Chapter One - A Call In The Night

As the teeming rain pounded down with even more force,  Elrohir pulled the hood of his cloak a little further forward – though it did little to deflect the drops that dripped incessantly down his face.  He scowled at the weather and sighed.  “I suppose we should be thankful that this is not snow,”  he told Mornaur gloomily.  “It would be just our luck to be caught in a blizzard and buried in a snowdrift and not found until the spring thaw.   When my parents return from Mithlond they would be most distressed – to say nothing of Elladan!”

Mornaur’s only response was to flicker one ear as he plodded stoically up the track leading to the high pass.  A torrent of water poured down the path turning it into a minor stream, and small stones and clumps of scrawny grass washed down by the deluge made it treacherous underfoot.  Mornaur slowed even more, picking his way cautiously along the narrow track.  

The wind buffeted them, whistling and moaning around the mountain peaks and rocky outcrops.  A sudden gust ripped Elrohir’s hood back again, but this time he did not bother to replace it – he was already soaked to the skin.  He thought longingly of the hot baths and fires at home.   He thought of Elladan, and a  sudden image came to him of his twin; comfortable and above all, dry, in the peace and safety of Imladris, working in the tranquil silence of Elrond’s office by a roaring fire, a goblet of wine at his elbow.  “Next time there is an urgent message for Thranduil, Elladan can take it!”  Elrohir continued sourly.  “I did not even get the chance to see Taniquel, which is the only reason why I said I would go in the first place.”    Mornaur merely twitched the other ear, and Elrohir lapsed into a morose silence, contemplating the utter unfairness of life.

The journey had started well – travelling at the end of autumn, the weather had been crisp and dry, and the nights ablaze with stars.  The trees of Lasgalen were predominantly oak and beech, and the forest had been a riot of colour – red, yellow, bronze and gold – with leaves piled underfoot and drifting through the air on every breath of wind.

Yet from there on, things had gone wrong.   Taniquel was away, gone on a two-month long tour of duty to the north, patrolling the foothills of the Grey Mountains.  Legolas too was absent on a diplomatic mission to far-off Dorwinia, apparently to re-negotiate trade terms – and, no doubt, sampling the delights of the Dorwinian vines.

Returning home quickly, he had misjudged the weather badly.  It was still only the start of winter, and the worst of the storms did not usually start until the end of  the year – but the day before, when he was already high in the mountains, the storm had begun.  Hoping that it would soon blow itself out, he had continued, but it had been a bad mistake.  The downpour grew heavier, and the wind became ever more vicious.  It was too late now to turn back – all he could do was to press on, and hope for the best.

Their route grew darker and darker as night fell, but still the storm did not abate.  The wind continued to howl through fissures and crevices in the rock, and the rain fell so heavily it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.  Imperceptively  the path levelled out, then began to slope downwards as they crossed the pass – but now they were in the teeth of the gale, the wind so strong it threatened to tear them from the path.

Elrohir hesitated, drawing Mornaur into the meagre shelter of the cliff face.  It would be madness to continue – as the track dropped it became steeper, narrower, and even more exposed.  He had no choice but to stop for the night, and wait for the storm to ease before continuing.  Although he could see nothing in the black murk, he had crossed this pass enough times to know that a short way ahead the track branched, one path leading to a cave where he and Mornaur could seek shelter for the night – or for as long as the storm raged. 

The rain turned to sleet, icy needles that burned his face and stung his eyes, and Elrohir made his mind up.  “This way, then.  Come on.”  His voice was lost against the howl of the wind, and Mornaur baulked as the path divided.  Elrohir urged him up and to the right, using his hands and his knees to direct Mornaur, and leaning forward to whisper reassuringly into his ear.  The track to the cave climbed again, twisting across the face of the mountain, but now the cave was only a short distance away.  Mornaur slowed, picking his way with care, and Elrohir dropped the reins, trusting to the horse’s instincts.  “Find the path for us,” he murmured.  “You know the way.” 

Mornaur took only a few paces before he stopped again, pawing at the ground and shaking his head uncertainly.  Elrohir peered at the track before them, then slid to the ground cautiously.  “What is it?  What do you see?” he asked softly.   He hesitated, looking ahead along the track, and back at the way they had come.

Rubble and debris had fallen across the path, partially blocking it and forcing them outward to the edge, dangerously close to the drop.  There was no room to turn on the narrow track, and it would be too difficult and dangerous to guide Mornaur backwards over such a distance.  They had no choice but to continue.

Holding Mornaur’s reins in one hand, he edged forward carefully, testing the ground for each foothold before stepping forward.  Mornaur was so close behind him that he could feel the horse’s breath on his neck.  It was the only feeling of warmth in this wet, icy world.

They had nearly reached the spur of rock that concealed the cave when suddenly, with no warning at all, the path beneath his feet collapsed, the stone eroded by frost and water and wind.    He snatched at Mornaur’s mane and hung, gasping, above the sheer drop before he could regain his footing on the wet, slick stone.   He had barely caught his breath when the rock crumbled again, and both he and Mornaur plunged downward.

Elf and horse fell in a tangle of limbs, tumbling down in a cascade of rubble and stone, sliding and slithering across rocky scree.  Elrohir’s fall came to an abrupt end when he landed across a jutting outcrop of stone.  Pain shot through him, a brief flash of agony, before darkness took him.

o-o-o

It was light when he regained his senses;  a dim, dismal light that showed him a slope of slate-grey rock and featureless stone.  There was nothing more.   The storm had finally abated, and now a heavy mist hung over the mountain peaks, obscuring both the path above, and the slope below.    Elrohir raised his head stiffly, trying to ignore the stabbing pain and blinking in an attempt to clear his blurring vision.   The stones where he lay were stained a dark reddish-brown, and when he slowly raised one hand to his aching head he could feel the stickiness of oozing blood.  His back, too, was a mass of pain where he had struck a rock or stone in his fall,  and there was a flare of agony in his leg.

As his vision cleared slightly he could see a dark patch against the slate and shale littering the rock face, silent and still.  Elrohir dropped his head back against the cold stone despairingly, his sight blurring again as tears filled his eyes.  “Mornaur,”  he whispered in anguish.   He tried to edge closer, dragging himself when he found he could not move, and doggedly ignoring the agony that grew with every tiny movement.   The loose stones shifted and moved beneath him, and he slid further down the steep slope towards the sheer drop he could not see.  He froze, his heart racing, lying quite still against the cliff face, and slowly the rain of rock and stone and shale stopped.

He looked up at the mountainside above him again, trying to think against the ache in his head and ignore the pain.  The slope rose steeply, littered with loose shale.  Somewhere up there was the path and the cave – but he had no idea how far he had fallen, and in any case climbing was an impossibility.  Any attempt to drag himself up would only precipitate yet another rocky avalanche, even if he could move himself that far.

He was trapped on this bare, barren cliff face, unable to go down, unable to climb up, unable to even move – and quite, quite alone.   

He dropped his head against the icy rock, close to despair.  “Ah, Elladan.  It is at times like this that I wish I really could read your mind – or that you could read mine!  I think I need your help, brother.”  While Elladan would know by now that something was wrong, he could have no idea of what, or how, or even where.

He lay still for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.  One thing was clear – he knew with a cold certainty that if he did nothing, he would die here.  He would either bleed to death, or freeze – and it would make little difference in the end which fate claimed him.  And although it might not change anything – he was too far from help, too far from home – he would do what he could to save himself.

Elrohir pushed himself upright, closing his eyes briefly as the mountainside dipped and swayed around him, forcing himself to stay conscious.  He would not faint.  He could not.  Opening his eyes again, he could see his injuries more clearly.  Apart from numerous cuts and grazes and bruises, one leg was obviously broken, and there was a deep, ragged gash along his thigh that still bled freely.  He had to stop the bleeding – already far too much of his blood stained the mountain slope.  And then, perhaps, he could think of a way out of this plight.  Clumsily – for one arm would not work properly either – he groped for his dagger and cut strips from his undershirt, which was still relatively clean, then bandaged his leg tightly. 

The effort to sit and bandage his leg exhausted him, and he had to rest for a moment when the final knot was tied.   He was dizzy and light-headed, and so terribly, terribly cold.   The exhaustion and coldness scared him, and he knew he had to seek shelter – somehow.   He gazed around at the bleak, exposed cliff, trying to recall every scrap of survival training he had ever encountered, and his eye fell on Mornaur.  ‘Huddle together for warmth,’   he heard Glorfindel lecture.  ‘Even a dead companion is better than none.’   He frowned, trying to remember what else Glorfindel had said.  ‘ Take his … his boots and his cloak.’   Boots and cloak – and what else?  Why was it so hard to think?  He tried to grasp his scattered thoughts again.  There was more, he knew there was.  ‘Take his clothes if you have to – your need is greater than his.’

Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself towards Mornaur again, a few feet at a time, stopping when the stones began to slide downwards and waiting until the fall ceased again before moving on.  By the time he reached Mornaur he was shaking from cold and tiredness, but he could not let himself rest.   He touched the soft nose with one hand.   “Goodbye, my friend,”  he whispered sadly, remembering the wobbly-legged foal he had delivered himself, the eager young colt he had trained and schooled, and the warm, comforting breath that had accompanied him along the treacherous path.  Finally he gently patted Mornaur’s neck in a sorrowful farewell before concentrating on his own survival. 

There was no sign of the bags Mornaur had carried,  but his saddle – twisted and awry – was still there, and beneath it the saddle blanket.  He cut through the girth and pulled the blanket free, wrapping it around himself gratefully and then covering himself with his cloak, before finally pressing himself against Mornaur’s belly.  It was scant shelter, but better than the barren mountainside – and the shrouding fog had thickened into heavy rain and sleet again. 

