He urged his mount to go faster, faster, although the creature was near collapse. Lather flew from its mouth, and its flanks heaved with every harsh breath. But it faithfully kept going despite its fatigue, sensing the great need of its rider.

Hooves pounded the earth and sent sod flying, stirring up a cloud of dust and dirt that trailed in its wake. Overhead, gray clouds scudded along the sky, threatening heavy rains, but so far they had been fortunate and the downpour had not yet materialized.

The rider peered ahead along the equine neck, squinting against the rushing wind that whipped through his hair and tugged at his cloak. The colors were fading from the lands around him as the clouds thickened and the storm approached. Far, far ahead, dark mountains shimmered on the horizon.

His mount stumbled, caught itself, tripped again, and the rider's breath stuck in his throat for an endless moment before the animal regained its balance and continued its mad gallop. The poor beast ran on its last legs. How much further, until he reached his destination? How much longer before he could deliver the dire news he carried? He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, back at the way he had come. Time was running out.

The storm clouds thickened and his route darkened even more as night began to fall.   Thunder rumbled ominously as heavy drops of rain hit the ground, and he urged Ithildin on with relentless haste. 

He knew that in the hills behind him, rain would already be falling heavily, filling the rivers and streams, sending the water levels ever higher.  Too high.  Pinned helplessly among the great boulders and flood-borne debris, his brother could not escape and would be trapped as the water rose inexorably about him.

~~o~~o~~

It had started out as a normal, routine patrol.  He and Elladan had been riding in the south of Imladris, inspecting the streams and riverbanks for damage after the winter storms.  Their task was to repair or clear what they could, assess more serious damage, and inventory what restorations were  needed.  The two-day mission had gone well, and the second day had found them riding north again along the banks of a steep-sided stream.  The water level was low, very low, and as they rounded a turn they saw ahead a heavy logjam.

Flood-borne debris had built up behind fallen trees and branches, damming the stream.  A deep, wide pool of water lay behind the dam, lapping at the banks, and threatening to spill over into the surrounding woodland.  They drew the horses to a halt and gazed at the blockage, assessing it.  

Elladan pointed to a tree near the centre of the dam.  “If we can get a rope around that branch, then Vorondil or Ithildin can pull the tree clear.  I think the rest will break up naturally.”

Elrohir nodded as he took a coil of rope from his shoulder.  Tying a loop in it, he whirled it over his head and cast the rope towards the tree.  It fell short of the branch he was aiming for, and he pulled it back, ignoring Elladan’s laughter.  “Bad shot, little brother!  Arwen could do better!”

Paying no attention to his twin, he threw the rope again, but this time it snagged on a tangle of brambles.  He sighed as Elladan jeered again.  “Do you want to try?”  he asked mildly.  “If you think you can do better, you do it!”

To his great satisfaction, Elladan had no better luck, and the rope became tangled among a cluster of small branches and an uprooted thorn bush.  Elladan swore.  “We will have to climb out and tie it around the tree.”    He looked hopefully at Elrohir.  “Do you want to do it?”

Elrohir shook his head.  “No.  Anyway, it is your turn to get wet!”

Muttering under his breath, Elladan shed his cloak and waded out into the water, waist-deep.  He could not quite reach the caught rope, and climbed up onto the tree to pull at it. 

There was a sudden sharp crack, and the entire dam shifted.  Elladan, off balance, lost his footing on the slippery trunk and with a cry of pain, fell among the tangled roots and branches.  The tree shifted and swung around, pressing against him and pinning him down in the water.

With a splash and a sharp curse, Elrohir was beside him in seconds.  “Elladan!” 

He braced the tree against his own body and tugged at Elladan, but the tree would not move.  Elladan gave a gasp of pain as he struggled.  “Stop, El, stop!”  he cried.  “My leg – it is trapped.”  He drew a deep breath.  “Broken, I think.”

Elrohir nodded grimly.  “I will get Ithildin to help move the tree.”   He lashed the rope to a projecting branch, and splashed back to the horses.  “Pull, Ithilden!”  he urged.  “Pull!”

The rope quivered under the strain, but the tree did not move.  “Pull!”  he cried again.  At last he admitted defeat.  The tree was too tightly wedged against the other debris and river boulders.  He returned to Elladan.  “El, it is no use.  I cannot shift the tree. Are you sure you cannot move?”

Elladan shook his head.  “No,”  he said tightly.

Elrohir ran a grimy hand through his hair.  “Then I will have to get help.  Stay here.  Wait for me!”

Elladan managed to grin.  “I am not going anywhere, little brother.  I wish I was.  Go, El – and hurry.”  He cast an anxious look at the dark clouds massing overhead.

Elrohir took a long look at his brother.  He did not want to leave him like this, alone and helpless.  He did not – but what choice did he have?  At last he gave a sharp nod.  “I will go as fast as I can, and leave Vorondil here.  Elladan … I will come back.”

~~o~~o~~

He kicked Ithildin again, tormented by the terrifying images that assailed him.  Exhausted, the horse stumbled once more on the rough track, and they nearly fell again.  “Just a little further,”  he urged soothingly.  “It is not far now ­­­– we are nearly home.  Then we can get help, and you can rest.”  

The rain pounded down more heavily, turning the track to thick, slick mud.  Overhead, lightning split the sky and jagged streaks of light burned his eyes.  Thunder crashed deafeningly as the air was ripped apart, and Ithildin screamed in terror.  He shied violently, pitching his rider over his head.

Elrohir hit the ground hard, and lay dazed and winded for long moments.  Slowly the ringing in his ears eased and the darkness surrounding his vision lightened a little.  He picked himself up stiffly, scarcely noticing the pain in his arm and shoulder, and turned to Ithildin.  The horse hung his head, trembling, one foreleg lifted off the ground as his flanks heaved from the desperate exertion.  It was quite clear that he could go no further. 

Elrohir sighed in despair.  He moved closer to Ithildin, soothing him, and slipped the saddle and reins off.  “Stay here, then,”  he agreed gently.  “Rest now, and wait for me.  I will be back.”

