History Lessons, The Second Age, by Nilmandra

Chapter 20: War in Eregion Part II

The dwarf king looked upon the two female elves standing before him impassively. Galadriel watched in exasperation as the dwarf king's eyes strayed repeatedly from her to her daughter. Galadriel would hold his eyes for a few moments, but then his attention would again stray to Celebrían. Celebrían, however, had eyes not for the dwarf-king, but for the majesty and grandeur of his halls. They stood before his carved stone throne, on a floor of what appeared to be polished silver, and one could easily forget one was in a cave, for the crystal lamps that lit the hall shone as if the sun were contained within them.

“You will not learn more from staring at my daughter than you will from my tongue,” Galadriel finally said acerbically. She smiled at Durin's surprised expression, softening her words, and then stepped forward. “Sauron's army approaches from the south even as we speak. I bear you this news in hopes that you will come to the aid of your allies, the elves of Eregion, but also so that you may protect yourselves, for though Sauron may start with the elves, he will not forget the dwarves.”

“Narvi says you seek passage through Khazad-dûm,” said Durin, acknowledging her words with a slight nod.

Galadriel bowed in return. “Safe passage through the mighty halls of the dwarves would be a gracious gift, for we seek also to bring word to King Amdir of the elves of Lorinand.”

“And your people? They do not seek shelter in Khazad-dûm, which will withstand any assault of orcs and men?”

“Nay, good king,” replied Galadriel. “Our army rides south to engage our enemy, and those who must flee travel west to the Havens of Mithlond.”

“Yet you travel east, my lady?” asked Durin, his voice courteous yet curious.

“We do not flee in fear for our lives, but to seek aid from our allies. Do we not all wish to live in Eregion peacefully?” replied Galadriel. She studied his eyes, probing ever deeper into the dwarf's mind to discern his intent and his loyalties. The dwarf was difficult to read, more so than any other dwarf with whom she had previously conversed.

“I will take counsel with my own advisors, but you may pass through Khazad-dûm,” said Durin finally. “Though you may have need of haste, I hope you will tarry to see the beauty of our great halls and caverns, and the crown of stars in Kheled-zâram.” He paused. “When you reach Lorinand, you will greet the elvenking for me.”

Galadriel bowed again. “A true friend you are to the elves, and you have our gratitude,” she said graciously. Though she did not speak of it, she was also grateful for his greeting to King Amdir. He had in essence opened the door for the two kings to speak, and in this Galadriel could only hope they would coordinate their efforts, if not work together.

Durin lifted his hand in farewell, and it was then that Galadriel saw upon his hand the band of polished mithril. Her breath caught as she looked upon the tiny gems that were wrought so carefully within the band that they appeared to be a part of it, and she looked upon Durin with a sudden trepidation.

Celebrimbor had said he had asked for the ring to be returned. That Durin wore it openly meant he had either refused to part with the jewel, or that he had not been asked. Yet, if Durin wore it openly, what control did Sauron have over him? Seemingly none, for she had read no deceit in him. Perhaps the lesser rings did not exert the hold on their bearers as Celebrimbor had feared? Were only the Three of great enough power to do so?

“My lord,” she began in a low voice, “may I have a private word with you?”

Durin's eyes narrowed as he looked upon her, but he nodded for his advisors to leave, and Narvi stepped forward to escort Celebrían away from the throne. Galadriel waited until she could hear Narvi describing in detail the glory of the golden ceiling of Khazad-dûm, calling the caverns by their elvish name, Hadhodrond, for he appeared delighted to speak to Celebrían in her own language.

“Sauron seeks the rings he created with Celebrimbor. That which I see on your finger is like those that they made. Was your jewel a gift from Celebrimbor?”

Durin frowned, stroking at his long beard as his face grew hard. He fingered the ring, his eyes darkening. “What kind of person gives a gift and then asks for its return?” he asked darkly.

“Such a thing does seem ungracious; however the gift's giver wished only to keep you from harm,” she answered calmly. “The ring was touched by Sauron and is imbued with evil. Why would you want to keep it?”

“Mithril and gems are of value whether or not touched by Sauron,” answered Durin curtly. “Take your daughter and pass through Khazad-dûm; your errand awaits you.”

Narvi stepped forward at a wave of Durin's hand, Celebrían's hand resting on his as he escorted her with obvious pleasure, and he led them from the great hall.

* * *

Narvi led them from the king's hall down a long corridor that shone brightly with crystal lamps. Elaborate carvings graced the passage, and they passed from hall to hall and down stairs from level to level as Narvi narrated the history of each and who worked and lived in them. They passed a room where laughter sounded merrily, only to end abruptly as those within realized that strangers were near.

Celebrían looked over her shoulder as Narvi led them past, and stopped suddenly with a small cry. “Children!” she cried in a low voice.

Narvi laughed in his booming voice. “Yes, children. They are about their lessons and crafts today.”

“I have never seen a dwarf child before, though!” exclaimed Celebrían. “My whole life I have lived in Ost-in-Edhil and the dwarves would come to our celebrations, but I never saw your females or your children. I thought you did not have any!”

Narvi clapped her on the back as he threw back his head and laughed. “We have few females and even fewer children, but females did attend!” He winked at her. “Look closely next time.”

Taking her gently but firmly by the arm, he led them forward and soon giggles and laughter sounded again behind them. Celebrían looked over her shoulder a moment later, while her mother spoke to Narvi, and saw a small figure dart behind a pillar. A moment later she heard a soft giggle.

“To the left and down are the great lodes from which we mine the mithril,” said Narvi, stopping at a platform before a bridge over a deep chasm.

As he went on describing the terrain of the mine and how the dwarves worked, Celebrían stepped back a few paces into the shadows and then turned and looked down the corridor. A flash of red caught her attention as the small figure darted forward again. Staying still and silent, she watched patiently as their follower caught up to them, seemingly unaware that she was crouched behind the last pillar.

The sounds of Galadriel and Narvi speaking continued, but she was no longer paying attention to their words. Instead, she watched as the dwarf child came closer. Darting forward over the last segment, the child dashed behind the pillar and bumped into her.

Celebrían caught the child in her arms, and big brown eyes looked at her with a mixture of fear and curiosity. She smiled and laughed silently, pointing to where Narvi still spoke to Galadriel and covering her lips with her finger. The dwarf child, a female, Celebrían finally decided, looked to Narvi and then back to Celebrían, and smiled and nodded her agreement to their quiet conspiracy.

“Hello,” whispered Celebrían, greeting the child in the language of the dwarves. “I am glad to meet you.”

The child's eyes widened and she did not answer at first, but instead reached out with pudgy fingers to touch Celebrían's hair. She stroked it gently and when Celebrían smiled the child picked up a handful of the silver tresses and let them fall through her fingers like a shimmering waterfall. She smiled then, and if it were possible, her eyes opened even wider as Celebrían felt a tentative touch against the slight point of her ear. She shivered slightly, for her ear tips were very sensitive.

The child giggled softly at Celebrían's reaction and again ran her finger over the outline of her ear. Celebrían laughed and tossed her head slightly, making the dwarf child giggle and then the child reached out with both hands and ran them through the silver locks.

“She will perhaps have a fine eye for locating Mithril one day,” came Narvi's dry voice.

Both Celebrían and the child jumped, but when the child would have darted away, Celebrían hugged her close. The child buried her face in Celebrían's hair, peeking up at Narvi and finally grinning at him. When he held out his arms to her, she disentangled herself from Celebrían and ran to him.

“This is Kali, daughter of my brother's son,” said Narvi as he scooped the errant dwarfling into his arms. He spoke to her in her own language for a moment, and the child took on a slightly chastised look. When she bowed her head though, he tipped her chin back up and smiled at her. She answered him in fast dwarvish, and Celebrían did not understand her. “She likes your silver hair, Lady Celebrían, and followed you to see the shimmering silver that flowed from your head.”

Celebrían laughed and stood. “I am glad to meet you, Kali.”

The child looked at Narvi, then slid down from his arms and bowed slightly. “Ke-le-bree-an,” she said slowly.

A soft clap caught Kali's attention, and she darted away as quickly as she had come. Celebrían heard a soft murmur as the child was greeted by someone hidden in the shadows, and then she was gone.

“A full day's journey you will have tomorrow before you reach the Great Gates,” said Narvi as he ushered them across the long bridge. He spoke a command and a door opened out of the rock, revealing a room where they might eat and rest. “Tonight you will stay here and enjoy the hospitality of the dwarves.”

A dwarf appeared with refreshments and warm, wet towels with which they could wash. Narvi bowed before them.

“An escort will join you in the morning to lead you the rest of the way. I wish you safe passage to Lorinand. Rumor is growing of a threat to the south – beware the journey down the Celebrant! Perhaps one day we will meet again,” he finished, and turning abruptly, he left the room.

Celebrían set her pack on the floor and sank into a broad, low chair. The hike through Khazad-dûm to reach Durin and ask for passage had taken much of the morning, and now already it was late evening and still they had far to go. She missed the sounds of the wind and the trees, yet the caverns were so immense it was easy to convince herself she was in the meeting hall in the city. She closed her eyes as she recalled the look of the city, and of her father standing on the road watching them leave. Grief welled up in her as she considered that that might have been the last time she would ever see him. War was coming and he would lead the fight against it, and if he fell she would not see him again this side of the sea. A tear slipped down her cheek.

She felt her mother sit beside her and then comforting arms slid around her and pulled her close. She leaned into her mother, felt Galadriel's strong, slow heart beat against her ear and felt herself strengthened as her mother's mind touched her own.

“There may be grief at parting, but let there not be despair,” said Galadriel softly. “Our part is to serve as messengers, but those messages may bear the fruit of aid that will help your adar. He is strong and has fought many battles. We will see him again.”

“How do you know, Naneth?” asked Celebrían, looking up to search her mother's face.

“I do not know anything for certain, but my heart tells me this will not be his end,” replied Galadriel. “Hold on to your hope, Celebrían.”

The dwarf returned then with a meal for them, and they ate lightly of the filling food before resting upon the couches provided.

* * *

They reached the First Hall after sundown of the next day. They had eaten in the splendor of the Second Hall, the largest they had passed through and perhaps the most ornate. Crossing Durin's bridge had required cautious feet and a lack of fear at the great drop into the deep chasm below. The Great Gates were open, and Galadriel felt her heart lighten as she saw the twinkling of the stars in the night sky. She felt Celebrían's hand slip into her own and squeezed softly, for she knew that despite the beauty and grandeur of this great cavern, her daughter had never lived below ground before, and she knew the burden such a first experience could bring. At times great shafts of light where the mountains opened to the sky above had shone down upon them, and the places where that light had reflected upon the carved stone walls had been breathtaking to behold. The dwarves had used those light beams to their greatest advantage, showing off their skill and workmanship to its greatest degree. But the elves loved the light best, not that which it reflected, and once Celebrían had stopped in a beam of light and rejoiced in it. The dwarves had been amused by her, but, reflected Galadriel, probably no more so at us than we were at them.

“The air is chill and night has fallen,” said their guide gruffly. “Will you stay this night and leave when morning comes?”

Galadriel looked at Celebrían and saw the dismay in her eyes, then turned to the dwarf. “Your hospitality is generous,” she replied. “Yet we have missed the stars and open skies. We will camp just beyond these great doors.”

“My lady,” said the dwarf, bowing slightly. “As you will, but on this night we have received instruction to shut the gates. The protection of the dwarves will not be with you beyond them.”

Galadriel smiled at him, and bowed in return. “Thank you for you hospitality and your concern. The elves will not forget your kindness.”

They walked down the stairs and into the night air, both inhaling deeply and looking up into the skies as Eärendil blinked at them.

“Must we stop, Naneth?” asked Celebrían. “I do not mind walking beneath the stars.”

Galadriel looked up the dark pass of the falls of the Dimrill Stair that rose above them to the north, and then to the wide lands to the south, the Dimrill Dale. Before them, moonlight shimmered off the water of the Mirrormere.

“The road will lead us past the Mirrormere and Durin's stone. We will rest there, and you will see the crown of stars that reflects in her deep waters,” decided Galadriel.

They began walking the brick paved road, evidence again of the dwarves' handiwork all about them. Galadriel had often wondered at these Children of Aulë, for they truly delighted in creating beauty out of stone, such that it appeared to be a living thing, as beautiful as any garden of flowers.

“Durin placed this stone to mark where he first looked in the Mirrormere,” said Galadriel as they came upon the great stone near the end of the lake. She looked up at the mountain face where the entrance arch stood, but all light was now gone, the lanterns extinguished and the Great Gates closed. As they looked in the waters, a crown became visible, a reflection of the stars. “In daylight the mountains are reflected, and their snowy peaks form a crown as well. At night, the stars shimmer above those peaks, creating a like effect. Durin took this as a sign of his own kingdom and the good fortune of the dwarves. And so it has been, for though the caverns are laden with silver and gold and gems of many kinds, mithril is more valuable than all and none but the dwarves mine here.”