He closed his eyes wearily, trying to think, but it was still so cold.  Blood loss, he told himself grimly.  Exposure.  Shock.  Probably concussion, too.   There were other injuries too, including his back, but his mind skittered away from thinking too deeply about that.   There were possibilities there that he did not want to consider yet.

There was nothing more he could do at the moment.    He had a few emergency rations – waybread, nuts and dried fruit – and a flask of water.  If he drank sparingly, it would last him a day – and if he could catch some of the incessant rain, it would last him longer.  He had shelter of a sort.  He would wait a day to rest and recover, then try again to make his way back to the path.  If he could do that,  he would start to make his way back to Imladris on foot.   There was a strong chance that Elladan would be on his way, but that would be of little help.   Elladan had no way of knowing where he was – he was not even due back from Lasgalen for several days yet.   There was no one clear route leading to the pass, but a maze of small paths and tracks that seemed to change every winter.  There was also the possibility – remote though it was – that his twin, believing him still in Lasgalen, would simply trust to Calmacil’s skill and wait for news.

He wished very much that he could call to Elladan for help.  But their bond was one of sensing feelings and emotions, and no more.   He and Elladan had never been able to mindspeak to one another – though they understood each other’s moods so well that some half-believed they could.   All he could sense now was that Elladan was desperately worried about him, and he wished rather hopelessly that he could reach his twin to tell him what had happened, and where he was.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed aside the haze of pain and exhaustion and tried to channel his thoughts and reach out through their bond, using all his desperation and hopelessness to force the contact.   ‘Elladan.  Elladan.  Can you hear me?  Listen.’  He paused, fighting the dizziness that swirled on the edges of his mind, and summoned his dwindling strength.  ‘Elladan, listen to me.  I need help.  I am in the high pass – just below the cave.  I fell.  El, I am injured and need help.  Mornaur … Mornaur is dead.’  He stopped again, forcing himself to continue.  ‘Please, El –if you can hear me – it is so cold …’   His concentration wavered again, and he jerked himself back to awareness.   He could not let himself sleep.  He had to make sure he stayed awake and alert, despite his exhaustion, knowing only too well that if he fell asleep in this harsh, bitter terrain, he might soon sink into a deeper sleep, and an unconsciousness from which he might never awaken.

o-o-o

Elladan awoke from a deep sleep, sitting upright with a gasp.  “El?”  he called into the silence of his bedchamber.   He knew there would be no response – Elrohir was far away in Lasgalen – but there was something wrong.  Badly wrong.  He stared into the darkness, listening, but could hear nothing but silence.  He called once more and then, sliding from his bed,  he crossed to the door and made his way down the dimly lit, deserted hallways.   Pausing outside another door, he knocked briefly, and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.

“Glorfindel, wake up.”

Glorfindel blinked once, then rose, staring at him in surprise.  “Elladan?  What …”

“It is Elrohir.  He is hurt.  I do not know how, or why, or even where, but he needs me.”

Glorfindel rubbed his eyes.  “How do you …”  Then he waved a hand in apology.  “Forgive me.  I am still half asleep.  Of course you know.  But I thought Elrohir was still in Lasgalen?”

Elladan shrugged.  “I assume so.   Yes, he must be.  He did not say, but I know he was hoping to see Taniquel – so he is probably still there.  But wherever he is, there is something wrong.   I have to go to him.”

“I know.  I understand.  But Elladan, wait.   Thranduil’s healer – Calmacil? –  he is one of the best.  Whatever has happened, Elrohir will be in safe hands.”

Elladan nodded distractedly.  “I suppose so,”  he muttered, unconvinced.  “That is … yes, I know how good Calmacil is.  But … ”  He sighed, and shook his head.  “It is no use.  Glorfindel, I have to go.  I will leave at dawn.”

Glorfindel crossed to a table next to the fireplace and poured a goblet of wine which he thrust into Elladan’s hands.  “Sit down.  Drink this.  Elladan, listen to me!”

Elladan looked up, surprised to find himself sitting.  He took a deep breath, and a large mouthful of wine.  “Glorfindel … ”

“Elladan, calm down.  You will be of no help to Elrohir if you panic.  Tell me what happened.”

“I am not panicking – I am worried!”  he snapped.  Glorfindel said nothing, and Elladan sighed,  gripping the goblet tightly in an attempt to stop his hands shaking.   He took another sip of the wine, forcing himself to be calm and rational as he related what had happened.  “I was asleep.  Something woke me, very suddenly, and I knew that Elrohir was injured and in danger.  And that is all I know.”  He fell silent, thinking.  He would need supplies – weather in the passes through the mountains could be treacherous at any time of the year.  He would need food, blankets, medicines – he had to be prepared for anything.  It would be of little help to Elrohir if he himself encountered some disaster on the way.

The abrupt awakening had shaken him – though he had not been panicking – but the very act of planning, and Glorfindel’s instant acceptance that something was wrong had calmed him.  He glanced wryly at the now empty goblet, and acknowledged that the wine may have helped, too.  He rose to his feet.  “Thank you, Glorfindel.  Will you take over my duties here?  I cannot stay, you know that.”

Glorfindel snorted.  “You expect me to stay here?  Of course not, elfling.  I am coming with you – Elrohir needs us.” 

To Be Continued

Chapter Two – A Race Against Time

“I am coming with you – Elrohir needs us.”

Elladan felt as if a huge weight had dropped from his shoulders at Glorfindel’s words.  He simply nodded, thankful beyond words.  Glorfindel had always been a friend and confidante to him and Elrohir– and a hard taskmaster when they were young warriors in training.  It would be a relief to have his company and staunch support.  He gripped the other’s arm in gratitude. 

“Thank you.  Will you find Erestor and tell him, while I go down to the stables?  I will meet you later.”

They left Imladris in the grey light of dawn, with only Erestor to watch them depart.  Despite Elladan’s relief that Glorfindel was accompanying him, he was still tense and anxious.  An odd sense of urgency gnawed at him, and a feeling that there was no time to be lost.  There was still something very wrong.

With a single backward glance at Erestor’s solitary figure standing on the steps, they swept out of the courtyard.  Elladan set a fast pace as they rode swiftly through the hills behind Imladris and then, more slowly, began to climb steadily up through the pines that blanketed the slopes and foothills.  Elladan looked up towards the distant peaks.  The mountains were once again living up to their name – the snow capped heights were lost in cloud and mist.  It would be a cold, wet journey through the pass, and then he would still have to cross the vale of the Anduin and face at least a day’s journey through Lasgalen.   He gave a sigh of frustration – it was too far, and too long.

As they rode, his anxiety increased.  It seemed there was a dark cloud of foreboding in his mind, and he shivered at a sudden chill.   He could feel pain, and deep anguish, and a terrible loneliness.  Why?   Why was Elrohir feeling such sorrow and isolation?

“Elladan.”  Glorfindel’s patient voice called to him, and Elladan realised that Glorfindel had been talking to him for some time.   He drew a deep breath, and forced himself to pay attention.

“Your pardon, Glorfindel.  What did you say?”

Glorfindel sighed.  “I was asking what happened in your … dream.   I do not doubt that you know Elrohir is injured, but how?  Why?  What happened?”

Elladan shook his head helplessly.  “I do not know.  But I feel … I think he is not in Thranduil’s halls.  He is alone somewhere, I know it!  There is still danger.”  He rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to ease the growing tension there.  “Glorfindel, we must hurry.”  He did not voice, even to himself, his fear that they could yet arrive too late.

Suddenly he gasped, his hands tightening on Morel’s reins.  He could hear Elrohir calling to him – faint and far away, but unmistakable.  But here?  So close to Imladris?   He slowed Morel to a walk and looked around, trying to establish where his brother’s voice was coming from.   It was strangely difficult to tell the direction, but he came back to face the mountains again.  “Elrohir?”  Glorfindel looked back at him, startled by his sudden shout, but Elladan ignored his questions and called again.  “Elrohir!”

‘Elladan.’  Elrohir’s voice came again – but no, the voice was inside his head.   He stopped disbelievingly, and then closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind of all thoughts so that he could hear more clearly.  ‘Elladan.   Can you hear me?  Listen.’ 

Yes, he could hear Elrohir.  He did not believe it – it was impossible – but he could hear him.   “Yes.  Yes, I can hear you!”  From Glorfindel’s startled comment, he realised he had spoken aloud.  ‘Yes, El.  I can hear you!’   he replied silently.  ‘Where are you?  What happened?  Are you all right?’   He stopped his frantic flow of questions and waited, wondering if Elrohir could hear him. 

‘Elladan, listen to me,’  Elrohir continued.   ‘I need help.  I am in the high pass – just below the cave.  I fell.  El, I am injured and need help.  Mornaur … Mornaur is dead.’  Elrohir’s mental voice hitched and faltered again, then resumed, weaker than before.  ‘ Please, El – if you can hear me – it is so cold …’   The voice in his mind faded away, and there was only the silence of his own chaotic thoughts. 

‘I can hear you, Elrohir.  I am coming.  Just stay where you are – I will find you.  I am on my way.’    Elladan opened his eyes to find Glorfindel staring at him in alarm, one hand clutching at his arm to hold him upright.

“Elladan?  What happened?  Is it – is it Elrohir?”

Elladan nodded slowly, still a little dazed.  “I heard him – in my mind,”  he said in wonder.  “I heard him.”  

“You heard him?”  Glorfindel gazed at him with concern.  “Elladan, your worry for Elrohir has touched your mind!  How could you have heard him?”

“I do not know!”  he snapped, irritated by Glorfindel’s scepticism.  “But he spoke to me.  He needs help.”  He shook himself, suddenly decisive.  “I know where he is, but he is injured.  Glorfindel, I need you to go back to Imladris and get more help – a healer, a few of the guards.  More medical supplies, and a litter.  Food as well – I think it will be a few days before he will be able to move far.”

