) attractive and has a son named Dior Elúchil, who is Half-Man, One-Fourth Elf, and One-Fourth Maia. Dior Elúchil marries Nimloth (elf) and has a daughter named Elwing who is Five-Eighths Elf, One-Eighth Maia, and One-Fourth Man. Elwing then finds Eärendil who is the son of Tuor (man) and Idril (elf), making him Half-Elf, Half-Man. Their union produces Elrond, who is subsequently Nine-Sixteenths Elf, Three-Eighths Man, and One-Sixteenth Maia. Elrond meets up with Celebrían (elf) and out comes Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen. And they are then…25/32 Elf, 1/32 Maia, and 3/16 Man.

And you thought math wasn’t useful.

This chapter is dedicated to Meg Thorton, a wonderful reviewer who inspired me to give Rosie a larger part far earlier than I had anticipated doing so.

Chapter 18: Breaking Points

Loswaia stood before him, as beautiful now as she had been years ago when they first bound themselves one to another. Walking together hand in hand, she had laughingly commented that her swollen belly was hardly conducive to beauty, but Thranduil was quick to reassure her that she had never before been so lovely. And he was quite truthful in this. The queen of Mirkwood had given birth to five sons and two daughters—an unusually large number for the Eldar, but neither parent regretted the decision—and it always seemed to Thranduil that during the month prior to her appointed time, Loswaia glowed as moonlight upon the fair glades of northern Mirkwood.

It was a beautiful day with the sunlight filtering in through leaves as green as the trees could make them. A light breeze stirred the forest canopy and shadows and light played merrily upon the forest floor. The king and queen had walked far this day, venturing into eastern parts of the forest that had recently been freed of the fell spiders and their foul influence. The power of the royal family was now taking hold here, and the trees rejoiced while birds sang songs of praise and happiness. With a smile, Loswaia lifted her voice and joined them, adding her rich alto to the ever-changing song of life. Thranduil could not remember a more perfect day.

But the day’s beauty was swift to fade. A cry from the guards who swept the forest before and behind the royal couple alerted them to coming danger, and though they quickly turned to flee, they were too late. A large group Orcs crashed through the trees as though fleeing danger, and by virtue of both haste and superior numbers, they overwhelmed the elven guards. Howls of accompanying Wargs announced the onslaught of evil just before the first of the enemy came into Thranduil’s view. A sharp ring of steal heralded the appearance of Thranduil’s sword, and he instinctively pulled Loswaia behind him, knowing that she was in no condition to defend herself. But as the Orcs and Wargs crashed into them as waves crashing into the shore, Loswaia was forced away from her husband in the rush. Overcome with a rage that had made Oropher both famous and infamous during the Second Age, Thranduil furiously battled his way through the hordes, sparing none that came within reach of his blade. Beside him fought the remnants of his guards, and together they cut a bloody swath in the attacking forces. Elven horns sounded loudly, their calls ringing frantically in the air, and at their beck, Mirkwood’s army rushed forth to the defense of its rulers. The press of Orcs and Wargs was eventually swept away, and Mirkwood’s king was saved.

But it was too late for Mirkwood’s queen.

Thranduil found her clinging to a tree in a vain effort to stay upright, bright blood staining the bark. He caught her as she fell, her pale hand clutching at the hem of his robe. His shouts for a healer were quickly answered, but the eyes that turned to him after a hasty examination were grave.

"Sire, she has gone into labor."

Thranduil’s breath caught and he stared at Loswaia in disbelief, watching the pain upon her face as agony from grievous sword and arrow wounds was compounded by birthing pains. The hand upon his robe tightened into a fist and she jerked her head back as she attempted to silence the screams that were building in her throat.

The next few moments were little more than a blur to Thranduil. He swept Loswaia into his arms and began to run, heedless of the healer who protested against moving her, for Thranduil was beyond reason. He knew only that Loswaia could not lie among the carcasses of the Orcs and Wargs. He ran for a mile or so before the healer caught up with him and begged him to lie the queen flat upon the ground. By now, she was moaning piteously in pain and had buried her face against Thranduil’s shoulder, seeking his comfort.

"Peace, beloved," the king whispered, pressing his cheek against hers as she began to shake. He laid her down with a gentleness that could rival the southern breeze. "Peace. This will be but a moment. We shall return to the palace and you shall be healed."

Loswaia could not answer vocally as pain had stolen her voice, but her arms wrapped themselves around her husband’s neck and she held him tightly, which was answer enough for Thranduil. Returning the embrace, he murmured soft words and soothed her as her traitorous body shuddered and tore with violent contractions.

It was not long before the wails of a baby were heard in the forests of Mirkwood, but the cries were weak, for the infant was a month too early. The healer’s frantic eyes darted between mother and child, at a loss as to who better warranted his attention. Thranduil was at an equal loss, not truly understanding what was taking place and refusing to acknowledge the possibility that death might not be far away for either of them.

"Thranduil?" Loswaia asked weakly, her voice a mere whisper in the king’s ear.

"A son," he murmured, kissing her brow and smoothing back her dark hair. "A beautiful son, my queen."

Loswaia smiled, but her face was deathly pale. "Legolas," she whispered. "Green leaf. I would name him after the trees under which we walked today. When you think of him, remember that earlier time and not this moment."

"Loswaia?" Thranduil questioned, his arms unconsciously tightening around her weakening form.

"I love you, my king. Never forget that." Her eyes fluttered and her head rested against Thranduil’s shoulder as life began to fade. "Raise him well. Legolas. Green leaf. He will…do much for the elves." And with these final words, she closed her eyes and looked no more upon Arda.

"Loswaia? Loswaia!" Thranduil began to shake the limp form of his wife, desperate to raise a response, but a hand upon his arm stopped him and the sad eyes of the healer met his.

"She lost too much blood, and her injuries were torn by the birth. Had I been able to bind them, then perhaps…" The healer trailed off and shook his head, turning his gaze to the whimpering child in his arms. "Sire, we must get the babe to the palace. He is not well."

Thranduil nodded numbly, still unable to comprehend what was taking place. The healer waited for instructions, but when the king remained upon the ground clutching Loswaia, he eventually sighed and took charge himself. Soldiers were dispatched to follow the Orcs while guards were set around Thranduil and the body of the queen. The baby was taken back to Mirkwood’s halls in haste where hopefully something could be done to strengthen his fragile body.

A week later, Thranduil learned that the Orcs and Wargs which had beset them in the forest had originally been making for the Lonely Mountain. An army of dwarves had routed them and driven them into Mirkwood.

"My lord?"

Thranduil jerked awake with a start, his breath coming hard.

"King Thranduil?"

Trying to get his bearings and recover from a dream that had haunted him many times for many years, Thranduil turned flashing eyes upon the archer who had spoken. "Report," he ordered, his voice somewhat harsh with embarrassment at being caught in such a distraught condition.

"Sire, Elladan has returned from Rivendell. You asked to be informed of this. I apologize, my king, if I—"

"Thank you, Ithildae," Thranduil said, interrupting the elf before he could cross into territory that the king did not wish to walk again. "Did you glimpse any of his party?"

"All who left last night are with us again, sire, including the dwarf," the other elf reported, his voice neither condoning nor condemning this.

The king frowned, the vivid memories from his dream coming to life in his mind and his deep resentment for dwarves rising to the forefront of his thoughts. "I see."

"Also, Lord Elrohir wishes to speak with you are your earliest convenience, my liege."

Thranduil’s brow wrinkled in surprise. " ‘At my earliest convenience’? Those were Elrohir’s words."

A ghost of a smile flickered over Ithildae’s face and he bowed slightly. "Nay, my liege, those words were spoken by Lord Elladan. He seemed to think that his brother was in need of some…tact."

Thranduil snorted. "There are at least some constants left in this world," he muttered to himself.

"Sire?"

"Inform Lord Elladan and Lord Elrohir that I will come shortly," Thranduil instructed.

"As you wish, sire," Ithildae said with a quick bow. He then turned and vanished from even elven sight into the thick leaves of the trees, but Thranduil could hear his stealthy movements and knew the archer was on his way.

And it is high time for me to follow, Thranduil sighed, trying to shake the last vestiges of a sleepy haze from his mind and better compose himself. I have spent far too long dwelling on the past. He took a minute more to steady his mind and calm his breathing before setting out through the branches, following the course that Ithildae had taken with the sureness of one who has spent several thousand years hunting in the forests.

He heard the group long before he saw them. The hobbits and dwarf in particular were as charging boars when compared to their silent companions. Even though they were currently motionless, their voices were loud and their breathing could easily rouse a slumbering troll. Thranduil shook his head as he drew nigh and began looking for places to drop out of the branches. It was beyond him how mortals had ever survived past the First Age.

The darkness below him was as a churning sea of shadows, and Thranduil hesitated for a moment. He did not wish to place himself in such evil, yet since the others were enduring it, it would be a sign of weakness if he did not join them. And if there was one thing Thranduil could not abide, it was weakness. Weakness was what had allowed the Necromancer to rule from Dol Guldur uncontested for so many years. Weakness was what had cost the Last Alliance true victory at the end of the Second Age. And weakness was something that Thranduil had sought to purge in his kingdom, subjecting both himself and his children to his rigorous efforts.

He was now situated almost directly above the dwarf, and he paused for a moment to study the creature. Broad shoulders supported the weight of a heavy axe that looked to be so badly balanced it might have been made by hobbits. Of course, the axe had been forged with a dwarf in mind and so the balance would be alien to an elf, yet Thranduil did not consider this. He was too overcome by a surge of hatred as memories of Loswaia returned, summoned by his recent dreams. With a shake of his head, Thranduil shoved such thoughts to the back of his mind, realizing that they had no bearing on their present course. This particular dwarf had nothing to do with his wife and had actually shown a great deal of anxiety about the possible condition of Thranduil’s son. But all the same, a dwarf was still a dwarf, and Gimli would bear careful watching.

Deciding he had delayed long enough, Thranduil shook himself free of memories and prepared to leap down, but at the last minute, he stopped and a sly smile stole over his face. Gauging the position of the dwarf, he moved over slightly until he had better aligned himself, and then he dropped out of the trees, landing only inches away from the stunted creature.

Gimli jumped, startled, but it was soon Thranduil’s turn to be startled as the dwarf, without a moment of hesitation, swung at the elf with the haft of his axe, aiming for the king’s knees. Thranduil’s sharp eyes saw it coming at the last minute and he was able to avoid it in time, but this sudden attack sparked his anger and he reached for his short sword even as Elladan and Elrohir sprang between the king and dwarf. Bereft of his brothers’ support, Aragorn was left to sway precariously on his own while the two hobbits stared in shock.

"Stand aside," Thranduil hissed, rage twisting the features of his fair face. "I will not be provoked in such a manner."

"To my mind, the dwarf was not the one doing the provoking," Elrohir returned sharply, his own eyes flashing dangerously.

"I have raised no weapon and made no threatening move," Thranduil shot back. "Until now," he added ominously, glaring at the sons of Elrond.

"I would beg leave to speak ere you take action you might later regret, King Thranduil," Aragorn spoke up from the side where he now leaned against a tree for support. His voice was quiet but there was an edge of authority in it that gave even the king of Mirkwood pause for thought. "Gimli did not mean to attack you."

"Has the dwarf so little control over his reflexes, then?" Thranduil demanded.

"Let him come, Elladan and Elrohir, and then we shall measure his reflexes," Gimli urged, his hands still upon his axe.

"Gimli!" Aragorn snapped, throwing the dwarf a stern glare before turning his attention back to Thranduil. "Your pardon, please. The reaction was purely unintentional, I assure you. Your son and Gimli have made a game of this, and by dropping from the trees as you did, you triggered a reflexive response that has been honed nearly to perfection over the last five years."

"At least now I know where Legolas gets it," Gimli muttered, his eyes still upon the elven king.

"This cannot go unpunished," Thranduil said darkly.

"It can and it will, King Thranduil," Elrohir said, firmly standing his ground with his brother.

"You would dare to—"

"Peace, all of you," Elladan ordered, his voice calm but ringing with command. "We accomplish nothing by this. It was a grievous misunderstanding, but no harm has come of it. Let us put it behind us. Our petty arguments accomplish nothing here."

Thranduil did not like being told what to do, and he especially did not like it when the one giving him the advice was his junior by several thousand years. But regardless of age and experience, Elladan was right, and Thranduil was able to sense that. It rankled his pride and he promised himself that retribution would arrive soon in some form or another, but to his credit, Thranduil lowered his short sword and stepped back, watching the dwarf as closely as the dwarf seemed to be watching him.

"Thank you," Elladan murmured, his voice sounding both relieved and surprised. Apparently he had not expected to be obeyed.

"Has Elrohir told you of my intentions?" Thranduil asked, sparing no time for apologies or pleasantries.

"If I understand him correctly," Elladan said, "you wish to leave off following the trail and start a wider search pattern, splitting into several groups."

"I do not wish to do so," Thranduil corrected. "I shall do so. And you are welcome to join my archers if you so desire. But if you continue much further on this trail, then you shall force the hand of our enemy, and it may be that my son will be killed ere we can even draw close. And know this, son of Elrond. I will put a stop to your movements by whatever means necessary ere your actions put Legolas in danger."

Elladan blinked, as did everyone else gathered, but Thranduil held his ground firmly. He knew well the implications of his words, and he also knew the consequences of his actions should he follow through on his threat. But by all the Valar, he would not allow the children of Elrond to jeopardize his son’s safety in a foolish effort to make certain of their path. The trail might be followed with safety for a while yet, but it could not be followed much further. It was simply too dangerous for the captives.

"Then as my brother did last night, I would beg for more time," Elladan said at length. "I would beg for this day, at least until the afternoon. Estel and Elrohir shall be returning to Rivendell with some of the forces, and it may be wise for you and your elves to join them."

"You presume to dictate the actions of my archers?" Thranduil asked, injecting a note of steel into his voice.

"Nay, I do not," Elladan said, keeping his voice level and reminding Thranduil very much of Elrond in his most patronizing moments. "But I would offer advice and counsel in a situation that seems to have taken your judgement. You are too close to the peril, King Thranduil. Your concern for your son has clouded your mind."

"Watch your words, young one," Thranduil hissed, his hand unconsciously straying to the hilt of his sword, "or you will live to regret them."

"Begging your pardon, sirs and kings, but I don’t see as this is helping us at all," a voice piped up from behind Aragorn. "And I don’t see what staying out here in this shadowy mist is going to accomplish. To my thinking, we’ve more than enough elves here to protect us all from Orcs, and there’s no need for everyone to stay. Why don’t some of you get some rest? I know it did me bit of good."