Galadriel pulled a thin grey blanket from her pack and spread it across the cold ground. A fine weave, it would repel water and warm them in the cool fall air. She sat upon it and Celebrían sank down next to her, both looking south and east to Lorinand.

“We have many miles yet to go, following the Silvelode from its spring to where it joins the Anduin. There lie the woods of Lorinand and the home of King Amdir.”

Celebrían lay back upon the blanket, her eyes half closing in sleep as she looked up at the stars above her. Galadriel pulled open her pack, rearranging its contents for the journey before them. She tucked a dagger into her boot, a twin to the one tucked in the belt at her waist. A sword and bow had been fastened to the pack; tomorrow she would carry the sword on her hip as well, and the bow and quiver on her shoulders. Celebrían carried the same gear, but her pack could be arranged in the morning.

“Naneth, can you not sleep?” asked Celebrían, when she woke several hours later.

Galadriel smiled. “I will keep watch this night, and after tonight we will share the responsibility,” she replied.

Celebrían sat up straight, a flush staining her cheeks. “No, I will keep watch tonight too!” she cried. “Adar taught me, though I have never stood watch for real before.”

“I wish there was no need for you to do so now,” answered Galadriel. “But it is a skill that will serve you well. Sit beside me and tell me what you see and hear around us.”

Celebrían remembered her lessons well, and attuned her mind to the land about them – its sights and sounds, the song of the trees and of the waters, for a change in any could signal an approaching danger. Galadriel rested in the early morning hours as Celebrían completed her first watch.

They set out after dawn broke, following the road past the icy spring of the Silverlode. Their daytime journey was uneventful, the path beside the waters of the Celebrant easy to follow and the terrain tolerable. The eastward slopes of the Misty Mountains grew dark in the early afternoon hours as the sun passed beyond the peaks, and it was in those shadows that they first became aware of the presence of others.

Galadriel motioned for Celebrían to move off the road and down the bank towards the Celebrant. The tall reeds and trees sheltered them, and as the afternoon sun set they watched with keen elven eyesight as figures moved northward, hugging the low cliffs of the mountains.

“Orcs,” said Galadriel finally. “They will not get past the Gates into Khazad-dûm, but they could take the pass over the mountain.”

“To Eregion?” breathed Celebrían, her eyes not moving off the shadowy figures.

“More than likely they are scouts, determining if the pass is suitable to send an army over,” said Galadriel slowly. “They are not about to find out.”

To the north, from where they had just come, there was a copse of trees on the west side of the road. They were still north of the orcs, but would need to move quickly to stay ahead of them and prepare an ambush. “Come,” she whispered to Celebrían. “Tie up your hair and cover it with your hooded cloak. We will move north along the riverbed, and then cross to that copse of trees.”

Celebrían nodded her agreement, her eyes wide. Galadriel could not help but smile as she recognized a combination of excitement and trepidation in her daughter. She quickly bound up her own hair and slipped on her light grey cloak, covering her head. She had long loved this fabric, for the gray seemed to fade into the landscape, making the elves nearly invisible to spying eyes.

When both were ready, they began running lightly along the river, staying in the reeds and brush. By the time they reached the spot where they would need to cross the road to reach the copse of trees, they were a considerable distance ahead of the orcs. They crossed swiftly.

Galadriel chose a tree large enough for them both to climb. Celeborn had taught them both to shoot from the relative safety of the trees, where they would be both harder to spot and harder to hit. She chose their positions and they settled in to watch for their prey.

In that time of waiting, Galadriel found herself remembering watching Celeborn teaching Celebrían. They started off in the tree in their garden, with her small bow. She shot stationary targets first, learning to keep her balance while aiming and shooting. Eventually they moved to targets he would throw in the air, and later, he took her hunting. She recalled Celebrían shooting her first rabbit and her first deer. Today, Celebrían would shoot her first orc. Galadriel thought of her own childhood and even that of the children of Eregion, and killing an orc was certainly not a rite of passage she would have wished for any of them.

She swept the area again, then turned her eyes back to her daughter, who faithfully watched the cliffs to the southwest. Assuming they all lived through this, she decided they would not mention to Celeborn that they had taken the initiative in intercepting these scouts.

Celebrían touched her arm lightly, and Galadriel followed to where her daughter was pointing at the two orcs, which were approaching as she had expected. They would pass almost right below them, easy targets. Celebrían had already nocked an arrow. As Galadriel looked again at her daughter, she could see Celebrían's lips moving, as if she were reciting something to herself. She watched for a moment, then nearly laughed aloud as she realized that Celebrían was saying over and over to herself to wait until they were within range, repeating her father's lessons.

She nocked her own arrow and raised her bow at the right time, releasing the arrow. She hit the orc in the throat, and he dropped immediately. Her fingers moved instinctively to grab a second arrow and nock it even as she watched Celebrían's arrow strike the second orc in the chest. He shrieked as he yanked the arrow loose with one hand, while his other reached for his knife. Galadriel launched her second arrow towards his belt line, where the knife was sheathed. He cried out again as he stumbled and fell to his knees, and then Celebrían's second arrow struck him near his heart. He managed to pull it free, but it released a torrent of blood that was his death knell. He collapsed, and movement ceased a moment later.

Once she was sure neither orc was moving, Galadriel turned to Celebrían. Dusk had come, but even in the dim light Celebrían was as pale as death herself. She still held her bow tightly in one hand; the other was over her mouth. Galadriel pulled the bow from her daughter's hand.

“Down,” she commanded softly.

Celebrían dropped to the ground a moment before she vomited. Galadriel landed next to her soundlessly and rested one hand on Celebrían's shoulder, smoothing her hair back while she kept watch on the bodies in the distance. Once Celebrían had ceased to shudder, she calmly handed her a waterskin.

Celebrían drank, then breathed in deeply a few times before turning to face her.

“I am sorry, Celebrían. I wish you had never seen an orc, much less had to kill one,” she said softly. She saw the distress in Celebrían's eyes, and reaching out with one hand, she cupped her daughter's face and wiped the tear from the pale cheek with her thumb. “They were not innocent and they would have killed you, had they found you. Ambush may feel cowardly, but we are not skilled enough in battle to fight them.” Galadriel hardened her voice when Celebrían remained stiff before her. “These are two orcs that cannot kill an elf or fight against your father; two orcs that cannot report back about a way over the mountain from where they could launch an attack. Your father will fight on only one front, hopefully, and not two.”

At those words, Celebrían crumbled. She collapsed into Galadriel's arms, and Galadriel lowered them both to the leaf strewn ground. Not a sound came from her, but the slender body trembled and shook as Celebrían worked out her grief. When she was finally still, Galadriel spoke.

“Stay here and keep watch. I will be back in a few moments.”

She could feel Celebrían's eyes on her back as she strode forward, her dagger in hand. She nudged each orc in turn, ensuring they were indeed dead, and then dragged them one at a time to a low spot along the cliff and covered them with leaves and debris.

“Do you wish to camp here or walk south to that small clearing where we rested earlier?”

“Go to the small clearing,” replied Celebrían steadily. “I do not think I could rest here now.”

* * *

Galadriel took first watch again that night, allowing Celebrían to sleep off the shock of having killed. They had lit no fire, having no need of warmth and no desire to announce their presence to any who might be near. As the midpoint of the night drew close, Galadriel considered not waking Celebrían for her watch, for she was easily capable of going for long periods without sleep and her daughter needed rest. Celebrían was an adult, in age past her majority, but still young and on this night, her mind was also burdened. But Celebrían would not wish to be coddled and Galadriel would not clip the wings of her fledgling. She gently shook her.

Celebrían's eyes focused immediately and she sat up, her senses instantly aware as she scanned the area and listened to the night sounds. When her gaze settled on her mother, a new determination and strength were present in her eyes. “Sleep for a while, mother. I will have breakfast prepared when you wake.”

They resumed their journey as dawn broke, retracing steps taken the day before, finally passing the embankment where they had spotted the orcs. The cliffs were brightly lit by the morning sun and no figures lurked in shadows. They continued on the path that ran next to the ever widening and deepening Celebrant, fording small streams that ran from the mountains and joined the silver waters in their southward journey.

“There was a bridge here at one time,” mused Galadriel as she looked at the narrow gorge before them. “See the stone pillar in the middle of the stream?”

“There are pieces of wood here in the tall grass,” answered Celebrían a moment later. She knelt down, shifting the planks slightly. “They are undamaged, Naneth, and neatly stacked. Someone took down this bridge.”

Galadriel felt the sudden sensation of being watched, the hair on her neck bristling, and she swept the other side of the stream with her eyes, seeking any sign of the presence of others. A feeling of indecision swept over her. They had to cross to continue to Lorinand, yet she sensed danger in front of them.

“Orcs would not be about this early in the day,” said Celebrían softly. “Could there be elves watching us, elves from Lorinand?”

“They would make their presence known, once they knew us to be elves,” replied Galadriel. As she turned her head, a glint of light caught her eye as something hurtled toward them. She dove at Celebrían, knocking her to the ground and covering her protectively. “Stay down!” she hissed.

Galadriel carefully turned herself around in the grass, looking to where they had just been standing, and saw the curved handle of a dagger sticking up from the ground. Even from a distance she could see the runes carved in the handle and the unusual curved shape. It was a shape she had seen before, drawn by a scout many years earlier when he had returned from spying on Sauron's minions to the south. Their enemy was a Man.

“He must be on the other side of the gorge, lying in wait for us,” whispered Galadriel. Willing herself to stay calm, she looked back north. They could flee back to Khazad-dum, but that would not help anyone. They needed to reach Lorinand and seek the aid of the elves. “We need to cross the Celebrant and continue south on the other side,” she decided. “The land is too open here; we will have to crawl in the grass to the banks of the Celebrant and return North, so he cannot see us cross. Go!”

“Naneth, my bow is back there,” argued Celebrían. “I can crawl through the grass to get it. It is near the stacked wood.”

Galadriel hesitated. They might both need their bows. She slipped the dagger from her boot. “Quickly, and make no noise.”

Celebrían began shimmying through the grass on her belly, moving so carefully that nary a blade of grass was disturbed. Galadriel's gaze darted back and forth between her daughter and the bank across from them. She still had not seen the Man. The slightest of noises to her right caught her attention, but when she looked, she saw only a slight rustling of the wind through the reeds. Fixing her gaze in that direction, she was rewarded when moments later she saw a well camouflaged figure moving toward them on their side of the stream. He began to run, drawing a short sword as he did so, the curved blade flashing dangerously in the sunlight, and she knew he had seen Celebrían.

She rose and cried out, distracting him. He turned to face her as she threw her dagger, but he sidestepped it easily. He was now too close for her to use her bow, so she pulled her sword from its sheath, raising it block his first blow as he swung his sword in a wide sweeping arc at her.

The jolt nearly knocked her off her feet, but she blocked him, forcing his sword back and down to his feet. He was clearly surprised she had stood her ground, and a wide grin split his face, revealing white teeth that stood out in stark contrast to his dark olive skin. He was beardless, with dark hair covered by a scarf. He was not young, but he was strong and sturdy in his fighting stance. She knew she could not outlast him.

She saw Celebrían out of the corner of her eye, fear and indecision on her face. She had her bow in hand, but clearly feared to use it, for she could easily hit her mother. As Galadriel blocked another blow, she saw Celebrían make up her mind. She flipped her bow back over her shoulder and pulled forth her own sword.

The Man seemed to have forgotten about her, for he seemed not to sense Celebrían's approach. Galadriel yelled at him, inarticulate words in a language he was unlikely to understand, keeping his attention focused on her. As he thrust at Galadriel again, Celebrían leaped forward, using both hands to drive her blade down across his sword arm. The man screamed as his forearm was severed, falling to his knees. At that same moment, Celebrían cried out and fell forward, landing next to the man she had just maimed, with an arrow protruding from her back.

There was still another man across the gorge.

Galadriel pulled her bow and nocked an arrow, launching it wildly in the direction the arrow had come from. She had not seen her quarry and hoped only to distract him. She looked down to see the man with the severed arm pulling a dagger from his boot with his good hand, even as blood sprayed from the stump of his arm. Celebrían was lying only feet from him.

“Celebrían!” she cried.

Celebrían was not dead, despite the arrow protruding from her, and she rose up to her knees, her own knife already in hand. She thrust forward as the man came at her, driving it deep in to his belly. Missing his fighting hand and his other hand occupied holding his own knife, he was unable to prevent her from pulling her knife from his gut and thrusting it into his chest. He fell to the ground with a grunt as blood began trickling from his mouth.

Galadriel had continued to fire arrows at the gorge, but no arrows were returned. As Celebrían began crawling to her, she dropped into the tall grass next to her. Her hands swept frantically over her daughter's form, but she did not feel any blood.

“Naneth, I am not injured,” insisted Celebrían, slapping her hands away. “Come, we must get away from here!”

