"The storm was fierce," the voice said hesitantly.

It was a rich male voice, filled with all of the subtlety of tone which resonated in the heart of the forest. The speaker must be one of the Galadhrim.

“We sought shelter as best we could. The…the thunder…” The disembodied voice stumbled as it continued. “So loud it shook the very ground. Then lightning struck the tree, rending it asunder and…shattered the talan. We dared not move from our shelter until the storm had passed. But when we did, we…”

“That is when you found them,” another male voice compassionately finished.

“That…,” the first voice sighed, trailing off.

“Thank you, Rumil. You may go,” the second voice said after a moment's silence.

Elrond remained still without opening his eyes. His head ached. His shoulder and back aflame, he lay in agony, knowing he had been stabbed, perhaps even impaled! By the Valar, he hurt!

Yes, he certainly felt as if he had fallen out of a tree. Yet…yet that was not what he remembered…

-----------------

There was a clearing near a stream. Celeborn had told them of an exquisite herd of deer beyond the borders of the Golden Wood to the south and west, so reported by one of his newer scouts who went abroad for the gathering of news. The hunt had been Celeborn’s idea – a chance for him to shed the heavy mantle of lordship and spend some time alone with Elrond and the twins. In spite of the numerous reports that no orcs roamed the area, Glorfindel insisted on accompanying them. Clad in the greens, browns, and greys of hunters, they set out at dawn. 

Oh, the stalking was exhilarating! The chase led them for many miles outside of Lorien until they cornered a wondrous 14 point stag a few hundred yards away. Celeborn, as eldest, claimed the rights to first shot. Then the wagering began.

Glorfindel leaned casually on his long bow, his grey cloak fluttering in the breeze. “It is a difficult shot and the evening shadows deceive. A barrel of Dorwinion that Celeborn’s arrow will bring the creature to its knees,” he said knowingly.

“What?!” Elrond asked mockingly affronted as he drew forth an arrow in anticipation of his turn to shoot. “How dare you side against those you are sworn to serve and protect? A barrel that the arrow will be mine.”

Elladan and Elrohir both glared at Glorfindel, arms crossed, identical looks of accusation on their faces. 

“My brother and I have hunted for nearly two thousand years,” Elrohir patiently explained. “Trained by you!” He poked Glorfindel in the chest rather harder than necessary for good measure.

“Ow!” Glorfindel softly exclaimed, shoving him away with one hand.

“One of US will bring it down,” Elladan assured them arrogantly.

Gingerly, Glorfindel rubbed the spot on his chest. “That is precisely how I know you will not stand a chance against your daeradar in this contest. You are perehdil. Your vision does not equal his in the twilight. Besides, he learned to shoot in the Night before nights. Daylight is a helpful but unnecessary luxury to him when it comes to shooting.”

Elladan smiled confidently. “Twice the mortal blood flows in Adar’s veins as in ours. I believe we at least will succeed where he will not.”

“I am pleased to know that my sons have such confidence in me,” Elrond commented dryly as he fingered his arrow.

“Silence, all of you!” Celeborn quietly commanded, notching his arrow and sighting along it. “Though I appreciate your vote of confidence concerning my ability to shoot in the dark, Glorfindel, the prattle is an annoying distraction.”

Flashing a cheeky grin, Glorfindel resumed his relaxed stance against his bow.  Elrond and his sons gave each other brief looks of challenge, then settled in to watch Celeborn.

Inhaling deeply, Celeborn released the arrow. The impact with the stag’s neck was audible even at that distance. The animal bolted in a last futile attempt to escape, the hunters in swift pursuit.

Blood sprayed the surrounding foliage, splattering on the leaves and dripping on the ground as the stricken creature fled into a copse of trees. The thrill of the chase coursing through him, Elrond pushed on determined to gain the lead, nocking his arrow as he ran. Finally overtaking Celeborn, he drew back to fire.

A sudden pain lanced through his left shoulder, slamming him onto his back, his bow and arrow falling beside him. Breathing heavily, Elrond lay in the autumn leaves, too bewildered to move.

What had just happened?

“Adar!”

Elrond heard his sons yell in surprise. Immediately arrows flew overhead, meeting sickeningly with their targets.  Cries of dismay echoed around him followed by the thumps of bodies hitting the ground nearby.

Looking carefully to his left, Elrond saw the shaft of a long brown arrow protruding from his now numb shoulder. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before the realization finally settled in.

He had been shot!

