In the end, it was neither Maedhros nor Maglor who showed us the way.

Borgalad was one of the Laiquendi, who had been in Lord Denethor's following in the time before the rising of the Moon. He was there when the Orcs surrounded Denethor and his company upon Amon Ereb, nearly slaughtering them all, before King Thingol fell upon the enemy's rear and rescued the last survivors. After that, the Green-elves refused to have anything more to do with war and sorrow, and many of them migrated into Doriath to dwell in peace behind the Girdle of Melian. Borgalad was one of those who remained behind, preferring the woodlands and mountain slopes of Ossiriand. He was a great wanderer, sometimes going off for years to explore the wild lands over the mountains. After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, when the sons of Fëanor fled into the wild, he became a friend to Maglor.

To Elrond and me, he was a figure of mystery and magic, turning up at Maglor's lodge once or twice a year to trade pelts, and good yew-wood for bows, and news. He always had a wink and a smile for two exiled Sindar youth, and we learned a great deal of wood-craft from him.

It was in the fifth year of the war, when Elrond and I were seventeen years of age, when Borgalad came to the lodge and gave us the clue we needed.

As usual, he appeared as if by wizardry out of the deep woods, a tall Elf all in forest-green, long-bow over one shoulder and a small bundle of marten and sable pelts in his other hand. Elrond was out in the front yard at the time, back propped against a tree, reading a book on the craft of jewel-smithing. He sprang up at once and greeted the Elf with pleasure.

"It's good to see you," said Borgalad, reaching out to hold Elrond by the shoulders and peer at him closely. "What is Maglor feeding you boys? You've put on the better part of a hand-span since I saw you last."

Indeed, there was little to tell between them as far as height was concerned, as I could see when I emerged from the lodge a moment later. "I think Maglor is thinking of beginning to starve us," I joked. "Otherwise he'll soon have to crane his neck all the time when we talk."

Borgalad laughed, a merry sound that seemed to fill the whole dell with good cheer. "So, which of you is which this time?"

"Surely you can tell better than that," said Elrond.

"Well, you had a book when I first saw you, so I would wager seven to five that you must be Elrond and he must be Elros. Though I wouldn't put it past the two of you to switch up just to trick me. What I sometimes wonder is how you can tell."

Elrond and I exchanged a wicked look.

"That's easy," I said. "I'm always right here, but sometimes he goes away."

Borgalad stopped for a moment, working through that in his mind, and then he shook his head at us. "That shouldn't make sense, but somehow it does. No matter. Is the Singer about?"

I grinned. "Just inside," I told him, reflecting as always that when a Green-elf called someone the Singer, it meant something.

Then Maglor appeared, and the meeting grew a bit more formal.

That afternoon, Borgalad drew Elrond and me out with a few well-chosen questions and an open ear. Then he spoke with Maglor in private. By suppertime he was ready.

"As I see it," he said over his meat and wine, "you two whelps think you're ready to run off and find the great war that the Powers are fighting in the west. But Maglor and his brother are concerned, first, that you are much too young, and second, that there's no easy journey to get there from here. So you sit here and stew in it, and it's driving you both mad."

"That sums the matter up," said Elrond quietly.

"Well, the second problem is easier to solve than you might think," said Borgalad. "It seems King Starlight and his people have been sending fast ships down the coast, to stay in contact with people who ran from the Dark One long ago. They started last summer, and I've not heard that they had any plan to stop. I understand that ships drop anchor at the mouth of Gelion every few weeks, so long as the weather stays clean. At the right season, you could travel down the river with a few of my people, camp on the sea-coast, and it might be no more than a few days before you were picked up and off to Balar."

Maglor nodded reluctantly. "I have never heard of the Orcs venturing so far south."

"They don't," said the Green-elf. "It's wild country, and dangerous enough on its own merits, but at least you would have no reason to fear the Dark One. He has his hands full, dealing with the Host of the West."

"What do you think, Elrond?" I asked.

He thought for a long minute, and then nodded. "It might serve."

Borgalad nodded. "Now, if that's what you decide, and the Singer here agrees to it, then I'll help you see it done. I know a few likely lads who would leap at the chance to visit the Sea this summer, and help you young princes along the way. Yet there might be another path. Longer, more indirect, but it might give you the chance to learn some more before you throw yourselves at the Dark One. Might be some other things to be gained as well."

