Title: Silver Circle Part 2
Author: Elshaurai
Author’s e-mail: ziantsha@hotmail.com
Pairings: Haldir/ Erestor
Rating:  R
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?

*********

	 At the end of Moria’s entrance corridor, a deep red light had kindled itself into a 
forbidding glow. Just behind Haldir, Rumil gripped the hilts of Erestor’s throwing stars 
with white knuckles. The drum beat was becoming louder and more urgent with every 
step, and beyond a bend in the narrow corridor, he could hear the snickering of untold 
numbers of orcs. He glanced back over his shoulder. The rest of the patrol were following 
silently, seven with drawn swords, six with bows, while at the rear, Thranduil wordlessly 
handed Elrond one of his two knives. In the shadows, Erestor was a dark wraith, barely 
visible through the gloom. He wasn’t holding a weapon. Yet. A faint roar from the 
direction of the entrance archway signalled that the orcs outside had finally seen through 
Haldir’s trickery.

‘Archers, nock and draw,’ Haldir whispered. ‘Fall to the back and cover the rest of us. All 
of you…run.’

	The sharp turn in the corridor took them down a rough stairway and onto the lip 
of the most enormous cavern Rumil had ever seen. Across it stretched a slender stone 
bridge, open to the air and with a blinding fall into darkness on either side.

The bridge of Khazad Dum.

 The instant the elves arrived at its edge, the orc archers hidden in the cavern walls let 
loose a ruthless rain of barbed arrows. Haldir didn’t so much as blink, running out across 
the bridge without even the barest hesitation, drawing the orc’s fire. The six archers 
darted out after him, firing as they went, three forward and three back to protect the patrol 
behind them. Rumil went next, horribly aware of the orc arrows clacking on the stone by 
his feet and wishing with every fibre in him that he could close his eyes and reasonably 
hope not to fall. Behind Rumil, the twins, Iamae and Iathil, swore together and then raced 
onto the narrow walkway. Pulling Elrond with him, Erestor followed with Thranduil 
close behind. All the while, the arrows came down as thick and fast as hail in a winter 
storm.

	‘You’re either very stupid or you know exactly where you’re going,’ Erestor 
called at Haldir.

‘I know where I’m going!’ Haldir shouted back, ducking a well-aimed arrow. ‘It isn’t 
far!’

Very quickly, Haldir glanced around, counting the running figures. Seventeen. Good. 
And then a swarm of orcs appeared around the bend of the corridor which they’d just left, 
charging after the patrol.

‘Oh, for the sake of grace,’ he breathed.

	Nearly three hundred years ago now, Galadriel had taken it upon herself to 
befriend the dwarfs of Moria. The elven delegations, Haldir and several of the other 
patrol captains among those chosen to go, were received politely if slightly gruffly, and 
shown around the mithril mine with surprising courtesy. In this way, Haldir had obtained 
quite a detailed mental map of the layout of the mines. Of course, the fledgling alliance 
had fallen through when an entire cart of mithril had gone missing; naturally, the drawfs 
had blamed the elves, and the elves, furious at the accusation, had promptly left…several 
weeks later it was discovered that the cart had actually been stolen by the orcs who 
infested Moria’s ancient sublevels, but nothing had ever quite mended the rift driven 
between Moria and Lorien that day. But, with his uncannily accurate memory, Haldir was 
now quite easily able to recall exactly where Moria’s prison cells were situated. Up these 
stairs, down a small, hidden staircase and then immediately to the left. However, what he 
could not remember was whether or not there was another way out from there.

	The patrol covered the steep stairways up into the first great hall under a fresh 
barrage of arrows from the orcs now pursuing them across the bridge. Keeping Elrond in 
front of him and then, wishing irritably that his conscience didn’t pick such inconvenient 
times to make an appearance, pulling Thranduil along too, Erestor ran through the 
archway at the very top of the stairway just in time to see Iamae and Iathil disappearing 
down a nondescript spiral stairwell off to the left. It didn’t look like the sort of place that 
would have a second exit. He followed anyway, reasoning that if the Marchwarden was 
wrong, then at least they’d be trapped together long enough for Erestor to stuff something 
unpleasant down the back of his shirt before the orcs arrived.

	The dark elf heard the sound of a bowstring creaking horribly close by. He 
whipped around just in time to three orcs release their arrows at once…all of them had 
been aiming at him. One to the head, one to the chest and one to the knee. Erestor cursed 
softly as the arrows rushed toward him. There was no way to avoid all three. He dropped 
down hard anyway, his nails cutting ragged lines of crimson across his palms as the last 
shot ripped into his shoulder. The other two went sailing over his head, missing Thranduil 
by inches and raking across Iathil’s cheek as they passed him by too, only then to clatter 
against the wall of the stairwell.

	The instant Rivanaen, at the rear of the patrol, dashed through the narrow portal, 
Haldir slammed the iron door and brought its eight sturdy bolts thudding home. He 
leaned back against it, and, ignoring the resounding clangs presumably caused by the orcs 
slamming the pommels of their blades against the other side, turned to gaze steadily at the 
patrol.

‘Would you like the good news, or the bad news?’

‘Bad news,’ the twins chorused, along with most of the rest.

‘The bad news is that we can’t get out of here. There is no other exit.’

‘And…the good news?’ Rumil offered tentatively.

‘The good news is that they can’t get in.’

‘Oh, fantastic, we can all rot down here in peace,’ Erestor growled, collapsing onto what 
had once been the prison guards’ bench at the far enough of the cramped corridor.

‘The other bad news,’ Haldir continued, paying him no attention, ‘is that the princes are 
not here.’

‘But they could still be-’ Elrond began.

‘I refuse to search the whole of Moria. If they were here, they would be in these cells. 
Since they are not, I should think it’s fairly safe to assume that they have been taken 
elsewhere.’

‘Where?’ Thranduil asked quietly.

‘We’ve a while to think about it,’ the Marchwarden said flatly, nodding to the door. ‘In 
the mean time, make yourselves at home. You can all draw straws for the watch…I’ve 
done mine.’

‘We haven’t got any straws,’ Rumil pointed out.

Haldir motioned vaguely. ‘Buttons, hairs, whatever it is you draw when I don’t do the 
night watch.’

‘Well, if we can catch ten mice and one rat…’

‘Get to it, then.’

Iathil glanced at Iamae as they watched their captain wander off to sit with Erestor. ‘Do 
you think he actually listens to what anybody says or does he just make an informed 
guess?’

‘I have the overall impression that he does listen, he just is not easily surprised.’

‘Ah. You think they were serious about the mice?’

‘I hope so, because it was supposed to be our watch.’

	While the patrol worked out a watch rota and Elrond and Thranduil argued about 
new possible prison locations, Haldir eased down on the old wooden bench beside 
Erestor. The raven-haired elf was even paler than usual, leaning forward against his knees 
with his head bowed and one hand clamped over his shoulder.

‘Just when I thought you might be capable of being light-hearted,’ Haldir murmured 
wryly.

‘Oh, I am, just not when I’m trapped in a dungeon with a score of really annoyed orcs 
trying to break down the door.’

Haldir frowned when he saw a trickle of blood slip between Erestor’s fingers. ‘You’re 
hurt.’

‘No, don’t-’

But the Marchwarden had already prised the dark elf’s weakened grip from his shoulder. 
Blood had soaked through his clothes. ‘You were hit.’

‘Went straight through.’

‘No it didn’t, their arrows were barbed.’

‘After some persuasion,’ Erestor amended softly. He bit his lip when Haldir began to pick 
bits of shattered chain mail from the wound. ‘Haldir-’

‘Has to be done before it starts to heal. Can you get out of that chain mail?’

‘Not easily.’

‘Drop the shoulder, then.’

Erestor gritted his teeth and then slowly let the shoulder of his shirt and mail fall down to 
expose the arrow wound. It was ragged from where the barbs had cut through, blood 
rapidly beginning to flow anew across his pale skin. Haldir studied it for a moment, then 
went over to where the patrol were clustered together by the door. He came back a few 
moments later with a hipflask.

‘Water?’ Erestor guessed uneasily.

‘Brandy.’ The Marchwarden tore a strip of fabric from his own sleeve and doused it in 
the amber liquid before applying it to the wound. Erestor choked. Haldir didn’t apologize. 
‘It needs to be clean before we bind it. Lord Elrond, did you bring any bandages?’

The Imladris lord paused in mid sentence, patting down his pockets. After a moment, he 
tossed Haldir a carefully wrapped reel of white cloth. He raised an eyebrow when he saw 
Erestor. ‘Weren’t you wearing chain mail?’

The dark elf smiled tightly. ‘Yes. Unfortunately, when arrows are involved, chain mail 
suddenly becomes a series of loosely connected holes.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Good.’ He turned back to Thranduil and proceeded to ignore the both of them.

To be at a better angle, Haldir knelt down on the floor. Erestor watched him silently as he 
unwound a length of the bandage. The only light in the dungeon came from the guttering 
torch somebody had thought to bring in with them from the cavern, and in the dying 
glow, Haldir’s indigo eyes sparkled. The dark elf swallowed and looked away. He didn’t 
see the Marchwarden’s stolen glance at him…didn’t see the pause that the odd delicacy 
in the bones of his face caused the silver-haired captain, or the way the other elf reached 
out to touch his shoulder before abruptly thinking the better of it.

‘Don’t move,’ Haldir told him quietly.

Erestor nodded slightly.

‘Have you ever been shot before?’

‘No.’ Erestor didn’t mention the number of other things he *had* been. ‘You?’

‘Happily, no.’

‘Oh good.’

Haldir smiled wanly, and knelt up to start what rapidly turned out to be a painful binding. 
Once he was finished, he leaned across to take Erestor’s hands. Very gently, he turned 
them palm up. Bleeding from where the dark elf had clenched his fists. Erestor gazed 
down at him with glittering obsidian eyes…even in the golden light, in contrast to his 
black hair, his skin was still as pale as porcelain. ‘Any better?’ Haldir asked quietly.

‘Much, thank you.’

‘Well, you’re lying, but at least you tried. Cairenil,’ Haldir added, waving to his tall 
second in command and slinging back the brandy cask. ‘It’s terrible for you, you know.’

The tall elf shrugged. ‘Better for my nerves than you are, captain, at any rate.’

Haldir only laughed. He was well aware that most of the patrol thought him to be more 
than slightly impulsive and faintly arrogant with it, but he hadn’t made it his business to 
take any particular notice.

Erestor looked down at his hands, exhausted and yet still horribly aware that he couldn’t 
lie down. He blinked when Haldir reached across and clasped his hand.

The Marchwarden smiled a little. ‘You look like death dragged through a hedge. You 
need some rest.’

‘Well, I’ll have to do it sitting up.’

By the door, the orcs had quietened somewhat, and the patrol were beginning to spread 
out some bed sheets on the floor for the night while Iamae and Iathil stood on watch. 
Very carefully, Haldir turned sideways, straddling the bench with his back against the 
wall before easing Erestor with him. ‘I thought I might be a bit softer than the floor.’

It earned a tired smile as the dark elf leaned back against him.

After a moment, Haldir asked softly, ‘Where do you think the princes are?’

‘They could be anywhere,’ Erestor whispered. His voice was threatening to leave the 
scene entirely, and did not seem to be planning to make an entirely graceful exit. ‘There 
are no end of fortresses and old castles between here and Mordor, most of them already 
abandoned. They’re probably somewhere nearby…less than twenty leagues, if the orcs 
were on foot.’

Haldir nodded slightly. ‘Sixty miles is still a wide radius to search.’

‘Halved, though, by the fact that there is nothing on the Imladris side of the mountains 
but Imladris.’

‘I need a map.’

‘Not now, please, it would undoubtedly involve moving.’

‘No.’

After a long silence, Haldir became aware of how Erestor’s breathing his deepened. He 
leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. At least the orcs were quiet…even they 
knew that the dwarfs made prison doors well enough to withstand a three day siege. Then 
he frowned when he noticed an odd scar on the back of Erestor’s neck. Odd in that it 
most certainly was not the result of an accidental injury; it had been carved. It was the 
unmistakable outline of a dragon, wings spread wide and tail lashing behind it, drawn 
with the clarity of a tattoo and standing out silver against Erestor’s fair skin. Haldir had 
never seen the like. It couldn’t have been done with a blade, because it would have 
healed, but the lines were so fine that he was at a loss to think of anything else.

‘Elrond,’ he hissed, unwilling to wake Erestor.

‘Hm?’ The elven lord glanced up.

‘Have you seen this scar?’

‘What scar?’ Frowning, Elrond got to his feet and came over, leaving Thranduil and a 
battered map on the floor in the doorway of one of the cells. His blue eyes narrowed as he 
studied it. ‘I’ve seen this before.’

‘Well, did he tell you what it is?’

‘No, no, not on him.’ He turned to look back the way he’d come. ‘Thranduil,’ he called 
quietly. ‘Come here for a moment.’

The Mirkwood king obliged. ‘Yes?’

‘Look at this. Do you recognize it?’

Thranduil barely had to glance at it. ‘Yes, of course.’

Elrond looked back at Haldir. ‘The orcs who took our sons had this symbol painted onto 
their armour. Which begs the question of why my councillor has it burned into his neck.’

	Erestor woke slowly. It was an experience he hated; sleep, he felt, ought to be a 
binary state, one either was or wasn’t…there oughtn’t be a shady area inbetween where 
dreams and nightmares invaded the waking world. Sound came first. Other than Haldir’s 
heartbeat, there wasn’t any. Smell…damp, and blood. And then touch. A warm touch on 
the back of his neck. Instantly alert, he sat bolt upright and then very quickly wished he 
hadn’t as pain shot down his back and chest. He ignored it, clamping his hand against the 
nape of his neck.

‘The scar on the back on your neck. What is it?’ Haldir asked quietly.

‘Completely irrelevant.’

‘I beg to differ,’ Elrond said, from a short way away.

Erestor frowned. ‘Why?’

‘You saw the orcs who took Elladan and Elrohir, Erestor. That symbol was painted onto 
their armour. What does it mean?’

‘It’s a brand, a mark of ownership over a slave. Or, at least it was when I was a child. I 
doubt the same is true now.’

‘Why do you have it?’ Despite having known the dark elf for several millennia, Elrond 
had never managed to prise the story of his childhood from him.

‘I was born into slavery, lived in it for a while, was branded and then promptly escaped. 
There isn’t much to tell.’

‘But where…?’

‘An old fortress, in the north. It’s nearly four hundred leagues from here, and little more 
than a ruin. Unless the orcs have developed an interesting new way of covering over a 
thousand miles in two days, I doubt your sons are there.’

There was a long pause. Then, ‘How’s your shoulder?’

‘Fine,’ Erestor growled.

‘You’re sure the arrow wasn’t poisoned?’

‘By the fact that I’m still breathing, I assumed not.’

