His feet flew noiselessly over the stony ground, part of the night. His tangled dark hair fluttered behind him in the cold wind like the dirty wings of a raven. His gray eyes focused on the dark horizon, never ceasing, ever onward.

He stumbled over a loose stone and fell; with bleeding knees he rose and ran again, fear striking his heart, despair and the weak tremble of hope welling in his soul, never looking back, hardly daring to go on.

He staggered to a halt and collapsed against the twisted dried-out trunk of a dead tree, his ragged breath shooting in and out. The wind howled like a dying wolf, whipping his tattered loincloth, his only clothing, about his thin legs. With a small choked sob he fell to his knees and curled up against the tree, wrapping his arms about his gaunt body against the black cold of midnight in the north.

How long had it been?

"Fourteen years," he whispered. He shuddered, and only half knew the reason why. Only seven nights of freedom – one mishap and it was all over. The snapped chain ends of the shackles on his ankles clanked as he shifted position and pressed the handless stump of his left wrist into the curve of his body. Another howl, not of the wind. Werewolves roamed near. He knew they were hunting for him.

Exhaustion claimed him; his fear and long flight drained his already weakened body. He fell into a nervous, restless sleep, and he dreamed.

"Where are you going?"

The soft voice stilled the thoughts in his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned to the princess. Her curling golden hair spilled over her shoulders like a sunlit waterfall. Her eyes looked troubled.

He put down the breastplate he had made to put on. Twining his arms about her, he breathed in the sweet scent of her hair for a moment. "There is a war in the north. We must all go to fight and pray to Eru that victory is ours."

"But why must you go?" She pulled away from him slightly so she could look into his eyes. She stroked the braids in his hair, dark as a moonless night, shining like starlight on falling water, and curling at the ends. "So many are going. My father should have it otherwise, as would I, but can no one dissuade you? You – we were to be wed this month..."

"I must avenge my brother." He buried his face in her hair, and his arms drew closer about her. "I will return, dearest. When the war is done, I will wed you beneath the falls of Ivrin."

She drew away from him, her eyes touched by tears. She turned to leave, but instead turned round again and kissed him on the lips. Then she fled from the hall, her footsteps echoing on the glass floor.

He shivered. The pitch of the wind heightened to an agonized wail. It tore through the dead branches and struck him like the whips he knew so well. He sheltered his head with his arms, the muscles of his scarred back quivering. Tears ran down his face, from wounded, remembering eyes.

It was like all the horrors of the dark places of the world had been unleashed. The orc heralds laughed – laughed! – as they struck his brother down, hewed his feet and hands from his body, their howls of mirth mingling with his moans of agony, stamping their feet in his blood. The filthy pitted blade caught the light of the bloody sun, and struck off his head.

He had come to avenge his brother's capture; now, he went on to avenge his brother's death.

With a cry of rage and grief he plunged forward, the hooves of his horse punishing the earth, his tears torn by the wind, his sword brandished high. He slew the orc heralds and leapt over the ground where his brother lay slain. Across the great ruined plains he sped, till he came at last to the dark cliffs and walls that concealed his enemy from him. Striking, slaying, he raged at all the powers of darkness, pounding the fell gates, and his voice echoed through the deep passages and rang in the Enemy's ears, so he trembled on his dark throne.

And there all the might of evil came upon him. One by one his companions fell, slain as his brother was slain, and he cried aloud with his pain as still on he struck, desiring to kill, longing to be killed, till his horse fell beneath him and all the terrors pressed in on him. He fought ever on, but the gates were shut and he was trapped, trapped within the very fortress he had sought to assail. Their filthy arms seized him, knocked his feet out from under him, dragged him down and placed a blade to his throat. The ugly, twisted faces of the orcs surrounded him, grinning and flashing their long fangs.

He raged at them, his eyes filled with a horrible black light, but all power was theirs. He would they would slay him, but such was not his fate. They tore the armor from his body, bound his hands and eyes, and led him as a captive into the dark bowels and pits. He could not see; he feared and longed to. Voices fell upon him, laughing, mocking, scorning, roaring, hissing, crushing. Foul breath burst in his face, deep throaty growling before his bound eyes. They were laughing at him. He could not see his tormentors, but black hate burned behind his eyes and he spat on the unseen's face. There was a bellow of disgust, shrieking laughter, then a blow to his face that sent throbbing lights through his head and weakening shoots of pain through his legs.

"Filthy Elvish scum!" a thick, breathy voice snarled. "'E's not ready for the mines yet! 'E's got a spirit to break!"

Horrible threats and taunts rang out around him; filled the air in a hideous cacophony. He thought he would die with the loathing in his heart.

If only he would.

He lifted his head and cried out in the pain of remembering. The stony wind leaped, howled, ripped through his hair, lashed across the wounds on his back and arms and shoulders. He gripped the bark of the tree, struggled to pull himself upright. He had to go on. Only death awaited in the north. But how could he go on?

He took a few staggering steps, narrowing his eyes against the wind. The darkness reigned eternal in the north, the shadows of night fading to the gloom of brooding black clouds. He would never again see the sunlit lands – not if he did nothing. A few more steps, and he broke once more into a wild run, clawing for freedom like a dying shadow struck by firelight. No. That one word pounded through his mind. No. No. He would not. He would not die.

Three days. Three nights. It was dark. So dark.

He was in the depths of a pit of shadows that reeked and breathed. The shackles about his wrists held his strained arms above his head, the long chain wound about a boulder at the top of the pit. His body, worn out from the outstretched position, trembled for the respite it would not receive. The jagged walls of the pit dug into his bare back, the short ragged ends of his hacked-off hair brushing weakly against the back of his neck.