Pain seared through his ankle with every step he took, but he did not take time to examine it.  He had to go on regardless, and once he removed his boot he would probably not get it back on.  Instead he tightened the lacings and took an awkward step.  It throbbed, but was bearable. 

He set off again, limping, but running as fast as he could.  Lights began to flicker on the edge of his vision and he shook his head to clear his sight – but the lights remained.  

With calls, and cries of concern, and questions, the patrol converged on him, and he began to gasp out his message. 

Elladan was cold, alone and wet, three things he absolutely detested being. The pain from his leg was not unbearable, he had been in worse pain before, and it seemed to him as if it were starting to go numb. A positive thought, he mused. He did not doubt for a moment Elrohir’s promise to return, but regardless being trapped under a fallen tree, unable to move, left little opportunity to do much else than contemplate the worst possible outcomes.

He was stuck, but perhaps he could try and move some of the smaller debris, in order to facilitate the removal of the larger tree that had him pinned down. If nothing else, it would give him something to do as he lay in wait of Elrohir’s return. Resignedly, he began shifting some of the smaller logs.

Having cleared out the immediate surrounding area, he took a look around his surroundings, assessing his most immediate concerns. The tree was wedged in place by a series of boulders on one side of the river, and a root formation on the other, however, it could be moved if it were brought up over the boulders, by propping it up against another large log nearby. Perhaps this would give him enough room to squirm free. With a grin he braced himself as best he could against a boulder behind him, and used his good leg to push log. Slowly, but surely, it began to move. And equally slowly the tree began to rise. It was working!

Suddenly, with a large crack, water broke free from under the tree where it had previously been blocked, and began to pour into his crevice. With the water lever rising steadily around him, and still unable to move, Elladan had little choice but to pray for Elrohir’s swift return.

---
“I will go with them,” Elrohir said, ignoring all attempts to confine him to bed rest.

“You are exhausted Elrohir, you will do no one any good if you collapse.”

Elrohir glared at his mother in a way that clearly suggested he was refusing to listen to reason.

“You would slow them down,” she said, but all sting that may have been present in those words was eased by her kind tone and understanding smile.

Elrohir rose again, heading for the door. “It is not always what is easiest that is right, my son. Sometimes it takes more courage to wait in worry, than to ride out headstrong into danger.”

“I have not your strength then mother,” he said, more calmly than before. “I promised him I would return.”

“Let your father go to him. You and I must prepare for his return here.” She rose and led him into the next room. “He will require healing when he arrives. Come, doing something will keep your mind off of worrying.”

“I could be engaged in a thousand tasks and still worry mother,” he said sullenly. Celebrían simply nodded knowingly.

“You are not the only one who worries Elrohir,” she said as she turned to leave the room. “Remember that.”

“Yes mother,” he said resignedly, and followed.

Elrohir strove to obey his mother and keep himself occupied with preparations for his brother's return, but no amount of concerted activity could keep him from fretting after his twin. Though they were separated by the distance of many leagues, he could still sense his brother's pain and fear as clearly as if he were standing next to him. No actual words formed in his mind, yet still he knew that Elladan was calling to him in his trouble, telling him to hurry...

Elrohir silently cursed his own weakness that had made him break his promise to his brother, and kept him behind while others went in rescue. But he had been exhausted and needed rest, and he also wished to honor his mother's desire for him to remain -- so, knowing his presence would comfort her own fear, he schooled his face to hide his distress. He held Elladan in his thoughts, and projected as much loving encouragement as he could muster in his twin's direction.

"Be brave, my brother! Help is coming!"

***

Elladan was comforted despite the rising water which threatened him. He was not entirely alone -- his horse Vorondil stood upon the bank, as close as he could come to his rider before the steep sides of the riverbank prevented him from approaching further. He whickered softly at intervals, sensing danger from the rising water, but not knowing how to intervene. Elladan spoke to him quietly, to soothe his horse's fear as well as his own.

Elrohir was there with him, as well -- present in thought, if not in body -- and that gave Elladan great solace. Help for him would come in time, Elrohir would see to it.

He eyed the tree he had been attempting to shift, wondering if his plan were as wise had he had originally thought. He had not realized how much difference the shifting of that tree would make to the blocked flow of the river; now that an opening had been created, the water level below the dam was rising, slowly but steadily. If not for the fact that much of the water was moving away downstream as it was released from the logjam, Elladan would have been in greater danger of being overwhelmed and drowned. There was still danger of that, however, if the dammed river were to begin releasing water at a faster rate.

Even as the thought came, Elladan felt a difference in pressure on his trapped leg, and felt the mass of debris surrounding him shift. He gave a wordless shout of alarm as he realized the dam was breaking up. He would be swept away by the flood if he could not free himself in time! Struggling, he found he was able to move more freely, and worked desperately to extricate his leg before the river was successful in breaking loose.

The debris shifted again, and suddenly water was pouring over him. Elladan cried out again, and twisting to the side, scrabbled at the boulder beside him, grasping at anything that would keep him from being taken away on the flood.

***

Elrohir gasped suddenly, and lifting his head from his tasks, he held himself very still, as if listening intently to a sound on the wind. Turning sharply away from what he had been doing, he faced his mother and grasped her hand.

"Mother, I must go!" he resolutely declared. "I know you wished me to remain here, but I cannot. Something is happening to Elladan, and I must go to him. I cannot stay away when he needs me; he is my brother, and I promised him I would return."

Celebrían sighed and bowed her head; when she once more looked up, there was understanding as well as renewed fear in her eyes.

"I should have known it would be too hard for you," she replied, nodding. "It was unfair and bit selfish of me, perhaps, to attempt to keep you here, though you were worn out from your wild ride to seek aid for your brother, and needed the rest. I wished you to rest and recover, but I also wanted you here for myself. It is far easier for a mother to bear the fear she has for a son in danger, when her other son is by her side, safe."

"Do not fear for me, Mother," said Elrohir, kissing her gently. "I am sufficiently rested, and there is little danger to me in my going. Only Elladan is in peril. Alas! I should not have left him!"