I glanced at Maglor, who was looking sober and not at all surprised. He had already spoken of this to Borgalad, then.

"We can at least listen," I said. "What do you have in mind?"

"How much do you know about the country on the other side of the mountains?" Borgalad asked.

Elrond shook his head. "The Lone-lands? Very little. Neither the Noldor nor the Sindar ever explored there. I've read a few traveler's tales from the Dwarves, who journey through that country on the way to their great city in the Misty Mountains, but that's not enough to get more than the shape of the land."

"Hmm." Borgalad chuckled. "Noldor and Sindar and all such high-and-mighty folk. Stay-at-homes, the lot of you. My own people lived in Eriador for ages, and some of our remote kinsfolk remain there. We stay in touch from time to time. Especially in these evil days. We don't know but that we might have to flee back that way, if the Dark One wins his war."

"What can you tell us, then?" I prompted him.

"Right. Well, just on the other side of the mountains is a broad river valley, the valley of the Lhûn. Fair green country, a little colder and dryer than what we have here. Your Mannish ancestors lingered there for years, hunting and fishing and building barrows for their dead, before they came across the mountains. The Dwarf-road runs down from Nogrod through that land, crossing the Lhûn at a ford, before it runs east and south toward the Dwarf-city."

I nodded, with him so far. Elrond listened, entranced, taken as always by news of distant lands.

"Now, further on is another river, the Baranduin. Its source is a great lake, some distance north of the Dwarf-road, set among a range of low hills. The Twilight Hills, they are called. That is beautiful country, and defensible, and it has been a refuge ever since the evil years when the Orcs first came down into Eriador. Some of my kinsmen of the Host of Dân have lived there for a long time. In recent ages, some Men have settled in the area also, probably distant relations of yours who never came to Beleriand, or who turned back after they arrived."

I affected disinterest, although in truth I was as fascinated as Elrond. "It sounds like a fine place to visit. The problem is that it's who-knows-how-many leagues further from the war. My brother and I don't wish to hide away."

Borgalad grinned at me, seeing through my pretense with ease. "Ah, but there is more! I recently visited the Twilight Hills, the first time I had been there since before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. I found some new people living there. Some of your people, in fact."

"What do you mean?" asked Elrond.

"Sindar, is what I mean. From Doriath, before it fell. It seems a few of your people got wind of what was to come, and even before King Greymantle was slain, they passed over the mountains. I think they had some idea of establishing a refuge, should the worst happen. Not a bad notion, as it turned out."

"You have mentioned wishing to learn something of kingship," said Maglor. "I do not know who these Sindar may be, but they must have had something of foresight and leadership. Here may be a scrap of the kingdom that was stolen from your ancestors. Why not go there and learn what you can from it?"

Borgalad nodded at this, but I caught a sudden gleam of mirth in his eye as well, something concealed from Maglor.

He knows more than he is telling us, I realized. Why would he conceal anything? Is he preparing to betray us?

No. Not Borgalad. The disease of treason has never infected any of the Green-elves, and Borgalad least of all. If there is any mistrust here, it is Borgalad's. For all that he remains Maglor's friend, he will not reveal everything to him.

Elrond nodded slowly. "Not only that, we may be able to recruit followers of our own there. However distant, we are Thingol's only remaining heirs in Middle-earth. That must count for something."

"I had thought the same," I said. "Besides, this will be a long journey, away from our guardians for the first time. Away from the war, but not without its perils. What better way to test ourselves before the true trial?"

Maglor nodded. "I will speak with Maedhros. If he agrees, and Borgalad is willing to go with you, then I think this would be a worthwhile venture. Even if you found nothing, and returned here at the end of the summer, we could then discuss letting you go down the river to meet the ships from Balar."

"This is a change," I remarked.

"Yes, it is." Maglor sighed, shaking his head ruefully. "I can't continue to deny it. You and Elrond may be young, but you are boys no longer. You are grown men, who have the right to make your own choices. I will always love you both, and that is why I refuse to keep you in a cage all your lives."

Greatly moved, Elrond rose from his chair and bowed deeply to Maglor. Even then, I looked at the situation with a colder eye, but I nodded in gratitude as well.

So it was, a few weeks later, that we made our departure.