Galadriel was stunned. The arrow was still protruding from her daughter's back, but at Celebrían's words she looked closer and realized the arrow was lodged in her pack and quiver. She grabbed it and yanked it free, and saw then the black coating on the arrow. Bile rose in her throat as she realized how close her daughter had come to being killed or poisoned.

Celebrían was pulling her grey cloak about her and Galadriel quickly did the same, and then they ran swiftly north, fading into the trees along the banks of the Celebrant some hundred yards to their north and east. Once in some cover, they ceased running in a hunched position, but stood tall and straight as sure feet led them further north.

When they had gone nearly a league, Galadriel slowed to a stop. They had not spoken in that time, but their hands were firmly entwined. Galadriel pulled Celebrían into her arms. Both of their hearts were beating wildly, their breaths short, more from fear than the exertion of the run. But they appeared safe, at least for the moment.

When both were calm, Galadriel pulled away. She brushed Celebrían's hood back, tucking stray strands of silver hair behind her ears. She searched her eyes, probing deep into her daughter's soul, and was pleased to find strength and courage. She pulled Celebrían's head forward, kissing her brow.

“You are very brave, Celebrían. Your father would be as pleased with you as I am,” she praised her, and Celebrían flushed with pleasure. “You have kept your head well in danger, but I fear there is more before us. I do not know how many Men there might be south of us, or if those Men were traveling with those Orcs. I think we must find a place to cross the Celebrant and continue on the east side.”

Celebrían turned to look east beyond the river. “Is there a path on that side, Naneth?”

“If there is, it will not be so well kept as this one,” answered Galadriel. “But we will manage. Keeping the river between us and our enemy, whoever they are, seems the wisest course.”

Celebrían pulled away and walked down to the river's edge. She began moving north again, searching for a likely place to cross, while Galadriel kept watch to their south. When Celebrían returned later, she seemed resigned.

“There is not going to be a good place to cross, Naneth. I found one area where the water seems shallow, but it is icy cold and the bank on the far side is steep. In another area where the bank rises gradually, the water is swift and deep.”

“We cannot leave a trail or evidence of our crossing, so climbing a muddy bank should be avoided,” said Galadriel quietly. She looked one more time to the south, but saw no movement. Her sense that they were being pursued had grown, however. “Come, show me the choices.”

Neither was good, but the swift flowing area with the low banks would leave the least trail. As she knelt along the bank, she saw tracks of deer, meaning they had used this area to cross. The air was cool and the water like ice, but there was no other option.

“I found these branches, Naneth. If we tie them together, they will make a raft sturdy enough to hold our packs,” said Celebrían as she began stripping off her cloak and outer clothing. Soon she was barefoot, with her hair pinned up, and dressed only in her underclothing, and she was wrapping up her clothing in the pack and positioning her sword, knife, bow and quiver on the small raft she had lashed together.

They laughed as they waded into the freezing water, pushing the small raft before them. Galadriel stilled teeth that wished to chatter and willed her body to resist the icy fingers that had reached all about her. She looked at Celebrían to see how she fared, and was met by an impudent grin.

“It is no colder than the fountain in winter,” announced Celebrían, her voice low.

Galadriel studied her daughter intently, then rolled her eyes. “And you know this because…?”

Celebrían laughed. “I lost a dare with Calith and Narusel and had to strip to my underclothing and swim across the fountain and back.”

“I did not hear of it,” admitted Galadriel.

Celebrían winked and grinned. “It was at night. There were no witnesses about that winter's eve.”

Galadriel shook her head. “I do not want to know what the dare was.”

“No, you do not,” agreed Celebrían amiably.

They reached the other side, and Galadriel carried their packs and weapons up the bank as Celebrían carefully dismantled their raft, placing the branches about as if they had naturally fallen there and returning the rope to her pack.

Galadriel rubbed her briskly with the blanket, turning her skin from a light blue to a rosy pink, and then they dressed and wrapped their grey cloaks about them. “There is not much of a road here,” said Celebrían as they moved through the grass. “We will need to use more care here not to leave a trail.”

They resumed their journey south, moving silently through the empty land. They passed the gorge, but saw no sign of the Man. The body of the Man they had killed was also gone. They continued until darkness came and they could go no further, for the uneven terrain was treacherous.

They passed beneath the canopy of the forest of Lorinand near noon of that fourth day. Galadriel felt weariness and tension leave her, even though she knew that Amdir's realm was still many miles deep into the woods. The forest shaded the river, dappled sunlight sparkling on the water as it flowed swiftly past them. They traveled for several miles, stopping to rest at a place where another larger river joined the Celebrant, their clear, cold waters mingling in a tumbling cascade of frothy waves.

“The sound is restful and peaceful, yet it may hide sounds that would warn us of danger,” said Galadriel after a few moments. They continued walking along the river's edge, when suddenly they came across a path that led east. “This will take us into Amdir's realm,” said Galadriel.

They heard a splash then, and both turned about abruptly. The trees began to whisper their discontent, their tone obvious, even though they were not familiar with these woods. Celebrían pulled her bow from her shoulder and Galadriel pulled out her knife as they faded into the shadows of the tress near the banks of the river.

They saw a Man climbing up the bank, a dagger in his hand. He had pulled a raft up on to the sandy bank, and on it were several small caskets and packs, and pole for directing the craft. The man resembled the one they had fought and killed earlier, with a similar headdress and curved knife. A long curved sword hung in its scabbard from his hip, and a bow and quiver were on his back. He looked as formidable as the first man.

Galadriel reached for Celebrían's hand, drawing her deeper into the shadows. She watched him explore the path; then he climbed into the lower branches of a tree to better survey the area. He was a threat that they needed to contend with if they were to complete their errand. They could not lead him to the elves.

Galadriel silently pulled her bow into position and nocked an arrow she pulled from Celebrían's quiver. She had emptied her own quiver firing at the bank where this man was hidden earlier, and now they had just five arrows left between them.

The man climbed down from the tree, surveying the area around the path once more. He looked right at them, his eyes narrowing, but then he turned as if to continue eastward along the path.

Galadriel drew back her arrow and loosed it, the slight twang of Celebrían's bow sounding before her own arrow had hit its mark. The man was hit twice, the first arrow glancing off his thigh and the second imbedding itself in his calf, for he had turned suddenly and begun walking away from them.

He did not cry out or react to the pain, merely yanked the arrow free of his calf with one hand as he nocked an arrow in his own bow. He fired into the copse in which they were hidden as he ran forward, four arrows in quick succession. His tactic was smart, for they were kept busy evading his arrows as he ran toward them and were unable to flee or fight back under his onslaught.

Galadriel pushed Celebrían behind the tree and then ran in the other direction, hoping the man would follow her. He did, whipping his dagger at her, and it grazed her arm before imbedding in the trunk of a tree. She dove to the ground, rolled on to her belly, and was drawing her sword when she heard the Man cry out. She looked up to see him fall, arrows protruding from his neck, chest, back and sides.

It took a moment to register in her mind that Celebrían could not have released all those arrows; indeed, the man was punctured by more arrows than they possessed. A suffocating silence fell over the land, as even the birds and trees fell silent. Then, the trees raised their voices in joy, the tone again obvious even if she could not understand their words. To her amazement, elves suddenly began appearing from the trees. Several checked the man to ensure he was dead, while others approached her.

Galadriel stood, leaving her weapons on the ground in front of her as the elves approached. They were Silvan, wilder cousins to their Sindar king. One elf stepped toward her, clearly the leader of their group, and she bowed to him.

“What brings a female elf to our forest, and who is the enemy that chased you here?” he asked, his Sindarin strangely accented.

“I am Galadriel of Eregion,” she replied, “and I come with a message for your King. The enemy found us in your realm, but he is not the reason we came.”

She saw Celebrían walking toward her out of the corner of her eye, and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as several of the male elves made overtures to escort her.

The young elf before her bowed deeply. “My lady,” he said, covering his heart with his hand. “Wife to Lord Celeborn, distant kin of my father. I am Amroth, son of Amdir. We heard rumor of strange men passing through our land, and I was sent to investigate. I am glad that we were able to assist you, though he is only one and the tale is of two.”

“The other is dead,” replied Galadriel. She held out her arm to Celebrían, drawing her to her side. “This is my daughter, Celebrían. We fought and killed the Man yesterday when he attacked us on the road west of the river.”

Amroth bowed to Celebrían. “It is good that one so beautiful is also skilled in arms.” He turned to the elves still standing near the dead man. “Return him to his raft and return the raft to the sea. Retrieve anything that might provide clues to his errand here.”

The body of the man was picked up and carried to the river, and several minutes later the elves returned bearing the packs and caskets that had been on the raft.

“Come, I will escort you to my father,” said Amroth.

By the time they reached King Amdir the next day, they had told Amroth of the Orcs they had killed, their fight with the Men, their passage through the Halls of the dwarves, and the army approaching Eregion. The elves of Lorinand welcomed them as honored guests, and they slept that night on comfortable couches high in the trees.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Galadriel was about to tell more of the Silvan elves and King Amdir's reaction to the news that war had again found them, but the restlessness of the audience forced her to stop.

“Naneth!” cried Elladan. “Why have we never heard this story? You killed orcs and killed a man? Swam the Celebrant River? Did you ever tell Daeradar?”

“No, they did not,” replied Celeborn dryly.

“By the time we saw you again, it was no longer important,” said Galadriel. “You had faced far worse than anything we had.”

“Naneth, you were much younger then than Elrohir and I are now,” continued Elladan.

“Yes, I was,” answered Celebrían. “I was scared, but I admit I was excited too. I am glad I was taught to fight, because I needed to then. But I would still protect my children if I could, as I am sure my parents would have preferred that I not face that danger.”

“Naneth, what dare did you lose to Narusel?” asked Arwen sleepily. She had crawled from her bed in the middle of the story to cuddle in Celebrían's arms.

“It is time young elleth were in bed asleep,” replied Celebrían, gracefully standing with Arwen in her arms. Her daughter was like a ragdoll in her arms, completely limp with exhaustion, and she snuggled against Celebrían without further argument.

Elrond went ahead of her, straightening Arwen's bedroll and helping settle his daughter back into sleep. They were silent, watching her for a moment.

“I was nearly undone by your story, Celebrían. I am trying to imagine Arwen being in danger or being far from me where I could not protect her,” he said quietly.

“We left my adar and the other warriors in grave danger. We did only our part, and our children will face what they must,” she answered resolutely. She felt his arm slip around her waist and she turned to embrace him.

“Are there any other secrets about you I should know, my wife?” he asked as he nuzzled her neck.

“Maybe,” she breathed into his ear. She teased him then, flicking her tongue over his ear, then trailing kisses down his cheek and claiming his mouth. She kissed him deeply, all the while her hands roamed the strong, broad planes of his back and hips, then said, “I think the story continues. Come.”

He groaned as she pulled him back out to the fire, and as they settled back to their seats, Celebrían nudged Elrohir slightly. “Are you awake, Elrohir?” she said, stroking his hair.

Elrohir's eyes focused on her and he leaned into her comforting hand. “Yes, Naneth. But I had the strangest dream. You and Daernaneth were fighting Orcs and Men, and you played with a dwarf child,” he answered drowsily.

“Hmm…well, truth can be stranger than dreams,” she teased. “Do you want to hear more or go to bed?”

“Hear more,” yawned Elrohir. “'Restor was scouting.”

All eyes turned expectantly to Erestor, who squeezed Elrohir's hand and began.

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

Chapter 21: War in Eregion Part III: Lindon to Eregion

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

“The messenger arrived in Lindon with the news of the approaching army late in the fall . . .” began Erestor, picking up the story where Celeborn and Galadriel had left off.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

“Elrond, Erestor, the king requests your immediate presence in the Hall,” said the page with a quick bow. The young elf barely waited for acknowledgment before dashing off.

Erestor looked at Elrond questioningly, but the half-elf only shrugged. They rose from their work, leaving the maps and scrolls spread out across the table, and Erestor followed Elrond down the long corridor to the Great Hall where Gil-galad held court.

The king's chief advisors were present, but the Hall was otherwise empty of spectators. Glorfindel stood near a worn and weary looking elf, but his eyes immediately swept over them as they entered, coming to rest on Elrond. Erestor could not help but smile to himself, for Elrond's protector had always struck him as a bit overprotective considering the safety in which they lived in Lindon.

Gil-galad was not on his throne, but this also was not unusual when spectators and petitioners were not present. He waved them over to a more intimate seating area, but remained standing himself.

“This is Barás,” Gil-galad introduced the elf who sat near Glorfindel. “He arrived a short time ago with messages from Celeborn in Eregion, but he is no ordinary messenger. Barás has spent recent years searching for Sauron and learning of his plans. Celeborn sent him as messenger so that we might have opportunity to learn of all he knew. His news is dire.”

With that, Gil-galad motioned for Barás to continue. The elf kept his gaze primarily on the king, straying only to Glorfindel and the other soldiers present as he spoke.