“Elladan …”

Elladan’s thinly-stretched patience snapped.  “Listen to me!  You must trust me in this – I know where he is, and I know how to get to him.  I know.”

Glorfindel stared at him for a moment, doubt clear in his eyes, then he sighed and gave a reluctant nod.  “Very well,”  he said slowly.  “Where is he?  What happened?”

“The pass through the mountains.  Just below the cave.  He says he fell.  And there is something else – something he is trying not to tell me.”  Elladan drew a deep breath.  “Glorfindel, I have to go.  Now.”

Glorfindel hesitated for a long time, then slowly nodded again.   “Then go.  I will come as fast as I can.  And Elladan – be careful.”  Glorfindel caught at his arm again.  “I mean it.  Pay attention to your route.  Do not let your worry for Elrohir blind you to your own safety.”  He paused.  “You cannot help him if you yourself are injured!”  he added deliberately.

It was Elladan’s turn to nod sharply, then he urged Morel into a gallop and raced through the trees, negotiating the steep, rough track, the protruding roots and low, overhanging branches with heedless ease.   Glorfindel’s final warning rang in his ears though, and he did not take any risks that were too foolish.   He stopped just once in the late afternoon, and let Morel drink from a tiny brook that babbled at the side of the track.  They were already on the edge of the tree line, and he began to gather fallen branches and pine cones together – when he reached Elrohir, they would need a fire.  He bundled the load into a spare blanket and tied it to Morel’s saddle.  Then he set off again, riding Morel as hard as he dared in the fading light, alternating between a gallop and periods of walking to preserve Morel’s strength – but the periods of walking seemed far too long, and he had to force himself to wait before urging Morel back to a faster pace. 

Slowly the mountains, and the pass, drew nearer, yet it seemed always far too slow, and never near enough.   As the path wound into the foothills it grew steeper and rockier and he had to slow his desperate pace even more.     The sun had long since set behind him, and ahead the moon rose, a great white circle hanging low in the sky.   It framed the tall peak of Meneldol that rose beside the pass, and cast a shimmering light over the mountains.  The snow that covered the highest peaks glittered and shone like crushed diamonds, and the moonlight threw a silver path straight to his feet.

It was a beautiful, breath taking sight, and Elladan’s heart sank. 

If the blanketing clouds had lifted, the temperature would have plummeted with nightfall, and it would now be piercingly cold in the pass.    Elrohir was alone, and injured, and without shelter – and he would be far more vulnerable to the freezing conditions.  He urged Morel on relentlessly, afraid of what he might find if he came too late.

The moonlight cast long lines of shadows across the path, concealing potholes and loose stones.  Suddenly Morel stumbled, nearly pitching Elladan over his shoulder, then lurched again as he regained his footing.  Elladan eased him to a halt and dropped to the ground, patting his heaving flanks absently.  “I am sorry,  my friend,”  he murmured as he checked anxiously for any injury.  “I know this is a strain for you.  It is not much further now, but we cannot stop for long.  We must go on.  Forgive me.” 

Tense and impatient, he nonetheless made himself wait while Morel rested.  Despite his desperate hurry, the risk of Morel falling again was too great, and he was becoming careless as well.  He was pushing Morel too hard, and knew it.  The horse was tired, and would not be able to maintain this desperate pace for much longer.

While they rested, he forced himself to eat half a wafer of waybread and drink from his water skin – there had been no time for breakfast, and he could not remember stopping to eat or drink at all during the day.  He recalled his promise to Glorfindel, and smiled.  Poor Glorfindel had been deeply reluctant to leave him, but had finally realised there was no choice.  From his expression though, he had harboured clear doubts about Elladan’s sanity.

Staring at the fold in the mountains that hid the pass – much closer now, but still too far – he tried to reach out with his thoughts again.  ‘Elrohir.  Wait for me.  I am coming – I will be with you by morning.  Just … just hold on.’   Was there any point?  Could Elrohir possibly hear him?  There was only a blank silence in his mind now, and he half wondered if he had ever heard Elrohir at all, or if it was just his own desperate imagining.

o-o-o

He was not aware of falling asleep or losing consciousness, but his thoughts kept drifting away.  When he caught at them again, the light had changed.   It was dark again now, and had grown even colder. 

Elrohir moved stiffly, biting back a gasp of pain as his injured shoulder – probably dislocated – protested.  The joint had seized and locked in position, and now he could not move his arm at all.  He groped clumsily with his uninjured hand for his flask of water and drank a little.  The water was so cold it made his teeth ache and seemed to burn his throat as he swallowed, then lay in an icy pool in his stomach.  He forced himself to eat a few raisins and some of the waybread as well, though it all seemed dry and tasteless.  He felt nauseated rather than hungry, but knew he had to try.

It had been raining again, and the water had seeped through his cloak and the saddle blanket.  The surface of the cloak was stiff and filmed with ice.  He shook the water bottle and drank again, just a little, then tucked it back beneath the blanket.  It felt cold against his side, but he did not want to risk it freezing.  That thought reminded him of the belt pouch he had placed out in the rain earlier.  He stretched out stiffly and pulled it closer.  The driving rain had filled it to the brim, but he had left it for too long and it had frozen into a single block.  He swore at his carelessness and lay back wearily, gathering his strength for another attempt to move from this cold, exposed mountain. 

Slowly, he pushed himself up on his one functioning arm, fighting the dizziness that spun around him again.  His arm shook with the strain as he dragged himself forward, and he managed to move perhaps a few inches before collapsing back against the icy rock with a sob of despair.   He would not give up, though.  He prided himself on being determined and single minded – though Elladan was more likely to use words like stubborn, pig-headed, and bloody-minded.  He smiled.  Where was Elladan now?  Had he left Imladris?  Was he even now riding out of the valley, with Glorfindel or Erestor or a troop or warriors in his wake?

With a grim determination Elrohir hauled himself forward again, and this time managed to move an inch or two, no more.  He stopped again and lay back, trying to think clearly.  Determination was one thing, but he had to be realistic.  There was no way he was going to be able to reach the path.  Even if by some supreme effort he managed to crawl a few more feet, he would then be out in the open, totally exposed to the killing weather.  Here, still lying against Mornaur, he was at least sheltered a little from the bitter winds.    His only hope now was to wait.   ‘Elladan,’  he thought hazily, ‘if you are coming, I think you had better hurry.’

Time seemed to skip again, and when he was next aware, the moon had risen above him.   It cast a cold silver light down on him and lit the mountain slopes in stark black and white.   Although his breath frosted in white plumes as he breathed, he had stopped shivering, and did not feel so cold now – indeed, he could not feel anything.  His legs were numb, and even the fierce pain in his back had gone.  He thought about that for a moment.  He should be relieved that it was warmer – but there was something wrong.  It was a sign of danger.   His mind drifted back to Glorfindel’s survival training again.  Even an elf could be affected by extreme cold, especially if injured.  And although it only showed itself in tiny ways, he was not a pure-blooded elf.   In fighting the cold, and his injuries, and struggling to stay conscious, his body was using what little strength and energy he had too fast.

He took a deep breath, and focused inward.  His eyes drifted shut as he concentrated, deliberately slowing his breathing and heart rate.  It was a deadly gamble.  This would keep him alive for longer, but it left him dangerously vulnerable.  He would be defenceless against attack by wolves or other wild beasts, and if rescuers came but did not see him, he could not call for help.

As he slipped into unconsciousness, he sent out a final thought.  ‘Elladan.  Come and find me, brother.’

To Be Continued

Chapter Three – Rescue Against The Odds

Elladan made himself wait until Morel’s breathing had eased before they continued.   Sharp black shadows still lay across the path, forcing him to take a far slower pace than he wanted.  Morel was still tired though, and the risk of him stumbling again on the uneven track was too great – if they fell it would take him days longer to reach Elrohir, and he knew he did not have that long.

As they climbed steadily ever higher the moon passed overhead and set behind them, and the grey, gritty light of dawn was breaking when Elladan finally reached the pass.  Morel was plodding wearily now, and Elladan scanned the slopes around them carefully.   As he rounded a bend in the track he could see the spur of rock that marked the cave – but the narrow trail that led off to it was gone, a section of it broken away.  A long scar of darker, unweathered shale showed where something had slid and fallen down the mountain slope – and there, at the end of the scar, a dark shape lay.  Mornaur.    

He swore softly at this confirmation of all his deepest fears.  Somehow, he had still carried a faint hope that he was mistaken, that he would find the pass lonely and deserted, and that he would eventually find Elrohir in Lasgalen,  safe and cared for in the capable hands of Calmacil.  In his heart though, he had known what he would find.  Despite the impossibility of it, he knew that he had heard Elrohir’s call.

There was no sign of Elrohir here, though.  He scanned the slopes again, frantically searching, looking for any sign of his twin – but there was nothing.  The mountainside was bleak and barren, with no sign of life whatsoever.   He looked again – Elrohir had to be there, somewhere.  He had to be.

Elladan stood at the side of the track studying the slopes in despair and puzzlement.  It made no sense.  The slope above Mornaur was too steep for Elrohir to scale, surely?  But the slope below – it dropped steeply, then fell away into a sheer, dizzying drop into nothingness.  Elladan stared at the drop in dismay.  Elrohir could not have fallen again – he was alive, he knew it. 

So where was he? 

“El!”  he called sharply.  The call echoed around him, and drew a low rumble from the towering slopes above him.   He glanced up warily.  At this time of year, the risk of avalanche was high.   “Elrohir!”  he called again, more cautiously.  He listened, but there was no reply.