Hunting in a deserted land well free of orcs and accompanied by four other highly-trained warriors with thousands of years of experience among the five of them, he had been shot!

How?

By whom?

Why?

Curiously he reached over to touch the arrow with his right hand. It obviously was not an orc arrow. Where had it come from? His fingertips slid down the smooth shaft, coming to rest on the fabric of his tunic. Drawing his wet fingers back, he rubbed them together, staring at them in growing alarm.

There was an arrow in his shoulder and he was bleeding!

Pain flared through his left arm and the side of his chest. He couldn’t feel the fingers of left hand. He needed to get the arrow out and bind the wound fast!

Breathing slowly, Elrond forced himself to calm down as he dried his right hand on his cloak. When his racing heart had slowed a bit, he reached over and wrapped his fist around the shaft, trying to prepare himself for the additional pain. He started to take a deep breath, then gasped as he felt something cold and sharp pricking the right side of his neck.

“Poacher.” The voice dripped contempt as it spoke in the common tongue.

The sword point moved inches above Elrond’s face before slicing his left cheek. The flat of the blade gently pressed against it, forcing him to turn his head. He looked up and saw a strange mortal man dressed in ragged clothes of muted browns with shaggy dun-colored hair and beard to match. The sword tip moved to Elrond’s throat.

“You profane our sacred herd,” another deeper voice accused from somewhere further to Elrond’s right. “For that you must be punished."

"Men,” the voice commanded sternly. “Retrieve your arrows and bind their hands. We will take them back to the village.”

Hisses and gasps of pain sounded around Elrond.

His sons! Where were his sons?!

He started to struggle, but the man holding the sword pressed it harder against Elrond’s throat, forcing him to lie still.

Glorfindel and Celeborn! Did they manage to escape?

The man suddenly bent over and ripped the arrow from Elrond’s shoulder. Agony briefly flashed through his entire left side. Against his will, he felt his eyes flutter closed as he succumbed to the pain.  The man rolled him over to bind his hands, and he knew no more.

“Master,” a concerned voice called from somewhere nearby.

“Yes, what is it,” someone calmly replied.

“Master, I have tended the lord’s injuries and they begin to heal. He sleeps now. But, Master, I question the source of the injuries the lord has received.”

“You do?” Came the dubious reply. “And why would you do such a thing? Is it not obvious that he fell from a tree?”

There was a long pause before the first voice responded. “Master, the injuries to the lord’s arm and leg look to me as if they were caused by arrows. I have bound the wounds of many a warrior and the lord’s wounds are consistent with those inflicted by arrows.”

An exasperated sigh escaped the “master” before his long suffering reply. “I heard, from the leader of the patrol himself, an account of the terrible accident which caused our patients’ injuries. Does not impalement upon a stick also create a puncture wound? Are not arrows in effect shaved sticks? Are not the other injuries consistent with those which one would receive falling from a tree in a forest?” The Master’s voice grew stern. “I caution you, young one, to consider your opinions most carefully when they conflict with the testimony of those held in high esteem by the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood.”

“Yes, Master,” came the penitent reply.

“Now tend your patient and notify me when he awakens.”

“Yes, Master.”

Lord Glorfindel actually was already awake though he wished he were not. Carefully, he kept his body relaxed and his eyes safely closed so as not to disturb the “young one” tending him. He did not particularly want to answer any questions just now about the “terrible accident” as the master healer had called it – he did not ever want to answer them really. His head ached horribly, and, judging from the pain in the extensions of agony he called an arm and a leg, he would neither draw a bow nor run again.  Not that he would mind such a fate at this point. He was not certain that he wanted to hunt again after this experience.

But how did this so-called “patrol leader” arrive at the absurd conclusion that he had fallen out of a tree? 

Oh, he remembered a tree all right. But falling from it was about the only thing that did not happen. What he did recall was...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx

Glorfindel the balrog slayer struggled fiercely as four of the wild men stripped him of his weapons and bound his hands behind his back. His right bicep and left thigh ached fiercely where the arrows had been ripped from him. Blood dampened his leggings and his sleeve as he continued to fight to the best of his limited ability.

His captor roughly dragged him to his feet, but his leg collapsed, unable to bear his weight. Gasping, he came down hard on his right knee, smacking it neatly on a rock. The wild man to his left growled, kicked him in his wounded leg, then hit him soundly over the head with something very hard.

