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 reasonably. ‘The young master’s nowhere within a day’s 
march of the castle. We ain’t found no tracks that weren’t our own, and even those 
weren’t fresh, an’ the guards at the entrance o’ the maze reckon nothing’s bin past ‘em 
for the whole night.’

‘Means nothing,’ Melkor snapped. ‘Erestor’s no idiot. I don’t suppose your guards saw 
him cruising through with five prisoners in tow either, did they.’

‘Er…no, milord,’ the orc admitted uncomfortably. For the past week, he had been trying 
to work out how in the world the young master had managed it. He was getting nowhere 
fast.

‘If I find him within twenty leagues of this castle, commander, I’ll have your hide.’

The orc did very well not to wince. He had served in the Iron Hills easily long enough to 
be nothing less than solidly certain that the master never said anything he didn’t mean. ‘If 
you don’t mind me saying so, milord…the young master didn’t seem as though he 
wanted to be going off anywhere. I mean to say, well, we’d know about it if he had done. 
On account of the, er…carnage,’ he added awkwardly. Last time…oh, last time. Erestor 
had simply appeared in the middle of the guard contingent near the gates of the castle, 
and had then calmly proceeded to slaughter *all of them* in order to gain access to the 
gate. The death toll had been something in the region of twoscore. It had been more than 
embarrassing.

‘Your past and extravagant failures aside…who was the last person to leave the castle?’

‘The, er, king. The nazgul from Angmar. He went just before dawn.’

‘You watched him go?’

‘By dragon.’ The commander paused. ‘He’ll be back at Minas Morgul by now.’

‘And Erestor was not with him.’

‘No, milord.’

‘I only ask,’ Melkor said acidly, ‘because his dear majesty left my company in the early 
hours of the morning just after midnight, and Erestor didn’t demonstrate his vanishing act 
until just before the dawn.’

‘I’ll have the time confirmed,’ the orc promised, with a sinking heart. If the time the 
Witch-king left did indeed tie in with the time Erestor disappeared, it would mean two 
things, both bad. First, all the guards on watch at the time would be executed for neglect 
of duty, which would leave him twenty five troopers short, and second, the orcs would 
then probably be ordered to march to Minas Morgul and raid it in search of any sign of 
the master’s son. Against the Witch-king and the hundreds of orc soldiers permanently 
stationed there, the commander didn’t much fancy his chances.

‘So it’s not quite certain now? You inspire me with confidence, commander, you really 
do. Find out. Now.’ He disappeared.

Startled the orc glanced about, looking confusedly to the guards stationed on the archway 
behind him. ‘Did you see…?’

*Get ON with it, commander!* Melkor’s voice echoed furiously from nowhere.

The orc fled.

	‘Where’s my son?’ Melkor asked softly. His voice echoed around the dark, 
vaulted chamber, the sound reverberating from stone walls an immaculate flagstone 
floors. In the dozens of black candles pushed into even blacker scones, he saw countless 
worlds, from peaceful homes in the Shire to the slopes of Mount Doom itself. Nowhere 
inbetween did he see Erestor.

‘Your…son.’ The whispered reply was hissing, almost ponderous in its stress of the 
sibilant.

‘Yes,’ Melkor snapped. ‘Tall, slim, dark hair, I’m sure you remember.’

‘I do.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Not here.’

‘Indeed. Tell me.’

‘It occurs to me that you did not care so much for his welfare four days ago.’

Melkor raised an eyebrow. ‘Obviously you are not familiar with the notion of hypocrisy. 
He is my son, therefore I can do to him what I will and still be furious with *you* for 
doing exactly the same. Where.’

‘The Dark Lord-’

‘Would do well to remember that his predecessor is still not one to cross.’

‘The Dark Lord wishes for him to be kept…in isolation, for a short while. He will be 
returned to you.’

‘*Where is he?*’

‘Go home, elf.’ The crowned nazgul inclined a lazy hand, and a heartbeat later, Melkor 
landed hard on the stone floor of his own castle. Very, very slowly, he rose to his feet. 
His black hair slipped back into place, within instants belaying any accusations of 
untidiness, and for the briefest moment, his dark eyes flared silver. As it he began the 
long walk to Erestor’s chambers, it was immediately evident that all his lazy languidity 
was gone, replaced by perfect grace. Even his clothes seemed to hang differently. As he 
walked, they changed. Light, soft cotton transformed into armour, chain mail, black 
leather. Jointed gauntlets whispered into existence over his hands, and within a few 
paces, the old, infamous bandolier of throwing daggers had appeared across his chest. 
The transformation was complete in seconds, and its message was crystally clear. The 
first Dark Lord had returned.

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

	Haldir folded his arms against the biting cold, gazing pensively toward the guard 
post. From his vantage point at the top of a nearby hill, he could see the sentries 
silhouetted against the setting sun, just five of them, all leaning against their spears and 
looking thoroughly bored even from this distance. They seemed distracted enough to slip 
past, but he couldn’t be sure; he had been standing motionless for the past half hour, 
exercising an almost uncanny patience for reconnaissance, watching, waiting to see 
whether there were any more behind them. If guard duty with the patrols was anything to 
judge by, sentries started out in the right positions, but after they were cold and hungry 
and bored, they tended to drift a bit to talk to their friends. So far, none of the orcs had 
done so, which meant either that their shift had only just begun, or that nobody could be 
bothered to talk. Which hopefully meant they’d be slow to communicate anyway. After 
another few minutes, the tall Marchwarden began the steep walk down the hillside toward 
the entrance of the fortress.

	Upon nearing the sentry post, it became quite evident that the five guards on the 
brink of the subterranean castle’s land were in fact only the first of many. Across a wide, 
flat space surrounded by low hills, orcs stood, sat or lounged everywhere, some on active 
duty, other merely lending their presence to the cause as they milled about by cooking 
fires and murmured idly amongst themselves. Careful to keep out of the light of the dying 
sun as well the orcs’ lines of sight, Haldir paused, and then sighed. Straightening to his 
full and considerable height despite desperately wanting to sit down or at least slouch, he 
stalked up to the nearest guard with an air generally found in nobody short of royalty.

‘Here, what’re yer d-’

‘I am here,’ Haldir said coldly, ‘to see your master.’

The orc looked suspicious, but was clearly wary. ‘What for?’

‘How *that* is any of your business I fail to see.’

‘But-’

‘Next time you choose to speak to your betters, orc, at least do it in sentences,’ Haldir 
snapped.

Reasoning firstly that nobody other than an invited guest of extremely high status could 
possibly manage to demonstrate such sheer and haughty arrogance, and secondly that 
very few uninvited people ever wanted to get *in* to the castle as opposed to speedily 
*out*, the orc nodded grudgingly. ‘This way.’

	An hour later, Haldir stepped through a heavy doorway from the maze and into 
the pool of torchlight beyond. The orc closed it behind him and trudged off through the 
dark, grumbling. Most of the master’s visitors were rude and unpleasant, but the silver-
haired creature had taken scathing nastiness to new heights. Elf or not, the orc trooper 
reckoned the master might finally have met his match for irritability. He was still just in 
earshot when he the heard the master’s voice welcome the newcomer.

‘Ah, Marchwarden. Do come in.’

	Melkor regarded the Lorien captain over steepled fingers.

‘I must say, that was rather well done.’

Haldir remained silent, steadily returning his gaze through strange indigo eyes. Melkor 
continued his scrutiny for a long moment. Despite his earlier disparaging comments to his 
son, he would have been the first to admit that there was indeed something very arresting 
about the elf before him now. Not least the fact that he must have walked nearly a 
hundred leagues from Lothlorien to be here.

‘Unfortunately, it was for nothing. Erestor is not here.’

The other elf frowned.

‘He disappeared in the early hours of the morning. He took nothing with him, and the 
guards found blood on the floor in his chambers…everything suggests that he was taken 
against his will. As of yet, I do not know where he is. I was hoping that perhaps you 
would, although now…I see not. You are, of course, welcome to stay for a while.’

‘Why?’ Haldir asked bluntly.

Melkor lifted an eyebrow. ‘Why not? You hardly look as though you eat very much, so I 
doubt you’ll cost me a lot to keep for a few days. A few general guidelines for your own 
safety; do not stray beneath the eighth level, mainly because the dungeon guards like to 
attack anything with fair hair, and however suspicious you may be about the width of the 
spaces in between the floors, please refrain from becoming hopelessly lost in the spies’ 
passageways. Meals can be served when you want them, usually in the hall, but in your 
chamber if you so wish, and there is a sizable library just off Erestor’s chamber. Which 
you may as well stay in, I suppose.’ He paused. ‘Anything else? I’m leaving in a few 
minutes.’

‘Where?’

‘Minas Morgul.’

Haldir hesitated, not quite sure what to make of him. Every legend and story about the elf 
before him spoke of terrible evil and a notable lack of a conscience, but instead, he was 
now faced with hospitality and a polite demeanour. ‘Thank you.’

Melkor smiled slightly, quite obviously charmed. ‘Hm. Feel free to explore in my 
absence. You are, of course, free to leave when you like, although I shouldn’t attempt the 
maze alone if I were you.’

‘Why…why are you being so kind?’

The dark elf laughed. ‘Rest assured, if I thought your present appearance to be anything 
less than exquisite, your features and bone structure would currently be in the process of 
being clumsily rearranged in the dungeons. Since I don’t…make yourself at home. And, 
of course, there is no amusement to be had in annoying Erestor when he is notably not 
here. Good evening.’

He disappeared. Haldir was too tired to be surprised.

	After some hazy directions and many wrong turns, Haldir found himself in the 
high entrance archway of Erestor’s chambers. He stopped just inside, letting his eyes 
sweep slowly across the room. Opposite him was a grate, still smouldering with 
yesterday’s embers. Iron candelabra hung on chains from the high ceiling. A wide set of 
steps began off to the right, leading up to three small archways veiled with black silk that 
shimmered softly as they moved in the draught. Despite its size, the room was sparsely 
furnished, with only a single chair of less than comfortable appearance stationed by the 
fire; the deep, thick rugs strewn across the flagstones there suggested that Erestor had 
always preferred the floor. As promised, the doorway on the left led into an impressive 
library full of ancient tomes whose spines were written mainly in what looked to be 
Quenyan. Haldir gave it only a cursory glance; Lorien-bred soldiers tended to miss out 
somewhat on the classical education required these days to read the old tongues. Quietly, 
he crossed the cold stone floor and climbed the steps on the other side of the chamber. It 
was the complete opposite of the entrance room. In the far corner stood a forge, 
surrounded by tools and bits of metal and stray pieces of coal. Three or four  perfectly 
finished swords lay shining across a battered anvil, while along the wall, a veritable 
armoury of blades gleamed in the candlelight. A desk was already stacked with scrolls 
and books from the library, while on the wall above the bed, a map had been pinned to 
the stone, covered in notes and scribblings and circles. A book lay open by the bed, 
showing a seemingly random page regarding the appearance of the peculiar folk of the 
Shire.

	Haldir sat down lightly on the edge of the bed. Almost unconsciously, he put his 
hand out and drew the covers close, their faint, wintery scent ringing painfully familiarly. 
He was still and silent for a long, long while until finally, he slipped the travelling pack 
from his shoulders and eased it down onto the floor. His boots and tunic slowly followed, 
and then the tie in his hair. He started slightly when he heard a tiny sound behind him, 
almost expecting to see Erestor duck through the silk curtains and berate him for looking 
so bleak. There was nobody there. He let his gaze drop back down to where his lands lay 
in his lap. With cold suddenness, a strong wind whipped through the chamber, 
extinguishing the candles. The plunge into darkness did nothing to alter his unreadable 
expression, and nor did the hot tears starring his lashes. Motionless in the dark, he could 
not quite bring himself to fall sideways and go to sleep in Erestor’s bed without Erestor to 
invite him. At the break of dawn the next morning, the servant who came to light the 
candles again found him still there.

	Since Melkor had explicitly forbidden him to investigate the network of spy 
tunnels and to venture below the eighth level, Haldir promptly did exactly that, reasoning 
that he was far more likely to find out something more about Erestor if he followed in the 
dark elf’s footsteps and ignored everything the castle’s lord said. It didn’t take him long 
to spot the hatchway in the ceiling of the library or to climb up and have a look. 
Disappointingly, it was locked. Haldir spent the next hour or casting about for the right 
sized shard of metal in the forge with which to pick the lock, and eventually, his patience 
yielded the perfect candidate. Of course, he then had to spend even longer actually doing 
the picking…it wasn’t an art he had practised much. However, when he finally pulled 
open the trapdoor, it was well worth all the effort. It led into a long, low, lightless tunnel. 
Standing on the top level of the high bookshelf he had been perched upon for the past 
hour or so, he glanced both ways in a brief check for anything nasty, and without further 
ado pulled himself up.

	With a suddenness that almost made him choke, someone shouted right next to 
him. He was dimly aware that it was spoken in a language he didn’t know, ugly and 
harsh, but somehow he understood the words anyway.

‘*Where is it? Tell me!*’

Even in the dark of tunnel, it was quite obvious that nobody could possibly be beside 
him. Or, if they were, Haldir reflected ruefully, they were exceptionally small and 
certainly didn’t have elbows. His were already bruised.

‘*Where!?*’ the voice demanded once more. Haldir felt as though he was hearing it as he 
would an argument in another room; faintly muffled, not quite clear, even though it 
seemed for all the world to be coming from right by his ear. Perplexed, he leaned down 
closer to the floor, but it made the sound no clearer.

‘*You want me to break another one? Fine. Now TELL ME WHERE IT IS!*’

He straightened slowly again, shifting to sit cross-legged on the hard stone floor of the 
little tunnel. He had been on his hands and knees before. Quite still now, he listened 
intently. The conversation was entirely one sided, but it gave a fairly good idea of what 
was going on.

‘*Talk, damn you! Or don’t filthy animals like you have tongues? Here, Aglun, that’s an 
idea…*’

Then, quite composedly, a familiar voice said, ‘*Look, you nit, if you cut out my tongue, I 
shan’t be able to tell you anything, shall I?*’

‘*So you’re going to tell me now?*’

‘*Nah,*’ said Erestor, almost cheerfully.

‘*Whatever you like, elf. You’ve got plenty of fingers left to break.*’

There was a long pause, as though the first speaker was giving Erestor a while to think on 
it. And then there was a horrible, sickening crack. The stubborn silence that followed was 
worse than a scream.

Haldir punched the wall.

	After hearing the scene played out from seemingly nowhere, the dungeons below 
the eighth level were singularly if gruesomely uninteresting. They were exactly what he 
had expected; dark, dank, and full of starving prisoners, all of whom looked to have been 
insane for some time already. The orc guards were few and far between, mainly sitting 
about in empty cells playing dice, completely unalert to the Marchwarden’s presence. He 
slipped past through the dark, glancing through barred cell doors as he went. By the 
complete silence, it was quite obvious that wherever Erestor was being held, wherever 
the orc was who had been shouting at him, it was not here. After a long while of slinking 
along dimly lit passageways, Haldir finally turned back. He was faintly aware that he 
should be more cautious, afraid, even, but he was nothing of the sort, too angry, too 
anxious already to have room for anything else. When he arrived back at the hidden 
doorway through which had first found his way into the sublevels without incident, he 
closed it softly behind him and began the long climb back up to Erestor’s chambers.

	Since he had been operating through force of sheer curiosity, most of which was 
now bleakly quenched, the last of his strength left him almost the moment he stepped 
back onto the floor of the library. Too tired to feel any sort of guilt, Haldir collapsed into 
Erestor’s freshly made bed and turned his face against the cool pillow. A familiar, 
wintery scent lingered in the linen, and if he closed his eyes and forgot the coldness of the 
room, he could almost feel the dark elf beside him, breathing softly, slowly, pale skin so 
smooth as to make the fine sheets feel coarse. The gentle longing carried him into sleep. 
When Melkor stepped up to stand in the archway several silent hours later, the dark elf 
smiled ruefully as he watched him sleep. He was lying on his side, one hand rested lightly 
in the empty space beside him, palm up, almost as though he had fallen asleep curled next 
to someone who had since left. Erestor had lain like that. Silently letting the silk curtain 
fall back into place across the archway, Melkor came to sit inside, just on the edge of the 
bed. He watched the sleeping elf for a long, long time. Finally, he rose to his feet again. It 
wasn’t worth waking him only to tell bad news.

	‘You didn’t find him, then.’

Melkor sighed, and set down his scroll. ‘You move very quietly, Marchwarden.’

‘Steel heels aren’t regulation on patrol boots.’

The dark elf smiled thinly. ‘I did find him, as it happens. He is indeed at Minas Morgul.’
Haldir waited.

‘He has been…is being…tortured. Although from what I could gather, the torturers 
themselves are getting rather more of a battering than he is. Apparently being slightly 
furious all the time builds up stamina when one really needs true rage. They haven’t 
managed to make him say anything but curses thus far.’

Something about the way Melkor said ‘curses’ made it quite clear that he did not mean 
swearing.

‘However,’ he continued slowly, ‘the…king…’ Melkor spat the word as though it were 
offensive- ‘of Angmar has managed to divine certain things through other methods than 
simple speech. Do you know anything about magic, Marchwarden?’

‘No,’ Haldir answered truthfully.

The dark elf nodded slightly. ‘There are many kinds. Earth magic, the magic of the Valar, 
of wizards, of horribly and disgustingly evil tyrants-’ he made a little bow in his seat- ‘the 
magic of certain gifts and talents. It is incredibly difficult to consciously control, and 
therefore very few have ever truly mastered it without long and gruelling teaching. Those 
who are born able to do so do not use it as those who have been trained do. Rather than 
simply acting as a reservoir for it, with a limited capacity, they actually channel it. And 
this channelling leaves a very singular trace. A trail, if you like, one that can be quite 
easily followed by those who are able to see it or sense it. As you may or may not have 
noticed in your short time with him, Erestor is one of the few. He tends to block it, and 
wisely so, I think. Even so, it sometimes comes involuntarily. For instance, he often 
receives visions when he sleeps, which is why he generally flatly refuses to sleep at all, 
and from time to time I suspect he reads minds without meaning to. However, this 
unconscious magic has now taken another form.’

Melkor paused, watching him carefully. Haldir frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘You may not know this, but the traditional elven bonding ceremony is derived from a far 
older root. Millennia ago, channellers of magic were much more well-known than they 
are now, and there were also, for some reason we have yet to discover, many more of 
them. When one of them fell in love, truly in love, with somebody who was honestly and 
undoubtedly prepared to actually die for them, the magic inside them would begin to 
reach out. It would seek the one they so desired to be near to, even if they were in fact 
hundreds of leagues apart, and once it reached them, it would latch into their very soul 
and form a bond so powerful that it was rumoured then that no earthly force could break 
it. It became a symbol of complete faith, of loyalty and true companionship. 
Unsurprising, therefore, that it soon became the basis for a marriage ceremony. This has 
been largely forgotten. However, it…still exists. The original form of bonding still 
exists.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The evidence is standing in front of me,’ Melkor said simply. ‘When you entered this 
castle, you as good as said that you would be willing to die for Erestor. If I had been in a 
less kindly dispositioned mood when you arrived, I’m sure you would have died for him. 
The bond has formed; it’s solid, and most likely permanent until one of you dies, and 
unfortunately, it is very, very bright. One so good at his craft as the Witch-king could not 
fail to notice it. He saw it in Erestor, and he has, I think, by now managed to follow it 
back to you.’

There was a long, long pause. Finally, Haldir sighed. ‘Fun and games, then.’

‘Oh, fabulous, fabulous, now get out of my sight and eat something, you look terrible.’

Melkor leaned back in his chair and watched the slender Marchwarden spin defeatedly 
around and head off in the opposite direction toward the kitchens and the smell of spiced 
fruit. He waited, counting silently as he tapped his fingers lightly against his desk. On 
five, a hooded, darkly armoured figure walked past his door. On ten, there was a muffled 
thump. On fifteen, the figure returned, carrying the unconscious Marchwarden. Melkor 
tipped it a lazy salute, and waited until reaching eighty-six before shouting,

‘Guards!’

By which time, he knew, the dark figure had already gone.


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

	‘Get the captain! He’s…he’s doing it again!’

‘I’m not doing anything, it’s all your imagination.’

‘Aglun! Run, will you it’s-’

‘All a dream…’

‘Look, you, shut up-’

‘Hearing voices is the first sign of madness, you know, but when you start talking back, 
oh, you must be well progressed…’

‘I’m going to break every bone in your wretched body if you don’t-’

Haldir forced his eyes open just in time to see Erestor give the orc standing in the low 
doorway a beaming smile. This action seemed to unnerve the orc guard entirely, and the 
brawny creature took off down the corridor after his friend. Once he was gone, Erestor 
slumped back against the chains and gave Haldir a hollow look.

‘Cheerful life, this. You’ll see. We can have a competition; who can mentally disturb the 
guards the most. Or the most guards, depending on the scoring system, I suppose, but, 
well, whatever you like.’

‘Are you…Erestor, you don’t look-’

‘Hah! Observational skills as sharp as ever, I see. No, I don’t feel fantastic. Even less so 
for seeing you here. How did a nazgul get into Lorien to drag you off, anyway?’

‘It didn’t,’ Haldir said quietly. He took a long, deep breath, watching Erestor closely as 
he did. Every fibre in him wanted to snap back, to demand what he had done to cause 
such aggression, but it was a pointless question. No one could be expected to be rational 
after days of torture, let alone anybody who had first been abandoned by someone who 
was supposed to care and left to rot in place they hated anyway. With what he was 
painfully aware was a shameful amount of effort, Haldir kept his voice low. ‘I was in the 
Iron Hills. I came to look for you, but you had already gone. I should have come 
sooner…I should have followed you when you left. I thought…I thought you were as 
angry with me as I was with you. But apparently not. I wanted to say I was sorry. Didn’t 
quite get the chance. So…so I’m sorry.’

Erestor gave him a flat look. ‘I think they knocked you over the head a bit too hard. 
You’re behaving far too much out of character to be at all well.’

‘I’m fine,’ Haldir smiled, aware that this was as much of an ‘apology accepted’ as he was 
going to get.

‘I’m glad for you.’
‘How’s your hand?’

‘It’s been better,’ the dark elf sighed, holding it out for Haldir to see. His wrist was 
chained, and the links shifted and clinked at the movement. The last three fingers were 
broken, curled slightly. The nails of the same three fingers had been ripped out. Blood 
was still drying darkly along the lines of his palm. When he saw it, he made a face and 
set about scraping it off with the corner of his shirt. ‘Anyway. Melkor seems to have kept 
you well.’

‘He was very kind.’

‘Did he mention why this was?’

‘He said there was no point trying to annoy you while you weren’t there.’

Erestor nodded wryly.

Haldir sighed. ‘Why are we here, Erestor?’

‘Sauron wants the Ring, doesn’t have it, doesn’t know where it is, I do, therefore, broken 
fingers.’

‘Oh.’ It hardly seemed the time for any more questions. Erestor looked bleaker than 
Haldir had ever seen him.

‘Did he tell you anything?’ Erestor asked finally.

Haldir frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Melkor.’

‘A fair few things. Mainly to do with magic.’

‘Hm.’

‘Why?’

‘I just…I wondered.’ There was a faint undertone in his voice that suggested he had been 
about to say something else.

‘Is something wrong?’

Erestor shook his head. A dark snarl fell across his eyes. He didn’t push it away.

Haldir maintained a silent, steady gaze, waiting.

‘You’ve a very loud stare,’ Erestor told him quietly.

‘Unfortunately, I am currently unable to take it elsewhere. What were you going to say?’

‘You’re as stubborn as a whole team of mules,’ Erestor growled.

Haldir raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes.’

After a stony silence, Erestor averted his eyes to the floor. Suddenly he looked so very 
tired that Haldir instantly regretted pushing the matter so far. ‘Would you still have come 
if you’d known I was Melkor’s son?’

Haldir frowned. ‘Of course. And I thought you might be, when I saw him. The 
resemblance is quite strong. Why do you ask? As though blood makes any difference. 
You can’t inherit evil.’

‘You can inherit land, coin, titles…traits. Plenty of people would disagree.’

‘I don’t, and I’m the one sitting here, so it hardly matters what anyone else thinks, does 
it.’

The dark elf didn’t reply.

After a long silence, Haldir asked softly, ‘You didn’t…Erestor, you didn’t honestly think 
that it would change anything?’

Erestor didn’t have a chance to answer before three orcs strode back into the cell. One of 
them cracked heavily armoured knuckles viciously across the dark elf’s face, apparently 
for no reason other than generally existing. Erestor spat blood at him. The orc gave him 
an idle kick. ‘Right. Any more nonsense from you, and I might have to ruin that pretty 
face of yours.’ The newcomer spun to face the other two. ‘And if either of you two 
snivelling idiots reckon that that is any threat to yer, I’ll have yer sodding guts for 
bootlaces. Stupid bastards. Oo, the nasty elf’s scary…well I’ll tell yer now, you ain’t seen 
NOTHING yet!’