At last he climbed down from the track to the mountainside where poor Mornaur lay.  Immediately the loose shale and scree shifted beneath his feet and he slipped, nearly falling.  He took another cautious step and slid even further on the unstable surface.  Swearing, he scrambled back to where Morel stood patiently waiting, and looked back.   There was little point in trying again to reach Mornaur, for there was nothing he could do. The poor beast was obviously dead, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.  He patted Morel absently.  “I am sorry, my friend.  We will have to find you a new stable mate.”

Somewhere in the distance a wolf gave a long, mournful howl.  Elladan’s heart began a slow, relentless pounding as the wolf was answered by others, and he felt sick with dread.  Wolves seldom came this high, for there was little prey for them – but it was not unknown.  Could Elrohir have fallen victim to the creatures?

“Stop it!”  he muttered in disgust.  “Glorfindel was right – you are panicking!  You will not help El like this.”

He forced himself to think calmly and rationally, drawing on Glorfindel’s training and his own experience in battle, then turned back to Morel and urged him further up the path, where there would be a better view.  Guiding him onto the track that led to the cave, he stopped at the point where the path had crumbled away, and from where Elrohir must have fallen.  He was directly above the spot where Mornaur lay now.  He halted again, and stared down, deep in thought.  Where was Elrohir?  He was here, somewhere, he knew it.  But where?

He closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses and searching for the odd awareness of his twin that they had never been able to explain to others.  Yes, Elrohir was still alive – and nearby.  Could he have reached the cave unaided?  He felt a flicker of hope, but quashed it firmly.  Elrohir, in the images he had felt, was too badly injured.  He would never have been able to struggle that far.  So what would he do? 

Shelter.  He would seek shelter and warmth, and there was only one  possible source on the barren mountainside.  He stared downward again, and his breath caught in his throat.  There was … something … there,  a grey smudge against the shale; a darker shadow almost hidden against Mornaur.

Elrohir.

He could see his brother now, huddled against Mornaur’s bulk, and all but invisible in his grey cloak – and frighteningly still and unresponsive.  “Elrohir!” he called again, but there was no reply.

Indecisive, he stared down at Elrohir, at Morel, and at the gap in the path before him.  Somehow, he had to reach Elrohir, pull him to safety, and climb back to the cave to find shelter from the biting winds.  And quickly – for there was an unmistakeable scent of snow in the air.

Fighting the urge to scramble heedlessly down the mountainside, he studied the far side of the path, and began to make a plan.  Taking a rope from the saddlebags, he tied one end around himself, and the other to the front of Morel’s saddle, then began to inch his way carefully across the yawning gap, clinging precariously to the rock.  It was actually easier than he had expected, for the rough surface provided hand and foot holds in plenty.  Once on the other side, he began to sweep the ground clear of the shale that littered it, preparing a broad, stable surface.  Scrambling back across the void to Morel he repeated the process, tossing the loose rock down the slope – well away from where Elrohir still lay.

At last he backed Morel up a little, and spoke to him softly.  “We are going to jump,”  he explained.  “I know you can do it.  It is not far – just to the other side of the path, you see?   It is no different than jumping over a stream at home.”  Morel snorted and flared his nostrils.  “Well, perhaps not quite the same, then.  I know.  Just forget about the drop below us,”  Elladan continued – wishing he could do the same.  “We are doing this for Elrohir.”

Before Morel could change his mind – before he could change his mind – Elladan urged him forward swiftly, and they soared across the abyss together.  Morel’s hoofs clattered on the rocky path and he lurched once, Elladan clinging to his neck like a burr, before they came to a halt.

Elladan took a deep breath.   It had been a desperate gamble – especially with Morel so tired – and he preferred not to think about what could have gone wrong.  “Morel, stay there,”  he commanded, dropping to the ground.   “Wait.”  With the rope still around him, he looped it around a spur of rock and began to scramble down the mountain slope, sliding in a barely controlled fall amid a shower of loose stone until he finally drew level with Elrohir and could clamber across to him.

His hand shook a little as he drew back the cloak to reveal Elrohir’s face.  His twin was deathly pale, his eyes closed and his face bruised and grazed.  Elladan slid his hand into the folds of the cloak and felt for a pulse.  It was very slow and weak – but it was there.  Thank the Valar.  He touched Elrohir’s face gently, calling to him.  “El?   Can you hear me?  Elrohir.”  There was no response – though he had not really expected one.  Elrohir’s skin felt icy, and there was a bluish tinge to his lips.  Elladan knew he had to get him off the mountain and into the shelter of the cave as fast as possible – but even before that, he had to assess what injuries Elrohir had.    For him to have remained unconscious for so long was deeply worrying, and he had already been lying on this cold, barren mountain for far too long. 

Snow began to drift about him as he pulled the cloak back further and began his examination.   It was immediately apparent that Elrohir’s shoulder was dislocated, but that injury could wait.   A ragged, blood-stained bandage was tied around his thigh – but there seemed to be little further bleeding, so that too could wait.   The other leg was broken, the lower part swollen and discoloured, and Elladan could feel a slight displacement of the bone.

He tried to shield his brother from the steadily thickening snow as he cut away the remnants of his tunic and shirt.   There was more bruising across his chest, and as he carefully turned Elrohir, he saw a wide expanse of deep, blue-black bruises across the lower part of his back. 

He froze, his mind racing, and the sick dread returned.  Back injuries.  Spinal injuries.  From a fall like this, it was only too possible.  He touched the swollen, bruised flesh tenderly, probing delicately for any deeper injury.  There was nothing immediately apparent, but he persevered.   Closing his eyes, he reached out with his healer’s awareness, probing again but this time with his mind.   His thoughts followed the path of his hands as he ran his fingers gently down Elrohir’s back, searching for any deeper, underlying damage.

To his intense relief, there did not seem to be any.   He searched again, but although the swelling and bruising went deep, he was sure that there was no further, lasting injury.  It meant, at the very least, that he would be able to move Elrohir without causing any further harm.

The snow was falling more heavily now, so he wrapped the cloak – and a blanket from his own pack – around Elrohir again.   He had nothing to use as a splint, so he bound Elrohir’s legs together and then carefully took him in his arms.    He peered up through the snow to where Morel patiently stood, a dark blur in the whiteness. 

“Morel!  Walk on!  Pull me up!”  he called.  There was an answering snort, and Elladan felt the rope tightening as Morel slowly moved along the path and began to pull them up.

Holding Elrohir as gently as he could, he guided their ascent up the slope, shielding his brother from the jolts and bumps of their progress, and using his feet to fend off outcrops of rock that blocked their path.  At last he reached the track and crawled onto it, lowering Elrohir carefully to the ground.  “Morel!  Stop now!”  he gasped.  His chest hurt from the tight pull of the rope, but he had made it.  They both had.

He had to stop to catch his breath, but as soon as he could go on he staggered to his feet, lifting Elrohir again.    There was not far to go now, and he stumbled wearily along the narrow path, keeping close in to the cliff wall.   At last he rounded a spur of rock and nearly fell into the cave.  Morel already stood there, patiently waiting, and he gave a soft snicker of welcome as Elladan appeared.

Pulling a fur blanket from Morel’s bags, he spread it on the ground and lay Elrohir on it, stripping off his wet clothes before wrapping the cloak snugly around him again.  The deadly cold was a far greater threat now than any injury. Using the wood and kindling he had collected on the fringes of the tree line he built a fire, and soon light and comfort began to fill the small cave, and the icy chill eased a little.

Morel stood quietly, his head low, and Elladan stroked his nose gently.  “Thank you, my friend.  Thank you.  I could not have done without you.  Rest now.”  He removed Morel’s saddle and headstall, and poured water into a bucket for him.  “There.  Rest now.”

There were still injuries to tend to before he could allow himself to rest, and it would be best to deal with the most painful ones first.   Unwinding the bindings around his legs, Elladan gripped Elrohir’s broken leg at the knee and at the ankle.  Pulling and twisting, he winced as he heard the bone ends grating together as he pulled them into alignment, but Elrohir did not stir.   Then he set water to heat in a small pot and unwound the bandage from Elrohir’s thigh.  The deep gash seemed reasonably clean, but he added a few herbs to the water and bathed the cut, washing away dried blood, grit and dirt before placing a few stitches along the length of the wound and wrapping it again with clean bandages.  

Dried blood was also matted in Elrohir’s hair, and Elladan ran his fingers over his skull gently.  There was a long, shallow cut and a large lump, but no underlying fracture that he could feel.   He bathed the cut and washed away the caked blood, combing Elrohir’s damp hair with his fingers.    Then he pulled the shrouding blankets from Elrohir’s shoulder and probed the dislocated socket.  He let warmth from his fingers flow into the cold, tense muscle, easing the stiffness there and massaging gently before easing the joint back into place.

Finally he placed his hands against his brother’s back, feeling the heat of the torn and bruised muscles.  He soothed the pain and swelling, reducing the inflammation a little and easing some of the deep, penetrating bruises.

Almost too tired to think now, Elladan checked Elrohir once more.  He was still cold, far too cold, but the blue tinge had left his lips, and his skin no longer felt quite so icy.   However his breathing was still slow and shallow, and his pulse a just mere flicker.  Elrohir was still deeply unconscious – almost comatose.   Adding a little more wood to the fire, Elladan kicked off his boots and crawled beneath the furs and blankets covering Elrohir to lay behind him, sharing the warmth of his own body.   He wrapped his arms around Elrohir, again giving his own healing and energy to strengthen his brother’s heart and breathing, and speed his recovery.  This way, he could keep a watch over Elrohir even as he gave in to his own desperate need for rest.   “Morel – keep watch for me.  Wake me if anyone comes,”  he mumbled.  Morel’s  tail swished gently, but he did not wake.

