Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, and all recognizable characters herein do not belong to me. They belong to the Tolkien Estate and their respective owners, and I make no profit from the writing of this.

Warnings: peril, graphic in the violent sort

Time frame: 488 of the Third Age

A/N: This was an answer to the Teitho prompt "Mountains," wherein it tied for third place. I have broken it up into four chapters total, for it was too long to be an appropriate oneshot, and the way in which the story was told was truly in a chapter formatting. If you get too anxious to finish it, however, you can find the story in its entirety on the Teitho site, under the tab "Mountains." Many thanks to Mirnava for beta'ing.

I would love some feedback, even if it's a simple "I liked it." Hearing what you (the readers) think really helps me as a writer, both to know what you like as an audience, as well as how to improve my writing. The next chapter will be uploaded in four days (although you could probably convince me to update sooner...) For anyone waiting for updates on my other WIP, I can assure you that they are coming. Writing this story really murdered me (I wrote something like 8500 words in 24 hours), and I've had a hard time getting back into the flow of writing. I hope that this will be able to tide you over until such a time as I am able to finish my other updates.

Enjoy!

~Chapter 1~

He was lying down. Or was he lying up? He couldn't tell. Which way even was up? Which way was down? Was there even any direction any longer, or had he fallen into a bottomless abyss in which he would fall for an eternity? But if he was falling, that would mean that there was an up and a down, and he could not sense either.

His head hurt. Ai Elbereth, his head hurt. It pounded in time with his heart, a steady throbbing echoing through his skull and down into his spine. Everywhere – he hurt everywhere. When he tried to breathe his chest refused to expand, sharp lances of pain digging into his flesh and into his lungs.

He couldn't move, he realized a moment later. He couldn't even feel his arms and his legs. They were trapped, bound by some invisible thread that, no matter how hard he struggled and strained, he could not seem to break.

It was dark all around him, but somehow not the darkness of the abyss. Rather it was the chill blue light of depth, of darkness. It was the light of a slow death and of distilled fear. He blinked, trying to bring something – anything – into focus, something other than the all-pervasive blue light that suffused the air and covered the walls in dripping light and dark. He couldn't; he couldn't focus, couldn't shake away the blurred veil that clung to his eyes and masked his sight.

At last he gave up his attempts as his head began to ache more acutely, the throbbing slowly morphing into a spike being driven agonizingly through the base of his neck, up through his skull, and then out of his forehead.

He closed his eyes. If all he could do was strain and fight a losing battle against the blue blur, then he would simply not fight. He would deny the pain and the hopelessness its victory. He would rest, just for a moment.

Exhaustion as deep as bone swept over him unexpectedly, very nearly stealing away his breath. He felt as if he was sinking, a thick black cloak smothering him, wrapping him in tangling folds that he could not extricate himself from.

He could only struggle for an instant and then he was relaxing, unable and unwilling to fight the warmth that filled his body. He had not even realized he was cold. A breath of air escaped his lips, and he sank down into the comforting embrace of the darkness…

Careful there, Skinner.

A voice tore through the peaceful silence so violently that Elrond flinched, winced in pain, and opened his eyes. He glanced around, searching for the source of the voice that had torn him so abruptly from the sleep that had promised warmth and comfort.

Now, now Skinner, we can't have any of that, now can we? A chuckle, as deep as the roots of the mountains, and as fey as lightning lancing through the sky; a chuckle, and then two yellow eyes, pupils mere vertical slits that were as dark and endless as the abyss blinking into existence mere inches from Elrond's face. Hello there, Skinner.

If he was in the habit of screaming, Elrond would have done so. As it was, he jerked his head away, only for his skull to smash into something very hard, very cold, and very painful an instant later, sending a new spike of pain through his head. His breath froze in his lungs as his entire body reacted to the fresh onslaught of pain, and for an instant he could see nothing but shadow as he blacked out.

Then the black world was bleeding back to blue and grey and yellow eyes. But now Elrond could see more than just the eyes – he could just make out a blurred shape hovering above him – or perhaps it was crouching above him. And splitting the shadow just beneath the eyes was a wide grin – a grin filled with needle-pointed teeth that fit together like gears on a torturer's wheel.

