There was shouting, he noted absently, and the unmistakable metallic clang of swords. This was not so unusual. Yrch fought each other so often it was incredible that there were any left, really. It seemed that the one thing they were united on was the suffering of their prisoners.

How long had he been there? It seemed like years beyond count. He could hardly remember sunshine, or the feel of wind in his hair, or what it felt like to be clean and comfortable. He sat against the wall of his cell, bound to the wall by heavy, black iron chains that rubbed his wrists raw and bloody. His clothes, if they could still be called clothes, clung to him mostly by dark, dried blood, which also stuck in his matted, limp hair, thin now from repeated yanking by his captors, and from months in this small, cramped, damp cell with little to drink and less to eat.

He did remember the stars. When the yrch came to question him he could close his eyes and see them, silver-white like mithril, gems of Elbereth. When he slept he wandered among them in his dreams. And when he could find his voice, he sang quiet songs to the Star Kindler.

If he did not, he knew, he would soon go insane.

Somewhere nearby a prisoner screamed. He flinched, shuddering as the sounds of fighting drew closer. It seemed to be lasting longer than usual; yrch usually settled their disputes quickly – violently and horrifically, but quickly.

It was only then that he realized that not all the voices shouting belonged to the rough voices of the yrch. He raised his head to try to listen more closely, but the ground suddenly began to tremble. Tingling ran through his arms, and tension very nearly crackled in the air.

Above him, the walls of Dol Guldur cracked, and began to crumble. He cringed against the wall of his cell, expecting the ceiling to begin to cave in.

But it did not. Whatever was tearing down the walls atop the tower was also holding up the lower foundations. Slowly, he realized this, and lifted his head again. The fighting had stopped, but voices still approached, fair Elven voices speaking Sindarin, calling out for prisoners. He heard others cry out in relief and joy.

His own voice refused to work, silenced from lack of use. But it did not matter, the door to his cell fell in, and Elven soldiers in bright armor – but not the familiar greens and browns of Mirkwood.

The chains were broken, and gentle hands bore him up out of the cell. They spoke to him, words of encouragement that sounded like the sweetest music after so many months of silence and the Black Speech. It was more than he had ever dared to hope for, to be rescued, to hear the voices of his living kin again. Maybe some small, stubborn part of him had hoped for this, for rescue and the end of the evil that dwelt in this place, and that was why his fëa had not fled to Mandos. Or perhaps likely he was just stubborn. Someone had called him stubborn once, he thought, in a different life.

He felt a chilled breeze before they reached the exit, and saw other prisoners being carried out. One or two were strong enough to walk, but not without assistance. All of them were smeared with blood and grime, and many sported fresh wounds.

Then they were outside. His breath turned white in the frosty air, and he shivered. But it was dark, and he looked up – and the sky was clear. The stars shone brighter than his pain-dulled mind had remembered, and Eärendil brightest of all. "Ai, Elbereth," he breathed.

The battle was over; bodies were strewn all over the hill upon which the fortress was situated, blood shimmering black in the starlight. Its stench burned his nostrils, but his rescuers did not linger on the battlefield. They took all the prisoners to a clearing well away from the hill, where healers waited with clean bandages and sweet smelling herbs.

"What is your name?" asked one of his rescuers, who stayed with him as the healers gently cut away what was left of his clothes.

He almost did not hear, and had to tear his gaze away from the stars. His name? He'd almost forgotten it, but the question dredged it up from the deep place in his mind where all of his memories had fled from the brutal questions of the yrch and their masters. "Ferlain, son of Níthor," he rasped. He was immediately offered a drink of blessedly clean and cold water.

"You hail from Thranduil's realm?" came the next question. He nodded. "When did they take you?"

The memories were returning now; he allowed them to flow to the surface of his mind in response to these gentle questions the same way he had chased them from his consciousness when the interrogators of the Necromancer had tried to torture the answers from him. He had been guarding the creature brought to them by the Ranger Aragorn. Sméagol was his name; they had allowed it to climb a tree outside, to let it feel the wind and sun on its face.

Then one day he had refused to come down. Nothing they said or did could convince him, and none had any desire to climb up after him, for he had become hard to extract from the branches, holding onto them with both hands and feet. So they had indulged him; one night in the tree would not hurt him.

Night fell, clouds obscuring the stars and the moon, making it difficult for even Elven eyes to see. The steamy air was thick, hinting of rain to come later, and muffled the sounds of the yrch until it was too late.

In the confusion, the creature Sméagol had escaped. Many Elves had been slain, but some – like Ferlain – had been taken captive, dragged through the forest to where the trees were rotten and the air stunk of death, to the black dungeons of Dol Guldur.

And there he had stayed until this cold, clear night.

Of all of this he said only that he had been guarding the creature Sméagol. It seemed enough for the Elf at his side, and no more questions were asked. The healer's hands were gentle, and the pain that had been his constant companion began, at last, to wane.

But he had a question. "How long…?"

"Eight months."

It felt like eight decades; all of them weighed upon him like the iron chains that had held him in his cell.

Then she appeared, gliding through the clearing and shining like a star come to earth. She radiated power, like what had cracked the tower, but gentler. A gentle breeze instead of a gale. She went to every prisoner, staying longer with some than others, but she left them all behind clearly at peace.

At last she reached Ferlain, and knelt to touch his cheek with the softness of flower petals. There was a light in her bottomless, ancient eyes he had never seen before. She spoke, but he did not hear her with his ears. "Be at peace, Ferlain, son of Níthor. Sílo Anor bo men lín."

The lingering pain in his body vanished, and he closed his eyes as something warm spread from the brush of her fingers through all of him, and the weight of years he had not lived lifted, leaving him feeling light as a golden autumn leaf.

This time, he dreamt of golden sunshine in a summer wood, and of merry voices singing songs of hope.

-.-.-

…And when the Shadow passed, Celeborn came forth and led the host of Lórien over Anduin in many boats. They took Dol Guldur, and Galadriel threw down its walls and laid bare its pits, and the forest was cleansed. – The Return of the King, Appendix B

Yrch – Orcs (Sindarin)

Sílo Anor bo men lín – May the Sun shine on your path (Sindarin, taken from the Council of Elrond website)