He stormed out, footsteps thumping heavily away on the stone floor.

‘What’s this, boys, trouble?’ Erestor asked cheerfully.

‘Shut up.’

‘All right.’

The two orcs paused for a second, then scowled when they realized what he had just 
agreed to. ‘Think yer so clever, don’t yer.’

Erestor raised an eyebrow. Haldir wasn’t quite sure what, because Erestor bore few signs 
of outward injury, but something gave him the distinct impression that the dark elf was 
too badly hurt to actually shrug.

Already furious and embarrassed, the orc guards set about beating him to a bloody mess. 
In the doorway the guttering torch flared violently, blinding green in the dark…but he 
didn’t make a sound.

	‘Sod this, he ain’t gonna say nothin’. Wha’s this one here for?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Well, I ain’t asking the captain. I’d rather keep me hide, thanks.’

With an expression that seemed to denote deep thought, the second orc frowned. 

‘Wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t meant ter be.’

‘Genius,’ the other one snarled.

‘An’ if he’s meant ter be ‘ere, we’re meant to beat him up, right?’

‘Suppose…’

‘Anyone told you anythin’?’ the second speaker asked Haldir hopefully.

‘Don’t ask him, you idiot!’ the first snapped. ‘And fer Mordor’s sake, stop making the 
light do that!’ he yelled at Erestor. The flaring torch promptly exploded.

‘I said-’

‘Leave him alone, it was me,’ Haldir lied levelly.

‘Bloody elves, full of clever ideas…’

‘Better than being incurably dim though, don’t you think?’

‘Not for you,’ the orc told him flatly.

‘Just try,’ Haldir invited him softly. Erestor’s beating had lasted a long, long time, and, in 
pulling against his chains, Haldir had, entirely by accident, wrenched one of them almost 
completely loose from it rotting root in the wall. Only a little extra tweaking had worked 
it free. In the present situation, one hand was more than enough.
Nicely baited, the orcs rushed him. Haldir ducked neatly just as the first orc made to 
punch him. Its fist cracked against the dank stone wall, so hard that the gauntlet buckled 
and crashed through the bones beneath. The orc reeled away, howling. While the second 
whipped around, astonished and momentarily distracted, Haldir lashed out, spinning one 
leg close to floor and sending his assailant into a cursing heap. The orc fell still after a 
stunning blow to the side of its head, and so was in no state to resist when the Lorien elf 
used his free hand to snag the keys to the chains from its belt. His other hand was free 
within seconds, and both orcs dead, necks snapped, only a few heartbeats later. He fell to 
his knees at Erestor’s side. The dark elf flinched when he touched him.

‘Only me,’ he whispered, quite aware just how incredibly difficult it was to see in the 
dark after being hit hard in the head. ‘Can you walk?’

There was no reply.

‘Erestor? *Erestor!* By the Valar, you do choose your moments, don’t you…’ he 
grumbled softly. The chains on Erestor’s wrists chinked softly as they hit the floor. Very, 
very carefully, Haldir lifted the dark elf into his arms. He was shocked by how light he 
was…he could have been carrying a child. Shrugging off his anxiety and careful not to 
trip over the orc bodies sprawled across the ground, he hurried through the open door and 
into the corridor outside.

	There were no guards outside, and nor, Haldir noted, were there any windows. 
With Erestor cradled close in his arms, he crept along the dank passageway, light boots 
silent on the floor. He soon came to stairway, which he climbed without hesitation. The 
next floor was no more promising than the last, opening out into an almost identical 
corridor, and so he carried on toward the next level. This time, dim, watery daylight 
filtered in through a grimy bank of windows on the left. He found himself running along 
a long, gloomy gallery, passing dark archways and rotting tapestries on the right and a 
continuing row of light on the left. From the view, they were indeed now on the ground 
floor. Haldir froze when he heard heavy footsteps. Trying to judge where they were 
coming from over the sound of his own pounding heart, he quickly abandoned the idea 
and trusted to luck as he darted into the shadows of the nearest archway. A battalion of 
orc soldiers marched past, chain mail clanking menacingly as they moved. Haldir 
recognized the irritable captain at their head, the one who had threatened the two dead 
guards. He waited for several long breaths after they had passed before resuming his 
journey. But almost immediately he was forced to take cover again.

	‘What changed your mind?’

The voice was low and hissing. The one which answered, however, was almost normal.
‘You had one, I had the other, I thought it would be a damn sight easier to hand mine 
over than go through all the bother of breaking out Erestor. Have you managed to get 
anything out of him yet?’

‘No. He is proving to be far more stubborn than could have been anticipated.’

‘Hm. Well then, I think we ought to go down and see why. Perhaps your guards aren’t 
quite up to standard.’

‘As you like. But you had best make it fast. The Dark Lord has begun the interrogation of 
another who seems to be much more yielding.’

‘What?’ Melkor demanded. ‘Who?’

‘A creature suspected to have recently been in possession of the Ring. Deformed halfing. 
It calls itself Gollum.’

‘Oh, how simply delightful.’

‘So. As I said. Finish this quickly, or any alliance with me is over.’

As they passed, Melkor laughed. ‘I will. Perhaps all that’s needed is a father’s touch.’

	To Haldir’s surprise and enormous relief, there was no one guarding the doors. As 
it happened, it stood to reason; if the figure with Melkor had been the Witch-king, then 
this was Minas Morgul…too close to Mordor to fear attack from outside. He was halfway 
across the bridge over the great gulf between the castle and the cliff beyond, and safely 
under the cover of the black rocks by the time the first guards burst outside. Retreating 
into a tiny fissure in the rock, well out of sight of the main path, the Lorien elf eased 
Erestor down to the floor and collapsed against the slimy wall. The worst was over, but 
he still needed luck on his side. It was a long way to the nearest settlement, which, if he 
remembered correctly, was Osgiliath, and he was already tired. In the gloomy light 
trickling into the little cave from outside, it was now possible to inspect the extent of 
Erestor’s injuries, and even from a glance, they did not look promising. There was a deep 
cut over his left eye that took a slice from the same brow, and a darkening bruise was 
blossoming slowly across his cheekbone. Even aside from his broken fingers, his arms 
and hands were covered in bruises and burns that showed all the way to his shoulders 
though the rips in his shirt. Blood was seeping through his clothes over one hip, and when 
Haldir tentatively eased the ragged fabric away, he found an awful graze that went all the 
way to the bone. Cuts and scrapes lashed their way across the creamy pale skin between 
his hips where they’d kicked him, and from the bruising across his chest, at least a few of 
his ribs had been fractured. Haldir stopped looking before long, simply bowing his head 
over Erestor’s prone form. After a while, he reached forward and stroked a few locks of 
heavy, silken black hair away from the unconscious elf’s face. Away from the wind and 
the elements, it no longer swept itself into its usual unruly spikes; instead, it fell just long 
enough to ease behind his ears, soft and thick, in loose, gentle curls. Haldir kissed his 
forehead, then sat back to keep watch on the entrance to the narrow passageway. At least 
if any orcs approached, they would have to come in single file.

	Night fell before Haldir dared glance out at the road. When he did, he found it 
empty. He took a few cautious steps into the open, tensed and waiting for the hail of 
arrows, but they didn’t come. He drew a long, not quite steady breath. Osgiliath it was, 
then.

	Three days later, Haldir awoke to clear, gentle daylight and warm sheets. 
Immediately struck with the traveller’s dilemma of being unable to remember where he 
was, he sat up quickly, disorientated. The room was modest and sparsely furnished, but 
airy. Opposite him, an arched window let the light lance down onto the bed and reflect 
from the polished wooden floor. Off to the left, a door was propped open into the 
adjacent chamber, framed with dark wood against the light stone walls. Rafters criss-
crossed the pointed ceiling above him, arranged just far enough apart for the thatched 
roof above to them be seen. The smell of wood smoke drifted across to him from a little 
grate set into the wall on the right. A small fire burned there against the chill of the 
morning. Erestor was nowhere to be seen.

	After leaning around the door to see Erestor sleeping peacefully in the next 
chamber, Haldir stepped silently through and crossed to the window. This room was 
larger, the window easily the height of a grown elf, and outside, the pale city of Osgiliath 
sprawled across the plain. Minas Tirith glowed white in the morning mist. The Lorien elf 
folded down on the wide sill, bringing his knees close to his chest as he gazed out at the 
building below. He remembered where they were now; in the house of the captain of the 
garrison. The captain himself, along with his son, had recently made a narrow escape 
from a band of orcs on the pass of Cirith Ungol. They had arrived only a week before 
Haldir and Erestor. By the time the two elves arrived in Osgiliath, Erestor had been 
walking, and had found his way back to his old captain’s home within an hour of entering 
the city. The man had been astonished but happy to see him, and had promptly provided 
them with his two attic rooms in the third storey of his spacious home. As such, the view 
was excellent, though as of yet Haldir wasn’t sure whether he liked the towering 
masonry. He was still vaguely trying to decide when behind him, Erestor sat up.

‘How long have you been there?’ he asked. His voice was still soft and husky from sleep.

‘Not long, I’ve only just come in.’

Erestor gazed around for a moment, his gaze lingering ruefully on the window. ‘It’s past 
sunrise.’

‘You need sleep more than you need to see the dawn,’ Haldir told him firmly.

The dark elf grinned. ‘You sound like Elrond.’

‘I should hope not!’

‘No matter. I’ll ignore the both of you.’

‘I see there’s no need to ask whether you feel better,’ the Lorien captain remarked dryly.

Erestor smiled, but he didn’t quite meet Haldir’s eyes. ‘Mm.’

In an unexpected flash, Haldir caught a snatch of his thoughts. His hip hurt, the horrible, 
bone-deep sort of ache that promised at best a slow and painful recovery and at worse no 
recovery at all. Burns across the base of his back made it nothing less than agony to lie 
down flat out, although as of yet he was refusing to mention them. And, annoyingly, one 
of his broken fingers in his left hand had seized and was now deftly declining to be 
moved at all, which was not going to reflect well on either his swordplay or his 
handwriting. He looked up sharply when Haldir touched his shoulder, taken off guard to 
find the slender Marchwarden sitting on the bed beside him.

‘Come here,’ Haldir told him softly.

Erestor went, crawling the half yard or so between them and into the fair elf’s waiting 
arms. Haldir pulled him close. Erestor sighed softly, and rested his head in the curve of 
Haldir’s neck, legs wrapped neatly around the other elf’s hips.

‘Hm. Perfect fit,’ he observed contently.

Haldir kissed the top of his head, then smiled when the dark elf chuckled. Very carefully, 
mindful of Erestor’s injured hip, he shifted slightly to let them both sit more comfortably, 
easing his legs round beneath Erestor’s thighs, one knee flat to the bed and the other 
crooked close to Erestor’s chest. A few moments later, he felt Erestor twine his arms 
around him, and responded by bringing the dark elf a little closer too. Their hips grazed 
gently together; Erestor winced. The pain was quickly forgotten when Haldir kissed him 
properly. He closed his eyes when he felt his nightshirt slip from his shoulders, leaving 
him naked in the Lorien elf’s lap. Just for a moment, Haldir drew back slightly, holding 
Erestor’s shoulders. Erestor gazed back. The scene was almost ethereal. With the window 
on one side of them, the morning light shone on their skin, shimmering golden in Haldir’s 
and lighting softly silver in his. The Marchwarden’s eyes caught the light and seemed to 
hold it, trapping colours there that Erestor had not noticed before. Flecks of emerald 
glittered in their depths, while closer to the surface, deepest indigo spiralled out from the 
centre to become the gentle grey of seaspray. He caught a glimpse of a fire flickering in 
the grate in the next room, and with a motion of his hand that was much slowed by a 
long, deep kiss, he sent a lazy stream of glittering blue hex across the chamber. The door 
closed.

	Having commandeered two horses of Rohan stock for half their proper price from 
a blushing stable girl, the two elves arrived in Lorien just before noon on the fifteenth day 
of travel. In their absence, the celebrations had ended and the Rivendell party had 
departed, although for himself, Erestor was quite glad of this; Elrond’s exasperated 
lectures could wait for another few days, at least. Instead, he was promptly taken to meet 
Orophin, who was still at home on leave.

‘Please be friendly,’ Haldir said, as he knocked on the talan door.

Orophin opened it, blinked, then scowled. ‘You! A note would have done! Leaving in the 
middle of the night, no reason, no message-’

‘I told Dresil-’

‘You could have told me!’ the younger elf flared.

‘Is something-’

‘Wrong? Of course something’s wrong, you disappeared off the face of the earth for a 
month! Rumil’s been frantic! As for you-’ he rounded on Erestor, ‘You could have-’

‘-met you before, it really is a delightful experience.’

Orophin glared. ‘Take it you’re Erestor, then.’

The look on Erestor’s face suggested he was either about to greatly praise Orophin’s 
incredible skills of logic or deny all allegations completely and proclaim himself to be a 
small gosling; fortunately, Haldir noticed, and kicked his ankle. ‘Yes; pleased to make 
your acquaintance,’ the dark elf said smoothly.

Orophin frowned, and shot Haldir a quizzical look. ‘Why did you just kick him?’

‘Kick him? I did nothing of the sort, Oro, you’re imagining things.’

There was a faint clang as the steel heel of Erestor’s boot connected neatly with the 
tendon in Haldir’s ankle.

‘Ouch! What was that for?’

‘Nothing. For some inexplicable reason I suddenly felt the overpowering urge to kick 
you. You’re imagining all of this, of course,’ he added cheerfully to Orophin.

No longer able to hide his grin, Orophin stood aside and let them through.

	While Orophin had simply been furious at his older brother’s sudden 
disappearance, Rumil had not taken things so well. Haldir had never seen his youngest 
brother look so drawn. There were shadows under his eyes, and in the past month he had 
gone from svelte to gaunt, his skin turned almost unnaturally pale from weeks of doing 
nothing but night duty. The last few days had been spent on compulsory leave after Dresil 
had noticed his state, although it didn’t seem to have helped. He came in perhaps an hour 
after Haldir and Erestor did, and like a frightened child ran to his eldest brother the 
moment he saw him and burst into silent tears.

‘I thought…I thought…’

‘But I- Ru, I told Dresil-’

Orophin scowled. ‘You told Dresil you were going to the Iron Hills, which Elrond kindly 
translated for us as a milder phrase for messy suicide.’

‘How did you put up with him for so long?’ Haldir demanded of Erestor.

The dark elf smiled slightly. ‘Grief makes him irritable. He had a nice habit of throwing 
vases at people after Celebrian left. Of course, this problem can usually be neatly solved 
by slipping sleeping powder into his drink.’

Rumil chuckled through his tears at the thought.

Orophin gave Erestor a grudging look of respect. He wasn’t quite sure whether he liked 
the ghostlike Rivendell elf yet with his strange manner and unreadable eyes, but for now, 
anyone willing to spend the time and effort cheering up his younger brother had his 
approval, even if it was warily given.

	‘You don’t look at all content.’

‘No. I should go back to Rivendell.’

‘What? But…Erestor, we’ve only just-’

‘Not to stay, just to tell Elrond I’m alive,’ Erestor elaborated, unusually patiently. He was 
sitting on the mallorn branch beside Haldir, lending another pair of eyes to the patrol’s 
night watch. It was just as well, because most of the others had spent the better part of the 
night throwing stones and twigs at their captain by way of penance for taking an entire 
month’s uncommissioned leave. Absently, he caught a flying pebble inches before it hit 
Haldir’s eye and hurled it back at the culprit, who consequently swore and fell out his 
tree.

Haldir sighed, and said nothing.

Erestor frowned. ‘I do live there.’

‘I know.’

‘You could refrain from looking so pointedly disapproving.’

‘I’m sorry. I just…I thought it would be nice if you would stay here for a few days.’

‘Curse you and your reasonableness, Haldir, you know I’d rather have a blazing fight and 
win.’

Haldir smiled a little, easing one arm around the dark elf’s waist. ‘I would if I had half 
the energy. Wait. *Catcall once more, Iathil, and you’ll be on triple duty for the next 
fortnight!*’

A faint ‘humph’ could be heard from a nearby mallorn.

Erestor paused. ‘I’m sure it’s impossible to identify someone by a whistle.’

‘No, but Iamae’s all the way over there.’

‘Ah. Anyway, I thought I’d go early next week and then I could be back the week after.’
Haldir nodded, less than happily.

	Unfortunately, a few days was an overestimate. The following afternoon, a tall, 
lean elf with a shining fall of white-blond hair rode straight to the sentinels on the border 
and demanded to know whether Lord Elrond’s councillor was present in Lorien. When 
the bewildered patrol on duty confirmed that yes, he was, and directed the rider to 
Haldir’s talan on the other side of the city, the strange elf went straight there, and wasted 
no time in giving the Marchwarden’s door a hard rap. Haldir opened it a few moments 
later, still knuckling at his eyes; having finished the night watch at dawn and then taken 
the patrol to the training grounds for a couple of hours of sparring, he had managed all of 
two hours’ sleep thus far.

‘Er…who are you?’

The stranger ignored him. ‘Is Erestor here?’ He had a faintly lilting accent, so rare and 
exotic-sounding that it took Haldir a long, long moment to finally realize that it was a 
Quenyan inflection. The elf was old, then. Very, very old.

‘Ah, manners as charming as ever,’ Erestor observed from inside. He caught Haldir’s 
hips and steered him gently to one side.

The tall elf broke into a shining smile. ‘You are here!’

‘Morning- or…not,’ Erestor added, peering at the sun through a gap in the trees. ‘This is 
Haldir, Lorien’s Marchwarden. Haldir, Glorfindel, another of Elrond’s lovable lackeys.’

‘Marchwarden,’ Glorfindel said curtly, not even sparing him a glance. ‘Erestor, Elrond 
sends orders to bring you home at once. There are pressing matters to be discussed with 
the Council.’

Erestor frowned. ‘But Elrond doesn’t even know I’m h-’

‘Go and get dressed,’ the tall elf suggested.

‘I haven’t had any sleep yet!’

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. ‘Well what have you been doing all night?’

Erestor gave him a withering look. ‘The night watch.’

‘A walk in sunlight won’t do you any harm, then. I’ll wait for you out here.’

While Erestor hissed and disappeared back inside, Haldir gazed ruefully at the striking elf 
before him. ‘Must it be now?’

‘Yes,’ Glorfindel said shortly.

‘Is it the custom of the elves of Rivendell to be blatantly rude to any strangers they meet 
or did Erestor just learn his manners from you?’

As he had hoped, Glorfindel only laughed. ‘It is the custom of the elves of Rivendell to 
be very courteous; however, it is the custom of ancient Eldar to expect to be either 
excused as eccentric or ignored entirely but for their historical value. I do apologise, 
Marchwarden. I’d no wish to offend.’

Haldir nodded tiredly.

But Glorfindel frowned. ‘You seemed to have forged a far deeper path into exhaustion 
than one night watch would usually merit, *laurea-quen*.’

‘There’s not been much chance to sleep lately.’

‘As I see,’ the fair elf agreed softly. For a moment, his sapphire eyes seemed to defocus 
slightly as he studied Lorien’s Marchwarden. Then he sighed. ‘Likely as not Lord Elrond 
will have no chance to give Erestor a reprieve from his work in the coming months; war 
is coming, and this land will soon be in turmoil. Duty binds us all, but…for the little it is 
worth, you are welcome in Rivendell once you have leave.’

Haldir didn’t question him; it was quite obvious that the Eldar was able to see the new 
bond. Instead, he thanked him quietly and turned back inside to bid Erestor farewell.

	Numbly, Haldir watched as Glorfindel and Erestor disappeared together out of 
sight, already arguing heatedly in Quenyan. What should have been a few days parting 
had suddenly turned into months, possibly even years, and while either measure of time 
would usually have sounded small, both now sounded like private eternities. The world 
began to blur, and he dashed his hand impatiently over his eyes. It didn’t help.

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

	Until they reached the Misty Mountains and the pass at Caradhas, Glorfindel kept 
his distance. Trying to come anywhere near Erestor was to battle through a tangible wake 
of white hot anger, and while this was of course generally the usual state of affairs, today 
it promised to grant no mercy to any soul, be they man, elf or otherwise. However, once 
they reached the mountain path, he was forced to venture closer; Erestor’s magic was 
keeping the snow at bay, but only directly above his head. Glorfindel was well aware that 
the dark elf could easily have extended his control of the blizzard back another few dozen 
yards, but was not surprised that he was notably refraining from doing so.

‘If you wanted me to keep away, you might consider clearing the snow a little over here 
too,’ the Eldar called over the wind.

In front of him, Erestor spun around. In the howling storm, he stood like a dark wraith on 
the shining snow, stubbornly black clothes hugging one side of his slender frame to give 
a suggestion of the curve of his shoulder and hip. His hair was spiked again, partially 
braided to keep it back from his eyes in the gale, and fire flickered smoulderingly in 
ebony eyes. ‘I have little care for where you are, my lord, near or far.’

‘I do, though. I’m cold, Erestor.’

‘Put up with it.’ The dark elf turned away and walked on across the ice. Glorfindel cursed 
softly in Quenyan and battled after him.

	‘I’m only the whipping boy, you must know that,’ the tall Eldar ventured. He had 
spent the last two days in pensive silence, but none of Erestor’s aura of boiling rage had 
in the least abated. Now, late at night by a lonely camp fire a day’s walk from Rivendell, 
he finally broke the quiet.

‘Present me with somebody else to snarl at and I will,’ Erestor told him shortly. He was 
watching the fire.

‘I’m sure that you and Lord Elrond will have it out between you when we get back to 
Rivendell,’ Glorfindel sighed. ‘But it is more than awkward, you know, to travel with one 
of my dearest friends and know that I’m hated for something I have no power to change.’

Erestor looked up, his gaze lingering on the Eldar’s features for a long while before he 
finally sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Fin.’

Glorfindel was quiet for a moment. ‘This parting won’t last forever. Neither will this war. 
One way or the other, you will see him again.’

‘Will I? Soldiers the both of us in a war whose odds are rapidly turning out to be more 
than impossible. However good a regiment, against an army, you’ll always loose more 
than half your troops. More than one in two. Which one is all that’s left to decide.’

‘Don’t talk like that,’ Glorfindel said softly.

‘Why? It’s how things are.’

‘No. You’re young, Erestor, and the young should not be…’ he struggled briefly for the 
right words, ‘the young should not accept death so easily. The old don’t bother to kindle 
hope because hope takes force and energy which they no longer have, but you…for you, 
life should be taken for granted. It should be. With a regiment against an army, of course 
more than half will die, but that does not mean that there cannot be two left standing 
when everything is over.’

Erestor gave him a flat look. ‘The inspiring thing about pessimism is that if you exercise 
it enough, you’re either always right, or always pleasantly surprised.’

‘Erestor-’

‘Enough!’ the dark elf snapped. ‘I talk how I talk, I am as I am, and that is the product of 
what has been and what is. For all your years, you can’t change it, so leave me be or 
change the damn subject before I have to go away and shoot something.’

Glorfindel sighed. He made an idle comment about the weather; Erestor gave him a 
disgusted look, snatched his bow and quiver from the ground beside him and disappeared 
off into the darkness.

	Their arrival in Rivendell was quiet and subdued. Since nobody knew of their 
coming, there was no one to greet them, not even Lord Elrond, and so Erestor made his 
way back to his chambers without fuss. After abandoning his pack under his bed, he 
shrugged off his cloak and went through his study. He smiled slightly when he found it to 
be the very epitome of tidiness. Arwen was sitting in the chair at his desk, reading some 
letters.

‘Evening,’ Erestor said softly, by way of announcing his presence.

Arwen looked up and smiled. ‘Erestor.’ She rose gracefully to her feet and swept across, 
the hem of her navy dress gliding across the stone floor behind her as she did.
He bowed his head slightly to her. ‘I see you’ve taken advantage of my absence,’ he 
noted ruefully.

‘Yes,’ she confirmed cheerfully. ‘I’m glad that you have decided to return to us. As will 
my father be. Have you yet seen him?’

‘No, I’ve only just arrived.’

‘He and my brothers have been miserable, although none of them have deigned to tell me 
why. They acted as though they thought you dead.’

‘They probably did think I was dead. Still, they obviously have little faith. How’ve you 
been? Has your ranger come to visit again?’

‘I and my ranger are both very well, thank you,’ she laughed. ‘Unfortunately, my dear 
Ada has been less than well, so I feel bound to push you in the direction of his chambers.’

‘But I’ve only just-’

‘Duty first,’ she reminded him, quoting one of Elrond’s favourite lectures.

Erestor sighed. ‘Yes. Always duty first.’

	Erestor paused in the doorway. Then he strode inside, gave the foot of the bed a 
kick and carried on out to the balcony. Elrond sat bolt upright.

‘Erestor?’

‘Yes.’

