"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.