Elrond sighed awkwardly. ‘Erestor…there was never any question of your loyalty.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘There was, Elrond, because otherwise you would not have said that there wasn’t. Still. If 
three millennia of service to you has failed to convince you that I’m trustworthy, nothing 
will, so it probably isn’t worth trying.’

Elrond held his silence, then folded down opposite Thranduil once more with a resigned 
sigh. Across the floor of the dungeon corridor, the other elves were stretched out or 
curled up in rough travelling blankets, sleeping clustered around the remnants of three 
tiny fires. Haldir could still hear the orcs outside, but they had long since given up on 
trying to knock the door down. Twelve inches of solid steel, not to mention enough bolts 
and locks to supply a fortress, was easily enough to keep out even a band of determined 
cave-trolls. Beside him on the bench, Erestor had ducked out of his chain mail, sitting 
with his shirt and jerkin undone and gazing disconsolately at the hole in the in the metal 
links. After a moment, he let it fall in a heap on the floor. Haldir sighed, aware that he’d 
probably be wasting his breath in trying to get the dark elf’s attention, leaned back 
against the wall once more and let his eyes slip closed. He didn’t sleep, even after Elrond 
and Thranduil turned in for the night. But after a while, he felt a cold hand slip tentatively 
into his, and, after longer still, a gentle weight eased hesitantly down against his chest. 
With his head against Haldir’s shoulder, Erestor didn’t see him smile.

	Elrond stared down at the map, tapping his fingers idly on the ragged edge of the 
old parchment. Thranduil was doing the same, and, if an observer had looked closely 
enough, they would have seen that both elves were gazing at the same spot. They also 
happened to be thinking identically. A fortress, in the north. Directly north from the 
Misty Mountains and Moria was nothing but wastelands, but, north east told a very 
different tale. Mount Erebor stood just off the eastern side of Mirkwood, and north of that 
were the Grey Mountains and Withered Heath, the home of many of the old castles and 
fortresses built before the coming of the First Age. And then, east of that and due north 
from Mordor, were the Iron Hills.

‘It cannot be that one,’ Elrond said aloud after a long silence.

Thranduil shrugged slightly. His notable lack of argument showed something of the 
gravity of the conversation topic. ‘North. North of where? North in general certainly 
makes it a possibility.’

‘The orcs could not move that quickly. The Iron Hills are-’

‘Nearly four hundred leagues from here,’ Thranduil murmured. ‘And he said that, did he 
not? A fortress, in the north, nearly four hundred leagues away. As for the orcs, there 
must still be places for them to be safe at night. Old strongholds on the way.’

‘But it’s still unlikely. What would *he* want with our sons?’

‘Valar knows what he wants. Death and destruction in general, at the last I heard.’

‘Hm.’

There was a pause. Then, very quietly, ‘It can’t be there, can it?’

‘No.’

‘Then how are we to guess where they are? The Marchwarden I think was following their 
tracks until it rained. There is no way to know.’

Elrond shook his head. ‘True, but by Iluvatar, if we must search the whole of Middle 
Earth, then the northeast we will save til last. I would sooner venture onto the slopes of 
Mount Doom than step within twenty leagues of the Iron Hills.’

	Rumil took the last watch of the night, and although the dungeons had no 
windows, he was fairly sure it was almost dawn when he became aware of the silence. 
Frowning slightly, he twisted around and put his eye to the crack in the door. Even with 
such a narrow perspective, it was quite obvious that the stairwell outside was empty. 
Rumil wasn’t sure whether this worried him more than when the orcs had been fifteen 
inches away and punching the steel. After a moment’s painful indecision, the young elf 
got to his feet and hurried across to where his brother was sleeping peacefully on the 
bench at the far end of the corridor. He gave Haldir a tentative nudge.

‘Haldir…Haldir, wake up.’

The Marchwarden turned his head and smiled. ‘This role-reversal feels most odd.’

‘The orcs have gone.’

‘What?’

‘The orcs…they’re not in the stairwell any more. Do you think they’ve lost interest?’ he 
added hopefully.

‘No, I think they’re setting up a trap at the top of the stairs,’ Haldir murmured. He 
paused. Then, ‘Rouse the archers. If we must walk into a trap, then we’ll at least do it 
from a distance.’

‘Yes, captain-’

‘Rumil?’

Rumil looked around nervously.

‘You did well yesterday.’

Rumil beamed. Suddenly the day was brightening.

	A little under ten minutes later, Erestor moved soundlessly around the first turn of 
the stairwell, with his back against the curving wall and a dagger in either hand. Because 
of his uncanny ability to blend so seamlessly with the shadows, Haldir had, after a few 
minutes’ worth of vicious arguing, agreed to let him go ahead of the patrol to check the 
orcs’ position. The dark elf climbed through two whole turns in the spiral, before he saw 
the orc archers stationed further up. Only two of them. Before they died, the only sound 
they heard was the faint whistling of flying steel. They both dropped like stones. Silently, 
Erestor carried on his way up, stooping to retrieve his knives as he went. On the next 
spiral, two more waited, and met the same fate. On the next, six. Erestor paused. After a 
moment or so’s thought, he sheathed the two knives and drew the twin swords strapped 
across his back instead. Then, very deliberately, he flicked on of the blades. It sang softly, 
and instantly, the orcs rushed down. Unfortunately for them, they did this in single file, 
and therefore proceeded to be most put out when they found that the dark wraith in the 
shadows was in fact decidedly quicker than they had bargained for. The six corpses fell 
heavily down the steps to join the other four. Anticipating the fire of the archers above, 
Erestor leaned back into the dark again. He counted the first round of arrows. Only four. 
With a remarkable burst of energy for one supposed to be hindered by an arrowshot to the 
shoulder, he sprang up the last few steps, slashing first bowstrings and then necks in a 
silvery flurry of mithril. Finding himself at the top of the stairwell, Erestor looked mildly 
around. Then he retreated a few steps.

‘All clear!’ he called. He heard the steel door open, and then several exclamations of 
surprise.

‘Well,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘apart from the hordes of orcs running at full 
tilt in our direction from the other side of the hall, but I’m sure that if you hurry, we’ll 
beat them to the bridge by a few yards.’

	The last of the patrol darted through the arched entrance in the side of the 
mountain with more than a few yards to spare, but not much more. As they did, the sun 
burst over the horizon behind the mine and lanced bright rays between the mountain 
passes, and so by the time the elves had run another half mile or so into the grassy plains 
beyond, the light was easily strong enough to return the orcs to the safety of Moria’s 
darkness.

	After a brief search for a map, Haldir settled down in the grass with his legs 
crossed and Elrond’s ancient cartograph spread across his knees. Cairenil, who, having 
come from Valinor with his wife and brothers to serve Lord Amroth in Lorien before the 
rule of Celeborn and Galadriel, was far better travelled than the rest of the company and 
therefore much more familiar with the land, was soon called over too. Very quickly, the 
main known orc strongholds in every direction had been picked out and then duly 
rejected for lack of organisation until only four remained. All of them lay strung out in a 
rough line, running from just off the eastern side of Mirkwood all the way up to the Grey 
Mountains and the Iron Hills in the north-east.

‘North,’ Haldir announced eventually. ‘And east.’

Thranduil frowned. ‘To Mirkwood?’

‘To the far side of Mirkwood. The nearest orc fort is a ruin not far from here, perhaps 
three days’ journey…fifty leagues. If we move off now, we will be able to cross the 
Anduin by nightfall, and with any luck be into Mirkwood as long as the pace is quick. 
Are we agreed?’

There was a quiet murmur of assent among the patrol. Most of them were experienced 
enough to know that when their captain asked such a question, he wasn’t asking at all, 
merely presenting them with a chance to grumble if they happened to be in a mood to 
venture a clash with him. Few of them ever bothered; while the captain often seemed to 
have little evidence to support his decisions, they were very rarely wrong. However, as 
they began to move off, Elrond caught the Marchwarden’s elbow.

‘Where is the fourth fortress?’

Haldir glanced at the map, then tapped a spot in the very middle of the horse-shoe shape 
of the Iron Hills. ‘Here. Why?’

‘It is death to venture there, captain. We cannot go that far. It would be safer to ride alone 
into Barad-Dur waving a white flag…believe me.’

‘But your sons-’

‘Cannot be there, Marchwarden. The evil that dwells there has little interest in three 
boys.’

‘If we do not find your sons in the other three, then I do not see that we have much 
choice.’

‘Neither do I. But I will pray that it does not to come to that.’

Haldir nodded uneasily, and signalled to the patrol to pick up their pace again. He did not 
know what lay in the Iron Hills, but if it could strike fear into the heart of a lord who 
marched against Sauron, then perhaps for once it was time to heed a warning and stop 
short of it.

	Moving swiftly, the patrol encountered no problems until they reached the banks 
of the river Anduin, and even then, the problem was not orcs. The rope bridge which had 
formerly spanned across the water had been cut. Now, it lay coiled on the far back, two 
hundred yards away over the deep river. The current made the waters far too treacherous 
to swim, and because no such crossing had been foreseen, nobody had thought to be 
bring rope even halfway long enough to construct a new bridge. After a short and 
horrified silence, Erestor sighed, swiped Rivanaen’s bow and let his own pack fall to the 
ground with a suspiciously metallic clank. Then he pulled out a thick coil of rope. Having 
tied one end to the arrow shaft and the other round his own wrist, he fired the arrow into 
the trunk of a tree on the far side of the river and handed his ended of the rope to Haldir, 
who raised an eyebrow.

‘You’re all useless,’ the dark elf said flatly.

Haldir pulled out a wooden tent stake to tie the rope around and drove it into the ground 
with his heel. ‘Well then. I should get a move on if I were you, because if I catch you up 
before you reach the other side, I shall not be held responsible if it suddenly becomes 
apparent that you cannot swim.’

Erestor grinned. And ran.

	By dusk, just as Haldir had predicted, the patrol reached the borders of Mirkwood. 
As the sun set over the trees, the shadows lengthened like grasping fingers until, 
surprisingly quickly, the dark was all but absolute. Leaning back against a spindly silver 
birch, Erestor watched silently as tiny cooking fires were kindled and the watch was 
chosen. He was quietly glad that nobody had asked him to draw a lot- or, as it was today, 
a leaf- too…after the quick pace of the day, his shoulder was now shrieking its protests, 
sending sharp stabs of pain down his arm and back and putting him in less than an 
entirely able position to sit out the watch.

‘You,’ Haldir murmured from behind him, ‘are skulking.’

‘I am not.’

‘Yes you are, and before we carry on any further, I feel bound to warn you that I have 
two younger brothers and have endless stamina in these kind of arguments.’

Erestor raised an eyebrow. ‘Two? Where’s the other?’

‘Orophin is in another patrol.’

‘Why?’

‘It was where he was needed. So, are you coming for a walk or not?’

Erestor frowned. ‘Walk? You didn’t say anything-’

‘Yes I did, just now. Keep up.’

Erestor raised a wry eyebrow, abruptly noticing why the vast majority of the patrol 
seemed to think Haldir more than slightly arrogant. ‘Well, I hope you can see in the 
dark.’

‘Why is Elrond so afraid to go near the fourth fortress?’

‘Where is it?’ Erestor asked. He hadn’t seen the map.

‘In the Iron Hills.’

‘Oh. That fortress.’

Haldir waited.

‘It was built a long time ago but a less than nice person, who then proceeded to wreak 
havoc for a short while before the building was destroyed again. Annoyingly, most of the 
castle was built underground and still exists. It was home to Balrogs and orcs and Valar 
knows what for a bit, although I should think they’ve been disbanded by now. Why, do 
you think the princes are headed that way?’

‘Yes. Would you recommend going there?’

‘No,’ the dark elf said flatly.

‘Why not?’

‘Would you recommend that a stag go and make itself at home in front of a ravenous 
panther? No. Right. Similar reason.’

‘What’s there, Erestor? Elrond has been to the Black Gates and back, but-’

‘The Black Gates of Mordor,’ Erestor told him quietly, ‘represent cheerful visions of 
honey and berries in comparison to what you would find in the Iron Hills. Anyway. 
Who’s cooking tonight?’

‘The twins, I think. They’re quite good. How’s your shoulder?’

‘It aches.’

‘It probably needs rebinding.’

‘Hm.’ There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in Erestor’s voice.

‘I’ve still got some bandages,’ Haldir offered quietly. ‘I’ll do it now, if you’d like.’

Erestor nodded slightly and carefully slipped his shirt back from his shoulders, standing 
motionless while Haldir untied the old and blood-soaked bindings. He swallowed. It felt 
strange to be so close, even after yesterday. Oblivious of such unease, Haldir worked as 
carefully as he could in the dark, and once he was finished, he stroked a stray strand of 
dark hair away from Erestor’s eyes and smiled.

‘Better?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wish you’d answer honestly on occasion.’ Gently, Haldir reached down and eased 
Erestor’s shirt back round his shoulders, letting his touch linger ever so slightly longer 
than was necessary.

‘Why? It would hardly make anybody feel any better. Anyway, there’s no occasion, and 
before you try, Marchwarden, obscure dwarven festivals that boil down more or less to 
wild drinking contests judged on general quaffing skills do not qualify.’

‘Foiled again. But still, Erestor…I need to know whether or not you’re all right to travel 
in the morning. The pace will be fast again if you are.’

‘I just need some sleep.’

‘I’m not surprised. You don’t seem to get much.’

‘Well, you’re only marginally preferable to the floor to sleep on. You’re quite bony in 
places.’

‘So are you. I’m sure I’ve never known anybody with sharp ribs, but you…’

‘I’ll sleep on the floor,’ Erestor smiled.

‘You’ll do no such thing. You might feel like a sack of rocks but at least you’re warm. 
Speaking of warmth, we ought to get back, before whatever it is the twins are doing goes 
cold.’

	It was late that night when Elrond rose silently from the deep shadow of an 
ancient oak to move across the sleeping camp. Thranduil had fallen asleep over the map 
and didn’t stir, while a little way through the trees, the two elves on the night watch did 
not turn to watch the raven-haired lord go. Taking care to step around the dozing forms 
scattered across the woodland floor, he made his way across to the far side of the camp, 
to where Erestor was sitting cross-legged beside the embers of the evening’s cooking fire. 
Just behind him, the patrol’s silvery captain was peacefully asleep, his head cushioned in 
his arms and a soft curtain of pale hair masking his features.

‘Evening,’ Erestor greeted him quietly.

Elrond sat down in the grass opposite. ‘I see you didn’t trust me to bind your shoulder, 
then.’

It earned the ghost of a smile. ‘You were busy looking at a map. On that subject, the 
Marchwarden says he suspects the twins will be bound for the fortress in the Iron Hills. 
You agree?’

‘I wish I didn’t. But in view of the evidence, it seems likely.’

‘Hm.’

There was a heavy pause. Then, ‘What have you told him?’