As dusk fell once more outside the cave, Elladan fell asleep holding his brother close, rejoicing that he had arrived in time.

o-o-o

Elrohir struggled back to a hazy awareness, confused and disorientated.  Where was he?  His last vague memory was of lying on the barren mountainside, the terrible biting cold and the slow, creeping exhaustion that gradually sapped the last of his strength.   He had fought at first against the darkness, not wanting to yield to the slow sleep of death, but in the end the cold, dark gulf must have finally claimed him.  But where was he now?  

Everything hurt – but despite the aching, throbbing pain in his head and shoulder, and the fierce agony across his back and along his leg, he was warm now, and almost comfortable.   He was too tired to move, or even open his eyes, but managed to flex his fingers slightly, and brushed them against a soft, warm blanket.  There was a fire in the room – flames flickered somewhere beyond his closed eyes, warming his face, and he could hear the hiss and crackle of burning wood.   He could smell the sweet, slightly resinous smoke, and the sharp, clean scent of the healing herbs used in the infirmary at Imladris.  Underlying that the familiar, acrid smell of the bitter medicinal tea his father brewed drifted in the air.  And there was an even more familiar, comforting presence behind him, holding him in a gentle embrace.  Elladan. 

He smiled faintly.  Of course.  Somehow, Elladan had found him, and he was now back at home, safe in the care of the healers there.  All would be well.  Reassured, and knowing he was safe now,  he drifted slowly back into dreams.

To Be Continued

Chapter Four – Rest In Peace

Elladan awoke some time before dawn.  The cave was in darkness apart from the flickering, slowly dying light of the fire.    Elrohir rested in his arms, either asleep or still unconscious, but he was warmer now, and the heartbeat beneath Elladan’s hand was stronger and steadier.   He lay still for a few moments longer, listening to his brother’s slow and steady breathing.  Reassuring himself that Elrohir would indeed recover now, he breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar. 

Elrohir did not stir as Elladan gently disentangled himself and slid from beneath the blankets, tucking them back into place carefully.   The temperature had fallen again, and outside the wind whistled and howled like a pack of wargs.   He paused, remembering the howls he had heard before, and listened carefully – but it was merely the wind.  He shivered as he pulled his boots back on and dug an extra tunic from the saddlebags, then fed the fire carefully with some of the small twigs and pinecones he had collected earlier.  It was soon burning brightly again, and he knelt by Elrohir again, one hand resting on his brow.  He was sure now that his brother was merely asleep.  Although sleep and rest were what Elrohir needed most now, he was impatient, and longed for Elrohir to wake, and move, and talk to him..  Until he did, he could not be certain of the severity of the injuries to Elrohir’s back, or of the blow to his head.  And until Elrohir woke, he could not establish what exactly had happened.

He set a pot of water to heat and made some tea, brewed from last summer’s dried fruit and berries, then crossed to the mouth of the cave, curling his hands around the warmth of the cup.  Snow still fell heavily beyond the overhang of rock, swirling and billowing in the wind in dizzying eddies.  He was sheltered from the full ferocity of the blizzard, but stray gusts blew clouds of snow at him, and whipped strands of hair into his eyes.   It was dark beyond the small circle of firelight, but he could tell that dawn was not far off.  He gazed out at the whirling snow, sipping at the hot tea and deep in thought. 

Apart from the dreadful ill-chance that had led to Elrohir’s fall, they had been lucky – incredibly lucky.  Elrohir could have been killed in the fall itself, or he could have been left permanently crippled.  He could have died from his injuries, alone and helpless on the cold, barren mountain.  If Elladan had arrived a few hours later, or the blizzard had started a few hours earlier, he might never have found Elrohir – and he would have perished beneath a smothering, freezing blanket of snow.

He would have felt Elrohir’s death, he was certain of it – but as devastating as that would have been, the ensuing uncertainty of never knowing where his twin lay, of what had happened to him or of how he died – that would have been an even more unbearable torment.  Tears pricked at his eyes as he faced just how close he had come to losing Elrohir – yet it had not happened, he reminded himself.

It had not happened – and one of the main reasons was the astonishing message he had received from Elrohir.  Throughout their lives they had shared a deep bond and understanding.  They could each feel when the other was upset, or angry, or in pain.  They could communicate with just a glance or wordless gesture – as Glorfindel, and Erestor, and many others in Imladris knew to their cost.  Indeed, there were many times when he did know precisely what Elrohir was thinking – but that was simply through knowing him so very well.  Yet never before had Elrohir’s voice sounded so clearly in his mind.  Never before had they been able to mindspeak.

Oh, they had tried, as children – Elladan grinned as he recalled a time when Elrohir, uncharacteristically, had been totally unable to answer any of Erestor’s questions on Dwarvish culture, due to the minor fact that he had not studied the required chapters at all.  Elladan, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, his fists clenched tightly, had focused all his thoughts and tried to will the answers to Elrohir – only to hear his brother still stammer hesitantly, ‘I – I don’t know, Erestor.  I’m sorry…’ and then Erestor’s voice, full of concern, asking ‘What is wrong, Elladan?  You look as if you are about to be sick!’   That had not dissuaded them, of course, and they had tried again, many times – but to no avail.

That the mental communication had worked this time surely spoke of Elrohir’s desperate plight and utter despair – and he wondered if Elrohir had ever heard his own reassurances.  Though fearful and worried for his brother, he had not been in such a dire situation.  He sighed.   It was yet another question he would have  to ask Elrohir when he eventually awoke.

Outside, the sky had lightened imperceptibly and it was now daylight, though a very dull, grey and miserable daylight.  The snow still fell heavily, but the wind appeared to be dropping.   He stepped out onto the ledge and scraped snow into Morel’s bucket, setting it by the fire to melt and warm slightly.  Then, with a quick glance at Elrohir who still slept, he stepped out into the snow again.   He made his way cautiously around the spur of rock that hid the cave and stared out across the landscape.  Through the falling snow he could see deep, thick drifts across the slopes, obscuring the path completely.  Everything was silent and shrouded, and the mountainside was featureless beneath a white blanket.  He had hoped that Glorfindel might reach them today, but that now looked unlikely.  The atrocious weather would not have stopped Glorfindel, but it would have slowed him down – and if the paths were blocked, he and Elrohir might be trapped here for some time.

However, no matter when Glorfindel eventually reached the pass, it would help him to have some indication of where they were.  Returning to the cave, Elladan tore two strips from Elrohir’s discarded tunic – already bloodstained and ripped beyond repair.   Thanking the Valar that he had come prepared for anything, he took a rock peg and hammer from Morel’s bags, and ventured out again.  Brushing the snow aside a little, he pinned the strips of cloth – blue and silver, in the colours of Imladris – to the bare rock as a sign to any searching for them.   He judged the signal was a risk worth taking.  Orcs very rarely roamed through these high passes, and in this weather any self-respecting orc would surely be holed up in some dark den. 

He returned to the cave again, shaking off a covering of snow.  The fire still blazed brightly, and the bucket of snow had melted.  He let Morel drink, and put some more water to heat by the flames, then sat down facing Elrohir.

It felt oddly cosy to be sitting by the fire and drinking tea.  The wind had dropped completely now, and outside the snow fell silently,  drifting down like a thick, gauzy curtain.  The only sounds within the cave  were the hiss and crackle of the fire, and the slight shuffling noise as Morel moved.  Elrohir still slept peacefully and restfully, and there was nothing more to do but wait.

o-o-o

When Elrohir woke again, it was not quite so difficult to return to consciousness.    His mind was a little clearer now and he lay still for a moment, slowly recalling all that had happened.   He remembered his dream from the night before, but as he gathered his wits, he gradually began to realise that he was not in Imladris after all, and that although he was snugly wrapped in blankets, he lay on the hard stony ground, and the air outside his warm cocoon was cold.   He knew he must still be on the mountainside somewhere – probably within the shelter of the cave.    There was one thing though, in which he had not been mistaken – although he lay alone now, he knew that Elladan was still somewhere nearby.  

He opened his eyes slowly to a pale grey daylight.  The fire burned in front of him, and Elladan sat cross legged on the other side of the fire, stirring something in a pot that smelled hot and savoury.

“El?”  His voice was rough and gritty from disuse, and was barely audible even to himself, but Elladan looked up, startled, as he dropped the spoon and scrambled to his side.

“Well.  Welcome back, little brother.  I wondered when you would wake up.”   He spoke lightly, but there was a clear tension underlying his voice.  “I have some water for you.  Here.”    Elrohir felt himself lifted gently as Elladan held a cup to his mouth, and he drank thirstily.  The water was wonderfully cool and wet, and eased his dry throat and parched lips.

“Thank you,” he murmured.  He lowered his head again and closed his eyes wearily.

“Wait,”  Elladan persisted.  “Do not go back to sleep yet, El – I want to look at you.   Open your eyes and look at me.”

Elrohir opened his eyes reluctantly.   “I was not going back to sleep,”  he protested faintly.  “I have only just woken up!”  He did feel overwhelmingly tired though, and his head still pounded fiercely.   He let Elladan stare into his eyes until at last he nodded, satisfied.

“Good.  Can you see clearly?”

Elrohir nodded, trying to move his head as little as possible.  “Yes,”  he murmured.

“Good.  Now, take my hands.  Squeeze as hard as you can.”

Elrohir tried, but he could not muster much strength.  His shoulder ached and throbbed, and he was still so very weary. 

“Good,”  Elladan said again.  He released his hands, and tucked the blankets around him again.   “Can you remember what happened?  Can you tell me?”

Elrohir sighed, wishing Elladan would stop fussing and leave him to nurse his aching head in peace.  “I fell down a mountain,”  he pointed out wearily.  “I would have thought you could have worked that out for yourself.”