Good boy, Skinner. The grin widened and the teeth parted, and a chuckle poured from the mouth, rolling and tumbling and trembling, filling the air until it quivered and quaked. Good boy. A clawed hand unfurled from the shadows, the ivory talons that protruded from the being's fingertips gleaming silver in the blue light. It reached down and ran its palm down the side of Elrond's cheek, curved nails digging into his numbed flesh.

Elrond tried to jerk his head away from the feel of his numbed flesh being sliced open, but his body was frozen. He twitched, turning his face away, sending the claws trailing through his hair, the fingertips pulling through the soaked and tangled strands until they hit the hard earth beneath him.

The creature leered at him, the glistening teeth catching the unsettling light as they clicked together. It leaned over him, like a looming wall of shadow that obliterated all light, swallowing it whole into its darkness. The eyes came closer, never-blinking and glowing pale yellow in the darkness. And then a tongue of flame – or was it a serpent with ruby eyes? – flickered out and over the teeth, slithering over the fangs with the faintest hiss.

Elrond fought to keep himself calm, even as he struggled to move his arms, his hands, anything that he could fight with. But still, the invisible threads bound him still, holding him a prisoner as the shadows fell over him, around him, until the very darkness itself was leaning over him, smothering him, until he couldn't even see the blue-grey light of cold that had pervaded the world. He somehow found this worse.

The chuckle came again, rumbling through the air, shaking his very bones until it felt as if the very sound itself was pressing down on him, covering him, boring into his head and heart and very soul and smothering him. He could not breathe, could not even struggle as his head keened and his eyes locked to those pale yellow lights split with black slits. And then his body struggled, shuddering as the need to breathe overwhelmed the pain. He felt his chest expand slightly but the darkness of the beast towering over him pressed down, like a wall of living shadow that lay on him, crushing him. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl, soundlessly defying the shadow in any way he could as his body forced his chest to expand, despite the creeping, numbing pain, despite the acidic sting in mouth and throat. And he forced his lungs to take in air.

And there came that chuckle yet again, that chuckle that shook the air, running through the light like the pounding waterfall that tumbles in a mist to the pool below. Without warning, the dark beast drew back, and like a flood, the blue light returned, flooding into Elrond's senses like a crashing wave. But the wave was more than light, for with the light came a fresh onslaught of terrible agony – agony which Elrond only then realized had begun to abate as the darkness had closed over him.

And there, there came that grin again, and yellow eyes blazed in a sea of sifting shadow. A flick of the serpent – or was it the thing's tongue? – and a hiss. You think that you can fight me? The rumble of words through the air, through the earth, through his very bones. The chuckle rose to a high, keening laugh, and it sounded like a thousand wolves howling in time to a screeching mob of crows, which sang counterpoint to the crying of the winter winds. If he could have, Elrond would have covered his ears to block out the horrific sound – a sound that made him feel as if his eardrums were bleeding. I admire your spirit, Skinner. Hiss and flick – and was that the beast's tongue, or a venomous viper that lay coiled in its mouth? I shall make a deal with you – a game, if you will. The smile widened, and the serpent tongue flickered again.

So long as you stay awake, Skinner, flicker hiss, I shall not eat you. But as soon as you sleep, or fall unconscious – as soon as you succumb to your pain or your fatigue – you are mine. Flicker hiss, and the tongue slithered across the teeth in an anticipatory gesture. Then you will be mine for an eternity.

~oOo~

Cruston, son of Arthon, second captain of the King's Guard, halted and pulled his heavy, fur-lined cloak tighter about his shoulders in a vain attempt to block the bitter wind's plucking fingers. He shivered slightly, and quickly looked over his shoulder, eyes sweeping the bleak white and grey mountain slope beneath him.