Erestor frowned. ‘Nothing but a brief sum of its history. Exactly as much as I’ve told 
you. Why, should I have refused and piqued his already considerable curiosity all the 
more?’

Elrond sighed softly. He had never made it his business to dig into Erestor’s past, and the 
other elf had never mentioned it. ‘Of course not. But Erestor, I do feel bound to ask 
you…before you came to Imladris, did you ever have any dealings with Thranduil? He 
seemed to recognise you.’

Erestor frowned slightly. ‘Yes. Very briefly. I served as a soldier here for a while on his 
permission. I stayed with him and his wife. Why?’

‘Give me a moment. What about Rohan, or Gondor?’

‘What about them?’

‘Have you been there?’

‘Only Gondor.

‘Where did you stay?’

‘Osgiliath, with the captain of the garrison there…I was his second in command for a few 
years. The place is within throwing distance of Mordor, they always have trouble with 
orcs, but *why* in the name of Iluvatar are you asking me this now?’

‘Does it not strike you as strange that, only last month, even in Rivendell we heard news 
that the garrison of Osgiliath had taken a particularly hard fall, losing more than a quarter 
of its men to a vicious orc attack, and, more importantly, that there is absolutely no trace 
to be found of the captain’s young son?’

‘I was there over a hundred years ago- at the same time you took the twins travelling. It 
isn’t the same captain.’

‘Oh? I imagine it would surprise you then to learn that the captaincy of the Osgiliath 
garrison is handed down through one family, and that the current captain is the grandson 
of the man you knew?’

Erestor sighed. ‘All very odd, yes, indeed, but I’d quite like to know what you’re trying 
to tell me now, and if it happens to be what I’m fairly sure it is, then you, my dear lord, 
have my full permission to go and drown yourself for being so utterly absurd.’

Elrond raised an eyebrow, quite used enough to the dark elf to know not to take him 
entirely seriously. ‘Whatever I might be, Erestor, absurd I am not, and neither am I a 
complete fool. You come from the Iron Hills; you as good as said so yourself yesterday, 
even after millennia of refusing to tell me. A fortress four hundred leagues from here in 
the north. That mark on your neck is *his.*’

‘I left that place over four thousand years ago.’

‘Immortals have long memories.’

‘Yes,’ Erestor agreed quietly. ‘They do.’

‘Just consider it,’ Elrond bade him softly. ‘It would not be unlike him to do such a thing. 
To take the children of the people who helped you, if only to see whether you were astute 
enough to notice what was happening and fear him all the more for it.’

Erestor looked at him sharply. ‘I do not fear him, and you have no reason to think he 
would even bother to make me.’

‘No. I know. But he can cause you all manner of things aside from fear, and that, I think, 
you must remember before you dismiss him entirely.’

Erestor watched silently as Elrond turned and disappeared into the darkness. After a 
moment, he glanced down at Haldir, quietly envying the Marchwarden such a deep sleep. 
He reached out slowly and stroked the fall of silver hair back from the captain’s face. It 
felt like spun silk. Dark lashes stayed closed.

*I will find you. You, and all those you hold dear, and all those they hold dear.*

Erestor whipped his hand away and stared into the night. And, as they always did when 
he was just uneasy enough to forget himself for a moment, his fingers came to rest on the 
nape of his own neck, and the scar of a flying dragon.

	Haldir swallowed. Well aware that he had by no means been meant to hear what 
had just been said, he had stayed as still as he could and hoped to the Valar that Erestor 
wouldn’t notice that he was awake. Once he was sure Elrond had gone, he sat up slowly 
and touched Erestor’s shoulder.

‘What are you doing awake at this time?’ he asked softly.

Erestor glanced at him with strangely hollow eyes. ‘Nothing. Watching the dark in case it 
did anything interesting.’

‘The sentries are supposed to do that. Could you not sleep?’

‘No.’

Haldir smiled slightly. ‘Well, of course you’re welcome to keel over in a heap tomorrow, 
but I really would advise…’

‘Really? Good grief, you are astute tonight.’

‘Valar, and I thought we might have ploughed through the stage of juvenile insults.’

‘And I thought we might have eclipsed the stage of stating the blindingly obvious, but I 
suppose we’re to be equally disappointed.’

‘Erestor.’

‘I’m sorry.’

For some reason, such a quiet apology made Haldir feel worse than any sort of stinging 
retort. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Bearing mind that it is my business to know if I’m leading my patrol into a death trap.’

‘What?’

‘If the fortress in the Iron Hills is worse than Moria, I believe you ought to give me the 
dignity of telling me so. I don’t need to know what happened there and I’m not sure I 
want to, but if prior experience leads you to think that going there will result only in the 
needless deaths of fourteen good and innocent wardens, then for the sake of the Valar say 
so.’

‘You were awake,’ Erestor observed wryly.

‘Of course I was awake, I’ve the second watch and I’m on duty in half an hour.’

The dark elf sighed. ‘No.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The fortress isn’t a death trap. It is heavily but very carelessly guarded, and even if they 
did stick to their duty rota, the guards still know me and also know full well that they 
would be promptly crucified if they didn’t let me through. Getting out again could 
present a few more difficulties, but there are some secret passages and things.’

Haldir paused. ‘If they were there, where would the princes be held?’

‘Dungeons, cells, anywhere, really, most of the castle is built underground to avoid the 
inconvenience of daylight. I’m sure it wouldn’t be difficult to find out.’

‘Then…what is so terrible about it?’

There was a long silence. Erestor gazed down at the embers of the fire, his dark eyes 
distant. Haldir stared when suddenly, the fire flared again, spitting sparks of sharp, 
emerald green before settling down again to burn on nothing but ash. Erestor didn’t seem 
to notice. ‘Have you never wondered how orcs came to share this world with us?’

Haldir frowned. ‘How they…no.’

‘Most think that they are the creations of Sauron, although how people ever managed to 
reach such a conclusion I’ve no idea…Sauron hasn’t the power to give life, nor the 
imagination. Orcs are distant relatives of elves. Elves who were chained and driven 
insane through millennia and millennia of vicious torture until, finally, nothing remained 
but an empty shell, the breathing body of a dead soul long since departed. Slowly, 
through thousands of years of trials and experiments, and new form of life evolved in the 
dungeons. The early forms of orc. Beings with no sense of conscience, emotion, right or 
wrong. At first, they were just empty drones, but after that, it was very quickly found that 
it was possible to bring them forward another step so that they weren’t evil only because 
of an absence of good, but because they themselves consciously willed it. Anything kept 
in the dark under a madman’s knife for Valar knows how long must develop a sense of 
sheer hate of everything, and so they did. Orcs.’

‘But how does-’

‘I’m sure you’ve heard all that before. What you won’t have heard is where the 
experiments were conducted.’

Haldir fell still.

‘Not Barad-Dur, or Cirith Ungul or even in Mordor at all. The Iron Hills. They go on, 
still, and I imagine they will do long after we cross the sea to Valinor. Which is why 
you’ll find very few elves here willing to set foot inside.’ Erestor smiled slightly. ‘Still. 
Food’s not too bad there.’

After a long pause, Haldir sighed. ‘Come on the watch with me. If you’re going to be 
awake, I suppose you may as well be awake doing something useful.’

‘Yes.’

‘Erestor?’ he asked quietly.

‘I haven’t moved, I promise.’

‘A long, long time ago, before Sauron, the symbol on your neck was used in a war, to 
mark out the soldiers of a powerful son of Iluvatar bent on wreaking havoc from here to 
Valinor. He was always supposed to have built a fortress, somewhere in the north.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this-’

‘One and the same. Yes. Cheerful, isn’t it? Still. Come on. Acute boredom awaits.’


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


	Legolas raised an eyebrow, impressed for the very briefest of moments before he 
remembered himself and slammed his elbow straight back into the chest of the orc guard 
behind him. On either side of him, the two other guards fell flat on the floor as the 
Imladris twins demonstrated exactly how hard their own skulls were by slamming them 
backward into the orcs’ foreheads. Legolas looked on with interest.

‘Does that not hurt?’

‘Well, yes, but it hurts them more,’ Elladan said, hopping neatly the side to avoid his 
guard’s infuriated swipe at his ankles. After that though, the three orcs, already wearied 
from carting the three elves across several hundred leagues over the past few days, gave 
up and slammed the door behind them. They had long since ceased to see the benefits of 
ropes and chains…somehow, all three elves managed to be out of them and beaming 
happily within a few hours, however many locks or knots there were. Of course, they 
couldn’t possibly have known that both the twins had been taught the delicate art of lock 
picking by a certain friend of their father’s, or that it had always been the custom of the 
Mirkwood prince to keep a slender knife down his boot in case of emergencies.

	Elrohir sighed, and stretched. Unlike the last three cells they had been kept in for 
the nights, this place was far more than a reinforced broom cupboard. For one, it was 
huge; a dank, dark dungeon in every sense of the word. From the high ceiling hung 
guttering torches on steel chains, and all around the walls, manacles were bolted into the 
stonework. Some of them were still clamped around the mouldering wrists of already 
skeletal corpses. Rats slunk along the walls and the floor was crawling with spiders. The 
door was quite something to behold, too. It was wide, plated with thick panels of steel 
and the hinges, probably dwarven-made, were so well fitted that there wasn’t so much as 
a knife’s width between the door and the wall at any point around the frame. Somebody, 
he thought dully, had known what they were doing when they built this place.

	Elladan was noting very much the same features. No amount of lock-picking skill 
was going to help now, which was unfortunate, because already the smell of the rotting 
corpses was becoming too putrid to stand for much longer. After a moment’s 
consideration, he made a slow circuit of the dungeon, tapping the wall with his knuckle 
with every step. The dull thumps showed that they were, if indeed there had ever been 
any doubt, absolutely, undeniably and inescapably solid. No digging out with bits of old 
cutlery, then.

	While Elladan paced, Elrohir and Legolas picked their way across the arachnid-
infested floor to where the nearest corpse was sprawled against the wall. After a careful 
but grudging inspection, they found nothing more than they had expected; the body was 
covered with wounds, cuts, fractured bones, but none of which were serious enough to 
have caused death. The elf had died of starvation.

‘Well,’ Elrohir murmured, ‘at least we know what to expect.’

From across the dungeon, Elladan called suddenly, ‘Here, what does this say?’

The other two looked around. Elladan was crouched down on the floor near a corner, 
brushing away a thick cobweb away from one of the stones in the wall. They both joined 
him. Elrohir frowned. ‘That’s not Elvish.’

‘No. It’s not any sort of orc script I’ve seen either.’

‘Legolas?’

The Mirkwood prince was gazing thoughtfully at the spiky script etched into the stone. ‘It 
looks like early Quenyan.’

‘Can you read it?’

‘It’s difficult…each rune can mean three different things. A number, a letter or an object 
or feeling, like strength or determination. I’ll try though, if you like. But I doubt it says 
“exit this way” .’

The twins watched silently as Legolas drew his knife and began to etch something into 
the stone above. ‘I’ll try numbers first,’ he said quietly. ‘And that gives…absolute 
nonsense. Not a date or anything recognisable. Ah…objects…it would say…sun, st- 
rubbish again. Letters. I wish I’d paid attention in lessons now. The first one is an…E, I 
think. R.’ He scratched the two letters into the stone. ‘E again. And…I don’t know this 
one.’

‘So far, we’ve got ere. Before something?’

‘Perhaps,’ Legolas murmured. ‘Valar, but this looks old…’

‘Well, it would do, there’s spider web all over it.’

‘I meant the dialect. The symbols are all slightly different. Anyway, I suppose it could be 
a space. The last letter is an R again. E-R-E…something something R.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a word to me,’ Elladan commented unhelpfully.

‘Well no, because it’s a Quenyan word,’ Elrohir sighed.

‘S and T,’ said Legolas suddenly. ‘The fourth symbol, it’s a sound rather than a letter. St. 
And the fifth…’

‘It’s an O.’

Elladan frowned as he looked at his brother. ‘What? How can you know that?’

‘Look,’ Elrohir said softly.

On the wall, above the Quenyan symbols, Legolas had written the letters in plain Elvish. 
EREST R.

‘Well,’ Elladan breathed, ‘at least we know there’s a way out now.’


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

	
	Yesterday evening, the patrol had passed by the first fortress. There had been not 
a soul there, and when the castle was searched, there was no sign of life. Now they were 
heading due north, toward the west-reaching tributaries of the river Carnen, toward the 
next castle on the map, near Mount Erebor. From there, they would go east, to the Iron 
Hills. It was almost midday when the scouts ahead, Rumil and another young elf by name 
of Anatiel, called an abrupt halt. After a pause, Rumil ran back to his brother.

‘Haldir! We’ve found tracks up ahead, only a few days old. Orcs, lots of them.’

‘Going which way?’

‘Due east, toward the main flow of the Carnen.’

‘Could be a diversion,’ Cairenil pointed out quietly. He and Haldir had been walking 
together, trying to discern whether any of the other forts were worth missing too. Just 
behind them, Thranduil and Erestor were speaking rapidly in Quenyan, presumably so 
that the rest of the patrol wouldn’t understand the degree to which they were insulting 
each other.

‘Could be. But it’s unlikely; they were in a hurry. We’ll follow and keep an eye out for 
any of the tracks doubling back. The worst that could happen is that we have to turn back 
on ourselves. We would lose a day at most.’

Cairenil nodded slightly. ‘I’ll go ahead with the map. Make sure we’re following the right 
lines.’
Just as he left, Erestor stepped forward to take his place, his expression not quite one to 
suggest a contented disposition. Haldir raised an eyebrow. Behind them, Thranduil was 
busy ranting at Elrond, and the most of the patrol were endeavouring gallantly to ignore 
stinging flow of Quenyan. Knowing the tongue really wasn’t necessary now to be aware 
that they weren’t discussing directions or battle tactics.

‘What did you say to him?’ Haldir asked.

‘I made the mistake of starting my sentence with “Elrond thinks”.’

‘Well.’ Haldir sighed. ‘Nobody is in the best of moods. The rain last night put pay to any 
plans we’d had of sleep.’ The night before, the patrol had been caught in the middle of 
the wide plains between Mirkwood and the Carnen in most almighty storm Haldir had 
seen in centuries. They had been none too pleased to have to trudge on all through the 
night in the pouring rain.

Erestor nodded. He was still damp.

Haldir tilted his head. ‘What does that make it now…four nights in a row that you 
haven’t slept? You look exhausted.’

‘So does everyone.’

‘But not everyone’s voice is giving out so spectacularly.’

‘Hm.’ He paused. ‘Oh, look.’

Haldir frowned, and glanced on up ahead. On the horizon, a dark line had appeared. 
‘What in Iluvatar’s name…?’

‘Orcs,’ Erestor observed, in the tone of one absently discussing cloud formation.
Haldir looked at him, slightly disbelieving. Everything in the dark elf’s expression 
showed him to be just as mild as he sounded. ‘You are truly unbelievable.’