Elladan merely grinned.   “I did, but I  needed you to tell me yourself.  You know that.”

“Mmmm,”  he agreed, still tired.

“Come, little brother.  Do not sleep yet.”  Elladan slid an arm beneath his shoulders again.  “Drink this.  It will help ease the pain.”

Elrohir nodded, and Elladan eased him into a sitting position.  Everything lurched sideways, and the cave seemed to spin wildly about him.  He closed his eyes and gripped Elladan’s arm tightly to stop himself whirling off into the void.

“El?  Elrohir, what is it?”

Elladan’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.  He focused on it as an anchor and slowly released his grip.   “Dizzy,”  he managed briefly.  He kept his eyes shut, concentrating on breathing and not fainting; and slowly the dizziness and nausea eased a little.  As the world steadied again, he opened his eyes cautiously to find Elladan kneeling beside him, holding a cup to his lips.  He sipped carefully at the warm tea, recognising the familiar acrid scent and bitter taste of herbs.  The bitterness was comforting and welcome, and cut through the nausea that still gnawed at him.  As the pounding in his head began to lessen he was able to take the cup from Elladan and hold it for himself; and began to take a little more interest in his surroundings.

He turned his head slightly.  “Where are we?  The cave?”  As Elladan nodded, he continued, “Last night – I woke up, I think.  I thought we were in Imladris.  I could smell the herbs and knew you were there.”  He closed his eyes again.  “Perhaps I was just dreaming,”  he ended drowsily.

“Perhaps.  Perhaps you did wake.  But we are still a long way from home, I fear,”  Elladan replied.   “And it will be a long time before you can travel.  You have an amazing number of injuries, little brother!”

Elrohir merely nodded.  As the pain eased, his thoughts kept drifting away, and he was finding it difficult to concentrate  on Elladan’s words.  He forced his eyes open one more time, and frowned.  “Did you come on your own?”  he interrupted, wondering at the fact that he and Elladan seemed to be alone in the cave apart from Morel.  “You should not …”  he fell silent, too exhausted to continue his questions.

Elladan began to reply, explaining something, but his words faded away into silence as Elrohir gave up the struggle to stay alert and awake.    Lulled by his brother’s voice he drifted off to sleep again and sank into peaceful dreams.

o-o-o

“I did not start out alone – I  came with Glorfindel,”  Elladan began to explain quietly, “but then … ”  he paused, gazing at his twin.  “El, are you listening?” 

Elrohir leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, and his head drooping to one side, quite clearly asleep.  Elladan sighed.  “No, obviously not,”  he murmured to himself.  He eased Elrohir down to rest more comfortably, supported against Morel’s discarded packs, and drew the blankets over him again.

He stirred at the broth simmering over the fire, tasted it, and added another pinch of seasoning.  He set most of it aside for Elrohir, but poured a little into a cup for himself, and dipped a piece of slightly stale bread into the broth to soften it.  Chewing at the bread, he stared out at the bleak and barren landscape, wondering idly how many shades of white and grey it was possible to distinguish.

A faint sound, almost too soft to hear, caught his ear.  He looked up, tensing, as Morel also lifted his head and peered at the mouth of the cave, his ears pricked forward inquisitively. 

There was something out there.

The hair at the back of his neck rose, prickling down his spine, as he reached out and flicked a corner of the blanket over Elrohir’s face, hiding him from casual view.  Standing silently he took a step forward, positioning himself between Elrohir and the mouth of the cave, and drew his sword soundlessly.  Then he waited.

To Be Continued

Chapter Five – Welcome Guests

Elladan stood tensely as he waited for whatever lurked outside to show itself.  The only external sound was the soft crackle of the fire, but he could hear within himself the thud of his own heart.  The tension grew, cresting like a great wave – then suddenly lessened, as he sensed the presence outside and relaxed.  He smiled, lowering the sword.  At the same time Morel snorted and took a step forward as he gave a soft whinny of welcome. 

A voice spoke from outside the cave.  “Elfling?  I hope you have put the sword down.  You should welcome old friends.”

Elladan sighed, sorely tempted to feign ignorance and attack the intruder regardless.  “I should take your head from your shoulders for scaring me like that!”  he retorted, as relief mingled with irritation.  “Come in, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel ducked his head as he stepped through the cave entrance, followed by two other elves.  Elladan gripped his arm in greeting, but Glorfindel pulled him into a rough embrace.  “I am glad to see you in one piece, elfling,” he commented with relief.  “Erestor thought I had taken leave of my senses when he learned that I had left you to continue alone.  He said some most uncomplimentary things about my state of mind – and yours!”  His sharp gaze went past Elladan to the huddle of blankets.  “Elrohir?”

Elladan turned back to his twin.  “Sleeping.  He is badly hurt, but he will recover.  I am glad you are here though,”  he admitted with relief.

Glorfindel nodded, and turned to one of the elves who had accompanied him – one of the warriors.   “Good.   Ilmarin, go back and say that we have found those we sought.   Make camp overnight and return in the morning.  I will remain here.”

Ilmarin nodded.  “Yes, sir.”  He moved closer to Elrohir, gazing down at him as if reassuring himself that Elrohir was indeed alive.  Dropping to one knee, he touched Elrohir’s head for a moment. “Be well, my lord,”  he murmured.  Leaving the bag he had been carrying on the floor he rose, saluted Glorfindel, and disappeared into the softly falling snow. 

Glorfindel skirted the fire and knelt by Elrohir, pulling back the blankets that covered him.  He held one hand close to Elrohir’s face, not quite touching him, then smoothed back his grimy hair.   He cupped his palm, touching Elrohir’s cheek for a moment, then rested his hand on Elrohir’s brow.  “I am glad to find you alive, elfling,”  he whispered. “You must have remembered your training.  Well done.”

Elladan watched silently, overwhelmingly relieved that help had arrived at last.  As captain of the Imladris forces, Glorfindel was a strict, stern taskmaster – but Elladan knew he loved the two of them like sons.  There was no-one apart from Elrond himself whom he would rather have at his side.

Glorfindel’s other companion was Nindamos, a healer who had known the twins since their birth.  He dropped a well-filled pack on the ground and joined Elladan by Elrohir’s side.  “I doubt there is anything I can do that you have not,”  he began, as he laid a hand on Elrohir’s brow and then felt the pulse in his throat, “but I brought more supplies – bandages, splints, medicines and drugs.  Everything I thought you might need.”

Elladan nodded with relief.  His own medical supplies – just a small emergency kit – were running out, and there were some items he simply did not have.  “Thank you.  His leg is broken, but I have not been able to splint it properly.  And there is still some severe swelling and bruising across his back.”

Nindamos rummaged through the pack, retrieving a small jar.  He tossed it to Elladan.  “Arnica.  There is more if you need it.  And here … ” – he picked up some long, thin strips of wood – “are splints.”

“Thank you,”  Elladan said again.  He did not want to wake Elrohir – he was still pale, and there were dark circles of pain and exhaustion beneath his eyes.   But the sooner Elrohir’s leg was properly splinted, the sooner it would start to heal.   Bending close, he touched Elrohir’s face, calling him softly.  “El?  Elrohir, wake up.  We have guests.”

o-o-o

Elrohir tried to draw the warm cloak of sleep closer, shutting out his weariness, his pain and his deep-seated, unspoken fears.   But Elladan’s voice was insistent and relentless.  Reluctantly pushing away the misty veils of sleep, Elrohir opened his eyes slowly.  Blinking, he gradually brought his eyes to focus on Elladan, bending over him.  He sighed, and tried to sit, but pain stabbed through him as he moved, and he bit back a hiss of discomfort. 

“Be easy – keep still,”  Elladan murmured.  “We have guests,”  he said, moving aside slightly so that Elrohir could see Glorfindel beside him.

Glorfindel smiled down.  “Well, elfling.  What have you done to yourself this time?”

Elrohir frowned at him.  “Glorfindel?  You were not here before … were you?”  He was unsure.  He did not remember seeing Glorfindel there when he woke earlier, but had Elladan said something about travelling with him?

“No.  I started out with Elladan, but he sent me back for reinforcements.  I have just arrived.  I must say, I am glad to see you awake.”

Turning carefully – his head still throbbed, and every muscle was stiff and aching – Elrohir’s gaze flicked from Glorfindel to Elladan, then back again.  “ He sent you back?  What do you mean?   El, you should have kept Glorfindel with you.  It is dangerous to travel alone.”

Elladan laughed.  “I believe I said the same thing to you before you set out for Lasgalen!  And I was proved right!”

Elrohir smiled.  “First time for everything,”  he murmured faintly. 

Elladan chuckled, but did not rise to the bait.  It was a sure sign that he was still worried.   “Now, one more thing.   Your leg is broken, and we need to splint it – Nindamos is here as well.  It will hurt, and I need you to keep completely still.  I know you are in a lot of pain, but before I give you anything, I want you to tell me what you think is wrong with you, in case there is anything I have missed.   I can see what injuries you have, but there may be something I cannot see.  Tell me what you feel.  And do not try to pretend, El, or hide anything.  I always know when you are lying!”

“Bully,”  Elrohir roused himself to protest.  “I hate it when you start being so bossy.  Just because I am not quite at my best, you think you can order me about.”

Elladan nodded.  “You are right – I can!”  he admitted almost cheerfully.  “Come on, little brother – tell me everything.”

Elrohir sighed.  He hated Elladan when he was in this mood.   All his protective instincts as firstborn and ‘eldest’ came to the fore, and he saw it as his right and his duty to harass Elrohir into compliance.  And where should he start?  This would be a long list, for everything hurt. 

“Everything hurts,”  he began.  “Is that enough for you?”

“No,”  Elladan insisted.  “I want details, El.”

