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.”

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“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.