“My lord, a massive army was approaching Eregion from the south when I departed from Ost-in-Edhil,” said Barás. He slid his sketch of the encampment on to the table before them. Elrond reached for it immediately. “Celeborn was preparing to lead a sortie out against them when I left, in hopes of providing those wishing to escape the coming war the opportunity to do so. Many elves are coming to Lindon, and most will wish to leave Middle-earth.”

“How many?” asked Círdan.

As Erestor turned slightly to look to Círdan, he glanced at Elrond and thought his mentor had visibly paled. He barely heard the details of the expected numbers of elves coming to Lindon and how many would wish to sail, for Elrond pushed the drawing to him and he felt his own heart quail as he realized the size of the army Celeborn would be facing. They will be slaughtered , he realized. He lifted his gaze to meet Elrond's eyes and saw the same conclusion reflected there. On the corner of the page was a series of letters and numbers, and Erestor recognized it as Elrond's fine script listing the realms and the numbers of soldiers they could reasonably expect might come to the aid of the elves of Eregion. Below the drawing were Barás's estimations of the size of the approaching army. The total of the elves did not even compare to what Sauron had at his disposal.

“Círdan, clearly the arrangements for those who wish to sail rest with you. If you would also take responsibility for those who wish only to seek refuge in Lindon, I will turn my focus to the war,” said Gil-galad.

Erestor noted the discussions about how the refugees would be used to free up as many as could be sent to fight, tucking that knowledge away, but his mind was already focused on battle strategies. How could they best use their people and resources against an army so much greater in size? Would Celeborn even be able to hold out until help arrived?

“This group will be responsible for our military decisions,” said Gil-galad, interrupting Erestor's thoughts. Erestor suddenly realized that Círdan and many others had left, and only Gil-Galad, Elrond, Glorfindel, himself and a few other captains and advisors remained. “Celeborn's message indicates that he sent word to Moria and Lorinand, seeking aid, so we will hope that they will send it. We must consider what other allies might be willing to come to our aid, and quickly, for if these numbers are only half accurate, Ost-in-Edhil will not hold for long.”

“If I might lend voice to what seems a cowardly thought,” began Erilasta as he rose slowly to his feet, and Erestor gave the elf his full attention. A Noldo who had come from Valinor and stayed through the fall of Beleriand, Erilasta was, in Erestor's experience, both wise and thoughtful. “Perhaps the first question we should answer is why we should go to war against Sauron.”

Faces all around the table grew thoughtful, and Erestor forced himself to ask why indeed. The answer seemed obvious – Sauron was attacking their people, friends and kin, as well as subjects of the king.

“The obvious consequence of not fighting Sauron,” answered Glorfindel mildly, “is that Eregion will fall, then Eriador, and finally Lindon. We will meet our end with our backs to the sea, or we will flee over her waters to safety in elvenhome.”

“That may well occur even if we join in this fight,” replied Gil-galad gravely. He paused, turning to Erilasta again. “Which is perhaps your point. If the chance of victory does not exist, maybe we should seek only to flee these lands and leave Middle-earth to Sauron.” The room was silent. “Yet we have allies who can not flee to Valinor, and we would forsake them to slavery and death.”

“Sauron will not be content with enslaving only the Men of Middle-earth,” finished Elrond. “He fears Númenor and the presence they have created here. He hates them nearly as much as he hates the Eldar. Shadow will fall on Númenor in time.”

“What, then, is our responsibility to the Edain and to the lesser Men of Middle-earth?” asked Erilasta quietly.

“Our responsibility to them is as it has always been,” replied Gil-galad. “We stood together when Beleriand fell. We lived together here until Andor was prepared. Our responsibility to them is also their responsibility to us.” The king turned to Elrond. “How would those numbers appear if a mighty navy were to arrive on our coasts and rivers with aid?”

Elrond smiled. “In numbers we might yet be less, but in might we would be greater.”

Gil-galad turned to Erilasta, but his eyes grew distant as he spoke. “In Anardil Aldarion we had one of the greatest elf-friends among us in this age. His father Tar-Meneldur, with whom he was long at odds, surrendered the scepter to him for he knew he could not face the coming darkness. Tar-Aldarion was long sighted enough to see that the shadow growing to our east would eventually darken Númenor as well, and we signed great treaties with them in preparation for war. That war did not come in Aldarion's life. Thankfully it did not come during the reign of Tar-Ancalime, whose heart was turned from us.”

“But in Tar-Anarion, her son, you re-established the policies of his grandfather Tar-Aldarion,” added Erilasta, and none had to be reminded how grateful they were. “Tar-Surion treated with us and his ships came regularly.”

“Tar-Telperion, however, did not wish for outside contact for Númenor, nor care much about the voyages of her captains,” remembered Gil-Galad. “But she did correspond with me when needed and she maintained all trade policies.” The king was quiet for a moment. “In Tar-Minastir I have faith,” he finally said.

“In his son Ciryatan, I do not,” replied Erilasta, his voice soft yet resolute. All eyes turned to him, for it was seldom the advisor strongly expressed an opinion. He tended to direct conversations by asking questions, allowing others to draw conclusions, although Erestor never doubted for a moment that were those conclusions different from his own, the questions would continue. “He is greedy of wealth. His sailors tell tale that on his last voyages he demanded tributes and tariffs from coastal settlements, and used coercion to force the people to shelter and entertain his men.”

“Tar-Minastir will not demand spoils of war or land or dominion as condition to aid us,” said Elrond finally. “But he is estranged from Ciryatan in many affairs, and Ciryatan may well demand this of us or merely take what he asserts is his due.”

“Tar-Minastir looks ever westward, not east,” interrupted Erilasta. “His heart is good, but his mind elsewhere. We must reach him directly and not through Ciryatan if we hope to enlist his aid unencumbered.”

Gil-galad stood again. “Yet Celeborn cannot hold back this army for long. We must bring what aid we can now; I cannot wait.”

“Send aid now,” replied Erilasta. “Lindon's forces can be well eastward even as we negotiate with Tar-Minastir.”

The look on Gil-galad's face showed that hehad finally registered that Erilasta meant for him to not lead his army, but to send them ahead without him. The king glanced from his captains to Elrond and then Erestor, and Erestor knew they were being gauged.

“Celeborn cannot wait for us to gather our allies and come as one force, and we do need the aid of Númenor,” summed up Glorfindel succinctly.

“And you, my lord, need to negotiate with Númenor directly,” added Erilasta.

“Sending our army now could mean sending all to certain death,” said Gil-galad, his face reflecting his distress. “Yet not sending aid to Celeborn as quickly as possible could mean there is no one left to aid.”

Silence fell over the room as Gil-galad moved beyond their conference area to pace and think.

“Already it is late in the year,” began Erestor.“We will need to prepare for a journey through the winter and hope to arrive by early spring. If we set up a series of message points, we might be able to keep the king informed of the size and strength of our enemy and the progress of the war. Perhaps this could be done by ship, if there are any to spare.”

“The harvest is in and our soldiers equipped, but there are many we need to train, elves who have not fought before as well as those who will come to supply the soldiers with food and weapons,” interjected Glorfindel. “If we begin preparations immediately, it will still be months before we are ready to move.” He glanced at Erestor. “Spring is the earliest we might hope for. Summer may be more like it, depending on the spring rains.”

As Erestor, Glorfindel and the other advisors continued their planning, Erestor noted Glorfindel's gaze shifting from him to something behind him, and he realized that Elrond had also left the area. He turned slightly, even as he answered Glorfindel, to see Elrond standing in front of Gil-galad. Gil-galad's hand rested on Elrond's shoulder, and their gazes were locked as they spoke with deep emotion. Erestor fell quiet, as did Glorfindel, and he knew they both were listening to what was meant to be a private conversation.

“If I am unable to lead myself, there is no one I would send in my place other than you, Elrond. Yet to send you, who is like a son to me, to what seems certain death . . .. Yet if a king is unwilling to give that which is of the most value to him, how can he ask the same of his people?” asked Gil-galad, grief in his voice.

“I will go in your name, but my hope will remain with you, that you will garner the aid we need and follow as quickly as you might,” replied Elrond steadfastly.

Gil-galad bowed his head for a moment, then returned his gaze to Elrond. “So be it,” he murmured. Then he drew Elrond to him and Elrond bowed his head slightly as Gil-galad kissed him on the brow. “May the Valar guide and protect you, and the Star of your father light your path.”

All eyes watched the two return to their places, remaining silent until Gil-galad spoke.

“I will send Elrond to Eregion as a first force,” he announced. “I will send word to Tar-Minastir and negotiate the aid of Númenor, and join you as soon as we are able.”

The group was dismissed soon after, and Erestor watched as Glorfindel moved immediately to Elrond's side. There was no doubt that he would be serving as captain on the mission, but his role would always be to guard Elrond. Son of Eärendil, son of Idril, daughter of Turgon of Gondolin. But also distant nephew to Ereinion Gil-galad, and Celeborn and Galadriel of Eregion. An impressive lineage , thought Erestor, but more importantly, he is worthy of being followed. Elrond himself had trained him in his duties, and Elrond had seen to it that Erestor had every opportunity to learn and experience all that he wished. He had trained with the soldiers of Lindon, sailed on Círdan's ships, and explored with Elrond and others east and south to increase their information about the lands and people who lived there. Erestor had spent considerable time with Elrond, and Elrond's love of knowledge and lore had become his passion as well. An idea came into his head, and he walked swiftly forward to join the two.

“Elrond, I would like to work on a plan for scouting and mapping the way your army will follow, and setting up a message relay, if possible, to communicate with Gil-galad. I would also like to see if the rivers are navigable,” he said quickly, trying to suppress the eagerness in his voice.

Elrond's smile was genuine. “Of course, there is no one I would trust more than you to assist me,” he answered.

Erestor heard Glorfindel's grunt of amusement, and he felt a brief moment of anger as he turned his eyes on the warrior. His anger dissipated into confusion when Glorfindel's teasing eyes met his and he said, “Erestor's maps are some of the best we have. He has a keen eye for evaluating the terrain and determining what route to take.”

The three entered Elrond's office together, and Erestor took his normal seat, already putting ink to paper with ideas and lists.

“Erestor,” began Elrond, not continuing until Erestor gave him his full attention. “You are talented and have the skills needed to greatly assist in our preparations to go to war. However, you are also still young in some ways, and you have not seen war before. Many will die, possibly including all of us.”

Erestor nodded, waiting for Elrond to get to the point. A look of sadness crossed Elrond's face briefly. “Nothing can truly prepare you for what battle is like, Erestor. Boredom and tedium, mixed with bouts of frenzied killing. Friends will die, some painfully and slowly. Some who live will suffer, and the conditions will only make their suffering worse.” Elrond paused, and sighed. “Spend some time with your family before we leave. On this, I insist.”

Erestor felt a heavy weight settle about him at Elrond's final words, as he realized that he might not return to see his parents or sister again. He finally nodded at Elrond, who was waiting for some acknowledgement that he had understood him. “Then let us begin,” continued Elrond soberly.

* * *

Erestor stood on the steps of the palace, looking out over the wide terrace and courtyard at the spectacle before him. He had not seen this many elflings and female elves in one place in all his days, and the laughter of the children as they played contrasted with the solemn soldiers who were laying out provisions in the adjacent field in preparation to go to war. There was music and laughter about the fountain area, where most of the children were, but when Erestor looked closely he could see the weariness and sadness in their faces. Some families were intact, with fathers choosing to sail with their wives and children, but most had left behind a father, brother, husband or son to an uncertain future.

The arrival of the refugees had been well planned for by Círdan's assistants, arranging for those with kin in Lindon to join them and sending those without kin to appropriate shelters. Some shelters were staging grounds to the ships; others provided more permanent housing for those who planned to stay or as yet had not made up their minds.

As Erestor made his way down the stairs and skirted the fountain area, he saw an elf standing on the library steps, tears streaming down his face as he looked out over the children playing. In his hands he held a sword, sheathed in an old leather scabbard. The runes upon it placed its origins in Gondolin. Erestor would have passed him by, leaving him alone with his contemplative grief, but the elf's eyes followed him. He was nearly past him when the elf spoke.

“When does the army depart?” he asked hoarsely.

Erestor turned and walked back to the elf before replying. The elf was young, much younger than Erestor even, and his hands were shaking.

“Two weeks time,” he answered, reaching out and covering the elf's hand with his own. The elf clutched at his hand, nearly dropping the sword.

“Will they take me?” he asked hesitantly.

Erestor smiled. “They will take you. You look as if you have just arrived, though.”

Tears welled in the elf's eyes again. “I have,” he replied, his gaze again shifting to the playing children. “Those are my sons; the older is yet a decade from his majority and the younger only ten summers.”

Erestor say the two young elves wave to them, and the elf beside him waved back.

“My father and brothers are in Eregion, but they convinced me to leave for the sake of my children. So I have come, and we prepare to sail. But now that I am here I cannot abandon my kin to face the might of Sauron alone. I must tell my sons they must take their mother to safety – most of her family is there and they will be welcomed and cared for – but I must return to Eregion.” The elf's voice was nearly a whisper by the time he finished.