Thranduil frowned, his eyes straying to Sam’s anxious face, and the king was forced to concede that the hobbit was right on at least one count. This current conversation was doing no one any good, least of all his son. Going back to Rivendell, though, was out of the question, for Thranduil would sooner allow dwarves to raid his treasury than abandon this hunt while his son was still missing. But perhaps Elladan’s proposal of one more day was plausible. It was certainly stretching the limits of safety, but if they could be that much more certain of their direction and destination…

Shifting his eyes back to Elladan’s watchful face, he turned the matter over in his mind. By nature, he was not a very patient elf and he had never been very good at taking the advice of others, but a small voice in the back of his mind was strongly urging unity. Thranduil could sense the attempts by the shadows to divide them, and perhaps it was best to thwart the enemy in this before moving forward. "Very well," he murmured at length, his voice carrying an unmistakable warning about making too much of this concession. "I give you until mid-afternoon. No more! At that time, my elves and I shall no longer follow the trail but take up our own paths. And if you value your own necks, you will join us."

"We would be glad to do so," Elladan said, glancing back at Elrohir and Aragorn as though for confirmation. Something unreadable passed between the three, and then Elladan returned his gaze to Thranduil. "Before we begin this day, though, I have somewhat I would like to discuss with all gathered. Lord Celeborn seems to have discovered something that pertains to this hunt."

"He knows what we face?" Elrohir asked eagerly.

Elladan shook his head. "I am not sure. He was rather elusive when he spoke to me this morning. He told Arwen almost nothing yesterday, though he did give her some rather disturbing tasks."

"Tasks of what nature?" Aragorn asked, perking up slightly at the mention of Arwen’s name.

"She was to prepare sleeping draughts," Elladan answered, his voice a mixture of confusion, frustration, and fear. "And she was also to fashion restraints that might bind one to a bed."

"Restraints?" Thranduil echoed, his mind frozen with shock.

"According to Arwen, Lord Celeborn claimed that the measures were only for the sake of prudence," Elladan added, sounding as though he believed that about as much as he believed in flying hobbits.

"Lord Celeborn does nothing solely for the sake of prudence," Elrohir said quietly, folding his arms across his chest. "There is always a more immediate purpose in his plans, though prudence does contribute somewhat."

"Perhaps his purpose is to occupy Arwen?" Aragorn wondered, his voice carrying overtones of desperate hope. "She has now a sense of the passing years that can be vexing in times of crisis when minutes slow to a crawl. Perhaps Lord Celeborn thought to give her tasks that might distract her."

"Perhaps, but tasks including sleeping draughts and bindings? I find this unlikely. In any event, if his intention was to set her mind at ease then he failed. His vague words and warnings have only heightened the sense of worry in Imladris," Elladan answered.

"You have told us what Celeborn said to Arwen," Thranduil noted, keeping a close watch on Elladan, "and it seems to be of little aid. Would you now tell us what Celeborn said to you this morning?"

"Little enough," Elladan sighed after a moment of hesitation. "But he bade me think on the fall of Númenor. Specifically, he reminded me of the friendship between Ar-Pharazôn and Amandil, both before the capture of Sauron and immediately afterwards."

"Strange," Elrohir murmured, his brow furrowing. "Why should he mention that?"

"It obviously has something to do with our current situation," Pippin interjected, sounding as though he was getting bored. Until this point, Pippin had been silent, but the day was passing and the hobbit looked anxious to start getting underway again.

"True enough, Master Hobbit, but what is the nature of the relationship between what we face here and what they faced there? That is what we must uncover," Elladan answered.

"Mayhap we can uncover it as we march," Gimli said, his voice laced with impatience.

"Did he say aught of Sauron’s hold over Ar-Pharazôn?" Thranduil suddenly asked.

Elladan blinked and his eyes went blank for a moment as he recalled his conversation with Celeborn. "He did, King Thranduil. And he reminded me that Sauron stayed close to Ar-Pharazôn even after his influence had been established."

Thranduil nodded slightly and stepped back, separating himself from the others as they continued their discussion, though a few sent curious glances his direction. But he ignored them all, for an impossible idea had occurred to him. It fit the situation and explained the motives, yet it was so farfetched that Thranduil was loath to trust it. Beyond that, the evidence for its support was circumstantial at best. And in any case, he was reluctant to broach this particular possibility with a dwarf and the heir of Isildur standing about. Valar knew what they would make of it. But even so, the facts fit. It was something he had heard once from Elrond around the beginning of the Third Age, and in turn, Elrond had heard it from Elendil. At the time Thranduil had thought it to be naught but a rumor. An excuse that claimed the fall of man was due to more than their own pride. But now…

"King Thranduil?"

Shaken from his thoughts and trying to quickly cover the fact that he had been inattentive, Thranduil looked up and discovered that everyone else was watching him.

"King Thranduil, Aragorn and Elrohir will now be departing for Rivendell. You and your elves are welcome to accompany them since we shall only be following the trail this day. Come night, we may—"

"My elves and I shall be staying here," Thranduil announced, his voice firm and unyielding. "And we shall not be following the trail all day. We shall cease come mid-afternoon."

Elladan frowned slightly. "It may be wise to rest before—"

"We rest in the trees," Thranduil interrupted. "And what rest we take is sufficient for us. We shall be staying. And I will thank you to stay clear of matters over which you have no sovereignty."

Elladan sighed and glanced at Elrohir and Aragorn, both of whom shrugged. About then, Thranduil realized just how weary the other two looked. Elrohir was weaving slightly on his feet and Aragorn’s eyes were foggy and glazed.

"Then if we are set on who stays and who goes, let us continue!" Gimli said, his gruff voice breaking through the silence that had descended upon them. "If we must stand in this darkness, let us make it worth our while."

"You will watch yourself?" Elrohir asked, fixing a pointed gaze at Elladan.

"Yes, if you return to Rivendell," Elladan answered. "And I have the hobbits and Gimli to aid me, for they shall also stay upon the ground. We have discussed this already while journeying here."

Elrohir nodded reluctantly and then turned to Aragorn. "Well, brother, I think we must be off, for you look as though you need to rest."

"No more so than you," Aragorn said, finally giving in to his body’s demands and allowing a large yawn. "We shall think on this matter of Ar-Pharazôn, and hopefully we shall discover some answers in Rivendell."

"Then fare you well," Elladan said. "Valar willing, we shall progress far this day, and come night we shall progress even further."

With this, the group separated, but Thranduil was now deeply troubled. He retreated back into the trees, gave orders for his elves to follow Elladan and the others from Lothlórien and Imladris, but he himself stayed behind for a while. He had not thought upon the events of Númenor for quite some time, yet now the rumors and whispers regarding its fall came foremost to his mind. While he was wont to blame it entirely upon the arrogance and failings of man, Thranduil knew in his heart that the truth of the matter went much deeper than that. It was the hidden intricacies and weavings of Sauron that now filled his thoughts, and if what he suspected was true, then his son and the hobbit were in far more danger than any of them had ever suspected.

* * * *

To say that Arwen was embarrassed would be something of an understatement. Arwen was actually quite mortified. For centuries upon centuries, she had risen with the sun and thought nothing of it. Sometimes she had not slept at all during the night, and not once did it occur to her that mortals would look upon this with both wonder and envy. It was simply the way she was. It was the way every elf was. Even after meeting Aragorn and learning more of the ways of mortal sleep, Arwen had never really made the connection between her own habits and the habits of her betrothed. She did sometimes shake her head in astonishment at just how much rest mortals seemed to need, but she never thought any more of it than that. Part of the reason for this was the fact that Aragorn was also an early riser. She could remember very few times when her husband had not been up with the sun. And since his habits were so similar to her own as an elf—with the exception that he usually found some sleep during the night while she would at times take none—Arwen never thought to compare further.

Unfortunately, this had proven to be something of a failing now that her mortal body demanded more and more rest. During one of her first days as queen of Gondor, she woke to find that the sun was several hours past rising and that the last of the breakfast had already been served. Furious and enraged, Arwen had lashed out unwittingly at Aragorn for this. In turn, Aragorn had been understanding to the umpteenth degree, not flinching once at Arwen’s harshly thrown words and waiting until she had calmed enough to discuss the matter. Eventually, Arwen had apologized rather profusely, but Aragorn had shrugged it all off, unintentionally making Arwen feel even worse. From that time forth, she had tried to ensure that she retired to bed in time for her mortal body to get as much rest as it required. This was not always possible, of course, for as queen, her presence and her mind was often needed late at night. More than once she had worked with Aragorn over the drafting of a treaty until the stars began to dim and morning dawned over all. But as a general rule, she tried to ensure that when Aragorn rose from bed, she rose with him.

That had not been the case this morning, hence Arwen’s extreme embarrassment. She rose late and discovered that she had missed the departure of Elladan and his company by almost three hours. Given the amount of stress and frustration she had labored under, it should have come as no great surprise that her body needed the extra rest. Beyond that, the night had been a late one, and she really wasn’t sure when she had retired for bed. But Arwen was still fairly new at this mortal game, having only had five years of practice now, and her sense of embarrassment was unusually keen because she was again in Rivendell where everyone else was very prompt in rising with the sun.

Beyond being embarrassed, Arwen was also somewhat annoyed. Celeborn seemed to have disappeared on her, and she had been promised answers. She had never known the Lord of Lothlórien to renege on his word, but there was always a first time for everything and these circumstances seemed to be replete with firsts. But I swear as queen of Gondor and daughter of Elrond, I will find my grandfather and force answers from him, she vowed mentally. He will not escape me again.

"Lady Arwen?"

A cautious voice from behind caught her musing mind and pulled it back into reality, reminding her that others were about. Fixing a smile upon her fair face, Arwen turned and bowed slightly. "Good morning, Rose Gamgee," she said. "How do you fare this day?"

"Better than some, I dare say, my lady," Rosie said as she shifted her feet, apparently uneasy with Arwen’s presence.

Now looking upon the hobbit with a genuine smile of amusement, Arwen stifled a laugh and gestured to a pathway that led into one of Rivendell’s many gardens. "Will you accompany me? I sense you have somewhat to say, and mayhap it can be said as we walk."

"Yes, that will be fine," Rosie answered hurriedly.

"Where is fair Elanor this morning?" Arwen asked as they started off.

"Sam didn’t put her down when he ought to have, and so she had something of a late night," Rosie said with a weary sigh. "I hope she doesn’t become cross this afternoon because of it, or I’ll have words for that husband of mind. Elanor’s sleeping in our quarters right now, but an elf offered to fetch me when she began to wake and I had to accept because I couldn’t just stay in my room. Not with everything that’s happened."

"I understand," Arwen said quietly. "I remember well the day I beheld my first Orc. Such hideous evil is not easy to comprehend, and I would that you had never been faced with it."

"I’m all right," Rosie hastened to reassure her. "I dealt with it, and I did have some help. I might have a few unpleasant dreams still, but I’m feeling much better about everything. And that’s part of why I came to see you. My lady," she quickly added, suddenly horrified at the prospect that she had been speaking in such a familiar fashion.

"As I told you before, dear Rose, I am but Arwen to you and your husband," the daughter of Elrond said with a gentle smile. "All of Middle-earth owes Sam a great debt, and I am humbled to be in the presence of his chosen one. You are bound to a very brave hobbit, Rose."

"Oh, I know," Rosie said. "I knew that before he went off, though he never did believe me when I told him so. And come to think of it, he still doesn’t believe me. But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about. I came to find out if there was anything I could do in this place. To help, I mean. I know I shouldn’t be out with Sam and the others. I’m not made for that sort of thing. But I can do other chores here that might help them there."

Arwen blinked and studied this simple, country hobbit standing before her. Gandalf had indeed spoken truly when he claimed that hobbits were amazing creatures. "Rose Cotton Gamgee, we of Imladris would be honored to receive your assistance," Arwen said. "Come, and we shall find you things to do." And so taking the hobbit by the hand, Arwen passed into the vast mansions of Rivendell, her previous embarrassments and anxieties forgotten and her fears for the future left in the past for now.

* * * *

Merry would be the first to admit that he didn’t know much about the world beyond the Shire. He knew far more than did most of his fellow hobbits, but he knew far less than did Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, and many others that he could name. Merry knew that different cultures and customs prevailed in many parts of Middle-earth, and he knew that some of these cultures and customs were vastly different from what he was familiar with in the Shire. He had learned about some of them, particular those customs associated with Gondor and Rohan, but he knew that there was still much to learn about the various peoples of Middle-earth. Yet despite his ignorance, Merry was fairly certain that at least one particular custom held true no matter the culture—If person number one wanted to lead person number two to a particular destination, then person number one usually walked slightly ahead of person number two.

Having convinced himself that this was a solid principle cutting across most social and cultural differences, Merry turned to his current situation and decided that he had a dilemma of sorts. Legolas was supposed to be leading the way, but instead, the elf was constantly falling behind.

This was something of a major problem for Merry because the hobbit had no idea of where he was going. He’d been counting on the elf to find the main entrance again, but this wasn’t going to happen if Merry had to keep choosing which way to turn. Legolas didn’t seem at all inclined to aid him in this, and whenever they came to a juncture of any kind, the elf’s feet would begin to drag and Merry would be forced to decide upon their next path. The hobbit was now of the opinion that they were starting to wander in circles.

But the problems didn’t stop there. Upon occasion, Legolas would come to a complete halt for absolutely no reason. And because the elf was usually behind the hobbit, sometimes it took a minute or so for Merry to realize that he was no longer being followed. Once he did realize that Legolas had stopped, it took even longer to backtrack and find the elf. And when Legolas was found, he was usually staring off into space and whispering in a tongue that Merry didn’t recognize. The hobbit had asked Legolas if he was stopping to listen for Orcs, but each time, the elf had shaken his head. When pressed for an explanation, Legolas had shrugged slightly and murmured that he didn’t know what had prompted him to stop. Merry was seriously concerned by this vague answer, and as their hapless journey continued, his concern grew. Legolas did not look well. His color was off, his eyes were glossing over, and he was becoming more distant and distracted with each step they took.

"Merry?"

Abruptly startled out of his thoughts, Merry jumped in surprise and let out a small yelp. Since leaving their cell, Legolas had not initiated conversation. He would respond if questioned, but even then, his answers had been short, glib, and fairly useless. Turning around curiously, Merry discovered that Legolas had once again stopped, but this time, he was leaning back against a cave wall as though looking to brace himself.

"Are you all right?" Merry asked, moving to the elf’s side and tentatively touching his arm.