She gripped his hand tightly, then released it.

"Go to Elladan, my son. Go quickly, and return safely -- both of you together!"

Elrond rode at the head of the small group of rescuers with Glorfindel at his side. As he had done many times since riding out of the courtyard of the Last Homely House, he worriedly scanned the skies before them. The clouds were still threatening, but so far they had not loosed their contents upon the region where Elladan lay trapped. Elrond ran his thumb across the back of the forefinger of his left hand.

"If you do not cease doing that, Elrond, you will rub that trinket you carry completely through." Glorfindel's voice was pitched for Elrond's ears only.

Elrond glanced at his riding companion in confusion. When the golden haired elf looked pointedly at Elrond's left hand, Elrond followed the glance and his thumb stilled. He clasped his horse's mane with both hands. "Sorry."

Glorfindel maintained the same low tone, but now it was laced with frustration. "Why? Your son is pinned in a stream and a storm threatens. Gil-galad's gift weighs heavily on you – as it would any father at such a time. Valar willing, you will have no need to use it. Elrohir thought Elladan was in no danger of drowning unless there was rain, and the rains have held off thus far, have they not?"

"Aye, they have. You are right, my friend. We should reach him in plenty of time."

The two fell silent again. Elrond knew he would only use Vilya if Elladan were in dire straits, but to use it at all was to risk alerting the enemy to the ring's location and as a result, invite evil into the valley that had so long been considered a haven. Could he do such a thing for so selfish a reason? What would Gil-galad think of his action? Would he have used Vilya's power to save Elrond in a similar situation? 'There is no need to think of this – the rain has not begun. I should use my energy more wisely,' Elrond chastised himself and firmly pushed the ring of power from his thoughts.

In the distance, a wolf howled, taking Elrond's mind down another fearful path. Vorondil remained with Elladan, and the faithful horse would defend his master against all comers. But Vorondil was on this side of the waters. Elladan would be easy prey to predators from the other bank, for even in Imladris, animals would be hungry after the winter and bolder in their search for food.

Scanning the banks, Elrond finally found what he had been seeking and raised his hand to halt the rest of the party.

"There." He indicated a little used ford across the stream and met Glorfindel's eyes. "Take half the patrol and cross here. Keep pace with us from the other side."

Glorfindel gave a sharp nod in acceptance of the command, pointed to two riders and guided his white stallion onto the ford. Elrond waited only as long as it took the other elf lord to reach the opposite bank before kicking his own horse into motion once more. With his friend across the stream, he was now alone with his thoughts.

In far less time than it had taken Elladan and Elrohir to arrive at the same location while examining the streams and riverbeds for damage, Elrond pulled his horse to a stop at the spot Elrohir had described. His heart in his throat, he looked to Glorfindel in stunned disbelief. There was no logjam … and no sign of Elladan.

~x~x~x~

Elladan cried out in pain as the debris that had held him so long finally gave way. He cut himself off mid-cry, just in time to avoid taking in water as his head sank beneath its surface.

'Drowning in a stream…what an embarrassing way to die.' But even as he jested about it in his mind, he realized it could happen. Streams everywhere turned into small rivers during this time of year, and this stream was no exception. Desperately, Elladan kicked upward with his good leg – ignoring the pain in the other - and broke through the surface of the water, just missing being struck in the face by a branch protruding from a good size log. Elladan grabbed hold and pulled his upper body up on to the log and braced himself for a rough ride.

Elladan clutched at the makeshift raft as it bobbed and swayed in the current. Overhanging branches scratched his face and tore through his shirt, trying to sweep him into the water. His cloak and woolen tunic had been left behind on the bank of the stream, along with his sword. His hands soon grew numb, yet he dared not loosen his hold on the log. Weary and hurt, he was likely to drown if he fell in the water.

The stream broadened and curved as it flowed to join the Mitheithel. Kicking awkwardly with one leg, Elladan tried to steer toward the shore. The current favored him, and the log soon ran aground. Though each step was shot through with pain, he found that the injured leg could bear his weight. The leather of his boot was stretched tight around the swollen flesh, but he did not think any bones had been broken. Grateful for his safe delivery, he splashed through the stony shallows and staggered out of the water.

He felt the sudden change in footing as a stone, loosely bedded in the sand, tilted under his boot. Clumsy with weariness, he could not recover his balance, and as he stumbled forward, he tripped on a piece of driftwood and was flung to the rocky ground. And then he knew and felt nothing.

His legs trailing in the water, he lay motionless as swallows darted above him, hunting for insects in the clear evening light. Several otters surfaced midstream, emerging from their underwater den. Their sleek heads bobbed in the water as they stared at Elladan, trying to decide what he was. Finally, whiskers bristling, their leader swam to the shore and warily sniffed at the stranger. Men often meant danger to their kind, but this creature smelled like an elf and he had made no threatening gesture. Indeed, he did not move at all. Perhaps he was ill or hurt? The otter sniffed at the stranger more closely then snorted. Well, no doubt his den mates would soon come in search of him. He did not belong on the otters’ riverbank. With a short bark, the leader called to the others.

While the elders dug for juicy mussels, the kits poked at the stranger with tiny velvet paws. When he showed no interest in joining their play, they dove in the river and chased each other in circles.
******************************************************************

The search party followed the course of the stream as it flowed southward, out of elven lands, and crossed the borders of Arnor. They passed several grass-covered barrows rising from the river bank, and farther on, a lone farmhouse looked down from a high ridge. Men had long lived in this part of Eriador, and Elrond had often passed this place in his travels to the south. The stone walls of the farmhouse were built on a far older foundation.

The elves led their horses up the grassy slope. Small flowers were scattered across their path. “Heartsease” men called them, though indeed the only healing virtue of this herb was to cheer the heart with its stubborn loveliness. It had no place in a healer’s garden, yet still its seeds, unplanted and untended, burst forth anew each year. Elrond reached down to pick a stalk of the upturned flowers of yellow and purple. When his sons were young, they had called them “tiny faces.”