XXXXX

The sun was blinding when Glorfindel regained consciousness. Instinctively, he tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes, but his hand would not obey him. Momentarily confused, he turned his head to see what was wrong and was met with a gaping hole in his blood-soaked sleeve. His memories returned along with an explosion of pain in his arm, leg, and head. Taking a few deep breaths, he managed to get the agony under control enough to try moving again. Carefully he lifted his left hand to reach over and examine the wound, only to find himself bound with manacle and chain. Suddenly alarmed, he sat bolt upright and found his legs were similarly bound. A wave of nausea swept over him accompanied by more pain.

“Calm yourself, my friend,” a weary voice softly commanded.

Once the nausea subsided, Glorfindel slowly turned in the direction of the voice and met Celeborn’s keen blue gaze.

Celeborn sat propped up beside him to his right, his shackled hands pressed to his left side where blood heavily stained the lower portion of his grey tunic.

Horror struck, the Noldo gasped, “My lord! Wh…”

“Glorfindel! Be at peace. We are all here – wherever here is. The others are injured and chained to this tree as well. Fortunately, none of our injuries appear to be vital, but…” Celeborn winced, hissing sharply as he carefully shifted his position. “But, I do not think any of us will be trying to go anywhere any time soon.”

Turning to his other side, Glorfindel saw Elrond secured next to him. The familiar handsome face was deathly pale beneath the tangled raven hair which hung forward, obscuring his bright grey eyes. The large crimson patch on his shoulder and chest seemed to be drying at least. Shame and anger filled the golden lord as he turned away, hanging his head in disgrace.

He had failed them.

How had this happened? How had he allowed this to happen?

His group had been aware of their surroundings as all good hunters were. There had been no indication of anyone having traversed the area they were in, orc, mortal, or otherwise – at least not that Glorfindel had seen. And these were mere mortals who had accosted them; wild men at that - probably Dunlanders by their look and manner of speech. How had he missed all sign of them?

How had this all come to pass?

Guilt and anger consumed him, gnawing at his heart.

As sworn protector of these last scions of Finwë’s line in Middle-earth, Glorfindel had insisted on accompanying Elrond and the twins, and the lord Celeborn for added safety -- but he had failed them. Now they were all wounded, awaiting Eru knew what! How had he allowed this to happen?

“Glorfindel,” Elrond called in an unnaturally gruff voice.  

He did not answer.

“Glorfindel, look at me.”

Elrond reached out and gripped Glorfindel’s chin, slowly lifting it until their eyes met.

“I know what you are thinking, my friend. But you are not solely to blame. We all failed to see the signs, if there were even any around us to be seen. We are all guilty of ignorance and folly in this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Glorfindel reluctantly replied. “I understand. But I was supposed to be aware. I was supposed to protect you.”

There was a long silence suddenly broken by an indignant growl from Elrond.

"Meaning that even after all this time you still think me incapable of protecting myself?"

“Yes,” Glorfindel answered without thinking clearly. “No! I mean…”

Elrond's eyes betrayed his attempt to lighten the desperate situation. “Be silent! Just be silent and figure out how to get us out of here.”

Glorfindel allowed himself a brief smile as he turned away. Leaning back against the tree, he took note of the multitude of thatched huts arranged around them many paces away and the crowd assembling to gawk at the elves. This was a sizable Dunlander settlement by the looks of it. Escape would not be easy.

He sighed heavily. By the Valar, his head ached!

Gently he probed the knot raised on the side of his head where the wild man had struck him.

“It only bled a little bit,” Celeborn weakly reassured him as Glorfindel drew his hand away looking for blood.

“Still hurts though,” Glorfindel scowled.

“Daeradar,” one of the twins called from somewhere beyond Glorfindel’s line of sight. “What do they want with us?”

Celeborn gestured forward with a hand coated in drying blood. “I think we are about to find out.”

A large hairy man approached, flanked by several equally scraggly men all garbed in the hides of wolf and bear. Some of the men brandished knives while others carried branches covered with wicked-looking thorns

Glorfindel sat up as straight he could in his compromised state, leaning against the tree as the large man halted a short ways in front of them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Celeborn do the same.

Speaking haughtily in the common tongue, the man shook a long ash staff at them as he declared, “You trespass upon our lands. You hunt that which is sacred to us. You have murdered that which should never be touched by dart or spear – the very king of the blessed herd. For this, you will suffer.”  