"They have returned," Legolas hissed, sinking down and pulling his knees up to his chest. "They are here again. There are too many!"

That was not exactly what Merry had been expecting to hear. It was certainly not what he desired to hear. "The Orcs?" he asked fearfully, glancing up and down the dark tunnel.

"Nay," Legolas murmured with a violent shake of his head. "Nay, it is the voices. I thought myself rid of them, for they grew quiet after a bit, but now they have returned. They are here. And there are more of them."

"Here where? Do you mean here in this tunnel or here in your head?" Merry pressed, wishing he could help the elf but having no idea as to what might be done for him.

"By the Valar, I no longer know!" Legolas’s head arced back and he stiffened as he squeezed his eyes shut. "But their voices…they speak of…nay, I cannot say it! I will not listen!"

"Legolas!" Merry hissed, struggling to keep his voice down. "Legolas, we’re alone. There’s no one here."

Legolas’s only answer was a groan as he fell over onto his side and curled into a tight ball, his hands pressed against his temples. He began whispering, but the language was unknown to Merry and he could not understand what the elf was saying. Hesitantly, not knowing what it was that Legolas faced, the hobbit put a hand on the elf’s shoulder and shook him gently in the hopes that he would get some kind of a response.

"Legolas?" he queried softly. "Legolas, we have to keep going. Legolas? Can you hear me?"

The elf groaned again and shook his head. "Run, Merry," Legolas whispered at length, his voice strained. "Run. Flee this place."

Merry frowned and tightened his grip on the elf’s shoulder. "I’ll not leave you!" he said forcefully. "I wouldn’t leave you on the Road and I certainly won’t leave you here."

"You must," Legolas insisted as he started to shake. "One of must escape."

"We’ll escape together or not at all! I won’t abandon you, Legolas."

"Then leave and come back with help," Legolas pleaded, opening his eyes and fixing Merry with a gaze that sent shivers down the hobbit’s back. "I can go no further in this place, Merry. The darkness holds me back and bids me wait here. I cannot disobey it. It is too strong. He was right. He was right about everything."

"Who?!" The hobbit had now forgotten the dangers of raising his voice and was very tempted to shake the elf who huddled pitifully before him. "Who was right about what? You’re not making any sense, Legolas!"

"The Mouth of Sauron," the elf whispered. "The darkness is within me. I can feel it twisting my mind. I have no will. The decision to leave is no longer mine to make."

"You don’t believe that!" Merry shouted. "I know you don’t believe that. Of all of us in the Fellowship, you were the one who never let things bother you. Gimli was the only one who could get under your skin, and the Mouth of Sauron is no dwarf! You can’t let him do this to you. You’re stronger than that; I know you are!"

"Leave, Merry," Legolas murmured, hugging his knees into his chest as his trembling increased. "Leave while you still can."

"Not while you’re still here," the hobbit answered stubbornly. "You can break through this. You’re an elf! This should be easy!"

Legolas gave a wordless cry and hissed as if in pain. Despite the chill of the underground caverns, a warm flush was creeping into the elf’s cheeks as though he was fevered, and his shaking form was almost nearing the point of convulsions. "Merry, I know not how much longer I can resist. But I cannot leave this place under my own power. We need aid and you shall have to bring it, for I cannot. Please, Merry. Do not force me to beg!"

Merry seized Legolas by the shoulders, hoping to still the elf’s shuddering while at the same time informing Legolas that the hobbit was not going anywhere without company. "Don’t waste your breath by begging," Merry told him firmly, pressing him against the wall and pinning him with his own bodyweight. "We’ll ride this out and then we’ll be on our way. I know we will. Just hold on a bit longer. Try to fight back. Are you listening to me, Legolas? Legolas?" The hobbit tried to make out the elf’s face in the dark torchlight, and he shivered at what he saw. Legolas’s eyes were closed again, his face was twisted in pain, and his hands were clenching into fists. "Legolas!" Merry shouted, trying desperately to get through to the elf. "Legolas, you have to fight this! I won’t abandon you, so don’t you abandon me!"

Legolas suddenly let out a cry so shrill that it hurt Merry’s ears, and then the elf went limp. His entire body relaxed, his head dropped to the dank floor, and his breathing quieted. So sudden was the change that Merry jumped away as though fearful of touching Legolas. Shaking his head and furiously berating himself, the hobbit crept back and once again took hold of the elf’s shoulder.

"Legolas?" he called, lowering his voice once more. "Legolas?"

There was no answer and the elf was disturbingly still. It was especially unnerving considering that he had been convulsing and writhing only moments before while trying to block out voices that only he could hear. Becoming even more anxious, Merry hastily sought a pulse and watched the elf’s chest. He found the heartbeat to be rapid and erratic while Legolas’s breathing was swift and shallow, but the elf was still alive. That was important. As Bilbo had been fond of saying, if there was life, there was hope.

But there would be far more hope if he was awake, Merry sighed to himself, glancing about the halls and wondering why none of their captors had descended upon them. They had made enough noise to give away their presence to all of Eriador. But the caverns were silent and empty. Hobbit and elf were still alone.

Alone is great, but even if we’re safe for now, we won’t be safe for long, Merry thought despairingly. But I can’t do anything for Legolas on my own. He stared at the elf and ran a number of jumbled ideas through his head, yet none were plausible. The hobbit just didn’t know enough to form anything remotely resembling a coherent plan or a possible solution.

Perhaps I should leave. If I left, I could find help and bring it back.

Merry abruptly froze while his fear rose exponentially. That last thought had not been his own; he was sure of it. He was absolutely steadfast in his decision to stay with the elf. Why, then, should the idea of leaving cross his mind?

But Legolas was right. I can do nothing for him. It would be best if I found our friends and brought them here.

The hobbit decided that he had finally snapped. Captivity had gotten the better of him and his mind was shattering before his very eyes. "No," he told himself aloud. "No, I’m staying right here with Legolas. I’m not about to leave him."

It was then that Merry noticed the growing chill in the air. Gimli insisted that underground caverns were very consistent in temperature, but apparently that didn’t hold true here. The tunnel was becoming steadily colder and the flickering torchlight was dimming rapidly. Legolas had faded into a mere shadow against the wall, and he would soon be lost completely in the darkness.

I must leave! Legolas needs help that I can’t give.

"Who are you?!" Merry demanded, somehow managing to keep his voice quiet.

There seemed to be a pause, though Merry could not say how he knew that, and then the voice was back, dropping its masquerade and speaking to the hobbit directly. You must flee. It is your only means of salvation!

"I don’t know who you are and I’m not listening to you!" Merry said firmly, covering his ears and shutting his eyes. "And I’m not leaving, either."

The elf asked you to leave. You dishonor his wishes.

"He just doesn’t want me to be in danger," Merry answered, backing against a wall in spite of himself.

He is more knowledgeable than you are. He knows you can do nothing on your own. He knows you are weak. Are you now also a coward? A traitor? The elf knows that there must be help from other sources, and he knows that you are the only one capable of bringing that help to him. Yet you refuse to go. You doom him. You condemn him to an eternal life of shadows. In every way that counts, you have betrayed him!

"I haven’t betrayed him!" Merry shouted, forgetting the need for silence. Yet even as he said this, he doubted. Was this voice right? The hobbit was all too aware of his own failings. In fact, one of his darkest fears centered around a nightmare in which he was powerless to help his friends. This feeling of helplessness was becoming very strong, for Merry knew that he could not take Legolas from the cave by himself. But to leave the elf here in the clutches of the Orcs…alone…

If you do not go, there is no hope. There is no chance for freedom. At least by leaving you ensure the possibility that there might someday be an escape for him.

"I’m his friend and I choose to stay by his side," Merry said, but his voice was no longer firm and confident. A sense of shame and guilt was creeping upon him and he shivered as the caves grew even colder. Was it true? Did he really sentence Legolas to death in the darkness? Had he betrayed him?

You are afraid. You fear to face the shadows on your own. You cannot save Legolas because you are afraid! You are too weak to help him yourself, and you are too frightened to find others that might aid him. He shall die because of you!

"That’s not true!" Merry hissed, sliding down the wall and pulling his knees into his chest. "That’s not true! I’m not afraid. I can save him!"

Coward!

"No!"

If you were brave enough, then you could save both yourself and Legolas!

"I will save us!" Merry cried. "I will!"

You will save no one because you are afraid! He will die in torment, and he will die knowing that you could have saved him but chose not to because you were afraid!

"That’s not true!" the hobbit screamed.

Coward! Traitor!

"I’m not afraid!" Merry sobbed to himself, oblivious to the dark figures that began to creep toward them. "I didn’t betray him!"

If you had left when given the chance, you would be on your way to freedom. And you would then bring back an elven army to liberate your friend. But you are a coward, Meriadoc Brandybuck. You are but a coward who can not face the darkness.

"I haven’t betrayed him," Merry mumbled to himself, shaking violently and completely unaware of the Orc the now loomed above his shaking form.

Because of you he shall be lost!

Sharp claws dug into Merry’s shoulders, and even as he fought the whisperings within his mind, he looked up in shock and beheld the sneering face of an Uruk-hai. The voice in his head cried out with undisguised contempt, screaming that Merry had been the elf’s only hope, and the monstrosity kneeling before him laughed, its horrible voice grating upon his ears.

It was too much for the hobbit. A physical horror stood before him. A mental nightmare sifted through his deepest fears. The paralyzing feelings of guilt and shame left him unable to comprehend anything other than his own inadequacies. And caught between inner demons and outer monstrosities, Merry’s mind mercifully shut down, blowing out the lantern as it left and plunging his world into darkness.

Author’s Notes: Regarding the history for Thranduil, it’s completely out of my own head. We have almost no information on Thranduil’s wife in any of Tolkien’s work, but since the queen of Mirkwood is never mentioned, many have assumed that she is either dead or has passed over the sea. I’ve jumped on the bandwagon (conformity is occasionally a good thing) and decided that she perished. In my mind, it better explains the differences and the personality extremes that we see in Thranduil in The Hobbit. Tragedy can do that to a person. Or an elf. Anyway, take it for what you will, this is my explanation.

Chapter 19: Lifting the Veil

Despite his ever-growing sense of fear and anxiety, Celeborn could not quite keep a smile from his face.

He stood unnoticed in a doorway that led out onto a small patio overlooking a cascading waterfall. Light streamed down upon the porch, filtering through leafy trees adorned with the fresh green that was solely unique to the spring season. From this place, one could look out into the valley and see the glory of an elven stronghold, fading though it might be. But the beauty and wonder of Imladris went completely unheeded by the two figures seated in the middle of the patio, and it was such an odd sight that Celeborn could not refrain from releasing a quiet chuckle.

Completely absorbed by their work, the refined queen of Gondor and a simple hobbit of the Shire carefully culled and preserved dried ôlgalenas leaves from among a variety of healing herbs that had been found in Rivendell’s stores. It was something that Celeborn had never seen before, and considering how many years he had lived, that was rather noteworthy. It was a brief glimpse of peace despite the fact that these two did their work in preparation for a terrible possibility. It was a picture of unity and healing, and Celeborn felt some of his worry fall away. Surely there was still hope in the world if there was still room for such tranquility.

Unfortunately, though, Celeborn had learned that peace and tranquility could not last, even in the sanctuary of Rivendell. And so he reluctantly stepped out onto the patio, blinking slightly at the morning sun that had risen high enough to clear the trees.

Rosie didn’t stir at his silent approach, but Arwen’s senses were still quite keen and she looked up from her work. A multitude of emotions flashed through her eyes, but they passed too quickly to be interpreted and were swiftly masked by an unreadable expression. "Lord Celeborn, good morning," Arwen said quietly. She rose and bowed slightly before turning back to Rosie. "Do you feel you are skilled enough to continue without me, little one?"

"I think I have the hang of this now," Rosie answered somewhat absently, still caught up in what she was doing. "But if you’d have someone check on Elanor for me and bring her here if she’s awake, I’d be grateful."

Arwen smiled and nodded. "Of course. I shall see to it immediately."

Rosie then blinked and looked up as though realizing what she had just said. "I mean…I didn’t…I wasn’t ordering you to—"

"Peace," Arwen laughed. Celeborn noted that her mirth was somewhat forced, but there was still a note of real humor in her voice that gave him hope. "Peace," Arwen repeated. "You requested a favor of a friend, and I see nothing inappropriate in that. Continue in this and I shall return to aid you ere long."

"As you say, my lady," Rosie said with a rather awkward bow.

Arwen returned the bow and then moved toward Celeborn, her eyes taking on a stubborn look that was astonishingly similar to a look that Elrond adopted from time to time. "I gather you have come to speak with me."

"As I remember it, I made you a promise that I would further explain things," Celeborn answered, turning and walking back into the house. "And I have yet to break my word."

"That is well, for I would have informed all of Imladris had you failed in this," Arwen said, and something in her voice informed Celeborn that she said this only partially in jest. "Your reputation would have been forever soiled, grandfather, and I am certain that grandmother would be deeply shamed by that. Come, then, and speak, my lord. For I have labored through much of the night and the morning to see that your instructions were fulfilled. It is now time for you to uphold your end of the agreement."

At that moment, it struck Celeborn that Arwen looked and acted the part of the queen of Gondor. Never before had she been quite so assertive with her grandfather, and never before had she spoken with quite so much boldness. The world changes, and Arwen with it, for she is now truly of this world. Alas that the elves cannot adjust as can she. With a sigh, Celeborn led the way into a parlor and took a seat, gesturing for Arwen to do the same. "Númenor," he began. "My instincts were correct. It was in Númenor that this happened."

"During the reign of Ar-Pharazôn," Arwen guessed.

"Yes. I do not understand how I did not see this connection until now, but my mind has not been entirely sound, as you noted yesterday. Perhaps that has been the cause."

"So long as you are once more yourself," Arwen said. "Say on, please."

"It is something that Elendil told Elrond and Gil-galad sometime during the course of explaining what had happened to Númenor. Your father later shared this story with me, and using what we knew from Elendil, we came to suspect that this same thing has happened in other instances as well, particularly during the time of Morgoth. But Númenor is by far the clearest example of what we face. From it, we can learn what to expect, what must be dealt with, and hopefully, we may learn how to heal our friends."

"And what is it that we face?" Arwen asked. "You still dance about the issue as though hesitant to broach it. Are you yet uncertain?"

Arwen missed nothing, but then, she was her father’s child. Elrond had never missed anything, either. "I feel I shall never be completely certain," Celeborn confessed. "But I would not hesitate to put my current theory to the test, for I feel it is the best explanation that we shall find. Tell me what you know of Amandil."