Erestor felt conflict warring within his own heart. He looked out upon the faces of the children and at the anguish in the elf's face, and thought of the choice he was making. Even if the war turned to their favor, he would face years of separation from his young sons. The greater probability was that he would die under an orc's blade, and the next time he would see his sons would be at his re-embodiment far in the future. Yet, they needed every soldier who could wield a sword or bow. Erestor had never felt more inadequate to advise anyone than he did at that moment.

The elf drew in a deep ragged breath and squared his shoulders. He walked down one step toward his family, then turned to Erestor. “I will see you on the field of battle, my friend.” With that, he walked down the stairs to his sons.

Erestor watched him for but a few moments, for he did not wish to see the heartbreak soon to appear on the faces of the sons when they realized they would be parted from their father. As he looked out at the other males mixed in the crowd, he wondered how many others he would see in Eregion as well.

Erestor's scouts and messengers were waiting for him near the city gates with horses and provisions ready. He had been surprised at how willingly Glorfindel had worked with him, ensuring that he had experienced scouts and messengers to assist him. Both Elrond and Glorfindel were waiting at the gate as well.

“Gil-galad could not come himself to bid you fare well,” said Elrond. “A ship arrived this morning from Númenor, and he is meeting with the delegation.”

Erestor nodded; he had seen the sails as the ship entered the havens at Mithlond.

“Go with the wishes of all of Lindon and the favor of the High King. May the Valar protect and guide you,” said Elrond, then he folded Erestor into his arms and embraced him. “We will not be far behind.”

Glorfindel grasped his arm in a warrior's handshake, and then Erestor mounted. Without a look back, he led his party out the gates and to war.

* * *

Erestor climbed to the highest branch that would support his weight and looked out over the river and plains that lay before him. The wind drifted from the southwest and though he knew it could not be possible at this great distance, he almost felt as if he could hear the sounds of battle and smell blood in the air. Dark mud coated his boots, and he was suddenly grateful for it, as he recalled the dreams he had had of blood mixing with soil and clinging to him, a reddish brown mud with a tangy smell. Pulling his map from an oilskin pouch tucked into the top of his tall boots, he opened it, positioning it properly for what he was seeing. Their army had fallen further and further behind the scouting party, hindered by mud and rain and, on several occasions, by blowing snow. Erestor was farther ahead than intended, but his message system was working well, with riders and horses stationed now every 30 leagues back to Lindon. Though he was guiding their path around the worst of the natural obstacles, mudslides and lowland flooding, the journey was still slow. A whistle caught his attention, and he looked down to see that a messenger had arrived.

“The supply wagons are unable to cross the marsh here,” said the elf, pointing to a spot on Erestor's map, a spot some distance away from the lines Erestor had marked.

“What are the doing trying to cross there!” exclaimed Erestor angrily. “I said that would bog down the wagons, that it was not passable!”

“Yes, Erestor. Elrond sends word that your recommendations will not be disregarded in the future,” replied the elf calmly, holding the note out for Erestor to take.

Erestor grabbed the note, crinkling the parchment, and read through the short missive. “He says that they were already further east when they received the report, and that some of those who had escaped Eregion before the war had indicated this way was open,” he snorted. “I am sure it was open last fall when they went through!” He folded the note and stuffed it into his pouch, then turned his eyes back on the road yet before them. Finding a way through the muddy bogs and marshes would be their next project. He had gone far enough ahead to know it would be a tedious segment, but once through they would come to the crossing of the Hoarwell, east of Ost-in-Edhil. Erestor felt his heart quicken in anticipation. He would catalogue the movements of the enemy's troops, and Celeborn's, assuming any yet lived, and a feral desire to surprise the enemy and decimate them rose in him.

“I smell blood,” said the elf softly. “I almost think I hear the noise of battle as well.”

.

Erestor turned sharply at that comment, and the elf looked at him in surprise. “I had just been thinking the same thing,” he replied. An indescribable fear filled him. Could Sauron's forces have crossed the rivers into Eriador?

They quickly regrouped, and Erestor sent two scouts to the north and east while he and an older scout, Maecheneb, explored further south and east. “Be on your guard,” he warned them. “We do not have the strength to take on even a small war party.”

Abandoning their horses in favor of stealth, Erestor and Maecheneb moved to the southeast. They had traveled for several hours when Erestor heard the elf sniff, and he realized that the smell of blood was growing stronger. The acrid smell of smoke soon followed, and moments later the most sickening smell he had ever experienced surrounded him. Then cries and screams were heard along with sounds of destruction and plunder. Hidden in a copse of trees, Erestor looked out at the small farming community before him. There were four houses and a common barn, and beyond them spread out the fields they farmed. Maecheneb dropped to his knees in despair at what was before them. The buildings were ablaze; in one Erestor could see a woman holding a child near the window as flames consumed the house around her, orcs mocking her until she fell to the flames.

Outside of the burning houses, worse atrocities had occurred and were still occurring. Erestor watched in paralyzed fear, unable to stop the several dozen orcs who finally finished off the remaining woman and her children. He could see two bodies of dead men, but more horrible were the two fathers who were forced to watch as their families were slaughtered before them.

Erestor gagged as he realized the orcs intended on torturing the last two men to slow death, and without conscious thought he reached for the bow and arrows strapped to his back. It was not until his arm was twisted painfully that he realized that Maecheneb was restraining him from action. I cannot watch this , he thought in despair. I cannot stop them . He glanced around wildly, seeking some way to force the orcs to finish and move on. The men would die, he could not stop that. There has to be some way to end their misery! One of the men screamed in agony, and Erestor stopped his ears as tears streamed down his face.

Something clawing at his trouser leg finally broke through his panic, and he realized Maecheneb was crawling forward through the tall winter grass toward the homesteads. Erestor dropped to his belly, moving silently alongside the elf. Maecheneb hesitated though, as they grew closer, uncertainty in his eyes. Erestor forced himself to calm, grateful that the tall grass prevented him from seeing what was happening. Heat was pressing upon them from the burning structure as they neared it, and he realized that the orcs tormenting the men were also close to it. He tapped Maecheneb on the shoulder and motioned to the structure. Communicating his intentions in pantomime, he crept behind the building with Maecheneb close behind him. The orcs' own noise and the cries of the men covered the sound of them wrenching free a plank. Pressing it against the main support of the building, they both pushed with all their might. A mighty crack was heard as the beam gave way, and the house began collapsing forward under their force. They pushed until they could reach no further without falling into the fire themselves.

The sound of the orcs' frenzy increased, several screaming as burning timbers landed on them, and the screams of the men were silenced abruptly. Erestor and Maecheneb dropped back into the grass, scurrying back to their cover in the copse of trees. Erestor watched in grim horror as the orcs fought among themselves, blaming one another for the falling building. A captain suddenly broke up the fight, his words lost in the crackling of the wood as the houses began collapsing behind them.

“Come,” whispered Maecheneb. “They are all dead.”

Erestor turned to look one more time, but Maecheneb grasped his hand and pulled him away. “We will not watch any more,” he hissed.

Erestor finally vomited as the reality of what would happen next occurred to him.

They ran swiftly back to their base camp, stopping only to cleanse their burnt hands and arms in the cold waters of a stream. They applied a burn salve and bandages to each other, then they continued on their way.

It was nightfall when they reached their camp; the two scouts who had journeyed north had returned as well.

“We found a burnt out farm and human bones in the fire pit before it,” the scout reported. “They were at least a day old.”

Erestor allowed Maecheneb to report their story to the others as he penned a message to be delivered to Elrond. He limited the details to what was important. Sauron has invaded Eriador . The messenger left immediately.

Erestor slept little that night, but the pain in his hand was only a small reminder of the horror he had witnessed. The looks of terror, fear and pain on the faces of the humans as they died were forever etched in his mind.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Erestor's gaze fell on the twins as he finished his story. Elladan stared at Erestor in shock. Elrohir was still holding tightly to Erestor's hand, his eyes slightly glazed from the medicine his father had given him, and he kept looking from his mother to Erestor, as if he wished to speak, but could not.

“Elrohir?” asked Elrond, concern in his voice as he moved across the circle to his son.

Erestor looked compassionately at Elrohir. “You fear that the orcs your mother fought would have done to her what I saw done to those families,” he stated quietly.

Elrohir finally nodded, and Erestor felt the young elf's abdominal muscles tighten against his side where Elrohir leaned against him and knew what was to come. He quickly turned so Elrohir was leaning over his leg, facing away from everyone, and Elrond held his son's hair back as he retched.

Erestor wrapped strong arms about the now-limp body in his lap, allowing Elrohir to recover. Tears splashed on to his forearm, and Erestor felt an overwhelming compassion for the young elf. Memories of other young elves near the age of the twins came to mind, and he thought of how many of them he had watched die, and how many he had held until they answered Mandos's call. He looked suddenly at his own hands, and thought of all the tears and blood that had fallen upon them.

“Sorry,” mumbled Elrohir.

Celebrían appeared with a cool cloth, which she dabbed gently at her son's sweaty, grey face. Elrond handed her a cup of water, and she held it Elrohir's lips. He sighed with relief as the cool liquid slipped down his throat. Minutes later, however, that too was ejected from his stomach.

“The medication I gave him has upset his digestion,” said Elrond quietly. “He had tolerated it well before this.”

Erestor frowned. “I think my story has upset him as well.”

Elrohir drew in a deep shuddering breath. “I am not upset,” he managed to say as another fine sheen of sweat broke out on his face, replacing the one his mother had just wiped away.

“Elrohir, does your leg hurt?” asked Elrond.

Elrohir's eyes were closed, but he opened them to look his father in the eye. “Yes, Adar,” he finally answered. His eyes closed again as his hands grabbed at what was around him, as if a wave of dizziness had swept over him.

“Hold on, Elrohir, I am going to pick you up,” said Erestor softly. Then, as gently as possible so as not to throw Elrohir's equilibrium off even more, he lifted him and carried him to his mattress. The motion was too much for the young elf, however, and he retched dryly, as there was nothing left to bring up from his stomach.

Erestor stepped aside as Elrond and Celebrían tended their son, wrapping their fëar around his, strengthening him and then pushing him into sleep. Though it was now late and dark, Elrond was contemplating the cast speculatively.

“You want to remove it and see if more damage was done,” said Erestor. “Best do it while he is resting and unable to argue.”

A slight smile came to Elrond's face and he laughed lightly. “Yes, you are right. And you know, we never did disregard your instruction after that incident.”

“I should hope not,” replied Erestor. “That delay cost you what, a week and several wagon wheels?”

Elrond smiled grimly. “Something like that.” He turned as Celeborn appeared with his casting tools, and began the process of removing the cast. “I was concerned for you, Erestor, for what you would see.”

“I knew that from the start, but I do not believe you could have said anything to prepare me for what I saw. Maecheneb had fought in the War of Wrath, and he was nearly as distraught as I was,” replied Erestor. He looked down at Elrohir, stroking his hair back. “Is it too much to hope that your children will never witness what we have?”

“We can always hope, but Sauron is not destroyed,” replied Elrond as he carefully worked a sharp blade through the layers of plaster. “Elladan and Elrohir are older now than many who fought in Eregion; older than many who were at Dagorlad. But I am grateful they are only hearing our stories rather than living their own.”

The cast separated the rest of the way, and Elrond carefully peeled it away from the injured leg. A sigh escaped him, and Erestor recognized it as one of frustration immediately. He leaned forward to view the injured limb, the bruising, irritation and infection grossly obvious.

“The cast was wet inside,” said Elrond flatly. “And that fall was enough to re-injure the leg, though it is not broken.”

All were silent as Elrond sat with his head bowed for a moment. Celebrían knelt behind him, wrapping her arms about his shoulders and holding him. He finally drew in a deep cleansing breath, and Celebrían released him as he set to cleaning the wound. He slightly twisted the leg and Elrohir moaned in his sleep, unconsciously trying to move away from the pain. Erestor saw the tears that Elrond blinked away, and it was easy to see his frustration and guilt.

Elladan appeared, settling next to and wrapping himself around his twin. He concentrated on Elrohir, pouring himself through the bond they shared, willing Elrohir's pain on to himself as their father cleaned, packed, bandaged and splinted the leg.

“No cast?” asked Erestor.

Elrond nodded. “Not yet. That wound must be allowed to breathe and dry naturally, or the infection will grow. Hopefully, we will be able to make a cast over the splint, one that will allow the wound to heal better. It will be heavier and bulkier, but if it is possible to do, I think it will be better. Regardless, he will not be happy when he wakes.”

“Erestor's words deeply affected him,” interjected Elladan. “Elrohir will not complain over his situation.”

“No, he will not,” murmured Elrond in agreement. “He has not complained thus far. I wish, though, that there was more I could do for him.”

Erestor was about to comment when he noticed Elrond fingering his tunic, a slight outline of a pouch visible beneath the fabric.

“Elrohir will recover; it is only a matter of time,” said Celeborn firmly. Erestor turned to him, and found the elf's gaze focused intensely on Elrond. Under his scrutiny, Elrond's hand immediately dropped to his side.