“We are elves. We hunt for food, not sport. We use all parts of that which we kill,” Celeborn explained, his voice diplomatically humble and penitent. “We did not know the deer were sacred to you. We ask your pardon and your forgiveness.”

The man studied them for a moment before answering. “We know you are elves of the Cursed Wood. You love trees, yet you scorn that which lives beneath them! Lack of wit does not excuse this sin. We saw your arrow in the royal stag.” The man paused a moment nodding in judgment as he continued “For this, you will pay. You will pay.”

The leader then gestured with his staff and those around him strode forward.

“Wait! Please! Allow us to…” But Celeborn’s voice was cut off mid-sentence by a blow to his head from one of the men who suddenly swarmed around them.

Glorfindel struggled viciously as a group of men surrounded him, completely blocking his view. Some pinned him down while his tunic, shirt, and cloak were cut from him with a knife. One at a time, the armed men came forward and began whipping him with thorny branches.

Perhaps the attack lasted for a few minutes or was it a few hours? Time ceased to matter as each swipe of a branch snagged and tore tender flesh. Glorfindel bit his lip until blood dribbled down his chin, refusing to give his accusers the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He did not hear cries from any of the others either, though he heard them suffering the same fate which rained down upon him. So long as they remained silent, he knew he could, too. Closing his eyes against the assault, he clung to that thought until the beating stopped. 

XXXXX

Rain fell later that day and during the night, washing their wounds clean and quenching their thirst for they were given neither food nor water.  The next day, they were left in the sun, still chained to the tree, but their lashings had healed over to the point of looking like scratches. That night the twins were dragged away to one of the huts for many hours, but neither would speak of it when they finally returned.

The second day after the rain, the men came again, only this time the thorny branches were accompanied by six-point half racks of deer antlers and large sticks.

None of them remained silent for long through that assault.

A hand gently stroked his cheek occasionally smoothing his hair back from his face. Intermittently, a beautiful voice, weighed with desperate concern, caressed his ears with whispered songs of love. At times the gentle touch progressed to his bare shoulder and down his arm to grasp one of his own bandaged hands.

He had been aware of her presence, her touches, her beloved voice for some time, but he did not want her to know. He did not want to be awake. Stoically, he endured the pain from his injuries for they were his penance for his failures and balm for his guilt -- but the pain of her knowing was beyond his endurance.

“My lady,” a voice softly called.

He recognized it as belonging to the master healer. He knew all of their voices without ever having once opened his eyes.

“Y…yes,” she replied clearing her throat as she replaced his hand on the blanket. “Yes, thank you. Tea would be most welcome just now.”

Galadriel sounded tired, so very weary for one who abounded in strength and fortitude. In his mind, Celeborn could picture her every move as he heard the rustle of her clothing as she brought the tea to her sweet lips and took a sip.  He longed to reach out to her, to simply open his eyes, but he could not endure her questions just now or her pity.

He had attracted her with his strength and his knowledge of all things of the forest. She had once compared him to one of Orome’s Maiar with his beauty and sylvan grace, his powerful voice, and the might of his arms. He had not felt like a Maia those last few days. He had not even felt like an Elf lord! But what could he have done differently? He had been through it over and over again in his mind. It was enough for him to have to live with the memories of how he had failed.

What would she think of him now?

Almost as if in answer to his thought, he heard her set her cup on a table and felt her take his hand again.

"Celeborn, my beloved fool," She whispered with more than a hint of anger in her voice. "You are a Sinda!  By the Valar, how could a tree ever allow you to fall from it, even if it were struck by lightning?  It would have given thought to your safety before its own, so much do the trees of this land love you, Lord of the Galadhrim.  And to allow our grandsons, Elrond, and Glorfindel to also be hurt..." She sniffled back her tears as her voice grew softer. "I love you so much. I need you. Please wake from your slumber. Please dearest one....wake up."

His lady, this ambitious Noldorin princess, mighty bearer of a ring of power, perhaps the greatest Elf woman who ever lived -- was weeping for him.

Pity and love for her moved his heart to finally respond. Gently he squeezed her hand, or tried to but his fingers would not obey.  So he had broken them then. A sigh escaped his lips, but it came out as more of a ragged gasp for the pain that suddenly racked his chest. Just how many ribs had he broken? He tried to turn toward her, but that was the biggest mistake of all. Even if it were not for the pain, he simply did not have the strength to move. When was the last time he had moved? He tried to remember…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Elrohir rested against the tree beside his twin, both firmly manacled by wrist and ankle. Movement was easier now as he shifted to talk to his brother.