‘But when did you…what…’

‘I got back to Lorien a few days ago. Glorfindel came to fetch me for the council 
meeting.’

‘But he didn’t say-’

‘Glorfindel has a nice habit of not telling people things; he also has even better farsight 
than you do. You look dreadful,’ he added, for good measure.

Elrond smiled slightly. Sitting up in bed with his dark hair loose around his shoulders, he 
looked far more like a tired father now than the Lord of Imladris. ‘And you look well, 
Erestor. What happened? You didn’t return with Thranduil and me. Haldir said you’d left 
and didn’t really deign to elaborate.’

‘I upset him so he wouldn’t come after me. Although I suspect you upset him more, 
because he went anyway, and so here I stand.’

‘You’re an awful storyteller.’

Erestor grinned. ‘It’s not very interesting.’

‘Honestly, Erestor, a good tale of romance and adventure is turned into one uninteresting 
sentence. You and your secrets.’ Despite his less than gentle words, there was no hiding 
the enormous relief in the half-elf’s voice.

‘Yes. Can I stay here and watch the sunset?’

‘And your rude but strangely endearing manner. Of course you can.’

					********

	The council convened; during its long session, Erestor shared all he knew about 
the whereabouts of the Ring. Afterward, scouts were immediately sent out to watch the 
borders of the Shire. In the main though, the discussion was more centred on finding 
ways of keeping Rivendell safe in times of growing darkness. While Erestor had been 
away, several orcs had been spotted in the surrounding countryside, and even though they 
been duly dealt with by the guards, their appearances had sent waves of cold unease 
through Imladris. After the meeting, very elves in Rivendell found themselves with no 
new duties to do regarding the safety of elven settlement and the land around it. The 
smiths were flocked with new orders for blades, the stable masters soon constantly busy 
with the task of making enough tack to eventually be able to seat every warrior in 
Imladris on a horse, the tailors charged with equipping the newly forged Rivendell patrols 
with uniforms. Youths who had before been apprenticed to scribes and architects were 
trained as fighters or field medics to be sent out with the patrols as auxiliaries, much as 
they were in Lorien. Within the space of a year, the Last Homely House had settled into a 
far more warlike routine than had ever before been necessary. The better part of Erestor’s 
day was spent instructing students in swordplay, while others, Glorfindel included, taught 
different things; archery, hand to hand, quarterstaff sparring. Year in, year out, the 
teaching had to become better, more rigid, more rigorous to match the threat slowly but 
surely creeping across the land.

	Sightings of dark creatures and warbands and even orc ambushes became so 
common as to be routine…word quickly came from Lorien that things were no better on 
the other side of the mountains. So when, five decades after that first council meeting, 
border scouts rushed home to report word that Sauron had released the Nine, nobody 
could quite summon the will to be overly shocked. All that could be done to slow the 
wraiths, was. Warriors were lost, the veterans and inexperienced alike. It wasn’t long 
before Elrond was forced to admit defeat and let the creatures pass into the Shire.

					*******

	Nearly three weeks later after this defeat, when a certain Frodo Baggins finally 
awakened from a near-fatal blow from a close encounter with the Ringwraiths, the young 
hobbit was vaguely surprised that Lord Elrond’s dark counsellor greeted him by name 
when their paths crossed in one of Rivendell’s many gardens.

‘I…do I know you, sir?’ Frodo asked, somewhat nervously. The elf before him now was 
tall, even for his kind, and he didn’t look like the others. His jet black hair was far shorter 
than the hobbit was used to seeing in the graceful Imladris elves, barely long enough to 
touch the tips of his pointed ears, swept back from his face in a few business-like braids 
sealed with plain pins. Again unlike the other elves, his eyes were dark, not blue, black as 
obsidian and somehow distant, as though he saw things others did not. There were no 
lines on his chiselled face, although, since elves certainly appeared to live forever, Frodo 
knew this was no clue to his age. Added to his height, his black clothes made him all the 
more intimidating; he looked like a colourless ghost come straight from the Halls of 
Mandos, and almost as wraithlike.

‘No,’ the dark elf told him blandly. ‘Not to say I don’t know you.’

‘I don’t quite follow you.’

‘No need.’

‘You’re…you’re very strange, sir.’

The dark elf smiled slightly, and swept him a graceful bow. Frodo found himself 
grinning. There was something very likable about this elf’s lazy grace and cheerful lack 
of courtesy.

‘You’ve a long journey ahead of you, master Baggins,’ the stranger said, once he had 
straightened again. For some reason he couldn’t quite place, Frodo found himself under 
the distinct impression that to hear such a note of warmth in this particular elf’s voice was 
a rare thing indeed. ‘I hope you fare well.’

‘I hope I do too,’ Frodo said glumly. ‘It’s a long way to Mordor.’

‘True. It’s a less than cheery place, Sauron isn’t renound for his friendliness, and, of 
course there’s always the thought that if you fail and inconsiderately manage to get 
yourself killed along the way, the rest of the realm will collapse and die, which, of 
course, it will…but that’s not the best of mindsets.’

‘I suppose-’ Frodo stopped suddenly. The Council determining the fate of the One Ring 
was to be held tomorrow morning. He had told no one that he already suspected he would 
have to be the one to take it on to Mordor. He had overheard Gandalf and Elrond talking 
a few hours ago. Both had been very heated. Elrond had insisted that the Ring could not 
stay in Rivendell…he’d insisted a lot of other things too. By Gandalf’s lack of a good 
argument, Frodo had been forced to conclude that all of it was true. The Ring could not 
be destroyed here. It would have to be taken back to the fires of Mount Doom to be 
unmade. But…he’d not mentioned this at all. Not even to Sam. Merry and Pippin were 
still happily mulling over longing thoughts of a good mug of ale at home in the Shire. So 
how did this stranger know…? ‘How do you-’

The dark elf’s eyes twinkled. ‘You know that Sauron watches you, Frodo. But be sure 
that others watch you too. Others whose intents are far, far better. Good night,’ he said 
abruptly. And he was gone.

Frodo cast around confusedly, but saw no trace of him. Then he sighed. The Ring was 
already driving him insane.

	Erestor leaned back in the shadows of the tree behind him and watched the 
halfling go on his way. After a while, he let himself slide down the trunk, and sighed. 
Eyes closed, he let his mind wander, searching, seeking, until, after what like a quiet 
eternity, he found what he was looking for. The quiet, guarded sparkle in the darkness of 
the world’s memory and consciousness that showed him the way back to Haldir. He 
followed it, and, very suddenly, found himself gazing at the Marchwarden as though 
standing right beside him. The Lorien elf was, as was usual at this time, on his patrol’s 
night watch on the western border of the forest. There was a silence about him that had 
not been there before. A fresh graze across his cheekbone suggested yet another skirmish 
with the orcs who constantly threatened to overrun Lothlorien, and his deep, grey eyes 
were hollow with tiredness. Over the past few weeks, Erestor had tried to speak to him, 
calling his name through his thoughts, but the best response he had ever managed to 
provoke was a slight frown. He sighed again.

*I miss you,*  he whispered, well aware that the Marchwarden would not hear. He let the 
vision fade.

But, high in a mallorn on the western border of Lothlorien, Haldir frowned…glanced 
over his shoulder.

‘Erestor?’

No reply.

	‘Elr- oh, for pity’s sake-’

Erestor spun around again in the doorway and headed back down the corridor. 
Apparently both Elrond and Thranduil had finally grown tired of being without their 
wives, and while Erestor by no means begrudged them closeness, he did wish they would 
lock the door or at least station a helpful notice outside. As he walked, he set about 
yanking the pins out of his hair, tossing them into the shrubbery as he went. Elrond would 
usually have squeaked at this, although since the half-elf was currently and very 
interestingly tangled with Mirkwood’s king, Erestor didn’t see much reason to refrain. He 
had been in a quietly bad mood for the past fortnight and annoyingly, with so much going 
on, there had been very little chance to vent it without causing an all-out brawl at the 
Council. Last week, word had come to Rivendell that the Ringwraiths were loose in the 
land. Which meant *somebody* had told Sauron where to find his little trinket, somebody 
who most certainly was *not* Erestor, and also somebody who Erestor fully planned to 
murder if ever he got half the chance. It was more than slightly infuriating to have stayed 
silent through what he had and then only to find that some other idiot had caved in 
instead. Sensing a rising urge to kick something, the dark elf stopped walking and 
breathed out slowly. The airy passageway was lit gently by the candles that floated in 
deep, stone bowls of water held upright by marble statues, lending the dark a peaceful 
glow. On his left, one wall was made up merely of archways and columns, open to the 
chill weather outside. Frost glittered on the grass. He glanced up when he heard his name.

‘Erestor, have you seen Ada anyw-’

‘No, not there,’ Erestor replied, deftly steering Elrohir around and guiding him away 
from Elrond’s chambers. ‘He must be out walking in the gardens.’

‘Oh. I couldn’t find him there.’

‘Something wrong?’

‘Oh, no, it’s just that Legolas arrived this morning…he just wanted to know whether I 
knew where his father might be- Thranduil’s visiting already. So I thought Ada might 
know. I’ve been looking for both of them for the last hour. You don’t happen to…?’ 
Elrohir trailed off hopefully.

Erestor shook his head, the very picture of sincerity. ‘No, sorry. I’ve been lurking outside 
frightening the hobbits.’

‘You take great pleasure in that, don’t you.’

‘No, I find it enormously amusing that anybody could possibly think somebody as 
ridiculous as I am to be in the least intimidating, but, apparently they do, and I’ve been 
looking on with interest. Where have you been all day? I’ve not seen you about the 
place.’

A faint hint of a blush suffused Elrohir’s cheeks.

‘By the Valar, you’re all at it tonight, aren’t you?’

Elrohir went even redder. ‘What? All?’

‘Er…Arwen, too.’ Well, it was true.

‘Oh.’

Erestor glanced at him. ‘So how is Legolas, anyway?’

‘How you know everything?’ Elrohir complained. ‘He’s fine.’

‘Oh good.’

‘That sounded so sincere, Erestor.’

‘Comes from trying to sound as though I care, which I suppose I ought to. Obviously I 
don’t, because he’s annoying and shallow, but, there you are.’

‘You met him for all of five minutes in a dungeon!’

‘I’m good at fast and unfair judgements. Where’s your brother?’

‘Er- probably being violently ill in a hedge somewhere. He drinks too much.’

‘In bed with Legolas’ brother, who has just returned from the Havens,’ Erestor translated 
flatly. ‘Right.’

‘You are unnatural!’

Erestor smiled slightly, veering off to the left and toward his own chambers. ‘Night.’

‘So where’s your lover for tonight, then?’ Elrohir called after him, faintly annoyed that 
his father’s advisor, had, once again, effortlessly read him like a child’s scroll story.

‘Halfway up a tree in Lorien.’

‘*What?*’

‘Good *night*, Elrohir.’

	When he slipped through the open door into his bedroom, Erestor paused. He saw 
better in the dark than he did in the day after so many years spent confined in the murky 
gloom of Melkor’s underground fortress, but even so, it took him a moment to notice the 
slender figure sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed. He didn’t need to come any 
closer to know who it was. Nobody else simply walked into private chambers and made 
themselves at home. Unlike most of the rest of Rivendell, Erestor didn’t mind. Privacy 
wasn’t something he was used to, nor something he particularly liked.

‘Glorfindel, it’s late.’

‘Yes.’

Erestor sighed. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I’ve just come back from the last scout. From Isengard, to be precise. I wanted to ask 
you…is your father in alliance with Saruman?’

‘Probably. Why?’

‘They’re…they have managed to a breed a new form of orc that-’

‘Yes, Uruk Hai. They’ve been about for a while, Melkor uses them as sentinels during the 
day because they don’t mind the light.’

Glorfindel paused. When he finally spoke, it was much more quietly. ‘I was under the 
impression that your father was no friend of Sauron’s.’

‘He’s not. Neither is he any friend of ours.’

‘It would be interesting to know why he has chosen to ally himself with Saruman, then.’

Erestor sighed. ‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Because I thought you might know,’ the Eldar said bluntly.

‘I don’t *know* anything about his affairs, Glorfindel, all I can do is place an educated 
guess. Is that what you want?’

‘Please.’

‘All right. Melkor doesn’t like Sauron, but he likes elves and Men less. If he could, he 
would rise to power again. So, instead of telling Sauron how to breed Uruk Hai troopers, 
he’s just sent Saruman an army. Uruk Hai are fairly simple, it would be relatively easy to 
backward-engineer them and find out how they were made, but the fact would remain 
that the Uruk Hai given to him would not be loyal to him but to Melkor. Therefore, all 
those Uruk Hai subsequently bred would also be loyal to Melkor too; Saruman will never 
take the trouble to train them himself, he’ll just trust them to learn from their older 
comrades, who in turn will explain in some way or another how matters stand. So, 
Melkor now has explicit loyalty from a massive chunk of Sauron’s forces. I think he’ll let 
them fight, and then, once Sauron wins, he’ll turn them on the orcs and take Mordor for 
himself. Whereupon I imagine he’ll promptly wipe out what’s left of the elven population 
and enslave anyone else who gets in the way.’

Glorfindel frowned. ‘You’ve thought on this for a long time.’

Erestor shrugged slightly in the dark. ‘It’s common sense.’

‘So if we assume that the Uruk Hai troopers are not only coming from Isengard but from 
the Iron Hills as well…’

‘There will probably be substantially more of them coming from Melkor than Saruman,’ 
the dark elf chipped in. ‘How many did you see at Isengard?’

‘Hundreds, already. Training as warbands perhaps fifty or sixty strong each.’ He paused, 
silent for a long moment. ‘Do you think he wants to Ring?’

‘If he does, he wants it only so Sauron can’t have it. Compared to what he can do all on 
his own, the Ring is a silly parlour trick. Sauron made the Ringwraiths…Melkor made 
Balrogs. Personally I’d rather take on the wraiths. At least they’re a manageable size.’

Glorfindel smiled wanly. Having taken on a balrog and nearly died for his trouble, he was 
inclined to agree. ‘So. Not only must we destroy the Ring, we must physically defeat an 
army of near-invincible Uruk Hai.’

‘Sounds more or less right,’ Erestor replied, kicking off his boots and collapsing onto the 
bed, face down beside his friend. ‘It’s gone midnight,’ he added, his voice slightly 
muffled by the sheets. ‘You might want to consider sleeping.’

‘I’ve not been to report to Elrond yet.’

‘No need. He’s otherwise engaged.’

‘Oh?’

‘Thranduil’s here.’

‘Oh.’

There was a long pause.

Then, ‘Erestor-’

‘Oh, for the sake of grace, stay if you want. You invited yourself in anyway.’

Glorfindel smiled. As much as Erestor liked to broadcast his less than friendly 
temperament, he was, the Eldar reflected to himself, far kinder than most could ever 
guess.	

					**********

	Haldir allowed himself a faintly proud smile as he surveyed his troops. It had 
been nearly a fortnight since the Fellowship had passed through Lorien, and now, the 
wardens were to march to Helm’s Deep. There were pitifully few of them, barely two 
hundred, but more, he knew, than were currently defending the fort in Rohan. The elves 
were standing in their patrols. Before him directly, his own patrol. On their left, Dresil’s, 
and their right, Orophin’s. Only last week, his younger brother had risen to the rank of 
captain. Behind them, twelve more groups waited in ranks, every elf arrayed in Lorien’s 
red and gold armour and armed with bows and knives. Behind them was the Anduin, and 
eleven ships moored in the shallows, waiting to take them on to the east. Haldir was only 
waiting for Galadriel now before he gave the order to leave. However, the lady had not 
yet appeared, even though Celeborn had already arrived. Haldir turned away from the 
gathered troops and sighed, running a hand through his hair. So that he could be easy to 
identify as their commander during the battle, he wore no helmet, which, he thought, 
considering the sheer weight of the chain mail and the heavy leather armour they all 
wore, was a Valar-sent relief. He frowned when he saw a flash of silver through the trees, 
and glanced at Celeborn.

‘My Lord…?’

But Celeborn was frowning too, equally confused at what had so obviously been a brief 
glimpse of silver chain-mail. All the Lorien elves wore gold.

As if in answer to their thoughts, Galadriel stepped out form the cover of the trees. 
Behind her, a contingent of elves wearing black and silver armour stopped in their lines. 
All of them carried Rivendell blades, and all wore helmets, hiding their faces. Apart from 
one. Erestor swept him a lazy salute over Galadriel’s shoulder.

‘Reinforcements from Lord Elrond of Rivendell,’ the tall lady smiled. ‘Fare well, 
Marchwarden. And good luck.’

	In the nine days the combined elven forces spent travelling, Haldir was able to 
pick out several familiar faces from the Rivendell troops. Elladan and Elrohir were there, 
and Glorfindel. An elf who bore an uncanny resemblance to Prince Legolas was with 
them too…this was, Haldir soon learned, the prince’s elder brother, Kellarin. The 
presence of the Imladris elves greatly lifted the spirits of those from Lorien; far from the 
grim silence Haldir had expected to endure on the long voyage to the falls, the patrols 
quickly mixed with their counterparts from across the Misty Mountains, laughing and 
joking and catching up with old friends sorely missed since their departure from Lorien 
several years before. They weren’t long on dry land before Erestor appeared at the front 
of the column beside him. Despite the blending of the two contingents, they had still 
found themselves on different ships.

‘Hello, stranger.’

Haldir wasted no time in pulling him into a fierce embrace. The elves behind them, 
especially those from Imladris, collapsed into laughter as the usually formidable dark elf 
was lifted clear off the ground by his hips and spun around twice. Their cloaks swirled 
together, black and red, and for just a breath, the two looked far more like dancers than 
soldiers.

‘Some of us back here would kill for that sort greeting,’ Iamae called.

‘Or that bond-mate…’ someone else agreed longingly.

Erestor grinned. ‘Get your own!’

The forest rang with laughter again.

	They reached the rocky plains marking the Rohan border just before nightfall. 
Using the last of the dying light, the army began to stake out a camp, and soon, cooking 
fires were flickering warmly in the cold dusk. Dresil claimed the watch, leaving Haldir 
contently watching Erestor spar with Elladan a little way away from the main cluster of 
tents. Both elves, Haldir noted, were incredibly fast, swords flicking one way and then 
instantly another, parrying, thrusting, seeking for the ever-desired entrance into the 
other’s defences…but for some reason he couldn’t quite place, he was sure Erestor was 
holding back, merely keeping pace with the younger warrior rather than truly fighting. 
After a good round in which neither seemed to have any chance to disarm the other, 
Erestor flicked his wrist and sent Elladan’s sword skidding across the dusty grass.

‘Enough, enough. Very nice.’

‘What *is* that trick?’ Elladan demanded. ‘How that is even vaguely physically possible 
is beyond me!’

‘Not to be unfair, but quite a lot is beyond you,’ Elrohir pointed out.

‘Well, you match him, then,’ Elladan challenged.

‘What has that got to do with it being beyond you? Anyway, I don’t know anyone who 
could even come close to matching Erestor.’

Erestor stayed quiet, waiting, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

Elladan nodded to Haldir. ‘I’d wager he could.’

‘So would I,’ Erestor mused.

Haldir raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you, indeed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then. Loser does the second watch.’

	Within minutes, more than a dozen soldiers, from Imladris and Lorien both, had 
gathered around to witness the already raging clash of the titans. It was a perfect duel; 
any possible advantage one had over the other was immediately evened out by a counter-
advantage. Haldir was slightly taller, which would usually have leaned in his favour, but 
Erestor’s famed night vision more than made up for any ground he might have lost over 
the small difference. The dark elf was fast, but Lorien’s Marchwarden was more used to 
wearing full armour. Both were considerably stronger than they looked. Even before it 
began, the sight promised to be spectacular.

	Unlike more run-of-the-mill duels, it soon became apparent that both were 
fighting to the same rhythm. The ringing crashes of their blades rapped out a fast, 
complex beat across the camp, every blow dealt with the same punishing force as the last, 
so steady that it would have been no matter of great skill to sing to it. Belying the 
apparent ease of the sound of their swords, neither elf ever stopped in the same place for 
more than a fraction of a second, always moving, shifting weight, swaying to avoid 
unexpected strikes and returning them accordingly. The whirl of steel was so quick that it 
took many of the onlookers a beat to realize that each elf only fought with the one blade. 
Soon, it almost began to look choreographed.

	Then, with stunning suddenness, Erestor’s sword went flying, burying itself in the 
ground barely a yard from the ring of spectators. But the dark elf didn’t so much as blink. 
Instead, he swept a pair of twin knives from their sheaths across his back. The blades 
shone the unmistakeable bright silver of mithril, and as they were put to use against 
Haldir’s sword, low, echoing notes replaced the near-deafening crashes of a few seconds 
ago. The sound was beautifully unearthly. Several among those watching drew soft gasps 
of surprise. It took incredible craftsmanship to make a blade sing. Where and how Erestor 
had come across such excellent weapons was instantly a topic for debate. There was a 
soft clang as one of Erestor’s knives scraped across Haldir’s armour. All conversation 
immediately stopped. Incredibly, the pace picked up.

	Completely without warning, Erestor dropped down to the floor. However, 
instead of simply falling, he turned the momentum into a controlled spin, taking all his 
weight on one hand and snapping his leg across Haldir’s ankles. The Marchwarden had 
anticipated the move, but a heartbeat too late. He fell backward, landing hard on his 
elbows. Erestor was on top of him in the time it took to blink. He felt the cold press of the 
mithril daggers against his throat and froze…around them, the soldiers began to clap. 
Erestor smiled. He was breathing hard, and his black hair had escaped the few pins 
holding it back, falling in loose curls across his face.

‘You’re dead,’ he informed Haldir cheerfully.

Haldir grinned. Very carefully, he pushed Erestor’s knives away from his neck and sat 
up, tipping the dark elf into his lap. Erestor gave him a playful shove and rose easily to 
his feet before going to retrieve his sword. Once the small crowd had dispersed, the dark 
elf folded down on the floor again to inspect both a graze on his knuckles and the slit 
cords of his wrist guard. Sitting there with his legs crossed and his collar undone, he 
looked remarkably unthreatening. Haldir winced as his elbow gave a painful twang. He 
made a mental note never to judge by appearances ever again.

	Erestor frowned as he watched Haldir undress that night. As the chain mail and 
arm-guards came away to show the golden skin beneath, deep bruises were instantly 
visible.

‘Are you hurt?’

Haldir glanced at him and smiled tiredly. ‘You sent me down with some force, Erestor, 
I’d have to be unnaturally adept at floating to avoid some injury.’

‘Hm.’ The dark elf did not sound happy.

Mindful of various scrapes and cuts, Haldir eased down beside him in their nest of 
blankets and let out a soft sigh of content. It had been a long while since he’d last slept in 
a tent, and somewhere along the way, he had forgotten how much he liked it. Not many 
did; it was a chilly experience at best, but with the right lantern and the right company, it 
could be almost cosy for those who didn’t really feel the cold. After a moment, he turned 
onto his side to face Erestor. ‘Seems I’ve landed myself with the second watch.’

‘I’ll go with you.’

‘You give up far too much of your time to sit on night duty with me,’ Haldir chided 
gently.

Erestor smiled. ‘Hardly as though I’ve anything better to do, is it?’

‘Sleep?’

‘Hah.’

Haldir leaned across and stroked a few stray strands of ebony hair back from Erestor’s 
face. Dark eyes glittered in the lantern light like worked obsidian. ‘What do you suggest I 
do with the next two hours, then?’

He had almost expected a joking reply, but instead, Erestor arched his back and kissed 
him hard. The breathless, urgent battle for dominance was short-lived, and soon, the 
Imladris elf relaxed in surrender. Softly, Haldir let his touch slip from the dark elf’s 
wrists, fingertips ghosting across white skin, finding it perfect, flawless, a marble statue 
given breath. Erestor’s eyes fell closed. In one, beautiful moment, like the sudden 
blossoming of the most awesome firework, Haldir felt the fantastic well of power beneath 
him. Felt, as he leaned down to kiss him again, the wind lift outside, and the clouds part 
to reveal a sky graced with countless stars. Felt every fire in the entire camp suddenly 
begin to burn more strongly than it had before, even heard the surprised gasps of the 
some of the soldiers as they stepped back from the soaring flames. Erestor tilted his head 
back a little, letting Haldir search for his tongue. When he opened his eyes to gaze up at 
the other elf, they shone silver. Outside the stars shimmered all the brighter.

	‘Marchwarden! Captain, the lookouts have spotted orcs, a whole army of them, on 
the move toward the Deep! They’re headed straight for us, barely two hours away!’

Haldir and Erestor snapped away from each other instantly. ‘Wake everyone,’ Haldir 
ordered the scout, already shrugging into his clothes again. ‘Get everything packed up, 
we’re moving out.’