“Of course,” replied Elrond. He rose to his feet, his movements a little stiff.

Elrond and Celebrían retired to their tent, and the camp quieted until only a low singing by those seated around the fire could be heard. Erestor looked down at the twins, and realized that Elladan had already drifted into sleep with Elrohir still in his arms. Content that Elrohir was well in hand, he chose a spot to sit away from the others, where he might reflect on the memories kindled by the telling of his tale. From his position, he could also keep a watch over Elrohir.

He was deep in thought, considering his own life in Lindon, the advantage he had of centuries of tutelage by Elrond and Gil-Galad, Glorfindel and others. He had been experienced in many things in life, but innocent in the ways of war, when he left for Eregion. He had certainly done what was expected of him, more importantly, he had done whatever needed to be done. In his own mind, he was as much Elrond's protector as Glorfindel was, though in different ways. Nonetheless, he could not protect his lord from frustration, fear and guilt over his son's injury. Yet he did not know what more could be done for the young elf. Patience and time seemed the only remedy, and they certainly had plenty of both to share with Elrohir until he healed.

A light glow in the moonlight caught his attention, and he focused his eyes on the shining form bending over Elladan and Elrohir. Galadriel . He had not known her well prior to Elrond's marriage to Celebrían, but the story she and Celebrían had told earlier in the evening had spoken volumes of her fearlessness. Fearless, unless it involved her child, I think . He watched as she rested her hands on Elrohir, one hand on his head and the other on his broken leg. To his wonder, the glow grew brighter and brighter as Galadriel deepened her concentration on her grandson, the light seemingly emanating from where her hand touched his leg. The light finally faded, and Galadriel sat back on her heels as she studied the young elves thoughtfully. She reached out, caressing Elrohir's face gently; then she rose and returned to her tent.

Erestor grew aware of two others that had also watched, as Celeborn materialized briefly from the darkness before disappearing into the woods and Glorfindel followed a few moments later. Intrigued and concerned, he decided he would perhaps keep watch the whole night.

* * *

Elrohir woke feeling strangely refreshed. The throbbing in his leg and head, the dizziness and nausea all seem to have left in the night. He recalled his parents pushing him into sleep and nothing after that. He shifted slightly, recognizing the always comforting presence of his twin next to him. He blew lightly at Elladan, until his twin's eyes focused gravely upon him.

“How are you, Elrohir?” asked Elladan, his free hand immediately touching Elrohir's face, performing his own little examination.

“Wonderful. What is for breakfast?” laughed Elrohir. He tried to shrug Elladan off so he could sit up, but Elladan held fast to him.

“Wait, Adar had to remove your cast. Your leg looked terrible again,” he said apologetically.

With Elladan's assistance, Elrohir sat up and leaned forward to inspect what of his leg he could see. “Nothing hurts and what I can see looks fine,” he replied.

Elladan crawled down the bed, carefully peeling away some of the bandages to see for himself. He looked at Elrohir in amazement, then began to swiftly remove the bandages until just the splint remained. Sitting back on his heels, he looked at Elrohir in disbelief. “The wound is healed.” He shook his head. “Do not move,” he warned his twin.

Elrohir sat still, but could not help but run his fingers over the healed place where the bone had originally punctured through the skin. Elladan returned quickly with their father, who had not yet even brushed his hair. Elrond brushed his son's fingers aside as he examined the area thoroughly, appearing stunned, then he ran his hand over his side, as if seeking something. Finally, he stood.

Elrohir watched in confusion as his father looked around the camp, appearing equally confused. Soon his mother appeared, then Arwen, and soon it seemed everyone in camp had come to inspect his leg.

“Elrohir!” said his father sharply, as Elrohir tried to rise. “The wound is healed, but I am less convinced of the bone. I am still going to cast it this morning.”

“Yes, Adar,” replied Elrohir, confused at his father's tone.

Erestor had watched the scene unfold, inspected the healed leg himself, and now stood back to watch how events would fall out. He did not know what Galadriel had done, or how, or indeed if she was who had done it for sure. She appeared last, gliding serenely to her grandson and kissing him in greeting, before looking over the healed wound.

“I am glad for you, Elrohir,” she said as she caressed his cheek tenderly. “I hope the rest of the trip home is more comfortable for your now.”

“Adar says I still must have a cast,” said Elrohir, “but it does seem to be healed otherwise.”

“A cast is still wise,” agreed Galadriel. She stood, meeting Elrond's gaze solemnly, then took Arwen by the hand and led her away to breakfast.

Erestor catalogued the looks on each face carefully. Elrond was intrigued, Celeborn resigned and Glorfindel appeared somewhat sad. He smiled, though, when he looked at Elrohir, who was nothing short of ecstatic.

This knowledge he would tuck away, for something was happening, and in time it would be made clear.

* * * * *

Chapter 22: War in Eregion Part IV: The Fall of Eregion

Elrond rode behind the wagon bearing his children, but his thoughts were far from the pleasant ride he was having with Alagos. Instead, visions of Elrohir replayed in his mind. His son had smiled and laughed throughout the casting procedure, a sharp contrast to the drawn and pale face that Elrond had carefully watched for days for signs that the pain was too much. The cast would take several hours to set properly, but Elrohir had grinned at that news and let himself be carried by his twin and Glorfindel to the wagon, where he had stretched out in the sun like a long lean cat. Even now Elrond could hear Arwen's giggles as she wove blue ribbons into Elrohir's hair as she braided it, and Elrohir's voice teasing and playing along with her.

Fingering the pouch against his side unconsciously, Elrond forced his hand back to his thigh when he realized what he was doing. His gaze drifted ahead, beyond the wagon, to where Galadriel rode next to Celebrían. Galadriel had not said a word, but he knew that she had wielded Nenya to aid Elrohir. He lightly pressed his forearm against his side, the hard band of metal easily felt against his ribs through the pouch. His wonder increased as he felt a slight thrumming vibrate into his flesh. The ring seemed to have come alive, as if it sensed that its companion had been put to use.

He could not help but wonder if he would have been able to wield Vilya to Elrohir's benefit as Galadriel had used Nenya. Vilya seemed to vibrate slightly faster, as if in reaction to his thoughts. He felt his heartbeat quicken. Could the Three be awakening, telling their bearers the time was now ripe to begin to use them? He wondered if Círdan could sense Narya? Would Círdan wield Narya?

Elrond closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax, and allowed Alagos to keep the pace and path. The horse seemed to sense his relaxation and whinnied softly in response. Elrond unconsciously stroked the sleek neck even as he forced his thoughts to still and his mind to clear itself of the many questions that were battling for his attention. Deep in mediation, he finally became aware of the breaths of another horse mingling with those of Alagos and opened his eyes to find thoughtful blue eyes gazing steadily at him. Glancing ahead, he realized that the rest of the party was now far ahead, including the rear guard.

“Alagos, you were to keep pace, not meander off on your own,” he scolded the stallion.

Glorfindel laughed. “Alagos did exactly as he was asked.”

Elrond arched a brow at the warrior, but Glorfindel ignored the censure. Elrond could hardly blame him; he had drifted long in meditation and Alagos had responded to the request of one he respected. Glorfindel did not quicken their pace, however.

“Speak, if that is what you came to do,” said Elrond finally, flinching himself at the slightly harsh tone that he had not intended to use.

“My only intention, my lord, was to keep you from falling from your horse,” answered Glorfindel deftly, his tone entirely respectful.

Before Elrond could respond, he felt Vilya move at his side and without thought he slid his hand over it. He felt its presence, and was again in wonder over the ring's power. Suddenly remembering Glorfindel's presence, he jerked his head up to look his protector in the face. Surprise filled him at the sadness he saw reflected in the depths of the clear blue eyes. He turned away, both hands clenching into fists as conflicting emotions warred within him.

A warm hand covered his own, and he gripped it like a lifeline. “The ring seems to have come alive,” he admitted. He drew Glorfindel's hand to his side, covering the small pouch. Vilya's vibrations slowed, and then grew silent. “Did you feel it?” he asked hoarsely.

Glorfindel nodded and removed his hand from beneath Elrond's, then pressed Elrond's hand against his side and waited with a contemplative look. Elrond was about to speak when he felt Vilya again begin to sing. Wonder filled him, though it was now tinged by fear.

“Vilya is communicating to whom it belongs,” said Glorfindel, amused. Suddenly, his countenance darkened. “Or rather, who belongs to it.”

“The Three are not evil,” replied Elrond softly. “It does not own me, nor do I own it.”

Sadness again filled Glorfindel's eyes. “Things we value too highly can come to own us. Do not let it became of more worth in your eyes than it should.”

Elrond opened his mouth to speak, words of defense on his tongue to remind Glorfindel that he had not yet wielded the ring, that when he did, the benefits would be for all, but he suddenly recalled himself and his brother questioning Gil-galad and Círdan about the Silmarils and the choice their mother had made, and he closed his mouth abruptly. Glorfindel had seen the darkening of Valinor, the flight of the Noldor, and the fall of Gondolin, all driven by lust for the Silmarils. He knew of what he spoke. “Remind me as often as you see need,” he said instead.

Glorfindel took his hand again and squeezed it firmly, communicating without words his commitment to Elrond. They picked up the pace slightly, and as Alagos trotted along Elrond turned his thought to Vilya. He directed his will to it, commanding silence until he was ready to explore the ring's power more thoroughly. To his continued wonder, Vilya complied.

“Ada!” His daughter's squeal interrupted his thoughts.

Elrond saw Arwen's head pop up from the wagon, then abruptly disappear a moment later. Her giggles could be heard mixed with Elrohir's laughter, and then she reappeared, gripping the wagon gate tightly.

“Save me, Ada!” she cried in mock fear.

Elrond began to laugh as he beheld the state of his two children. Arwen's hair was wound into dozens of tiny braids, which were then woven together in strange shapes around and over her head and tied off with ribbons of many colors. His son, on the other hand, was decorated all in blue. One braid was hanging down over his nose, while others stuck out at odd intervals all around him. Elrond watched as Arwen was dragged down on to the bed in the wagon again, shrieks and giggles following as her brother tormented her with tickles.

Elrond nudged Alagos to a trot, slowing as he drew up next to the wagon. Arwen had gained, or been allowed to gain, the upper hand and was currently sitting astride her brother as she tickled him along his sides and up under his arms. Elrohir finally wrapped his arms about her, pulling her against his chest, and blew a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek. Arwen twisted and squealed one last time, before giving in to the strong arms holding her tightly and relaxing against Elrohir.

“Look, Ada,” said Arwen, sitting up and smoothing her hair upwards. “Elrohir made a hat out of my hair!”

“And a lovely hat it is,” complimented Elrond.

“Elrohir could make one for you, Ada,” said Arwen slyly.

Glorfindel laughed, and Elrond quickly interrupted before the warrior could encourage such a plan. “I would not be nearly so beautiful as you, my daughter,” he answered, biting his lip so as not to laugh at the complete disarray of hair that was wrapped about Arwen's head.

“Oh, Ada,” said Arwen, an exasperated sigh escaping her. “You are so silly! This is not beautiful; it is a disaster! We were seeing who could make the worst hair style!” She grinned at Elrohir. “Elrohir definitely won, proving he is very bad with hair!”

“That is why I have to do his hair for him,” Elladan informed them as he rode up. “His braids are always crooked otherwise.”

Arwen giggled as she tugged on Elrohir's braids, then pulled his hair forward to cover his face. Elrond watched as Elrohir's fingers snaked up his daughter's sides, making her squirm and giggle, before he finally shook his head, sending his braids and loose hair flying back over his shoulders. His son's smiling face turned to him, then, and Elrond looked into the bright, clear eyes that held no pain. He felt tears prickle at his own eyes, saw the immediate concern in Elrohir's as he noticed, and smiled reassuringly. The wagon came to a halt as the party stopped for dinner and rest, and Elrond dismounted to help Arwen and Elrohir from the back. Arwen blew a sloppy, wet kiss against his cheek, much as Elrohir had done to her, and then slid from his arms to race forward to surprise her mother and grandmother with her new look. Elrond watched her strike a pose before Celebrían and Galadriel that made all three of them laugh, and then she spun in a circle, bobbing her head and making the ribbons fly. He shook his head and smiled, then turned to Elrohir. Extending his hand to help pull Elrohir from the wagon, he felt the peace and calm about his son as their hands clasped, and he pulled Elrohir into an embrace.

“You look wonderful, Elrohir,” he said, then lifted a braid, “the hair notwithstanding. My heart is filled with joy at seeing you without pain.”

Elrohir laughed as he tossed his crooked and disheveled braids, but hugged his father back. “What caused the healing, Adar?”

Elrond smiled. “I am not entirely sure, Elrohir, but I am grateful regardless.” Elrohir looked at him curiously, but did not push the matter. Elrond waited until Elrohir steadied himself on the crutches Glorfindel handed him, and then watched as his son moved away, his normal grace restored.