"Amandil?" Arwen frowned and her brow creased slightly in a way that reminded Celeborn very much of his daughter, Celebrían. "Amandil was Elendil’s father and the last of the Elendili to sit upon the ruling council of Númenor. When Ar-Pharazôn made Sauron a counselor rather than a prisoner, Amandil went to his stronghold in Rómenna and there lived in exile until seeking the blessing of the Valar. His ultimate fate is yet unknown in Middle-earth. Do you desire more?"

"Tell me of his relationship with Ar-Pharazôn."

Arwen’s frown deepened, and Celeborn could see she was greatly puzzled. Nevertheless, she continued to play along, though the lord of Lothlórien doubted that this would continue to be the case if answers were not forthcoming. "From what little I remember, I believe that Amandil and Ar-Pharazôn were close friends as children. This friendship is what enabled Amandil to stay upon the ruling council for as long as he did. But Sauron’s lies proved strongest in the end, and he had Amandil stripped of council authority."

"And Ar-Pharazôn allowed it."

"He was corrupted by Sauron," Arwen answered. "He began to allow many things, such as the construction of a temple to Morgoth."

"True, but some things he allowed more easily than other things. Casting Amandil from the council was one of the first things Sauron did after his release from captivity, and in this he had Ar-Pharazôn’s full support. Does that not sit strange with you, Arwen? How did two such close friends come to be sundered so quickly?"

"I suppose that I had never considered the idea," Arwen answered slowly as her brow furrowed even more. "Perhaps I was blinded, as many elves are, into attributing it to the fickleness of men in remaining true to their comrades. But knowing better now, I see that you are correct. Even for one so focused upon his own greed, it would have been unusual for Ar-Pharazôn to turn so quickly upon Amandil. In many cases, Amandil was among his strongest supporters. I would attribute Ar-Pharazôn’s act of betrayal to Sauron’s influence, but even that does not seem to be explanation enough."

"Nay, it does not," Celeborn sighed. "Not as you understand things currently. And now we come to more difficult matters, but I fear there is no avoiding them. What do you know of Morgoth and the origins of the Orcs?"

Arwen shivered and it seemed that a shadow fell upon Rivendell, but Celeborn remained still, waiting for her response. After a moment or so, Arwen looked away and the muscles around her jaw tightened. "I know little, for I had neither desire nor need to know more. I still have not that desire," she added in warning, but her voice was filled with reluctant resignation.

"Most do not," Celeborn murmured. "But for some, it is not our fortune to live in ignorance. And unfortunately, I have learned much. In the ruins of Orthanc, scrolls and books were discovered that give great insight into Orcs, elves, and their shared ancestry. I would that I had never read these things. I see now that it may yet prove to our benefit, but even so…" Celeborn trailed off and sighed, momentarily lost in memory and shock. Eventually shaking away his reverie, he sighed again and turned eyes that were greatly apologetic toward Arwen. "The process involves torture of both the body and the mind. The body is broken first, for after extreme physical abuse, the mind becomes more susceptible to suggestion. There are also dark sorceries and bindings that aid the evil in its conquest. In the end, the poor victims of this change are hopelessly sundered from all light. They forget all that they once knew. Their will is forever bound up in the will of their master, and they become walking nightmares with no recollection of their past and no hope for their future. It is an all-consuming process that changes the victim forever. They themselves are not quite Orcs, but their offspring, if bred correctly, become the heinous creatures. But the victims themselves…they are ruined." Celeborn fell silent, foul memories drifting through his mind, and then he shook his head. "This process takes time and destroys the body, but in Númenor, Sauron…altered things somewhat. Much as we believe Morgoth did upon occasion."

"In what way?" Arwen asked, her voice no more than a whisper. "In what way were things altered?"

"I suspect that Sauron learned most of it from Morgoth and then perfected the art while a prisoner in Númenor, but however he accomplished it, Sauron discovered a way to keep the body whole and intact while still controlling a part of the mind. It was a much faster process than the process of breaking elves to breed Orcs, and at times it was far more useful."

"And Sauron used this upon Ar-Pharazôn to turn him against Amandil," Arwen guessed.

"That was what Elendil reported to Gil-galad and your father," Celeborn confirmed. "And it was used on others as well. Many within the capital city were set against the Elendili using this method."

"What was involved?" Arwen asked. "And how successful was it?"

"It involved primarily fear," Celeborn answered. "Fear, hatred, helplessness, and a feeling of betrayal were all more or less necessary, though some of these feelings could be manufactured if they were not found in the victim already. The first step was, as in the creation of Orcs, harsh, physical abuse. Victims were tortured brutally until they swooned, after which they were taken before Sauron. When they regained consciousness, they were in a considerably weaker state than before, and it was easy for Sauron to slip his own will into their minds through the cracks caused by pain."

"You are saying that Ar-Pharazôn was tortured?" Arwen demanded. "But surely all of Númenor would have known of such a happening!"

"They would have indeed known of it were it not for the fact that this step in the process lasted only a single night. A few of the guards from Sauron’s captivity were already under his sway, and they assisted in the process. At least, that was what Elendil hypothesized. In any case, as morning approached, the victim would wake again, this time having Sauron’s will within their mind and finding themselves unable to move due to the severity of their wounds. And here comes the most crucial element. Sauron would offer them healing, but this healing would come by his darkness. And having very little will of their own, most of the victims accepted willingly. Even those who were not willing did not resist for long, abandoning the fight out of confusion, pain, and terror. And once given free access to the mind, Sauron was able to do many things."

"But total corruption cannot happen overnight," Arwen noted. Her eyes were narrow, but Celeborn could not tell if it was due to skepticism or to fear. "Even if Sauron healed them and imposed his will upon them, a difference would have been noticed. Ar-Pharazôn would not have been himself. Perhaps Elendil was mistaken in what he thought happened."

"Would that such was the case," Celeborn sighed. "I said not that the entire process was completed overnight. In most cases, it took one or two weeks to finish. And Sauron was no fool. He did not rush things. Very simple commands were given initially, such as the command to refrain from speaking of the torture, or the command to listen more to his counsel than to the counsel of others. Refraining from sunlight was another command that was easy to follow, for the darkness within the mind abhorred the light of day. And with every command that was obeyed, the bond with the darkness became greater. Fear and suspicion could be planted but not acted upon. Not at first. However, as the days passed, fears and suspicions would grow until the victim himself began to believe them. And once that happened, Sauron could implant more binding commands."

"Commands such as removing Amandil from the council," Arwen murmured.

"Precisely," Celeborn confirmed. "But Ar-Pharazôn was not alone in undergoing this process. Others also turned suddenly on Amandil and his household. And that is the how we learned what truly happened, for Elendil confronted two of these changed men, overpowered then when attacked, and took them back to Rómenna. And one was…healed. More or less. There is no true healing from this, for the memory of actions taken while under the influence of darkness continue to haunt the soul. But Sauron’s shadow was removed from the mind of one of the men."

"How was it done?" Arwen asked.

"It was not done until after the fall of Númenor," Celeborn answered grimly. "They tried healing them both before the fury of the Valar was unleashed, but the man who was not healed…" Celeborn trailed off for a moment, wondering if he should proceed. But Arwen’s warning look quickly banished any hesitation. She wanted to know all, no matter how painful it might be. "I suppose I should not be so quick to judge. It may be that he was healed in the end, for he did not make an attempt on Amandil’s life. Instead, he took his own."

"Suicide?" Arwen said, her voice rather breathless.

Celeborn nodded. "I suppose it was a noble sacrifice. But I would not say that he had been healed. It was done as a last resort. He could not kill live and allow Amandil or Elendil to live as well. One had to die. He chose himself."

"What of the other one? What of the one they saved" Arwen asked.

"As I said earlier, it was done after the fall of Númenor. After Sauron’s direct influence upon the man was broken. There was much athelas involved, and there were many healers. They searched long for the man’s true self, which had fled his mind and cowered under covers of darkness. But since Sauron no longer controlled the darkness, they could break through and guide the man back into the light. He was forced to confront his greatest fears in doing so, but it was done. According to Elendil, it was a difficult process. In the initial healing stages, the victim was convinced that fear was the only emotion that he would ever know again. In order to fight it, the victim needed the support of his colleagues to walk him through the process, something that was nearly impossible because it was hatred of his colleagues that the darkness bred. Sundering friends seemed to be the greatest focus of the shadows."

"Could it have been used for other things?"

"Perhaps, but as for what those other things are, I do not know. Our records do not mention them. Indeed, when accounts of this changing process are mentioned at all, they are mentioned in passing as grievous casualties of the war with Morgoth. In most of the scrolls, nothing more is said of them."

Arwen nodded slowly, absorbing this information while maintaining a safe, emotional distance from it. "I understand what you say, my lord, but what of now? How do you know that this is the intent for Legolas and Merry? I see no evidence of that."

"Here comes my greatest uncertainty, yet it is the best guess I have to fit the situation. And more than that…" Celeborn hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should share his brief glimpse of Galadriel’s hand in his thought process, but then decided against it. "First of all, the darkness in the forest is based upon a sorcery that Sauron taught to many Black Númenóreans within his service. Thus, it is logical to assume that we face a Black Númenórean. The fact that Elladan’s Orc hailed from Mordor is more proof for that point. So what would a Black Númenórean want with Fellowship members captured alive? If he was to kill them, he would have done so already and left the bodies for us to find. If he was to ransom them or use them as bait, he would not have bothered with hiding the trail of the Orcs. What is his plan, then? He obviously intends to use them for something, but whatever that something is, it will take time to accomplish. And it must be something within the grasp of a Black Númenórean."

"But the evidence is circumstantial at best," Arwen protested. "Yes, I agree that your theory fits the facts, but other explanations could also be found."

"There are also other facts which I have not listed," Celeborn continued. "Again returning to the Orc that Elladan found, do you not find it unusual for a renegade Orc to obey a master so completely? Remember that Elladan saw a great fear within the Orc just ere the creature pushed himself onto your brother’s blade. And there is the darkness itself to consider. Since these twisting shadows are created by a Black Númenórean, we can read some of his thoughts and intents. Did you know that Gimli and your husband nearly came to blows last night ere they split the group? I spoke with some of the elves that returned, and many witnessed that when Gimli dropped his axe, the darkness seemed to swallow it. That, to me, would indicate a desire to do harm. And many more elves mentioned that they felt estranged from their comrades whenever they ventured too far away. Again, I believe this is indicative of an intent to sunder and to separate. Even though they are not the direct targets of our enemy’s purposes, the elves upon the trail have begun to feel betrayed. They have begun to feel fear. It is the first step down a dark and dangerous road. I shudder to think of what has happened by now to Legolas and Merry."

"But it is only a string of facts that you have loosely tied together," Arwen said, her voice strained with desperation. "You have created a chain of events that seem to support this idea, my lord, but there is no inherent connection other than the one that you have made. Is it wise to place so much faith in so far-fetched a possibility?"

"Far-fetched? Perhaps. But a possibility, nonetheless." Celeborn shook his head and sighed. "In truth, I know not how to explain myself, Arwen. I know only that my mind distrusts as yours does, but my heart is sure. This is what is happening. And we must free Legolas and Merry quickly before they become too enthralled in the power of he who holds them. If you wish, you may think of this certainty as…intuition," Celeborn finished with a wry smile.

"Intuition?" Arwen’s eyebrows went up. "Were not you the one who always advised us that intuition was not enough?"

"In this case, it is," Celeborn said, rising to his feet. "I will go now to wait for those returning from the trail. They will undoubtedly have questions for me based upon what I told Elladan before he left. And I would not have them spending time searching for me when it could be better spent by resting."

"It is not only your heart that is certain of this," Arwen stated quietly, her dark eyes studying her grandfather. "Even though you claim that you have suspicions, your mind also knows that this is happening. How?"

"I have learned that answers come in many forms," Celeborn said, moving toward the door and hearing Arwen rise to follow. "But trust me for now, young one. And if I am proven wrong then so much the better, for our friends will be spared this particular nightmare. But at least we shall have prepared Imladris and ourselves for the worst."

* * * *

The Mouth of Sauron was beginning to regret his decision to attack the remaining members of the Fellowship. Had he waited perhaps even one more month, he could have better fortified his stronghold against the elves of Rivendell and so bought himself more time. But by then, it would have been too late. The Fellowship would have dispersed again, and his ability to control the Orcs would have greatly diminished as their lust for blood and vengeance increased. Fear could control them only as long as fear remained the dominant emotion. It had worked for perhaps a year, but now, with nothing to assuage competing emotions, fear was beginning to lose out from time to time. He suspected there had even been a deserter or two within the past few months. With a sigh, the man who was not quite a man shook his head. Ever since the fall of Lord Sauron, things had gone horribly awry for the enemies of Gondor. Why should this particular situation be any different?

Sighing yet again, the Mouth of Sauron attempted to turn his thoughts away from the encroaching Rivendell forces and back to his latest set of problems. Through narrowed eyes he studied the unconscious forms of elf and hobbit. His work with them had been rushed by necessity, and it was certainly not going as well as it could be. But for the elf, things were proceeding at an acceptable pace. The prince of Mirkwood was moving along somewhat erratically, but at least the darkness was having an influence. The hobbit, on the other hand…the hobbit was another mater entirely.

Meriadoc Brandybuck was proving to be a most unusual puzzle, and had he not felt so pressed for time, the Mouth of Sauron might have actually enjoyed the challenge. Never before had he met a being that so thoroughly resisted his influence. The hobbit had an uncanny immunity to dark suggestions, and the Mouth of Sauron wondered if this was how two of these creatures had been able to withstand the Ring on the long journey to Mordor. But if this was indeed the case and the Ring had failed in corrupting hobbits, how was he, a mere shadow of the Dark Lord, to do any better?

"Because this particular hobbit is in my care, and I may attack him directly," the cloaked figure reassured himself, but his comfort was half-hearted. He was quickly running out of time, and at the rate things were going, not even the elf would be fully prepared to return to his companions by the time the elves found this underground stronghold. "I shall have to move with even greater haste," he sighed at length. "But what consequences that shall have, I cannot say. And yet, what other choices have I? None that I can see."

A grimace twisted the face beneath the dark cloak, and a brief flicker of torchlight caught eyes that were as pools of black ink. Uncertainty gnawed at him as it never had before. But then, he had never experienced a situation like this one. This was perhaps the last chance for Mordor’s power to rise again. If he failed—and there was a significant possibility that he would—then the threat of Mordor would be broken forever. Orcs might continue to harass travelers daring the Misty Mountains or the Ephel Duath, and foul things might creep about the crags and craters of Orodruin and Minas Morgul, but never again would a force capable of threatening the might of Gondor rise from the ashes of Barad-dûr. It was a sobering and depressing thought for the Mouth of Sauron, and not for the first time, he fervently cursed the fate that had turned the tides and brought down the Eye.