“Thank you, Elladan. Now let me check your wounds.”

Obligingly, Elladan turned, affording a good view of his back.

“You finally are beginning to heal,” Elrohir commented, gently probing his back and then turning him to see his chest. “The gashes are not quite as deep they were last night. Your arrow wounds are healing, too.”

 Elladan sighed. “Not that it will do me much good. But, thank you.” The chains jingled as he slowly moved away.

“Daeradar,” Elrohir asked. “If they mean to kill us, why do they delay? By all accounts, Dunlanders are quick to slay those who trespass upon their lands. Why have they kept us alive this long?”

“They mean to make us suffer for our transgressions against them,” Celeborn responded.

“I have heard of many odd tales about their methods of worship from the Dunedain,” Elladan commented. “However, I had not known of any practices involving deer. It is strange. What could they possibly hope to gain from it?”

“Haleth’s folk from whom these are descended had no such practices that we heard of in Doriath, but that was ages ago. You two have spent far more time among mortals recently than have I. Why do you ask me?”

“Because Lorien is nearer to Dunland than is Imladris, and Adar is asleep,” Elrohir offered.

“I fear for him,” Elladan said quietly, nodding toward Elrond. “The arrow passed most of the way through his shoulder. The wound is not healing as it should and oozes still.”

“You bound it as best you could with scraps of our clothing. He is strong, one of the strongest I have ever known,” Glorfindel assured from Elrond’s other side. “Let him rest and he should be fine.”

“Fine for what?” Elrohir asked bitterly.

“Silence!” Celeborn hissed softly. “Their leader approaches.”

The hairy foul-smelling man strode forward accompanied by several large men. “By the murder you committed, you have interfered with the rituals of our worship. The sacred feast begins at sundown. And at sunrise, you will die for your crimes.”

Celeborn offered himself up, explaining that he had been the one to fire the arrow. Rather than earning leniency for the others, it simply made his beating worse.

The leader ordered two men to spread Celeborn’s hands and then stomped on them several times with the ominous promise of, “Now you need not ever worry about making such a mistake with your bow again.”

The following beating of the prisoners with the antlers and sticks did not last as long as the previous whipping, but that was small comfort for it was much worse. Elrond was fortunate enough to remain unconscious through most of it -- at least Celeborn did not hear him scream until it was nearly over.

XXXXXX

It was dark when the men returned again. Several bonfires lit the center of the village. Celeborn lay curled around his pain, barely able to lift his head. His skin was thick with crusted blood and mud. He could not move enough to see how the others fared but guessed from their occasional moans they could not be much better off. A man approached and lifted Celeborn’s head, giving him some water to drink. After allowing a few swallows, the man emptied the rest of the cup over Celeborn’s body. The process was repeated for each of the others.

After the last drops of water trickled away, the leader announced to the gathered crowd. “Tonight we celebrate the ritual of fire. But in the morning, in place of our rites with the sacred herd, we will make a sacrifice of the murderers for their sacrilege to the land.”

Raucous chanting began, accompanied by the steady beat of pitched drums. Several women painted in colors befitting the season emerged from the huts and began dancing around the fire. Celeborn turned his head away in disgust and despair. This could not be happening. It simply could not!

He was an Elf, a child of the forest, a son of this land -- far more so than these brief, base, deranged creatures ever would be! Yet they had accused him and his kin of heresy against the land? They were the ones who had scourged elves with weapons born from the forest itself. They were the ones who had stripped and shamed the bodies of elves. Just who had committed the greater blaspheme here: the Firstborn of Eru Iluvatar for slaying a deer for food or these barbaric mortals for their cruelty and their misguided loyalties to a bunch of animals? 

Worst of all, no one in Lorien even knew where they were or what had become of them. And come morning, it would no longer matter.

Warning: Some sexual innuendo in this chapter.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Thank you for your report, Haldir,” the Lady of the Golden Wood answered wearily, inclining her head. “I am most grateful to you and your patrol for helping Rumil bring my family and Glorfindel here so quickly.  They…they might have died if not for your assistance. We are very fortunate that you happened to return from your news gathering in time to help clear the debris from the fallen talan and bind their wounds.”

Haldir smiled, giving a slight bow in gratitude. “My Lady, we are honored to have been able to be of assistance. It was indeed…fortunate we were where we were when we were most needed.”

“Please give my thanks to your patrol as well. You may go.”