“Your sons are not aware that two of the Three are present on this trip,” stated Glorfindel softly.

“They are not,” replied Elrond. “They are not aware of them at all. For now, I prefer they not have this knowledge.”

Glorfindel nodded. “Such knowledge in anyone close to you could lead them to harm.”

Elrond digested that thought carefully, as the remembrance surfaced in his mind of how ages before a Silmaril endangered him and Elros and separated them from their parents. Celebrimbor's rings had been wrought for good, but Sauron had turned the craft towards an evil end, as the Doom of the Valar had foretold

“The Curse of the Noldor and the Doom of the Valar will exist as long as there are elves in Middle-earth,” said Glorfindel quietly, easily reading Elrond's thoughts, which the half-elf seldom hid from him. “I quailed as a child beneath the cutting words of the doomsman of the Valar. I knew my parents were afraid, but they were loyal to Turgon son of Fingolfin, and where he led, they followed. When Gondolin fell and the King died, and my father and so many of my friends and fellow warriors , those words that were imprinted in my mind played over and over again: slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief . All of our work, all of our care to protect our people, had been for naught. We were cursed, and all we built was cursed.”

Elrond was silent for a long moment as he stood next to this powerful, re-embodied warrior of the first age. Glorfindel had heard the Doom of the Valar spoken, had seen it come to fruition, and yet had returned to the cursed, fading and weary elves of Middle-earth. Elrond thought of why Celebrimbor had made the rings: to aid in understanding, making and healing, and preserving things unstained. Had his motivations truly been to counter the Curse? Could understanding, making, healing and preserving be turned to evil? Or would these things merely contribute to the final words spoken in their doom, increasing their weariness of life in Middle-earth? He heard the laughter of his children, and as often happened, felt his weariness evaporate, at least for the moment. Under the curse they might live, but Middle-earth was the only home they knew.

“Yet you came back,” he answered as his thoughts returned to the one at his side.

“I am here,” agreed Glorfindel with a merry laugh.

Elrond turned to meet the bright eyes and joyful face, and thought again about the light of Valinor that shone from Glorfindel like a beacon. That Glorfindel was in Middle-earth was proof enough, should he need such a thing, that while the elves who endured here did grow weary with time, they were not forgotten.

Elladan and Garthon appeared to take their horses, and Elrond and Glorfindel made their way into the camp where Cook's voice could be heard singing an amusing song he was clearly making up as he went along. Elrohir, Arwen and their hair were the focus of his verse, and the two were laughing, tears running down their faces, as Celebrían and Galadriel attempted to undo the damage they had done to each other. Elrond could hear Celebrían's giggles, and even Galadriel's laughter could be heard on occasion.

Erestor sat apart from them, a smile tugging his lips as he watched them, but his eyes were far away. As Elrond sat down next to his chief advisor, he followed Erestor's gaze to the bluff beyond them and knew immediately where his thoughts were.

“The land has changed much, but enough natural markers remain to remind us of those days,” said Elrond softly.

“When I learned you had destroyed that band of orcs, I wept with gratitude, knowing they could not harm again. The next day, though, we came upon the still smoldering remains of another farm. I understood then what the rest of you had learned far earlier about war, how the joy of one victory would fade quickly, because there were so many battles that had to be fought and won to win the war,” replied Erestor. “I grew to dread the thought of coming upon another village or farm, for I feared what I might find.”

The two fell quiet, watching as Elrohir's and Arwen's hair was untangled and brushed until the two dark blue-black manes shone in the sun. They were completely relaxed, their eyes drifted half closed and Elrond smiled as he saw Arwen sway and gently slump against her grandmother as sleep overtook her. With the pure innocence of childhood, she napped in Galadriel's arms until gently awakened to have her dinner.

“Erestor,” said Elrohir, when they had finished eating, “will you continue your story?”

Erestor smiled sadly. “I will, although your Adar and Daeradar and Glorfindel may have much to add.” His eyes seemed to unfocus slightly as he remembered the past, and he began, “While already shocked by realizing the war had advanced into Eriador, we finally located Celeborn's army and learned how dire their circumstance had become…”

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Erestor moved silently along the ridge, the shadows of the trees providing cover for his trek along enemy lines. Sauron's forces were attempting to reach Ost-in-Edhil by dividing Celeborn's troops, which were spread between the hills to the south of the city and the bridge on the river to her west. As a tactical move, Erestor could see the benefit, for Sauron could then surround the two smaller units and drive between them to sack the city. The River Glanduin would be an easy foe for Sauron to defeat once he had Celeborn in hand.

The difference in the size of the armies was terrifying. How Celeborn had held out this long was a tale that Erestor knew would be told for centuries to come, for the overwhelming odds and his sheer will to hold them off were awe inspiring. Fear twisted his insides, though, as he realized that this appeared to be the final stand. Elrond would need to arrive within just a few days if they were to save the city.

As dusk fell, he watched how the Men in Sauron's service withdrew from the fighting, returning to the rear of the battle and their encampment, where they would rest for the night. Ranks of orcs passed them in the opposite direction, taking up position against the weary elves who were forced to battle day and night, weakening their numbers even further. Quickly diagramming the positions of the city, Eregion's army and the enemy, Erestor gave his dispatch to Maecheneb, who would cross back over the river and give it to the messenger, who would pass it on to Elrond.

“Be careful, Erestor,” warned Maecheneb.

Erestor clasped forearms with his fellow scout, the familiar warning and the paternal tone not unwelcome. Although his job as scout was clearly defined, his nature could not easily allow him to watch someone die without attempting to render aid. His training and Maecheneb's words were well-ingrained now, though Erestor wondered if he survived this war if he would face consequences for having hardened his heart so much and for so long.

“I want to assess the strength of Celeborn's army and, if possible, get word to him that reinforcements are to arrive soon.” He gazed toward the encampment of the elves. With their backs to the blockaded city and the enemy attempting to squeeze through them and encircle them, the ways to reach Celeborn were limited.

“Through the marsh, the Swanfleet they call it, and then up the river,” replied Maecheneb simply as he departed.

Turning to the marsh, Erestor retreated back down the ridge. Even his light step was sucked into the muck that lay beneath the water, and he had to put forth all his effort to maintain the pace he needed to reach Celeborn in time. It took him well into the night to traverse the swamp and river he was forced to use for cover.

The small tent city that was Celeborn's encampment was quiet, with the warriors who had returned from the front lines of battle sleeping, some in tents and some on bedrolls around the fire. The entire camp was muddy and damp, and the few elves moving about were gaunt and weary appearing. Two tents were lit, and Erestor quickly surmised that the larger was for the treatment of the wounded. He was about to step from the shadows and walk to the smaller, which he had determined held Celeborn, his captains and advisors, when he realized he did not carry any symbol or crest indicating he came in King Gil-galad's name; he had brought nothing with him but a belt of necessities from his own camp. Deciding that the elves would know he came as an ally, he determined not to rouse the camp and instead slipped quietly between tents to Celeborn's.

A guard stood at the entrance. Erestor waited patiently as another guard approached him and they spoke in soft voices. At the moment both were occupied and looking elsewhere, he slipped behind them and entered the tent.

A few cots lined one side of the tent, while tables spread with maps and empty dishes took up much of the rest of the space. He quickly determined which elf was Celeborn, though he had not known him personally while in Lindon, for Celeborn and Galadriel had left with the Noldor jewel-smiths when Erestor was very young. But, if not for his silver hair, Erestor doubted he would have recognized Celeborn at all.

The leader of this army was shirtless, his arm bound to his chest by a bandage that had once been clean, but was now soiled with blood and mud. The glorious silver mane that Erestor did remember was dull and lifeless, braided away from the elf's face, but with loose strands clinging to his neck and shoulders. He sat on a bench with a map spread out before him, two of his captains at his side.

“They are wise to our strategy of attack,” said one captain wearily. “It will not work again, and we stand to lose some of our best remaining soldiers if we try.”

“It did buy us time, though, as has the rain,” replied the other. “But I fear that I have no more ideas, we have tried them all. We need to send word to those in the city that we cannot hold the enemy back.”

Celeborn lifted his head proudly. “We are not defeated yet.” The green-blue eyes suddenly narrowed, and the silver elf leapt to his feet, drawing his sword with his one good hand as he rushed forward.

Erestor knew he had been spotted as soon as he saw the surprise in Celeborn's eyes, and he stepped forward into the light. Celeborn's sword was already in motion as he rushed Erestor, leaving Erestor with no choice but to draw his own. As he stepped forward he lifted it high before him, intending to deflect Celeborn's blow, but the reflexes of several ages of battles allowed Celeborn to halt his sword mid-swing as he recognized Erestor as an elf.

“Gil-galad sends you his hopes that you will persevere until aid arrives, and Elrond bids you to stand firm until he can stand with you. They should cross the Loudwater late tomorrow,” he greeted them.

Erestor would remember forever the look that appeared on the elf's face as the meaning of the words became clear to him.

“Elrond leads an army here?” gasped Celeborn as his sword fell to his side.

Erestor had barely nodded and replied ‘yes' when Celeborn demanded, “How many?”

Erestor sighed. “Not enough, but Gil-galad is calling his allies to battle.”

“Will they come?” asked Celeborn, and Erestor noted the hint of fear in the demanding tone.

“I do not know, my lord,” he answered honestly. “But few can refuse King Gil-galad.”

Celeborn nodded, seemingly satisfied, but he swayed on his feet as he turned to walk to his table and one of his captains moved close to his side as he limped back to his seat. Erestor noted how pale Celeborn had become, and saw blood trickling down from under the bandage, and pooling at the band of his trousers.

“Sit,” commanded Celeborn, but his voice was weak.

“I will tell you all I know and listen to all you wish to tell Elrond or Gil-galad while that wound is tended,” said Erestor boldly.

“The healers are tending the seriously wounded,” snapped Celeborn.

Erestor looked apologetically at the captains, both too exhausted to have forced their uncooperative commander to accept aid, before speaking. “Are your captains so poorly trained they cannot tend you?” he snapped back.

Celeborn looked at him in surprise, and Erestor used that to his advantage. “Elrond I am not, but he has taught me some. Lay down.”

To Erestor's surprise, Celeborn did. Erestor cut away the bandages as he spoke, telling Celeborn of Gil-galad's plans, Elrond's movements and what he had seen of the enemy's movements from afar. He cleaned the wounds and dressed them, then used his own supply of bandages to bind them. Celeborn's eyes had drifted closed and he had relaxed beneath Erestor's touch, but as soon as Erestor had finished both speaking and tending him, the elf came immediately alert. He rose and slipped on a tunic and trousers that were less filthy than what he had taken off, and began firing questions and orders off to both his captains and Erestor.

They spent an hour discussing strategy based on when Elrond arrived, for they remained unconvinced that even the two armies combined could defeat Sauron.

“We must,” said Celeborn, “begin to think that perhaps the best we can hope for is a planned retreat with the remnant of the city.” He paused. “I believe we will win, eventually, but I know it will take intervention of a type I cannot see. We can only plan based on what is known before us, and what is before us is an enemy that we cannot defeat.” He turned to Erestor, his expression grave. “Elrond needs to arrive soon.”

Erestor rose, noting in bemusement that he was finally dry. “I shall return to him with your plans for strategy immediately.”

Celeborn looked at him curiously, then at the entrance to the tent. “How did you get in here?”

Erestor smiled. “The same way I plan to leave. May the Valar protect you and Elbereth shine her light to guide your path. We will return.”

Erestor slipped from the tent, walking silently past the guard who merely saluted him tiredly, and with a sigh of resignation, he waded back into the river and began his return journey.

* * *

Celeborn wiped the blood, sweat and grime from his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic, then turned to see who had managed to retreat successfully from the skirmish they had just been fighting. He counted the elves and realized only a third of those he had led into the fight had returned with him. An anguished sob caught his attention, and he turned to see an older elf on his knees, holding the body of his son. A flood of emotion ran through Celeborn as he recognized the dead elf as a playmate of his daughter. Only a few years older than she, they had once fought in the mud. Pity filled him, as the father in him emerged from where he had ruthlessly suppressed all parts of his being except that of warrior and commander. Anger at the loss of innocence of these young elves filled him with a rage that made him wish for a platoon of orcs to slaughter. As despair threatened to overwhelm him, he closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on the war and nothing else.

A shout for aid caught his attention, and the surviving elves of his group ran to help extract their friends from the battle they were losing. Celeborn gently loosened the elf's hands from his son's lifeless body, and pulled him to his feet. “You are needed,” he said. “Your son will make his way to Mandos's Halls and Námo is sure to have mercy on one who died so young and valiant.”

Celeborn knew the words were inadequate, but he could not leave the father to grieve, for the enemy would kill him, or worse, torment him. He half lifted the elf and then forced him to accompany them to the next battle. Celeborn never knew how a family member would react after the death of a loved one; some needed time alone to recover before re-entering the fight. Some needed to fight to take out their anger. As he watched to assess what this grief stricken father would need, he saw the elf's eyes light with fire. Celeborn followed his gaze to where another young elf was engaged in battle: a friend of the elf's son.