‘What? But-’

‘I am not going to hang about here and put up a heroic but stupid stand with three 
hundred elves against a whole army from Isengard!’ the Marchwarden snapped. ‘The best 
we can hope for is to beat them to Helm’s Deep. Now get out and for the sake of Iluvatar, 
*do as I say!*’

The scout fled. Within minutes, Haldir was outside too, Erestor at his side. The tents were 
down in the time it would have taken to make a single quick circuit of the camp. Instead 
of letting the soldiers create plumes of smoke by putting out the fires with water, Erestor 
gave an impatient snap of his fingers and the camp was thrown into blackness. The elves 
were gone before the orcs even noticed they were there.

	It took the elves three days with no rest to reach the fortress, and they did, on the 
fourth night, the air was bitterly cold and the sky clouded over. Even from a distance, it 
was obvious that there few defenders on the walls. The orcs were still only a few hours 
behind them. The gates obligingly opened, and Haldir led his soldiers through, ignoring 
the awed stares of the people of Edoras, straight up to where King Theoden stood 
awaiting them near the keep. With barely any warning at all, Aragorn shot from the line 
of men behind the King and hit Haldir in a flying embrace. The ranger looked as though 
he had never been so intensely glad to see anyone in his life. After exchanging a few brief 
words and tipping a quick greeting nod to a smiling Legolas, Haldir managed to shake 
him off and organize the elves back into their patrols. Having seen the miserable 
compliment of defenders the men of Rohan already had, the Lorien Marchwarden held no 
great hopes of keeping back the tide.

	Neither did Erestor, although this was more from pessimistic habit than any long 
judging of abilities or odds. When the orcs came, he fought, and thought no more about 
it. He didn’t keep a count of the ones he’d killed…he didn’t see much point. The object 
of a battle was to win, not by how much. Still, he laughed when he heard Legolas and his 
dwarf friend calling out their tallies to each other across the chaotic wall. That done, he 
blinked when he came nose to nose with a familiar face.

‘Oh. Evening, commander.’

The orc commander of his father’s castle sketched him a respectful half-bow. ‘Master.’

‘Odds are in your favour, aren’t they?’ Erestor commented cheerfully, locking blades 
with him if only for the look of the thing.

‘Well,’ the orc shrugged modestly. ‘You’ve got a good bunch up here, too.’

‘But I imagine you’ll slaughter them anyway.’

‘’Fraid so, young sir.’

‘Only fair, I suppose.’ The dark elf skipped neatly backward as the orc collapsed forward 
with one of Legolas’ arrows in the back of his neck. Erestor smiled, nodding to the 
Mirkwood prince before setting about decimating his father’s troops.

	‘Anyone! Can anyone else ride?’ Aragorn pleaded. There were still a few horses 
left, but no riders to fill them. Of the three hundred-strong force sent from Lorien and 
Rivendell, he could see only a scattering left…likewise with Theoden’s army. He swore 
softly and repeated his call. Then he started when a tall, raven-haired elf he recognized as 
Elrond’s counsellor from Imladris stepped from shadows.

‘Erestor! Can you-’

‘Good grief, I hope you weren’t about to ask me if I can ride.’

Aragorn grinned, and tossed him a set of reigns. ‘Get on a horse, Erestor. Is there anyone 
else?’

‘Wait- Orophin, get over here!’

The ranger couldn’t help but smile again. The elf Erestor had just summoned wore a 
captain’s insignia on his sleeve, but came as obediently as a new recruit.

‘Did Haldir teach you to ride?’

‘I- yes, but-’

‘That’s a horse, feel free to use it. Rumil! Serentiel, Tinuadin- oh, stop scowling, will 
you, it hardly helps- Iathil, you’re all fit to ride? Good. There. Six extra riders for you,’ 
he added to Aragorn.

Aragorn wasn’t sure whether it was completely inappropriate to be so grateful for just six 
riders, but he *was* grateful, and pulled Erestor close while the others mounted. ‘*Hanon 
le, mor min*. Valar bless you.’

Erestor nodded curtly. ‘Bless all of them, ranger, if I were you. They’ll need it.’

	The orcs were gone. So was Aragorn and his half of the Fellowship. Left behind 
were the remnants of the defenders, men and elves alike, all of them now picking through 
the carnage, searching futilely either for friends or just any survivors at all. As he walked, 
Erestor saw Rumil pull Orophin up from the ground and drag him into a tight embrace 
despite the dirt and blood that caked both of them. Not far away, Iathil was standing 
motionless over the still form of his brother, too stunned even for tears. Elladan was still 
looking for Kellarin. He caught a glimpse of Serentiel moving from corpse to corpse, 
noting names for the inevitable list to be sent home. Most of Haldir’s patrol were 
nowhere in sight. Neither was Haldir. As he passed, Erestor caught Glorfindel’s arm.

‘Have you seen Haldir?’

Pain blossomed in the Eldar’s usually bright eyes.

‘Glorfindel?’

‘Erestor, I…’

‘For the sake of grace!’

‘I saw him fall. Over there.’ He pointed to the opposite side of fortress.

Erestor frowned, and began picking his way across. He soon broke into a run. But when 
he got there, there was no sign of Haldir at all. Shaken, starting to feel more than slightly 
uneasy, the dark elf began to scour the area. He found Anatiel, an orc arrow in his heart, 
and Kellarin and Elrohir, both with their throats cut…Haldir was nowhere to be seen. 
After a long, long time, he gave up and went to search elsewhere, but not before calling 
to Elladan.

	It was nearly midnight before it was determined how many had died and who they 
were. For some reason, Erestor was the one who was given the lists for the elves, and as 
he ran his eyes down the dozens upon dozens of names, he felt an awful ache settle deep 
in his chest. Anatiel, Elrohir, Iamae, Tinuadin, Kellarin…the list went on and on, naming 
over half the elven contingent. Haldir was not among the noted dead, but neither was he 
among the living. Early in the morning, an ashen-faced Rumil came into the airy chamber 
the elves were using as an infirmary, holding his brother’s cloak. The shoulder was sewn 
with the Marchwarden’s insignia, so there was no doubting it was his, but it was all that 
could be found of him. Erestor took it silently. After a long, leaden study of the blood on 
it, he borrowed Serentiel’s quill and added Haldir’s name to the list.

	By common assent, Erestor led the long march home. Even the Lorien elves 
seemed to see him as their commander now, although he was at a loss to know why. 
Elladan was silent for the entire journey. On the first evening, Iathil took the watch on his 
own for the very first time, and soon collapsed into inconsolable tears. Erestor went to sit 
it out with him anyway. Afterward, the dark elf resumed his rounds of the camp, just the 
same way as he had done when he had served briefly with Haldir’s patrol. He exchanged 
a few words with the ones he knew, nodded to the ones he didn’t. Rivanaen had escaped 
the battle almost completely unscathed; Glorfindel had a new scar across his shoulder, 
but nothing to complain about apart from the rations; Dresil was doing much the same 
thing as Erestor himself, but far more slowly. Toward the dawn, Erestor found himself 
providing a comforting embrace for more than a few of them while they cried. His own 
tears staunchly refused to fall until there was nobody left awake to watch.

	When they arrived in Lorien nearly two weeks later, Lord Celeborn and Lady 
Galadriel had come out to greet them, accompanied by all those who had been sent to 
fight. Erestor watched all the happy reunions with a strange detachment as he moved 
slowly through the crowd of elf-maids and children, delivering news of lovers, brothers, 
fathers, uncles lost in the battle. The task had fallen to him by default; he was the new 
commander in almost everyone’s eyes, and so he was the one to tell bad news. As he did, 
he was surprised by the number of people he recognized…even more so by the number to 
recognized him. So many to tell. Tinuadin had a younger brother, Anatiel a wife and a 
baby girl. Others were even worse. There was more than one set of children that day who 
found themselves orphaned because both their bonded fathers had fallen in Rohan. It all 
seemed to pass Erestor by…however hard he tried, he could feel nothing. Just numb.

	The Imladris elves stayed in Lorien for a further week to rest. Many of them, 
Erestor noted from his usual distance, expressed a desire to stay in the Golden Wood 
rather than face the journey home through Moria. These were quickly and unofficially 
absorbed into what was left of Lorien’s patrols. Erestor found himself sitting night duty 
on the southern border with Haldir’s old patrol, which now included some of his students 
from Imladris too. All of them automatically called him ‘captain.’ As was becoming his 
habit on the watches, Erestor moved from tree to tree, mainly to ensure that everybody 
was awake, but also to see how they were faring.

‘Iathil…’ Erestor shook the younger elf gently into wakefulness. ‘Wake up, *pen-neth*.’

‘Oh…’

‘Couple of hours to go yet.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘No need, just keep yourself awake…play dice if you like.’

‘Yes, captain.’

Erestor sighed. ‘I’m not really your captain, Iathil.’

Iathil gazed up at him. ‘If you’re not, then who is? Haldir’s gone. He trusted you. 
Everyone likes you, even if you are sharp…Haldir was strict too. Are you going to stay?’

‘I…what?’

‘Are you going to stay here, with us? With the patrol? It’s just that, if…if you leave, then 
there’s no one else to…’

‘I’m not leaving tomorrow, if that’s what you mean. I’ll stay until I’m not needed 
anymore…until someone’s properly assigned to take my place. Reasonable?’

Iathil nodded.

‘Good. Now don’t fall asleep again; else I might have to indulge myself and throw 
something at you.’

Iathil smiled for the first time since the battle. ‘Yes, captain.’

	Erestor kept his word and stayed until someone was indeed assigned to take his 
place. Of course, he wasn’t counting on that somebody being himself. Standing in 
Galadriel’s beautiful talan and feeling more than slightly bewildered at her choice in a 
new captain, he wasn’t at all prepared for her next question.

‘Erestor…Lord Elrond has already written to me to assure me that while you will be 
missed in Rivendell, he is quite willing to let you stay here on a permanent basis. Since 
you have just agreed to this captaincy, I assume you would like to. Yes?’

‘Er…yes, my Lady,’ he confirmed, not quite sure where she was heading.

‘Good. Now…with the loss of Haldir, Lorien is in a difficult situation. We lack a 
Marchwarden. I have considered this carefully already, but I would like to ask if you 
would particularly recommend anyone.’

Erestor thought for a moment. Then nodded. ‘Yes. Captain Dresil.’

Galadriel nodded. ‘He was among those I considered. However, I have spoken to nearly 
everyone who has returned from the battle, and their opinions have led me to a rather 
different conclusion. Therefore…I would like to offer the position of Marchwarden to 
you.’

Personally, Erestor thought he did very well not to fall over. ‘Me? Ah…my Lady,’ he 
added hastily, not at all used to employing any sort of honorific.
‘Yes. They trust you, Erestor, and more importantly, Haldir himself trusted you. All my 
wardens tell me the same thing. That you naturally took command on the march home. 
That for some reason, it seemed right. So I need an answer from you, Erestor. Yes, or 
no?’

Erestor swallowed. He wanted to say that he hadn’t really taken command, that he 
couldn’t, but he knew that he had, even if it been almost subconsciously. He wanted to 
protest that it wasn’t right at all, but then, what had Iathil said? If you’re not, then who is? 
After a second, he sighed softly, wondering whether Haldir had felt the same way when 
Galadriel had offered him the captaincy of her wardens. Completely inept. ‘Yes.’

	He fell into bed that night- Haldir’s bed- more exhausted than he had felt for 
centuries. Images were flickering through his mind, unbidden…good, treasured memories 
that were now so much more precious than they should ever have to have been. Running 
through the rain toward Moria. An amber moon, casting a gentle glow on golden skin. 
The sweetest kiss…

‘Where are you?’ he whispered into the pillow. There was nothing left. Nothing but a 
blood-stained cloak to say that Haldir had ever even existed. The talan was sparse…there 
was nothing there that could only have been his. A desk, a few tools, a couple of sets of 
neatly folded clothes. A soldier’s room. Erestor curled up beneath the covers, consigning 
the memories to dreams.

					**********

	Haldir hit the floor on his knees. The orcs had already taken his armour, and pain 
jolted across the bruises already there. He could still feel blood running wetly down his 
back from the deep wound in his neck. It hurt to raise his head, but when he saw a very 
familiar-looking pair of boots appear in front of him, he did anyway. Melkor raised an 
eyebrow.

‘Afternoon. You don’t look at all well, Marchwarden.’

‘Unsurprising, considering that I’ve just been dragged here,’ Haldir growled.

‘No less insolent, though,’ the dark elf noted mildly. He made a vague motion to the two 
orcs behind the Lorien soldier. They left. The cell door clanged shut behind them. ‘So 
then. How long has it been? A week, two?’

‘I don’t know,’ he ground out. ‘On account of there being a notable *lack* of windows.’

‘Sixteen days,’ Melkor provided.

‘Why-’

‘Why are you here? Because I say so. Anyway…there’s been absolutely no sign of 
Erestor, you realize. I’ve had scouts patrol a hundred miles from here…nothing. Not 
really very inspiring for your chances of escape.’

‘Why,’ Haldir repeated softly, ‘am I here.’

Melkor knelt down in front of him. He looked no different to the last time Haldir had 
seen him. Darkly handsome, a sharper, harder version of Erestor’s gentle delicacy. His 
dark hair fell loose across his shoulders, shining the colour of jet in the dim glow of the 
cell’s single torch. So close, it was suddenly much more obvious that he wasn’t quite an 
elf. His skin was too pale, like marble, lips too colourless, eyes too darkly iridescent. 
‘You are here,’ he told Haldir in a whisper, ‘because you are part of a very, very 
interesting plan of mine that I fully intend to realize quite soon. So I’d be very much 
obliged if you would deign to stay alive to see it. Do we have an agreement, 
Marchwarden?’

Haldir spat at him.

A gauntleted hand whipped out and knocked him flat. Melkor went down on his hands 
and knees so that he could kneel over the fallen elf. Haldir tried to twist away, but he only 
leaned closer, so close his hair brushed against the Lorien elf’s neck. As he did, Haldir 
caught the faintest snatch of scent. It was warm, homely…cedar wood, of all things. 
Melkor tilted his head slightly to survey the new bruise across the Marchwarden’s face. ‘I 
don’t much care for agreements anyway. The only difference is whether I leave you here 
*rot*,’ he let himself sink down even lower, his face barely an inch from Haldir’s, ‘or 
whether I leave you here to rot in the company of some nice, depraved orcs. It all 
depends entirely on how much you manage to annoy me in the next twenty five seconds.’

‘Get off me.’

He didn’t move. ‘Orcs it is, then. Mind you, you’ve still got fifteen seconds left.’

Haldir stayed silent.

Melkor smiled. ‘Very good…very good indeed.’ He rose gracefully to his feet again and 
drifted idly across to the cell door. Opening it just enough to lean in the frame, he called 
to one of the orcs in the corridor outside. ‘One hour. Don’t touch his face. Then leave him 
be.’

Without waiting for a response, he disappeared.

	The orc made the hour last, but it was nothing on the days that followed. Haldir 
saw nothing and no one but four, grey walls. It was bitterly cold, and every cut and bruise 
on him ached constantly with the chill. The simple warden’s uniform he wore now was 
no defence against it, and wouldn’t have been even it had not suffered greatly from the 
beating he’d taken. He soon became accustomed to hearing the steady footsteps of the orc 
guards outside the door, pacing, pacing, boots clanking softly on the flagstones. When the 
duty shift changed, the orcs would usually idle around for a bit, talking, playing dice, 
betting…guarding a row of locked doors was hardly arduous work for one of them, let 
alone four. None of them ever paid any attention to anyone on the other side of those 
doors; the prisoners were usually fed whenever the guards actually remembered their 
existence, and, from what Haldir could gather, this was either never or very close to it. 
Even so, he made himself walk seventy times around the cell on each shift change, 
determined not to let his strength wane so horribly easily. It did anyway. The gash in his 
neck had healed over, but not well, and it was painful to keep his weight too long centred 
on his left side. Without water, the time passed at an agonising crawl. Every time he went 
to sleep, he had to wonder whether he was ever going wake up again. He unfailingly did. 
He soon began to question if this was a good thing or not.

	Sudden warmth made him jolt awake.

‘Morning,’ Melkor whispered. He had laid his hand against Haldir’s neck by way of 
waking him. Heat radiated from his touch. Very carefully, the dark elf pressed a mug of 
something hot into the other’s grasp, then guided it slowly to his lips. Haldir obediently 
swallowed. Soup. It tasted wonderful. ‘Better?’

He nodded. ‘Thank you…’

‘You’re welcome.’

Melkor waited silently until he had finished, then took the empty cup back and vanished 
again.

	This routine became the usual. Four or five days would pass between Melkor’s 
brief visits, but Haldir quickly began to live for them. If he said something disagreeable, 
he would be forced to wait twice as long and nearly starve in the process, so before long, 
he stopped speaking at all…it was, he reasoned, much safer, even if he did imagine 
viciously murdering the dark elf in every possible way at least eight times a day. But 
then, without warning, Melkor suddenly appeared far too early…so early, in fact, that 
Haldir was still on his feet. The Lorien elf frowned.

Melkor smiled. ‘Don’t look so suspicious. Come here.’

He hesitated. Motion *toward* the dark elf never usually proved to be a good thing. His 
dilemma was quickly solved as Melkor crossed the cell in two strides and caught his 
hand.

‘Just so you can come with me without having to climb nine flights of stairs,’ he 
explained. The next instant, they were standing in a beautiful torchlit chamber that Haldir 
had never seen before. In the far wall, a fire flickered warmly. The fluted pillars around 
them were all made from black marble, the chair by the fire and the ornately carved bed 
nearby both mahogany. Deep furs were scattered on the floor close to the hearth, just as 
they were in Erestor’s rooms. Melkor led him across to them and pushed him gently 
down before folding lazily into the chair behind him.

‘You can speak, you know. You’re far more entertaining when you do.’

‘Seemed sensible not to. I’d rather be alive than entertaining,’ Haldir murmured.

The dark elf smiled. Leaning forward slightly, he reached out and began to undo the 
braids in Haldir’s hair. He felt the Lorien elf tense uncomfortably, but didn’t take it as 
any reason to stop. ‘Well, it’s been a while since I’ve done this…Erestor hasn’t worn his 
hair long since he was a little boy. Even then it used to live in a scruffy tail rather than 
proper braids.’ When Haldir showed no sign of even thinking about relaxing, he sighed, 
letting his hands slip down to rest on his shoulders instead. ‘Sitting ramrod straight never 
did anybody any good, you know. Posture only goes so far.’

Haldir ignored him.

Very gently, Melkor began to rub the muscles on either side of his neck, a slow, rhythmic 
touch that became increasingly difficult to resist as it carried on. Haldir bowed his head. 
He felt unimaginably tired, weary to the bone, and suddenly, it wasn’t worth the effort to 
shrug him off. Once he untensed, Melkor’s touch moved back to his hair. A comb 
appeared from nowhere, and within a few minutes, Haldir felt it pass through the entire 
length without snagging. He desperately wanted to lean back, but pride wouldn’t let him.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked softly.

‘You’ve been starving in that cell for over two months. I thought perhaps you would like 
a change of scenery.’

Haldir nodded his understanding, too exhausted to attempt much else.

‘It’s nearly midnight,’ Melkor noted. ‘And I’ve things to do in the morning, so-’

‘Don’t-’ Haldir began, then instantly regretted it.

‘Don’t what? Put you back in the dungeons? No, I won’t. You can sleep here tonight if 
you wish.’

With no further explanation, he swung slowly to his feet and made his way across to the 
bed, letting his clothes drop from him as he went. If he was aware of Haldir watching 
him, he showed no sign of it, and simply collapsed under the sheets with his usual 
strange, languid grace. After another few moments, Haldir tentatively eased down on his 
side in the furs. So soft…he was asleep in seconds.

	No longer accustomed to sleeping for very long, Haldir woke early…or, he 
assumed it was early, since Melkor was still asleep. The fire had gone down during the 
night, so after a few brief moments spent remembering where he was, he pulled himself 
upright and fed some kindling into the dying embers. He sat back again once the flames 
took. Despite the warmth and comfort, it was beginning to become difficult to feel 
anything but absolutely filthy, which was slightly unfair, he thought, considering he 
would far rather have simply enjoyed being where he was as opposed to a freezing cold 
dungeon. He glanced across at Melkor, then blinked when he saw the firelight glitter in 
the pair of dark eyes watching him too.

‘Just past dawn,’ Melkor told him quietly.

‘How do you know?’

‘Listen. You’ll hear the night watch coming back through the maze.’

Haldir stayed silent for a moment. Then he nodded when he heard the dull sound of 
footsteps coming softly from somewhere above them. 

‘There’s wash water through there,’ the dark elf added, motioning toward a low archway 
on Haldir’s left. ‘And some of Erestor’s clothes. You’re almost of a height, I should think 
they will fit. As long as you don’t mind black.’

	‘Much better,’ Melkor smiled.

As Haldir slipped back into main chamber again, he found the dark elf already dressed, 
black hair confined back in an austere half-tail. He was right; Erestor’s clothes fitted 
perfectly. In all truth, Haldir wished they hadn’t; that the fabric seemed to be tailored for 
somebody who had spent the last two months starving only served to feed his sneaking 
suspicion that Erestor thought of food in much the same way as he did sleep…a sort of a 
minor inconvenience that could be overcome by simply ignoring it. After watching him 
for a moment, Melkor tilted his head.

‘Come here.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re limping.’

‘Not really an incentive to walk any further than I have to,’ Haldir observed carefully.

‘Are you *frightened* of me, Marchwarden?’

Haldir met his eyes. ‘Not yet. Although I suppose you’ll want to rectify that soon 
enough.’

Melkor smiled, on the verge of laughing aloud. He didn’t reply one way or the other, but 
instead simply saved Haldir the painful trek across the chamber by doing it himself. 
Lightly as if he touched crystal, he tapped Haldir’s hip with his knuckle, then caught his 
wrists when the jolt of pain nearly sent the Lorien elf to the floor.

‘Hm.’

Haldir froze as cold fingers slipped below his belt without so much as a by-your-leave.
‘What-’

‘Well, you’re hardly going to let me look, are you.’

He felt Melkor sweep his thumb slowly across the soft hollow just beneath the bone. The 
cold was soothing, like ice on a graze. Just for a second, he smelled cedar again, and 
stubbornly turned his head away. 

‘Not broken,’ the dark elf said finally. He moved suddenly away, either oblivious that 
Haldir was still standing motionless where he’d left him or unbothered by it. He didn’t 
even look over his shoulder as he snapped his fingers. A second later, nine levels below, 
the orc guard lounging in the open cell door raised a grimy eyebrow.

‘Eh. Welcome back.’

Suddenly perfectly able to understand Erestor’s constant bad temper, Haldir floored him 
regardless of the grazing it gave his knuckles. Annoyingly, he didn’t feel in the least bit 
better for it.

					*********

‘Marchwarden?’

‘Anybody under the rank of subaltern has my full permission to go and drown 
themselves,’ Erestor growled.

Serentiel ignored him and slipped inside. ‘Unfortunately, the more determinedly horrible 
you are to everyone, the more they like you, and on that basis I refuse to be moved. 
Anyway, I am a subaltern.’

The sable-haired Marchwarden didn’t turn around. On the desk before him was a stack of 
papers, several maps and a throwing knife. The latter was a notorious source of anxiety 
among the recruits; even though Erestor had never been known to actually throw it, he 
was rumoured to have excellent aim. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No. Well, aside from the fact that you obviously haven’t slept for days.’

‘Sleep isn’t one of my favourite past-times,’ the dark elf said, still not paying much 
attention.

‘Evidently,’ Serentiel sighed. He sat down on the edge of the desk. After Erestor had 
been appointed as Lorien’s new Marchwarden, the dark elf had been asked to choose his 
subalterns. It was a station that had not existed during Haldir’s reign, but for some reason, 
the Lady Galadriel had chosen to change things, and Erestor had obliged, picking out 
Dresil, Iathil, Serentiel and Orophin for the honour. Serentiel had never been quite sure 
why he had been chosen, but he was glad of it. He liked his new captain, more than liked, 
and felt a deep, fierce loyalty to him that he had never quite been able to summon for 
Haldir… although this was, he was the first to admit, mainly because Tinuadin was no 
longer here to criticise his allegiances. Oddly though, many seemed to feel the same way. 
Throughout all the patrols, there was a soaring desire to please, especially among the 
recruits whose permanent future patrols were as of yet undecided. 

‘How’s your sister?’ Erestor asked absently.

‘She’s faring well, thank you.’

‘Didn’t she take her daughter to the Grey Havens to see your uncle last month?’

The subaltern nodded. It still surprised him, even after a year, how well and thoroughly 
Erestor seemed to know his wardens whilst simultaneously giving the distinct impression 
he couldn’t care less. ‘Yes. They returned yesterday.’

‘Any interesting news from the harbour?’

‘No, not really. My niece now seems to have a new obsession with fish, but…no.’

The comment won the ghost of a smile from the Marchwarden. ‘Good- now perhaps she 
can be weaned away from ginger.’