“Yes, my Lady. Thank you, my Lady.” He bowed deeply then turned and departed Lord Celeborn’s study.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Once Haldir was safely back at his talan, he slipped into a chair and sighed in relief. Rumil pressed a glass of wine into his hand, sitting down across from him.

A curiously annoyed expression lit Rumil’s face as he considered his brother. “All right, Haldir. We have succeeded in lying to everyone –- including our beloved Lady whom we are sworn to serve and protect –- making them believe the tale of the fallen talan, thereby completely humiliating the Lord of the Galadhrim, the revered Lord Elrond, his mighty sons, and perhaps the greatest Eldarin warrior who ever walked Middle-earth. I believe I deserve an explanation for why we have done this. And this time, I want to hear the truth of the matter.”

Haldir took a long pull on his wine, nearly draining it. He held out the glass and Rumil obliging refilled it. Taking another savory swallow, he set the glass on the table between them, sat back, and began his tale.

 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxx

“Adar, why are we climbing trees in the dark to spy on a Dunlander village?” Ferevellon whispered, his curiosity getting the better of him as he settled in a tree with a clear view of a series of bonfires in the center of a village of thatched huts. “What does this have to do with the gathering of news? Does Lorien fear an attack from the Dunlanders?”

“Well…” Thandronen paused, shifting uncomfortably and stealing a glace at Haldir and Orophin who snorted and smirked, shaking their heads.

“No, we do not fear the Dunlanders attacking the Golden Wood –- at least not these Dunlanders.” Orophin explained highly amused. “They have no quarrel with us. They are a group who split off from the rest of Dunland for they hold religious beliefs and follow practices which are, well…different from and not accepted by those of the rest of Dunland.”

“So why does this matter to us” Fereveldir asked, confusion clearly evident on his fair face.

“Well…It…If one is going to protect Lothlorien, then one must be…aware, yes aware of the local customs and practices of neighboring countries, so that…” Orophin hesitated again, collecting his thoughts. “So that one can better determine if anything is amiss in those lands and report it back to the Lord and Lady.” The last words came tumbling out in a rush.

“I see,” Ferevellon replied dubiously.  “And the Lord and Lady are so concerned about the goings on in a village of deviant wild men clad in pelts that they send 30 of their finest warriors away from protecting the borders of our land to spy on pitiful woodland mortals who obviously only bathe when they cannot find shelter from the rain.”

Orophin drew a deep breath and paused before letting it out in answer. “The danger of an enemy is not measured by how often it bathes, young one. You have battled enough orcs in the last 150 years to know that.”

“Yes, but…”

“Adar,” Fereveldir said, interrupting his twin brother. “I cannot believe you thought this was so important that you would leave your post like this every year…”

Haldir glared at the young ellon ominously.

“Albeit under orders on a patrol with the Captain,” Fereveldir continued hurriedly, briefly saluting Haldir. “And come spy on a mortal village in the middle of the night.”

“Thandronen,” one of the other warriors complained. “Why did you bring them along without explaining?”

“They have never been on patrol on the southern borders at this time of year. I just thought…” Thandronen defended.

“Silence! The ceremony is beginning,” Another warrior admonished.

In the village below, the leader, garbed in furs, came forth from a hut. Immediately he was surrounded by men and children, similarly clad in pelts, who stood listening intently. The leader gestured to a pitiful heap of prisoners chained to a tree who lay unmoving as he spoke.

“Haldir,” Orophin whispered from his perch beside his brother on a branch within earshot of the leader’s comments. “I wonder what those sorry sots did to earn execution.”

“The leader said they did something which seems to have interfered with the usual rituals involving the herd,” Haldir answered.

“I bet they killed that beautiful stag. The one that the villagers revere as being the king of the herd,” a warrior on Haldir’s other side suggested. 

“Oh, yes. That would certainly earn someone death from this lot,” Orophin agreed “The other times we saw such a change in the ritual, that was what had happened. The prisoners died horribly, too. They were beaten repeatedly for days and then publicly eviscerated at dawn like a hunter would open an animal.”

“Do you think they will change tonight’s ritual in light of this?” The warrior asked, disappointment creeping into his voice.

“I have witnessed the night ritual every year for the last two hundred years and have yet to see them cancel it for any reason,” Haldir reassured.

“Good, then we will receive our reward for making this journey,” the warrior replied cheerfully.