Erestor didn’t seem to hear. ‘Where’s Rumil?’

‘He’s with the scou-’ Haldir stopped, his eyes travelling slowly toward the horizon and 
the orcs, and snagging on the little group of scouts walking on oblivious on the slope of a 
hill up ahead. Silently, he judged the distance. Then he set off at a swift jog.

	Rumil stretched his arms up, stiff from the long night of plodding on through the 
rain. He was still wet, and from the cold as much as impatience, he had shaken the braids 
from his hair and was quietly enjoying looking less than neat. Most of the patrol had done 
the same; complicated braids were hard to maintain through a thunderstorm, and now, as 
he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw that even Haldir had given in to practicality 
and pushed back his silver hair into a long, loose braid down his back. Back on the last 
hill, Erestor looked his usual untidy self, his black hair standing up in scruffy spikes that 
were somehow quite becoming. After a second, Rumil frowned, then glanced back again. 
Haldir was coming toward them, already a good way ahead of the rest of the patrol. He 
waved as soon as he saw Rumil watching, and signalled for the scouts to come back. 

Rumil frowned, and mouthed ‘Why?’

Haldir pointed up ahead, and drew a hand across his throat.

‘Orcs?’

His brother nodded.

Rumil was about to turn back to tell Cairenil and Anatiel to come back with him when he 
saw, on the summit of the hill behind Haldir, a flash of horror cross Erestor’s face. 
Instinctively he looked around to see why…and came nose to nose with a charging warg 
and its rider.

	Grabbing Anatiel, Rumil flung himself to the side, landing hard on the grass and 
tumbling a dozen yards back down the hill again in a flurry of mud and limbs. The two 
elves ground a painful halt just in time to see another warg charge straight into Cairenil, 
who was instantly hurled backward. A little way away, Haldir ran across and hauled the 
two scouts to their feet. He gave Rumil a shove in the direction of the rest of the patrol. 
Rumil didn’t need any more persuading. The three of them bolted back up the hill, 
underneath the hail of arrows already raining down from the patrol’s archers above them. 
Rumil gasped as a whistle of steel hissed straight past his cheek and halted with a 
sickening thunk as it buried itself into the forehead of the warg behind him.

‘Five yards!’ Erestor shouted. ‘You need to run a bit faster!’

Haldir spun around once as he ran, and cursed softly. One of the wargs was busying itself 
with ripping out Cairenil’s throat, but it was one of dozens. The others were pouring over 
the top of the far hill far too quickly. Within moments, he was back with the rest of the 
patrol, for all the good it did. He surveyed them all with a pounding heart and the bitter 
taste of despair strong in the back of his throat. Eighteen soaked and exhausted elves, 
including Elrond and Thranduil, against Valar knew know many vicious, snarling orcs 
and their mounts.

‘Fantastic,’ he whispered through his teeth. Beside him, Erestor gave him a lop-sided grin 
and drew twin swords from their sheaths across his back.

‘Ready, set…’

The wargs exploded over the lip of the hill.

‘Go,’ said Erestor mildly.

	Despite his wounded shoulder, Erestor fell back into the rhythm of battle just as 
anyone else would sway into the beat of a dance. Ever since he’d been a child, he had 
found that strength was nothing in comparison to speed, and speed was something he 
possessed in abundance. With the two blades spinning constantly in his hands in a whirl 
of silver steel, the dark elf eased himself through a slow, easy spin to survey the 
battlefield around him. To his left, Thranduil had procured a bow from a fallen orc and 
was now proving himself to be of quite an admirable standard with it. Rumil was 
crouched over a wounded Anatiel, putting the throwing stars to good use. Protected by 
Iamae and Iathil, the archers fired further afield, picking off the oncoming wargs on the 
opposite hill. Erestor completed his turn, still looking for the flash of silver that would 
give away Haldir’s position. He caught sight of the Marchwarden a moment later. Haldir 
was in one of the most unpromising situations a battle could give. The instant the two 
forces had clashed, Elrond, a healer to his very core, had run straight for the wounded, 
thus presenting himself as an unarmed target. Now, as Elrond tended a fallen archer, the 
tall captain was defending both at horribly close quarters, with only a sword between the 
three of them and the already bloody teeth of the oncoming wargs.

	Elrond looked up when he heard a growl and was just in time to see a huge warg 
smash an enormous paw into the side of Haldir’s face. The captain collapsed. But the 
warg ignored him. Instead, its orc rider urged it on a few steps, and paused to leer down 
at Elrond.

‘Fancy a ride?’

‘What the-’

The orc laughed, grabbed a fistful of his clothes and dragged him off the ground, swiftly 
knocking him out before draping the unconscious elf across the saddle. The orc glanced 
around at the carnage, grinned toothily, then whistled at one his companions.

‘Got him?’ he yelled above the noise of the wargs.

The other orc held up the lifeless body of a fair elf with a bow still in his hands.
‘Call ‘em off!’

The first nodded. ‘Come on, you filthy rabble! Back ‘ome! Leave it!’ he shouted at a 
nearby warg, which looked up from sniffing at a fallen, silver-haired elf with an ugly 
look on its face. ‘That one’s fer later. Back. Now.’

And, as swiftly as they had come, the orcs disappeared back across the hills.

	Haldir came to just in time to fully appreciate the bloody aftermath of the battle. 
He sat up doggedly in the grass, all but blind in one eye, and gazed around. Not one of 
the patrol that he could see had managed to escape the scrap entirely unscathed. Across 
from him, Rumil was nursing a half-conscious Anatiel, a long cut running across his arm 
from where he’d caught the edge of an orc sword. Iamae and Iathil were slumped not far 
away, both of them covered in scratches and grazes. Rivanaen was holding his left arm 
close to his chest, his wrist broken. Down the slope, all that remained of Cairenil were a 
few blood soaked shreds of cloth. Pain pounding down his back, Haldir raised a hand 
gingerly to the side of his face. His fingers came away wet with blood from the deep 
graze the warg’s claws had left slashed across his skin. Dizzy, he almost fell to the side, 
but put his hand out again a moment before. In such a state, it took him a long, horrible 
moment to notice that both Elrond and Thranduil were nowhere to be seen.

	Erestor fell down next to Haldir that night by the fire. Nearby, the others were 
sitting together in dejected twos and threes, heads leant exhaustedly against another’s 
while they shared a sparse meal. Nobody was on watch; there was little point. None of 
them were fit to stay awake for much longer. The patrol’s own healer, a delicate, quiet 
wraith of an elf by name of Serentiel, was doing his best to help them through their 
injuries, but with a formidable concussion himself, there was only so much he could 
manage. Haldir was watching them all silently, his dark eyes unreadable. Wisps of silver 
hair had come loose from their braid during the battle, and a deep graze had been dashed 
across his cheekbone.

‘Elrond and Thranduil are gone, Cairenil dead,’ he told Erestor softly. He didn’t turn his 
head.

Erestor nodded slightly. Of all the patrol, he had suffered the least; he had walked away 
from the battle with only a few scratches. Gently, he reached out and stroked a few stray 
strands of hair back from Haldir’s face. The captain didn’t take his gaze from the patrol 
but closed his slender fingers over Erestor’s gauntleted hand anyway. The dark elf 
sighed.
‘At least the others are all right.’

‘Mm.’ Haldir’s eyes lingered for a moment on Rumil. The young elf was already asleep, 
his light hair a tumble of flax on the grass. Every line on him bespoke utter exhaustion. 
After a moment, he asked, ‘How’s your shoulder?’

‘Almost healed.’

‘Good.’ Haldir didn’t comment on the uncanny speed of this healing.

In the long pause that followed, Erestor gazed into the fire. Flickering shapes came and 
went in the flames, and if he looked into the embers at the core, a few of the images 
stayed constant. He watched them silently. Deep in the fire, another pair of obsidian eyes 
gazed back at him. Then, slowly, deliberately, they tilted across to Haldir, and narrowed 
in a cruel smile.

	Haldir awoke the following morning with the dawn, beside the faintly glowing 
embers of last night’s fire. Golden light was just beginning to bathe the rolling green 
hills, and overhead, the sky was already azure. It was cold. Carefully, he raised himself 
up onto one elbow. The rest of the patrol were still asleep, curled in the grass under 
sparse travelling blankets. Erestor was nowhere to be seen, although…the Marchwarden 
glanced down a with a frown. He didn’t remember falling asleep the night before, but 
now, he was covered with Erestor’s cloak against the chill. Despite the downpour of the 
night before last, the heavy fabric was perfectly dry and smelled faintly of the woods, a 
gentle, unexpected scent of summer. Feeling like doing anything but, Haldir rolled to his 
feet and pushed his hair back from his eyes before stepping lightly through the basic 
sword eighths by way of stretching. As he turned, he caught sight of a dark figure 
standing alone on the next hill, gazing silently north.

	Erestor folded his arms against the morning chill, quietly recalling uncountable 
mornings spent similarly on the balcony of Elrond’s bedchamber at home in Rivendell. 
There hadn’t been a morning in over three millennia that he hadn’t risen in the dark to 
watch the dawn, and in Imladris, he had very quickly discovered that the view from the 
lord’s private balcony was unrivalled. Elrond had never objected; in comparison to 
Erestor, he was both a late riser and a deep sleeper, and after the first few mornings had 
been genuinely surprised to find his kindness repaid by breakfast in bed every day 
thereafter. Of course, by that time, the Lady Celebrian had been long dead, and the twins 
had duly twittered at Erestor’s presence in their father’s chambers so early in the 
morning. Elrond had let them laugh…it soon became apparent that his visitor was as 
straight-laced as they came. Much had been discussed on that balcony over the years. 
Battle tactics, solstice celebrations, weddings, journeys. The matter of Erestor’s hair had 
always been a favourite of Elrond’s. So had joking guesses at his lineage; it had quickly 
come to the lord’s notice that he was not the only one in Rivendell now to possess the gift 
of the Sight, and so Elrond had happily delved into what seemed like aeons’ worth of 
family histories and accounts to find any mention of a forgotten branch of relatives who 
could have eventually produced his dark-haired councillor. He had never found anything.

	A light touch on his shoulder made him look around. Wordlessly, Haldir gave his 
cloak back. The graze by the Marchwarden’s eye looked worse in daylight; his 
cheekbone had darkened with bruises, and there was a nick in his eyebrow where the 
warg’s claw had caught him.

‘Can you not talk?’ Erestor asked, with very faint undertones of glee.

Slightly unfairly, he thought, Haldir noticed and gave him a wry look. ‘You could 
attempt not to sound so pleased.’

‘I could,’ Erestor acknowledged reasonably, making absolutely no effort to do so.
Haldir smiled slightly and immediately wished he hadn’t. Erestor glanced at him. ‘You 
didn’t sleep,’ the dark elf observed.

‘Do I truly look that awful?’

‘Tousled and appealing,’ Erestor smiled.

They both glanced around when they heard a light footfall in the grass behind them. 
Rumil said nothing. Instead, he pressed close to his brother, resting his head against 
Haldir’s shoulder. Haldir slipped an arm around him and kissed his hair.

‘Sleep well, Ru?’

Rumil shook his head, but smiled a little when he heard his childhood nickname. Since 
Rumil had joined the patrol, Haldir had barely ever treated him as a younger brother any 
more, only an inexperienced recruit. The young elf hadn’t quite realized how much he 
had missed his brother’s old warmth. He closed his eyes as Haldir gently stroked a few 
strands of golden hair back from his face. He could still remembered being so tiny that 
his whole hand span hadn’t quite covered his older brother’s palm; still remembered 
standing on tiptoe to put his arms around Haldir’s waist by way of stopping him leaving 
on his next patrol. ‘Anatiel is unwell.’

He felt Haldir turn his head to look back to where most of the patrol were still sleeping.

‘He wept in his sleep,’ Rumil continued softly.

‘So did you,’ Erestor noted, very quietly. He had not even tried to sleep until the early 
hours, and in the mean time, he had relieved an exhausted Serentiel from the first watch, 
and spent most of the vigil simply walking silently around the patrol. None of them had 
lain entirely undisturbed.

As the dark elf made his way slowly back toward the patrol, Rumil took his brother’s 
hand and set it lightly against his own. He smiled ruefully. Haldir’s slender fingers were 
smaller than his by almost a joint. ‘Are we going to go back to Lorien or now or must we 
carry on?’

‘We make for the Iron Hills. We’ve little choice.’

Rumil nodded tightly.

‘Were you hurt?’ Haldir asked, frowning.

‘No-’

His brother raised an eyebrow.

‘My knee,’ Rumil admitted. ‘It…it hurts to walk.’

‘Oh, Ru…’

Rumil grinned. ‘I remember that tone. I hit my head once and I could have sworn that 
you were more bothered about it than I was.’

‘You were four at the time and only just walking,’ Haldir reminded him reproachfully. 
‘Come on. The best I can offer now is a shoulder to lean on.’

	When they trailed back to the camp, the rest of the patrol were beginning to wake 
and set about finding some breakfast. Erestor was already helping the twins to share out 
the supplies, while Rivanean rekindled the fires against the chill of the morning. Summer, 
it seemed, was still was long way away. The healer, Serentiel, had been left to sleep, but 
his friend Tinuadin appeared to have taken over his duties; by Rumil’s fire, the tall elf 
was quietly tending to a very pale Anatiel, a pouch of herbs at his side and a damp cloth 
in his hands. The conversation was little more than a low murmur, tired and quiet. Even 
the weather reflected the patrol’s mood…above them, heavy clouds were invading what 
had a few minutes before been a clear sky, and the grass was hissing and rippling in a 
rising wind. Once Tinuadin had finished with Anatiel, he came across to sit with Haldir 
and Rumil.

‘A bleak morning,’ he observed dully, slinging a twig at the fire, which hissed in 
complaint.

‘Hm. How is Anatiel?’ Haldir asked.

‘In shock, I think. He took a nasty knock to the head. Still, he should be fine within a few 
days.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, captain, how many of the patrol must confess themselves 
unable to walk before you will be persuaded to return to Lorien?’

Haldir was silent for a moment. ‘I think we would do better to carry on north, but turn 
back into Mirkwood and stop at Thranduil’s palace. It would be a shorter journey than a 
return to Lorien.’

‘But Thranduil is not with us!’

‘No, but I’m sure that Mirkwood has some soldiers they can send with us to hunt for their 
king.’

‘A king we lost in the first instance.’

‘You can go back to Lorien if you like,’ Haldir told him flatly. While he had served in the 
same patrol as Tinuadin for many centuries, they hadn’t blended well in recent decades. 
Once, they had got along fairly amicably, although when Haldir was given the captaincy 
of the patrol and chose Cairenil as his second in command over Tinuadin, things had 
become rather more bitter.

‘No.’

‘Mirkwood it is, then,’ the Marchwarden concluded. Once Tinuadin had left again to tend 
to Serentiel, Rumil wrinkled his nose at the tall elf’s back.