Serentiel grinned. ‘With any luck. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No, no. Good thing, probably; more than one would have driven my father insane.’ In 
the pause that followed, Serentiel could have sworn he heard the Marchwarden mutter 
under his breath, ‘And he’s bad enough as he is.’

‘You…ah, you don’t…see your father any more, then?’ he hedged.

Erestor glanced at him. ‘From time to time. The completely uninteresting subject of my 
family aside, why are you here?’

‘Is it so rare for anyone to simply want to talk?’

The dark elf looked dangerously close to laughing.

‘I’m worried about you,’ Serentiel admitted quietly.

‘Why?’

‘Because either you really are the irritable, discontented character you seem to so insist 
you are, or you’re truly miserable. I’m still trying to decide which.’

‘Fabulous. I shall look on with interest.’

The subaltern smiled sadly. ‘Yes. I’m sure you will.’

For the first time in the entire conversation, he saw that he finally had the Marchwarden’s 
full attention. Erestor had set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, and now, his 
impassive black gaze was fixed with disturbing intensity into that of his subaltern’s. 
Serentiel looked back him, aware that few ever tried to do so…that stare had earned 
Erestor the nickname of *sarqua*, statue, among the wardens. Originally the name had 
been a fond reference to the Marchwarden’s cold, chiselled beauty amongst the four 
subalterns, but it had been so fitting that it had quickly caught on for many more reasons 
than that.

‘The world is the way it is,’ Erestor told him quietly. The customary tone of mockery was 
gone from his voice. ‘No amount of courtesy or good manners or generally conceited 
etiquette can mask that, but for some reason, people here are brought up to try. I was not. 
All you see in me is the difference in perspective.’

Serentiel stared back at him for a long, long time. ‘It’s a bleak perspective, captain.’

Erestor tilted his head slightly, apparently unmoved to agree or argue.

The subaltern swallowed. ‘When…when you look up at night, do you think nothing of 
the stars?’

‘The stars? You wanted to know why I’m irritable; I told you. I don’t see things in black 
white, just shades of grey. The stars seem to me to be fairly indifferent either way.’

‘Then there’s no such thing as pure good, pure evil?’

‘Define good.’

The subaltern nodded unhappily.

Frowning, Erestor rose to his feet, and in a rare show of concern, reached forward to 
claim his hands. ‘Don’t judge me too harshly on words. What I mean and what I say tend 
to be separated by a chasm and connected by a very rickety bridge.’

Serentiel smiled despite the gloom of his mood and felt a faint tingle of warm 
appreciation when the dark Marchwarden let himself be pulled into a long embrace. 
‘Anyway…have you decided which of the recruits will join our patrol?’ the subaltern 
asked.

‘I’m still thinking. Any suggestions?’

‘Not really, they’re all equally infatuated with you…’

Erestor’s pale lips curved into the beginnings of a smile. ‘Delightful. Well, now seems 
like as a good a time as any to make a choice…will you come with me to barracks?’

‘Of course. Are there any particular criteria I ought to watch out for?’

‘Speaking in sentences.’

‘Valar, that’s raising the standard a bit, isn’t it?’ Serentiel teased.

‘Good looks wouldn’t go amiss, either. If I have see somebody every day, I’d rather they 
be even-featured, wouldn’t you?’

The subaltern laughed. It seemed a bit of an ironic comment, considering that Erestor had 
appointed an officer with one green eye, one hazel. ‘You look at me every day with no 
qualms!’

‘Different coloured eyes does by no means correspond with unattractiveness. Quite the 
opposite, actually.’

When he looked up to search his captain’s expression for its usual hint of mocking 
insincerity, Erestor was smiling. Serentiel had to look away again to hide his blush.

	Since all the captains but Erestor himself were out on scouting patrols, most of the 
recruits had been left behind. Usually, they were divided into groups of three or four and 
spread out across the patrols, but since the whole object of the scout missions was speed, 
inexperience in the field was too much of a hindrance. Now, the recruits had the entire 
day free in the barracks. A new variety of dice game seemed to be the latest craze, 
although a few of them were engaged in other things; some were writing letters to 
relatives in Imladris, one or two already busy stitching up rips in their uniforms. Serentiel 
glanced around as they entered, his gaze snagging on the odd few who seemed a little 
better turned out than the rest. Erestor, however, took a far more direct approach. Instead 
of lurking on the sidelines as he usually did, he strode straight to the centre of the 
crowded room and barked,
‘Quiet!’

There was instant silence.

‘Right. How many of you put your names forward to be in my patrol?’

Serentiel was fairly sure that every hand in the room shot into the air.

‘Keep your hand up if you can think of the alternate name for catmint.’

Confused, a few hands went down.

‘And…hands down if you don’t know how to fry an egg.’

Serentiel watched, just as perplexed as the recruits. Several more hands went down.

‘Keep your hand up if you know how to tie a tourniquet. And…keep your hand up if 
you’ve ever had nettle tea and liked it.’

It was such a random line of questioning that the few recruits with their hands still in the 
air were beginning to look worried about where it might lead.

‘Hands down if you haven’t stopped growing yet.’

Only two recruits left.

‘Hands down if you can’t whistle.’

Apparently, both could.

‘Serentiel, close one eye.’

Resigning himself to Erestor’s random strangeness, the subaltern closed his left eye.

‘Look at him,’ the Marchwarden told the two recruits. ‘What colour is the eye he closed?’
‘Brown,’ one said, frowning, obviously taking the information from the eye he could still 
see.

‘Green,’ the other one murmured.

Erestor grinned as Serentiel opened his eye again. ‘Excellent. Report to me for duty 
tomorrow morning.’

	Dusk found Erestor standing silently on the branch above Haldir’s talan, watching 
the stars come out. A cold breeze teased at his hair and sent a few golden leaves spinning 
down to the forest floor. If he listened closely, he could hear it…the music the wind 
carried, the soft, gentle chords which had made Iluvatar’s world. Every star, every leaf, 
every blade of grass sang a different melody, but somehow, the separate, quiet songs all 
melded together to form a harmonic whole. It was melancholy tonight. He closed his 
eyes. High overhead, thunder whispered the in the distance, changing the song subtly into 
a mournful lament. It didn’t feel like a year since so much had changed…since he had 
stopped watching the sun rise and instead stood out at dusk to see it set, since something 
like perpetual autumn had settled over Lorien. But it was; yesterday, one year ago, Haldir 
had been alive and fighting at Helm’s Deep. The days had slipped by, and by, and by, and 
suddenly a year had disappeared seemingly without warning. The war of the Ring still 
raged in the east, although it would soon come to an end, one way or the other…that 
nobody had won or lost either way was the extent of Erestor’s knowledge. He didn’t 
listen much to the little news that did manage to filter its way through Lothlorien. It 
seemed largely irrelevant. If Aragorn’s forces won, then Erestor would stay on in Lorien, 
while if Sauron triumphed, he would return to his father. He would live on whatever 
happened. And whatever happened, Haldir would still be gone. No victory on anybody’s 
part could make a difference now.

	Softly, Erestor dropped back onto the floor from the window ledge. When he 
looked around through the dark, the bare series of chambers looked no more like home 
than it ever had. He didn’t dwell on it. The Iron Hills was home, and frankly he would 
have been worried if somebody had managed to make a Lorien talan look like a 
subterranean castle. As he had done every night for the last year, he turned back to the 
window and lit the candle on the sill. He didn’t look into the flame…he didn’t really care 
to see what anyone else might be doing at this hour. Instead, he stood still, listening. He 
half loved, half hated the overwhelming feeling that somehow, Haldir’s presence still 
lingered here.

‘Good night,’ he murmured. It seemed only polite.

The softest breeze brushed across his cheek.

	As usual, when he arrived at the border to meet his patrol the next morning, most 
of them were already there. Today they were amusing themselves by terrifying the 
recruit. Faintly curious as to why this was, Erestor hesitated for a moment just out of 
sight, watching.

‘-didn’t seem that bad yesterday!’ the recruit was saying anxiously.

‘Ah, you don’t know the half of it,’ Iathil sighed. Erestor pulled a face. It would have 
been difficult for the young subaltern to sound more wearily dramatic.

The recruit blanched. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Rivanaen said sagely.

‘But…’

Iathil grinned. ‘Don’t worry, though; old sarqua’s easy on you after a few months.’

Erestor covered the ground between them in two paces and flicked his ear. ‘Less of the 
old, subaltern!’

‘Sorry, captain,’ he grinned.

The recruit was visibly shaking. Erestor glanced down at him. ‘Take no notice of them, 
I’m lovely really. Anyway,’ he continued, addressing the rest of the patrol and ignoring 
the widespread sniggers, ‘I’m sure you’ll all be overjoyed to hear that we’ve got the 
practise grounds today- stop groaning- but we’re on North patrol tomorrow.’

The wardens looked much more pleased at the mention of a patrol. Sparring on the 
practise grounds was all well and good, and usually fairly enjoyable, but somebody 
always had to end up as Erestor’s practise partner. After seeing him fight Haldir and 
*win* the year before, there had been a suspicious and mass failure to volunteer. 
Unfortunately, the captain had developed a habit of cheerfully picking someone at 
random, usually someone who had proved to be particularly annoying that morning. Most 
of them felt safe today, though. Apart from Iathil.

	It was mid-afternoon when Dresil tore through the barracks and into the practise 
field. Rumil looked round and earned himself a painful rap across the knuckles from 
Serentiel for his trouble.

‘Stop for a moment! Lady Galadriel just received a message from Gondor. The Ring was 
destroyed. The war is over!’

Just for a second, stunned silence engulfed the patrol. Iathil shot Erestor a hopeful look, 
and at a nod from the dark-haired Marchwarden, everyone rushed to sling their weapons 
back into the barracks before making for home, laughing and calling as they went. 
Centuries ago, most of Lorien’s wardens had promised both themselves and each other 
that they would leave for Valinor the moment Sauron was defeated. Now that moment 
had come, there would likely be a huge exodus of the Golden Wood. Only Erestor stood 
motionless, watching them go.
 

					*********

	Haldir tapped his fingers lightly against the wall, studying the tally marks etched 
into the dark stone. One mark for every time the guard changed, which Melkor had said 
was twice a day. Even divided by two, there were still a lot of marks. A lot. He sighed, 
turning his back to the endless count to face the other way. Yesterday, the orc guards had 
finally become bored with dice games and indulged themselves in a bone-deep beating of 
any prisoner whose door they happened to carry the key to…he still couldn’t move his 
wrist. The burn across his shoulder made it impossible to lean back or lie down, so he had 
spent the last dozen hours upright, which was beginning to take its toll. But there was 
nothing to do but wait for it to heal. When he felt himself sway, he instinctively raised a 
hand to the wall to steady himself, which in fact did no good whatsoever and instead 
served only to send a screaming spasm of pain down his first three fingers. The nails had 
been ripped out. He tried to take a breath, but it stuck in his throat. The jolt wrenched at 
the deep ache beneath his ribs, suddenly making pain in one form or another cruelly 
inescapable. Burning tears managed to fight their way through tightly closed lashes. He 
didn’t understand how Erestor had survived this and stayed sane at the same time. It 
seemed beyond impossible. Then again, perhaps Erestor had survived simply through 
being Erestor. Being furious all the time probably worked wonders on misery.

	Cold fingers touched his wrist, and the chill of the cell disappeared, suddenly 
replaced by the wonderful, heady warmth of an open fire. He opened his eyes. Melkor 
gazed steadily back at him, still holding his wrist to be sure he wouldn’t fall.

‘Drink this.’

Haldir took the glass. The liquid inside was amber.

‘Brandy,’ Melkor explained. ‘Tends to help with pain.’

He drank obediently; to his vague surprise, the heady spirit didn’t burn its way down at 
all…expensive, then. Not that he had ever been much of a connoisseur. Orophin had 
filled that position quite happily. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. You are, however, exhausted, so I suggest you get some sleep.’

He pushed the younger elf lightly down onto the bed behind them, waiting barely half a 
minute before Haldir’s breathing deepened. After another few dozen heartbeats, Melkor 
rose again and crossed over to the fire, folding down in the chair by the hearth. He looked  
into the flames and smiled. At his side, a tiny glass phial shimmered beside the brandy 
decanter. A few grains of odd white powder still sparkled on the rim.

	Haldir opened his eyes in the dark. He shifted slightly, winced, then turned onto 
his side instead. And froze when his fingertips brushed against something smooth and 
warm. Very, very carefully, he stretched out his hand again. His seeking touch closed on 
the curve of a bare shoulder. He pulled his hand back though he had been burned. But the 
sleeping figure was stirring anyway.

‘Haldir…’

Haldir swallowed. The voice was achingly familiar. ‘E…Erestor?’

‘Expecting someone else?’ he asked sleepily. The dark elf raised himself up on one 
elbow, his hair falling in short, tousled curls.

The Lorien elf did well not to choke. Mutely, he shook his head. Erestor sighed softly and 
shifted nearer, claiming Haldir’s shoulder as a pillow.

‘Erestor?’ Haldir whispered.

The dark elf made a soft noise of acknowledgement.

‘I…I love you.’

He closed his eyes under the gentle kiss he received in reply. A surge of relief broke over 
him. Real…this was real. He was trembling, but it was all…all real. The cold lips over 
his slipped slowly down to his neck, sending gentle shivers across his skin. Despite the 
pang of pain he felt, he didn’t make a sound when Erestor turned him gently onto his 
back. Soft, light kisses scattered across the hollow between his collarbones. Down again, 
lingering over the smooth plane of his stomach. Instead on carrying on smoothly, the 
touch disappeared entirely for a moment. He turned his face against the pillow as he felt 
Erestor kiss the inside of his thigh. Slowly, slowly, the dark elf’s kisses whispered 
upward again, so painstakingly that pleasure began to push the barrier with pain, an 
unignorable, burning ache rooted deep between his hips. Erestor managed to hold him 
there for what felt like a throbbing eternity. When it was finally over, leaving Haldir 
breathless and shaking, Erestor moved again to lie over him, his weight protective and 
reassuring as he tilted his head down to kiss the fair elf’s mouth.

‘I love you too,’ he whispered. ‘Now for the sake of grace, go back to sleep.’

	He woke to the faint sound of footsteps. The night watch returning through the 
labyrinth. The dull noise had him sitting bolt upright. There was no one in the bed beside 
him. The fire had burned down to a few glowing ashes, and by their dim light, he could 
just make out the silhouettes of the underground chamber’s high, black marble pillars. 
Across the room, Melkor was sitting in the chair by the hearth, a book open on his lap, 
reading in the dark. A jet black cat leapt up into Haldir’s lap, twitching its whiskers 
before hissing loudly and stalking off again. Melkor turned his head slightly and held his 
hand out to it. The cat clawed its way up the back of his chair and settled down on his 
knee, tail flicking moodily from side to side as it watched Haldir through emerald eyes. 
The Lorien elf shut his eyes and let himself fall forward until his forehead rested against 
his raised knees. It had felt so real…so completely believable, like waking up after a 
horrible nightmare.

‘New cat?’ he asked finally, not bothering to straighten up.

‘Oh, no, she’s been here since before Erestor was born.’

‘Cats don’t usually live that long.’

‘Well, as a son of Iluvatar I think I’d be a bit of a disgrace to the family if I couldn’t 
make my own cat immortal. You don’t look as though you slept well,’ he added.

‘No,’ Haldir agreed quietly.

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t knock you out with brandy in the future. Anyway, there’s some 
water here, if you want it.’

Haldir turned his head to give him a wary look. ‘Are you going to send me straight back 
again?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Why not?’

Through the shadows, he saw Melkor smile. ‘Perhaps I’ve decided I like your company.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Why so mistrustful, Haldir?’

‘Oh, I’ve no idea,’ Haldir muttered irritably. ‘Anyone would think you’d had me locked 
in a frozen cell for the last eight years.’

‘Eight years is nothing. Anyway, I’m going down to find some breakfast. You can come 
too if you want to, or you can sit there and glare. I am indifferent either way.’

Haldir sighed. After a long pause, he got to his feet and followed.

	Oddly, Haldir wasn’t hungry. Again newly dressed in some of Erestor’s old 
clothes, he curled up in his chair and absently watched the servants while he waited. They 
were of Aragorn’s race, turned out neatly in a demure black uniform, their paces 
measured almost identically. He and Melkor were sitting by the hearth in the main hall, 
so the castle’s inhabitants were constantly crossing to and fro on their business…it made 
for interesting viewing, Haldir thought. As well as the servants, orc guards skulked by in 
the shadows. Easy to spot since they were far taller, Uruk Hai commanders stalked across 
in twos and threes. Haldir noticed the servants gave them a wide berth. Once, when one 
of the men paused to lace up his boot, he inadvertently stopped in the path of one of the 
taller creatures and was duly kicked halfway across the room. Melkor’s hand instantly 
shot out and sent a burst of pulsing fire like lightening across the hall; the Uruk Hai 
collapsed in a smoking heap, little more than cinders. The dark elf hadn’t so much as 
turned his head.

‘Does that not thin your troops slightly?’

Melkor glanced up at him. ‘No. They know not to hurt the servants.’

‘Why do you care?’

‘I like the servants.’

‘In the same way you like the cat?’

‘Quite. Novelties I’d rather keep. Unlike the orcs, who, as any of them will be all too 
keen to tell you given a fraction of a chance, are valued here as an asset of slightly less 
worth than the cutlery.’

‘I imagine that’s why you’re still confined an underground castle,’ Haldir said flatly.

‘I’m still here…Sauron is not.’

‘What?’

‘Sauron lost. He’s gone. Which is just as well, because he was stupid, and if he’d won 
everything would be in a real mess by now. Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, of 
course,’ he added cheerfully.

‘But…when-’

‘When did all this happen? Mm…six, seven years ago. You are now in fact of a very rare 
species in this land. The elves have left for Valinor. The ivy is already growing around 
Rivendell, and your Golden Wood is no longer quite so golden now that dear Galadriel 
has taken her light elsewhere. The last elven kingdom is the port at the Grey 
Havens…I’m fairly sure you’ve met their king. One Legolas of Mirkwood? Ah good, you 
have. He’s doing well. In Gondor, Aragorn rules with Lady Arwen, and in Rohan, Queen 
Eowyn continues to expand her borders into land that was once the outskirts of 
Lothlorien. In time, I think, the Grey Havens will empty. The last elves will leave, and 
this world will be one ruled by men. Which will be fantastic for me, although, I imagine, 
not so good for you.’

Haldir stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Doing what?’

‘What am I to you, why have you kept me here for so long? Erestor isn’t coming back! 
What do you want from me?’

‘Erestor has not come…yet. He’s still here, though, and shows every sign of staying on. 
Unfortunately, he thinks you are dead, and I don’t plan to alter that perception just yet. 
But when I do, I assure you, Marchwarden, he will come for you. However, since I am 
less than happy with him at present moment, I fully plan to leave him to stew for a 
century before I say a word about you, so you may as well make yourself at home.’

‘Why do you want him to return here?’

Melkor laughed. ‘Why? Erestor is the most powerful sorcerer on this side of Valinor, and 
in a world rapidly becoming ruled by creatures only slightly less magical than bootlaces, 
you’re asking me *why I want him here?*’

‘He would never help you!’

‘Oh, don’t be melodramatic. I’ve my ways, Haldir, I’m far more creative than most.’

‘No, you’re just more disgustingly evil than most.’

‘Evil? What you call evil is what I call liberated thinking. In less than a hundred years, 
this world will be mine. Watch and learn. And for pity’s sake, eat something, would you, 
I’m sure I shouldn’t be able to see your collar bones through a black shirt.’

He tossed him an apple. There was the briefest shimmer as an intricately cut glass phial 
slipped, notably empty, back down his sleeve. Then he snapped his fingers.

	Haldir half expected to find himself back in his cell, but for once, this was not the 
case. Melkor stood beside him now, black hair shining in the torchlight of the lower level 
corridor. Through a sense he didn’t even know he possessed, Haldir knew they were far 
deeper underground than the dungeons…the air felt heavier somehow, the high ceiling 
oppressive, perhaps with the weight of the entire castle overhead. The stone walls were 
rougher down here, the floor more uneven. These passageways had obviously never been 
intended for easy living. The cold was biting- frost clawed in spidery patterns at the 
stonework, making the low archway ahead glitter with ice. Melkor led him wordlessly 
through.

	The archway led to the top of a spiral staircase. A staircase that had no walls. 
Instead, as it plunged down and down, an elegant stone banister twisted with it, carved 
with binding ivy. Haldir gazed down, the flames below reflecting strangely in his 
cerulean eyes. A colossal maze of furnaces and ragged figures sprawled out across the 
floor of the cavern, walls riddled with towering archways leading into inky blackness that 
occasionally flared with fire. Through the countless droves of dark figures working the 
forges, the soaring, winged forms of Balrogs walked, dozens of them, slow, stately 
sentinels patrolling the walkways. Melkor’s pale lips curved into a smile, dark eyes 
aflame with the hellish glow. He began the long climb down, slowly, speaking as he 
went.

‘You never wondered why they call this place the Iron Hills? This is the reason…the ore 
mines.’

‘Who are all those people?’ Haldir whispered. There were thousands, faces covered by 
tattered bandanas against the fumes. Every now and then, one of them collapsed under 
the lash of a balrog’s whip.

‘They, *laurea-quen*, are the next generation of Uruk Hai in the making.’

Haldir frowned, as much at the Quenyan as the information. When he spoke the ancient 
tongue, Melkor’s voice seemed to resonate with an eerie power, one which whispered of 
a force unimaginably older and darker than the shell of flesh and bone that held it would 
imply. Unwilling to be drawn into it, Haldir swallowed and tilted his eyes away, down to 
the furnaces once again. ‘How?’

‘Elves, Haldir. Or, once elves. Uruk Hai are nothing more than elves driven through such 
torture and misery that the soul gives up but leaves a living body. The stronger the will of 
the elf, the stronger the resulting Uruk Hai. And these…well, these are special. These are 
warriors captured long before the First Age. Eldar. The things they have endured are 
quite incredible, and after twenty millennia, their transformation is almost over. Give 
them another, oh…hundred years, and they will be perfect.’

‘A hundred years.’

‘Ah, you’ve made the link? Excellent.’

Haldir was silent for a moment, then, ‘This was why you wanted Erestor back in the first 
place, wasn’t it? You wanted him to help you, sixty years ago, when you brought Elrond 
and Thranduil here.’

Melkor smiled. ‘And…’

‘But Sauron wrecked everything. You didn’t expect him to rise up again so quickly. And 
you didn’t expect Erestor to be the one he would question for the whereabouts of the 
Ring. Which is why you gave me over to the nazgul. So that the Witch-King would ally 
with you and so Erestor would be released much sooner than he would have been 
otherwise. You…you needed him for something else.’

‘Correct. Annoyingly, you threw a spanner in the works.’

The Lorien elf paused. ‘Why did you join forces with Saruman during the war?’

‘I’m terribly sorry, but if I explain anything else, I will sound like one of those ridiculous 
criminal mastermind-type characters who love the sound of their own voices and 
constantly peel off into very rehearsed evil laughter. So I shan’t. Now eat the damned 
apple.’

Haldir raised an eyebrow as he sank his teeth into the fruit. It was difficult to decide who 
was worse; Sauron, utterly and completely evil, or Melkor, utterly and completely evil 
with a sense of humour.

	He glanced around when he felt someone behind him touch his shoulder. As he 
did, the dark and the flames disappeared, replaced abruptly by a white sky and waves 
crashing onto a pebble beach. Erestor tilted his head.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

Haldir stared at him. Waking up…it was like waking up. Like surfacing from a day 
dream.

The dark elf gave him a gentle poke in the ribs. ‘Haldir?’

‘What?’

‘Are you all right?’

He nodded uneasily. After a second, he reached out for Erestor’s hand. Solid as his own. 
Dark eyes narrowed slightly in an anxious frown. Almost as if he sensed the need for 
proof, Erestor pulled off his gloves and clasped Haldir’s hand in both of his, bringing him 
close.

‘Sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

Erestor smiled. ‘Good.’

	‘Careful,’ Melkor murmured, catching his arm before he fell. ‘Day dreaming is 
never a wise idea on stairs.’

Haldir drew in a sharp breath, coming back to himself with a jolt. A glance around told 
him he was indeed still on the spiral stairway. He swallowed. Much more of this, and 
telling reality from dream was going to become an unsolvable problem. Melkor turned 
him gently round and began the climb back up. Since they had to walk in single file, 
Haldir didn’t see the dark elf’s smile.