Moments later, four men began beating on drums of varying sizes eliciting a multi-pitched rhythm which stirred even the blood of the elves. The village men joined in with a song half sung and half chanted, which blended with the drums. Suddenly, the doors of the huts opened and their occupants burst forth.

Thandronen’s twin sons stared in wide-eyed amazement as women danced around the center of the village, weaving among the men and children and then into a tightening spiral. As each woman reached a fire, she leaped through it, twirling and waving her arms all the while.

“They are naked!” Fereveldir exclaimed.

“Be quiet! They might hear us,” Haldir admonished.

“But they are only wearing paint!” Ferevellon continued in wide-eyed awe.

“Be quiet!”

“Only paint…from head to toe…” Fereveldir whispered equally awestruck.

“Wow! Look at that one in green over there.”

“Oh, I hope she will jump again!”

“Adar, it is no wonder that you always volunteer to patrol the southern borders at this time of year!”

“How comes it that our ellith do not dance naked and jump through fires for us?”

“Thandronen, you really should have prepared them instead of surprising them like this.”

And the banter continued until the fire dance ended.

XXXXXXXXXX

Haldir silenced his warriors’ comments just as the chanting ceased. Heavy clouds obscured the stars and moon though there was still enough light from the fires for the appreciative elves to observe features and details of the dancers mingling afterward. The village children were shoed off to bed and the women paired up with men for the night. A large man carrying an armload of weapons approached the leader. 

“My lord, their weapons are already sharp enough. They are ready for use in the sacrifice in the morning.”

The leader nodded his approval. “Leave them beside my door.” Then he disentangled a giggling red woman from his arm, pushing her in the direction of the man. A green woman took her place at the leader’s side while a blue woman took his other arm. “Blessings on your evening, my friend.”

The man grinned wolfishly. “And on yours, too, my liege.”

The leader went into his hut with his women as the man left the weapons by the door and proceeded with the red woman to another hut.

Once the rest of the villagers were safely indoors, Orophin observed, “Those are some nice swords and bows, are they not?”

“Indeed they are,” Haldir admired. “I wonder how Dunlanders came to possess such fine arms.”

“Perhaps the prisoners are not Dunlanders,” Thandronen offered.

“Who else would be foolish enough to come here but Dunlanders? Unless perhaps they are rogues who stole the weapons from some unsuspecting travelers before they were stupid enough to hunt in these lands and get captured by the villagers,” Orophin speculated. 

“I doubt that pitiful lot chained to the tree intended to get caught,” Haldir remarked with a gesture toward the unconscious prisoners.

“Do they even yet live?” Thandronen asked.

“Yes,” another warrior answered. “I have noticed some small movement from all of them since we have been here. They are gravely wounded, but they do live.”

“I pity them,” Ferevellon whispered. “If their deaths are to be as Orophin has said, it will be a horrible way for them to die.”

“Mortals are weak and these have lost much blood, unless my eyes deceive me.  Perhaps Eru will be merciful and they will die of their wounds before the dawn,” Fereveldir said quietly.

Haldir smiled briefly at the twins. It was good to see that they had not been so hardened by their years of orc hunting that they failed to know compassion in their hearts.

“Captain,” Orophin commented casually. “It would be a waste of fine weapons to see them sullied in the slaughter of mortal by mortal. There is no watch in the village tonight -  never has been on this night that I have seen.”

“Indeed, my brother, indeed,” Haldir agreed. “Perhaps we should preserve the weapons and the prisoners from the fate intended for them in the morning.”

After several minutes of silent waiting, Haldir motioned to the five warriors nearest to him. “Orophin and I will retrieve the weapons. The rest of you, dispatch the prisoners. Be swift and silent so we do not rouse the village.”

“I believe many of them are already aroused enough as it is,” one of the warriors snorted. “I do not think they will pay any mind to us.”

Soft snickering wafted among the trees, but Haldir scowled. “The rest of you remain here and cover us.”

As the group descended from the trees, 23 arrows silently met the strings of 23 bows, ready for drawing and firing.

Soundless and swift, Haldir and his group passed through the village. Just as he and Orophin arrived at the leader’s hut and bent to pick up the weapons, soft curses and exclamations arose from the warriors intent on the deaths of the prisoners.

“Oh my…”

“By the Valar!”

“Captain!”

“I do not believe it! It is…”

Angrily Haldir whirled on the warriors. “Orophin, get the weapons and return to the trees. Now!” he hissed.

