It was Lindir who reigned up his horse first. "There are others."

Glorfindel raised his head. "They come on the wings of the storm."

Indeed, hoofbeats were heard, swift, desperate on the stone but muffled by the darkness. They rode to meet them, and then Elrohir gave a cry. "Ada! Ada!"

The Elf-Lord's horse stopped of its own will and Elrond dismounted. But his gaze did not go first to his sons, but to the pale body of his wife. With a groan, he took her, but she lay still and made no motion. "What happened?" he asked, his voice a trembling whisper.

"The yrch." said Elladan grimly. "But that is not what we hunt."

Gently Elrond gave his wife back to Elrohir and then turned to Lindir, who had waited in an agony of apphrension. Though Lindir still stayed astride his horse, the Lord seemed to have grown in his fury. "Where is my daughter?" he asked, his voice a death-calm.

"I do not know."

The shout echoed over the stones. "You lost her!"

"We have all lost her, Ada." said Elrohir, his voice soft in despair. "Thuringwethil has given Arwen her curse. We now hunt them."

Elrond reeled. The light in his grey eyes was quenched, as stars that had suddenly entered the Void. He stumbled, and would have fallen into the abyss over which the narrow path overlooked, had not Lindir swiftly caught him. "You ride to kill her?" he asked hoarsely.

Glorfindel bowed his head in solemn assent, but Elladan cried out in desperation. "Ada! No! Can you not heal her!"

"There is no healing for the curse of Thuringwethil." said Glorfindel softly. Elrohir said nothing, his breath short and harsh in the dark, but Elladan dismounted and threw down his sword. It echoed, a metallic clang. "I will not kill her!"

"I will."

They turned to Elrohir. His face was white and hard. "I will kill her." he repeated. "But first, I will kill Thuringwethil."

Elladan rounded on his brother. "You will kill our sister!" he screamed. "What are you!"

Elrohir did not recoil. "Arwen was dead long ago, muindor-nin.* I only slay Pen-eil."

"She is our sister." hissed Elladan.

Elrohir shook his head. "If you will shrink from the battle, take Nana with you."

Elladan regarded his brother with cold anger. "I never said I would shrink from the battle. I said I would not follow the path of a Kinslayer."

Elrohir's jaw tensed, but he mounted his horse and with a soft word spurred her on, wrapped a dark thought scarcely blacker than the night around them.

Celebrían lay in Elrond's arms, pale and cold, unconscious of the tears shed for her or her daughter.

It was Elrohir's steed that first landed amidst the foothills, but she reared up with a sharp whinny of terror. "Althos, Hírailë."*

Hírailë was trembling, but she went forward, picking a cautious way amongst the turf.

Elladan grabbed his brother's arm. "Listen to me." he snarled in a low voice. "Kill Thuringwethil first. Please."

"Why?" asked Elrohir, shaking off his brother's hold.

Elladan stiffened. "Because mayhaps once Thuringwethil's soul is fled, Arwen will be restored to us."

Elrohir smiled coldly. "It is a vain hope."

"Any hope." said Elladan looking at the starless sky.

"Brother." added Elrohir softly and held out his hand.

Elladan took it. "Brother."

"Their reek betrays them." said Glorfindel, and the twins looked up. Faint on the night air, came that now familiar scent of decay.

Barely, their Elven-eyes could perceive two tall figures standing upon a faraway hill, as if carven by stone. Then one moved. A piercing shriek split the night as Thuringwethil spun into the sky and was lost to the clouds.

Pen-eil did not follow, nor could she. The Elves had formed together. Elrond stayed in the center, holding Celebrían, the rest had made a tight circle, sword and bow alike readied.

"Where is she?" whispered Celloth. Lindir shook his head. "In the sky."

"No! Pen-eil, you fool!" his sister hissed.

Lindir looked towards the hill. At first he hoped it was some trick of the darkness, but as they neared it he found it was indeed empty.

"Yrch."

The word rang around the ring in unforgiving defeat.

"How do you know?" asked Celloth, praying it was false.

Elladan laughed bitterly. "You cannot hear the trample of their foul feet? They come at the call of their mistress."

"We are doomed. Death is upon us." answered Celloth, gazing at the son of Elrond, and for the first Lindir saw something he had never before perceived, a spark of tenderness in the eyes of his sister, verily mirrored by Elladan.

"Then let us die together."

*My brother

*No fear, Hírailë.