‘I don’t like him much.’

‘Neither do I. If I didn’t think Serentiel would leave too, I’d have him transferred to 
another patrol.’

‘You won’t transfer me for being completely useless, will you?’

Haldir smiled, and pulled him close into a tight embrace. ‘Of course not. Being 
completely useless is what the youngest one in the patrol is for.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. Before you, Anatiel was completely useless, before him, Rivanaen, before 
him, both the twins…now Anatiel is an excellent swordsman, Rivanaen is my prized 
archer, and the twins have the stamina of a pair of oxen.’

Rumil grinned. ‘Were you ever completely useless?’

‘Yes. Talk to Captain Dresil when we return to Lorien. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of 
embarrassing stories for you.’

‘Captain Dresil! Orophin is in his patrol.’

‘Hm- which is why Orophin likes to watch me at home and snigger.’

Rumil chuckled happily, then darted off to see Anatiel. Within moments, both of them 
were helpless with laughter. The sound quickly lightened the mood of the whole patrol. 
Haldir smiled, then choked into his water flask when Erestor slung a wet cloth at him 
with amazing accuracy from the far side of the camp. The few members of the patrol who 
hadn’t already been grinning dissolved laughing. The priceless expression on their 
captain’s face was one to be treasured.

	Abandoning the trail of the orcs and trusting to luck to pick them up again further 
north, the patrol veered west again, toward Mirkwood. Two days passed before the tired 
Lorien elves arrived on the western border, barely a league from Thranduil’s palace. 
Unlike the towering mallorns of Lothlorien, the trees in the realm of the Sindar were tall, 
spidery birches. They cast strange shadows in the semi-light of the forest, and very 
quickly, Erestor became aware of the dark silhouettes flitting between the trees, moving 
parallel to the patrol. He glanced around, making no secret of his observations, and 
waved affably to the nearest shadow. Unfortunately, its response was to step out an inch 
in front of Haldir, who was at the head of the line, and crash a gauntleted fist across his 
face by way of telling him to stop moving.

‘What,’ a low and angry voice asked, ‘are you doing here?’

‘Looking for some vague manners and possibly even a night’s a rest,’ Erestor said, 
throwing out an arm to stop Rumil attacking the stranger. ‘Although I see Mirkwood’s 
hospitality has taken a turn for the worse since I was last here. If you shoot,’ he added 
warningly to an elf stationed in the branch above his head, ‘I’ll haunt you until the day 
you die. And I shan’t have any qualms with throwing prized vases and heirlooms at you, 
either, so stop being so ridiculous and put down your bow.’ He glanced at the Mirkwood 
elf before him. ‘Well? Are you going to let us pass or must we stand here in the cold all 
day?’

With a cold air of wariness, the Sindar stepped back and let them by. Erestor slipped an 
arm around Haldir’s waist to keep him from falling, giving the Mirkwood elf a poisonous 
look on his way past.

	Unlike Galadriel’s home, the palace was built on the ground in a wide clearing, a 
graceful structure of high archways and walkways stretching up high over the treetops. At 
the entrance, an anxious-looking maid was waiting for them. She quickly announced 
herself as Lileadil, Thranduil’s niece, and currently the ruler of Mirkwood in his absence. 
She was tall and gaunt yet still uncommonly fair, with a tumble of honey-blonde curls 
cascading down her back, sharp, vivid sapphire eyes and a delicate face. She did not 
linger on long introductions. Instead, she stood hastily aside and ushered them through, 
explaining quickly that one of the guards had run on ahead of them to warn her of their 
coming. They were swiftly shown into a series of small, gently lit rooms, although not 
before they had passed through three impressive reception halls. Again dissimilarly to 
Lorien, the building was actually made from living branches, laced and interwoven so 
skilfully that the high ceiling was a vault of plaited wood, alive with silver leaves. Haldir 
barely took in any of it. The moment the Lady Lileadil left the patrol in peace, the silver-
haired captain claimed the last room of the graceful network, shut the heavy oaken door 
and fell back against it, his head pounding. Very, very slowly, he let himself slide down 
to the floor, his eyes closed and his forehead rested against his raised knees. He counted 
himself lucky not to have lost any teeth.

	It didn’t seem like very long before there came a soft knock on the door, but when 
he looked up, the candles had burned down to almost nothing. Outside the arched 
window, the forest was already veiled in darkness. Wearily, Haldir pulled himself to his 
feet and stepped just far enough from the door to let his visitor slip inside. Erestor smiled 
slightly and shut it softly behind him.

‘How do you feel?’

‘How do I look?’

‘Awful.’ The dark elf took his elbow and steered him gently across to the low 
windowsill. Haldir folded down obediently, and noticed for the first time that Erestor had 
come in carrying a cloth and a bowl of water. He watched silently as the other elf knelt 
down, and closed his eyes as Erestor swept the cloth gently over the newly-bleeding 
graze across his cheekbone. The water was warm, soothing.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured.

‘The others are all asleep; I thought it would be rude to forget about you entirely.’

‘Are they all…?’

‘Fine. Lileadil brought them some food, but when she knocked here you didn’t answer.’

Haldir nodded slightly. Erestor knelt up to stroke a few stray silver strands back from his 
brow, smiling a little when the Marchwarden caught his hand and held it. He let him keep 
it and used his left instead. He had to lean closer to do so, and he couldn’t help the 
strange flutter in his chest he felt when he caught the faintest snatch of scent from 
Haldir’s clothes. Indigo eyes glittered in the faint candlelight; Erestor swallowed and 
tilted his own gaze down to avoid them. He had to look up again, though, when Haldir 
touched his jaw to angle his face slightly higher. For a long, long moment, time seemed 
to stand still. Erestor heard the rustle of the leaves outside as the wind whispered through 
the trees, the soft, barely audible breathing of the patrol in the rooms nearby, his own 
heartbeat. A silent request for permission sparkled in Haldir’s deep blue gaze, and, with a 
minute nod of his head, Erestor gave it.

	Only a few seconds later, every candle in the room flared emerald green. Erestor 
choked and pulled away.

‘No. I can’t, not while…’

Haldir didn’t ask why. Instead, he rose to his feet and pinched them out, one by one, until 
the room was sheathed in safe, gentle darkness. Erestor smiled. He heard Haldir come 
back, then felt his own shirt slip away, and the captain’s gentle hands on his bare 
shoulders. He leaned gratefully into a long, tender kiss. Let his eyes fall closed.

	Not so very far away, deep underground in a high stone hall, dark eyes gazed into 
the blackness and narrowed in an indulgent ghost of a smile.


				***********

	Much like his sons, Elrond was not one to take imprisonment lightly. By the time 
they dragged him through the dark, tunnel-like entrance to the underground fortress in the 
Iron Hills, his orc captors were cursing him, loudly. Upon arrival, the wargs had been 
chivvied down into a deep pit, which, one of the orcs sneeringly explained, lead down 
into the labyrinth which protected the inner parts of the fortress. If anybody was planning 
to escape, he said, they had better abandon the idea…or be torn apart in the maze. Elrond, 
putting several thousand years’ worth of lordship to good use, deftly ignored him.

	After a long, painful journey through score upon score of dark, winding tunnels 
and airless passageways, the orcs slung their two charges into a stone cold cell and made 
a great show of loosing the keys on the way out. Elrond glared at the door. It was a huge 
steel affair, much like the entrance to the cells in Moria. He sighed, and turned his 
attention back to the cell. Beside him, Thranduil lay still on the stone floor. Elrond 
nudged the Mirkwood king in the ribs with the tip of his boot. When there was no 
response, he frowned, and knelt carefully down beside him. Despite having spent the past 
few days constantly arguing with the Sindar, Elrond did not claim to actively dislike him; 
they merely had little in common but missing sons and dead wives.

‘Thranduil?’

Elrond pursed his lips and swept the King’s fall of blond hair back from his face. The 
mystery of his unconsciousness was solved when the healer found the cruel bruise 
blossoming on his temple. After a moment, he sat back and sighed. Apparently, he would 
have to wait a while until the entertainment woke up again.

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

	At almost exactly the same time, a little under fifty leagues away, the Lorien 
patrol were leaving Mirkwood after a day and a half’s rest. Their spirits had lifted 
considerably during their stay; Anatiel was smiling once again, Serentiel back on his 
usual duties as patrol healer and Tinuadin notably less dour. At the head of the patrol, the 
captain and the dark Imladris elf were in deep conversation, although when Iamae and 
Iathil managed to sneak close enough to eavesdrop, it turned out that the sole subject of 
their discussion was, disappointingly, nothing more scandalous than dreams, and 
inparticular whether dreaming about trees was a good thing.

‘Hardly worth listening to, is it?’ Erestor said loudly, without looking round.

Suitably chastised, the twins retreated, but took the precaution of replacing themselves 
with the rather more convincing Rumil by way of obtaining any further news. They had 
decided the evening before that something interesting was going on; namely because 
when they had tried to spy on Haldir and Erestor through the keyhole of the captain’s 
locked door, they had found, much to their amusement, that Erestor had been a step ahead 
of them and had pushed a cloth through to block the gap.

	Evening found them only one more day away from the fortress. On the first 
watch, Haldir and Erestor sat together in silence, fifty yards from where the patrol’s fires 
glimmered in the dark, facing east, toward their destination. After a long while, Haldir 
finally murmured,

‘Are you all right? You’ve been distracted all day.’

‘I have to leave,’ the dark elf said softly.

‘What? Why?’

‘To stay here is to sentence you to death, Haldir, and I…I think…I think I can help 
Elrond and the others much more alone.  He wants me to come home; that’s all. I can 
make him let them go once I’m there, but I doubt that tactic would work with a Lorien 
patrol in tow.’

Haldir was silent for a long, long moment. ‘I don’t see that you have much bargaining 
power once you’ve done as he wants.’

Erestor smiled wryly. ‘I have none at the moment. A little would be an improvement.’

‘Erestor-’

‘No. Haldir, once I’m there, I can steal keys, I can knock out guards, I can bribe sentries 
and undoubtedly he’ll let me do it, because he finds eccentricity charming. What he does 
not find so charming, however, is tenacity. I would do far better to give in now than in a 
week’s time when he has you in the dungeons too.’

‘Why are you so important to him?’

‘I’m not, this is all for spite.’

‘It’s a lot of bother just for spite, Erestor.’

‘He has nothing better to do.’

‘I can tell when you’re lying.’

‘Can you indeed.’

‘Tell me or I’ll follow you.’

‘You can’t.’

Haldir raised an eyebrow.

The dark elf flared. ‘I’m already being held to ransom by one person already, you aren’t 
making things any easier!’

‘Tell me.’

‘Follow me, then.’ Erestor snapped. Snatching his pack from the ground beside him, he 
got to his feet and stalked away. Haldir tackled him hard, sending them both down to the 
ground with a painful thump.

‘Erestor.’

‘Off.’

‘For the sake of grace, you can’t-’

Erestor pushed him away.

‘Do you always do this?’ Haldir demanded, pinning his shoulders down again.

‘Do what?’

‘Tangle yourself for two nights with somebody idiot enough to love you before running 
away again?’

‘No!’

‘Ah, so it’s just me, then.’

For the barest second, Erestor looked horrified, but then his jaw set. ‘Yes. It is.’

Haldir rolled away from him and rose fluidly to his feet. ‘Go, then, if I’m so entirely 
distasteful.’

The dark elf gave him one, last unfathomable look. Then he was gone.


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

	Erestor didn’t look back. It would have spoiled the effect. He wanted Haldir to be 
angry; furious, even, enraged enough to let him go without too much of a fight, but any 
glimpse of tears and the astute Marchwarden would know it was all a ploy. Quietly 
wishing he could find even a spark of anger himself, Erestor dashed his sleeve across his 
eyes and quickened his pace, fully aware that in order to beat the patrol to the Iron Hills, 
he would have to walk through the night. Exactly when he didn’t want it, tiredness 
crashed down on him. Which was unfair, because he had slept last night, properly, from 
dusk til dawn like people were supposed to…apparently, he thought bitterly, his tried and 
tested method of not sleeping at all was the best way of staying awake after all.

	The night was a bleak one; overhead, dark clouds obscured the clouds, and even 
after a long, long walk and a watery dawn, a chill wind still tugged at Erestor’s clothes, 
so strong as to make even breathing difficult. Despite what should have been a warm 
month, the grass underfoot crackled with frost…although cold was normal, near the 
fortress. Erestor shivered, then impatiently wrenched off his cloak. If he planned to stay 
here again, he reasoned that it would probably be best to get used to the cold sooner 
rather than later. Just as he did, he saw the first line of orc sentries.

	The defences had improved since the last time he had seen them. Where before 
there had been a few lack-lustre guards leaning half asleep against their spears, there was 
now an entire contingent of strictly uniformed orcs, all bearing the symbol of a flying 
dragon emblazoned on their armour. Erestor raised an eyebrow, faintly impressed despite 
himself. Once he was within hearing distance, he raised his hand and waved.

‘Is he in, or off on the old rounds of pillage and plunder?’

The sentries waved him through.

‘Ain’t seen you fer a while,’ the orc commander commented as Erestor passed him by.

‘Miss me?’ Erestor chirped.

‘Course. Master’s bin miserable. Takin’ it out on us.’

The dark elf smirked. ‘That’s what you’re for. Is he here?’

‘Always,’ the orc grumbled.

‘Anything new in the maze I ought to know about?’

‘Nah. Same ole stuff. Remember the way?’

‘I do, but I could say not, to earn you an hour off guard duty,’ Erestor offered. It paid to 
be good to the sentries.

The orc gave him a toothy grin. ‘Right you are.’

	The key to the labyrinth was quite simple; begin by turning left, and from there, 
right, then left, then right, then left, and so on. The way through was built as an 
independent corridor from the rest, making it quite impossible for any valid visitors to 
encounter the wargs or other surprises the orcs saw fit to leave there. The trouble was, of 
course, that the entire maze was underground and unlit…knowing the way by heart was 
only hope of survival. As he walked, Erestor absently trailed his hand against the stone 
wall, listening to their steps echoing. Beside him, the orc pushed open the last door and 
ushered him through. Erestor slipped through.

	Beyond the threshold was a huge stone hall. The ceiling was so high that Erestor 
suspected it was only a few feet below the surface, while all around, towering archways 
soared high into the gloom. The only light came from flickering torches bolted to the 
walls, a guttering glow which only seemed to highlight the shadows rather than banish 
them. Home. Erestor gazed around for a moment, walking slowly out the centre of the 
hall and spinning on the spot to take in everything. As it always had been, the ceiling was 
carved with ancient Quenyan curses, an insurance against discovery by wizards. Between 
the archways, rich tapestries tumbled down the walls, depicting scenes of brutal battles 
long past. Aimlessly but with complete outward conviction, Erestor struck off toward the 
archway on his left. He had no idea where the master of the castle was, but he was quite 
certain that if he wandered about enough, they would soon have to walk into each other. 
Even so…he didn’t have all day.