Werewolves glided about him, panting and seething, saliva dripping from their red mouths, possessed eyes alight with a fell inner fire. They circled him, breathing in his face, baring their yellow fangs before his eyes and flashing their claws, huge and hungry. They had not touched him yet, but who knew when they would at last give in to their wild urges and do what they were bred to do. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the dark sky, and felt the rough fur of a passing wolf brush against his ribs. No help, no hope. Nothing but him and the wolves.

The fortress around and above him echoed to harsh shouts, cracking whips, cruel laughter, grinding stone, tortured screams. He knew he was meant for next.

A low exchange of words, a rattle of chains, and he found himself being dragged out of the pit by the chains shackled to his wrists. The leering orcs flung him on the ground, and trailed the end of a whip over his face, like a serpent's tail. Against his will he shuddered, biting back his revulsion, and they laughed.

"Is 'e ready for the mines?" one snarled.

The one hauled him to a sitting position, thrusting its face into his. "Go on, scum," it hissed. "Let's see 'ow brave you are now."

His eyes trembled, and he hung his head. They had broken him.

"'E's ready as 'e'll ever be," the orc answered, emitting a screeching laugh. The shackles were taken from his hands, but new ones locked over his ankles, connected to each other by a short length of chain. Gripping his arms with their hard hands, they took him to the mines, deep, dark places that stank of death. And there his suffering truly began.

Run. Run. He could no nothing else. Run.

How much farther could he go? Though the night was cold as stone, sweat ran down his face and body. Cruel shouts pounded in his ears, and for one terrible moment he thought himself back in the grip of his tormentors. Letting loose a sound, half a groan and half a scream, he fell again, sprawling on his face, scraping his hands on rough stones. The world blackened for a moment; he fought back. He knew not where he was. The dim outlines of a broken forest, the skeletons of dead trees looming over him, stood out against the sky like crooked wraiths.

Footsteps. Snarling. Anger.

He pressed himself to the trees, cowering in the shadows. Orcs came by, scores of them, grinning with large fanged mouths, driving before them a man whose arms were bound with iron. They cracked whips about his head, but he went on, tall and proud and dark-haired. He was not broken.

As the footsteps died away, and the dark figures vanished, he fell from the shadows against the ground. He knew what they would do to the man, and he took it from his mind. His own pain was nearly too great to bear; he could not bear another's.

A faint touch of light flickered in the eastern horizon. Dawn was drawing near. He knew not why, but he was suddenly afraid of the dawn, as much afraid as he was of the night.

The southern sky shook as the eastern glow spread, and from the still grayness something moved.

Pounding, striking, ringing, crying, falling, smashing, screaming. Sound surrounded him in the darkness. He struck over and over again at the crooked rocks for the iron within, chips of stone flying against his legs and stinging them. The muscles of his arms shook, his knees tightened, sweat soaked his hair and dripped into his eyes. His stiff back burned, throbbing, crusted with dirt and sweat and dried blood. He had never before felt the scourge laid upon his body, and it was like being struck with strands of fire. Each blow took more and more of him away. The beauty and strength faded from his body, making him thin and gray as the stones, an under-wraith, a ghost of the mines. He was a living corpse.

He would die soon.

The lash loosened his knees, and he collapsed, shielding his face with his arms. The cruel whip laid open the skin on his arms, and the next blow cut across his left palm. With a cry he jerked back, gripping his hand, watching the bright blood, the only color in the dismal mines, oozing from the ugly slash. It would not heal, and he could not use his left hand; the dirt that covered everything and everyone crept into the wound. The skin about it grew red and inflamed, hot and swollen, and red streaks shot from his hand up his arm. When the orcs noticed his condition, one of them grabbed his infected wrist in a bone-breaking grip and bared its broken teeth at him. "So you 'aven't been using yer 'and, 'ave you? Then yer won't be missin' it!" It drew its curved sword and took his hand.

The infection died, and he bound his wrist stump with stolen rags, and learned to live with but one hand.

His hair grew long again, but dull and rough. He knew the end would not be far away. And yet he survived.

Another had been in the mines for many years, and knew the secret workings of the thralls, hidden from the eyes of their masters. This other revealed to him ways unknown, hidden tunnels leading from the pits of horror to the free world beyond. He wept for the pain of hope, but was almost too afraid to escape.

Almost.

The chains on his ankles rusted, worn down by grinding stone and exposure. He took the sword of an orc that was too drunk to notice, and broke the chain. He made to break the other's chains, but this one said, "I have labored long years in the darkness. I will not linger much longer on the eastern shores of the world." And the other died.

He broke the other's chains despite all, and fled down the secret passages into the outside. He knew he would be pursued, but he was not daunted.

Not yet.

He started, twitched out of the dark dreams he had fallen into once more. The woods still around him, he pushed back his ragged hair from his eyes as a gray shadow slipped before him. He almost gasped, but somehow knew not to be afraid. Then long slender hands were helping him to sit up, a hood was thrown back, and long silver hair poured out like liquid moonlight, surrounding a face fair and young and set with eyes like blue stars.

"Who are you?" he whispered. He clasped his arms about his thin body.

The silver-haired Elf smiled, a slender bow and falling cloak outlined against the burning sky. "I am Beleg Cúthalion of Doriath. I am a friend. Please – tell me your name."

He looked into the shining, overwhelming blue eyes. "I am but an escaped thrall, but once I was known as Gwindor, son of Guilin."

The Elf remained silent, then drew a dagger and took the broken shackles from his ankles. "You have been touched by Eru, to have survived for so long with such horror. I go to save another from that horror."

"Tall, proud, dark-haired," he whispered. He knew what he must do. "Take me with you."