His men moved slowly up the mountain behind him, spread out into a long, sweeping line that stretched more than a thousand paces across. They were dark shadows against the pristine white of the thick snow – snow broken only by the occasional finger of stone or icy ridge – and the wind tugged at them, sending their cloaks snapping, and their hair rustling, despite hoods having been drawn down tightly over foreheads.

Cruston heard the gentle tap of paws on snow, and he looked up. A large hound, her shaggy winter coat damp and the fringe of her belly fur glistening with ice crystals, was trotting toward him, nose lifted high in the air, and eyes gleaming intelligently. Behind her came another figure, this one taller and moving over the snow with greater grace than even the dog had managed. Dark hair tossed in the wind, bound only by two simple braids – one on either side of the temple to hold the hair out of the warrior's face – and held by neither hood nor helm. The Elf also wore no cloak, although his tunic and breeches were lined with fur, and his boots were laced tightly up his calves, and gleamed with waterproofing oil.

Cruston bowed his head respectfully as Galchyl approached. The Captain of Imladris returned the gesture, halting a few paces down the slope from the Man, his piercing blue gaze sweeping across the windswept landscape before coming to settle on Cruston's face. The hound sat down at his side, head still lifted proudly, fur rustling in the wind, and ears pricked, listening.

"We have swept the lower slopes thoroughly," Galchyl said, his lyrical voice slicing effortlessly through the grumble of the wind.

"And there is no sign of them?" Cruston asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Nay," Galchyl said simply, answering nevertheless. His gaze flickered up the mountain slope, and he regarded the snowfield with cold calculation. He was as still, and his face as emotionless as a carven statue, but for the wind tugging relentlessly at his raven hair and dark blue tunic.

"They should have made it at least this far," Cruston said, desperate to break the unnerving shroud of silence that had fallen, and fighting to keep the chill from racing up his back at the sight of the Elf standing motionless before him, hound crouched at his side, as if he had been transformed into stone.

Galchyl turned, and regarded Cruston with the same cool intensity as he had the land. "The mountain changes many things, both true and perceived," he told Cruston, "and this mountain more than most. We will find them, for even this mountain knows not to hold our lords captive." He canted his head to one side. "Especially this mountain, I think."

A second chill prickled up Cruston's spine. That was the most that he had ever heard the Captain speak at one time, and the Elf's hauntingly lilting voice gave his already strange words an even more surreal sense.

"We will keep searching," Cruston said gruffly. "They are here," he added savagely.

Galchyl nodded once. "My men and I will go to the Lower Pass, and work our way down towards you," he announced. Cruston nodded in agreement, unwilling to counter the Elf captain's plans.

Galchyl swept around Cruston without another word, only curtly nodding his head by way of a farewell. The hound rose and bounded after him. Galchyl looked over his shoulder once, and made a hand motion that Cruston could not quite make out. Glancing over his own shoulder, however, Cruston caught sight of two dozen Elves, all dressed in similar garb as their Captain's, loping easily across the snow as they ran up the slope to join Galchyl. Three more hounds ran with them, tails streaming out behind their bodies like plumes, paws sending up small spurts of powdery snow.

As the Elves disappeared over the ridge, Cruston turned completely to signal to his own men – a fist lifted to eye-level, then a sweep of his palm in a circle and up toward the crest of the slope, indicating that they were to search unto the ridge, and then halt. Fists were raised in response, acknowledging the command.

Cruston watched for just a moment more, holding his cloak tightly about his shoulders, and stamping his feet in the snowshoes. Then, turning, he began to trudge up the slope once more, eyes scanning back and forth, searching for any sign of hidden tracks, unusual hillocks, or shifting snow – any indication of something buried beneath the snow's surface.

~oOo~

Galchyl watched his men as they came toward him up the slope, unblinking despite the biting wind and the prick of granules of ice and snow that struck his face. The wind tore at his long hair, sending the raven locks spilling around his shoulders in a tangled tumble. The cold dug at his face and neck – the only two parts of his body exposed to the frigid air – and he fought a small shiver.

The first of his men drew near, halting just a few paces down the slope from him to wait for the rest of their companions. Galchyl blinked once, sweeping his gaze over his gathering men, taking in the worry and confusion marking their eyes. Little other emotion showed on their faces, however – they were too well trained.