					*********

	Erestor paused, just for a moment, and turned to look out to sea. It whispered 
softly, a gentle call murmuring under the cries of the white gulls. On pale sand, the surf 
broke and ebbed and flowed, swirling in eddies around the empty harbour. All around 
him, the friendly bustle of day to day life in the Havens continued, regardless of his 
stillness. A scattering of little boats dotted the sea a little further out, out early in the hope 
of catching the dawn shoals. The beach was dotted with sailors too, ashore for the day, 
mending nets, sails, and, over in the dry-dock, even building new ships for the last 
voyage to Valinor. He could hear the sound of horses’ hooves on the road, laughter from 
the paths. But as he gazed out across the water to the horizon, to where the sun was 
bursting golden over the silver ocean, all the sounds dimmed. He started when a gentle 
hand set itself on his shoulder. When he looked up, Glorfindel smiled. 

‘You hear Valinor’s call after all, then? It’s taken you a while. Nearly a hundred years.’
‘I’m not going,’ he said flatly, for what must have been the eightieth time that month.
‘So you say.’ The Eldar folded down beside him on the pebbles. ‘Although I don’t see 
why you want to stay.’

‘Because I…’ Erestor sighed, motioning vaguely. ‘I just do.’

‘That’s not what you were going to say.’

‘It doesn’t matter what I was going to say.’

‘No? Well, suit yourself.’

‘But you’re sailing on the next ship?’

‘Yes- Elrond left years ago. Seems time to follow.’

Erestor shook his head.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re all leaving this place so…so lightly. The place you were born, where you fathers 
and grandfathers were born, where your ancestors settled and promised to stay. And yet 
where does that promise lie buried now? Lorien is just another forest. Rivendell isn’t 
even there any more, a few tumbling ruins in an unremarkable valley that once shone 
with the magic of the people who lived there. Mirkwood is the realm of the rangers, a 
western extension of Ithilien. And no one cares.’

Glorfindel frowned. ‘No, Erestor, of course we care. But…but our time here is over. This 
place, this land…it no longer needs us. The Age of Men has begun. This world is theirs 
now, and we leave in hope that they will do well by it. Majesty and magic are being 
slowly replaced by logic and industry…it’s naught but natural progression. We are relics 
of a bygone era. We have no place here any more. So we leave, across the sea, west, to 
our homeland, and let the Men be in theirs. Come with me, Erestor. Please. You look out 
to sea with such longing and yet still you refuse to leave. You belong with us. With your 
own kind. There’s nothing here for you. Not any more. Please.’

When he raised his head again, the dark elf’s eyes were cold. ‘I’ve told you. I’m not 
leaving. There might be nothing left for me here, but neither is there anything for me in 
Valinor. So I may as well save myself a long journey and stay.’

The Eldar regarded him sadly. ‘You know what they say. Better to have loved and lost 
than never to have loved at all.’

Erestor swore waspishly in Quenyan. ‘Whoever said that should be tied to a tree and 
*shot*.’

‘Well, I haven’t heard *that* curse in a while,’ Glorfindel said, somewhat shell-shocked.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised dutifully.

‘Awful language aside, will you come and have a look at a blade for me? All the other 
blacksmiths insist it can’t be worked, but I thought perhaps…’

Erestor frowned. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Cracked right down the middle.’

‘Ah. Probably the other blacksmiths are right.’

‘But?’ Glorfindel added for him hopefully.

The dark elf sighed. ‘But I’ll try anyway.’



	Four hours later, Erestor plunged the sword into the trough of water by the forge 
for the last time, then slung it across the workshop to Glorfindel, who caught it with a 
grin.

‘You are *very* good.’

Erestor smiled. ‘Yes,’ he agreed.

The Eldar set the blade carefully down on the nearest bench before making his way 
across to help Erestor clear up. The red-hot coals in the forge were rapidly cooling to 
become black again, and the water had stopped steaming. Glorfindel scooped up the three 
hammers lying on the side of the anvil and went across to the wall to hang them back on 
their pegs. When Erestor came up beside him to replace the tongs and his gloves, he 
slipped an arm around the dark elf’s narrow waist and pulled him into a gentle embrace.
‘Thank you.’

Erestor sighed contently, tilting his face into curve of Glorfindel’s neck, happy for the 
support after four hours spent bent over a hot forge. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘And you’re tired. You work far too hard, you realize.’

‘No, I think *you’re* just lazy.’

‘Come on. You deserve some food after all that. And probably quite a large glass of 
brandy.’

‘Valar, yes…’

Glorfindel smiled. It was good to hear Erestor laugh again.



	Only three months later, Glorfindel knew he would never hear that rare sound 
again. He stood at the aft of the ship, watching the land fall away in their wake. Erestor 
gazed steadily back at him from the beach. Overhead, a storm cloud hung low in the east, 
and as ship pulled away from the harbour, thunder whispered in the distance. A chill 
wind accompanied it, whipping across the beach, tugging at Erestor’s clothes, pulling at 
his hair. Glorfindel smiled sadly. He had always suspected the dark elf had some sort of 
subconscious control over the weather…unfair that such wondrous magic make itself 
plain only now, when he was leaving Erestor behind forever. He stood at the rail until the 
slender form on the beach disappeared from sight. Then he turned to face the west, and 
the setting sun.

	Serentiel paused on the doorstep for a second; after trying and failing to discern 
whether there was anyone at home, he sighed and knocked. He was about to give up 
when finally, the latch clicked and Erestor appeared in the doorway, still wearing a heavy 
smith’s apron over his clothes. The dark elf gestured vaguely with the hammer in his left 
hand.

‘I was at the forge, I didn’t hear you until the three or four hundredth knock. Come in.’
Serentiel smiled and slipped past him. The chambers beyond were sparse but airy; so far 
as he could gather, Erestor didn’t seem to bother with much in the way of possessions. 
After countless visits over the years, he knew the layout perfectly and made instinctively 
for the workshop at the back of the house, where, as promised, he found the forge still 
glowing red.

‘So, when are you leaving?’ Erestor asked conversationally, dropping the new blade on 
the anvil into the water trough beside it. It hissed.

‘Tonight.’

Dark eyes flicked up suddenly to meet his. ‘Ah. You’ve come to say goodbye.’

‘Yes. I’d rather not, though.’

‘I’m not leaving.’

The subaltern sighed. ‘You never did explain why not.’

‘Nobody asked.’

‘I’m asking now.’

Erestor paused. ‘Whatever you all may think, the trouble here has only just begun. I don’t 
know what or where or why, and on those unconvincing grounds, I stay. Firstly to see 
what’s going to happen, and secondly, to find out whether it’s worth watching. If it is, I 
shall send you a smug note.’

‘And if it’s not? If you’re wrong?’

‘I’m not wrong.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘What’s two plus two?’

‘Four, but I don’t-’

‘Right, that’s how I know.’

Serentiel sighed. ‘Goodbye it is, then. But…I’ll miss you.’

‘No, you won’t. I hope you have a good voyage.’

He nodded slightly. After a long silence, he crossed the cluttered workshop and took 
Erestor’s hands. ‘And I hope you’ll follow, one day. I know you won’t, but…I hope, 
anyway.’ Very gently, he eased the dark elf a little closer and kissed his brow to smooth 
away the frown there. ‘Farewell, Erestor.’

	 
	Ship by ship, day after day, they left. Within the year, the city was deserted. 
Autumn leaves scattered the streets, and for the first time in millennia, the beach was 
pristinely empty. No ships. No nets. Nothing. Erestor stood on the shore, just watching 
the waves. High overhead, the gulls wheeled and soared across a bleak sky. The music of 
the sea was soft and gentle on the sighing breeze, a flowing melody that ran through the 
air until the wind carried it away. Finally, he turned away. His old, battered black 
travelling pack was slung over his shoulder, cloak folded over his arm for when the 
weather turned cold. Perhaps, at last, it was time for him to return home too.

	On his way past Rivendell, he stopped in the valley, fighting his way through the 
ivy and the tumbling masonry until he found the tangled way back to his old chamber. A 
hundred years of abandonment and exposure to the elements had left the once-beautiful 
place little more than a ruin. He picked his way across the floor, stepping past fallen 
stones and over weed-filled cracks. The balcony was still more or less intact, but he 
didn‘t risk leaning against the rail as he looked out. The valley was just that, now. A 
valley. Imladris had been slowly but steadily buried and tumbled by the woods, and soon, 
the little that remained would disappear too. Rivendell would vanish from the maps, the 
name would become a story, a legend, a myth, and the place would become somewhere 
curious children came to decide whether the elves had ever really lived here or if it all 
been a lovely tale spun by a skilful grandsire. Erestor paused. As he went back across the 
room, he paused by the wall and pulled out his knife. It took him a while, but when he 
stood back, the message etched deep into the stone looked easily sharp enough to last 
another few centuries. Provided the wall did, of course.

*Seek the elves of Rivendell across the Western Sea.*

	Once over the Misty Mountains, he entered Rohan territory, but no one 
challenged him. In fact, he was only fifty miles from the Iron Hills before anyone 
actually spoke to him. He saw the orc coming, a dark figure on horseback approaching 
over the hill. He didn’t bother drawing his sword. Any orcs left alive were loyal to his 
father, and therefore unlikely to attempt to kill him unless they particularly wanted to 
commit a messy suicide. Sure enough, when he drew closer, the orc dismounted. Erestor 
dimly recognized him as one of the castle guards.

‘Bit early, ain’t yer? I haven’t even given yer the damn message yet.’

Erestor frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Master wants me ter give yer this.’ The orc tossed him a neatly rolled scroll, sealed with 
black wax stamped with a dragon sigil that marked it as coming from Melkor himself.

‘Oh right. Why?’

‘I dunno, do I?’

Erestor slit the seal with his thumbnail and let the scroll roll open in his hands. He read it 
twice. When he looked up again, the orc’s insolent demeanour vanished. The dark elf’s 
expression was much too like his master’s for comfort. ‘I’m going take to your horse. 
You’re going to walk home. If you have any trouble with that, I’ll knock you out before I 
go.’

‘No, no, no trouble!’

‘Marvellous.’

Without another word or any explanation, Erestor swung up onto the bay gelding and 
rose away. Grumbling, the orc kicked a pebble and began the long trek back to the castle.



	Erestor didn’t give his father any warning. Instead, he strode straight across the 
hall to where Melkor was talking to one of the servants and slammed his fist into the back 
of his head. The sheer force of the blow sent the taller elf to his hands and knees on the 
floor.

‘You *bastard*!’ Erestor hissed. The servant gasped and fled.

‘Welcome home,’ Melkor sighed.

‘If I had the time I’d skin you alive. Tell me where he is.’

‘Well, I suppose you could skin me alive if you wanted. A few more hours wouldn’t hurt 
him after a hundred years.’

Erestor aimed a vicious kick at his stomach. ‘Where.’

‘Let me up.’

‘I think not.’

‘Erestor, this is hardly a dignified position from which to conduct a conversation.’

‘I can quite easily break all your ribs from where I’m standing.’

‘Point taken. Ninth level dungeons.’

‘Thank you.’

Once he was gone, Melkor picked himself up and folded his arms over his stomach. An 
anxious servant crept across to help, then jumped backward as the dark elf’s bruises 
healed over instantly with harsh snaps of blue light. ‘I give it half an hour before he 
comes back up and wants a proper fight,’ he said absently.

The servant frowned. He was well aware of castle history, and of all the stories his 
grandfather had told him about the master’s fiery son. ‘Why, master? What’s on the ninth 
level?’

‘Oh, an old friend who probably won’t recognize him at all on account of being insane.’

‘Will you fight him, if he wants to?’

‘Yes; I’ll also win, although don’t tell him so. It would be a shame to ruin his 
confidence.’



	Erestor took the stairs at a run, heart pounding. A hundred years. The memory of 
finding Haldir’s bloodied cloak at Helm’s Deep whipped into his mind, no longer full of 
hopelessness but a searing fury at himself that he had never thought to look any further 
for solid proof of the Lorien elf’s death. Just before he left the last fully lit corridor, he 
snatched a torch from its bracket on the wall, kicking the door beyond open in the same 
movement. The orcs beyond snarled at the encroaching brightness of the fire, but he was 
past them before they could turn their annoyance into a cause for a fight. A spiral 
staircase plunged down to the ninth level, cutting through pitch darkness. Soon, whispers 
began to echo around the narrow stairwell. Soft, flowing, crazed murmurs, some hissing, 
some almost childlike. The moment he stepped onto the flagstoned floor at the foot of the 
stairs, silence descended for perhaps four seconds until the occupants of the nearest cells 
realized who he was not. It was easy for them to do so. The front walls of the cells were 
made from glass. The clear prisons lined both sides of the dark passageway, the glass 
reflecting and shimmering strangely in the flickering light cast by Erestor’s torch. Inside, 
the ruined creatures watched him pass with dead eyes. On his left, a tall elf touched the 
glass with fingers twisted with burn scars, a ragged tumble of straw-coloured hair half 
obscuring a similarly scarred face. A colourless, androgynous figure on the right tapped 
the wall softly in time to a nursery rhyme, over and over again until Erestor could almost 
hear he father singing him to sleep…

*A traveller walks by moonlight,
Through the murky forest
He does not see what lies ahead…
Nor what behind doth tread.*

Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. A gaggle of orcs were lurking in the shadows, 
watching. He ignored them and carried slowly on.

*Even ravens hide tonight,
But he is not so wary,
The swords he carries has banished his dread
But blades aid not the dead.*



	After passing dozen upon dozen of the whispering, ghostlike captives, he stopped 
suddenly when the sound died. He had almost reached the end of the corridor, and after 
becoming accustomed to the faint level of noise, it felt odd to pass a cell whose prisoner 
made no sound at all. Frowning slightly, he turned, holding the torch up to the bathe the 
dark cell in guttering amber light. The still figure inside didn’t react, but the light caught 
briefly in a pair of sparkling indigo eyes. Erestor choked. His clothes were little more 
than rags, tall frame reduced to a brittle, willowy ghost of its former graceful power, but 
it was still Haldir. The Lorien elf sat perfectly motionless on the stone floor, legs crossed, 
manacled hands folded neatly in his lap. Unlike the others, his hair hadn’t lost its sheen 
yet; it lay unbraided now, veiling one side of his face, silver tips just touching his belt. 
His skin was still golden despite the years of dark, rendering him an image of aching 
beauty amongst the ruined forms around him. Swallowing, Erestor rapped against the 
glass. He didn’t look up.

‘Haldir?’ the dark elf called softly.

No response.

With a horrible leaden feeling descending deep in his chest, Erestor pushed back in the 
bolts in the door and crept inside, falling to his knees beside Haldir.

‘Can you hear me?’ he whispered. ‘Haldir?’ Very, very carefully, he reached forward and 
swept the fall of silvery hair back from the Lorien elf’s face. The touch merited no 
reaction whatsoever. Haldir’s eyes hadn’t flickered from their focus on the floor.

‘Please,’ Erestor begged.

‘He won’t answer,’ Melkor told him softly. He was leaning in the doorway, black hair 
gleaming in the torchlight.

Erestor abruptly felt too exhausted to be angry. ‘Why not?’

‘He chooses not to. You are, to all intents and purposes, just another hallucination borne 
of helpless hope, and he has long since stopped believing them. But…’

‘But what?’

‘I can bring him out again. If you do as I say.’

Erestor shut his eyes against his tears. ‘I hate you.’

‘Suit yourself,* pen-neth*. I never hated you.’

‘Debatable. What do you want?’

‘Come away from here, and we can talk elsewhere.’

‘No! No, I don’t-’

‘Erestor,’ Melkor whispered.

Hopelessly, Erestor looked up at him, and for the briefest second, wished that none of this 
had ever happened. Wished he had never met Haldir, never gone to Rivendell, never left 
the Iron Hills. The tiniest part of him still yearned for the gentle father Melkor had once 
been, the beautiful, dark angel who had taken him away from the shadows of the cells 
and brought him to the surface every day to see the dawn. The father who had sung him 
to sleep every night, told him fantastic stories of battles and elves and orcs and power 
beyond his dreams. A second later though, he pushed it all aside and rose to his feet, his 
expression unreadable as ever.

‘Fine.’



	Melkor folded lightly down in the chair behind his desk, lighting the fire with a 
glance before tilting his obsidian eyes back to Erestor.

‘How are the Havens these days?’

‘Empty,’ Erestor told him shortly. ‘Why did you take Haldir?’

‘Insurance. He will be returned to you once you’ve done as I ask.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘Help me re-cast Iluvatar’s harmony.’

‘Recast the music that made the world?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Melkor raised a tailored eyebrow. ‘You may not have noticed, but I do bear the faintest of 
grudges against this world.’ 

Erestor gave him a flat look. While he was quite aware that Melkor had spent longer in 
chains and darkness at the hands of elves and men than most of his own prisoners put 
together, he couldn’t summon much sympathy. ‘Even if I could, no.’

‘You can, Erestor.’

‘Then I won’t.’

‘As you like. Haldir stays in the dungeons.’

Erestor bowed his head. When he spoke again, his voice was far softer than it had been 
before. ‘Then he must stay.’

‘You would live as a prince,* pen-neth*. A prince. The heir to an empire, an entire world, 
not one ruled by Men but by fire and sorcery, the way it was in the beginning. The way it 
should be. Call this a fresh start. A chance to see a new history unfold and the age of the 
Elves dawn, not fade. I do not want what Sauron wanted, Erestor. I don’t want to live in a 
place where the sky can’t be seen for smoke and storms…I know what beauty is, and I’d 
rather keep it. Think on what you’re so blithely refusing before you answer again.’
‘The world is as it should be. I might not like it, but it is as it is.’

‘Why accept something the way it is when you can make it better?’

‘If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it!’

Melkor smiled. ‘Why make swords, if flint is good enough? Why build castles from stone 
when wood suffices? Why forge steel in the place of iron?’

‘It wouldn’t be better,’ Erestor denied quietly.

‘How can you know?’

‘How can *you* know?’

‘A jewel of a question,’ Melkor whispered. ‘*That* fire-’ he motioned suddenly to the 
hearth on his right- ‘is focused on none other than Galadriel’s mirror in what remains of 
Lorien. It is beyond interesting. Perhaps you should look.’

Erestor turned his head. Melkor felt a faint spark of admiration; that he could read the fire 
from so far away was proof of his rapidly strengthening abilities. There was a long 
silence. Images flickered through the flames, showing the ruins of the forests, huge 
quarries and mines, great, sprawling cities of black stone where there had once been lush 
green fields. Once they had run their course, Erestor tilted his eyes away. ‘The mirror 
shows what could be, not what will be.’

‘No, it shows what is so likely as to be almost beyond doubt.’

‘It predicted the rise of Sauron,’ Erestor reminded him.

‘But how much effort and blood was expended in changing that course of events?’

‘I won’t help you bring on the death of a world, Melkor!’

‘Melkor. You used to call me father.’

‘Used. Past tense,’ Erestor said flatly, rising to go.

‘So you’re going to leave your bondmate here to rot? I can do far worse than simply drive 
him insane, you know.’

Erestor stopped in the doorway, but he didn’t turn. ‘One soul in exchange for a hundred 
thousand is no choice.’

‘Oh, it is when the hundred thousand would die anyway.’

‘What?’

‘Sauron is gone. The elves are gone. I have no intention of wasting my time lying 
dormant here any longer. There is an army awaiting my orders, Erestor. I may not be able 
to remake the world, but I can change it. It will be slow and painful, and any new land 
that comes of it will be forged of blood and steel, but I have little care for how a thing is 
made once it’s made. A slow destruction of the cities of Gondor, a long pillage of 
Rohan…that’s what it would take to cleanse the land as things stand. Re-casting the 
original Harmony of Iluvatar is the painless way. Quick and easy. The other is more of a 
grind, but I’m sure you’d enjoy watching.’

‘Why…why can’t you re-cast the Harmony on your own?’

‘Harmony. Two. If there was one strand, it would be a melody.’
Erestor treated him to a truly murderous look. ‘Oh, thank you for that enlightening 
definition of a simple word. I meant, why can’t it be done as Iluvatar did?’

‘You may have noticed but I am notably…not a god.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Well. Not 
quite.’

Erestor seemed to consider. ‘Ah…no. I’m going now.’

‘Gosh, that was abrupt. All right. Although on your way out, do make a point to 
remember whose cell it is that the torturer’s chosen to train his apprentice in.’

Erestor slammed the door.

				           **********

	One of the manacles fell from Haldir’s wrist with a satisfying clang. He 
immediately turned his attention to the other, niggling at the tiny lock with the shard of 
bone he’d found nestling in a corner four hours before. His head had cleared, slowly, of 
the effects of Melkor’s drug just before then. He had long since worked out what was 
going on. Any food given to him held a pinch of mysterious white powder, and so now, 
whenever he ate, he fully expected to propelled into vivid hallucinations that could last 
for anything up to an entire day. With that in mind, he accepted as little food as was 
possible, although it took an aching amount of willpower to flatly refuse water and bread 
after four days spent starving. Melkor seemed to take an inordinate amount of amusement 
in making him choose between sanity and sustenance. He had ceased to care a long time 
ago. And now, to pass the time before entertainment arrived in the form of the next bout 
of suspiciously realistic dreams, he was picking the locks on the chains holding him to 
the wall. He didn’t particularly hate being chained; there wasn’t anywhere to go anyway. 
Rather, he resented being bored. It was, he realized ruefully, one of the worst forms of 
torture. Nevermind molten lead and barbed manacles…being locked in a featureless cell 
in absolute isolation for forty years was quite enough to finish the weak-hearted all on its 
painless own.

	The torturer’s apprentice arrived not long later, then limped out again more or less 
immediately. After a pause of perhaps half an hour, the time it would take for the 
miserable individual to drag himself up to Melkor and moan at him, the dark elf appeared 
in the doorway.

‘Now listen, it is not good form to send valuable apprentices packing with broken noses 
as punishment apparently for simply existing.’

Haldir shot him a foul look and didn’t bother to reply.

Melkor sighed softly. ‘I know you’ve broken the manacles. Come here.’

‘I’m perfectly happy where I am, thank you.’

‘You’ve served my purpose, Haldir, I won’t keep you down here any more. You can have 
Erestor’s chamber. My only requirement of you is simply that you’re in the castle.’

‘Why? And what purpose?’

‘Never mind what purpose. But you are my bargaining piece,’ the taller elf said simply, 
‘and I can’t very well use you if you’re not here.’ He crossed the cell in a pace and a half, 
offering his hand to help Haldir to his feet. Warily, Haldir took it, letting Melkor draw 
him upright. Standing, he was still a few inches smaller, and tilted his head up in defiance 
of Melkor’s obvious advantage, meeting the unreadable obsidian gaze aimed down at 
him, quite plainly less than bothered by that fact that he was less than inch away from the 
figure who had struck terror into the hearts of warriors since time began. The dark elf 
smiled slightly. ‘Such a haughty bearing for one who has fallen so far. Charming.’

‘I’m thrilled you think so.’
Melkor raised an eyebrow and let himself sway closer, his dark hair falling across his 
face and brushing against Haldir’s cheek on its way. Backed against the wall, Haldir 
could small the cedar on his skin, see the glowing silver flecks strewn deep in his black 
eyes. ‘Excellent. Now then, *laurea-quen*, terms and conditions. No trouble to the 
servants, please, and don’t annoy the guards either. By all means try to escape, but fully 
expect to be dragged back again and slung into the cells. In exchange, I won’t drug you 
any more, although there will be withdrawal symptoms which I can only imagine will be 
less than pleasant. Understand? Good.’

The cell disappeared, abruptly replaced by the familiar setting of Erestor’s chambers. 
Without the wall behind him to support him, Haldir fell over at Melkor’s feet. The dark 
elf smiled slightly. ‘Slightly overeager, don’t you think? Oh, don’t look so scandalized. 
Now, I’ve things to attend to, so-’

‘What thi-’

Melkor ignored him and instead finished smoothly, ‘-stay out of trouble.’

Before Haldir could try again, the dark elf vanished.

The Lorien elf glared at nothing. ‘That,’ he said, with all the vehemence most people 
would only use to order an infuriating enemy to do something indecent to a horse, ‘was 
not polite.’


	Carefully and slowly, Haldir rose and made a circuit of the three familiar 
chambers. That done, he let himself fall down on the edge of Erestor’s bed, and, still 
faintly curious despite his tiredness, reached out to snag the book lying open on the floor 
at his feet. Expecting to see only the confusing, swirling symbols of Quenyan, he gave 
the open page only a cursory glance at first, but frowned when he saw that it was in plain 
Sindarin. He turned the book over in his hands. Compared to most of the others in the 
library, it was fairly recent…well-bound, pages still the rich, creamy colour of new 
parchment. The open page was covered with confident, slanted script that looked as 
though it had been written at high speed, punctuated by beautifully detailed sketches. He 
recognized a picture of the towers of Osgiliath, stationed next to a flowing copy of the 
curse written on the One Ring. Haldir flicked carefully back to find a clue as to identity 
of the author. He didn’t truly need to…he already recognized the penmanship. It slanted 
to the left, which looked odd, but was really only the result of a left-handed  writer, and at 
first glance, the quickly formed letters looked closer to early Quenyan runes than modern 
Sindarin. Not untidy, just irate. He smiled a little as he read Erestor’s accounts of his 
visions. Unsurprisingly, the dark elf wrote exactly as he spoke, blunt and bad-tempered, 
and for a while, reading his words was almost, almost as good as hearing him talk.