Eventually the Mouth of Sauron brought himself back to the current situation, though the memories of the past were never far from his thoughts. And as he once again contemplated the elf and the hobbit, he came to a decision.

As far as the elf was concerned, he would proceed as planned. He would hasten things slightly and try to create a sharper focus in the elf’s training, but as a whole, he would change little. He feared to press the elf too hard too quickly, for if he actually succeeded in completely breaking the elf and depriving him of voluntary thought, it would do no good. The elf had to be capable of thinking for himself, although such thoughts would certainly be watched, monitored, and altered if need be.

But as for the hobbit…something a bit more drastic seemed to be in order. The current procedure was doing nothing, and plans had to be changed. The hobbit’s mind had to be made more open to…suggestion. The man who was no longer quite a man hesitated a moment and then reached for a flask that he had attached to his belt. He had not wanted to use this on either prisoner but most certainly not on the hobbit. The contents within the bottle had only been used on elves for the purpose of ruining them. There was no telling what the effects might be on a halfling. Beyond that, there was very little possibility that the hobbit would retain the ability for independent thought if given this draught, something necessary for the plan. There was also a very good chance that this would kill him.

I still have the elf, the Mouth of Sauron reminded himself, glancing at the prone figure of Legolas. And yet…the plan will be far better with both the elf and the hobbit. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind so as to better analyze the situation. But the press of time and the complications of hastening his work would not leave him alone, and in the end, the Mouth of Sauron gave up attempts at rational thought. He had never been truly rational since the fall of Mordor anyway.

Eventually deciding that the possible successes warranted the risks, the Mouth of Sauron knelt and propped Merry against him. Tipping the hobbit’s head back slightly, he laid a cold hand on the side of the little one’s head and willed him to wake. A groan and a shiver indicated that he did have some control over this creature, though it was not nearly enough. Merry did not open his eyes, nor did he in any way acknowledge the fact that he was regaining consciousness. After one final moment of hesitation, the Mouth of Sauron forced the lip of the bottle into the hobbit’s mouth and tipped it up.

The reaction was instantaneous. Merry froze, stiffened, and then began to struggle frantically. Prepared for this, the Mouth of Sauron tightened his hold on the flailing hobbit and forced the rest of the concoction down his throat, whispering warnings about what would happen to defiant slaves. Merry didn’t seem to heed these warnings as he was too intent on trying to escape, but eventually, his struggles began to die away, replaced by violent shudders and raspy breath.

Confident now that the hobbit’s stomach would not refuse the foul substance, the Mouth of Sauron dropped Merry to the ground and stood. In a few hours, he would know whether or not he had succeeded. If he had, then he could begin his work in earnest. If he had not, the hobbit would make a fine plaything for the Orcs. In the meantime, though, he would concentrate upon Legolas and bring him up to speed. There was very little time remaining to them. He knew not their exact position, but through the darkness he had laid upon the ground, the Mouth of Sauron could sense that the elves were very close. If this was a race, then they were now entering the last stretch of miles, and the Mouth of Sauron intended to see that he finished first.

* * * *

Somewhat removed from the main body of elves, Rúmil crouched low upon his branch and swept his eyes over the writhing darkness. At first glance, this cloud of shadows had not changed since they’d first encountered it, but to the experienced eyes of one of Lothlórien’s best trackers, there was something decidedly different about it this day. The darkness was strangely agitated, or so Rúmil deemed, though he wondered if emotions could be ascribed to so intangible an entity. None of the other elves seemed concerned by this, but Rúmil knew better. He was accounted the best forward scout in Lothlórien, and he had long ago learned to read the subtle changes in the enemy’s darkness. While he had never met this particular form of shadow, the nuances were the same. And as the writhing mist seemed to become thicker and more turbulent, Rúmil’s level of anxiety became higher and higher.

"Trouble, brother?"

The elf glanced over as Orophin dropped onto his branch, and then he directed his eyes back out into the forest. "Something is happening. I believe the enemy is uncertain, and his doubt is causing him to make hasty decisions. Yet at the same time, our foe believes these choices are wise even if they are hastily made." Rúmil grimaced slightly and debated about actually descending into the darkness as Elladan was doing so as to get a better feel for what was happening. "I like this not. The enemy is too confident. He is too sure of his plans. He feels haste and doubt but not fear. This darkness does not yet seek to thwart us, though it does delay us."

"But what does it all mean?" Orophin asked.

"As for that, I do not know and I fear to guess," Rúmil sighed, for once wishing that he had his brother’s patience. He was tired of analyzing the darkness and wished for answers, but answers were not going to come until something happened. Rubbing his temples, Rúmil stood and moved to a different branch, slightly lower than his previous one. "Where is Haldir?" he asked when he felt Orophin move with him.

"He accompanied some of King Thranduil’s archers out on a scouting mission. They are in the trees further south of our position, but they should not be far away," Orophin answered. "The king of Mirkwood seems rather anxious. I have heard rumors that he was going to take the elves of his realm and break from this group come daylight. He wishes to leave off following the trail and pursue the Orcs on instinct, or so the rumors say."

"We shall have to do that soon," Rúmil murmured, more to himself than to his brother. "And I am rather surprised we have not done it yet. Nor are there any other elves I would rather have searching for an Orc stronghold on instinct alone. Our kindred in Mirkwood have protected their kingdom for centuries using such tactics, for they had naught else to aid them. Still, perhaps it is a bit premature to turn away from a known trail. And given the shadows upon the ground, a misstep or wrong turn now could mean several more days worth of searching."

"But what if it is time?" Orophin wondered. "Perhaps the messages you see in the darkness are a signal to us. Perhaps it is time to leave the trail."

"Counsel from the shadows?" Rúmil rolled his eyes and shook his head in mock frustration before turning to study his brother. "Are you ready to entertain every notion, be it wise or foolish, that enters your head?"

"What other way is there?"

It was exactly the type of answer that Orophin was accustomed to give, and it was usually the type of answer that drove Rúmil to the end of his patience because this answer was almost always given in the middle of some argument or another. Fortunately, they were not seriously arguing yet—though that could always change with Orophin around—and Rúmil was able to smile indulgently at his younger brother’s strange mentality. "Some would think it best to eliminate erroneous thoughts and keep only those most plausible explanations before reasoning each one to its logical conclusion."

"But many important details might be missed in that way," Orophin protested. "And often it is the details that define a situation rather than the sweeping explanations you might offer."

"Perhaps, but sometimes it is better to aim for a broad and generalized understanding rather than for complete comprehension. It saves time, and time is usually limited."

"But what is time to elves?"

"More than you might believe," Rúmil said, "but there are few enough left who understand that."

Orophin regarded his brother curiously for a moment with a gaze that had always managed to irk Rúmil no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, and then the younger elf shrugged and looked away. "Perhaps you are right. I shall have to think on this."

"Must you think on everything?" Rúmil sighed.

"All things are of worth, though their worth is not always seen," Orophin answered with a quiet laugh. "But there are few enough left who understand that."

If there was one thing about his younger brother that annoyed Rúmil more than anything else, it was his ability to take words, turn them around to his fit his own needs, and then offer them back to the one who had first spoken them. These words usually assumed the form of an insult, and the present time was no exception. Rúmil was about to offer some choice remarks about young elves that failed to heed the advice of their elders, but a sudden change in the atmosphere stopped him. Freezing where he was, he held his breath as a precaution against making any sound at all and studied the surrounding forest with piercing intensity. Sensing that something was amiss, Orophin became equally silent, quieting his own breath and waiting with his endless patient for the cause of the sudden change to be revealed.

"Orcs," Rúmil murmured. "And they are close. Far too close. We should have sensed them before now, but I believe this darkness has managed to cloak their presence." Rúmil stood and drew an arrow from his quiver, fitting it to his bow. "You said Haldir was south of us with elves from Mirkwood?"

"Yes. He should be directly south," the younger elf answered, his voice quiet with hidden concern.

"Then make haste and return, Orophin. Warn Lord Elladan and King Thranduil."

"What of you?" Orophin asked.

"I go to find Haldir," Rúmil said. "Quickly now before they sense our presence!" And without waiting for a response, Rúmil leaped forward and began speeding through the trees, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of his brother and the other scouts. If they had not sensed the Orcs by now, they needed to be warned.

He had not gone far when he was stopped by the sound of harsh cries and the sudden whine of arrows. Orc voices rose in a loud chorus, and the black mist seemed to tremble as though the hidden ground was shaking. And bursting forth from the branches before him—almost crashing into Rúmil in their haste—raced Haldir and several Mirkwood elves.

"Orcs!" Haldir exclaimed breathlessly upon seeing his brother.

"I noticed. Were you not watching the forest as you are supposed to do while scouting? I sensed these creatures while—"

But Rúmil was not allowed to continue berating his brother because black arrows suddenly slammed into the branch upon which he was standing. Jumping back with a sharp curse, Rúmil’s eyes swept the ground and widened at what he saw.

"We sensed the Orcs, yes," Haldir said, pulling Rúmil backwards as the elves from Mirkwood stopped to fire, covering their retreat. "But we thought there were only two or three spies that we might dispatch with ease. When first we saw them, there were only four and so we loosed our arrows. Yet one cried out as he died, and that is when the rest of their companions came into view." Haldir glanced over his shoulder at the stream of Orcs racing beneath the trees. A few of them were climbing now, hoping to force the elves to the ground. "It seems secrecy will no longer aid us," he observed.

With a nod, Rúmil shook off his brother’s arm, mastered his own shock—for while he had also sensed Orcs, he had not sensed nearly this many—and lifted two fingers to his lips. A long whistle shot out, alerting all to the sudden danger, and Rúmil followed it with a series of shorter whistles, informing the other elves of the estimated number of Orcs as well as the fact that there were now Orcs in the lower branches.

"Sixty?" Haldir asked when Rúmil finished even as he drew his short sword and leaped forward to dispatch an Orc that was climbing the trunk of their tree. "I do not count sixty Orcs."

"Of course not, for you only counted four," Rúmil retorted, stringing his bow and quickly loosing an arrow into the horde. "I decided it was best to overestimate rather than underestimate." Shooting off three more arrows, he began to retreat even further, for Orcs were running beneath them, intent on reaching the larger elven host, which was now close enough to be smelled by the foul beasts. "Back!" Rúmil ordered, hastening his own steps. "We are not strong enough to fight here."

The elves from Mirkwood began to retreat with great reluctance, apparently loath to abandon a fight. But a sudden curse from Haldir turned them and they abruptly realized that Orcs were coming up from their rear, separating themselves from the main elven company. "Higher!" one of the Mirkwood elves cried out, leaping up several branches and turning the retreat into a rout. "Stay together!"

Quickly ascending into the tops of the trees, the elves hurriedly passed over the Orcs in the lower limbs that had thought to steal in from behind. Their progress was swift even though they stopped every few branches to loose arrows and cover their own retreat, but the Orcs upon the ground were faster than they, and the elves could not seem to get ahead of them.

"Run!" Rúmil suddenly ordered. "Do not stop to loose your bows! Let us trust that the branches are thick enough to shield us from their bolts." Catching his brother by the arm, he pulled a few arrows from Haldir’s quiver and shoved them into his own, replenishing his vanishing stock. "Make for Lord Elladan and King Thranduil so that they might know what we face. I shall swing east and see that all who were scouting have been brought to safety."

"Safety go with you," Haldir shouted as Rúmil broke away.

"Look to your own welfare, brother," Rúmil answered with a defiant grin as he wove in and out of the branches. He was soon out of Haldir’s sight, for the thick trees were quite good at blocking vision, and he quickly made his way eastward. Rúmil’s movements were completely silent, and the Orcs beneath were heedless of his passage. He longed to take his bow and begin dispatching them, but even with the addition of Haldir’s arrows to his quiver, he did not have enough bolts to endure a prolonged fight. In any case, the first order of business was to see that all scouts reached the safety of the main group. He could not give away his position until he knew that everyone had made it back.

A sudden shout of triumph rose up in front of him, and Rúmil momentarily froze, cursing bitterly. He recognized the sounds, and the associated memories were not pleasant. They were the sounds that Orcs made when they downed an elf, and breaking out of his shock, Rúmil hastened onward with even greater speed, hoping he would not be too late.

He skidded to a halt above a collection of six Orcs, and the sight below him made his blood boil. They were crowding over an elf, jeering and laughing, while the elf—who wore the colors of Rivendell—twitched slightly but made no move to escape. An arrow protruded from his shoulder, and his dark hair had fallen in disarray about his head, stained with blood from a wound to his temple. Thoroughly enjoying themselves, the Orcs closed in, poking and prodding until Rúmil could take no more. What he did next he did without thought for consequences. Completely ignoring the more rational part of his brain that told him it was already too late, Rúmil let out a harsh cry and dropped straight onto one of the Orcs.

Sweeping his short sword from its scabbard—he preferred the bow, but in situations such as this, the sword was a far more satisfying weapon—Rúmil relieved one Orc of its head, stabbed another in the back, and took out a third with a swipe that split open its gut. The other three Orcs, taken by surprise, retreated hastily into the forest at the same time that they began bellowing for help. Knowing he had but moments until more foul goblins arrived, Rúmil knelt swiftly and examined the fallen elf that he had risked his life to save. But as he had already sensed, it was too late. The last breath was taken even as Rúmil placed his hand on the other elf’s neck and felt for a pulse. A sweeping sorrow flashed over Rúmil, but he knew better than to stop for grief at a time like this. Pulling the dead elf over his shoulders, he looked for a low branch onto which he could leap, found one, and hurried toward it with all possible speed.

But he had taken too much time, and a sudden shout from behind informed him that pursuit had begun. With a powerful leap, he propelled himself upwards onto the low branch and was about to jump to a higher one when a blast of fiery pain assaulted his right leg. With a strangled cry, he stumbled and fell, crashing to the ground and dropping his burden as he instinctively rolled to absorb the impact of the fall. Looking to his leg, he grimaced at the black arrow buried in it and reached to pull it out. Yet even as he did so, a wave of nausea swept over him and the pain in his leg suddenly intensified. Poison, he realized with a sickening chill. The arrow is poisoned. That is why the other elf died so quickly.