"We go the Lower Pass," Galchyl informed them, once the last two had joined the silent ranks. "We will begin the search anew there."

Arfaron, one of Galchyl's lieutenants, stepped forward, the hound at his side mirroring his movement. "Sir, if I may," he hesitated, awaiting Galchyl's curt nod, "why do we go to the Low Pass? We lose precious time that could be used for searching, and surely did not make it that far?"

Galchyl took a moment to reply. Cruston had not dared to question him; and truth be told, now that he was challenged, he found had no definitive answer. The wind gusted harder, sending a prickle of a chill down Galchyl's spine, a gesture which did nothing to aid in his thinking. It swirled, agitated and uneasy all about the company, whispering and keening alike, as if in agony.

"The wind," he said suddenly, although no less steadily or more abrupt than ever, meeting Arfaron's gaze, before taking all of his men into his address. "Can you not feel its unease?" The Elves shifted, all now listening to the wind as it keened.

Galchyl turned. "Come," he bade, and began to ascend the slope, feet running lightly overtop the snow in an easy lope, his hound bounding at his side. A single glance over his shoulder showed him that his men were following.

Galchyl led the Elves higher into the mountain, the peak ever looming grey and forbidding above them, the ominous sky thickening darkly. Soon the snowfields gave way to bare, ice-slickened rock that rose above the drowning snowdrifts, heralding the beginning of the cliffs that marked the Heights.

Higher – ever higher the Elves ran, tracing the invisible paths of the mountain as what little light in the sky began to fade, the afternoon waning. The paths cut deep into the cliffs, twisting up the stone walls until often there was little more than a three-pace ledge that separated stone from a deadly drop, a grand view of the lower slopes opening below them. The small, moving figures of Cruston's men were only just visible, like ants scurrying back and forth across a table.

Around one final turn, and then the path opened up onto a wide plateau. Cliffs marched along the far side of the field of white, rising dark with shadow cast by the mountain peak which towered almost directly overhead. Yet off to the left, it appeared that a cleft had been chiseled through cliff wall, the stone that towered overhead forming unclosed arches over the narrow gap, and the walls sheer and hung with icicles and clinging clumps of frozen snow. Grey sky was just visible through the gash, beyond where the ground dropped away. They had come to the Lower Pass.

The plateau itself, however, was what had drawn the Elves' gazes as soon as they had come to the top of the cliff. The normally smooth land, even in the dead of winter, was littered with debris – tree branches and stones, among other things so pulverized that they were indistinguishable – and the snow clumped and uneven.

Galchyl stepped forward, ignoring the shifting of the snow beneath his feet, treading slowly, cautiously, eyes scanning back and forth as he took in the slivers of shadow that jutted above the snow's surface. Looking, searching, his stomach tightened and his heart thudded painfully in his chest. He knew not what he expected to find, nor even what he hoped to find, but he could not shake the feeling that their search was, at long last, coming to an end. His men followed slowly, stretching out into a long line behind him.

A dagger-like branch pierced the snow to Galchyl's right, like the broken rib of a dragon – if a dragon's bone was black, and all hung with icicles. The needles had been stripped from the branch, leaving the skeleton naked. Galchyl passed by it, although his eyes lingered on it for a moment longer.

Galchyl turned back to the front just in time to see his hound bound ahead. Galchyl frowned but let her go, knowing that she would not go far, and hoping that she may be able to find something.

She angled off to the right, and for an instant she slowed, her nose dropping down to the snow beneath her paws. But then she was racing again, snow spurting up from beneath her paws, head lowered, tail streaming out behind her. Galchyl hesitated, watching her as she dropped to a trot, nose once more dipping down to brush the snow as she circled a shaft of wood jutting from a wave of snow – a shaft of wood that, at first glance, Galchyl had thought was but another branch, but as he looked at it again, felt that something was amiss.