“He will not die today if I can prevent it,” said the elf with a growl, and he threw himself into the battle.

Celeborn followed, his bloodied sword quickly finding a match, and they fought until the enemy pulled back. To their right, however, he saw another force approaching, and he called, “Retreat! Fall back!”

As the elves turned to run, he saw the retreating force in front of him turn back upon them and then another company approaching form the hills to their left, and he realized their lines had been broken and they were being surrounded. “Retreat!” he yelled again, this time grabbing a young elf by the arm and shoving him to the rear. “Retreat! Back to the camp!”

He watched as the realization of the situation began to dawn on the elves in his command, and they began to flee for their lives. Celeborn waited until all were running, before he joined them, but he knew they were defeated. They would retreat to camp, gather their wounded and take what supplies they could carry, and then flee into the hills where some might hope to survive. With them gone, Sauron would cross the river and walk into the city.

Elrond had not come in time.

* * *

Elrond led his troops over the wide expanse of land south of the swamps, the sounds of battle growing around him. They were a day later than he had hoped, for the river crossing north of the Swanfleet had been a disaster and much of his army had been forced to travel below the swamps and cross there. They had incurred some injuries in the failed crossing when a wagon of supplies had become caught on underwater debris, endangering the horses and the much needed supplies. They had managed to free the wagon, but two elves had been battered in the process.

He could see the banner of the city flying in the breeze above the City Hall of Ost-in-Edhil, but flames had become visible in the last few hours and now that he was close enough to see the buildings, he realized the city had been breached and was on fire. Despair filled his heart. He had come too late.

Elrond heard a murmur of voices behind him, and he turned to see Erestor striding toward him. The young elf had changed much since Elrond had sent him from Lindon months earlier. His eyes had hardened, he moved with a sense of stealth, light of foot and quick, and he seemed to blend in with his surroundings. As he neared, Elrond held out his hand in greeting, and was surprised when Erestor clasped his arm as any warrior would, then immediately released him and stepped back a pace, quickly distancing himself. Sadness filled in as he realized the extent of the loss of innocence in his young friend. So many more will become this way, should they survive at all , he thought sadly.

“Celeborn called for a full retreat yesterday morning after enemy reinforcements arrived from the south,” said Erestor numbly. “The camp was abandoned and the elves fled into the hills with as many of the injured as they could carry. Sauron's forces burned the camp, while others attacked the city. They used catapults to send flaming debris over the walls, and they finally broke the gate this morning with a battering ram. I could not see if any who remained in the city escaped by way of the river or back gates.”

Erestor handed Elrond a sketch of his estimations of the size and placement of the enemy troops, and Elrond was stunned as he realized how close Erestor must have been to obtain this information. Indeed, he had to have been behind enemy lines in some cases.

“Enemy troops approach from the South, Men mostly, but there were some of the larger orcs in companies as well,” finished Erestor, his hand shaking as he pointed to a spot on his sketch.

Suddenly, a cry arose from the scene below them. Enemy voices were raised in a primal yell, and it was directed at them.

“Our presence has been noted,” said Elrond dryly. “Glorfindel, call the captains together. We cannot defeat this army, but we can try to extract what elves we can from the city and the hills.”

As the captains gathered, Elrond broke them into companies and gave them their orders. “I will lead the frontal assault east with the Silver Company. Blue and Gold need to circle around here and stop the advancing troops from the south. Red will cross north of the Glanduin and approach the back of the city – your function is to help any who live escape the city. Glorfindel, Companies Blue and Gold will be entering into a tactical position that is fraught with pitfalls. They must not risk being caught between enemies we drive from the city and the approaching army from the south. I want you to lead them.”

“No,” answered Glorfindel firmly.

A stunned silence fell over the small group, and Elrond raised his eyes to look the elf straight in the face. Glorfindel looked upon him calmly and Elrond felt heat rise to his face. The ensuing battle of wills may not have involved words, but Elrond knew that everyone present knew a struggle was occurring.

“Your captains are well trained and capable,” said Glorfindel finally.

Elrond nodded stiffly and finished his orders, then dismissed the captains to prepare their warriors for battle. He turned his back on Glorfindel then, his anger not yet dissipated, and began to walk away.

“Pride is unbecoming in you, Elrond,” said Glorfindel.

Elrond spun around, words of anger on his lips, but they died there as he looked upon his friend. He was always unclear how Glorfindel did it, but at certain times the light of Valinor shone brightly from him, more so than was normal, and this was one of those times.

“There is no time for diplomacy, for me to say my words for your ears only. Remember this, Elrond, I do not answer to you in only one matter of my service to you, and that is your safety. I will be at your back.”

Elrond suddenly laughed. “Yes, you will, and I am sure before the end I will be glad for it, ungrateful though I may seem now.”

The four companies began moving into position immediately, the Blue and Gold Companies coordinating with Elrond so that they attacked in unison. The element of surprise was part of their strategy, for they needed the enemy fighting on several fronts and the confusion that would cause. The Silver Company remained visible to the enemy, who jeered them and challenged them to fight, and Elrond stood tall before his warriors facing them.

Elrond watched the enemy's movements calmly, the banners of Gil-galad flapping in the breeze. He purposefully kept the attentions of these troops focused on him, and did not turn his head from them even once. Glorfindel, however, had stepped to the back and was following the movements of the Blue and Gold.

“Now, Elrond,” came Glorfindel's voice.

Elrond unsheathed and raised his sword, then bellowed, “Forward! In the name of the King! Gil-galad!” Behind him, his troops roared after him, “Forward! Gil-galad!”

As Elrond led his troops down the small ridge, Sauron's forces came out to meet them.

* * *

Celeborn heard the bellow of voices and the name of Gil-galad raised, and he quickly sheathed his sword and climbed into the largest of the trees in the copse he and his men had taken refuge in. On the ridge between the river and the city, he saw elves streaming down the hillside as the enemy raced out to meet them. Relief and sorrow both flooded his heart, as he saw hope for his elves if they could join with Elrond's force, and sorrow, knowing how many of Elrond's elves would die. Jumping to the ground, he announced the good news that help had arrived from Lindon, and with new strength, he led his elves back into the battle.

* * *

Elrond's heart leapt with the excitement of battle as his forces thrust into the line of the enemy with such force that Sauron's men fell back in retreat. The river was at their backs, and the limited opening of the city gates meant that most were forced to retreat south. Elrond smiled as he heard the cries of war as the Blue and Gold Companies welcomed the enemy with their swords and bows drawn.

The fight before the city was intense, yet Elrond was unable to break the defenses enough to make it across the river. They fought into the night, but their might was soon diminished as casualties increased and word arrived that the Blue and Gold companies had pushed north, killing a great many of their enemy, but now were fleeing west themselves to rejoin Elrond, enemy reinforcements at their backs. Elrond ordered his forces to retreat slightly, then made his way with Glorfindel to meet with the captains.

To Elrond's surprise, though the Blue and Gold companies had taken heavy casualties as well, they had also added a few elves to their number.

“Celeborn!” said Elrond, and walking forward, he pulled his former mentor into an embrace. “I am sorry; we were too late.”

“Even together we could not have withstood the army Sauron has built,” replied Celeborn grimly. “But I am glad you have come. Now, however, you must decide what here you are willing to fight for. The city is lost.”

“Aye, it is,” agreed Elrond. “We fight only to retrieve those of your people we can. Our Red Company is at the back gates of the city as well, helping with the evacuation.”

“My lord, we should move north as quickly as possible,” said the Gold Company captain. “Scouts report enemy movement to our south, with what appears to be a many fingered tactic to snare us in an iron grip this side of the river.”

Dawn was breaking as Elrond commanded his troops to withdraw from battle and head north. His eyes were drawn unconsciously to the city, and on this morn the banner of Eregion was gone. To their horror, what was now lashed to the pole was a body of an elf, peppered with orc arrows.

“Celebrimbor,” said Celeborn, and he bowed his head. “Sauron has what he came for.”

“Come!” shouted Glorfindel. “The enemy is nearly upon us! Go! Go north!”

The elves fled north, crossing the river wherever they could and leaving the bridge for the wagons bearing the wounded. As they fled around the city they found a remnant of the Red Company fighting Sauron's forces as they attempted to follow those escaping the city. At Glorfindel's call, they too abandoned the fight and raced north.

Elrond lagged to the rear of the fleeing elves, leaving Celeborn to lead the refugees of the city at the front of the line. He watched as orcs and Men emerged from the river, and the distance between the groups closed. With women, children, wounded and supplies, the elves could not flee faster than they were. Torn, he looked back at the approaching enemies, and drew his sword. To stop and fight would be a last ditch effort and mean certain death, but it would buy time for the others to find refuge in the mountains. If they kept going, the enemy would overtake them, and the weakest among them would die, along with anyone who attempted to help them.

“To me!” yelled Elrond, lifting his sword high.

He felt a shoulder brush his and saw the familiar golden hair from the corner of his eye, then the swish of air as another blade was drawn.

“To Elrond!” shouted Glorfindel.

When nearly half of their uninjured warriors stood with them, Glorfindel send word for Celeborn to continue with the rest. Elrond felt tears prickle at his eyes as he heard a father send his warrior son on to protect the refugees, and as the elf fell in behind him he heard him say, “His children are so young. Forgive me; I wanted one last chance for him.” Elrond reached behind him and clasped the elf's hand in support.

They did not rush out to meet the enemy, but let the enemy come to them. Their archers began shooting what arrows they had remaining, but soon they were in hand-to-hand combat. Elrond fought as if he had nothing lose, and in reality he did not. Their lives were already forfeit. Flashes of gold told him that Glorfindel still protected his back, but as he swirled to stab at one orc and then another, he heard a grunt of pain. As soon as the fight allowed, he looked and saw that his protector had fallen. Fighting his way the few feet to where Glorfindel lay sprawled face down in the mud, Elrond stood before him, determined that no further blows would descend nor would any orc desecrate the body while he still drew breath.

His arm wearied and he grew tired, minor wounds sapping his energy, and he soon hardened himself to the cries of those dying around him. He could not spare anyone from pain; he could not stop their deaths. They had come to die, and die they would. A blow caught him along the shoulder and a cry escaped him, though he did not drop his sword. He swung his sword again, amazed when the heavy blade met only air for resistance. He focused eyes blurry with sweat and blood to look beyond the few feet in front of him and realized the enemy had thinned. Suddenly, he realized the enemy was turning and running in the other direction.

“Elrond!”

Elrond tried to focus on whoever was calling his name, but his vision and hearing had dimmed and he realized he was losing blood quickly. He recognized Erestor's face as he slumped to the ground and wondered where the scout had been, but then darkness claimed him and he knew no more.

* * *

“Has he awakened?”

Elrond heard the voice asking the question, but his mouth refused to aid him by asking who was sleeping.

“No, but the bleeding has stopped and his color has improved. Let him sleep, for when he does wake and feel the pain of these wounds he will wish for the oblivion of sleep.”

Elrond attempted to turn his head, but a searing pain shot though his shoulder. His mind was just coherent enough for him to realize that if he was in such pain, then he was likely the one being talked about. Gratified that at least that meant he did not have to answer, he let his head relax again, and realized it was pressed against someone's chest when he recognized the familiar beating of a heart. Voices spoke above him.

“How is your head?”

“Throbs. Good thing I have hair to hide what is surely a grotesquely misshapen head. Are they in pursuit?”

“Yes, but we have several leagues on them now. Let me carry him for a while.”

“No,” came the firm answer, and Elrond felt himself shifted as gently as possible, though the movement still sent a piercing pain along his side. “You have proven yourself as the consummate strategist in this fight, Erestor. My brain is good for little right now, but my muscles can carry Elrond. Scout ahead and determine our course.”

“The march will be long, but I hope to make the Hollin Ridge by sunup. That will offer us some protection and shield us from watchful eyes,” replied Erestor. “Drink this first, Glorfindel, then I will go.”

Elrond felt them stop and heard the sounds of Glorfindel drinking something above his head, but a moment later he realized that if Glorfindel was drinking, it meant Glorfindel was also alive. In his excitement, he tried again to move his head, but the searing pain returned. He felt Glorfindel's hands trying to steady him.

“Elrond, do not try to move,” came the gentle voice of a good friend. When Elrond immediately stilled, Glorfindel continued. “Can you take some water?”

Elrond felt the cool trickle of water on his lips and eagerly accepted the drops cautiously spilled between them. He doubted water had ever tasted as good as it did at that moment. Swallowing was hard, but whoever was pouring the water was using the utmost care, and the drops seemed to slide down his parched throat at just the right flow.

“Thank..you…” he croaked hoarsely.

“Do not talk,” answered Erestor. “I will check on you when you reach camp.”

Elrond slid back into dreams as the steady footsteps carried him to the rhythm of the steady heartbeat at his cheek.

* * *

Elrond opened his eyes, focusing on the shadows of leaves in the tree canopy above him. It was