Maedhros came from Amon Ereb, and a small company of the Green-elves came with Borgalad, and we all held a solemn feast the evening before we left. The next day was the Gates of Summer, and as was custom we held silent vigil in the darkness until the rising of the Sun. More than once I felt tears in my eyes, remembering stories I had heard as a child, of the last day of Gondolin. Then the day came, as splendid a morning as we had seen in weeks, and we greeted it with song.

Then, after a round of farewells, we gathered in the front yard to assemble all our gear.

Finally, Maedhros came to us, looking at us both in grave assessment. I felt a surge of pride, knowing that he would not find either of us wanting.

"I have some things for you," he said at last. "I will not call them gifts, for they have always been yours, and it is simple justice to return what was stolen. Say rather that I have held them in trust for you, and judge that now the time is right for you to have them."

First, he reached into a belt pouch and produced a trinket, something small that gleamed in the sunlight. I looked closer and saw a ring: twin serpents with tiny emerald eyes, whose heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers.

"This is the Ring of Barahir," said Maedhros, "which Beren your forefather wore, and which aided him on his quest for the Silmaril. It is a sign of fealty, of oaths rightly sworn and kept, of eternal friendship between the Eldar and Men. If you should ever come to free realms of your own, you could do worse than this as an heirloom of your houses."

Elrond and I exchanged a glance. I nodded, and he took the ring, setting it on his right hand. It fit perfectly at once, a good omen.

"Here also are weapons worthy of your heritage," said Maedhros, gesturing for one of his followers to come forward. The Noldo bore two parcels, long and slender, wrapped in fine leather to protect from the elements. Maedhros opened the first . . .

A sword. What a weapon it was! Hilt and blade alike perfect in form, beautiful and deadly beyond compare. The steel of the blade shimmered in the sunlight, like water under silk, and tracery of silver and gold brightened it further. My fingers itched suddenly, with desire to take up the weapon and see how it would feel in my hand.

I knew my duty, and waited in silence.

"This is Aranrúth, the King's Ire, blade of King Thingol and one of his most prized possessions. Made for him by the Dwarves in the darkness before the rising of the Moon, long before evil fell between them." Maedhros smiled slightly, a flash of humor amid the formality of the occasion. "My only wish is that I had two of it to give you."

I shook my head. "You have already armed me as befits a warrior. I am content."

Elrond surprised me, then. He laughed, and said, "Brother, you can't hide your thoughts from me. Of the two of us, you are the swordsman. You should have the finest blade."

"You're the elder, Elrond. Where you lead, I will follow."

"Fine. Then I command you: take up Thingol's sword. It will serve me better in your hand than in mine. Besides, who knows what the fortunes of war will bring? We have a long and dangerous road to travel before either of us can think of being a king. I am content with things as they are."

Reluctantly, then, I reached out and took Aranrúth. It was exactly as fine a weapon in the hand as I had expected, almost eager for battle. I bowed to Maedhros and put the blade away at my side. It has not left me ever since.

"Finally, here is a weapon that I think Elrond will find more to his liking." The last parcel was opened, to reveal a sturdy longbow and a sheaf of arrows. The thing was beautiful of its kind, but I could see at once that no Elf had crafted it. Even so, my practiced eye told me that it was extraordinarily well-made, a war-weapon that had seen hard use in the past.

"This comes to you from another of your ancestors," said Maedhros. "In the days when the house of Bëor held the fief of Ladros, this bow was held by their chieftains. Beren had it from his grandfather Bregor. He bore it out of Dorthonion and used it all his life."

Elrond nodded, and without a glance at me, he reached for the bow. "You are right, Maedhros. This will suit me very well."

"Good." The eldest son of Fëanor stepped back, a look of satisfaction on his scarred face. "Elrond, Elros, I am not your father, and after all that has befallen I will not mock you by claiming a father's place. Yet go with such blessings as I have, and know that I hope you will find such a place in the world that songs shall be made of it for ages to come."

Solemnly, Elrond clasped Maedhros's hand, as did I. Then we embraced Maglor in turn, and I confess I had to blink back a few tears at that parting.

Then we turned, with Borgalad and three of his companions, and strode away up the valley. Neither Elrond nor I looked back, not even when the lodge dwindled and vanished in a blue haze.