‘I’m here!’ he shouted. His voice echoed again and again from the stone walls and floor, 
so clearly that he would undoubtedly have been heard throughout the entire fortress.
And, sure enough, Melkor appeared obligingly in front of him.

	The Dark Lord of the ancient world would have been the first to admit that he had 
very little in common with the Dark Lord of the modern one. Tall and slender, Melkor 
stood almost a head higher than Erestor, his inky hair falling straight down his back like a 
sheet of black silk, dark eyes shimmering and unreadable. For a creature of such 
unfathomable power, he was oddly delicate; beautiful, graceful, a willowy porcelain 
shadow. He carried none of Sauron’s menace. Instead, he moved with a lazy, languid 
elegance, and now, facing Erestor, he leaned idly back against the nearest pillar and 
regarded the dark elf through the murky dimness.

‘How is the patrol?’

‘Fine.’

‘Your dear Marchwarden?’

‘Furious.’

‘And how are you, Erestor?’

Erestor paused. ‘Tired.’

Melkor nodded slightly.  ‘Everything is as you left it here.’

‘Thank you.’

As Erestor made for the next passageway, Melkor snapped his fingers to catch his 
attention again. The dark elf glanced round, frowning. ‘Yes?’

He smiled slowly. ‘Welcome home.’

	Just as Melkor had promised, Erestor found everything exactly as he had left it 
four millennia ago when he reached his old chambers. The candles had been lit ready for 
his return, and the stone floor was entirely devoid of dust. In the hearth, a fire was already 
roaring in defiance of the bitter cold. On the left, a high archway led through to a 
warmly-lit room filled with shelf upon shelf of books and scrolls, while on the right, three 
smaller arches stood at the top of a wide flight of shallow steps, veiled with curtains of 
shimmering black silk and marking the entrance to a bed-chamber. By the fire, deep fur 
rugs were stretched across the floor in front of a delicately carved mahogany chair. 
Erestor climbed the steps, the steel heels of his boots clanking softly on the dark stone. 
Pushing aside the veils, he saw that candles had been lit here too, glimmering in twisting 
iron trees. As it always had done, a desk stood in in the far corner, even though he had 
never used it. Beside it, however, was a long rack of weaponry, which he most certainly 
had used. Swords, daggers, throwing stars like the ones he had left with Rumil, all neatly 
pegged in a long row along the wall. In the other corner was the explanation for their 
presence here. A forge had been built into the eastern wall, and beside it stood an anvil. A 
familiar box of tools sat on the floor at its foot. Two slender rods of steel still lay across 
the anvil, waiting to be beaten out into swords. Erestor smiled a little. He’d forgotten 
about those.

	Without further pause, Erestor spun neatly on his heel and headed out again. 
Rather than going back the way he had come, he walked straight through to the library, 
whereupon he climbed one of the shelves as if it were a ladder, paused on the empty 
space at the top to push open a near-invisible hatch, then slipped through. He emerged in 
a narrow tunnel only just high enough to crawl through. Taking care to close the trapdoor 
behind him, he set off.

	Thousands of years ago, long before the beginning of the First Age, the fortress 
had been built to include a very convenient warren of secret tunnels. Originally, they had 
been intended as pathways for spies; Melkor had never been one to particularly trust 
anybody, let alone his own soldiers and servants, and so he had made a habit of 
investigating each and every one of them quite without their knowledge. Since Erestor 
had never met him coming the other way in any of the passages, he assumed the master 
of the castle had stopped using them long ago. He had also taken care never to mention 
them to Erestor, although, stubborn has he was, the dark elf had once observed that the 
depth in between the fortress’s floors was completely unnecessary and consequently 
spent weeks scouring the place for the original plans. When he found them, he discovered 
the spy network. His use of it had caused the castle guards all manner of confusion. Some 
days, they would see him walk into a room and never come out again…and when they 
went to investigate, anxious not to receive a sound whipping from their master for letting 
the dark elf slip through their fingers, they would find that he had disappeared entirely. 
Occasionally, some of the prisoners held in the dungeons would vanish without a trace. 
Things would mysteriously go missing from the kitchens, so much so that many of the 
servants would swear to anybody who would listen that the place was haunted. Then, one 
day, when Erestor finally disappeared altogether, nobody had thought it odd, no matter 
how much the master raged. It was well known that the dark elf possessed some sort of 
magic.

	After a long, painful crawl through the pitch dark, Erestor finally came to a 
narrow, winding staircase. Glad for the chance to straighten up again, he headed down, 
passing turnings and landings in every direction until he came to the very bottom. 
Underfoot, the flagstones were gone, replaced by older, rougher cobbles, and the ceiling 
was just high enough for Erestor to stand. As he walked along the new passageway, he 
trailed his fingertips against the walls, waiting. Then, very suddenly, he felt two grooves 
cut into the stone, one on either side. Putting his hands up, he touched the ceiling, and 
after a few moments, felt the sturdy shape of an iron bolt. It was rusted with age, but with 
some persuasion, it soon drew back. Erestor gave the section of ceiling a push. It opened 
upward.

	He had been banking on Melkor’s dark sense of humour, and, as things turned 
out, quite rightly so. As he pulled himself up onto the cold floor of the dungeon above, 
Elrohir stared at him through the dim torchlight. Elladan was curled with his head in his 
twin’s lap, asleep. Nearby, Thranduil’s son, Legolas, dozed with his back against the 
wall. All three elves were as far away as they could be from the rotting corpse on the 
other side of the cell. Careful to leave the flagstone slightly ajar on the floor, Erestor went 
across to sit with the twins.

‘How’s things?’ he whispered.

‘I…but…how did you get here?’

‘There’s a passageway below the floor.’

‘How did you know we were here?’

Erestor motioned to where his name was carved into the wall. ‘The guards used to save 
this one especially for me. I thought he might have put you here.’

‘He?’

‘The…captain of the guards,’ Erestor lied deftly. Telling Elrohir that they were prisoners 
of the first Dark Lord was hardly going to improve his nerves. ‘Anyway. Are you hurt?’

‘Just…just bruised. Is Ada with you?’

Erestor shook his head. ‘No. He’s here too, somewhere, although I have yet to find him.’

‘How did you get into the castle?’

‘I walked. Now, are we going to get moving or you want to hang around for a bit more?’

Elrohir shook his head, and leaned down to wake his brother while Erestor crept across to 
Legolas. The Mirkwood prince woke with a start.

‘Who-’

Erestor set a gentle finger over the young elf’s lips. ‘Ssh. Keep your voice down. I’ve 
come to help you. Come on.’

The dark elf waited until the twins and the prince had slipped down to the corridor below 
before following. Once he hit the floor, he straightened up and eased the stone back into 
place. It fell into position with a soft thud.

‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘It’s a long way back to the surface. There isn’t any light on the 
way, and corridors are too narrow to walk together. Walk one behind the other, and make 
sure you keep hold of the belt of the person in front of you. If you get lost, it’s your own 
stupid fault for not listening. Don’t talk on the way, or the guards will hear us through the 
floor. Ready?’

There a soft murmur of affirmation. Erestor felt Elrohir catch the back of his belt.

‘Good. Off we go, then.’

	He took them back the way he had come, but bypassed the hatch that led down 
into the library. Instead, he carried on further up staircase until they reached the very top. 
Then he led them across the network of passages that stood directly over the maze. Here, 
the tunnels mirrored exactly the passages of the labyrinth below, although now, taking a 
wrong turning meant being swamped by spiders and scorpions as opposed to wargs. 
Since they were on their knees and crawling, it took them far longer to navigate the 
gruelling stretch of dark tunnels that it had done for Erestor to walk the maze below, but 
several hours and a lot of cobwebs later, the four of them emerged through what looked 
from the outside to be a badger’s set and onto a grassy hillside. The wind was still strong, 
and overhead, the storm clouds were gathering again. Erestor stepped out and glanced 
around. They were a long way from the orc sentries. Once they had followed, he pointed 
west.

‘That way is Mirkwood. If you set off now, you can be there by dusk tomorrow. It’s just 
after noon now. With any luck, both your fathers will soon follow you. You’ll probably 
encounter a patrol from Lorien on your way; they’ll travel with you. Now go, please.’

‘What about you?’ Elladan asked. ‘You’re coming back with Ada, aren’t you?’

Erestor nodded, unwilling to give the time of day to explain.

‘And how did you-’

‘*Go!*’ 

They went. Erestor watched them until they were out of sight.

	Softly, Erestor dropped down onto the floor of the library once more. He had been 
lucky to find Legolas and the twins…unfortunately, he had no idea where Melkor was 
keeping Elrond and Thranduil. As he slipped out of the library, stiff from being on his 
knees for so long, he nearly walked straight into the master of the castle himself. Melkor 
swayed easily backward to avoid a collision.

‘Very good, Erestor. Very good.’

‘What?’

‘You’d never guess. I have just heard a report from an extremely distressed guard from 
the lower dungeons, and do you know what he said? Three prisoners gone, he said. 
Missing. From a locked cell. I wonder how they managed that.’

‘Obviously the cell wasn’t as locked as the guards thought it was.’

‘Quite.’ Very gently, Melkor reached out and stroked a pale snarl of spider’s web from 
Erestor’s cheek. ‘You’re exhausted. Come and eat with me…the other two can wait, they 
won’t come to undue harm.’

Erestor frowned. ‘No, you’ll-’

He laughed. ‘I’ll what? You’re here now, I’ve no reason to hurt them. Come. After four 
millennia, would it be your death to have one meal with me?’

Reluctantly, Erestor shook his head.

	Again unlike Sauron, Melkor had no qualms with being less than grand. When the 
castle played host to guests, meals were served in one of the halls, but, empty as it was 
now, the servants brought the meal up to his study in the east wing. The food was simple, 
only fruit and spices, but annoyingly, even after so long away, it was still the best Erestor 
had ever had. While they ate, Melkor leaned back in his chair and glanced toward the 
fire.

‘Well,’ he said after a while, ‘it seems our three escaped prisoners have met up with your 
patrol. Incredibly lucky, no?’

‘They’ve lit fires already?’

Melkor looked faintly amused. ‘It’s past dusk. You’ve been in those tunnels for a while.’

There was a long silence. Then, ‘So. Tell me what you’ve been doing for all this time.’

Erestor glanced at him. ‘Enjoying being above ground, in the main. Why have you 
brought me back here now? Four thousand years…I thought you’d forgotten about me.’

‘I could never forget you. And why now? War is brewing again, and I’d rather that 
neither side had a notable advantage.’

‘Why? You didn’t care last time.’

‘It would spoil the game. Men, elves and wizards against Sauron and all his new tricks. It 
should be close…and worth watching. And in the last war, your farsight hadn’t reached 
its potential.’

Erestor nodded slightly, and went back to his meal.

Melkor watched him silently. If there had been another in the room, and if they had been 
particularly observant, they would have noted a strange sort of similarity between the two 
raven-haired elves. Something about the eyes, the set of their shoulders, and something 
faintly alike in the tapered delicacy of their wrists and hands. Of course, since there was 
nobody else, nothing of the odd likeness could be noted at all.

	Wine would have been rather too obvious, and so once they had both finished 
eating, he let Erestor go again. Melkor leaned idly in the doorway of his study, gazing 
after the slender figure retreating down the corridor.

‘The young master’s back then, sir?’ the servant behind him ventured. He was of the race 
of Men, like most of the castle servants, born and raised in the fortress and therefore well 
acquainted with the old stories of a younger elf who looked strangely like the master.

‘Indeed he is,’ Melkor agreed.

‘He didn’t look his best just now, I thought.’ Oddly, none of the servants were 
particularly fearful of their dark master. Alone and content, he was surprisingly sociable, 
and quite willing to speak anyone about anything. And he rarely had his servants flayed 
alive; good servants were much too few and far between for that. The guards, of course, 
were another matter entirely.

‘No. He doesn’t sleep.’

‘Why not, sir?’

Melkor waved his hand abstractly. ‘Oh, I imagine it’s all to do with being such a 
fundamentally good and honest character. Must be utterly exhausting.’

	Erestor didn’t bother with the secret passages this time. Instead, he went straight 
to the dungeons and kept feeding silver coins to the first guard he came to until the orc 
finally told him where the two elves were being held. The answer was not at all what 
Erestor had expected to hear; a few moments later, the orc watched in mild bewilderment 
as he ran down the corridor without so much as bothering to steal back his silver.

	He heard the screams long before he found the cells. Apparently, the sport was so 
good that the orc guards had left the cell doors open to watch. It saved the dark elf the 
trouble of picking the locks or stealing the keys. In spite of the light cast by the torches 
pegged to the dingy walls, none of the guards saw him coming. Grimly glad of his 
gauntlets and the steel on the soles of his boots, the dark elf smashed his way through the 
five lounging in the doorway in the time it took to blink. An instant later, the orc standing 
dumbstruck just across the cell collapsed with a mithril dagger in his throat. Both he and 
the cherry-red brand he had been holding tumbled to the stone floor. Erestor fell to his 
knees beside the figure manacled to the wall. What had probably once been a white shirt 
was stained red with blood. The sleeves had been ripped away, exposing a series of awful 
burns down the elf’s arms, while from the look of his hands, every bone in them had been 
broken. Very, very gently, Erestor leaned across and unknotted the blindfold. Elrond 
flinched at the touch.

‘Just me…’ Erestor whispered, glancing behind him to see which of the fallen orcs had 
the keys to the manacles.

‘Erestor…’

With a faint jingle, the rusty set of keys flew sedately through the air under Erestor’s 
scrutiny, then landed neatly in his outstretched hand. The manacles took some 
persuading, but within a few moments, they came away, and Elrond fell into his arms. 
Erestor closed his eyes. It wasn’t long before the other elf began to weep, ever so softly, 
sobs shaking his shoulders in an aching outpouring of misery that showed no sign of 
ebbing until, softly, hoarsely, Erestor began to sing a lullaby. It was an old one, ancient 
Quenyan, one the dark elf remembered his father singing to him when he was tiny. The 
gentle, eerie melody had never failed to make him doze. Its magic didn’t fail him now. 
By the time he reached the fourth verse, Elrond had stilled, and by the sixth, his breathing 
had deepened in sleep. Erestor sank slowly back down to the floor, easing his friend with 
him. Among the carnage of the guards and the sinister hissing of the still-burning forge in 
the corner, he lay still and let Elrond sleep, bitter tears starring his lashes.

	He wasn’t sure how long he had been, but, with Elrond still unconscious in his 
arms, Erestor rose carefully to his feet and lifted the Imladris elf with him. He found 
Thranduil’s cell a short way down the corridor; the Sindar was awake and unharmed, 
already standing when he opened the door. He said nothing. Rather than waste any time 
on pointless questions, he took one look at the exhaustion written into every line on 
Erestor’s narrow frame, then slipped his arms around Elrond and eased him close. 
Wordlessly, Erestor led them through the passages, through the maze and through the 
darkness outside, straight past the dozing orc sentries and onto the grassy plains beyond.