At the top of the ridge, the elves hailed the farmfolk, but their shouted greetings went unanswered. The surrounding fields and pastures were empty, but still Elrond ordered two of the elves to stay with the horses and keep a close watch. Inside the farmhouse, the smell of burnt porridge hung in the air. Elrond stepped over an upended bench and knelt beside the hearth. The ashes fell, grey and cold, from his fingers. The farmwife’s spinning wheel had fallen on its side, and balls of brightly-dyed yarn were scattered across the floor.

Elrond and Erestor walked through the house while the rest of the party searched the outbuildings.

“Hallo! Is anyone here?” Erestor called, first in the Common Speech and then in Sindarin. Their boots echoed loudly on the polished wooden floors. Cupboard doors hung ajar and chests were flung open, their stores of clothing and food flung in heaps.

“The work of thieves,” Elrond murmured. “But where are the farm folk?” He hoped that they had fled to safety or hidden from the raiders.

“The horses are gone from the stable,” young Lindir told them, “and hoofprints lead toward the river. I counted a party of twelve. We found nothing else amiss, lord.”

Elrond nodded. “The ground is still soft from the rains. We will have no trouble tracking them.”

Bows stung and ready, the party followed the muddy trail of hoof prints, down the ridge to the water’s edge. The path led them beneath a willow, still clothed in the golden-green of spring. Through a swaying veil of leaves, Elrond glimpsed the hunched curve of a barrow. As he rode forward and the fluttering veil was parted, he gave a sharp cry and urged his horse into a gallop. What mischief is this? he wondered, and his heart was filled with foreboding.

Two hundred years ago, men had raised this barrow, building a chamber of timber then walling it over with turf. The years had passed, and Elrond had watched as the wood slowly rotted and the green roof settled, softening the outline of the mound. Now, shovel and pickaxe had torn into the sod, and a narrow black tunnel led to the burial chamber. The warrior’s corpse had been dragged from the barrow and despoiled of armor and weapons. His shriveled arm lay flung across a young woman’s face, as if to cover her open eyes. The thieves had left them heaped together, the ancient dead and the new. The bodies of two men lay nearby, their hands bound behind their backs and their throats neatly cut.

Erestor stood at his shoulder as Elrond knelt beside the woman. Her long hair, still braided with red ribbons, trailed behind her in the grass. Her shift was drawn up under her arms, and her naked belly swelled out from between her hips. Several months had passed since the begetting day, but the men had spared neither the unborn child nor the young mother. Gently, the elf lifted one of the bruised hands and stared at her fingers and palm. “They were forced to dig. Look at the dirt and sores on her skin. No doubt the brigands promised to spare their lives if they obeyed.”

“Do you think they are outlaws ridden from the north?” Though Sauron was overthrown, the northern wastes still offered safe haven to evil men.

“Or other lordless men, driven by their greed for gold.” Gently, Elrond lowered the cold hand to the grass. “We have not time to give them proper burial, but the barrow will shelter them from the raven. Let us bear them inside, and then we must hunt these beasts who wear the form of men.” These were not his lands, for they had crossed the border into Arnor, but the nearest garrison was leagues away. The pursuit fell to him and this party of warriors.

After they had moved the slain, the elves made ready to leave. Elrond counted the arrows in his quiver. Exactly twelve, but he needed no more. Three thousand years of practice had made him a passable archer.

“We can split the party,” Erestor told him. “Half can follow the river to search for your son, while the rest of us pursue the brigands.”

“That would leave too few to deal with them. And do not forget that we found only three of the farm folk. What became of the rest of the household? They may be captive in the hands of these murderers.” As he spoke, he tightened the leather straps on his shield.

“Lord, you have ever put the needs of others first, yet none would expect you to abandon the search for Elladan.”

Elrond looked up from his work. “Better we find these brigands before they find my son.”

*************************

“There she is. Drinking from the stream.”

The creature raised her black face from the water and gave a mournful bleat. The shore around her was strewn with wreckage left by the spring floodwaters.

“How did she get down there?”

“I know not how she got down there, but it will take the two of us to haul her out again. And we must hasten—it will soon be night.” Finn whistled sharply, and three brown and white dogs tore across the field. Tails wagging, they stood in front of him, awaiting their orders. At a second whistle, they leaped away and began to trot in circles around the herd. With the sheep under guard, he and his brother scrambled down the overgrown bank.

“We need more dogs. Ever since Bramble died.” Finn shook his head as they hurried across the shore, toward the errant sheep. So much ill luck. Misfortune seemed to pile on top of misfortune. “After the lambing is over—“

His brother caught at his arm. “Finn, look!”

What they had taken at first for a log was a body lying facedown on the sand.

“Gareth, wait!” Finn shouted as the lad ran forward. Though his brother surpassed him in height, he had yet to grow any sense. “Keep back! He could be an outlander. He might have died from the plague.”

“He might not be dead. You always think the worst,” his brother said mildly as he dropped to his knees beside the corpse. “He does not smell rotten, and we did not startle the ravens away.”

Finn knelt on the other side, and sliding their hands under the body, they heaved it onto its back. The dead man gave a weak groan as his head fell back on the sand. For a moment, the two brothers stared at each other, unmoving. The sheep shook her bell and bleated.

Pushing aside the matted black hair, Finn laid a hand on the stranger’s face. No sign of fever, which was one less worry, though his brow was smeared with dark blood from a cut. His eyes still closed, the man murmured a few words in Sindarin. He must be a man of Westernesse.

“What did he say?” Gareth asked.

Finn shook his head. Over the years, he had learnt a few words of the king’s language when he went to the market in Eastbury, but this stranger spoke too quickly for Finn to catch his meaning. “Let us get him out of the water.”

As they dragged him onto the shore, the man gave a sharp cry. They quickly saw the cause, for his right leg was badly swollen. Finn slit the sides of the boot and drew it away; then he looked for other signs of hurt, talking quietly all the while, as if he were tending one of the flock. “You are among friends,” he told him in Sindarin, again and again. The stranger was tall, most likely taller than either of the brothers, but his chin was beardless and his fair skin unmarred by weather and time. He is scarcely more than a lad, Finn said to himself. And his hands are too clean for a farmer or shepherd. His own hands were stained red by the dirt of the river valley, and no amount of washing would ever make them clean.