“Bully,”  Elrohir protested again.  “I hate you sometimes.  Just because you were born first – you think it gives you the right to harass me!”  He caught the look Elladan gave him and sighed, then began to recite a list of injuries.  It was difficult, because his mind still had a tendency to wander.  “My head aches.  Oddly enough, I struck it on something when I fell, and lost consciousness!!”  He scowled at Elladan, who was grinning.  “What?  What is so funny?”  he demanded sourly.

“Nothing.  But if you are this grouchy, I know there is nothing seriously wrong.   You make a terrible patient, El.  But I remember one of the times you had concussion – you were so meek and compliant it terrified me!”

Elrohir sighed, and began again.  “My head aches,”  he said again.  “I feel dizzy, and not quite with it.  My thoughts feel … hazy.”

Elladan nodded.  “I think that is a combination of concussion and blood loss.  That cut on your leg was deep, and from the state of your clothes you lost a great deal of blood.   It was fortunate you were able to bandage it.”

“I knew I had to – there was no choice.”  He paused, trying to gather his thoughts.  “My shoulder – I think it was dislocated.”  He flexed his fingers, and moved his wrist and arm experimentally.  “I can move it again now, though.  It hurts to breathe – I think I have some cracked ribs.  My legs hurt – especially the left.  And there was a deep cut on my thigh, but I managed to bandage that.”   He frowned.  He seemed to be repeating himself.   His thoughts were drifting again, and he had to concentrate to keep track of the conversation.  It made his head ache even more. 

He tried once again.  “And my back …”  he hesitated, reluctant to put his fears into words.   “My back hurts most of all.  I think I landed against a rock.  El …”  he swallowed and took a deep breath.  “I cannot move my legs.”   Finally he had said it, voicing the fear he had not wanted to admit even to himself.   He closed his eyes in despair, then snapped them open in shock and disbelief as Elladan chuckled.

“My foolish little brother,” he sighed.  “You really are not at your best.  Did it occur to you that if you can feel the pain in your legs, there is no serious, lasting injury to your back?”  He leaned forward, and touched Elrohir’s face gently.  “Do not fear – there is no permanent damage.  I know.”

Oddly,  Elladan’s teasing response reassured him even more than his latter words did.  It was so normal – and so typical of Elladan.  He took a ragged, shaking breath, ashamed now of his fears, and even more ashamed that he had somehow forgotten such basic principles of healing and medicine.  “I should have thought of that,”  he admitted.

“You had other things to think about.  Things like staying alive.  You have some very bad swelling and bruising here,” – Elladan touched his own back in demonstration –  “and that is affecting your movement.  It looks like you did hit a rock.   And your left leg is broken – it is scarcely any wonder you cannot move it!”  He brushed a finger very lightly against Elrohir’s bare right foot.  “Can you feel that?” 

The sensation was faint but intensely ticklish.   Elrohir nodded, his foot twitching uncontrollably until he jerked it out of Elladan’s reach.

“You see?”  Elladan asked with great satisfaction.  “You can move your leg.  Now will you stop worrying, and let us care for you?”

The relief was overwhelming.  Exhausted, Elrohir nodded and leaned back, his eyes drifting shut against his will.   Glorfindel held him in a firm embrace, supporting him carefully without touching his bruised and aching back. 

“You were fortunate though, elfling,”  Glorfindel pointed out.  “You could well have broken your back – or your neck!”

Elrohir turned his head away, surprised by the rush of sorrow Glorfindel’s words evoked.  “Mornaur did,”  he said shortly.  “He is still down on the mountainside somewhere.”

“When the storm eases, I will send someone to find him,”  Glorfindel reassured him.  “We will give him a fitting farewell – not leave him for the wolves to scavenge!”

He nodded, blinking away shameful tears.  “Thank you.”

“Do not fret about Mornaur now, little brother,”  Elladan interrupted gently.   “I still need to splint your leg.  It will be easier for both of us if you are oblivious.”  He poured a cup of water for Elrohir, then gave him another cup of the bitter tea.  Elrohir pushed it away.

“No, wait,”  he protested.  “I want to know what happened.  I knew you would know there was something wrong, Elladan – but how did you know where to find me?  I was still supposed to be in Lasgalen.  And what did Glorfindel mean, you sent him back for reinforcements?  What reinforcements?”  He twisted his head to look at Glorfindel again.  “I do not understand – I knew El would know that something had happened, but how – why – are you here?”

Glorfindel began to explain, his voice low and soothing.  As he spoke Elrohir began to relax against his support, again struggling to stay awake.   Elladan put another cup into his hands, this time something warm and sweetened with honey, and he sipped at it slowly while he listened to Glorfindel’s tale. 

He had finished half the cup before he recognised the bitter aftertaste, but by then it was far too late.   “Elladan, you toad!”  he protested.  “That was …” – a massive yawn escaped him – “unfair …”    Elladan’s unrepentant chuckle was the last thing he heard as sleep took him again.

To be continued

Chapter Six – Questions And Answers

Glorfindel raised a disapproving eyebrow as he settled Elrohir against him more comfortably, head and shoulders resting on his lap.  “Surely that was a little underhand?”

Elladan shrugged.  “Well, if he will not take it willingly – you know he would do the same.”

Glorfindel nodded.  “Aye, and so would your father.  I am glad I am no healer, just a simple warrior.”

Elladan gave a snort of disbelief at the claim.  Glorfindel was not a simple anything.  Yet he made no further comment, too preoccupied to rise to Glorfindel’s bait.  Once sure that Elrohir was deep in a drugged sleep, he and Nindamos worked together to splint and bandage Elrohir’s leg to immobilise it completely.   The break was clean, and he was confident that it would heal completely.  Despite Elrohir’s deep sleep, his face twisted and he gave a low murmur of pain as his leg was moved, subsiding again as the splints were strapped into place.

Once that was done, Elladan spread a little of the arnica across Elrohir’s back, rubbing it in gently and again working at soothing and reducing the swollen areas.  The bruises were still mottled black and purple, but he could already see an improvement since that first night.  At last he sat down at Elrohir’s side, and took the cup Glorfindel handed to him.  He took an incautious swig and gasped, coughing and choking as the fiery liquid burned all the way down his throat.

“Valar, Glorfindel!”  he croaked.  “You could have warned me!”  He wiped his watering eyes and sipped the whisky again more cautiously.

“Really, elfling – you should treat your father’s best whisky with more respect!”  Glorfindel chided him.

Elladan sighed, but refrained from arguing.  He was too relieved to know that help had arrived and that Elrohir would recover, and too tired to disagree.

“You need to rest as well, young one,”  Glorfindel ordered.  “Have you slept at all since Elrohir called to you?

He thought back over the last few endless days.  “A little – after I had got him back to the cave and seen to his injuries.”

“While watching over him at the same time, if I know you,”  Glorfindel surmised.  “You look exhausted.  Rest now.  Elrohir is sleeping, and you no longer need to keep watch.”

Elladan nodded reluctantly.  He knew Glorfindel was right – he could feel the exhaustion like a dark fog at the edge of his mind, clouding his thoughts.  He knew that some of what he felt was an echo of Elrohir’s pain and weariness, but not all of it.  Moreover, he knew that Glorfindel was one of the few people he would trust with his life – or more importantly, with Elrohir’s life.  “Very well.  I know you are right.”  He grinned.  “You usually are.”

Glorfindel smiled.  “Never forget it, elfling.”

Elladan stood and stretched, then picked his way across the cave to the entrance, skirting the fire and various discarded bags.  Morel still stood placidly by the entrance, facing the fire, his tail twitching lazily.  After checking his water, Elladan found a last withered apple in his pocket and fed it to him, patting his neck affectionately.

Standing on the ledge at the mouth of the cave, Elladan gazed out across the mountains.  It was night now, but the near full moon reflecting off the pristine snow covered slopes made the scene as bright as day.  He sighed.  Now that Elrohir was safe and cared for, a new difficulty had presented itself. 

How were they to get off the mountainside?

Glorfindel and Nindamos had obviously scrambled across the cliff face to reach the cave, but it would be difficult and dangerous – and all but impossible – to try to carry Elrohir across that way.  And what about Morel?

Venturing further out onto the ledge, Elladan looked at the yawning gap where the track had fallen away, and the sheer drop below it.  Had he and Morel really jumped across that?  He must have been mad – or just desperate.  Seeing it again with more rational eyes, he knew the gap was far wider than anything Morel could normally jump.  The surface was uneven, slick with snow and ice, and the path far too narrow for a safe landing.  One misstep, a tiny misjudgement, and he and Morel would have plunged to their deaths – and Elrohir too would have died, helpless and alone beneath a freezing blanket of snow.

He shivered, pushing the thought away, then inspected the chasm again.  It was simply too far, too dangerous.  Impossible.

He sighed.  How were they to get off the mountainside?

Returning to the fire, he glanced at Elrohir, who still slept, then sat down with another deep sigh.

Glorfindel frowned at him.  “Still awake?  I thought you were going to rest?”

“I will.  Later.  Glorfindel – how are we going to get Elrohir out of here?   It will be difficult – and uncomfortable for him – to carry him across the collapsed part of the path.  And what about Morel?  I will not leave him!”

Glorfindel tapped the side of his nose – a deplorable habit he had picked up from a Dwarf messenger who had once passed through Imladris – and smiled.  “Never you mind, elfling.  Never you mind.  I have a plan.   Now go to sleep, and let me take care of everything.”

“Do you have to be so cryptic?”  Elladan demanded sourly.  Glorfindel merely smiled again.  Elladan would have argued further, but he truly was tired, and knew that he could never out-manoeuvre Glorfindel at the best of times. 