‘The patrol are about a day’s walk away,’ he told Thranduil softly. ‘Will you make it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mirkwood is west of here. That way. Keep the moon ahead of you.’

‘Are you not coming with us?’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry. Tell him that when he wakes,’ he added, nodding to Elrond. ‘He’ll 
explain.’

‘Erestor, I am beyond grateful. When…if…you ever return…Mirkwood will welcome 
you with open arms.’ He paused, and smiled wryly. ‘Again.’

‘Thank you,’ Erestor whispered, unwilling to wake Elrond. ‘I hope you fare well.’

‘We will. Thank you.’

Erestor nodded. With one last, rueful look back, Thranduil set off into the night.

	‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Erestor observed quietly. He was standing in the 
doorway of Melkor’s study. When he spoke, the tall elf set down his quill and leaned 
back in his chair, fingers steepled.

‘No.’

‘Why?’

Melkor smiled slightly. ‘I’ve a reputation to keep.’

‘Good grief, and I thought you might just have done it to spite me.’

‘That too, I suppose.’

‘Well,’ Erestor said quietly, ‘now that you’ve quite finished baiting me, I’m going to 
bed.’

‘Oh, how very disappointing. There I was, quite certain that you were about to throw 
something at me. You’ve lost your sparkle, Erestor. Any more of this pathetic air of 
defeat and I may have to have you sent down to the cells yourself to see if the orcs can 
rekindle your old fire.’

Erestor glanced around. Under his gaze the fire flared in a sudden explosion of emerald 
light, spraying the entire room with burning cinders that quickly caught on the wooden 
furniture and the papers scattered across the desk. Within moments, the study was ablaze. 
Expressionless, Erestor slammed the door behind him. The lock clicked when he touched 
it. Passing by an astonished servant, he walked back down the corridor to the sound of 
Melkor’s ringing laughter.

					*********

	Elrond came to very, very slowly. He was faintly aware of someone sitting beside 
him, and the general, familiar murmur of the patrol. It was night-time. The cold of the 
past few days had lessened, although perhaps the newfound warmth was down to the 
cooking fires rather than any effort on the part of the weather. Still groggy, he struggled 
to sit up, then winced when a gentle hand pushed him back down.

‘You need some rest,’ Thranduil informed him quietly.

‘You…what…where are we?’

‘Near Mirkwood, with the patrol.’

‘But how did we-’

‘Erestor broke us both free.’

‘Our sons, did he-’

‘Yes,’ Thranduil whispered. ‘They’re here. Firm friends now, I believe.’

Elrond smiled slightly.

‘Go back to sleep,’ the Mirkwood elf instructed softly.

For once, Elrond obliged.

	Haldir stood alone on watch, a soundless, motionless shadow battered by the 
wind. The Imladris twins and the prince of Mirkwood had stumbled across the Lorien 
patrol barely two hours before, swiftly followed by Thranduil and Elrond. Of Erestor, 
there was no sign. He hadn’t dared to hope that there would be, but still, when all five 
prisoners had been safely returned while the dark elf had not, an awful, unbidden ache 
had blossomed deep his chest. He had gone on the watch to be left alone, in the quiet and 
cold. It hadn’t provided any distraction.

‘Haldir?’

‘Rumil.’

‘I…I came out to sit with you. Because Erestor’s…not here,’ the younger elf elaborated 
awkwardly.

Haldir smiled. It was a conscious effort. ‘Thank you.’

	It took five days to return to Lorien. On the third, they met another patrol which 
had been sent out after them to bring them back; somehow, Galadriel had known that the 
prisoners were safe. When Dresil, the captain of the other patrol, exchanged stories with 
Haldir though, he said that the Lady of the Wood had not looked at all cheerful when she 
gave him the order, and that as he’d left, she had made an irritable point to extinguish 
every candle in her talan. At the mention of such an odd action, Haldir remembered 
ruefully how the candles in Mirkwood had flared, and how Erestor had been as tensely 
strung as a longbow until all the fire was gone. It solved a small mystery, at 
least…Melkor had been watching them through the flames.

	Summer never came to the woods that year; by the time the two patrols arrived 
home in Lorien, the leaves of the trees were already turning golden with the on-coming 
autumn. Still, Galadriel kept to her word and extended her hospitality for the season to 
Elrond, Thranduil and their sons. The mood was one of joy to see them all safely 
returned, and the celebrations lasted for days. The more observant among the population 
noticed that for some reason, the Marchwarden of the patrols and Lord Elrond seemed to 
be spending more than a usual amount of time in company, usually speaking quietly and 
with frowns written across their brows. Very few took any notice; there were plenty of 
other things to distract them. Within a few days, the Lady Arwen had arrived, and quick 
on her tail was Thranduil’s niece, Lileadil. With them came fresh delegations from both 
Imladris and Mirkwood, and if the friendship of their brothers hadn’t convinced the two 
parties to relax their hate of each other, then the sight of two elven ladies laughing 
together most certainly did.

	‘You shouldn’t have let him go,’ Elrond maintained. Now that he had stopped 
sparring with Thranduil, he had to content himself to snapping at the far more stubborn 
Marchwarden.

‘Good thing I did, though,’ Haldir returned mildly. He was leaning on the windowsill of 
Orophin’s talan near the centre of the tree city, watching the festivities below.

‘Hmph. What did he say?’

‘He said he was leaving. So he did.’

Quite aware that this was not the case, Elrond flexed his fingers irritably. If he hadn’t 
been in somebody else’s home, he would have been tempted to throw something. ‘Then I 
imagine that you must have said something quite offensive first.’

‘I said nothing of the sort.’

‘So he did? By the Valar, Marchwarden, now that would be unusual, wouldn’t it?’ The 
elven Lord’s voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Did it not occur to you that he might have done so 
on purpose? To anger you enough to let him leave without too much of a fight? He liked 
you, Haldir. He must have done. He didn’t have to spend nearly every night out on watch 
with you, you know.’

Tiring of the constant arguing, Haldir leaned forward on the sill and murmured, ‘Go and 
join the celebrations, my lord. They’re in your honour after all.’

‘You’re as obstinate as he is,’ Elrond grumbled. ‘Trust him to fall in love with you.’

‘What?’

‘Ah, I’ve your attention again, then. Well, I’ll just be going to join in the celebrations. 
Apparently there’s some good wine which I’ll have to hide from my sons before they do 
anything rash. Good day, Marchwarden.’

Haldir let his breath hiss out through his teeth as Elrond made a quick exit. Ridiculous. 
Utterly ridiculous.

Orophin leaned around the doorway, grinning. ‘So then, who’s this Erestor?’

‘Elrond’s counsellor.’

The younger elf whistled, then hastily ducked.

	Midnight found Haldir lying awake in bed, gazing at a space of air just short of 
the ceiling of the airy talan. His patrol weren’t back on duty until the next week, all given 
early leave, and, as was perfectly normal when he wasn’t in uniform, Haldir wasn’t quite 
sure what to do with himself. He couldn’t sleep; he knew he ought to, which made it even 
worse, but usually, he would still only be halfway through the night watch and therefore 
required to stay alert for hours yet. Suddenly impatient to do something, anything, he 
swung out of bed and went to the window. The whole of Lorien was asleep at this 
hour…there were no lights. Having pulled on yesterday’s clothes, the tall Marchwarden 
climbed up onto the sill, caught the branch just beyond and eased himself up to stand on 
the sturdy bough. From there, he stepped lightly onto the roof, his balance sure even for 
an elf, and from the roof, up through the branches of the high mallorn until he found the 
sky. In the chill, clear night, the stars were scattered across the heavens in their 
thousands, sparkling through the dark and around a delicate, waning crescent moon. He 
gazed upward, then out across the land. Far in the distance, Moria and the Misty 
Mountains loomed dark on the horizon, while in the east, Mirkwood was a shadow on the 
flat grasslands. And northeast…northeast there was only rippling grassland. Haldir 
swallowed, banished the pang of longing in his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, 
but they flew stubbornly open again when an unbidden vision of Erestor whispered into 
existence. The dark elf was curled beside him in bed, the new sunlight dusting silver 
across his bare shoulders, lending his skin an almost ethereal glow as fair as snow. 
Peacefully asleep, he was still utterly colourless, his black hair a spill of dark ink across 
the pillow, creamy skin paler than the linen sheets. Even his lips were almost white, the 
softest, subtlest shade of pastel rose. It wasn’t difficult to believe that he’d not seen the 
sun for the first few centuries of his life. Shaking off the memory, Haldir folded his arms 
against the cold and faced southwest, the opposite direction, toward nothing but 
Lothlorien’s trees.

	He started when he heard a quiet knock on the door his talan below. Motionless 
despite the cold, he waited. A quiet voice called,

‘Haldir? Are you here?’

Dresil.

‘Up here,’ Haldir called down. A few moments later, the slender captain of Orophin’s 
patrol emerged from the lower branches.

‘What,’ he asked, ‘are you doing up here at this time of night?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

Dresil smiled. ‘Evidently. Are you all right?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘You’ve looked more than a little ashen these past few days. Are you going to tell me 
what’s wrong, or are you going to leave me to ask Orophin? I suspect he doesn’t know, 
although I’m sure he’ll make up something suitably amusing anyway.’

‘I’m fine, Dresil.’

‘As you like, then.’ Dresil paced along the branch and settled himself down at Haldir’s 
feet, his back against the trunk, legs stretched out before him. ‘Sit down, the view is just 
as good.’

Out of long habit from serving under the captain, Haldir obeyed automatically.

Dresil grinned. ‘You’re still the useless new recruit at heart, aren’t you.’

Haldir nodded slightly.

‘Don’t you remember the mantra of all useless new recruits in all patrols everywhere?’

The Marchwarden smiled thinly. ‘Keep trying.’

‘And trying, and trying, and trying. You’ve the look of somebody who has long since 
given up.’

‘I’m not a recruit any more,’ Haldir said softly. ‘What happens when there is nothing left 
to try?’

‘There’s always a way, Haldir.’

‘Not always a good one, though.’

‘That’s what captains are for,’ Dresil said softly. ‘That’s what you are for. To try the 
things that look as black as storm clouds. To take the blame if it doesn’t work, to be sure 
that the useless recruits have a chance to blossom into archers and swordsmen and 
runners. To keep trying.’

Haldir gave him a doubtful look.

Dresil sighed. ‘You remember when you were new in my patrol, and on your first time in 
the field, we were attacked by a group of orcs just outside Mirkwood?’

The other captain nodded slightly. ‘I remember you dealt with them as though they were 
petulant children.’

‘You thought so? I was terrified. There were fifty of them, more than I’d ever faced 
before even with a full patrol, let alone when I was saddled with a clueless recruit. You,’ 
he added, as though Haldir hadn’t guessed. ‘All I could think was…was what in Valar’s 
name I was going to tell your brothers if I couldn’t bring you back safe to Lorien. But 
then I looked at you, and I saw something astonishing. With four weeks training, you had 
a bow in your hands and an arrow nocked. You were just waiting for me to tell you to 
release it. Four weeks. And I’d served in that patrol for four centuries. You were so…so 
sure of me, so confident I knew exactly what I was doing, that I had no choice. We took 
them on. We won. Fifteen of us, against fifty. Incredible. Nothing to do with skill, or 
good command. Just the absolute confidence of the useless recruit in his captain. It’s 
what captains are for, Haldir,’ he repeated in a whisper. ‘If the recruit sees you lose heart, 
then what? Where do they turn? If the captain doesn’t have the answers, who does? 
You’re the captain now. You have to try. Whatever the odds. And I swear, to die trying is 
far better than not to have tried at all. Now. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or did 
I put all that effort into such a good speech for nothing at all?’

After a long, long pause, Haldir told him. Everything. From Erestor to the reason for the 
kidnappings, to Melkor himself. With his usual serene patience, Dresil listened without a 
word. Finally, he sighed. ‘I wondered why Elrond and the others were released so 
suddenly. Erestor’s doing, presumably.’

Haldir nodded.

Dresil paused. ‘I know…I know you don’t see it this way, but…has it occurred to you to 
see it from his point of view?’

‘I…what?’

‘Well…for whatever reason, Melkor wanted him to come home. First, the twins and 
Legolas were taken. Erestor didn’t give in. Elrond and Thranduil. Still nothing. But 
then…then, Melkor goes out of his way to make it clear that he knows Erestor cares for 
you. Thus the candles flaring in Mirkwood. Rather than let the orcs so much as touch 
you, Erestor leaves. Now, this is a move that hasn’t been provoked by the kidnapping and 
torture of Lord Elrond, who he has known for millennia. Presumably, if he had simply 
left, you would gone after him. Yes. But he knows that if you did, Melkor would take 
delight in taking you anyway, just as extra insurance. So, that only leaves one option.’

Haldir frowned.

‘To make you believe he feels nothing for you. To make you so angry that you would 
leave him behind. Which he seems to have managed more than effectively.’

The Marchwarden stared at him. ‘No…’

Dresil shrugged.

‘I…Dresil, I have to go. Now.’ Without any further explanation, Haldir ran back down 
the branch and disappeared from sight.

Dresil grinned up at the stars, and put his hands behind his head. ‘See you in a fortnight 
or so,’ he called. ‘I suppose I’ll tell Galadriel you’ve got the plague or something…’

Haldir was already gone.

‘Don’t worry,’ the captain said cheerfully to nobody. ‘It’s fine. Leave your patrol with 
me for a week once they come back from leave. I’ll manage. No need to ask.’

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

	Erestor paused, giving the air a close scrutiny for want of anything more 
interesting. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he was only half dressed, with his shirt open 
and most of his clothes lying in a heap on the chair by the desk. He had never been neat. 
His study at home in Imladris tended to look as though something large had exploded in 
it, working with the ever-effective filing system of Any Available Surface, which 
included most of the floor. Of course, he knew exactly where everything was, so 
whenever Arwen despairingly took it upon herself to tidy up in a game effort to forge a 
pathway through the haphazardly stacked papers, Erestor obligingly spent hours putting it 
all back again, much to Elrond’s amusement. Without thinking, he pushed his hair back 
from his eyes, then winced when his fingers hit the dozens of elegant pins already 
keeping it back in delicate braids and twists. Melkor had had visitors today; he had 
insisted Erestor be presentable. Irritably, the dark elf set about pulling them out. It was, 
he reflected, a damned lot of bother to go through only to please a couple of stinking 
minions from Mordor. And pleased they had been. So pleased, in fact, that Erestor had 
only narrowly escaped them by locking himself in the library for three hours.

	He looked around when he heard somebody rap their knuckles on the wall by the 
silk curtains by way of requesting entry.

‘Hello?’

A dark wraith in a dim glow of the room’s one candle, Melkor slipped through and folded 
down beside Erestor.