Trying to ignore the sudden fear that possessed his racing heart, Rúmil braced himself and pulled the arrow. He was unable to stifle the resulting cry, and at his outburst, the Orcs laughed. They were advancing slowly now, and there was victory in their eyes. They knew they had him, and Rúmil was now forced to accept this fact, for he did not think he could put any weight on his leg. But he was not about to be taken without a fight. If they wanted him, they would pay for it with their lives.

His position was awkward, but nevertheless, he readied his bow and began to shoot. The advance now became faster as the Orcs tried to reach him and stop his archery, but Rúmil picked up the pace in response, felling Orcs left and right as they began to surround him. His bolts flew with deadly accuracy, and his hands moved faster than mortal eyes could track, but there were too many Orcs. While he was looking to the right, an Orc moved in from the left and kicked the bow from his hands. More Orcs then moved in, pinning him beneath their hands and stretching his body out upon the ground. Amidst the sudden barrage of kicks and punches, Rúmil caught sight of one angry goblin raising a wickedly curved sword above its head, ready to avenge the Orcs that Rúmil had killed.

Restrained as he was, the elf could do nothing to save himself, and so he braced his mind for death. Wide, gray eyes watched in horror as the dim light of the sun gleamed red off the blade that would end his life. He briefly wondered if he should turn away and close his eyes or if he should keep them open and focused upon his killer. The Orc probably didn’t care what he did, but Rúmil was becoming slightly curious as to whether or not he would be able to see death as it swooped down upon him if he kept his eyes open. It was an interesting dilemma that occupied a rather detached part of his brain, but the debate swiftly turned academic when the curved sword began to descend.

So ready was he for the end that Rúmil was completely unprepared for what happened next. The sword swinging down upon his chest suddenly careened to the side and light flashed off a broader weapon as the Orc fell headless. The hands that restrained Rúmil fell away and the Orcs yelled in sudden fear and confusion. A strange shout rose up above the din of the goblins, and still recovering from his shock, Rúmil had just enough time to look up and see a short, bearded creature leap over him and fall upon the Orcs like a thing possessed. Gasping in surprise and wincing at the exploding agony in his leg, Rúmil managed to roll to one side and raise himself up on his elbow in time to see Gimli, son of Glóin, single-handedly rout the Orcs. The sheer surprise of his attack as well as the dwarf’s ferocious countenance that spoke of a crazed desire for vengeance was enough to drive away the few goblins who were not killed by his gleaming axe. But as they had when fleeing before Rúmil, these Orcs called for aid while they ran and answering shouts were soon heard.

"Haste now, Master Elf," Gimli said gruffly, sprinting back to Rúmil’s side and bodily pulling the elf to his feet. Unable to help himself, Rúmil cried out as his weight fell upon his right leg, and Gimli swiftly moved to brace him. "Lean upon me and we shall soon reach safety. Your brothers heard your cry, but they were tied up in battle with Orcs in the trees and could not come. But I expect to see them shortly."

"How did you come to be here?" Rúmil demanded breathlessly, amazed at the notion that he now owed his life to a dwarf and even more amazed that he was actually allowing the dwarf to support him as he hurriedly limped away.

Gimli glanced up at Rúmil as though the elf had just asked what color the sky was. "Were you not listening? No others were able to come. I was more or less free because I do not stay in the treetops, which is where the Orcs are going. Haste now, for I think that your friends the goblins are returning. And they do not sound pleased with us."

Rúmil’s instincts were twisting themselves into chaos and he could not sense the presence of more encroaching Orcs. But he found himself believing Gimli—he could not really say why—and tried to walk faster. His faith in the dwarf was rewarded when arrows began to whistle past them, causing Gimli to start ducking behind tree trunks. But while this protected them from the poison-tipped darts, it slowed their progress significantly and the Orcs began gaining. But try as he might, Rúmil could not coax more speed out of his faltering legs, and he could feel the Orcs’ poison start to creep up the side of his body. He was about to suggest that the dwarf go on without him when arrows began to fly from the opposite direction, raining down upon the Orcs and buying Gimli and Rúmil the time necessary to pull away from their pursuers.

"They took their precious time in coming," Gimli muttered, continuing to pull Rúmil along as elven arrows began driving back the Orcs.

Rúmil laughed slightly while hope crept back into his heart. Perhaps he would indeed live to see another day. But even as he entertained this thought, pain suddenly blossomed in the middle of his back. Stricken, he froze and looked down in horror as a crude arrowhead broke through the skin of his chest.

"Rúmil!"

The shout came from somewhere above him, and much to his surprise, Rúmil discovered that he was lying on his side upon the ground with a dwarf hovering over his shoulder, demanding that he respond to his name. And as the surrounding world began to fade, Rúmil decided that this had to be one of the most improbable ways to die.

"Rúmil!"

"Gimli…" Rúmil finally managed to answer.

"Quiet," Gimli hissed, seeming to forget that he had just been calling the elf’s name. "Do not try to speak. I cannot remove this arrow now. Not here. But it cannot remain as it is. Stay still. This shall hurt." And before Rúmil could even think to ask what was going on, the dwarf had seized the shaft still protruding from his back and broken the main part off, leaving only a small stub protruding from the wound.

Though Gimli had been quick, the movement caused a sudden swell of agony in the elf’s chest. His breath came in painful hitches, and he tasted blood in his mouth. The poison that had been upon the arrow’s tip spread outward into his chest and he felt his heart shudder in response. "Gimli…" he gasped again, trying to get the words out.

"Are all elves so stubborn!?" the dwarf exploded, holding tightly to Rúmil’s shoulder as the elf began to shudder. "Do not waste your energy on speech!"

"Thank you…" Rúmil whispered, closing his eyes as his vision turned fuzzy. His mind had finally processed the personal risk Gimli had taken in coming to his aid alone, and this was something that could not be ignored no matter what the cost. "I…was wrong…about dwarves. Or at the least…I was…wrong about you. I am sorry."

There was a quick pause, and the dwarf’s hands upon his shoulder suddenly went still. Then the moment passed and Gimli was back at work, trying to press torn strips of tunic around the arrowhead in Rúmil’s chest so as to keep it still and stop the bleeding. "Foolish elf," the dwarf muttered. "You lie here wounded and wish to thank me. There is nothing to thank. I did not reach you in time."

"Legolas was…right to name you elvellon," Rúmil murmured, words and breath now becoming next to impossible. "I doubted…when I heard of it, but he was…right. You are an…elf-friend. It is in…your actions and in your…eyes."

"What did I tell you about talking?!" Gimli demanded.

"Rúmil!"

The sound of a new horrified voice forced Rúmil’s eyes open again and he looked up as the faces of Haldir and Orophin suddenly swam into view. He attempted a wan smile, but a fit of coughing took him and the resulting pain left him too weak to even keep his eyes open. He dimly heard something of a conversation taking place above him and wondered what they discussed. He wished he had the strength left to once again thank the dwarf and apologize for his earlier words, but he knew now that Gimli understood. Gimli had always understood. It is unfortunate that only at the end do I see the worth of the dwarf, Rúmil sighed.

Then he felt arms around him and sensed the presence of his brothers close at hand. They were lifting him up and preparing to carry him away. The occasional whistle of an elven arrow came to his ears, and he wondered how the fight was going. He still felt that Orcs were near, which meant that the elves were still in danger. But none of that really mattered anymore. At least not to him. The Orcs could not hurt him where he was going. He felt strangely light, almost as though he was floating. He wondered if this was what it was like to be an eagle. He’d always wanted to fly with the eagles.

"Rúmil!" Haldir’s anxious voice intruded into his thoughts, but everything seemed so far away now. "Rúmil, stay with me. Fight it!"

Fight what? the elf wondered as the world continued to drift into the distance. Oh, death. I suppose I should fight it, but the wound is mortal. There is no chance for me and the poison has reached my heart. Strange. I always thought that Orophin would be the first to go, what with his wandering mind and penchant for trouble. And I wish that I could bid both him and Haldir farewell. But I trust that they shall find comfort in one another. They usually do, and that shall be my hope. Until the end of this world, my brothers. I shall ever be waiting for you. And with this final thought, Rúmil’s head slumped forward onto his bloody chest as the poison overwhelmed his struggling heart. His lungs expanded one last time, blood filled his throat, and the world became completely silent.

"Rúmil!"

Author’s Notes—Regarding Celeborn’s explanation of events in Númenor, most of it is extrapolation and my own overactive imagination. Amandil and Ar-Pharazôn were great friends, Amandil was cast from the council shortly following Sauron’s release from prison, he sought the blessings of the Valar, but more than that is pure fiction. Fanfiction, actually. ;) So take it for what you will. Those wishing to know what really happened as far as Tolkien envisioned it will have to refer to the Akallabêth in the Silmarillion.

Chapter 20: Roads Not Taken

His mind ached. His body trembled. Every muscle, every sinew, and every fiber within his being cried for rest. His skull shuddered with a headache situated directly behind his eyes. His very soul felt as though it had been pushed far beyond what it was capable of enduring. Darkness crowded his thoughts, and he no longer had the strength to push the shadows aside. The only recourse left to him was to become lost in dreams where the powers of the enemy could not follow.

Aragorn remembered being this weary only once before and that had been during the endless journey upon the Paths of the Dead. Having just wrested control of the palantír away from Sauron, Aragorn had really been in no shape to take the road he then took, but necessity had dictated his actions. Onto the Paths of the Dead he had gone, and by their end, he had felt as though he could easily sleep for at least several years. Only the strength of Númenor pounding through his blood and the impending doom of Minas Tirith had kept him on his feet. And it could be said that he faced very similar circumstances now. Only fear for Legolas and Merry had seen him through the trying night.

But now others had taken up the task of tracking, and Aragorn was ready to drop. Sprawled across the large bed in the chambers that he shared with Arwen, the king wondered where his wife had gone and if she’d been informed of his return. His frazzled mind, torn and worn by the constant contact with darkness, yearned for her calming touch in a way he had never before experienced, even during the long, lonely years as a Ranger in the wild. But at the same time that he pined for her presence, another part of him was somewhat glad she was not about. He had not the strength to return words and ease her fears, and he was somewhat leery of Arwen’s mothering instincts should she find him in his current condition. Hopefully he would be able to recover somewhat before she discovered him, for then his tired reassurances that he did not need medicines and healing would be far more convincing. He would be unable to completely fool her, but if he was strong enough, he might be able to dissuade her.

He had certainly not dissuaded Celeborn. Aragorn had ridden into Imladris with his guards surrounding him as though they feared he would fall from his horse. And if it had been any horse other than Roheryn, their fears might have been justified. Roheryn had taken great care to ensure that the bumpy road was a smooth as possible for his rider, but there were several times when Aragorn almost decided that pitching forward out of the saddle and knocking himself unconscious might actually be a good thing. The time would pass much faster that way, and he wouldn’t have to concern himself with all the petty details of command when they arrived at Rivendell. But once Aragorn undertook a job, he fulfilled that job, and so he remained in the saddle. Yet as they were dismounting before Rivendell’s main porch, Celeborn had come forth, taken one look at the king of Gondor, and immediately sent servants scurrying off to prepare a bath in his quarters. Then he had personally steered Aragorn into his room, informed him in no uncertain terms that he was to spend the day resting, and locked the door on him.

Had Aragorn been in any other condition, he would have been greatly affronted. He would have engineered a daring and dashing escape that would have put even the vigilance of Mirkwood to shame, and then he would have confronted Celeborn as an indignant king who had been imprisoned against his will. But as it was, Aragorn had possessed just enough energy to scowl wearily at the closed door before collapsing face-first onto the bed. He had not moved since.

A doorway on the far side of the room was beginning to allow steam to drift in, but though the idea of a relaxing bath was tempting, Aragorn didn’t think he could make it to the bathtub. Beyond that, he was somewhat concerned about the possibility of drowning, which only confirmed his feelings about just how tired he was. It would certainly garner an interesting reaction, though, he thought wryly. The king of Gondor, after coming through darkness and death to stand before the very gates of Mordor itself and then see the delivering hand of victory, drowns while having a bath in Rivendell. I wonder what Elrond would say to that…

"Estel?"

Completely surprised by Arwen’s voice, Aragorn somehow managed not to jump, something that pleased him greatly though it could be argued that his lack of reaction was due to the fact that he had no energy for a reaction. But his joy was short-lived, for in his current position, his exhaustion was painfully obvious. He had no illusions about fooling Arwen into thinking he was well, but neither did he have a desire to display his weakness for the entire world to see. And at the moment, it is probably possible for the entire world to crowd into my room without my ever being aware of it, he sighed, slightly disgusted with himself.

"Beloved, are you awake?"

For answer, Aragorn moved his head to the side and grunted. It was the best response he could offer at the moment. Utilizing energy for anything more substantial seemed like a terrible waste.

"Celeborn and Elrohir told me that you had returned," Arwen whispered, sitting next to Aragorn and gently brushing errant strands of hair away from his brow. "They also told me that they locked you in our quarters so that you might find rest. Why are you not sleeping?"

This question required a slightly longer answer than her last one, and Aragorn cast about in his mind for a way to minimize words. "Too tired," he finally muttered, wondering if that made sense to anyone other than himself.

"You are too tired to sleep?" Arwen said, her brow furrowing.

"Frustrated," Aragorn added, opting for the single-word answer and hoping it would be enough.

"Too much on your mind, then," Arwen translated, and it was close enough to the truth that Aragorn decided to let it pass. "I know of what you speak. Or rather of what you don’t speak," she said, pushing him on to his side and undoing the ties of his tunic. "My mind has also been full these last few days. I have learned much of what we face but little of what to do in bringing this crisis to a resolution. Lord Celeborn has been one riddle after another, and even when he speaks plainly, he speaks of things so terrible that I cannot believe them." With effort, Arwen drew Aragorn’s shirt off his unmoving form and then started on his boots and pants. "He wishes to speak with you and ask of you what you felt when confronting the darkness," she continued, keeping up a running monologue even as Aragorn began to drift in and out of sleep. "He also wishes to know if Gondor has information concerning Amandil and Ar-Pharazôn that Rivendell does not have. After all, Minas Tirith has many records left by Isildur that never again made it back over the Misty Mountains. Aragorn, are you listening?"

Aragorn blinked and realized that Arwen was now pulling a blanket up over his form. "Pardon?" he asked, wondering if he had missed something important.

"Peace," she said with a quiet smile. "My apologies. I think I spoke to hear the sound of my own voice. But you are tired and I weary you. Sleep now, and I shall keep the bath water warm. When you wake, you may wash yourself and then we shall seek out Celeborn together. There are many things still that I would know."

"Time?" Aragorn murmured, trying to muster the energy to turn his head and glance out the window.

"You have several hours in which to sleep, and I shall wake you ere it grows too late in the afternoon. Have no fear," Arwen promised.