“Who do you think he is?” Gareth asked. The stranger watched them with bewildered grey eyes. Mumbling in Sindarin, he tried to sit then fell back.

“The son of a noble, most likely a squire.” Though he had no sword, the man wore a finely-made swordbelt and the hilt of his dagger was silver. Thinking it better to be safe than sorry, Finn unbuckled the weapon and stowed it in his pack. This stranger might not be evil, but he was clearly out of his head.

Finn glanced up the briar-choked slope. “The bank is so steep that I will have to carry him on my back, but we can bear him between us for the rest of the way. Then we will need to fetch the healer.” And how shall we pay the healer? Finn asked himself for they had no gold and little silver, but then he was ashamed of this thought. It was the duty of honest folk to care for a friendless stranger.

He remembered a strange dream where an otter beckoned with its black paw, pointing to the water. It stood so close that he could see its gleaming whiskers and ivory claws. “I have to find my brother,” he told it. He knew he had a brother; though, strangely, he could not recall his name. “Follow the river,” the creature said, pointing again to the water. “What do you mean?” he asked, but the creature fled at the sound of boots crunching on the sand. The rough voices of men filled his ears with confusion, but he was too weak to crawl away. He was hoisted over a man’s shoulder and carried up a steep path, and then he must have swooned. When he woke, he was staring at the low ceiling of a cottage. He lay on his back, warmly wrapped in sheepskins, and a grey-haired woman sat beside him.

“You were lucky. I cannot feel a break in the leg, so the bones are still in place,” she told him. “Though you will have to use a crutch for a while.” Her speech seemed strangely flat, and she clipped the vowels short. She spoke in Westron, though he could not guess how he knew this. “No doubt your kin are searching for you. What is your name and where do you hail from?”

“I do not know,” he told her, and he felt a sudden horror as he tried to remember and found nothing but emptiness. “What place is this and how did I get here?”

“You were struck in the head, and often such injuries leave one confused. You are at a farm near Eastbury. It is also known as Runenost.”

Frowning, he fingered the bandages wrapped about his forehead. The place names meant nothing to him.

“You need not be alarmed. After a day or so, your memory will return.”

Two men, most likely his rescuers from the shore, lifted him so he was sitting while the healer put a cup to his lips. The taste was so bitter that he tried to turn his face away.

“Drink the rest of it, ohtar. It will do you only good.” The man’s voice was hoarse and low, and his sunburned face was creased with lines.

“Ohtar?” the other man asked. Though he was clearly the younger of the two, they looked much alike and no doubt were close kin.

“It means ‘squire,’ in the king’s language. We have to call him something as he cannot tell us his name.”

The younger man laughed. “Otter is more fitting since we found him floating in the river.” He gave an indignant cry as his kinsman reached out a hand and boxed him on the ear.

“Pay them no heed,” the healer told him, shaking her head. He soon fell asleep but was troubled by strange dreams. Someone called for him, again and again, but try as he might he could not answer. He saw a tall figure leading a horse, his head bowed as he searched the ground. “I am here!” he shouted as the figure walked past him, so close he could touch the grey cloak. I must follow him, he thought then woke as he tried to sit up. The fire had burned low, and grey light streamed in the open door. The two men stood talking with the healer.

“Keep him warm and quiet and out of bright sunlight,” the old woman was saying in Westron. “He is young and should heal quickly. He should be walking on crutches in a few days. If he complains of headache, give him a cup of willowbark tea.”

“You have our thanks,” the rough voice of the older man replied. “Gareth will walk you home. They say that strange folk have been riding the district.”

“The sky is nearly light, yet I confess that I would be glad of the company. These are uneasy times.” The grey-haired woman leaned over the bed. She had donned a heavy cloak and carried a pack over one shoulder. “You have fallen in with good people,” she told him. “Rest, and you will soon be whole.” She held a lamb in her arms, its tiny face peering out from the folds of her cloak.

A day passed by, and then another, and while his leg seemed to heal fine and he was able to walk with a crutch the second day after he was fished out of the river, his memory was slow to come back. At night Elladan saw faces and heard voices he knew, but he could give them no names and did not know why he knew them. It was as if they were persons he knew out of another life, only that it really was his life. He just could not remember it.

Late on the second day after Finn and Gareth had rescued him, Elladan sat in front of the hut the two men lived in. The makeshift crutch he used leaned against the bench he was sitting on. It was a relatively warm day with few clouds, and Elladan enjoyed the last golden rays on his face before the sun sank down behind the horizon. The river he had been found in whispered nearby and Elladan hoped that the sound of the water would help him remember. Or maybe his strange dreams would, in which he saw a person searching for him, calling a name he did not recognize but somehow knew was his. It was strangely comforting to know that there were probably people out there looking for him.

“Thinking again?” A voice interrupted his musings and Elladan looked up at the speaker.

Finn stood before him, his hair slightly disheveled. A dog sat by his side, its tongue hanging almost to the ground. It was obvious that Finn had just returned from his work on the fields with the sheep.

“Yes, it would seem that thinking is the only thing I can do right now.” Elladan replied somewhat hesitatingly.

“Don’t worry lad.” Finn said and took a seat next to Elladan on the bench. The dog stretched and shuffled between Finn’s legs to lay under the bench in the shadow. “You are healing quickly. When you are recovered and still don’t know who you are, you can help Gareth and me with the flock, if you like.”

Elladan gave a small smile, “I think I would like that. You saved my life and I would like to repay you for your kindness.”

“Ah.” Finn waved his hand through the air. “I’m sure you would have done the same for me and Gareth. I’m sure we can find an adequate way for you to repay us.”

Before Elladan could reply, the sound of boots crunching over grass reached their ears. A moment later, Gareth appeared from behind the house. “The sheep are in the barn and the cows are stabled, too.”

A little bit confused, Elladan asked, “Why do you stable the sheep at night? Would it not be easier to keep them on the fields?”