*10th Oct. Gold ring residing happily underwater.

11th. Still there.

12th. Still there, although narrowly avoided being eaten by a fish.

13th. Ring. Again. The sense of monotony is becoming overwhelming.

14th. Ring. Why? I’m sure there must be something more interesting to look at.

15th. WHAT is the significance of a trinket lying at the bottom of a lake?

16th. Right. I’m not sleeping until it goes away.

19th. Possibly not the best plan I ever had.*

Haldir grinned, touching the page to run his fingertips lightly over the dark ink. He could 
feel the faint indentation from where Erestor had pressed too hard. Stretching out on his 
front, he took the diary with him and flicked back to the beginning to read from there. 
Before long, he could nearly hear Erestor’s voice saying the words aloud, see the dark elf 
sprawled beside him, quill in hand, his fingers for once stained with ink rather than 
encased in gloves and gauntlets. A wave of sadness washed over him. A grim life indeed 
made an elf exchange a pen for a sword.

	Haldir did not remember going to sleep, but he woke to the sound of heavy 
footfalls in the corridor outside. Lots of them. Faintly dizzy, he got unsteadily to his feet 
and felt his way through the dark to the faint glow beyond the black veils in the entrance 
archways. The fire in the room beyond had burned down to embers, but outside, the 
torches lighting the passageways were burning even more brightly than usual. He leaned 
tentatively around the stonework. And frowned.

	In the wide corridor beyond the open arch, rank upon rank of orcs marched grimly 
past, their dark armour clanking softly in time with their steps. Curving scimitars 
gleamed unsheathed in their claws, the snaking emblem of a dragon emblazoned in 
crimson on their breastplates. They were so closely packed that there was no room to go 
past them, and so, with no other choice, Haldir stood and waited, watching them go. 
Soon, the orc ranks gave way to Uruk Hai, dressed identically but armed with 
broadswords to make full advantage of their height. One of them snarled at him in its way 
past. Haldir gave it an unimpressed glance before letting his gaze slide back to the rest. 
He counted nearly three hundred, walking in lines of five, before they too gave way to 
different soldiers.

	Melkor’s Eldar were like nothing Haldir had ever seen. They were as beautiful as 
the Uruk Hai were hideous, tall and gaunt, ghostly pale in the lantern light. All of them 
had black hair. Eyes that had once been blue were now as dark as midnight, all colour 
utterly drained to leave their skin almost translucently white. Their gazes were as empty 
as those of the prisoners on the ninth level, dead inside, and while their outward 
appearance was flawless, something about them was grotesque beyond words, something 
wrong…as wrong as a walking corpse. Haldir looked sharply to the side when Melkor 
appeared beside him, materialising from clear air to lean against the wall, his languid 
grace rendering him weightless despite his armour. He smiled slightly and tilted his eyes 
to the passing soldiers.

‘So. What do you think?’

‘What’s going on?’

‘An army has arrived on my doorstep. I thought it might be amusing to see how they do.’

‘Which army?’

‘Gondor’s. Lady Arwen rides at its head. And Erestor, of course. He can be very 
persuasive.’

Haldir frowned. ‘What do you-’

‘Use your head,’ the dark elf said patiently.

‘It hurts,’ Haldir snapped.

Melkor gave him an indulgent smile. ‘You’ll have to wait til it doesn’t then, won’t you? 
Meanwhile…why don’t you come out with me and watch the spectacle? I’m sure it will 
be well worth your while. The odds are fairly even.’

‘By that you presumably mean four to one in your favour.’

‘Of course. Are you coming? Excellent.’ The dark elf reached out and caught his hand. 
The moment their fingers touched, the stone walls disappeared. The torchlight was 
replaced by rapidly darkening twilight, the stone floor by long grass. Haldir recognized 
the place…it was the guard post above the labyrinth, stationed on the hill looking down 
onto the grasslands below. Only there wasn’t much grass to be seen tonight. An army 
sprawled across the foothills, torches glowing. Behind Melkor, the orcs, Uruk Hai and 
Eldar were forming into silent legions, and from the shifting and murmuring from the 
men, the forces of Gondor were becoming more and more uneasy. Obviously quite aware 
that he was nicely silhouetted against the setting sun, the dark elf gave the nervous men a 
cheerful wave. Then, palm open, he moved his hand lazily across his line of sight. The 
torches extinguished, plunging the army into shadow. Without waiting to listen to their 
shouts of shock, he raised his other hand over his head and drew a graceful arc across the 
sky. The light of the moon intensified by tenfold. It cast a silvery glow on Melkor’s 
forces as well as Arwen’s, glinting off the sea of black hair behind him. Frightened 
whispers swept through the ranks. Haldir glared.

‘Why the parlour tricks?’

Melkor laughed. ‘Disruptive tactics. They no longer have a visual advantage. Oh, here 
come the diamonds in the crown…’

Haldir turned, just in time to see the first Balrog emerge from the depths of the labyrinth.

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

	Erestor leaned back in his saddle, watching patiently while a clear score of 
Balrogs thundered up from the depths of the castle.

‘Brilliant,’ he muttered.

Arwen glanced at him. ‘Are those…are they as bad as they would appear?’

‘Worse,’ the dark elf sighed. ‘Still, he’s got them at the back of his lines, so they won’t be 
in action for a while.’

‘You didn’t tell me he would have elves fighting for him.’

‘They’re not elves, they’re dead Eldar.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, dead. You know how people sometimes lapse into a coma and never surface? When 
the soul dies and leaves a breathing body? Well, these ones just so happen to move as 
well as breathe.’

Arwen swallowed. Barely three weeks ago, Erestor had ridden full pelt into Minas Tirith 
at the crack of dawn and told her everything. Within the day, Gondor’s army was on the 
move north. Her commanders had grumbled, but their respect and loyalty to their queen 
far outweighed their suspicion of the dark stranger at her side…as, she suspected, did 
their fear of Erestor’s sharp tongue. And so they were here, facing an army of shadow 
and fire led by the most feared being in the history of Middle Earth. Abruptly, they heard 
Melkor’s melodic laughter ring out across the grasslands.
‘He does not sound so very threatening,’ she noted carefully.

Erestor shook his head. ‘No…no, he doesn’t.’

Arwen frowned slightly when she heard the note of sadness in his voice, but she didn’t 
press the matter. Instead, she turned her eyes back to the ridge where Melkor’s forces 
were still gathering, tapping her gloves fingers anxiously against her mare’s reins. Her 
instinct would be to make her move now, first…but then, as her commanders and Erestor 
had all pointed out several times between them now, it was suicide to attempt anything 
until the full extent of the dark army was known. So they waited.

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

	On the ridge, Haldir crossed his arms against the cold…even so, he couldn’t help 
shivering when Melkor gave both armies a pensive look and slipped his arm around the 
Lorien elf’s waist. He frowned when his loose clothes suddenly became black armour.

‘What-’

‘We’re silhouetted. They don’t know you’re not an Eldar, therefore you are just as liable 
to be shot as I am. Now…if I were you, I’d stay close.’

Haldir didn’t bother ask why; he already knew. He had been at the front of enough battle 
charges to be aware that standing still in the middle of one was not an advisable idea, 
namely because once more than three or four hundred people were running together, 
especially downhill, as a whole they were only slightly less likely to split up and swerve 
than a mountain was to get up and walk. He kept his gaze resolutely forward when, at a 
signal from Melkor, the mass of troops behind him began to advance.

	Carnage ensued, but Melkor didn’t move, watching, waiting. His grip was like 
iron around Haldir’s wrist, but the Lorien elf could not have run, even if he had felt 
himself able; at the base of the hill, the dark Eldar fought in an unbreakable line, 
relentless, moving slowly but surely forward, leaving nothing but corpses behind them. 
The orcs and Uruk Hai had circled around the enemy army in a pincer movement, 
hemming them in, pressing them into the Eldar’s blades. The Balrogs stood motionless 
and gargantuan at the sidelines, waiting for anyone to break away. Nobody did.

	Utterly without warning, a billowing ball of vicious green flame exploded through 
the ranks of the Eldar. Gondor’s cavalry cannoned through, fired by the bravery of 
desperation, straight toward the towering line of Balrogs. Melkor smiled slightly. 
Through the dark, Haldir caught a glimpse of a familiar figure riding at their head, but in 
the crowd he soon lost of him again. Thunder cracked high overhead, a roaring 
accompaniment to the lighting that flickered dazzlingly between the low clouds. No rain 
fell, but the wind rose, icy and strong, battering at horses and soldiers alike, working 
itself into a howling gale within moments. The lightening came again, and then again and 
again until the entire sky glowed with it, flashing and blinding while below, the 
screaming wind whipped mercilessly at cloaks and hair. Hoping that the dark elf might be 
distracted by the storm, Haldir tried to pull away, but Melkor’s grip didn’t give so much 
as an inch. He spun around, incredulous, just in time to see the taller elf’s black eyes 
glitter silver. Then, as though pulled round by a hook, Haldir felt his gaze dragged back 
to the battle field, where an identical silver stare locked into Melkor’s across the sea of 
writhing slaughter.

	The words of the curses were audible even over the cacophony of the chaos 
around them, thrumming with an electric power that turned the softly spoken sounds into 
earth-shattering thunder. Magic collided halfway between father and son. Everything at 
its epicentre, Balrogs, orcs, Eldar, Men, fell like a child’s dominos, thrown viciously 
backward by the sheer force of the mighty explosion that careered out in a mushroom 
cloud of flames and choking smoke. Even so close to Melkor, Haldir was thrown off his 
feet, landing hard on his knees. Melkor’s iron grasp on his shoulder kept him there as the 
next curse screamed across the bloodied grassland. This time, Erestor wasn’t quick 
enough to block it. The shimmering pulse of magic bloomed in a fantastic spray of 
blinding sparks high in the air. When they fell, the scene changed. Instead of a dark, 
grassy hillside, the ground became hard and cracked, fires burning for as far as the eye 
could see. The air was suddenly unbreathable, acrid with black smog, while in the sky, 
bruised clouds boiled in a colossal spiral, blocking out the stars. On the ground, corpses 
and living alike burned, screaming, bleeding, reduced to dust and bone in what felt like a 
heartbeat. At the centre of it all, Erestor stood motionless, unscathed, a slender wraith 
watching in the onslaught of the scorching wind.

	Haldir heard Erestor’s voice across the blackened plain. It echoed softly, achingly 
pure, tones melding and blending to become chords, a whispered sound that seemed to 
blossom outward from him, changing everything in its path. As the shimmering wave 
passed, the land was left green again, the grass swaying softly in a gentle breeze, the sky 
golden with the dawn. Eyes never leaving his father’s, Erestor paced slowly forward, 
moving silently through the long grass. Steel sang as he drew his sword.

	While the landscape continued to change around them, Melkor smiled sadly.

‘I do not want to fight you, Erestor.’

‘Then I’ll kill you.’

‘What do you hope to gain by this, *pen-ithil*? Either way, you lose.’ Without turning, 
he held his hand out beside him. A dark, glimmering trail of smoke coiled around Haldir, 
sinking into his skin, hissing softly as it went. ‘A binding curse. If you kill me, he dies. If 
I kill you, all my effort has been wasted…so I won’t. One way or another, Erestor you’ll 
do as I say. You can save yourself all this pain…all you need do is join me.’
Just for a second, Erestor’s gaze faltered. The silver in his eyes died, and he stared down 
at Haldir. The Lorien elf was about to glare back at him when suddenly, he realized that it 
would do no good. Instead, he kept his expression blank, let his focus slip. Just as he had 
hoped, Erestor looked back at Melkor and shrugged. ‘Fine. He’s gone anyway.’
Almost lazily, Melkor swept his twin daggers from their sheaths. ‘So be it.’

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

	‘*Don’t be afraid, little one.*’

It was the first thing his father had ever said to him. Erestor still remembered. He 
remembered staring fearfully upward, only to see a pair of dark eyes just like his own 
gazing back down. When Melkor had offered his hand to the frightened little boy, Erestor 
had gone, tentatively clasping his tiny fingers around Melkor’s long ones. He watched as 
the slender elf knelt down before him, and, slowly, unsteadily, stepped into his offered 
embrace. Swallowed as he was lifted up as his father stood again. Everything had looked 
so far away from so high up, the floor such a long way down from his vantage point on 
the dark elf’s hip. Not at all sure what to do, he leaned close anyway, tucking his head 
into the curve of the dark elf’s neck, coaxed to the smallest of smiles when Melkor 
chuckled and lifted a careful hand to run his fingers through Erestor’s mop of dark curls.

‘Time to go now, I think,’ Melkor whispered. ‘Would you like to see the sun, *pen-
ithil*? It’s rising outside.’

Mutely, Erestor nodded.

Melkor kissed his forehead and smiled gently. ‘Then your wish is my command.’

In an instant, there they were, standing on the hillside. Erestor stared. He watched the 
beautiful golden orb cross the sky for the entire day, and then gazed up in awe as the stars 
began to scatter themselves across the darkened sky. Finally, his father turned back 
inside.

‘We’ll watch it again tomorrow,’ he said.

Erestor bit his lip. ‘Promise?’

The dark elf laughed. ‘I promise. And tomorrow, we’ll walk around the old castle wall 
and say hello to the guards, yes?’

‘But…’

‘But nothing,’ Melkor told him softly. ‘Don’t be afraid of anything. In this world, my 
silver prince, I am the worst thing that walks in the dark, and you are not frightened of 
me. There’s no reason to fear anything less. You understand?’

Erestor nodded slightly.

The dark elf grinned, and pulled him suddenly closer to kiss the bridge of his nose. ‘And 
now to bed. Do you like stories?’

‘Mm,’ he nodded.

‘Excellent. There’s a cat who wants to meet you too.’



	Erestor sighed softly, burrowing down under the covers in a tiny heap with the 
black kitten, warm and sleepy. Melkor sat by the hearth, dark hair loose over his 
shoulders while he read, the fire crackling softly beside him. The little boy peeped over 
the edge of the blanket at him. He had never seen anybody who looked like this before. 
The guards were orcs, squat and grimy, while the prisoners were elves, or, the ones he 
knew were anyway, battered and bedraggled with tired eyes and ragged blond dreadlocks, 
little more than emaciated shells. Melkor glanced up and smiled slightly when he saw 
Erestor watching him.

‘Gosh, am I so fascinating?’

The little boy nodded solemnly.

Carefully setting down the book on the arm of his chair, the dark elf rose fluidly to his 
feet and let himself flop down on the edge of the bed. He lifted Erestor gently into his lap, 
covers, kitten and all. ‘Now. Is there any way in the world in which I might get you to 
sleep now?’

Erestor yawned, letting his head rest against his father’s chest. ‘Don’t want to go to 
sleep.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

There was a long pause. Finally, the little boy whispered, ‘Ada?’

‘Hm?’

‘Nana…nana used to say you were bad. Why did she say that? I don’t think you are.’

‘I think differently to lots of people, pen-neth. Elves- your nana’s kind- they say that if 
you want something, you should wait for it, ask for it…I say you should take it. Elves 
want the world to be one way, full of isolated kingdoms, left to its own devices…I say it 
would be better united. I fought for that…they fought for that. I lost. And the winners 
write history. So now I’m just evil. I don’t mind what you think…I don’t mind if you 
agree with your nana or if you agree with me. You are your own judge, and your own 
standards are for you to decide. I’ll teach you what I think is right, you can go down to 
the cells and the dungeons and ask the orcs and the elves and the Uruks what they think is 
right, and then you can believe what you like. Fair?’

Erestor nodded. ‘Why…why they in the dungeons?’

‘Mainly to make them miserable, because I hate them, because they once did far worse to 
me and by my way of thinking vengeance is a satisfying notion.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘They’d say it was bad. I say it’s perfectly reasonable. You?’

‘Um…don’t know. I decide later?’

Melkor smiled. ‘Wise choice.’



	Erestor dreamed that night. He didn’t understand most of what he saw, had no 
words for the beautiful silver jewels that shone with images of a bright sky and a calm 
sea, nor any name for the tall, steely-eyed elf who gazed down at them with soot-stained 
hands and a smith’s apron faded from use. He woke feeling as though his soul had been 
plunged back into the wrong body, and spent the next hour staring around at the still 
room through the dark, trying to remember who he was supposed to be, where he was. 
His father was lying beside him now, still asleep, head buried in his arms, a veil of dark 
hair masking what little there would have been to see of his face. Already awake and 
eager to explore, the little black kitten was busying itself with investigating the hearth, 
pawing at the glowing embers of the fire and then pouncing happily after the spiders that 
scuttled away from the ashes. He started when Melkor stirred, then blinked when he 
found himself abruptly under the lazy scrutiny of a pair of twinkling black eyes.

‘Bad dreams, *pen-neth?*’

Erestor paused, and shook his head. After a second, he explained.

‘Write it down,’ Melkor suggested. ‘Your mother did teach your letters, yes?’

Erestor nodded. His mother had been very particular about that…he had learned to write 
in the dust on the floor of the dungeons. Such odd behaviour had mystified the orcs, so, 
practical as he was, the little boy had happily taught them too. From them, he had been 
gruffly shown the rudiments of pick pocketing in return. It had amused his mother that 
they had then proceeded to be surprised when all their keys went missing.

‘Good,’ the dark elf murmured, turning his head back down to go to sleep again.

Erestor gave him an anxious poke. ‘But what were the silver jewels? Who’s the elf with 
the apron?’


‘The jewels were the Silmarils. Very powerful; very worth stealing, if you ever get the 
chance. The elf was Feanor, who made them. Apparently everyone thinks he’s dead, 
although he’s not.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He lives here.’

Erestor frowned. ‘Inna dungeons?’

‘No, just a couple of floors down from here. He’s a smith. You can go and see him if 
you’d like, I’m sure he would find you most agreeable. Just…’ Melkor collapsed back 
into the pillow, face down, ‘follow the sound of the incessant hammering.’

‘I go now?’ the little boy asked eagerly.

‘Mm, he will have risen hours ago. Don’t get lost, pen-neth.’

‘Won’t. Promise.’

‘If you’re not back by breakfast time, I’ll come and fetch you, yes?’

Erestor beamed.

Melkor smiled slightly and shooed him off. The little boy darted away, black curls 
bobbing.


	Erestor paused, peeping around the doorway into the sweltering workshop for a 
moment before trotting inside and giving the tall smith’s apron string a hopeful tug. The 
fair elf looked round, frowned, then down. He had a hammer in one hand and a pair of 
tongs in the other, a cherry red tang clasped between the pincers.

‘Who the blazes are you?’

Erestor blinked up at him.

‘Ah,’ the smith muttered. ‘Melkor’s brat.’

‘I not a brat, I an Erestor,’ the little boy corrected him patiently, standing on tiptoe to peer 
curiously over the edge of the forge.

The blacksmith smiled slightly.

‘What you making?’

‘A sword.’

‘Can I see?’

Carefully, Feanor lowered the glowing metal onto the anvil beside him, and couldn’t help 
but grin when the tiny boy immediately ducked under his arm for a closer look.

‘Why’s it red?’ Erestor asked.

‘It goes red when it’s hot.’

‘Oh…’

Feanor’s rough demeanour melted in the face of the child’s fascination. ‘Look, when 
metal is hot enough, you can change its shape…’ the tall elf leaned down, working 
around Erestor to gently tap the metal bar flat, ‘you see?’

He nodded solemnly.

‘Do you want to try?’

The little boy’s beaming smile would have been enough to soften granite. Wondering 
amusedly whether he was about to acquire an apprentice, the blacksmith guided Erestor’s 
hands to the hammer and tongs and set about showing him how to beat the metal.


	‘Your lad would make a good swordsmith, one day.’
A few seconds before, Erestor had happily let himself be shooed away in the direction of 
the hallway, where he was to wait for his father while the dark elf spoke to Feanor. He 
had been working for hours with the smith, and he was tired, but whether through 
naturally excellent hearing or a slightly more conniving habit of eavesdropping, the boy 
found himself listening to the conversation on the other side of the closed workshop door.

‘You would be willing to teach him, then?’

‘Yes. I won’t hold bloodlines against an innocent child.’

‘Sometimes I think you would do well to remember that I can bleed too, Feanor.’

‘I remember,’ the blacksmith assured him quietly.

Melkor nodded slightly, then turned to go. Erestor skipped neatly back from the door and 
attached himself to his father’s arm in passing. Melkor looked down. ‘I sense you want 
something?’

Nod nod.

‘Attention, perhaps?’

Erestor grinned.


	The following years passed happily. Every now and then, perhaps once a season, 
Erestor saw things in his sleep beyond his understanding and dutifully wrote them down 
for his father, who always seemed to read them with an unreasonably intent interest for 
something that Erestor was sure was just an odd dream. It wasn’t at all unusual for 
Melkor to disappear for a few days after reading the newest account, and quite often he 
came back again with a renewed glow of energy. Erestor asked once about where he 
went, got no real reply and then gave up on the matter out of sheer disinterest. In the 
mean time, he apprenticed Feanor for nearly ninety years before quite abruptly, the tall 
smith proudly declared that the pupil had somewhat outstripped the master. Able now to 
make the best of weapons, it then seemed logical to learn how to use them. The quickest 
way of doing so was to join one of the orc warbands, which the dark elf did quite 
contently. The orcs were rough and gave no quarter, but in an odd way he enjoyed it; 
despite his slender frame, he was uncannily strong after nine decades spent hammering 
out steel, so while the squat creatures presented a good challenge, he never had reason to 
fear a truly cruel defeat. The newly bred Uruk Hai were a different matter. After sparring 
with the towering soldiers, Erestor usually had an interestingly spectacular array of 
bruises to show for his trouble. None of them ever stopped him cheerfully going back the 
next day to try again.

	Erestor had set out to master a sword, and master it he did. He moved on from the 
orcs to the Uruk Hai, and, once even they finally found themselves unable to lay so much 
as a finger on him, then to his father. Melkor was as fast as a snake and a dozen times 
more vicious when he held a blade in his hand, and he taught Erestor far more than any of 
the others had done. He had taught him how to lose. Extravagantly. When he entered the 
merciless elf’s tutelage, Erestor found himself almost constantly nursing slashes and 
bruises and occasionally even broken bones as a result of their matches, but upon 
recovery, he unfailingly fought all the faster. Once they had exhausted every possible use 
for a sword (including some quite creative ones), Melkor had him fight with knives, 
daggers, staves, and then with absolutely nothing. And finally with magic. Over the 
years, the gift had slowly, slowly made itself known in Erestor. It wasn’t powerful, but 
the moment Melkor noticed its presence, he made it his personal business to make it 
stronger. He showed Erestor how to cast illusions, simple ones at first, how to light fires 
without so much as touching the wood, how to extinguish them in the same way. All the 
while, the visions kept coming, and Melkor read Erestor’s accounts of them with 
increasing fascination.

	Even so, the dark elf’s magic was limited, and for himself, he had little interest in 
furthering its power. He didn’t see much point in making pretty sparkles in the air or 
lighting a fire with a snap of his fingers when it only took a few seconds longer to use a 
tinderbox. It wasn’t brilliant for using in a fight, either; to his way of thinking, it didn’t 
make any difference how one went about beating an opponent so long as they were 
beaten, and he far preferred honest steel over serpentine, tricky castings. More than one 
slightly irritable argument was had with his father over this particular opinion.

‘Why forever the sword, Erestor? Good grief, anyone would think you didn’t know what 
a curse was.’

‘I like swords,’ the younger elf shrugged, then stood back to let his Uruk Hai opponent 
rise shakily to its feet. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t very well call myself fantastic at curses, could 
I? Last time I tried I seem to remember we had to rebuild a wall.’

‘Practise makes perfect.’

‘I don’t *want* to be perfect at curses, Ada! I don’t have the imagination for it. If 
someone showed you a corpse turned inside out, you’d immediately set about trying to 
find a way of turning it back again. I’d make funeral arrangements.’

Melkor smiled slightly. ‘I think I would class that more as an example of how 
fundamentally good natured you are rather than your lack of imagination. But I am 
serious, you know. Sorcery is true power, not a false strength lent by forged steel. Master 
it, and you have the potential to master the world.’

‘I’m quite content with my own chamber, thank you.’

‘Add healthy ambition to the list of things you completely lack, Erestor.’

The faintly waspish comment, designed to provoke, only made the dark elf laugh. ‘What 
use have I for ambition? I was born in the dungeons and now I have everything I ever 
dreamed of. I don’t want the world. Anyway, it would be silly to want the world. Where 
would you put it?’

Melkor sighed. 