The warriors he chose were seasoned veterans! What could possibly have them so riled that they jeopardized such a simple mission? As Orophin complied, Haldir furiously strode over to the tree where the others were crouched each cradling a prisoner.

“C-C-Captain,” Thandronen stuttered in disbelief as his commander loomed over him. “It…Look, sir.” He gently brushed matted hair away from the bloodied face of the unconscious mangled man he clutched to his chest.  “It is Lord Celeborn.”

Horrified, Haldir sank to his knees in dismay as the other warriors stated the names of those they held. Mouth agape, he stared at them, slowly shaking his head unable to speak.

How?

How could this possibly have happened?

What were they doing here anyway?

He knew his lord had gone hunting, but surely he would not have been so foolish as to….

“They must have hunted the great stag and slain it,” Thandronen ventured, completing Haldir’s thought. 

Finding his voice at last, Haldir commanded, “We have to free them and get them out of here now!”

Rising to his feet, he motioned to those he left behind in the trees to come and help.

Time seemed to stand still as the warriors worked to remove the manacles. Worriedly Haldir paced, keeping his eyes on the huts, praying to every one of the Belain he could think of that they would not be discovered.

“We will bind their wounds once we are safely away. Hurry!” He waved his soldiers away as each unconscious prisoner was released. “Away to Lorien. Now!”

As soon as the last manacle was removed, the patrol was off and running, bearing the freed prisoners draped on the strong shoulders of five of the warriors.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx

An hour past sunrise, they finally stopped. Thick clouds gathered, strangling the new light of day from the sky.

“We dare not remain here long,” Haldir warned as the warriors set about tending the wounds of the captives.

“Captain,” one of the warrior’s commented as he gently cleaned and bound the injuries to Celeborn’s chest. “I do not think our lord even knew about this village and their strange customs.”

“I agree,” Haldir sighed. “I do not think he did know about it. They have never troubled us before, and the Lord and Lady would never have allowed us to spy upon these mortals during their festivals if they had known.”

“Haldir, their wounds are grievous,” Orophin said. “It looks as if they have been held captive for days. We need to get them back to Caras Galadhon where proper healers can tend them.”

Nodding in agreement Thandronen added, “The sky does not bode well and the villagers may already be on the hunt for us.”

After tying a few last bandages on the still unconscious patients, they sped off again. Two hours later rains came, drenching the runners and slowing their escape. A little past noon, the winds picked up and lightning flashed across the sky. The trees around them complained loudly amidst the pounding rain and the booming thunder. Still the elves ran, branches grazing their faces and snatching their hair and cloaks in their haste.

Just as the patrol entered the outer fringes of the Golden Wood, the rains poured so heavily none could see more than two strides in front of him. The thunder shook the ground as lightning slashed the sky and split trees. Fragments of bark and branch showered down around them as they ran sideways to escape the falling trees. As the lightning claimed yet another tree, they took cover near an embankment, shielding the injured with their own bodies and waiting for the storm to pass.

Once the storm eased up and the thunder echoed like a distant memory, Haldir and his warriors tended to the injured once again for many of their wounds bled anew.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Mae Govannon!” a familiar voice called from afar a few minutes later.

Haldir looked up from Elrond’s side where he had been helping to stop fresh bleeding. His brother Rumil and one of the new recruits serving on the southern watch approached in the distance, waving in greeting.  Several other members of the watch picked their way through the wreckage of branch and tree behind him.

Waving in return, Orophin casually leaned over to Haldir, gesturing to the injured lords, and whispered though all of their patrol could hear, “So, Captain, how are you going to explain all of this when the watch asks us what happened?”

Thandronan observed, “We were not exactly supposed to be where we were when we found them.”

“How do we explain their injuries?” his younger son nervously added.

Ferevellon glanced at his twin and paled considerably. “Could we be court-marshaled for what we have done, spying on the village and disrupting their sacred rite?”

“But if we do reveal what happened, it would start a war with the Dunlanders,” another warrior pointed out.

Swearing angrily, Haldir picked up a rock and threw it at the remains of a nearby tree. Then he took a couple of furious deep breaths and rose to his feet. “Go along with whatever I say and everything will be fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

The members of the patrol nodded worriedly, their faces full of fear and dread. Only Orophin had the nerve to quietly asked, “So, what are you going to tell them?”

Turning to greet the watch, Haldir shook his head helplessly. “I have no idea.”

XXXXXXXXXX

The End

Note: Belain - Sindarin for Valar