Finn and Gareth sighed almost at the same time, and it was Finn who answered. “Yes, it would. But the times are dark and evil men roam the countryside. It would not be save to let the animals on the pastures at night.”

“You mean they get stolen?” Elladan asked worriedly.

“Stolen, slaughtered on the fields, maimed.” Gareth huffed. “Those men shrink back from nothing to make our life miserable.”

An uneasy silence fell between them. Finally, Finn stood and stretched his arms over his head. “If you ask me, I could do with some good ale and something to eat. I’m starving.”

“Yeah, let’s eat something.” Gareth seconded his brother’s words, then helped Elladan to his feet and into the house. While the brother’s words had troubled Elladan, he knew nothing that he could do to help them.

Late that night, when all the lights had been extinguished, Elladan still lay awake in bed. He had fallen asleep rather quickly after the evening meal, but had woken in the middle of the night because of the pain in his leg; he had been unable to get back to sleep ever since. While he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft snores of the two brother’s, his mind returned to the evil men that roamed the countryside. Something inside him told him that he must do something against such injustice, but he could not tell why he felt that way. Maybe Finn and Gareth were right and he was a squire? Maybe he had even helped catch those outlaws and been injured in the process? But would that not mean that the outlaws were in the area, as well as his companions?

The more Elladan thought about all those things, the more confused he became. He did not feel like a squire at all. But, if he could not remember who he was, then maybe he could not remember what it felt like to be a squire, either? He sighed deeply and shifted into a more comfortable position, when he suddenly heard a sound, coming from outside.

He lay completely still and listened. It came again, louder this time. Hoofbeats! Quickly, Elladan turned his head and looked at Finn and Gareth, but both were vast asleep. It seemed they had not heard the horses. Strange, Elladan mused, for he could hear the horses quite clearly; and, they were getting closer to the house.

“Finn! Gareth!” Elladan hissed into the darkness. “Wake up.”

A grunt came from Gareth, but Finn opened his eyes sluggishly. “What?”

“I can hear horses.” Elladan said, sitting up in bed. “Someone is coming.”

“Now?” Yawning, Finn reached over and shook his brother awake. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, can’t you hear them?” Elladan was already reaching for his crutch, ready to get out of bed.

“No, I hear nothing.” Finn yawned again, but he obediently shuffled over to the window to take a look outside. He rubbed his eyes, then pushed the curtains away. For a moment, he said nothing, but then his eyes widened, “Blimey!”

“What?” It was Gareth time to ask.

“Brother, I think we are in big trouble.” Finn stated, before he quickly let go of the curtain and made a grab for his pants. “There are riders outside, with torches. Many torches.”

Within moments, Gareth, Finn and Elladan were clothed and peering out the different windows. Indeed, there were riders nearing the house, carrying torches. And not only torches, but clubs and swords as well. From the look on their faces, those riders were some of the outlaws that plagued the countryside. They were killers.

“What shall we do now?” Finn hissed, his face white with fear. “We cannot fight them, there are too many of them.”

“Do you have weapons?” Elladan asked, feeling strangely calm, so as if he had been in such situations before. Some part of him seemed to know what to do, even if he could not remember it.

“We have an old sword, but the blade is blunt and will be no use.” Gareth said, frowning. “Some kitchen knives and of course the forks in the barn. They are usually enough to get rid of stray dogs or even the occasional wolf.”

“But they will not be enough to fight those men out there.” Elladan stated, taking another look at the men. The riders had stopped their horses outside the fence that circled the house. Even while he watched, Elladan could see a few of the men dismount and vanish in the darkness.

“What are we going to do?” Finn said fearfully.

“What is there left to do?” Elladan asked, his voice stern. “We will fight, of course.”
-------
Elrond moved his hand through his hair and peered at the ground. They had followed the outlaws for a few days now, and he knew that they were getting closer. While the men had made longer pauses to rest the horses and themselves, the elves had only stopped for short breaks. Elrond knew, the sooner he found those outlaws, the sooner he could go back to find Elladan.

“Elrond? Have you found anything?” Reaching the lord’s side, Glorfindel squatted down next to him.

“Aye, I have indeed.” Elrond gestured at the imprints in the ground. “They turned to the East here, over the plains and back to the river.”

“Then we should do the same and follow them ere it begins to rain again and we lose their trail.” Glorfindel got to his feet and without waiting for Elrond to accept his words, he began to call the other elves to order. A few minutes later the group war riding East, back towards the river. The outlaws were only a short ways ahead of them, they all knew that, and they spurred their horses to go faster. All of them wanted to find the killers of the farmers.
-----
Elrohir was tired, as was his horse. But his heart told him to go on, that he could not stop his search now. His brother needed him! He had followed the river for numerous days, and while he had found traces of the broken dam, like tree trunks and broken branches, so far he had seen no sign of Elladan.

It was late in the afternoon, when he suddenly heard voices close to his position. Curious, he dismounted his horse and sneaked through the high grass that banked the river. He had only gone a little ways, when he saw a group of humans. Waiting, he listened to what they were saying.

“I say we burn the farm close to the river tonight, take what he get and then head back North. I don’t like the attention we get from the farmers and the King’s men. It is getting to dangerous around here.”

There was much murmuring and consent among the group of humans. While Elrohir watched and listened, the men mounted their horses and rode away Eastwards. With a hammering heart, Elrohir returned to his horse. These men wanted to rob a farm! Tonight! While everything inside of Elrohir screamed for him to not abandon his search for Elladan, that he was close indeed, another part of him could not stand idly by while a group of outlaws attacked innocent farmers. So, Elrohir mounted his horse and turned Eastwards, too.

Elrohir followed the men at a careful distance, hoping to find out more of their plans.  Who were they?  Where were they from?  And most importantly, where were they heading? 