Erestor frowned. ‘What do you want?’

‘You were awake,’ he explained with a shrug. After a second, he clicked his tongue and 
started helping to pull out the pins. Erestor’s hair began to fall back again as they came 
away, heavy and silken now that it was away from the elements outside. ‘So,’ he said as 
he worked, ‘what did you think of the guests?’

‘They…were a bit forward.’

‘Other than that.’

‘Obstinate, arrogant, overconfident, haughty…’

Melkor smiled slightly. ‘Odd, I thought those were traits you admired.’

‘Oh, how I’ve missed your poetic subtlety,’ Erestor snapped.

‘I’m sure you have. It does strike me, though, that there seems to be a very thin line 
indeed between love and hate. Or indeed simply lust and hate.’

‘No, there’s an orc-infested mountain range between love and hate. Between lust and 
hate, still steep hike.’

‘Ah, you’d know?’

‘Explain to me, using small words for easy understanding, exactly how it’s any business 
of yours?’

‘The fire’s back, I see,’ Melkor smiled.

‘Oh, good. You can leave now.’

‘Do I really incense you so, or are you simply afraid that despite being…what was 
it…completely and unredeemably evil, I still have the capacity to care for you?’

Erestor frowned, faintly suspicious at the odd change in tack. ‘If you cared about me, I 
wouldn’t be here.’

‘If I didn’t, you would have taken your dear friend’s place in the dungeons by now.’
‘I thought you were above crude threats.’

Melkor raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then. Unpredictability is always a useful trait, so…’ He snapped his fingers. In an 
instant, the candlelit bedchamber disappeared, abruptly replaced by the dark, dank walls 
of the dungeons. The orc guards arguing in the doorway started unpleasantly, taken aback 
by the unexpected appearance of their master. Guiding him by a fistful of his hair, 
Melkor threw Erestor at them. He smiled. ‘Nice surprise for you. Do what you want with 
him for a couple of hours, but don’t touch his face, please, it would be too much of a 
shame. I’ll be back at daybreak.’

With a cheerful wave to Erestor, he was gone. The orcs stared at each other in silence for 
a long moment before they burst out laughing, very nearly unable to believe their good 
luck.

	Erestor grit his teeth as he hit the wall backwards. Still only loosely dressed, he 
had no weapons, and against fully armoured orcs, fists weren’t much use. He managed to 
gauge the force of the orc’s blow just enough to avoid cracking his head against the 
stone, but he needn’t have bothered; a horrible, tell-tale snap denoted that something had 
broken anyway. He vaguely recognized the orcs as two of the five he had knocked 
unconscious in order to reach Elrond the week before, which did something to explain the 
delight they seemed to take in such a fierce attack. A boot connected sharply with his 
ribs, and he doubled up, quietly cursing steel toecaps. Before they forced his wrists into 
the manacles bolted into the wall behind him, he lashed out and caught one of them a 
glancing blow under the jaw, then wished he hadn’t when this only seemed to give them 
incentive to use barbed manacles instead. The spikes on the inside of the steel cuffs bit 
into his skin and promptly rendered any further movement impossible. Blood ran freely 
down his arms. One of the orcs rammed a knee up hard between his legs, sending him to 
the floor in an agonized crouch. The other kicked his knees apart and the hail of blows 
continued.

	It seemed like a hellish eternity passed before Melkor deigned to return. He 
appeared in the doorway just after the two orcs had left, a tall, strangely delicate 
silhouette in front of the lanterns burning in the corridor outside. Erestor watched him 
warily. The orcs had stopped a few minutes ago, but his sight was still blurred, whether 
from tears or an impressive concussion he was too dazed to tell. Silently, Melkor paced 
across the stone floor and came to kneel in front of him to be at eye-level.

‘Morning. Still conscious? They were gentle, weren’t they.’

‘I was right, you were wrong, thought I’d celebrate by staying awake,’ Erestor whispered.

A dark, tailored eyebrow rose ever so slightly. ‘Right about what?’

‘You *don’t*  care a whit.’

‘Debatable.’

‘Rubbish. You couldn’t be gentle if you tried.’

Melkor smiled. Very lightly, he set his hands over Erestor’s knees, which were pulled 
close to his chest by way of fending off at least some of the kicks. ‘Gentle? Oh, I could 
be that, Erestor. Quite easily.’

With searing force, he pushed forward and down, so fast that the tendons in the other 
elf’s hips audibly snapped. He kissed Erestor’s forehead.

‘I simply choose not to be.’
				**********
	‘I-’

‘No-’

‘Erestor-’

‘Not listening-’

‘Don’t be r-’

Erestor flung a white-hot blade straight from the anvil to the archway leading into his 
bedchamber. On the other side of the torn veil, he heard Melkor hiss, and a clatter as the 
steaming metal was thrown irritably to the floor.

‘Come out. We’ve a visitor.’

‘Gosh! From where? Mordor? Cirith Ungul? Isengard, even, if the guards are to be 
believed? Somehow I find myself less than thrilled at the prospect!’

‘Angmar,’ Melkor answered quietly.

‘Fantastic. Have a nice time.’ Erestor went back to the forge, drowning out the other elf’s 
voice as he began to beat a new sword into shape. However, he soon had to pause again 
to plunge the blade back under the coals.

‘Specifically, the King of Angmar,’ Melkor said loudly. ‘Now come out.’

‘Or what? Or you’ll throw me into a dungeon with a couple of angry orcs? No need! I 
still can’t lie down!’

It had been nearly four days, and Erestor was no less furious than he had been on the first. 
Melkor sighed softly, resting his head against the cold stone of the pillar beside him as he 
spoke to the curtain. Through the dark silk, he could make out the glow of the forge 
beyond, and the slender shadow which occasionally moved to block out the light. Since 
the fire was buried beneath a bed of coal, he could see nothing more. ‘Don’t take it 
personally, Erestor, it was a point to be proven, not anything particularly to do with you. 
Please come out, *pen-neth*.’

Without warning, Erestor ripped aside the curtain, kicked him viciously back down the 
steps and then disappeared back inside. On the floor, Melkor winced, winded. He made a 
mental note to have some new boots made for the other elf, preferably ones *without* 
steel heels. The hammering continued. He waited. In the next pause, he said, ‘He’d like to 
be introduced.’

‘Can’t have everything you want,’ Erestor growled.

‘Oh, don’t be petulant.’

‘Petulant? Fine.’

‘Erestor-’

‘No.’

Melkor gave up. Erestor was good at being furious. It was one of the things he liked 
about him; in the dungeons, captives could be battered and broken into submission, 
tortured into saying anything the orcs wanted them to, but Erestor…Erestor only became 
angrier and angrier until sheer force of fury let him break the chains and beat the guards 
to death with them. Of course, constant rage took a lot of stamina, and so after a week or 
so it had usually died down somewhat. Four days was, apparently, not enough. Carefully 
lighting the fire and candles on his way out so that he would know when the younger elf 
finally became bored with the forge and came out, he left.

	Erestor threw down the tongs and abandoned the half-formed tang on the anvil. It 
still glowed. Exhausted, he slumped down on the edge of the bed, ignoring the spasms of 
pain the movement sent screaming across his hips and thighs. After working for hours on 
no food or water, it was all he could do to stay upright…going down to the dining hall to 
find some food was beginning to sound like an inviting idea, even if it did mean meeting 
Melkor’s guest. He shifted slightly, then almost collapsed when an idle move to cross his 
legs resulted in an explosion of agony. Breathing hard, he unbuckled his belt and eased 
the rough fabric underneath away from his bruised skin. Even though it had been a few 
days since his stay in the dungeons, he was still black and blue. He set his hand to the 
wall for a few moments, then, when the icy touch began to make his fingers tingle, he 
pressed his palm against the worst of the bruises and bowed his head as the throbbing 
ache eased with the cold. After a moment, he let himself fall back onto the bed, smiling 
wryly when it occurred to him what anyone would think if they came in now. Thankfully, 
they didn’t.

	Melkor didn’t look up when he heard quiet footfalls enter the hall behind him. 
The nazgul from Angmar had disappeared off with the orc commander an hour ago for a 
quick tour of the fortress, but for his own part, he had stayed at the table, picking at some 
fruit while he read a report from one of the orc scouts. He stayed perfectly still while 
Erestor came closer, and kept his eyes on the scroll when the younger elf finally sat down 
in the chair beside him. Midnight had been and gone, and the early pre-dawn hours were 
well established. When Melkor tilted his head slightly to glance Erestor’s way, he saw 
that he was dressed for bed, only in an open shirt and loose trousers which only just 
brushed his calves, barefoot on the cold stone floor. He was curled up in his chair, one leg 
folded under him, the other hugged close to his chest, even though it obviously hurt. 
Melkor smiled almost imperceptibly. It would have been difficult to find a daintier wraith 
than this.

‘Finish your sword?’ he asked softly.

Erestor nodded, halfway through dicing an apple.

‘Good.’

They both glanced around when a clank of chain mail announced the arrival of the 
nazgul. With his face hidden beneath his hood, it was still possible to see that he had 
tilted his head in curiosity at the sight of the younger elf. Melkor smiled

‘Ah. Finally, your paths cross. Erestor, the Witchking of Angmar, leader of the nine.’

Much to his credit, Erestor nodded politely. Melkor suspected he was too tired to do 
anything more adventurous.

He turned back to the robed figure in the entrance archway. ‘Your grace, this is 
Erestor…my son.’

	Erestor patiently waited until the nazgul had made his exit before opening his 
mouth again.

‘I’ve always wondered why he wears the hood.’

Melkor frowned, distracted by his scroll. ‘Why?’

‘Well, you can see his face anyway.’

‘Can you? Interesting.’

‘Why?’

‘People in general can’t see him, Erestor, just you,’ Melkor provided absently. ‘You 
know, only the one who wears the Ring ought to be able to see his face.’

Erestor wasn’t impressed. ‘He’s not worth the bother.’

Melkor was quiet for a moment. Then, ‘Your gift is strengthening. And you don’t sleep. 
Connected, in any way? What do you see when you dream?’

‘Nothing interesting.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Said with far too much conviction for comfort. Still. You look awful, go to bed.’

‘Why was he here?’ Erestor asked abruptly.

‘Pardon?’

‘The nazgul. Why was he here?’

‘Business messenger from Sauron.’

‘With a message about what?’

Melkor tilted his head slightly, sending his fall of dark hair slipping over one shoulder. ‘It 
was to do with a new hunt for the…’ he stopped, his black eyes narrowing. ‘For the 
Ring.’ After the barest of pauses, he carried on swiftly, ‘And about some turncoat wizard 
from Isengard, although none of it is of particular interest. None of it will affect us here.’
Under the table, he reached out an touched Erestor’s ankle, raising one eyebrow almost 
undetectably. Minutely, Erestor nodded. Both of them were horribly aware of the 
hundreds of candles burning all around them. Well was it known that Sauron had once 
been Melkor’s servant; many of his skills, namely seeing through fire, were learned from 
the first Dark Lord. Very carefully, Melkor rose to his feet and held his hand out for 
Erestor, easing him with him. Slipping his arms around the younger elf, he pulled him 
close in what looked for all the world like a gentle parting embrace.

‘You know where it is?’ he whispered, barely loudly enough for Erestor to hear, let alone 
any unwanted listeners.

‘Yes-’

‘Don’t tell me. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t breathe so much as a word. If you do…I’m not 
sure that I could protect you. Now,’ he added, at normal volume, ‘to bed, I think.’

	Erestor gazed at the ceiling, imagining the stars over Imladris. Standing out on the 
balcony of Elrond’s bedchamber, watching the river and the trees under silver moonlight. 
Sparring with Glorfindel in the dark, listening to the twins chatter. He smiled. The 
memories sparkled. He let his eyes slip closed, spiralling down into a deep, still sleep.

	He woke with an unpleasant start. When he instinctively put his hand out for 
Haldir, he felt only cold linen, and, disorientated, he sat up in the dark. No window. Cold. 
Stone. As his eyes adjusted, he could just make out the dim glow of the embers of the fire 
in the next room through the silk curtains. The ache rooted deep under his hips had begun 
to throb again, the half-healed tendons complaining after having been in the same 
position for so long. He lay still for a moment, cursed softly, then swung out of bed to 
make a swift circuit around the room. The floor was icy, and the air had all the chill of 
midwinter. Waiting for the pain to die down, he eased carefully down the steps and into 
the room beyond, leaning down by the hearth to stoke the fire once more. As the flames 
rose, so did the volume of a faint, almost inaudible clamour of voices. Erestor raised a 
wry eyebrow. Going slowly insane didn’t appeal, but he doubted that he was. Farsight- 
the ability that Melkor tended to refer to as a gift- could manifest itself in many different 
forms, and in Erestor’s case, it seemed to want to go for as much variety as possible. It 
had first come in visions, scenes played out in vivid lucidity while he slept. Thought had 
come next; an unpredictable, hazy ability to read minds on a very shallow scale, giving 
him an almost unnoticeable advantage in knowing when somebody was lying. Like his 
father, he could see through fire…but he could also see through more or less anything. 
Water, mirrors, glass, even sometimes in the wind. This particular branch he didn’t tend 
to use; he saw it in much the same way as he did reading somebody else’s private letters. 
But all of them were becoming stronger with every passing hour.

	Faintly curious to see how far he could go, Erestor gazed into the fire. Within 
moments, he saw a crystal clear image of Melkor, asleep in bed beside a guttering candle. 
He let the focus widen. It quickly spun on to Lorien, but no matter where he looked, he 
could not find Haldir. He saw Rumil and another elf who looked remarkably similar, 
presumably Orophin, playing dice on the floor of their talan by the fire. The scene 
whipped across again, until it came to rest in a comely-looking inn. The place was full of 
laughter, and judging from the size of everything else, the people there were only just 
above usual waist height. Entirely of its own accord, the fire showed him one of them 
inparticular, a young one. He tilted his head. The halfling was sitting quietly, watching 
the others with bright eyes that shone blue beneath a mop of unruly auburn curls. Erestor 
smiled wryly. If visions could be depended on, then the poor fellow was in for a nasty 
surprise.

	A moment before the nazgul opened the door, Erestor caught a snatch of its 
thoughts, and so by the time it entered, he was already armed. Even so, the fight was 
brief. Unable to move as well as usual, Erestor was swiftly knocked flat to the floor, a 
blade pressed hard to his throat. With a wordless hiss, the ringwraith cracked a gauntleted 
fist across his face, knocking him cold. Then it stooped and lifted him with it, carrying 
him as though he weighed less than a child. Its footsteps echoed softly in the corridor 
beyond. Three floors down, Melkor’s eyes flew open.

	‘*Everywhere?*  You had best be damned certain, commander!’

‘All respect, I’d not have risked telling’ yer so if I weren’t cursed sure it were true,’ the 
orc commander pointed out reasona