Aragorn grunted again and his eyes slid shut. For a brief moment, it seemed that the black mists of the forest seized upon his helpless form and tried to drag him into darker depths, but then he felt Arwen’s lips upon his, and the shadow vanished. He raised his head slightly, returning the kiss, but he was pressed back down and Arwen again commanded him to sleep. Unable to disobey and very aware of the fact that his mind seemed to be assuming the consistency of a hobbit porridge, Aragorn abandoned the fight and drifted into slumber.

* * * *

The sun was directly overhead, but the day seemed unusually cold. Still panting from the battle with the Orcs and still feeling surges of adrenaline coursing through him, Sam was nevertheless becoming convinced that the day was growing colder rather than warmer. It was a disconcerting thought and he blamed it completely upon the darkness that swirled about his feet.

"Sam?"

The hobbit looked over as Pippin stumbled toward him, trying to wipe his sword off on every tree he passed so as to rid it of the filth from the Orcs he had slain. "How are you doing?" Sam asked.

"That was my question for you," Pippin answered. "Elladan says we should be safe enough here and that the elves have driven most of the Orcs off. Or killed them, I guess. But he wants to move as soon as he can get everybody together and accounted for." Pippin looked up into the trees, searching for elves above them, and then sighed. "From what I can gather, and that’s little enough, I guess not everyone made it."

"The way Mr. Elladan’s eyes widened when he first heard those whistles, I’m guessing the Orcs took even the elves by surprise," Sam said.

"And in addition to that, there was the problem that everybody had split into scouting parties while we stayed on the main trail," Pippin added, glaring at his sword as though the force of his stare would somehow clean it of the remaining residue. "How’s your head?"

Sam rubbed a bump on the back of his skull and grimaced. While ducking beneath the sword thrust of one of the few Orcs that had remained upon the ground, he’d been caught by a glancing staff blow and had rolled into a tree. Fortunately, Pippin had been close enough to help him, and elven arrows from above had also made an appearance. "I’ll live," he answered at length. "It wasn’t a very hard blow. Just enough to daze me."

"Good," Pippin murmured. "I don’t fancy carrying you back to Rosie. She’d have both our hides."

Sam nodded and winced when he thought of Rosie’s expression should she learn that he had been injured. The injury was minor and Sam had no plans to tell her that he’d been struck, but should she find out, he would endure a scolding the likes of which might well bring down the foundations of Rivendell. And considering the fact that Rivendell had survived almost one complete Age and half of another one, that was quite a feat.

"Have you seen Gimli at all?" Sam asked, deciding he’d had enough of his own thoughts and hoping that conversation might distract him.

"Not since he took off after Rúmil when Haldir and Orophin were trying to make an opening for us to escape," Pippin said. "I think I heard him say something about elves not being able to stay out of trouble, which I thought rather odd because there he was rushing into it."

"Gimli can be rather odd around elves," Sam murmured. "Do you suppose he’s all right?"

"Gimli? Of course he’s all right. He’s a dwarf. Dwarves are always all right."

"That’s no guarantee," Sam sighed, stalking toward a broad tree trunk and leaning back against it. "Dwarves aren’t always all right. Just ask any of the elves. I heard Legolas once say that—Pippin! Down!"

Reacting completely on instinct, Pippin fell to his stomach as a lone Uruk-hai came charging toward him, the sword thrust intended for his chest missing his hair by scant inches. Sam was immediately moving, brandishing Sting as its blue light filled the woods. Pippin rolled to his feet and turned to meet the Orc, but before either of them could do aught, the air seemed to whistle and the Uruk-hai fell dead with three arrows imbedded in his throat.

"My apologies, Master Hobbits," a voice called, and Elladan suddenly dropped out of the branches behind Sam. "We were not watching the north as closely as was needed. The fight to the east took our attention."

"How many more of them are out there?" Pippin asked rather breathlessly, feeling the top of his head to make certain that the Orc had actually missed.

"That should be the last of them," Elladan sighed, indicating the fallen Orc with the tip of his bow. "Valar take them all. Were it not for this accursed darkness we would have sensed them long ago. And then mayhap we would not have been hurt so grievously."

"How many?" Sam asked hesitantly. His obsession with the Eldar while in Rivendell prior to the Ring’s departure had led to a rather uncanny talent for reading emotions in elven faces, and this talent was now informing him that Elladan was very upset about something.

"More than should have been lost," Elladan answered, a mask swiftly descending over his face. "The Orcs had dipped their arrowheads in a poison of some kind, but we are still uncertain as to the exact nature of the poison used."

"Is Gimli all right, Mr. Elladan?" Sam asked, feeling a stab of fear. "We were trying to get back and Haldir and Orophin were covering us and then Haldir started shouting something about Rúmil, but they couldn’t leave us, if you understand me, so Gimli just ran off and—"

"Peace, Samwise," Elladan interrupted. A small smile appearing on his face, but it did not reach his eyes. "Your dwarven friend is physically unscathed."

"Physically?" Sam questioned.

"What about Rúmil?" Pippin asked, his voice quiet and fearful as though he already knew the answer.

"Gimli did not reach his side in time. He had already been shot. And though the dwarf did drive off a group of Orcs, he could not get Rúmil away. Rúmil died in his brothers’ arms." Elladan’s gray eyes clouded over and he sighed. "Rúmil was not the only warrior we lost today. And we may yet lose more. A group is gathering to return to Rivendell with the wounded and the dead, but at the moment, we do not know if the wounded will even survive the journey."

"Are you going back with them?" Sam asked.

"Nay, I am staying here. I fear we can no longer follow the trail as was our intention, for we are too close to the stronghold. Such a large group of Orcs was no scouting party. They were a standard guard unit out on patrol. We are very near their base and must now formulate another plan."

"So King Thranduil was right," Pippin said. "We should have left the trail this morning."

"He was indeed, and I fear that my counsel persuaded him to follow the wrong course," Elladan murmured.

"Do you want us to stay with you or go back with the others?" Sam asked. "If you need us, we’ll be glad to stay here."

"The decision is yours to make, my friends," Elladan told them. "The wounded, if they live, will reach Rivendell ere Elrohir and Aragorn leave to rejoin us. If you wish to return now and meet with them, you have my leave to do so. But if you wish to remain here, then we would be glad of your company."

"Even though we’re not very good in the trees?" Sam asked, hoping to draw a smile from the weary warrior.

"Even though," Elladan answered, but he gave no smile.

A moment of uneasy silence fell, eventually broken by Pippin. "What do you think we’ll do now? Will we split up like King Thranduil wanted to do?"

"We cannot do that until Elrohir and Aragorn return," Elladan said with a shake of his head. "We shall need all of our forces to separate effectively, for by necessity, any groups we create must be large groups. The ill effects of the darkness seem to be lessened if one travels with many others."

"Then what shall we do until they get here?" Pippin wondered.

"I know not," Elladan said. "At this point, the great bulk of our knowledge is not knowledge at all but rather vague guesses backed by circumstantial evidence." Elladan smiled slightly. "You probably did not wish to hear that."

"No, not really," Pippin admitted.

"Were I able to, I would give you nothing but reassurances. However, I fear we have all been grievously deceiving ourselves, and now it has led to the deaths of elves beneath my command. I will not lie to you, my friends," Elladan said with a slight grimace. "Our next task will not be an easy one. Without the use of a clear trail, we must somehow locate the stronghold of the Orcs and then confront them. And doubtless we shall meet other Orcs along the way."

"If it brings us closer to Merry and Legolas, then I’m coming," Pippin said firmly.

"We didn’t follow you out all this way just to stop here," Sam added. "We haven’t been much help so far, but we aren’t turning back."

"Would that all could have your resolve and your faith," Elladan murmured. "Come then, and let us seek out your dwarven friend and also King Thranduil. We shall take counsel together regarding our next option, and mayhap when Elrohir and Aragorn arrive, we shall have answers for them."

"Is it safe to have King Thranduil and Gimli together in the same conversation?" Pippin idly wondered.

"Safe or not, it is necessary," Elladan said firmly, moving away and gesturing for the hobbits to follow him. "They must both overcome their differences if this is to succeed. If not, I foresee a very dark future."

* * * *

"Mommy, I’m hungry."

Rosie looked up from her ôlgalenas leaves at Elanor and sighed. The little hobbit had woken an hour or so ago, and after one of the elves informed her of it, Rosie had taken her daughter to breakfast. She’d already eaten, of course—breakfast being something that hobbits did immediately after rising—but she’d cheerfully joined her daughter for yet another meal before returning to the porch where she and Arwen had been preparing medicines. Arwen had been gone when she returned, but since Rosie had a fairly good idea of what she was doing with these elvish leaves, that was not a problem. What was a problem, though, was that Rosie had now eaten twice and had yet to feel the bite of hunger. But Elanor did not have that advantage and was feeling the need for more food. Unfortunately, Rosie had learned the day before that Rivendell’s kitchens did not operate on a hobbit timetable. There would probably be nothing to eat for another hour or so.

"Why don’t you keep playing with your toys and I’ll see if I can manage something," Rosie counseled.

"I’m hungry now!" Elanor insisted.

Rosie sighed and rubbed her brow. "Elanor, I don’t know as there is anything for you to eat."

"Rose Gamgee?"

Rosie looked up, startled. She had not been aware of anyone’s approach, but a strange elf was now leaning over her shoulder, examining her work with the ôlgalenas leaves with a critical eye. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I didn’t hear you come in," she hastily explained, getting to her feet and offering a quick curtsy.

"No matter," the elf said with a slight shake of his head, and Rosie now recognized him as the elf that had come earlier to speak with Arwen. His long, silver hair was caught back in a warrior’s braid at the base of his neck, and his bright gray eyes held depths that the hobbit could not even begin to penetrate. "I have to come to tell you that Arwen may not return for a while," he continued, his eyes softening when Rosie began to shift nervously, not used to the effects of a prolonged elven gaze. "She apologies for this and promises to come as soon as possible."

"Oh, that’s all right," Rosie said. "She can take whatever time she needs. I’m fine here and I don’t want for company, seeing as I have Elanor with me and all." Rosie then blushed and realized that this was probably an elf of some importance. "I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know as I remember your name. Or maybe I don’t know it, but—"

"Peace, good hobbit," the elf laughed quietly. "My name is Celeborn."

Celeborn…the name was vaguely familiar to her and Rosie wondered if Sam might have mentioned it in conjunction with his tales of Mr. Frodo, but all those strange names of people and places had run together in Rosie’s mind. She was fairly certain that she’d heard the name Celeborn before, but she didn’t know if this was an important name or just someone Sam had run into.

Seeming to read the confusion and hesitation on Rosie’s face, the elf before her smiled and his eyes twinkled with a bit of mischief, a trait that seemed to be quite common in elves. "I take it that you do not know who I am."

Rosie shook her head even as she continued to search her memory. "I’m sorry. You seem familiar, but I just can’t quite seem to put my finger on where I might have heard your name, sir."

"Mommy! I’m hungry!"

Rosie looked over at Elanor and sighed. "Elanor, I already told you that—"

"The child is hungry?" The elf named Celeborn smiled again and shook his head. "So the obsession with food begins young in hobbits."

"I don’t know about obsession," Rosie said, feeling a quick sting of indignation. "We just like to be well fed, that’s all."

"Of course," Celeborn said indulgently with an amused look. He then moved over to Elanor and went down on one knee. "You say you are hungry, young one?"

Elanor nodded and adopted her best pouting expression, something that made Rosie instantly groan. There was no reasoning with Elanor when she started to pout, and the only way to win her good graces again was to agree to whatever she wanted, something that Sam did with outrageous regularity. Rosie kept trying to tell her husband that giving in only cemented in Elanor’s mind the idea that she could get anything out of anyone, but while Sam would listen and nod in agreement at all the right places, he continued to spoil their daughter shamelessly.

"Well, then," Celeborn said, picking the child up effortlessly and rising. "Let us see if we cannot fix that problem."

Rosie frowned and decided that this particular elf was probably not from Rivendell. " I don’t think the kitchens are open right now, Mr. Celeborn," she informed him. "They won’t be serving food and we’ll have to wait for noon. I don’t want you getting Elanor’s hopes up, if you take my meaning."

"I do take your meaning, good hobbit, but I think I may be able to convince the kitchens to provide a small meal for a hungry child," Celeborn answered.

It was absolutely clear now to Rosie that Celeborn definitely did not come from Rivendell. "I don’t think you understand, sir," she said. "Those elves in the kitchen…they’re strict about when they serve food and they told me that there were already too many people about to go catering to hobbits whenever they were hungry."

At this Celeborn started to laugh. "Ah, that brings back many memories. When your husband and his companions stopped in Lothlórien, the hobbits in the party nearly cleared out our larders."

"That’s where you’re from?" Rosie asked. "Lothlórien?"

"Yes. For now," Celeborn sighed as an expression of great sadness swept over his face. It was such a contrast to his previous mood that the sudden shift unnerved Rosie slightly, but before she could say aught, a mask had fallen over the elf’s face and he inclined his head toward the house. "Come. As I said before, I believe I might be able to convince the elves in the kitchen to fix a plate for your daughter. And perhaps for you as well, if you wish to eat again."

There seemed to be no gainsaying this elf—particularly since his legs were twice as big as hers were and he had already left the porch with Elanor in his arms—so Rosie hurried to catch up, wondering exactly how she was going to convince him that this particular kitchen did not listen to anyone. She supposed she would have to let him find out for himself, a tactic she used quite regularly with Elanor. She only hoped that he wouldn’t be too disappointed. It was a shame, really, because he seemed like a very kind elf that only wanted to help. And sad, too, though Rosie had yet to determine why he was sad. Personally, she didn’t understand how anyone could be sad in Rivendell. Even though she missed Sam fiercely, there was a healing spirit in Imladris that set her heart at ease. She still feared for him, but sadness itself was an emotion she had difficulty maintaining.

"Maybe we should find a back way into this kitchen," she suggested when she caught up to the elf. "Or you could distract them up front while I slip in and find a bit of something for Elanor. Maybe that would work better than just approaching them."

The elf laughed quietly and shook his head. "Let us try a more direct method first. It is sometimes far more beneficial."

"Sometimes," Rosie allowed hesitantly. "But I think if you distract whatever elf runs that kitchen, then maybe the rest won’t be so intimidated and I can get some food out of them."

