Title: Silver Circle Author: Elshaurai Author’s e-mail: ziantsha@hotmail.com Pairings: Haldir/ Erestor Rating: General R, but PG for the moment Summary: Armoured with secrecy and a sharp tongue, who is Erestor truly and why do a series of strange and unlikely kidnappings seem to increasingly revolve around his shadowy past? ‘Rumil.’ Haldir sighed. While his younger brother was…well…young, he still ought to have had the sense to recognise that falling asleep in the branches of a tree, on duty, as close to the orc trails as was physically possible to go whilst still being on elven land, was probably not the brightest of ideas. ‘Rumil. Wake up. Rumil!’ ‘Oh!’ ‘You sleep in a bed. This, on the other hand, is a branch.’ ‘As I’m aware,’ Rumil grumbled, rolling his feet. He was also horribly aware of the sniggers coming from along the line of towering mallorns on either side of his. As the newest member of the Galadhrim forest patrol, the young elf hadn’t quite managed to find his proper sleep rhythm yet. Something about training all day and coming straight to the borders for night duty made it more than slightly difficult. Thus far, his two brothers, who were both apparently able to cheerfully operate on a three-minute catnap every few days or so, had shown absolutely no sign of making any allowances. It was the middle of the night, and a gentle breeze whispered through the golden leaves of Lothlorien’s ancient trees. Summer was late arriving this year, so late in fact that it was beginning to seem as though the warm season planned to make no appearance at all; on the forest floor, a carpet of dead leaves had fallen already, covering any sign there might have been of the usual mass of white flowers and curling ferns. Overhead, the stars were just visible through the branches, a scattering of bright diamonds across a velvety dark sky. For as far as even the elven eye could see, the grassy meadow lands stretching out from the forest realm’s eastern border were perfectly still but for the ripples and swirling created by the sighing wind, lit silver by moonlight, and in the distance, the mountains were slightly blacker shadows against the dark. As usual, the forest patrol were stationed in the last line of trees before the grasslands, watching, listening for movement. Since the dwarven stronghold of Moria had collapsed against the veritable army of dark creatures beneath it, the way across the Misty Mountains was more open than it had ever been before to marauding parties of orcs, and now, the Wardens of Lorien were the first line of defence for both Galadriel’s realm and Thranduil’s kingdom beyond. Having moved quietly along the line of trees, which were so closely knit that it was no great feat to simply step from one branch to another, checking on the rest of the patrol, Haldir folded down on a conveniently placed bough at the very end of the row. After a moment, he shifted slightly, crossing his legs and leaning lightly back against the knarled tree trunk. Far away on the horizon, a steady stream of smoke was rising from somewhere around Moria. He raised an eyebrow, and wondered idly whether anybody had mentioned to the dwarfs exactly how not to go about fighting a balrog. Surprisingly, when used on a creature whose average body temperature usually smouldered at a heat just slightly warmer than a blacksmith’s forge, steel blades didn’t tend to have much of an effect. Haldir sighed softly and tilted his head back against the rough bark to gaze up at the stars. Tomorrow, a delegation from Rivendell was due to arrive at almost exactly the same time as a party from Mirkwood. Relations between the two had been cold at best these past few centuries, and the Marchwarden for one was not particularly looking forward to playing host to the both of them at once. The Lady Galadriel, on the other hand, seemed absolutely determined to mend the rift between the three elven kingdoms, and, in her usual practical way, had simply invited Elrond half-Elven and King Thranduil to stay together in Lothlorien for a short while. Of course, whether Galadriel’s notion of a short while bore any resemblance to that of Elrond or Thranduil remained to be seen. The sun was just beginning to cast the first rays of dawn over the land when, in the distance, a flicker of movement attracted the sharp gazes of the fourteen members of the patrol. Haldir stood slowly, narrowing his eyes against the brightening sun as he looked out across the grassy plain. Faintly, a rhythmic thumping reverberated up through the earth. Hoof beats. A moment later, the sun burst over the mountains and shone off the dark coat of a tall stallion, running hard toward the Lorien border. The rider was wearing Mirkwood green, pale hair whipped back by a cold wind. Haldir frowned. The border faced east…yet Mirkwood lay to the west. Even as he watched, the rider snatched up a bow from behind the saddle and cocked an arrow, and for a moment it seemed as though he would fire straight the trees. But then, twisting his arm backward, the rider aimed behind him and fired over his own shoulder, in the manner of the men of Rohan. Within an instant, it became clear what the rider was firing at. A shadow appeared behind him, the light glinting dully from black armour, the ground suddenly thrumming with the tramp of heavy steps. ‘Archers,’ the Marchwarden called quietly. He didn’t take his eyes from the approaching figure of the rider, but in the trees off to his left, he heard the creak of bows being strung. In the gathering daylight, the band of orcs were slowing, stumbling. Meanwhile, the lone elven rider raced across the final stretch of meadow, but, just as he arrived safely on the path into Lorien, the huge horse reared and sent the Mirkwood elf crashing to the ground. Clearly terrified, the stallion careered on into the woods. ‘Someone catch that horse,’ Haldir suggested mildly to the world at large, leaping down to the ground to approach the somewhat winded rider. ‘I’ll go,’ offered Rumil, from somewhere above him. Haldir nodded. Over the plains, the orcs were turning back, discouraged by the sudden hail of arrows from the patrol that thudded into the ground not twenty paces before them. When he reached the rider, he knelt down. ‘Welcome to Lothlorien. What is your name?’ The other elf sat up slowly, raking wisps of pale hair back from his face before answering. His clothes were sewn with Mirkwood silver, the braids in his long hair beginning to come loose but still recognisable as the knots used by the Sindar gentry. An inkling of recognition burst like a tiny star into the back of the Marchwarden’s mind, just before the elf raised his head…and suddenly, Haldir found himself locked with the deep, piercing blue gaze of King Thranduil. ‘Take me to your lady. Quickly.’ ‘My lord, why are you alone?’ ‘The orcs ambushed us in the night,’ the Mirkwood King replied shortly. Coming quickly to his feet, the tall elf peered into the twilight of the forest beyond the border. Then he looked back over his shoulder to the band of fleeing orcs, and finally, at Haldir. ‘I must speak with Lady Galadriel. Please, it is…beyond urgent.’ Uneasy, Haldir nodded slightly. ‘Of course.’ High in the trees, the rest of the patrol watched their captain lead the battered elf into the woodland. None of them had failed to recognize the sombre bearing of King Thranduil, and now, in quiet murmurs, the Lorien elves began to question what kind of circumstances had brought him to Galadriel’s realm in such a way, alone and bruised and hounded by orcs at the break of day. Following the tall Marchwarden along the leafy path between the trees, Thranduil sighed to himself. While he wasn’t particularly fond of the icy Lady Galadriel, he had always felt a sense of deepest peace in her quiet woods. The high mallorns seemed to whisper of a timeless, gentle magic that was distinctly lacking in the dark, misty forests of Mirkwood, and here, the trees were spaced just far enough apart to let the sunlight dust the leaves with gold. There was even something faintly ethereal about the tall elf who was guiding him now…a quiet grace and a high bearing that, had he not know better, Thranduil would have taken as a sign of noble birth. He smiled a little. If all the Lorien wardens carried themselves like princes as this one did, then Galadriel had done better by her realm than the Mirkwood King had given her credit for. Soon, the open woods began to close in, the trees more densely packed until all that was left of the bright dawn outside was a strange, hazy twilight. Thranduil glanced up and saw the first of the Lorien talans…arching, open structures constructed for all the world as though they had simply grown in the high branches, reached by graceful coils of steps snaking around the huge tree trunks. Like silent sentinels rising up from the blanket of leaves underfoot, marble statues held stone bowls of flaming oil to light the way, and from the talans, hundreds of pinpoints of white light filtered down through the branches. From a balcony that was apparently built seamlessly into the trunk of a nearby mallorn, a couple of off-duty wardens paused to watch the king pass. He looked up and nodded politely to them. Both raised a hand to their hearts and bowed their heads, their silver hair shining softly in the pale light. Thranduil followed his guide up a sweeping flight of sheltered steps. Looking up, he saw that they led to the largest talan he had seen thus far; Galadriel’s home. He swallowed. The lady was well-known for her strange ability to see into the minds of others, and despite having come to her in all honesty, Thranduil felt a growing sense of unease. He wasn’t entirely sure why; he had nothing to hide. Then again, if reading somebody else’s diary was the social equivalent to assault, then reading somebody else’s thoughts had to be somewhere along the lines of mass rape and murder. And even if it wasn’t, and there was nothing harmful in it all, Thranduil held fast to the opinion that it was still horribly rude. When they arrived on the main floor of her talan, Galadriel was deep in conversation with two wardens, both of whom Haldir dimly recognised as being members of his brother Orophin’s patrol. However, her gaze flicked immediately to the Mirkwood King, her clear, starry blue eyes narrowing in the faintest of frowns as she took in Thranduil’s bedraggled state. Quietly, she dismissed the two wardens and came slowly across. ‘King Thranduil…you are early. What brings you here so soon?’ ‘A band of orcs. They were waiting on the road; my people and I spent the night riding.’ ‘I do not see the rest of your party.’ ‘Dead,’ the king said flatly. He swallowed. ‘My lady, I would have turned back, but I have come to ask for your aid.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘I do not think the ambush happened by chance; the orcs knew we would come. My lady, my wife is dead, and my son…my son…’ Galadriel waited silently. Thranduil took a deep breath. ‘They took him. They snatched him from his saddle and dragged him away with them. He was alive, my lady, and fighting. They did not kill him. I must find him.’ Galadriel tilted her eyes to Haldir, drawing Thranduil’s attention once more to the silent Marchwarden. ‘Haldir. Were your wardens not due to leave Lorien on patrol tomorrow?’ ‘Yes, my lady.’ ‘You will leave a day early, and you will take King Thranduil with you. Scout along the orc trails, follow them into the heart of Moria if you must. My lord,’ she added, turning back to the king, ‘while the patrol makes ready, please eat. You are tired.’ ‘But-’ The lady lifted an eyebrow. Thranduil sighed. ‘Thank you, my lady.’ ‘My lady!’ Haldir and Thranduil spun around. Dresil, captain of Orophin’s patrol, stood breathlessly on the threshold of the arch of the stairway. He nodded to Haldir, then sketched a hasty bow to the king and the lady. ‘I apologise for the interruption, but the Rivendell party are here, ahead of schedule, and Lord Elrond is-’‘-here,’ Elrond said, ducking under Dresil’s arm and gracing him with a filthy glare. ‘Thranduil,’ he acknowledged the king woodenly. Then his icy gaze whipped across to Galadriel. ‘Good morning, my lady.’ ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your early arrival?’ she asked, clearly completely unsurprised. ‘We were ambushed. By orcs, on the pass over the mountains.’ Thranduil gave him a glance of rueful commiseration. Elrond frowned. ‘You too?’ ‘Yes. They killed my party and took my son.’ ‘Then it seems my story is already told. None of my party survived but for myself and one of my companions. My sons were taken and dragged away.’ ‘Haldir, you will take Lord Elrond and his companion on patrol with you too,’ Galadriel said, not bothering to even acknowledge Elrond’s tale at all. ‘Unfortunately, I arrived halfway through the discussion,’ Elrond reminded her acidly. The opposite of Thranduil’s air of grim defeat, the half-Elf was simmering with barely concealed rage. Which, Haldir suspected, was probably more down to sheer annoyance than any great grief. The Imladris twins, Elrond’s sons Elladan and Elrohir, were famed for their battle prowess, and while they might have been taken by a rabble of orcs, the chances that they were dead as opposed to carefully working on becoming the bane of their captor’s sorry lives were minimal. The lord of Imladris wasn’t anxious; only supremely irritated that an otherwise enjoyable trip had been so rudely interrupted. Certainly so long in communion with the icy lady of Lorien had lent him at least a shade of her ruthlessly practical way of thinking. ‘The Marchwarden will take a patrol today to search for your sons. You are free to go with him to help the search.’ ‘Hm.’ Elrond looked less than impressed with the offer. You may go, Galadriel told Haldir silently. He went, glad to be away from the bowstring-taunt tension between the three. At the foot of the steps, a slender, dark-haired elf was waiting, cleaning a bloody sword with a cloth rag. Haldir glanced at him curiously. Beyond Lord Elrond’s immediate family, he had never seen an elf with black hair. And, instead of falling long in the usual way, it was cut short, unruly with windswept spikes. The rest of the elf was equally strange. Rather than flowing Rivendell robes, he wore practical riding leathers, a heavy black cloak reaching down to his ankles and twin sword belts crossing over his back and chest. Dark eyes swept across to meet Haldir’s for a long moment before tilting indifferently away again. Haldir raised an unimpressed brow and stalked off through the trees. Obsidian eyes watched him go. Quietly, the strange elf sheathed his sword and let his gauntlets fall to the floor beside a battered travelling pack. He didn’t like Lorien. It wasn’t a strong dislike, but given the choice, the dark elf would have preferred not to be in the realm of the Lady of the Wood. There was no good reason for this; simply that however much its beauty was praised, the tree city felt…sinister. Not at all in the way of Moria, or a battle field, just in the soft, serpentine manner that suggested however well any elf could see, Galadriel saw far, far better. Something in deathly quiet of her realm suggested that everything and everyone in it knew that too. He glanced upward when he heard light steps. ‘Follow him,’ Elrond called, from halfway down the stairs. ‘Why?’ ‘We leave again as soon as his patrol is ready.’ ‘Marvellous.’ Smiling slightly, Elrond watched his companion snatch up his gauntlets and pack from the ground, then grinned as the dark elf slipped away after the Marchwarden. There was something in the elf’s odd, shadowy grace and the set of his shoulders that bespoke a state of constant and perpetual anger directed aimlessly at the world in general, and more specifically, in a few minutes’ time, Galadriel’s silver-haired Marchwarden. When the fourth twig snapped, Haldir stopped, and looked over his shoulder. He frowned when he saw nobody there. Then started slightly when he turned back and found him face to face with Lord Elrond’s dark-haired companion. He took a careful pace backward. ‘Are you following me for any particular reason or…?’ ‘Oh, no, I just…aimlessly decided to tag along.’ ‘Really.’ ‘No,’ the other elf said flatly. He didn’t elaborate. Faintly impatient to get back to the patrol, Haldir stepped around him and carried on along his way. ‘Lord Elrond sent you?’ ‘Ah, I see your cognitive powers are truly unrivalled.’ ‘Have I said something to offend you?’ ‘Not yet.’ ‘So this is how you speak to everybody?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I find it less than endearing.’ ‘If I could find it in myself to give a whit about how you find me, Marchwarden, I’m sure I would be terribly upset.’ Haldir ground his back teeth and didn’t reply, abandoning any hope of civil conversation and rapidly coming to the conclusion that if he spent much longer with this elf then he really was going to need to kick something soon. The two of them carried on toward the border in frosty silence. Within moments of Haldir’s arrival back at the line of trees on the western border, the patrol descended into a flurry of activity. Weapons were checked and then buckled back on after the long night watch, packs retrieved from where they had hung ready on branches, and soon, thirteen elves dropped lightly down from the mallorns to land on the grassy floor. Haldir counted, then paused. ‘Where is Rumil?’ ‘You sent him after that horse,’ somebody reminded him. ‘He didn’t come back.’ ‘Must have been a fast horse,’ Haldir mused. Beside him, Elrond’s companion looked away, feigning a sudden and deep interest in a patch of shadow just beyond the tree line to hide his smile. Noticing the faintly puzzled looks on the more observant of the patrol, Haldir added, ‘King Thranduil, Lord Elrond and his companion here are to accompany us on the search for their sons.’ ‘Who’s that?’ Rumil asked bluntly, appearing from the path and glancing toward the stranger. ‘He hasn’t yet deigned to tell me.’ ‘You didn’t ask,’ the dark elf returned mildly. Haldir took a breath to retort, then let it out very, very slowly. ‘As you like, then. Rumil, this is Lord Elrond’s as of yet nameless companion, who is, I am sure, a perfectly charming person once you get to know him. And you…whoever you are…this is my youngest brother, Rumil.’ ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Rumil cheerfully. As of late, he had decided to consider anybody with the ability to irritate his older brother even more than he did (apparently merely by existing) to be a kindred spirit. ‘Likewise. Catch your horse?’ ‘Thranduil’s horse, yes, thank you.’ Rumil paused when he caught sight of the rest of the patrol. ‘Um…Haldir? Where are we going?’ As Haldir explained, Elrond and Thranduil arrived, neither looking at all charmed by the company of the other. Both of them were already carrying new travelling packs. Haldir gazed at the two elf lords thoughtfully, wondering whether it would be entirely unreasonable to lose them somewhere and then carefully hurry off in the opposite direction. When he glanced across at the dark stranger, he was faintly surprised to see that, by the other elf’s pensive expression, he appeared to be thinking very much the same thing. After a long and tense consultation between Elrond and Thranduil, it was decided that it was best to strike west and head for Moria. Of course, this decision was only reached after the two lords had become painfully aware of the withering glare being sent their way by Lord Elrond’s dark companion; it was difficult to bicker whilst also being the recipient of a look so vehement it could probably have drilled through granite. ‘Moria?’ Elrond suggested. ‘Moria,’ Thranduil confirmed hastily. ‘At last,’ the dark elf sighed. The members of the patrol close enough to hear him sniggered. Haldir sighed, and motioned vaguely in the direction of the mountains, not quite trusting himself to open his mouth and actually say something that wouldn’t provoke a barbed reply. The patrol moved off. But for the dozens of heavy prints in the damp earth, there was no sign of the band of orcs who had pursued Thranduil earlier that morning. Even so, the patrol moved quietly. At the front, Haldir led the way, following the animal trails through the grasslands rather than risk creating a new set of tracks that could easily be followed by any orc with a sharp eye and half a mind to come after them. Left well alone by the rest of the patrol at the back, Elrond and Thranduil snapped unceasingly at each other, arguing, so far as Haldir could hear, about everything from the way the other chose to bring up his children to the weather. The dark elf soon tired of them and joined the Marchwarden at the head of the lines. ‘I’ll get out your way once they stop arguing,’ he told Haldir dryly. ‘I’m not sure that they will.’ ‘Ah, well, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me then. The two of them together are maddening.’ ‘You’re…not exactly temperance incarnate yourself.’ ‘No, but neither do I control a realm and a small army.’ ‘Hm.’ However dubious the logic was, Haldir could still see his point. He paused. ‘Are you a relative of Lord Elrond?’ he asked, nodding the elf’s dark hair. ‘No, I’m his councillor.’ Haldir did very well not to smirk. ‘You.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You, a councillor.’ ‘Surprised?’ ‘I take it that Imladris considers aimless anger and a complete lack of manners to be excellent traits for diplomats.’ ‘Just as Lorien considers haughtiness and irritating insincerity prime points for promotion to Marchwarden, I imagine.’ ‘And razor wit, I see,’ Haldir said mildly. ‘Of which sarcasm is notably the lowest form.’ ‘I hope you’re enjoying this, you know, because I’m sure the rest of the patrol aren’t.’ ‘As I have mentioned before, I don’t make it a point to particularly care about what other people do and don’t like, especially when it concerns me.’ ‘And of course, it’s made you stormingly popular at home.’ ‘Certainly it’s earned me a better position than that of a foot soldier, Marchwarden.’ ‘You two are worse than Elrond and Thranduil,’ Rumil grumbled from behind them. ‘Debatable,’ the dark elf murmured. Despite himself, Haldir smiled slightly. ‘Perhaps we could agree to disagree.’ ‘The only trouble is, I suspect we agree perfectly.’ ‘What?’ Rumil demanded. The raven-haired elf tilted his head. ‘We haven’t denied anything yet. I’m rude, he’s haughty, I’m sure we both accept that and can work on a healthy kind of hate-hate relationship from there, yes? Good. Oh, look it’s raining. Even better.’ The storm came on quickly, and within a few breaths, the sky was a roiling mass of black clouds and sheeting rain. High above, lightening began to flicker, bright, vivid sheets of white cracking across the dark heavens. The patrol, for their part, were immediately soaked to the skin. Haldir swore softly, glaring down at the ground. The downpour was churning the soil into deep mud that would hold their tracks for days now, where they followed the animal trails or not. The dark elf beside him glanced down too, and obviously noted the same thing. ‘Best speed up, I should think,’ he observed. Haldir nodded slightly. ‘Mm.’ After a moment, he straightened up and whistled sharply to be heard above the crashing thunder. The patrol looked all looked up. ‘Head for the mountains as quickly as you can. Last one to the entrance of Moria cooks for all of us tonight!’ He lowered his voice again and glanced at Elrond’s dark companion. ‘That includes you.’With that, the tall Marchwarden darted after Rumil and the few youngest elves already gaining ground on the slower members of the patrol. The dark elf smiled slowly, then took to his heels. The eastern entrance to Moria was a small archway hacked into the rock, half hidden by the boulder-covered slopes and tiny rivulets leading up to it. Despite their pace, it took the patrol most of the day to reach it, arriving just before the dusk. Not the captain of the Lorien wardens for nothing and widely acknowledged as the fastest creature on two legs for fifty leagues around, Haldir reached the slopes far ahead of the rest…all of them but Elrond’s nameless companion, who was barely two yards behind him and gaining fast. ‘If I beat you, will you do the first night watch?’ the dark elf called. Haldir didn’t look around. ‘As you like. And if I beat you, you’ll take the night watch, and tell me your name.’ ‘And if we draw?’ ‘Then we’ll both take the watch and you’ll tell me your name anyway.’ ‘Fair enough.’ Just before they reached the archway, the dark elf put on last turn of speed, aware that by no means could he win decisively, but absolutely determined not to be landed with the watch alone. He took the Marchwarden down in a flying tackle and the two of them landed in a soaping wet tangle on the lip of the archway. Rolling as he hit the ground, he pinned Haldir beneath him, kneeling on his chest and waiting patiently for the cry of ‘cheat’. But instead, the Marchwarden only laughed and threw him off. For a moment, they lay side by side on the hard stone floor, soaked and breathing hard. Haldir’s silver hair was beginning to dry in gentle waves, still loosely braided, his grey warden’s uniform turned almost black with the rain. Beside him, the dark elf sat up and raked his hands through his hair, whereupon it promptly formed its customary windswept spikes. After a second, he slumped down again. The quicker members of the patrol were just beginning the climb up the mountain slope. ‘Well,’ he panted, ‘the night watch is always better with company.’ ‘True. So. Are you going to tell me your name?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And?’ Haldir prompted. ‘Erestor,’ the dark elf said. ‘My name is Erestor.’ Living up to his own reputation, Thranduil stepped through the doorway in a respectable fifth place, outdistanced only by Haldir, Erestor and the patrol’s set of speedy twins, Iamae and Iathil. One of the youngest wardens swiftly followed, a delicate but fast elf by name of Rivanaen. After a long pause, Erestor clicked his tongue against his teeth and darted back outside to return a few minutes later with a drenched Elrond being dragged unceremoniously in tow, at which point Thranduil dissolved into happy laughter. Elrond glared. Since Mirkwood had, not so long ago, been the seat of Sauron himself, the woods were still full of all manner of dark creatures, and so every elf within its borders had learned from an early age that speed was a basic survival trait, the royal family making no exception. Being a much more peaceful place, Imladris did not tend to produce the fastest warriors ever known, and Elrond, long used to watching his sons take to the sword ring rather than taking up a blade himself, was not as fit as he once had been. Unsurprisingly, Rumil tailed in last. Judging that it probably wasn’t the wisest of plans to set out into the mines at such an hour, Haldir called out the order to set up camp for night and then moved to the entrance archway again to survey the weather outside.The rain had stopped in favour of a miserable, incessant drizzle, and the moon was still obscured by cloud. Reluctantly, he stepped out side, mentally picking out two distinctive rocks, one on the left, one on the right, to walk between during the long first watch. Just inside, the supplies had been broken out, and, having taken pity on Rumil, the twins were helping to cook a rich soup to go with the rations of lembas. It smelled wonderful already, even though it wouldn’t be ready for another hour or so yet. The fires cast a dim glow onto the pale rocks on the slopes. He glanced around. There was no sign of Erestor. Haldir sighed, and stepped out. The cold felt horrible; he wasn’t dry yet. Deciding he would rather simply be cold than cold and soaked, he went across to the first tall rock he had picked out a few moments ago and shrugged out of his tunic and undershirt, slinging the first onto the rock with a wet slap and standing back a little to wring out the other. A veritable river of rainwater pattered to the stony ground. The fabric began to look grey again as opposed to black. Haldir tilted his eyes up the sky and saw not one star. Disgusting weather. Erestor irritably threw off his cloak and tunic and then watched dismally as an apparently never-ending stream of water gushed out of his upturned boot. Staying in Lorien, Elrond had said. Won’t be long, he’d said. Somehow he’d managed to miss the part where they were massacred by orcs and then promptly drenched in the company of a woodland patrol and dear King Thranduil. As it happened, the only component of this that Erestor particularly objected to was the one that involved being cold and wet. He quite liked Thranduil; the Mirkwood elf certainly had more of a sense of humour than Imladris’s lord did, and either way, the two of them kept each other occupied. The patrol weren’t bad, even if their captain was, but…no, that was hardly fair. He did like the Marchwarden. Genuinely. Despite all the barbed comments they’d exchanged, Erestor suspected that the Lorien elf knew fully well that none of what he’d said meant anything, and that he’d never done more than tease. It was something very few elves noticed. In his own way, Erestor was fairly cheery; it was just that most of the time, in most places, the world was so ridiculously unfair that it seemed childish to speak of it or anyone on it at all seriously. Generally this outlook was taken to be a perpetual rage aimed at everything, which was, to a degree, true, but it was very rare that Erestor ever managed to be truly angry. Possibly this was down to the fact that he was slightly angry all the time, and this acted as a kind of inoculation against a quick temper. Having tipped out the other boot, Erestor wrung out his tunic and sighed. Apparently Haldir had chosen to stay inside and- ah. He grinned when he saw the other elf quite close by, and began to make his way across. Haldir smiled slightly as pair of cold hands settled gently over his hips. ‘Nice view,’ a voice murmured beside his ear. ‘I thought you’d disappeared off to dry out.’ ‘Why? I said I’d share the watch with you.’ ‘Yes, but taking into account prior experience, I wasn’t entirely sure of your honesty.’ ‘I’m deeply offended,’ Erestor said wryly. Haldir grinned. ‘Oh, don’t be, that would make me feel dreadful.’ ‘Shame.’ The Marchwarden shrugged back into his damp shirt but left his tunic where it was, reasoning that it would probably dry faster there than on him. After a moment, Erestor fell into step beside him as he began to the pace across the space between the two rocks. Haldir glanced at him, and realized, very suddenly, that he was in terrible danger of coming to like the dark elf. Erestor felt his gaze and smiled. Haldir smiled back. In spite of his apparent complete mistrust in the world, Haldir had the sneaking suspicion that Erestor was actually quite cheerful. The drizzle soon abated, leaving both elves unpleasantly damp but not quite as soaked as they had been a few hours before. Erestor blew a stray strand of sable hair away from his eyes and gazed disapprovingly up at the dark sky. A few stars had begun to peek out from the clouds, sparkling dimly and lending a silver shine to the Marchwarden’s tanned skin. ‘Elrond does not seem to be anxious for his sons,’ Haldir observed quietly, after a while of silence. ‘No. He doesn’t like them much.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Well, they aren’t the most straight-laced of Imladris’ youths.’ ‘Hm.’ ‘Any of the kind in Lorien?’ ‘Oh, yes. Most of the patrol.’ Erestor grinned into the dark. ‘What about you?’ ‘If you like your nose the shape it is, you won’t put it in places it doesn’t belong.’ ‘I’m fairly indifferent about my nose. And your privacy, as it happens.’ ‘What about your privacy?’ ‘Oh, I am, quite obviously, the owner of an absolutely astonishing reputation regarding dozens of amazing sexual exploits with anything that moves and several things that don’t. As well you could have guessed by my good looks and charm.’ ‘Well, I didn’t like to presume.’ ‘Of course. Still, that’s the twins. Do you know the Mirkwood prince?’ ‘Not really. I’ve seen him at couple of the archery tournaments Lady Galadriel insists on holding between Lorien and Mirkwood every year. He’s very good with a bow. Probably not of the best build for anything but shooting and drifting around in expensive clothes, although since I’ve not met him I’m sure it’s unfair to judge.’ ‘I don’t think I would have liked him, then.’ Haldir smiled slightly. ‘How many people exactly do you like?’ ‘Not many,’ Erestor admitted. ‘Any particular reason why not?’ ‘Honesty,’ the dark elf replied simply. ‘People mask themselves behind flawless manners and good posture, and barely anything at all of them truly shines through. You are what you are that’s that…I don’t see why everyone insists on pretending to be civil when they don’t mean it, or what is it that’s so awful about them all that they feel they must constantly hide. Nothing is seen as it is in a world like theirs…no one is as they are.’ Haldir frowned. In a way, he agreed, but it made him uneasy to know that anyone could harbour such a deep mistrust in the world. It was one thing to see the dark shadow cast by Mordor, but another to look into the hearts of elves, renound as gentle and honest creatures, and find them false. ‘Valar, and all this time I thought you were just being unreasonable.’ ‘Well, I’m unreasonable with it.’ ‘I’d be curious to know what gave you such a dark impression of the world.’ ‘Oh, I’m sure you would be. But I’ve no desire to dampen your sunny disposition, so your curiosity will have to go unsatisfied.’ ‘I wouldn’t really call my disposition particularly sunny, but, still.’ ‘No, neither would I, it was just one of my rare attempts to be polite.’ ‘Oh right. Game try.’ ‘Treasure it.’ Haldir nodded distractedly. Something in what Erestor had said a few moment ago had struck a chord, and it had taken the March warden a moment to isolate what it was. Erestor looked…and sounded…exactly as he was. He wasn’t hiding behind anything at all. His clothes, his hair, his eyes…all screamed of sheer, angry honesty. He wore a sword on his hip and steel heels on his boots, but it wasn’t meant to be intimidating, only practical, just like the way his hair was cut so short. Somehow, all pretence of anything had been stripped away, far more strangely than Haldir suspected was possible through dint of conscious effort, leaving an odd, silvery grace in its wake. For the barest moment there was the faintest breath of delicacy, of something that had once been vulnerable and now flatly refused to be. And then a second later the dark elf was just Erestor again, sharp and fast and strong. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Marchwarden.’ ‘Do I? Well, I don’t imagine that you’re helping…’ Erestor tilted his head ruefully. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Beyond a lukewarm supper, their watch was uneventful, and by midnight, both elves had given up on pacing and sat together on a flat rock perhaps ten yards from Moria’s arched entrance, quietly dripping. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Erestor gazed idly up at the sky. It was almost clear now, and in the sky, a deep golden moon shone in the south. When he glanced to the side, he saw that the light had conjured a strange warmth in Haldir’s dark eyes that been absent before, bathing his skin with a gentle luminescence and tracing the planes of his face until he looked almost like a golden statue, motionless and austere. In the rain and mist, his shirt had been soaked, and now it clung to him as it dried, highlighting every contour of bone and muscle so plainly that he might as well have been naked from the waist up. Erestor tilted his eyes down, away from the light and to the pebbles at his feet. The long-forgotten ache deep in his chest began to throb again. He closed his eyes. Like so much mist, a haze of memory whispered by. A beautiful day…children laughing. Bitter tears. He looked up sharply when a cold hand brushed against his face. ‘Don’t go to sleep yet,’ Haldir reminded him softly. ‘I wasn’t.’ ‘Want some shuteye?’ a voice offered cheerfully. The twins stood there, not a yard away, smiling and standing so close together in the cold that they could have been joined at the hip. Haldir grinned. ‘Yes. You’ve the second watch?’ Iamae nodded. ‘Indeed we do. Anything out here worth noting?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘This’ll be exciting, then…oh, and by the way, Lord Elrond is in a foul mood-’ ‘-again-’ interjected Iathil. ‘-so he and Thranduil have been shouting at each other for the past half hour-’ ‘-and have probably woken up every orc in the mine,’ they finished together.Haldir glanced at Erestor and then looked hastily away again. He wasn’t sure about Elrond, but for his own part, nothing in the world would make him even half willing to be at the receiving end of the dark elf’s icy expression. He took a breath to remind him not maim anybody, but quickly thought the better of it. Probably best not to attract attention. ‘You, sit down, you, go over there - are you seriously thinking of arguing with me because I should damn well hope not- and one more word and I’ll gag the both of you.’ The rest of the patrol watched in stunned fascination. Erestor was barely speaking above a whisper, but in comparison to the acid vehemence he managed to inject into his voice, shouting would have been practically gentle. Neither of the elven lords even tried to protest. Shooting his councillor a look that very nearly rivalled Erestor’s own, Elrond crossed his arms and folded down on the floor with his back against the wall. Thranduil made a tactical retreat toward the entrance arch, going to sit with Rumil. There was a long, long silence. Apparently, Erestor’s hearing was as sharp as his tongue, because it took the patrol a long, confused moment to understand why the dark elf abruptly pulled on his gauntlets and bestowed on Elrond possibly the most poisonous look ever to be received by anybody in the history of Middle Earth. And then they heard it too. Deep in the bowels of the mine, a drumbeat had started. Within moments, the patrol was outside, the cooking fires were extinguished and all trace of their presence gone. In the deep shadows behind the patrol’s six archers, Rumil tugged his brother’s sleeve. ‘If you they don’t see anybody here, will they go away again?’ Haldir shook his head slightly. ‘If the dwarves have lost the mine again, then the orcs will be hunting after every sound.’ ‘Then why are we staying here?’ ‘Well-’ ‘Because my sons are in there is why,’ snapped Elrond. ‘Shut up,’ Erestor suggested pleasantly. ‘Because there’s no cover on the grasslands,’ Haldir explained. ‘At least here, there’s some shadow.’ ‘Will we have to fight them?’ ‘If there’s only a small group, then yes.’ ‘And if there’s a lot of them?’ ‘Then I’ll have to come up with a different plan very quickly.’ Rumil swallowed. ‘But I’m not…I mean I don’t think I could…’ ‘Fight?’ Haldir guessed. ‘Win,’ Rumil said miserably. He jumped when someone touched his shoulder, but it was only Erestor. Very quietly, the dark elf unbuckled one of the many straps crossing over his chest and thighs, and carefully looped it over Rumil’s shoulder. He guided the younger elf’s hands to the two oddly shaped leather hilts now sitting snugly against his hips. ‘These are throwing stars. They’re perfectly balanced, made from mithril and enchanted to find enemy blood. Boils down to the fact that you couldn’t miss if you tried. They’ll return to you, and fit to your hand. All right?’ ‘But…then…what will you-’ ‘Well, I’ve got this sword, this belt of knives here, and…what else…ah, these daggers, set of poisoned throwing darts…’ ‘Oh right.’ ‘But don’t lose those, they were quite difficult to come by.’ ‘I won’t,’ Rumil promised. ‘Thank you.’ From inside the mine, the drumbeat was becoming louder, and now, heavy footsteps could be heard over the clanking of armour. ‘Sounds like a lot,’ Rumil whispered. ‘Y…es.’ ‘Haldir?’ ‘I think we’re going to have to fight.’ ‘What? But you said-’ ‘Yes. I know. Only, they’re behind us too.’ The members of the patrol close enough to hear him whipped round. Barely fifty yards away, the ghastly faces of a group of stooped, ratlike orcs were illuminated by the torches the beasts carried. They were sniffing the air, swinging around this way and that but inexorably coming closer to the half-hidden patrol with every step. Just behind them, the opening of a tunnel was dimly visible. It must have been covered by a boulder before. But when Rumil looked around again, more orcs had appeared in the entrance archway. ‘How’s that plan coming?’ he whispered. Haldir paused. ‘It’s established that we’re here to look for the princes, yes?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Nobody has any reservations?’ A soft, quietly bemused murmur of ‘no’s whispered through the patrol. ‘Good. Then be ready to run. Toward the entrance.’ The Marchwarden didn’t wait to hear any protests. Scooping up a stone from the rocky ground, he hurled it as hard as he could off to the left. It clacked loudly as it hit another rock, maybe forty paces away. The orcs’ reaction was instantaneous.Both groups rushed that way, snarling and drawing their weapons as they went. The patrol needed no second telling…the moment the shadows of the orcs were lost in the dark, the fifteen elves darted soundlessly back to the archway and slipped inside. ******** Elladan tugged irritably against the filthy chains holding him fast to an even filthier stone wall. It was more of a token gesture than any real effort to break himself free; the steel was dwarven-forged, and despite being old, it had more or the less the same chance of snapping as a mayfly did of living a century…possible, perhaps, but all the laws of physics and matter would have to be well and truly flattened first. Chained opposite him in the tiny cell, his twin gave his ankle an impatient kick. ‘Stop it, will you?’ Elrohir whispered. ‘Why? I don’t know about you, but I find being thrown into a dungeon and chained to a stone wall to be a supreme inconvenience!’ ‘You’ve been around Erestor too much,’ the other twin grumbled. ‘Maybe,’ Elladan admitted. ‘It must take a lot of energy to be permanently angry at everything.’ ‘I’m not sure that he actually tries. Seems to be his natural state. Are your wrists chafing, because mine are, and it’s damned annoying.’ ‘Yes. Painful would be a better word.’ ‘Why are we here again?’ ‘Because the nice orcs don’t like dear Ada very much.’ ‘And explain again why they manacled by ankles and left yours free?’ ‘Because I didn’t kick anybody in the head, Elladan.’ ‘Hm.’ Silence fell again. The steady, dank drip of water echoed from somewhere out in the corridor. Elrohir shivered as something that felt horribly like an enormous spider scuttled across his hand. Across from him, he could hear Elladan breathing. The faint rattle of the chains as his brother slumped forward. Trying to judge the distance between them through the pitch dark, moving very slowly, Elrohir leaned forward and set his forehead against Elladan’s. He felt his brother smile a little. Silently, Elrohir closed his eyes and tried to remember how in the name of grace they’d managed to get themselves into such a mess. It was difficult, especially since some considerate orc had hit him over the head a couple of times with something heavy before slinging him in here. The nape of his neck still throbbed. And…oh, yes. There had been a sharp wind that morning, cold and cutting, and the Rivendell party had already been tired from a sleepless, stormy night. Just ahead of the twins, Elrond and Erestor had been riding together, Elrond’s white mare and Erestor’s moody black gelding walking grudgingly side by side. They’d been talking in low murmurs, even laughing occasionally. Elrohir had been faintly impressed. To hear Erestor laugh was a rare thing indeed. Beside him, Elladan had been riding with a slightly vacant expression, tired after he’d sat the watch last night through the storm. He glanced up though when Elrohir whistled softly to catch his attention, and in perfect unison, they both dismounted and came absently together between the two horses. At this time of year, the pass of Caradhas was bleak but not unbearable, and so the two of them had taken very little notice anything going on around them…right up until the orcs had leapt down from a ledge above them and begun the slaughter. Elrohir had a dim memory of Erestor tackling Elrond to the floor from his horse to avoid an orc arrow, but then, the world had descended into chaos. Unprepared for the vicious ambush, the elves were swiftly killed and thrown unceremoniously into the spring snow, the horses left to bolt back the way they’d come. The twins had fought- fought hard and fast and sent more than a few heads rolling- before the orcs finally overpowered them. Elrohir had never been quite so sure that he was going to die, but the moment had never come…someone had hit him hard in the back of the head, and the world had gone dark. And he’d woken up here. Elrohir assumed that they were somewhere in the orc-owned part of Moria, but he wasn’t sure, and neither had he any idea of how long he and Elladan had been unconscious. He also assumed they’d be dragged here in order to somehow weaken their father, but knowing Elrond, Elrohir doubted that such an action had done anything but incense the Lord of the Imladris beyond all reasonable belief…if he was still alive, of course. He felt Elladan shift slightly, and sighed softly when his brother kissed his forehead. ‘Do you think Ada will look for us?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘Yes.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Well, if he’s not, someone will.’ ‘If they’re alive.’ ‘Go to sleep,’ Elladan suggested softly. ‘We’re standing up, Elladan.’ ‘How long are those chains?’ ‘Not long.’ ‘Long enough to take a step forward?’ ‘I think so…’ Pulling his own chains as far as they would allow, Elladan slipped his arms around his brother’s waist and kissed his hair. Very softly, he began to sing a lullaby he remembered from their childhood, when their mother was still alive. Felt Elrohir smile slightly. Soon, supported by the other and the chains, they both fell into light, fitful sleep. Until it was rudely interrupted by the abrupt arrival of a new prisoner. The Imladris twins heard the commotion outside the door before it actually opened; the orcs were shouting and snarling, mainly, it seemed, it pain, and from the point at which one of them managed to push the keys into the heavy dungeon door to when the new prisoner was hurled through in a flurry of golden hair and dark green forest clothes, there was a long stretch of cracks and thumps that suggested things weren’t quite going as planned. ‘Animal,’ of them growled, slamming the door again. ‘You’d better hope I don’t have any horrible diseases, then, you scum, because that bite of yours looks infected to me!’ the new arrival shouted back. ‘Hello,’ Elladan said cheerfully in the ensuing silence. ‘Who are you?’ ‘My name is Legolas.’ ‘King Thranduil’s son.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I sense a pattern forming.’ Legolas frowned through the dark. ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘We are Lord Elrond’s sons.’ ‘Oh. Well…pleased to meet you, I suppose.’ Apparently the Mirkwood prince was somewhat more mild in his attitude toward Imladris than his father. ‘Better circumstances would have been nice.’ ‘Yes.’ Silence again. *********