Galchyl was already hurrying toward the shaft when his hound lifted her head and raced straight for him. When she reached him, she circled him twice in quick succession, before meeting his eyes, ears pricked forward. And Galchyl knew then for certain that she had found something.

"Show me," he ordered. The hound whirled and dashed back toward the shaft, this time with Galchyl following close behind. She pulled up sharp at the wooden tooth, turning in a tight circle as if she was chasing her tail, whining quietly. Then she began to dig, paws sending snow flying.

"Back, Laechen," Galchyl ordered, stepping forward. "Back." With another whine, the hound obeyed her master, taking a half-step away from the shaft and the small hole she had begun. "Good girl," Galchyl murmured, although he only half-understood what he was saying, for he had bent to get a closer look at the wooden shaft.

The shaft was no tree branch. The wood had been smoothed, then overlaid with barely discernible carvings of twisting vines and flowers. The top of the stave had been shattered, leaving behind a jagged mess of splinters, which Galchyl had initially mistook to be the branch's tip.

Galchyl reached out and hesitantly grasped the stave. The wood was cold and covered in tiny particles of ice, making his grip slippery. Galchyl tensed, and he then gave a mighty heave. Wood cracked, ice grated. And then, with a crunch, the stave came free.

Galchyl ran his hands the full length of the staff, feeling the engravings even through his gloves. He closed his eyes, hands tightening about the wood, battling to keep his emotions in check – emotions which he did not even fully understand. Was it relief? Or was it anger? Fear? Hope? Despair?

"Captain?"

Galchyl turned to see a number of his men gathered behind him. They had seen Laechen give the alert and their captain hurry after her, and had come to see what had been found.

Galchyl held out the staff for the others to see. Arfaron, who was one of the half dozen who had come, took it first. His eyes widened as he examined it, and then he turned to the others, showing it to his companions.

"A standard shaft alone means little," Hilthor, one of the forward scouts said after he had handed the staff to the Elf beside him, sounding as if he was grasping at hope that he did not truly have.

"We searched for a sign," Arfaron countered when Galchyl made no reply. "This is the first that we have found – what else can it mean?"

"But…"

Laechen whined at Galchyl's feet. He glanced down at her, brow furrowed. She looked up at her master, ears pricked, the same worry in her liquid brown eyes that had plagued them moments before. "Show me," Galchyl said quietly.

Laechen leapt to her feet and returned to the hole she had begun to dig. She set to it furiously, paws scrabbling against ice and snow, sending clumps tumbling to either side as she buried deeper. Abruptly, she halted digging and instead reached down into the hole she had made, baring her teeth as she made to seize something buried therein. She gave a tug, and then a jerk, before releasing whatever it was she held, and began to dig once more.

"Back, Laechen," Galchyl ordered for the second time in as many minutes. This time she did not heed him, instead continuing to dig energetically. Galchyl reached down and, seizing the scruff of her neck, bodily hauled her away before looking down into the hole for himself.

Galchyl stilled, the frigid breath momentarily stilling in his lungs, as if it had been frozen. He knelt, seizing the forefinger of his glove between his teeth and then pulling it off of his hand, then reached down.

The hand, nearly as white as the snow beneath it yet tinged with unsettling blue, was frozen nearly solid. There was no warmth to be felt in the skin whatsoever, and as Galchyl pulled the sleeve of the tunic away from the wrist, the cloth cracked as ice snapped. No pulse was to be found.

Galchyl stood, pulling his glove back on, and then turned. Facing Arfaron and the other Elves that had gathered Galchyl spoke at last.

"We have our proof," he said. "Hilthor," he turned, addressing the fleet-footed Elf, "go and inform Captain Cruston and his men that we have found the party." The scout snapped a sharp salute, before turning and sprinting back toward the edge of the cliff. Galchyl turned to regard the others with his calm, steady gaze.

"We have our proof," Galchyl repeated. "We search now for survivors." The Elves nodded curtly, and then dispersed, some going to inform the others of their company of what had been discovered, and the rest beginning their search anew.

Galchyl watched them go, one hand on Laechen's head. "Now the real hunt begins."

~oOo~

To be continued...