Celeborn stopped so quickly that Rosie let out a quick yelp, surprised at the abruptness of his halt. Looking up at his face, she saw that his eyes had gone blank and she wondered what had happened. According to Sam, elves didn’t get sick, but to Rosie’s mind, Celeborn’s sudden actions seemed to indicate illness. Wary of disturbing him—especially since he was holding Elanor—Rosie cleared her throat and took a tentative step toward the elf.

"Mr. Celeborn?"

"If Mithrandir were still here, he would call us all fools," Celeborn murmured, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "It works upon the field of battle, why should it not work within the mind as well?" The elf opened his eyes and turned to the hobbit. "Rose Cotton Gamgee, you have my thanks. And if we are successful in our endeavors, you shall have the thanks of Legolas and Merry as well."

"I…what?"

"Come. You shall be rewarded twice over for this," Celeborn said, resuming his walk toward Rivendell’s kitchens and forcing Rosie to run in an effort to keep up.

"But what did you mean? They’re all right? Merry is—"

"Not yet, but soon. Much sooner than originally planned, thanks in part to you," Celeborn answered. "Valar, I should have seen this by Mithrandir’s example if for no other reason! Confront first and then offer solace. Valar, he almost succeeded with Saruman! Why could I not see this? But we have been set in our ways and our strategies for far too long."

"Sir, I don’t understand what you mean and I don’t see that—"

"Peace," Celeborn interrupted, weaving his way through a maze of corridors that quickly had Rosie’s head spinning. She knew how to get to the kitchens, of course, for acquiring this knowledge is a priority among hobbits whenever they elect to stay in a new place. But apparently there was more than one way to get to these kitchens, and Celeborn seemed to be taking a shortcut. Almost before she knew what had happened, they had walked into a large room filled with cupboards, pots, pans, hearths, ovens, and things Rosie couldn’t even begin to identify for she had never seen them before her stay in Rivendell.

"Brannon nîn!" one of the elves called out, and she recognized it as the elf who had informed her the day before in no uncertain terms that hobbits did not dictate mealtimes.

"This good hobbit and her daughter are in need of food," Celeborn said, speaking in Westron for Rosie’s benefit. "Would you see that they are given a proper meal? I wish for there to be nothing lacking."

Until this point, Rosie had seen only the calm, austere side of the elves. She had never seen one discomfited or taken by surprise. But the look she now saw upon the elf’s face was nothing short of complete and utter dismay. "Lord Celeborn," the elf started, "I do not think that you understand what you are—"

"Lothlórien played host to the Fellowship, and within the Fellowship were four hobbits. I know very well what I am asking."

"As you wish, my lord," the elf sighed, and Rosie heard a definite note of reluctance in his voice. But her mind was now focused on other things, for a memory had been triggered at the title of lord. Sam had once told her who ruled Lothlórien, but she had forgotten the strange name. Until now…

"If you have need of aught else, you have but to ask these good elves," Celeborn informed Rosie, handing Elanor back to her. "And if they do not see to your wishes, you have but to search me out. I thank you again, Rose Cotton Gamgee, for your help. And now I fear that I must bid you a fond farewell."

"Wait!" Rosie blurted, unable to stop herself. Shifting Elanor to the side even as the child started squirming at the smell of food, she hurried after Celeborn and nearly ran into him as he stopped in the doorway. "I…that is…what I mean…are you the same Celeborn that—"

"Peace," Celeborn interrupted before the stammering and embarrassed hobbit could finish the question. "To you, Rosie, I am Celeborn. A friend. And to me, you shall also be a friend. An elvellon, or elf-friend, if you accept it. Nothing more and nothing less. Will you allow me this privilege? For often, especially now, I find myself very alone."

The sadness in the elf’s eyes took Rosie’s breath away, and before she knew what she was doing, she had nodded her assent. But she could not help herself, for the ageless quality of those deep, gray eyes coupled with an immeasurable sorrow running just below the surface was not something to be denied. "Just Celeborn," she murmured. "I don’t know as I can do that, sir."

"Try then, for me," Celeborn said quietly.

"All right," Rosie promised, offering a slight smile. "If it will help you."

"It will," Celeborn answered, returning the smile. "And now I must go, for there are many things to do. See if your food is yet prepared, and if it is not, tell them that Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien orders speed and haste." And with this, Celeborn reached out to gently tousle Elanor’s hair before rising and leaving the room. And behind him, a hobbit of the Shire seemed to stand a little taller.

* * * *

I warned them. I warned them that this would happen. Had they heeded my counsel, our presence might still be unknown. Now we have revealed ourselves to the enemy. Beyond a shadow of any doubt, they know that we draw near. And if Legolas is harmed in any way because of this…

Fuming with anger even as fear was choking his heart, Thranduil made his way swiftly and silently through the trees on a search for Elladan. The company of elves had to move and it had to move now! They could not remain here, for more Orcs were certainly going to be sent to finish what their brethren could not. As for where they would go, Thranduil had yet to figure that out. They needed a better idea of the surrounding area in order to gauge where a stronghold might lie. But that also needed to be done with haste, for they had just set a time limit on the lives of the captives.

Of course, time was always limited if what Celeborn suspects is true, Thranduil thought as the cold hand of despair began to creep over him. If what my son currently endures is the same as that which was done to Ar-Pharazôn, then time is almost up. But we have made his plight worse, for if our enemy hastens his plans and does not take care, he may well kill his prisoners by accident!

Taken by fury, Thranduil swore and brought his sword down hard against the trunk of the tree in which he had stopped. The blood of Orcs caught the sun’s feeble light and turned the blade a dull red. With a slight grimace of disgust, Thranduil pulled the sword free of the trunk and then dragged the weapon along the tree’s limb in a futile effort to clean it. But the filth of dead Orcs clung to the metal like a dragon clinging to pile of gold, and the king of Mirkwood knew that a far more thorough cleaning would have to be arranged sometime. Most of the attacking Orcs had been killed, but a few of the Mirkwood scouts insisted that one or two had escaped southward. This complicated matters somewhat and also delayed the time when Thranduil could clean his sword. Not that sword cleaning was an item of great priority, but Thranduil was a rather obsessive elf with some very peculiar habits. Keeping his sword clean was one of these habits. A bloodied blade had a tendency to wear on his nerves, but the situation was clearly not going to allow Thranduil to indulge in any of his idiosyncrasies. He could live with that—he had lived with it many times in the past—but it was one more black mark against the enemy that had taken his son. And Thranduil intended to see that this enemy paid for each and every offense that Thranduil was dealt as well as tenfold for each and every offense that his son was dealt.

A sudden disturbance to his left brought Thranduil’s murderous thoughts to a halt, and he looked up with a frown. Something was coming through the trees with great haste, but though it moved with an elf’s grace, it did not move with an elf’s silence. Tightening his grip upon the hilt of his sword, Thranduil took a step back and fixed his eyes upon a cluster of leaves. Before long, his wait was rewarded as the branches burst asunder and the creature making such a stir leaped through.

"Hold!" Thranduil commanded even as surprise blasted through his mind. The noisy intruder was indeed an elf, and not only was it an elf, it was one of the Galadhrim. Within the trees, Lothlórien’s elves were so skilled as to be comparable to even Mirkwood’s finest scouts, but this particular elf seemed to have forgotten how to move with stealth. He also seemed to have forgotten his surroundings, for he did not stop at Thranduil’s command. Somewhat indignant at this breach in authority and respect, the king of Mirkwood quickly stepped forward and placed himself directly in the path of the rampaging elf.

Startled by the sudden roadblock, the elf came to an abrupt halt and seemed to realize that he had company. His flashing eyes darted to Thranduil’s face and he opened his mouth to speak, but recognition flitted across his features ere he could say aught. Not quite knowing what to do, he froze, watching Thranduil closely.

"You are greatly distressed, young one," Thranduil said, running his eyes over the other elf’s bloodied tunic and trying to determine how the archer was wounded. He had seen stress and battle rob even the best warriors of their senses, and he suspected that this was probably the case here. "Perhaps I might aid you," the king offered at length, deciding to forget the earlier lapse in protocol. "You have been hurt and—"

"Nay, not I but my brother!" the elf exploded, anger and hatred springing into his countenance with such swiftness that Thranduil actually stepped back. "It is his blood that I bear!"

Thranduil frowned and took a closer look at this elf, recognizing him now. "Haldir of Lothlórien, correct?" he questioned.

The elf nodded, and once again, sense seemed to prevail in his distraught mind. "My apologies, my liege," Haldir murmured, casting his eyes down and beginning to shiver from shock and grief. "I fear that, at the moment, I…I am not myself."

"Your apologies are accepted," Thranduil said quietly, drifting closer to the elf. "And in return, I offer my sympathy. I was among the archers that sought to buy Rúmil time to escape. I regret that we were not successful." The king laid a hesitant hand on Haldir’s shoulder, seeking to impart comfort.

"He is dead!" Haldir suddenly wailed, his grief bursting from him as though a torrent had been set loose. "Sweet Elbereth, he is dead! Gone!"

"Peace," Thranduil said quickly, pulling the weeping elf against his chest. The king had been in Haldir’s situation many times. His father, his wife, and one of his daughters had all perished by the hands of the Orcs. His other daughter and two of his sons had departed over the sea at various times during the passing years. Four sons only remained to him, and should he lose one of them… "Peace, Haldir," Thranduil soothed, shaking himself free of his own thoughts. "We are still in danger here. Hush. Think of your other brother. What is his name? Haldir, what is his name?"

Haldir shuddered and seemed to calm himself slightly. "Orophin," he murmured. "His name is Orophin."

"Yes, Orophin," Thranduil said quietly. "And where is he now?"

"He sits with…he sits with Rúmil and the rest that were lost."

"And why do you not sit with him? For surely Orophin is in need of your wisdom. He is younger than you, I believe."

"Wisdom is well and good, but I desire vengeance," Haldir hissed, his mood shifting abruptly. He stepped back, shaking off Thranduil’s restraining hands, and a strange gleam entered his eyes.

"The Orcs are gone," Thranduil reasoned, wondering if he would have to summon his guards and have the archer restrained. "Unless you wish to leave the safety of the group, you shall not find them. And though I understand well your feelings, I cannot allow you to do this, Haldir. Vengeance will have to wait."

"I do not seek vengeance from the Orcs, sire, for there will be time enough for that later," Haldir growled. "It is the head of a dwarf that I now desire."

Thranduil blinked, rather surprised by this turn of events. As he had told Haldir, he had been among the group that answered Rúmil’s stricken cry. It had been an astonishing sight that threatened the very foundation of reality, but with his own eyes, Thranduil had witnessed Gimli defending and supporting Rúmil as they both fled the Orcs. They did not flee fast enough, but despite his prejudices, the king of Mirkwood could not attribute that fault to the dwarf. He had seen Rúmil’s staggering steps, and he had seen Gimli struggling to keep the elf on his feet. But apparently Haldir was only aware of the fact that Rúmil was dead. And since the dwarf had been present when he had died, Haldir’s grieving mind was giving Gimli the blame.

It seems I am confronted with many interesting dilemmas this day, the king of Mirkwood sighed. Thranduil certainly had no great love for the stunted creature that now bore the brunt of Haldir’s hatred, but he was not about to let the grieving elf kill the dwarf in cold blood. Rúmil’s death had not been Gimli’s fault, and beyond that, the dwarf had actually risked his life in an attempt to save Rúmil. Thranduil had his suspicions about Gimli’s motives, but the deeds themselves could not be ignored. Nor could they be rewarded with murder. But how was he to explain this to Haldir?

Thranduil opened his mouth to speak—though he had no clear idea of what he was going to say—but movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked to see the chief of his scouts, Ithildae, step from the foliage.

"Sire, all the injured and the lost have now been accounted for. We have gathered them together just north of here. What are your orders for them?"

"A moment, Haldir," Thranduil said, his gray eyes quickly boring into the elf and warning him of the consequences should he think about leaving prematurely. Then he turned his attention to Ithildae, though he kept his ears trained on Haldir’s movements. "Are elves of Rivendell among their number?"

"Several, sire, both wounded and dead. Also, many of the wounded are falling quickly to a poison that we discovered upon some of the arrows shot by the Orcs. We know not its source or origins, nor do any of those who possess some amount of healing skills."

Thranduil swore silently and went over the options available to him. Technically, he could not order all the wounded to be taken back because some of those wounded fell beneath Elladan’s sovereignty. He could certainly order his own, and he could probably get away with ordering the Galadhrim because they had not been left with a central commander and were instructed to follow joint decisions of both Elladan and Thranduil. Yet the circumstances were less than ordinary, and immortal lives were at stake. In addition to that, ordering them to leave now might take care of another problem…

"Haldir, follow Ithildae and return to your brothers," Thranduil instructed, moving so that both Haldir and Ithildae were now in view. "You shall accompany them to Rivendell and aid them in whatever manner is needed. Ithildae, assemble what help you require and move all the dead and all the injured to Imladris. Proceed with haste, for time is of the essence. All those fit to do so shall return in Elrohir’s company this evening. Bring with you arrows and supplies."

Ithildae bowed and turned to leave, but Haldir showed no inclination of obeying these instructions. Rebellion was growing in his eyes, his jaw was tightening, and his fists were clenching at his sides. "My liege, I—"

"Those were not suggestions," Thranduil said quietly, his voice gentle but firm. "Remove yourself from this darkness and think upon your desires. Consult with Orophin, and pay Rúmil the respect he deserves by accompanying him. After you have done this, return refreshed and ready to visit your vengeance upon those more deserving of it."

"Sire, I—"

"Now, Haldir," Thranduil said, his eyes becoming stony. For a moment the tension between the king of Mirkwood and the scout of Lothlórien seemed to rival the tension felt when the Orcs had attacked. But Haldir’s weary mind could not endure Thranduil’s piercing gaze for long, and at length, he dropped his head in defeat. Thranduil then flicked his eyes to Ithildae, who quickly nodded at the unspoken command and moved to Haldir’s side.

"Come," Ithildae said quietly. "Your aid shall be needed in assisting with those from Lothlórien."

The two elves departed, leaving Thranduil alone, and the king of Mirkwood was given a brief chance to think back over what had been said. I have just saved a dwarf’s life, he realized, marveling at the irony of it all. It seems that the Valar are enjoying themselves today, for doubtless this is a spectacle which entertains them greatly. Unfortunately, I have not their sense of humor.

Thranduil sighed, closed his eyes, and rubbed his brow. The day was filled with surprises, and he was still attempting to process them all. But necessity called first, and Thranduil eventually chased away those thoughts that centered upon why a dwarf would defend an elf. Focusing once again on the imperative need to move the elven host, he resumed his search for Elladan, all the while wondering what else could possibly go wrong before the day was through.

Brannon nîn—My lord