Erestor suddenly became serious. ‘Ada, even if I wanted to master sorcery, I have no 
means of doing it. My magic isn’t even a fraction of what yours is, it’s weak at the best of 
times and utterly non-existent at the worst. The only constant thing I have is visions, and 
even then, those seem to come at random intervals. If I had it naturally, perhaps I would 
want to improve. But I don’t. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t get anywhere with it, so I thought 
it would be best if I spared myself the bother of it. I’m good with a sword. Is that not 
enough?’

Not for my purposes, Melkor thought silently. Aloud, he murmured, ‘It is more than 
enough, *pen-ithil*. More than enough.’


	It was on a cold, frosty morning several years later that Melkor discovered an 
interesting quality to Erestor’s unreliable magic.


	He was standing on the surface with his son, watching the sun rise. It was 
something they had done less and less over the past few years. There had been other 
things to do, to see to, to organise. Sauron seemed to have set up his own racket off in the 
east, and Melkor had busied himself setting up an admirably large network of spies in 
order to monitor the fledgling Dark Lord’s movements. For an old servant, he was doing 
quite well, although Melkor was carefully refraining from any offer of alliance; the 
Deceiver’s empire looked fairly rickety from where he was standing. Oh, the rings had 
been an artful touch, but in comparison to the potential Melkor himself had created, they 
were little more than childish parlour tricks. He tilted his eyes sideways, away from the 
rising sun and to Erestor instead. The appealing child had turned into a beautiful, 
wraithlike young swordsman, ghostlike in the frost. His inky fall of black curls had been 
left loose today, pushed impatiently back from his face in a less than tidy half-tail, 
tumbling all the way to his belt, shining almost blue as the stark winter sunlight reflected 
in the tight coils.

‘No braids for you, I see,’ Melkor commented fondly, reaching to push a few stray snarls 
back from the young elf’s face.

Erestor smiled. ‘Too time-consuming. Anyway, there’s hardly any need.’

‘No need, but one day, you’ll meet a nice lady, then we’ll see about no need…’

‘You seem to have done without.’

‘I’m not like you, Erestor.’

‘That was your cue to ask me how I came to be wandering about the place,’ the younger 
elf said softly.

‘Fleeting interest is how you came to be, and you know it.’

Erestor tilted his eyes down, and without another glance at the dawn, began walking 
away. Melkor spun impatiently on his heel. ‘Erestor, I can either lie, or I can do you the 
dignity of being honest with you. What would you rather I do?’

‘Lie, Ada. I’d far rather you lie.’

‘Then you aren’t nearly as clever as I thought you were.’

Erestor whipped suddenly around again, fire flaring deep in his black eyes. ‘Clever? This 
has nothing to do with being clever. You didn’t even like my mother, let alone love her, 
so what evidence do I have now to say that you don’t see me in the same way? What am I 
to you? A son? Or an animal, to be trained? Don’t answer. I’d rather not know. Because 
I’m inclined to say that if you told the truth, you’d say the latter. Childish as that is, I 
don’t want to hear it. So for the sake of grace, keep it to yourself.’

Melkor barely heard what Erestor said. He was too distracted by the dark fire that played 
unnoticed around the younger elf’s gloved hands. After standing for a few seconds under 
a long, angry stare, he finally tore his gaze away and lifted it to meet Erestor’s eyes. ‘A 
son, Erestor. *My* son. Don’t doubt it for a second.’

The fire instantly died. Interesting.

‘Truly?’ Erestor asked softly.

‘You might want me to lie to you, *pen-neth*, but I make a point of not doing so.’

After a long hesitation, the younger elf took Melkor’s outstretched hand and let himself 
be pulled into a gentle embrace. He was shaking. Melkor sighed softly and kissed his 
forehead, stroking back his dark curls to reveal the trusting obsidian gaze shining 
underneath. ‘Now it’s been established that you are in fact a beautiful young character 
bound to break somebody’s heart one day, not, as has been rather oddly suggested, an 
animal, I think we probably ought to go back inside and celebrate with breakfast.’

Erestor smiled a little and nodded.

Melkor let him go again, senses soaring. This was it: the answer had just presented itself 
to him on a silver platter after all these years. Anger. Anger was the catalyst…anger was 
the key that would unlock sorcery the likes of which the world had never seen.



	Erestor had never before had cause to be confused out of his mind, but the next 
day, this state of affairs abruptly changed. Melkor, who usually happily ignored the 
passage of time like anybody else would ignore a passing gnat, suddenly and completely 
without warning began acting for all the world as though every single available second in 
the day was precious. All the things that would normally have filled his time were 
suddenly done and discarded within fifteen minutes flat. Instead, he locked himself in his 
study for hours on end and didn’t reappear until hunger drove him out, behaviour which, 
when coupled with lengthy daily trips down to the dungeons in the sole company of a 
quill and a writing journal, even Feanor admitted was more than a little puzzling.

	Several weeks passed in this peculiar fashion. Sitting by the grate in the dining 
hall one evening, Erestor watched with mild bewilderment as a servant ran sobbing 
across the whole length of the floor from the direction of Melkor’s study, completely 
ignoring all the potentially fatal hazards of orcs and Uruks along the way. The dark cat in 
his lap blinked in agreed consternation. A few minutes later another servant came 
through, looking extremely annoyed. The next looked absolutely furious, and the one 
following her was so full of wrath that upon being idly attacked by an orc bearing a 
scimitar, the young man took no notice other than to kick the sturdy creature a clear five 
yards across the flagstones before stalking off again. Erestor raised an eyebrow. Not 
unaware of the novelty of the situation, he went to see if the orc was all right.

	He didn’t notice the four Uruk Hai making their stealthy way toward him until it 
was too late. So used to their presence in the castle, he didn’t even look up until they 
grabbed his hands and slammed the barbed manacles onto his wrists. The cat at his heels 
hissed and shot away. Erestor had no time to do anything but gasp before the world went 
black.

	The dark elf jolted awake and sat bolt upright. The cell was dim, lit by the glow of 
a forge in one corner, although considering the horrible ache blossoming at the nape of 
his neck, he really would have preferred no light at all. He gazed uneasily around. It was 
cold and bare, but, to be fair, nicely spacious, which lots of other rotting corpses to keep 
him company. The manacles had been locked into a hook in the wall, restricting his 
movement to perhaps half yard in each direction. He tugged at it experimentally. It didn’t 
give. Well. A nice mess this was.

	There was only one possibly explanation for this and he knew it even before he 
sat down and forced himself to think. Ideas of rebellious guards were out of the question; 
nothing happened in the Iron Hills without Melkor’s knowledge. Which meant that for 
some sadistic reason or other, his father had ordered the chains and the cell and the 
splitting headache. If it hadn’t been for the latter, Erestor might perhaps have been 
capable of giving him the benefit of the doubt, but as things were, the idea marked 
‘forgiveness’ was being rapidly replaced with the growing desire to kick something. 
Preferably an extremely breakable something.

	Any frail hope that Melkor didn’t know what was going on quickly dissipated as 
the hours dragged on. Erestor shifted restlessly. The chains were new, so there was no 
hope of breaking them, but even there had been, he had nothing handy that even faintly 
resembled a file…and he would be damned before he sunk to using his teeth against steel. 
Leaning grudgingly back against a wall that couldn’t have truthfully been called 
sparklingly clean last millennium let alone now, he gazed around the dungeon for what 
felt like the thousandth time. There were four corpses, three of which were disturbingly 
fresh. The fourth had been reduced to little more than a mouldering skeleton. In the 
corners, a few spiders had set up camp, although it seemed a bit too much like wishful 
thinking to hope that any flies could work their way down here. A rat took a fleeting 
interest in his hand before he flicked its tail, whereupon it wisely decided that it was 
probably best to steer clear of snacks that moved. Aware that it was probably going to 
take the orcs a while to think of something suitably horrible to do to him, he stretched out 
on the floor and set about the lengthy task of carving his name into the wall.

	He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have done…otherwise he 
wouldn’t have been woken by searing pain as a white hot brand was plunged hissing onto 
the back of his neck. He heard himself scream as though he was listening from a different 
room. Then someone began to laugh. It took a moment to realize that it was him. The 
agony pulsed through him like a storm tide, but suddenly, it was of absolutely no 
consequence, and he dragged himself to his feet with all the dexterity of a corpse to face 
the snarling orc before him. The chains rattled as his hand clamped around the dark 
creature’s wrist to make him drop the glowing brand. It hit the stone floor with a clang. 
The orc grunted in pain, but had the sense to aim a punch at his assailant with his free 
hand. Erestor caught that wrist too. Without waiting for the orc to work out that his knees 
were still free, the dark elf smashed his forehead against the guard’s skull and watched 
with cold indifference as the orc collapsed lifelessly to the ground beside the brand. 
Another four appeared in the doorway. The curse seemed to whisper itself. They died in a 
merciless inferno of white flame. Deep in the shadows, safely out of range in the corridor 
outside and out of Erestor’s sight line, a pair of black irises sparkled with the faintest of 
smiles.

	Erestor had no sense of the time so far underground, but he guessed he must have 
been in the dungeon for two or three days when the fourth and final raiding party paid 
him a visit. He was sitting with his back against the wall, using a rag torn from his own 
sleeve to bind the three broken fingers on his left hand. Pain had become a lasting state, 
and through dint of being constantly furious, he was almost able to numb it, sustained by 
a slowly rising, festering hate of the formerly patient father who had for some 
unknowable reason taken it upon himself to make Erestor’s life a living hell. As well as 
his own thoughts, he was distracted by the almost perpetual flicker of the visions on the 
peripherals of his sight, flowing, whispering images that he had to actively ignore in 
order to keep from losing his mind to them entirely. He saw death and destruction now 
rather than mysterious scenes of ancient events long past, saw Men and Elves screaming 
and dying together in their droves against the unstoppable black iron hand of the figure 
that spoke his father’s tongue and conquered with steel and sorcery combined. He 
watched the Dwarves flee to the depths of mountain mines, the Elves disappear 
untraceably into their forests, the Men shrink back into their stone fortresses far from the 
enemy borders. Wondered whether Melkor had a hand in the pillaging. Probably not. 
More likely the first Dark Lord was watching from afar, enjoying the show. Erestor shot 
a bitter glance at the barred cell door, but as usual, he had no evidence at all that his 
father was watching him. Instead, the steel portal suddenly slammed back against the 
wall as three Uruk Hai guards stalked through. More than ready this time, the dark elf 
swayed to his feet.

	Melkor heard the door slam and tilted his eyes up. Erestor stood silently in front 
of him, waiting. The manacles were still clamped firmly to his wrists, but the chains had 
been snapped. Even after only four days, his clothes were unrecognisable, bloodied, 
threadbare rags ripped and torn from the beatings. His hands were so grazed that there 
was barely any skin left at all across his knuckles, the chiselled contours of his face 
marked by cuts and dust, black eyes hollow.

‘Why?’ Erestor asked softly.

Melkor stood slowly, answering as he moved across to retrieve a slender brandy bottle 
from the hearth. ‘There is no why, Erestor. Via some unfathomable means, you managed 
to offend four Uruk Hai, and you didn’t see them coming. You should have. Instead, you 
were slow, and so you suffered the consequences. This had nothing to do with me.’

‘You could have stopped it.’

‘Why would I?’ the taller elf asked mildly. ‘It’s good to learn exactly why not to be slow. 
Another lesson, *pen-neth*, that is all. You’re alive, aren’t you?’

‘Barely.’

‘Alive enough to break your chains and kill three Uruk Hai on your way out of the cells, 
yes. Brandy?’

Erestor’s only reply was to leave.


	He tried to sleep, but he couldn’t…awful visions haunted the dark, and, starved of 
rest for four days now and unable to find it again even free of the chains, Erestor could do 
nothing more than lie motionless and stare up at the ceiling while hot tears leaked 
through his lashes. A soft purr announced the arrival of his cat. She padded across the 
linen sheet and curled up on his chest, tail swishing idly from side to side as she toyed 
with the lacing on his shirt. Erestor smiled thinly, reaching up to tease her claws from the 
cotton. The cat, however, was having none of it, and only entangled herself further before 
going stubbornly to sleep.

	‘Erestor.’

The dark elf ground his teeth, sorely tempted to throw something.

Melkor slipped inside anyway. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Mm.’

‘Visions.’

‘Yes.’

‘Of what?’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Of what, Erestor?’

‘Grass and daisies,’ Erestor snapped.

‘It’s important,’ Melkor told him quietly.

‘I couldn’t care less if what I see determines the eventual fate of the heavens! You left me 
to rot. Hardly a fair trade for information.’

‘Yes, I did. And I would have left you longer. I would have left you there until the last 
possible instant, Erestor, because at least that way, you would never let yourself be 
dragged into such a situation again. Whatever you may say, this has done you no harm 
but for a few superficial scars. Now tell me what you’ve seen.’

Erestor sat up slowly, eyes smouldering. ‘Oh? And what will you do if I don’t? Hurl me 
in the cells? Again?’

‘As of yet, I am unable to fathom why the actions of five guards have been attributed to 
me; I have never made a habit of tossing you into the dungeons at the slightest 
provocation, and I have no plans to.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Ada, I’m not as dim as you think I am. Three weeks you’ve been 
experimenting. Provoking the servants, taking notes in the cells, I sat here and watched 
you do it! You made them as angry as you could. And now you’re doing the same to me. 
Seems you’ve succeeded. I am angry. I’ve spent the last four days imagining ways I 
could kill you given half the chance. I hope that’s what you wanted.’

‘You have more than half a chance now,’ Melkor pointed out softly. ‘There’s a dagger on 
the floor.’

‘I can’t,’ Erestor whispered. Almost sadly, his dark eyes tilted away. ‘The opposite of 
love isn’t hate, it’s indifference. Maybe one day, when I stop hating you and wake up one 
morning to find I don’t care any more, I will.’

Melkor studied him silently for a long time. Finally, he sighed. ‘Then it seems to me as 
though I am doomed to do everything in my power to stop that from happening.’

‘Let me leave, Ada. I won’t come back…you can get yourself a new son and take the 
precaution of not allowing him the freedom to think.’

‘I love you, Erestor.’

When he looked up again, the candlelight shone softly in the tears starring Erestor‘s 
lashes. ‘That’s the trouble. You don’t love anyone.’



	Melkor was better than his word. He did everything and beyond his power to keep 
Erestor suspended in a state of near-constant rage. The servants who the younger elf had 
been known to favour suddenly disappeared; he saw Feanor twice with the marks of a 
whip across his face before the blacksmith vanished entirely one winter morning, never to 
be seen again but for a few drops of blood in the crisp winter snow. Erestor’s hate burned 
with all the searing force of the sun, and he stormed the cells again and again, 
slaughtering the guards as he went. Yet no matter how many grateful prisoners he 
watched fade into the sunset on the frost-bitten surface, the desire for revenge was never 
assuaged. In the memory of his dead tutor, he threw himself into truly mastering the 
forge, beating out blades that sang when they struck metal, low, vengeful notes that 
whispered with the power of the magic used to make them. And magic had made them. 
Sorcery soared in the dark elf’s veins in an even greater abundance than his anger, so 
strong that soon, a perpetual black fire flickered behind his eyes. Silent now, Melkor 
responded only by locking him in the cells. But pain only seemed to accentuate the steel-
strong progress of the magic, and despite the scars and broken bones, Erestor unfailingly 
exploded through the dungeons within the month like a phoenix from the flames, 
destruction following in his wake. In that hundred years alone, Melkor saw curses more 
imaginative and complicated than he had seen in the whole of his long life. He watched 
with fascination, black eyes alight as he watched the magic become stronger and bloodier 
with every passing day.

	Then, one stormy morning, the night watch did not return from their duty on the 
surface. When the next shift came out of the labyrinth to see what was the matter, only 
forty shattered corpses remained. The castle gates burned. Erestor was gone.

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

	The clash of steel on mithril was deafening. Blades forged in the black fires of 
sorcery sang viciously out into the night, faster than anything Haldir could ever have 
imagined, daggers flashing alternately in peaceful moonlight and raging flames as their 
surroundings flickered and changed again and again. Melkor moved like a snake, his 
black hair whipping out behind him as he wove and spun with sinuous, serpentine 
grace…but Erestor received and turned every blow with frightening ease. Even though he 
had only watched them for a few seconds, Haldir instantly recognized all the classic 
ingredients of a dead stalemate. They were perfectly matched.

	Apparently the two dark elves had noticed this too, because almost in the same 
split second as each other, they sent their blades flying as they resorted to fire instead. 
Poisonous green flames erupted into the sky. On the edges of his vision, Haldir could just 
make out the forms of the two armies, still locked together, but whenever he tried to 
focus on them, their silhouettes disappeared, replaced either by Melkor’s visions of a fire-
charred plain or Erestor’s still fields of long grass and twilight. The magic was so thick in 
the air that he could taste it- a sharp, metallic tang that set his teeth on edge and sang in 
his blood, calling to something timeless and ancient inside with a soaring power that 
made the storm overhead seem as insignificant as dust. He began to see it then…silver 
sparks flowing and swirling through the air and the across the ground, whispering in 
eddies and whirlpools around everything it touched. Awed, he held his hand out to the 
nearest stream. The shining particles flared softly golden as they drifted across his skin. 
The wounds across his knuckles healed with gentle flashes of amber light. He looked up. 
The magic had its epicentre inbetween Erestor and Melkor, exploding into existence 
where their curses collided, like the breathtaking nova of dying star. The force of it 
created a vicious wind that whipped at their hair and battled with the unseen power 
holding them both suspended off the burning ground. As Haldir watched, a quiet smile 
turned the corners of Melkor’s pale lips, as though he suddenly saw an exploitable crack 
in Erestor’s defences that hadn’t been there before. Not understanding, the Lorien elf 
glanced toward Erestor, and choked in horror. The dark elf was looking straight at him. 
The silver in his eyes was fading.

‘No!’ Haldir shouted at him across the shrieking of the gale. ‘Erestor, don’t-’

But it was already too late. Melkor’s next curse hurled Erestor backwards. The dark elf 
was thrown twenty feet back through the air to land like a broken doll on the charred 
ground. He didn’t stir. Still unreachable, floating weightless off the ground, Melkor 
laughed. His voice had changed. Suddenly it wasn’t only a single note but a chord, 
thrumming with power, the voice of a dark god surfacing after lying aeons dormant. 
Black wings unfurled from his back, wide and graceful. With an awful laziness, he wove 
a languid pattern in the air with his hands, twining coils of shimmering magic together 
until the tendrils snaked out and curled around Erestor’s prone form, dragging the fallen 
elf back up again. When Erestor opened his eyes, they were far from the fiery sparks of 
silver that they had been a few moments now. Now, they were dull black, unfocused. 
Haldir stared helplessly as Melkor drew him in and took his hands.

‘Will you sing for me, *pen-ithil*?’

Erestor bowed his head.

Melkor smiled, and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘My silver prince.’

	Streams of magic glittered in spinning spirals around them as the first soft words 
echoed out across the suddenly deserted plain. Haldir rose slowly to his feet, gazing 
upward, enthralled. Their voices melded perfectly, harmony and melody together, and as 
they did, Haldir heard the music of the skies pause to listen. It was a sound he had never 
been aware of before…the pulse of the earth, the whisper of the rain, the song of the 
storms. And yet then, it stopped. The silence was filled with the new harmony. And the 
world changed.

	Where before there had been a few ivy-bound ruins on the hill behind them, a 
towering fortress shimmered into existence. The stars vanished, replaced by a spectacular 
coil of black storm clouds. All around them, sorcery flashed and hissed, showing image 
after flickering image wrought in sparkling light in the cold night air; the annihilation of 
the cities of Men, white marble tumbling, mountains moving, shifting, crushing the 
remnants of the hewn stone deep into the waiting ground. From the depths of Moria and 
Caradhas, an army of shadows poured to the surface. Lothlorien burned. Haldir saw a 
harbour he knew only from his dreams, a beautiful bay cradling hundreds of graceful 
ships, suddenly hit by a screaming tidal storm. The sea rose and crashed across the port, 
destroying everything in its path. Nothing was left in its wake but ruins and the drowned. 
All around him, the ground burned, consumed by hungry silver flames that danced and 
writhed as they coiled around the warriors of Gondor. The Men fell where they stood as 
though hit by wind of a mighty explosion. The Eldar turned and looked up, black eyes 
shining with a new life.

	Through it all, Haldir felt his own strength returning too. For the first time in a 
century, he could take a deep breath. Golden light whispered beneath his skin. His sight 
sharpened. The broken bones in his hands and chest snapped together again, healed in 
seconds, the energy returning in a surge to his limbs as his frame regained its former 
power. Mystified, he turned his gaze upward again…to see that Erestor had one hand 
held out to him. The stream of golden sparks was coming from his fingertips, travelling 
along their faded bond, healing, strengthening. Melkor didn’t seem to care. He even 
followed the direction of the stream with his eyes and gave Haldir an indulgent smile. 
Something shone on the burning ground. Haldir’s gaze snapped down, and in an instant, 
realized what Erestor wanted him to do.

	He snatched the mithril dagger from where it lay in charred grass and hurled it 
into the sky. Despite his years of confinement, he hadn’t forgotten his aim, or his skill 
with a blade, and the knife soared in a hissing arc through the air, singing softly as it 
went. The achingly pure note was abruptly cut off as the blade thudded hard into 
Melkor’s back.

	Almost gently, the dark world faded and gave way to bright morning light. The 
sun burst over the horizon, casting fantastic golden rays across the plain. The two armies 
came back into view, but they had stopped fighting…something was happening to the 
Eldar. Magic of shimmering amber whispered through their ranks. Black hair became fair 
again. Ghostly skin turned gold, and the dead, dark eyes suddenly sparkled sapphire with 
new life. The Men began to rise again from where they had fallen a few moments before, 
waking to find themselves not hemmed in by vicious enemy troops but surrounded by 
beautiful, laughing elves. Behind them, the towering fortress shimmered, changing until 
black granite was replaced with shining white marble, looming doorways and slit 
windows becoming high arches and airy balconies. Haldir gazed upward, following the 
streams of magic until they reached their source over Erestor’s heart. The dark elf was 
falling, slowly, gently, Melkor’s still form in his arms as he touched weightlessly back to 
the ground. Very carefully, Erestor set his father down in the grass and stepped back. His 
magic finally faded, but just beside Melkor, a few source of silver light was whispering 
into existence.

	The light swirled and twisted until it finally formed the shape of a new figure. 
Pale skin shone almost silver in the light of the dawn. Tall and slender, the elf had white 
hair and green eyes, dressed in beautiful grey robes, a simple, silver band looping across 
his brow. The authority he exuded with nearly palpable. As he appeared, the sunlight 
became brighter, the grass all the greener, the gentle wind stronger, as though the earth 
itself knelt to honour the silver god standing so still on the hillside. For all his majesty 
though, his resemblance to Erestor was incredible. Wordlessly, the elf knelt and lifted his 
fallen son with him. He aimed a gentle smile at Erestor. Then, with the faintest sparkling 
of starlight, Iluvatar faded once more into the morning air.

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

	Haldir woke with the dawn. He opened one eye and frowned slightly, aware that 
the chamber was faintly familiar but that he had absolutely no recollection of how he had 
come to be there. It was airy and bright, with a beautiful bay window that let a gentle 
rectangle of light fall softly across the marble floor. A bookcase filled with grandly 
bound old tomes stood in one corner beside a neat desk, while in the hearth, the embers 
of last night’s fire still glowed invitingly among the ashes. Mahogany rafters criss-
crossed the pointed ceiling. Raising himself up on elbow, he narrowed his eyes against 
the strengthening light to see out the window, and found himself gazing out at the 
sprawling white towers of Minas Tirith. He let himself fall back down again. He 
remembered now. The ride from the Iron Hills had been long and wet with the storms of 
the oncoming autumn, but Gondor’s army, along with Melkor’s newly restored Eldar, 
had arrived at the city gates late yesterday evening. Rather than rush all of the White 
City’s innkeepers off their feet with the veritable flood of newcomers, Arwen had thrown 
open the doors of the palace itself, which had made her temporarily none too popular 
with the butlers. This, Haldir remembered hazily, was the tower room in the east wing. 
He turned over onto his side and smiled. Erestor was still asleep, his dark curls an inky 
spill of black silk across the cotton pillow, pale skin lent a golden hue by the dawn. Black 
eyes fluttered sleepily open, but they slipped closed again under Haldir’s tentative kiss. 
Very gently, he reached up and stroked a stray strand of pale hair back from the fair elf’s 
face.

‘Morning,’ he murmured.

‘It’s only twilight, I promise.’

Erestor shifted lazily beneath him and smiled. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Haldir smiled ruefully, leaning back to let him up. ‘Go and watch the dawn.’

But instead of rising, the dark elf took his shoulders and eased him back down, locking 
his knees gently around Haldir’s hips to keep him there, twining careful fingers through 
the Lorien elf’s silvery hair as their lips touched once more. ‘Not today,’ he whispered. 
‘The sun can wait til tomorrow.’ He kissed Haldir again and then fell back against the 
pillows with a sparkling smile. ‘I can’t.’