Tomorrow.  He would confront Glorfindel tomorrow, and find out what this mysterious plan was.  Yawning, he kicked off his boots and spread a bed roll across the floor, pillowing his head on his cloak.  “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, elfling.  And do not worry about a thing – just leave it to me.”

As he drifted into dreams, Elladan wondered what Glorfindel had in mind.  He fell asleep planning and designing rope harnesses and slings which they could use to transport Elrohir.  Or perhaps, he wondered hazily, the giant Eagles would help, as they had once before? 

His dreams were filled with flights of Eagles swooping down with a net of ropes to hoist a terrified Morel up and away, soaring into the sky to carry him across the mountainside to safety.

o-o-o

He awoke to a rhythmic pounding, and groaned, clutching his head.   There was a low chuckle, and he sat up to find Elrohir wide awake, laughing at him.   He realised that the dull thudding was no headache, but seemed to come from somewhere outside.  “What?  What’s happening?”  he mumbled, shaking himself to wake up.

Elrohir grinned, seeming to bear no resentment for Elladan’s treatment of him the previous night.  “What is happening, my brother,”  he began, “is that Glorfindel has a plan.  You are not drunk,  nor hungover.  Come and see!  Nindamos, help me up please?”  He extended one arm, and Nindamos pulled him upright.

Elladan gaped at him, still rather disorientated.  “El?”

“Come and see!”  Elrohir wedged a crutch under each arm and hobbled awkwardly across the floor, which had been cleared of the discarded packs and blankets.  He moved slowly and stiffly, clearly still in some pain.

“Elrohir, be caref –”   Elladan broke off as Elrohir turned to glare at him. 

“Stop fussing, El!  I can manage – can’t I, Nindamos?”

Nindamos sighed.  “If you say so.”

At the entrance to the cave Elrohir paused, balancing on one crutch and pointing with the other.  “Look!”  He swayed slightly, and Elladan caught his arm.

“El, be careful!”

Elrohir ignored him, but did not shake off his supporting hand.  “Look!”  he repeated.

The reason for the hammering became clear.   A team of elves who had obviously travelled with Glorfindel from Imladris were working on the ledge, hammering, sawing, and wedging metal pegs into the rock face.

“What – what are they doing?”

Elrohir sighed, shaking his head.  “You seem unusually dense this morning, brother!  Do you want to go back to bed and take a nap?”

Elladan gave him a sidelong glance.  “Do you want me to break your other leg for you?”  he enquired.  Returning his attention to the work, he added, “Are they building a bridge?”

Glorfindel looked up from the far side, where he was directing the work.  “Good morning, elflings!  I told you I had a plan.  When this is finished, Elrohir will be able to leave here easily – and so will Morel.”  He grinned smugly.

Elladan shook his head in wonder.  “Glorfindel, you are amazing!”

“Never forget it,  elfling!”

Elrohir was staring at the yawning chasm before them.  “The track – it collapsed when Mornaur and I crossed it.  I know it did.”  He glanced at Elladan.  “How in the world did you get Morel across here in the first place?”

“We jumped.”

The shock was clear on Elrohir’s face.  “You jumped?  Across that?  El, you must be mad!”

“Possibly,”  Elladan admitted.  “But I had little choice at the time.  Please, El; come back and sit down before you fall down.  I will tell you how I found you, and got you up here.”  He lowered his voice.  “I know where Glorfindel hid the whisky, too.”

o-o-o

Back in the cave, Elrohir balanced on the crutches while Elladan arranged the packs into a seat for him.  He sat down with a sigh of relief, his leg stretched out before him and propped on Morel’s saddle.  Despite his protestations that he could manage, his back and leg ached, and his shoulder throbbed.   He had needed to do something, though – just to prove to himself that he still could.  The few steps had exhausted him – but he had done it.

“Do you need anything?”  Elladan asked.  “Do you want to rest?”

Elrohir shook his head.  “No.  It is more discomfort now, rather than true pain.  And I seem to have spent most of the last few days either unconscious or asleep.  I want to talk to you, El!

“Then talk to me.  Tell me how you came to be here; what happened – you were supposed to be in Lasgalen!”

He thought back.  His visit to Lasgalen seemed so very long ago now, yet it could only have been a matter of days.  “I know.  I had planned to stay longer – but Legolas was away, and Taniquel out on patrol.  There was no reason to stay, so I came back.”  He sighed.  “I should have taken the time to judge the weather.  It is never so bad, so early – but I should have been sure!”

“Bad weather can take us all unawares.   There is nothing we can do but try to take shelter,”  Elladan agreed.  “So you made for the cave?”

“Aye.  The path was treacherous, so we were going very slowly.  I was on foot, with Mornaur behind me.  There was no warning.  The path began to collapse beneath me, and then suddenly there was nothing there at all, and we fell.”  He paused, remembering his sudden stark terror; the confusing, dizzying whirl of tumbling down the mountain;  the jagged flash of pain; and the abrupt blackness that had descended.  “We fell.”

Elladan nodded.  “I know.  I knew – not that you had fallen, but that there was something terribly wrong.  But not what, or where.”

Elrohir sighed, shifting restlessly at the dark memories, and stretched his leg again to ease it.

“Do you want …”

“No!”  he snapped.  “Stop fussing, El!”  He paused, drawing a deep breath.  He made a bad patient, and he knew it.  “Sorry.”  After a moment or two, he added, “Did you say something about Glorfindel’s whisky?”

Silently, Elladan splashed some whisky into two small glasses.  As he set the bottle down again, Elrohir caught at his hand.  “Elladan.  I know you were worried – are worried.  But there is no need now.  I will be fine.  I know it, and so do you if you think about it.  Do not fret, and do not dwell on what might have been.  It did not happen.”

Elladan glanced at him, his eyes hooded.   “You nearly died, Elrohir.  Do not expect me to forget that so easily.” Then he smiled in a sudden change of mood.  “But you are right, and I know you are recovering.”  He raised his glass.  “May we soon be home!” 

Elrohir raised his own glass in agreement.  “Yes.  Soon!”

As Elladan turned away to replace the whisky, Elrohir closed his eyes and reached out with his thoughts again.  ‘Elladan.  Can you hear me now? El?’   He concentrated as hard as he could, but felt he was getting nowhere – his thoughts remained trapped inside his head.  ‘Elladan.  ELLADAN!’

He opened his eyes again at the touch of a hand on his shoulder.  Elladan knelt at his side, his face full of concern.  “El?  Are you sure you are all right?  You did not seem to hear me then – I was talking to you.”

“I am sorry – I was just thinking.  Now, tell me more.  How did you know where to find me?  Did you really hear me call you?”

Elladan nodded, his eyes wide with awe.  “Yes – as clear as I hear you now.  It was faint, but perfectly clear.  I heard you.”  He grinned.  “Glorfindel thought I had finally lost my mind through worry!  In the end though, he agreed to go back and get more help.  I came on alone – I knew there was no time to lose.  But I tried to tell you that I had heard; that I was on my way – did you hear that?”

Elrohir shook his head.  “No.  And you cannot hear me now – I tried again, just then.    He grinned.  “Do you remember when we used to try, when we were children?”

Elladan gave a sudden smile.  “When we tried to mindspeak?  And Glorfindel’s, and Erestor’s, responses?”

Elrohir nodded.  “It never worked, though.  And it does not work now.  So why did it then?”

“Perhaps … the need was never so great before.  It had always been a matter of fun, nothing more.”

“Whereas this time …”  Elrohir frowned.  “I thought I would die there.  I hate to admit how close I was to utter despair.  And I knew that even though you would search for me, I was too far from the track.  I thought no-one would ever find me.”  He paused again, remembering the dark despair he had felt on realising the hopelessness of his situation.  The deepest of his fears however, had not been for himself.  “And I thought of you, if I died.  That you would never know quite what had happened.  And that was the worst moment of all.  I could not bear it – so I tried to tell you, so you would at least know.”

Elladan was silent for a moment.  “And you did,”  he said at last.  Elrohir knew he had left his innermost thoughts unsaid, but the words were not necessary.  He knew them anyway.

They were both roused from their silent reverie by Glorfindel.  “The scouts have returned from the pass,”  he announced.   “The weather is clearing, and the snow will soon melt.   We will be able to leave in a few days.”

Epilogue

He had been declared well enough to travel by both Elladan and Nindamos, but there was one last task Elrohir had to do before he could leave.  Mornaur’s body still lay on the barren mountainside, exposed now that the blanketing snow had finally melted, and he could not bear to think of wolves and vultures scavenging on such a loyal steed. 

Straw drenched in lamp oil had been piled around Mornaur, and now Elladan stood ready to fire a blazing arrow down to ignite the pyre.  Elrohir wished he could perform the task himself, but he still lacked the strength to draw the powerful bow.  Instead he touched a burning taper to the oil-soaked cloth wrapped around the head of the arrow, stepping back as it began to blaze.

Elladan loosed the arrow.  Trailing smoke and fire it sank deep into the straw surrounding Mornaur, and the pyre burst into flames.   Thick, acrid smoke billowed up into the still air and a wave of heat hit them.

Elrohir stood in silence with Elladan and Glorfindel until the flames began to die.  Then at last Glorfindel stirred, placing one hand on Elrohir’s shoulder.  “Come, elfling.  It is time to go.”

Elrohir nodded.  “I know.”  He gazed down the mountain one last time.  “Farewell, Mornaur.  You were a loyal friend.”    He turned to the quiet, gentle mare Glorfindel had brought for him; a strange contrast to the spirited Mornaur.  Aided by Elladan and Glorfindel he mounted, settling into the saddle that Elladan had carefully adapted to enable him to ride while his leg was still splinted.

Then, without a backward glance, they rode across Glorfindel’s new bridge and along the track to where Nindamos and the warriors waited.  Behind them, smoke and flame still curled slowly into the clear sky.

The End