They made a great deal of noise as they rode through the wood, and seemed quite unafraid, talking in loud voices and laughing.  The horses’ harness jingled.    As he listened, he learned names – Danvor, Harman, Chadric – and more of their deeds.  Several of them bore the brand of an outcast across their faces.  They were easy to follow, and never once looked back.  Perhaps they were confident that no one would dare confront them – there were twelve of them, a number he would prefer not to tackle alone.  Had he been with Elladan …

His thoughts drifted yet again to his brother.  Where was he?   He knew Elladan was alive, but their bond felt oddly fuzzy, like a piece of thread that had been frayed at one end.  He could sense confusion and despair – why?  He concentrated on thoughts of love and reassurance.  “Do not fear, brother – I will find you.  All will be well.”

He wondered briefly if the outlaws had come across Elladan, alone and injured, but then dismissed the idea.  If that had happened, Elladan would be dead.  These men were killers, that was clear, and now two of them were describing with great relish what they had done to a young woman at the last homestead they had raided.  He listened, sickened by their boasts.  They were utterly ruthless, and would kill any who crossed their path.

Night had fallen as the gang of men left the shelter of the trees.  Ahead lay a wide empty meadow, and on the far side a small, single-storeyed farmhouse and a low barn.  The men rode openly across the meadow towards the farm, but Elrohir remained out of sight, staying beneath the eaves of the trees as he circled the edge of the meadow and drew nearer to the farm.

His mind ran furiously.  What could he do?  He would warn the occupants of the farmhouse of course, but what could a handful of farmfolk do against such ruthless raiders?  He could not count on them being able to fight.  No, he was alone against a dozen outlaws.

As the men began to circle the house, he raised his voice and shouted.  “People of the farm – look out!  You are under attack.  Beware!  Defend yourselves!  Look out!”  He paused, then repeated the message.  The outlaws had already surrounded the farm, and flaming torches flickered against the night sky.

As some of the raiders turned to face him, he rode forward, emerging from the shadow of the trees.   “Danvor!”  he shouted at the leader.   He fired an arrow to get the man’s attention.  It struck the pommel of the saddle, missing his leg by a mere inch.  “Danvor, hold – stop this madness!  Leave these people and go.”

Danvor paused, glancing down at the arrow in shock, but then kicked his horse forward.  Before the beast could move, another arrow struck the ground at the horse’s feet.  Danvor stared at him in blank amazement.  Then, as Elrohir moved further forward, several of the men burst into laughter.

“You are bold, for a man who is alone,”  Danvor remarked.  “Bold, but foolish.”

Elrohir cast back his hood, revealing his face and features.  “I am no man,”  he pointed out.

Another voice came from the darkness of the trees a few hundred yards away.  “And he is not alone.”

Startled, Elrohir flung a swift glance sideways.  “Glorfindel?”

Whether the man thought him distracted, or whether he thought the two warning shots meant Elrohir lacked the ruthlessness or determination to kill, he never knew.  Suddenly Danvor launched a swift attack, firing an arrow at him, and spurring his horse forward. 

Elrohir was already moving, and the arrow missed him by a wide margin.  He returned the fire, hitting Danvor in the chest.  Slowly the man toppled from his horse and lay motionless on the ground, two further arrows with the fletching of Imladris piercing his body.

The other outlaws scattered.  Some rode forward, determined to avenge their leader, others wheeled to renew their attack on the farm.  Some disappeared into the shelter of the trees, fleeing for their lives.

More elves appeared from the trees, silently pursuing the outlaws.  Glorfindel glanced over with a grin.  “Greetings, elfling.  You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble.”

o-o-o

In the farmhouse, the one they called Ohtar rummaged through drawers and cupboards, searching for anything they might use as a weapon.  He snapped instructions over his shoulder.  “Finn – barricade the doors, and close the shutters over the windows.  We do not want them to get in.  We can still see what is going on through the cracks.  Gareth – fill all the buckets and pails you can find.  Fill the bathtub as well.  They may try to burn us out.”

Gareth hurried past towards the pump when he stopped and stared.  “Who are you?”  he asked.  “You’re not a squire, that’s for sure!”

Elladan shrugged.  “Who am I?”  he echoed.  “I wish I knew.  But it seems that I know how to fight cowards like these!”

With a long kitchen knife in his hand, he returned to the window to watch, peering out through the shutter’s broken slats.  It was difficult to be certain, but there seemed to be at least twelve of them, a number he would prefer not to tackle alone.  Had he been with … 

He snatched at the thought.  There was something – someone – a name … hovering on the edge of his mind.  Who?  He groped further, knowing he was almost there, but the thought remained elusive, and the name slipped from his grasp again.  He sighed, shaking his head.  It had been so close this time!  Soon, perhaps, the memory would come again, and perhaps he would learn the name that remained hidden from him.

A voice shouted from outside, and Finn peered out anxiously.  “There’s someone else out there!”  he whispered.  “How many more of them are there?  What’s he saying?”

The voice shouted again, sounding oddly familiar.  Elladan smiled suddenly, and his heart leapt.  “It’s not one of the outlaws.  It is someone else, warning us that we are under attack – someone on our side!  Can you hear?”

Gareth shook his head, white-faced.  “Just shouting.  Are you sure?”  He joined Finn at the window, squinting through the narrow gap.  “They’re coming closer!”  He turned to Elladan.  “Ohtar, what are you doing?”

“There are only four of them now.”  Elladan heaved aside the cupboard Gareth and Finn had dragged in front of the door.  “Now, we fight!”  He flung the door open and ran outside, brandishing two long knives, a third thrust into his belt.  One of the dogs barked excitedly at his heels.  Without even thinking about his reaction he dropped and rolled as one of the outlaws shot an arrow at him, and threw one of the knives as he rose to his feet.  The man fell to the ground and did not move. 

A burning arrow streaked past him and struck the thatched roof.  Behind him, Finn gave a cry of dismay, then darted back into the house.  “Gareth!  Get those buckets, now!”

Leaving the brothers to tackle the fire, Elladan ran forward.  One of the attackers loomed in front of him, a rusty sword raised above his head.  Again acting on instinct, he stabbed, twisted the knife, and pulled it free.  The man was dead before he hit the ground.

 A third ran for the cover of the forest.   An arrow fired by one of the cloaked figures across the meadow dropped him in his tracks, and the remaining man looked at Elladan, glanced at his fallen companions, and threw down his weapons.  The three dogs surrounded him, snapping and snarling.  “All right!  All right!   I give up – just get these bloody dogs off me!”  He kicked out at the nearest dog, which darted away, circled round and ran in again, this time biting him.  The man gave a roar of pain, and Finn, who had now extinguished the fire, began to laugh.

“Good dog, Bracken!  Good girl!”

The brief battle was over.   Three men lay dead near the farm, and there were six dark, motionless bodies further off across the meadow.  The rest were either captured or had fled, and as Elladan watched, another man was dragged out of the forest, still struggling and protesting. 

Leaving their unlikely saviours to round up the rest of the outlaws, Elladan bent to tie up the man who had surrendered.   Some of the strangers approached, and Elladan looked up as he heard Gareth call.

“Ohtar!”

Strangely, he was addressing one of the newcomers.  Elladan returned his attention to his prisoner, only half listening.   “Ohtar?  Why do you call me that?  I am no squire.”  Elladan looked up again, a strange feeling coursing through him.  He knew that voice.

Gareth continued.  “We found a young man – injured – down by the river.  He had no name, so we called him Ohtar.  He could be your double!”

Elladan tied the last knot and tested it, then slowly stood up and walked across to join Gareth, a feeling of excitement growing in him.  As he drew near the stranger turned to look at him, and a shock of recognition ran through him.  It was like being drenched in icy water, washing away the fuzziness and confusion that had clouded his mind and memory since he had awoken to find himself with Gareth and Finn. 

“Elrohir!”  “Elladan!” 

They spoke as one, and Elrohir caught him in a bone-crushing embrace that took his breath.  He returned the hug, full of joy.  At last Elrohir released him a little so they could both breathe.  “Valar, El,”  Elrohir murmured.  “I thought I would never see you again!  Where have you been?”

Elladan gestured at the farmhouse, and at Gareth and Finn, who were staring at them in astonishment.  “Here,” he explained simply.  He turned to the brothers.  “Thank you.  Thank you for your care.  I am Elladan – and this is my brother!”

Gareth nodded, still open-mouthed.  “Aye.  I can see that,”  he managed at last.

The other elves who had battled the outlaws now approached, dragging the bodies of the slain and prodding two captives before them.  Elladan gaped at the sight of so many familiar faces – had the whole of Imladris turned out to search for him?    Elrond led them, and once again he was enveloped in a great hug.  “I am glad to see you safe, my son,”  Elrond said softly.  “Are you well?  What happened to you?”  He frowned over Elladan’s shoulder at Elrohir.  “I thought we had left you safe in Imladris!”  he pointed out.  “How do you come to be here?”

Elrohir shrugged, grinning broadly and quite unrepentant.  “I promised El I would come back.  And did you really expect me to abandon him?”

Elrond sighed and shook his head.  “No.  I should have realised – it was wrong of me to make you stay behind.”  He turned back to Elladan again, looking from him to the two brothers.  “What happened?”

Dawn had broken, and the sun was high in the sky by the time the explanations were over.   Elrond and Elrohir both examined the deep cut to Elladan’s head, and bombarded him with questions before finally agreeing that his memory was intact.

“And with luck, it will have knocked some sense into you!”  Elrohir joked, his relief obvious to all.

Elrond smiled.  “I cannot thank you enough for your care for my son,”  he told Gareth and Finn.  “If you had not found him, and those murderous rogues had come across him first … how can I repay you for his life?”

“We don’t want anything!”  Gareth exclaimed.   “We just – we just did what’s right.  That’s all.”

“We don’t want anything,”  Finn repeated stubbornly.

Elladan frowned.  There was something … when he had first regained consciousness, where his memory was still hazy … someone else                                                  had been there.  Yes …

“They called a healer to me,”  he remembered.  “And paid her with one of the lambs.”

Elrond regarded the two men, and smiled.  “I know you did what is right – and a great deal more – and you do not want payment.  But will you accept a token of my thanks and gratitude?  You saved the life of my son.”  He cast a glance at Elrohir.  “Both my sons, perhaps.  The house of Imladris will not forget that.  What can I do?”

Finn hesitated.  “Well … we could do with a new door to the barn.  It got blown off its hinges last winter, and it’s not been the same since!”

Elrond nodded.  “A new door.  Of course.  What else?”

“The thatch needs repairing – Danvor and his men set fire to it in an attempt to burn us out,”  Elladan added.

“A new door and rethatching?  It seems a very small price to pay.”

Gareth glanced at his brother.  “Well – if you’re sure you mean it –  what we really need’s another dog, to help us round up the sheep, and keep off wolves and the like …”

“A dog?”  Elrond raised his eyebrow.  “Elrohir?” 

Elrohir grinned.  “One of the stable dogs had a litter two months ago.  The pups will be ready to leave in a week or so – I think they will make excellent sheep dogs!”

Gareth nodded with delight.  “Thank you!  And my lord – Elrond …”  He gestured towards the barn, where the three captives were under guard.  “What’s to become of them?”

“They will be escorted to the nearest town and handed over for trial there.  The others are dead, so folk in these parts are safe now.”

Gareth nodded.  “Aye.  Thanks to you – and your sons.  We’ll not forget your help and generosity.”

Elrond shook his head.  “I told you – it is I who should thank you.  And now – it is time for us to return home.   Some of my warriors will take the three outlaws to Runenost, and other will stay here to help you with the repairs.  The rest of us …”  he glanced at Glorfindel, Erestor, and his sons – “will go home.”

Home.  From being a homeless, nameless stray, Elladan now had a home, a name, and a family.  He knew he would always remember Ohtar, and the kindly men who had taken an injured stranger in, but he longed to see the valley again.  He pictured the rainbows dancing in the mist of the waterfalls, the tranquil house with the setting sun turning the windows to fire – and Celebrían, waiting at the top of the steps, her arms outstretched in welcome.

“Yes.  Let’s go home,”  he agreed.

The End